Family of the Heart (8 page)

An organ sounded.

“Christ our Savior, Lord of all…”

Sarah glanced up at the man in the pulpit as he boomed out the first words of the hymn. The congregation joined in. She closed her heart and her mind to the meaning of the words and sang along. When they finished the last chorus, the organ music faded away and there was a general rustle as everyone settled in their seats.

Reverend William Herr cleared his throat. “Today I take my text from Psalms Eighteen, verse six. ‘In my distress I called upon the Lord, and cried unto my God.’”

Sarah stiffened.

“‘He heard my voice out of His temple, and my cry came before Him, even into His ears.’”

And He did not answer me. Aaron died.
Anger pushed hot blood through her veins. Sarah gripped her gloved hands together on her lap and forced herself to remain seated when what she wanted was to rise, storm down the aisle and out the door and never, ever set foot in a church again. She blocked out the reverend’s voice by surreptitiously glancing at the people within her view and trying to guess what their lives were like. To the men she assigned occupations, to the women a marital status.

A fist slammed against the pulpit. Sarah jumped, looked up at Reverend William Herr.

“Are you one who gets angry and walks away because God does not answer as you want him to? How prideful! How arrogant!” His voice roared at the congregation. “Were you there when God hung the stars?”

No. But I was there when He sent the lightning that killed Aaron! That exploded the deck beneath him and threw him into the raging ocean that claimed him forever!
Anger lifted her chin, glared out of her eyes. The words crowded into her throat determined to be expressed—to be spoken and answered. Sarah choked them back, felt the pressure of them in her chest. Tears smarted her eyes. She blinked, willed the tears to stop. Willed the band of tightness around her chest to relax so she could breathe.

Determined not to make a spectacle of herself, she spent the rest of the service questioning why Clayton Bainbridge’s servants occupied his family’s pew. And why Clayton Bainbridge stayed home.

T
he weight of sadness pressed down upon her. Sarah took a deep breath to rid herself of the heaviness and hurried to her bedroom. A quick glance in the mirror told her she looked as wan and drained as she felt. It was the aftermath of the nightmare, of the upsetting message in church this morning. She needed some fresh air, some exercise to put some color back in her cheeks. She grabbed her straw sailor hat, opened the door wide and made her way down the winder stairs to the kitchen. The housekeeper was at the center worktable, kneading dough. Sarah plunged into her request.

“Mrs. Quincy, I’ve put Nora down for her nap. She should sleep for at least an hour or two. I know Lucy is at church, but I’m feeling a bit…undone…and I would like to go outside for a stroll. I wondered if you would mind listening for Nora? My door is open so you can hear if she wakes before my return, though I promise I shan’t be long.”

The housekeeper looked at her. Sarah fixed a smile on her face. Eldora Quincy nodded and went back to kneading the dough.

“Take as long as you wish. I’ll bring Miss Nora down and give her some bread and butter should she wake ’n’ you’re not here.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Quincy.” Sarah stepped to a glass-fronted cupboard, put on her hat and exited the kitchen with a gay little wave she was far from feeling, and that likely did not fool Eldora Quincy for a moment. She strolled by the front of the kitchen ell on the stone path that led to the gravel carriageway and followed that out to the road.

The city beckoned from below, but she felt no inclination to be among people. She hadn’t the energy or desire to put on a false front—this morning at church had been quite enough. She glanced to her left, felt the draw of the tree-covered hill and started up the road.

Clayton bent down, selected a stone and straightened. The pond was before him, still and waiting, its calm surface mirroring the blue of the sky, the brightness of the sun. An aura of serenity permeated the small clearing—the serenity he’d come seeking as he had all his life. But today it irritated him. It only emphasized his turmoil. What was he to do about Sarah Randolph?

Clayton scowled, fingered the stone, got it into the right position and curved his index finger around the back edge. The problem was his attraction to Sarah. He managed all right when he prepared himself to see her, chalked up the twinges as a result of his loneliness. But last night the sight of her on those stairs with her hair down had given him a jolt he was not ready for—and did not want. And his compelling need to go to her, to protect her from whatever caused her terror—that complicated things. What he felt for her was more than mere attraction—it was caring. And that involved the heart.

Clayton whipped his wrist forward and sent the small, flat stone skipping across the smooth face of the pond. Sunlight sparkled on the tiny sprays of water produced each time the stone skimmed the surface and highlighted the ripples that spread out from the point of contact.

