Family of the Heart

by Dorothy Clark

  “I brought lemonade for you, Miss Randolph. Mrs. Bainbridge liked to sip lemonade while she rested here on the porch. But if it’s not to your liking I could bring you some tea.”

  “Lemonade is fine, Mrs. Quincy. Have you time to join me?”

  The housekeeper shot a yearning glance at the padded bench and shook her head. “There’s cleaning to oversee, and the baking to be done. Another time, mayhap.” She turned toward the door.

  “Of course.” Sarah took a breath and seized her opportunity. “You said Mrs. Bainbridge rested here on the porch. And Mr. Bainbridge mentioned she had ‘spells.’ Was she unwell?”

  The stout woman stopped, nodded. “’Twas some sort of weakness in her heart stole her breath from her if she moved about. Oft times till she swooned.” She looked down at Nora and her voice took on a reflective tone. “She was too frail for childbearin’. She died shortly after this one was born. Nora has the look of her.”

  Sarah studied Nora’s delicate features. “Mrs. Bainbridge must have been a beautiful woman. It’s a pity Nora will never know her.”

  “She was beautiful…an’ spoiled. An’ the little one was followin’ along after her, till now.” Mrs. Quincy looked up, blinked and gave a little shake of her head. “But ’tis not my place to speak of such things. Don’t know why I’m standin’ here wastin’ time when there’s work to be done.” She hurried across the porch. “I’ll send Lucy to fetch the tray.” The door banged shut behind her.

  “Bisit?”

  “No, Nora. No more biscuits.” Sarah gave her a sip of lemonade and lifted her off the chair. “Come with me. I am going to teach you to do a somersault.” She helped her down the steps onto the grass, knelt down and placed one hand on the toddler’s tummy, the other on her upper back. “All right, we are ready. Now bend waaaay over…”

  “Here we are, miss.”

  Sarah glanced at the building on her right, noted the Post Office sign above the large multipaned window and climbed from the buggy. “Thank you for bringing me along to town, Mr. Quincy. I shan’t delay your return home. I will meet you here in one hour.” She watched him drive off down the street, shook out the three braid-trimmed tiers of the long skirt of her rose-colored silk dress, checked the time on the locket watch pinned to her bodice and crossed the sidewalk to the door. A gentleman passing by hastened to open it for her.

  Sarah smiled her thanks, entered, then paused inside the door waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dimmer light after the brightness of the afternoon sunshine.

  “—mark my words, Edith dear, this sickness going around will increase because of the foul weather during that storm—” The two women approaching the door broke off their conversation to give her a polite nod as they passed.

  Sarah returned the politeness.

  “May I help you, miss?”

  She looked toward the sound of the voice. “I should like to post a letter.” She pulled the folded and sealed missive from her reticule and walked to the table where a man stood sorting a large bag of letters into small piles.

  He took the letter into his ink-stained hand and squinted down at the address. “Randolph Court, Philadelphia.” He moved to a high desk standing at right angles to the table, glanced at her. “That will be twenty-five cents. You going to pay?”

  Sarah shook her head. “No, Father will pay.” She watched him write the charge, date and Cincinnati on the top corner of the folded letter. Her stomach tightened in protest. Her parents thought she was still in Pittsburgh. Well, there was no help for it. And any fears the city name engendered would be allayed when they read the letter. “I expect a reply. Will you please direct it to Stony Point? My name is Sarah Randolph.”

  “Of course, Miss Randolph.” The man pulled a ledger from a shelf below the desk surface and jotted down the information. “How long will you be visiting at Stony Point?”

  “Oh, no. You misunderstood. I am not visiting. I am the new nanny.” The man’s mouth gaped open. Sarah gave him another smile and turned; her silk dress rustled softly as she headed for the exit. A man, who had just entered, doffed his hat, made her a small bow and held the door open. She inclined her head in acknowledgment of the politeness and stepped through the portal into the afternoon sunshine.

  One chore completed. And she had a little less than an hour to accomplish the others. Sarah moved into the shadow cast by a large brick building, walked to the corner, turned left and made her way up Main Street, scanning the storefronts. She had spotted what seemed a suitable establishment along the way to the post office. Where…? Ah, there it was. Mrs. Westerfield, Milliner & Mantuamaker and dealer in Millinery and Lace Goods and Embroidery. She moved closer and read the smaller print of the sign.

  Keeps constant on hand a splendid stock of Leghorn, Tuscan & Straw Bonnets and Florence Braid, artificial flowers, Paris ribbons, plain & figured silks, satins & etc. suitable for bonnets and dresses which she is prepared to manufacture in the most fashionable style.

  Sarah checked her reflection in the window. The flowers adorning her silk hat trembled slightly in the warm breeze. She adjusted the tilt of the hat, smoothed the lace at her throat and entered. A cluster of women examining trimmings displayed in a glass case, and two women seated on a settee studying a book of patterns, glanced up at the discreet tinkle of the small bell on the door. The women looked at her with varying degrees of curiosity, gave small, polite nods and returned to their business.

  “If you will excuse me a moment, ladies.” The woman behind the glass case smiled and came forward. “Welcome to Mrs. Westerfield’s salon. May I help you?”

  “I would like to speak with Mrs. Westerfield please.”

  “Certainly. I will be a moment. If you would care to have a seat?” The woman gestured toward a grouping of chairs, walked to a door at the back, gave a light tap and disappeared into another room.

  Sarah strolled over to look at a display of paintings on the wall. Bits of conversation from the women at the counter drifted her way as she studied the drawings of the latest fashions.

  “—heard that Rose Southernby has taken to her bed?”

  “Oh, I do like this red silk braid!”

  “Did you say Rose is ill?”

  “Yes. Dr. Lambert has been making daily calls. She is not at all well, and—The red silk braid is a little…bright, Charlotte. Perhaps the gold…”

  “You were saying, Gladys?”

  “I beg your pardon? Oh. Yes. I heard the Southernby children are stricken also.”

  Children. Sarah moved a step closer to the women.

  “I’m becoming frightened by all this sickness!”

  “I share your fear, Isobel. I have ordered the servants to open our country home. It is early, I know, but I am not going to stay in this city and—”

  “Mrs. Westerfield awaits you, miss.”

  Sarah walked to the back of the room and stepped through the door the woman held for her. A tall woman in a beautiful day dress of ecru pongee with a crossover shawl collar banded in white stood behind a desk. She swept an assessing gaze over Sarah’s hat and dress, smiled and came forward. “That will be all, Jeanne.”

  The door closed. Sarah waited.

  “I am Mrs. Westerfield. You wished to see me?”

  “Yes. I have recently come to Cincinnati and