Ripples. He knew about ripples. More than he wanted to know. And he had learned the lesson at the cost of Deborah’s life. His face drew taut. One moment of weakness. One night of yielding to his wife’s pleas and enticements…to his own need and—
Ah, Andrew, my friend, I am so sorry! I promised to keep your beloved daughter safe. I failed you.

Clayton shoved his fingers into his hair and glared out across the water. He had no excuse. He never should have listened when Deborah begged him. When she said she wanted to know, at least once, what it meant to truly be a woman before she died. She told him she had taken precautions against pregnancy, but he knew precautions often failed. But he had given in. And the ripples had started.

Why? He was self-disciplined and strong-willed. Why had he given in to Deborah’s appeals? Clayton lowered his hands and shoved them in his pockets. He hunched his shoulders and studied the ground as he walked along the edge of the pond toward the large, flat boulder that had been his fishing dock when he was a young boy. What did the “why” matter? Deborah had become pregnant. The first ripple. A terribly dangerous one.

Clayton clenched his jaw, pulled back his foot and kicked a stone. It arced into the air and splashed down almost dead center of the pond. He stared at the circles spreading out in an ever-widening pattern from the spot where the stone broke the surface, and felt again the despair that had gripped him during her pregnancy. That was the second ripple—Deborah’s health. With her weak heart she grew increasing frail. And no matter what he did for her, no matter how he coddled her, he could not make it better. Every time she had one of her spells, he prayed for her. Fervently. To no avail. Her health continued to decline. So did his faith. That was the third ripple—his loss of faith. And the fourth ripple was Deborah’s death.

Clayton stared the fact square in the face, ignoring the pain that squeezed his chest, made his heart ache. And then there was the fifth ripple. The one that went on and on. The one it was becoming more and more difficult to ignore. The one he couldn’t bear to look at, because all he saw was his guilt. The child.

Clayton leaned his hips against the boulder and glowered at the pebbles and stones littering the ground at his feet. It had been bad enough before, when he heard the child crying all day. But now, since Sarah Randolph had come, he saw the child daily. And the guilt was intensifying. That was the sixth ripple—his guilt, which enclosed all the others. But now there was a seventh ripple—Sarah Randolph. He would have to—

“Oh…
bother!
”

Clayton spun around, stared toward the path that led to the road. Patches of blue fabric showed through the gaps in the bushes. There was a snapping of twigs.

“Ouch!”

Clayton scowled, strode toward the path to warn off the intruder. This was his private sanctuary. He stepped around the bushes and stopped dead in his tracks. His heart slammed against his chest wall. Sarah Randolph stood in the path ahead trying to free a lock of her hair from a branch. He sucked in a breath.

She glanced his way. Surprise widened her eyes, erased the frown that had lowered her delicately arched brows into a straight line. “Mr. Bainbridge! Thank goodness. I seem to have become hopelessly entangled with this tree.” A blush crawled along the crest of her cheekbones. “Would you please help me untangle—Ouch!” She yanked her hand down and stuck her fingertip in her mouth. “This tree has thorns.”

An intense desire to take her finger in his hand and kiss the sting away shook him. He scowled and cleared his throat. “That’s why it’s called a thornapple.” He stepped forward, reached for the branch holding her hair prisoner. Their hands brushed. She jerked back.

“Ow!” She grabbed for her hair, and her fingers closed over his, sprang open. Her startled gaze flew to his face, met his gaze and immediately lowered to somewhere in the region of the third button on his shirt.

“Hold still.” Clayton moved closer, bent his head to study the entanglement of hair and thorny branch. The delicate scent of lilacs clinging to her hair teased his nose. He closed his mind to the fragrance, to the silky feel of her hair on his fingers, to the faint blush tinging her cheeks. “The branch is green and too thick for me to break without the possibility of my yanking your hair. I shall have to untangle it. It may pull a little.”

“I understand. Do what you must.”

He made the mistake of looking down. Their gazes met again. The blush on her cheeks increased. The gold flecks in her brown eyes warmed before she again lowered her lashes.

Clayton’s mouth went bone-dry. He frowned and focused his thoughts on the job at hand. “It appears you have made everything worse by trying to free yourself.” He unwound a few strands that were snarled by a thorn. “Tip your head back a bit.” She complied. He leaned closer, bent his head to see around to the back side of the branch. She caught her breath. Lucky her. He had no breath left.

He worked swiftly, wishing he had brought his knife along so he could cut the branch and end the torture of being so near her. He stopped being careful, broke the last few strands of her hair and stepped back. “That got it. You are free.” He stepped around her and picked her hat up off the path, slapped it against his thigh to rid it of any dust or tiny crawling critters and handed it to her.

“Thank you. It—I—” She whirled and started down the path. “Where does this lead?” She broke into the open and gave a little gasp. “Oh, how lovely! What a nice pond.” She glanced up as he followed her into the open. “Do you come here often?”

Clayton nodded, moved to put space between them. “It has been a favorite spot of mine since I was a child. It is far enough off the beaten path to be quite solitary. Makes it good for thinking.”

She glanced up at him. “Please forgive me, Mr. Bainbridge. I was out exploring. I didn’t mean to intrude.” She turned back toward the path.

He moved to block her way. “I did not mean to be rude, Miss Randolph. I was only trying to convey the special draw of this place for me.” He smiled. “A young boy has a lot of things to puzzle through. Lots of weighty issues to come to grips with. He needs a quiet place to slip off to every now and again, where he can just sit and ponder the way of things. This was my place.”

“I believe it still is, Mr. Bainbridge. The questions only become more difficult when we grow up.” A shadow of sadness clouded her eyes, quickly dispersed by a bright smile. “And so, good sir, I shall leave you to your pondering. But first—” She gave a small laugh, walked to the edge of the pond and picked up a small, flat stone. With a quick flick of her wrist she sent it skipping out over the water.

He was still staring at the pond in amazement when she brushed off her hands and made her way back to him.

“Five hops. I can do better. James would be ashamed of me.” She settled her hat more firmly, tipped her head up and gave him a polite smile. “I must be getting back to Nora. Good afternoon, Mr. Bainbridge. I hope you find the solution to whatever problem you are contemplating.” She started off toward the path.

Solution.
Clayton stared after Sarah, held back a roar of frustration. A beautiful, intelligent, sad but brave woman imbued with all the social graces who skipped stones! His problem had just become much worse. He blew out a gust of air, sucked in another. The torture was not over yet. Sarah Randolph was not the only one with social graces. His grandparents had raised him to be a gentleman.

“A moment, Miss Randolph. If you will allow me, I would be pleased to escort you home.” Clayton fastened a polite expression on his face and strode forward, trying, unsuccessfully, to ignore the sudden bitter taste of jealousy in his mouth.
Who was James?

“C
incinnati?
I thought Sarah was in Pittsburgh visiting Judith Taylor.” Justin Randolph frowned down at his wife. “I’ll not have it, Elizabeth! Not after all Sarah has been through. She needs to be here with her family where we can love her and take care of her—help her through her grief over Aaron’s death.” He shook his head. “It is not like Sarah to act impulsively. I shall leave for Cincinnati tomorrow morning.”

“To what purpose, Justin?”

He paused, searched her face. His wife did not ask idle questions. “To bring Sarah home, of course.”

“Oh,
poof!
”

Laina.
Justin pivoted toward the doorway, frowned at his sister. “Poof? What does that mean, Laina? And why are you eavesdropping on a private conversation?”

“Private?” His sister laughed and waltzed into the room. “I assure you, dearheart, there was no need to eavesdrop. I could hear you roaring about Sarah being in Cincinnati the moment I entered the house.” She laid the book she was returning on the table by the settee, hugged Elizabeth, went on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. “Stop glowering, dearheart, it is most unbecoming. And ‘poof’ means Sarah very much wanted this position as nanny and you should stop being a bear about it and let her be.”

Justin glanced at Elizabeth, saw his own bewilderment written on her face and looked back at his sister. “You do not seem surprised by this news, Laina. How do
you
know Sarah ‘very much wanted this position’?”

“Because she told me so when she wrote asking me for a reference.”

“A reference.”
Justin lowered his voice to an ominous tone. “And you gave her one?”

“Well, of course I did. Sarah—”

“Without
speaking
to us about it? Laina Allen, sometimes I—” Justin stopped, glanced down at Elizabeth’s hand on his arm. A wifely gesture to calm him. It would have worked better if she was not holding the letter. The sight of it exasperated him anew. He scowled at his sister.

“I would have spoken with you about it, Justin, had I thought the matter serious. I thought it was but a whim to provide Sarah diversion from her grief. I certainly did not know she would go through with it, or be accepted in the position. I am as surprised by that news as you.” Laina shook her head. “Imagine Sarah a
nanny.
I have no doubt she will be an excellent one. She has a way with children.”

“That is
not
the issue, Laina.” Justin released a growled litany of concern. “What of Sarah’s grief? Her nightmares? Who will comfort her when the memories overwhelm her? When there is a storm?” He blew out a breath, looked at his wife. “Dear heaven, Elizabeth, what will she do without us if there is a
storm?
”

Elizabeth gazed up at him, her eyes awash with tears. “Perhaps, dearest, without us to console her, to ease her every problem, Sarah’s need will overcome her bitterness and she will again seek her heavenly Father. Perhaps she will regain her faith. Surely that blessing is worth the heartache and concern having our daughter at so great a distance will cost us.”

Justin watched her force her trembling lips into a smile he knew was for his benefit and covered her hand, still resting on his arm, with his own. Her smile steadied, warmed at his touch.

“And perhaps this position of nanny will carry another blessing from the Lord as well.” She blinked the tears from her eyes and stepped back. “Try to clear your heart and mind of your anxiety for Sarah, Justin, and listen to this last part of her letter.” She glanced at her sister-in-law. “And you, Laina.”

Elizabeth unfolded the sheet of paper, scanned down and cleared her throat.

Elizabeth looked up at him. Justin stared down into her beautiful, deep-blue eyes and read their silent message.
Remember?
How could he ever forget? He closed the space between them and pulled her into his arms. “Safe? I think not.” Memories curved his lips into a slanted grin. “Not if God has another plan.”

“Then you will stay home?”

He kissed the top of her head and nodded. “I will stay home.”

She smiled up at him, her eyes still overbright with tears. “Oh, Justin…I know it will be worrisome and painful to have Sarah stay in Cincinnati. But I truly think God is answering our prayers. I think He is using that little girl to bring about Sarah’s healing.”

Justin tightened his arms, drawing her close, still crazy in love with this woman he had married by accident eighteen years ago. “And I think, Elizabeth—if history repeats itself—Sarah and Mr. Clayton Bainbridge may both be in for a wonderful, blessed surprise.”

Clayton frowned down at the report he was working on for his meeting with the canal commissioners in Dayton the day after tomorrow. No matter how hard he tried to concentrate it wouldn’t come together in a cohesive whole. The sound of the child’s happy giggles and Sarah Randolph’s laughter drifting in through the window kept intruding on his thoughts.

He rose from his chair and stretched to relax the muscles in his back. A dull ache had developed across his shoulders, no doubt from the rigid posture he had maintained to keep from looking out the window. A frown creased his brow. It was unsettling how much he wanted to go to the window and watch Sarah Randolph playing with the child in the yard. But his equally strong guilt held him back. If it weren’t for him, Deborah would be the one outside his window. It would be her laughter that enticed him.

Clayton tilted his head, scrubbed his hands over the tense muscles at the nape of his neck. If only he could find peace. But how could that be when he had a living, breathing reminder in his life?

Maaaa, maaaa
.

“No! Get away! Leave her alone!”

Clayton pivoted at the outcry and stepped to the window to see Sarah Randolph snatch up the child in one arm while trying, with her free hand, to fend off a sheep intent on butting her. He frowned. A woman hampered by long skirts and the weight of a child was no match for an angry, determined sheep. Not even a young one. Where was Quincy? He swept his gaze over the portion of yard visible from his window.

Maaaa, maaaa.

“Go away! I sai—Oh!”

Clayton jerked his gaze back to see Sarah staggering backward, her free arm flailing as she tried to maintain her balance. She lost the battle and sat down on the ground—hard. And no sign of Quincy.
Blast!

Clayton whirled, slammed out the doors, leaped off the stoop and ran to place himself between Sarah and the child and the rampaging sheep. He barely had time to plant his feet before the animal charged. He balled his hand into a fist and thumped the black nose. The sheep jumped back. Clayton moved to the side, drawing the animal’s attention from its intended targets. The sheep lowered its head and leaped toward him. Clayton thumped its nose again, harder, and harder yet, then stepped in front of a tree. The sheep again drew back and lowered its head to butt. Clayton tensed, waited. When the sheep charged, he jumped aside. The sheep’s head rammed solidly into the tree. Clayton slipped behind the trunk, scanned the ground behind the tree for a weapon but spotted nothing. He pressed back against the trunk, rubbed the edge of his hand and watched the irate sheep. It looked around, let out a few challenging bleats, made a halfhearted feint at the tree, then, having lost its target, turned away.

Clayton edged out from behind the tree on the other side.

“Bad sheep.” The child, lower lip protruding, pointed a tiny, pudgy finger at the now grazing animal.

Clayton’s lips twitched. He jerked his gaze away from the child to Sarah Randolph and stepped over to offer his hand. “Are you hurt?”

Sarah shook her head. “Only my dignity. Thank you so much for rescuing us. I’m afraid I was not much protection for Nora. Would you please lift her off me so I can rise?”

Clayton sucked in a breath, everything in him refusing the idea of touching the child. He closed his hands around her small chest, felt his own constrict with an emotion he immediately squelched. He lifted her to one side, released her and again offered his hand to Sarah. This time she accepted his help. Her hand felt soft and warm in his.

“What happened?” Quincy came hurrying across the yard. “Is anyone hurt? I was in the loft and heard Sarah cry out.”

“No one is hurt.” Clayton helped Sarah to her feet, forced himself to release her hand. He turned his back as she bent to pick up the child and focused his attention and anger on Quincy. “But that is not to say they were not in danger. Get rid of that hoggerel, it is getting too frisky. You should have known that.”

He turned and made his way back to the house, furious at the emotions tearing at him, at his inability to stop them. He strode through the still-open door, yanked it closed behind him and went to his study and stuffed the report into his waiting saddlebags. He would finish it when he reached Dayton. It was impossible to work here with Sarah Randolph so close. With her ignoring his orders to keep the child out of his sight.

Clayton scowled, slung the saddlebags over his shoulder, slammed out the door and took the stairs two at a time. The faint sounds of Sarah entering the house with the child followed him as he crossed the upstairs hall to his bedroom to grab the clothes he would need for the next few days. He paused, struck by an idea. Perhaps he could employ Sarah Randolph to take the child back to Philadelphia and care for her there. Yes. That would solve all his problems. He continued into his room, packed his clothes and toiletries and hurried downstairs. He would consider the possibility while he was away.

Sarah roamed around the drawing room feeling restless and at loose ends. Clayton Bainbridge had gone to Dayton and would not return for a few days. He had not even told her he was going away. Not that he owed her an accounting of his movements, but she
was
Nora’s nanny. At least he had told Eldora.

Sarah frowned, glanced at the various objects decorating the shelves in the alcove by the fireplace and moved on. It was odd how empty the house felt without Clayton’s presence. She stopped in front of the fireplace and looked up at the portraits of his grandparents. Ezekiel Bainbridge was a very handsome man, with a square jaw and a look in his eyes that led one to believe he could well have fought and won battles against hostiles. But there was a tilt at the corners of his mouth that spoke of warmth and good humor. A pity his grandson had not inherited those traits along with Ezekiel’s good looks. Most of the time Clayton looked as if he were walking around with a sore tooth.

Sarah shifted her gaze to Rose Bainbridge, studied her refined features. There was a touch of sadness in the woman’s eyes, but nothing like the ill humor that darkened her grandson’s. If it was not inherited, what had caused his sour disposition? Was it his wife’s death? Aaron’s death had certainly changed her. The joy had disappeared from her life, sucked down the same vortex of swirling water that had swallowed him. All that was left was pain and grief and darkness. The light in her world had been snuffed as surely as a candle doused by water. Perhaps it was the same for Clayton Bainbridge.

No. No, it was not the same. He had a child. A part of his wife lived on. She had nothing of Aaron but memories and a dead dream.

An overwhelming longing for home and the way things had been before Aaron’s death rushed upon her. Tears blinded her eyes, clogged her throat. It could never be. Not ever again. She collapsed onto the sofa and buried her face in her hands, unable to stop the flow of tears.

The wave of anguish passed. Sarah pushed herself erect, wiped the tears from her cheeks, clenched her hands and made her way from the room. She hated crying. Hated the feeling of hopeless—She stopped, arrested by her reflection in the hall mirror, startled by the anger and bitterness that glittered, cold and brittle, behind the glisten of tears in her eyes. She turned away, lifted her skirts slightly and started up the stairs. It seemed she and Clayton Bainbridge had more in common than first appeared. But he had Nora. Pain stabbed sharp and deep.
Why had God taken Aaron?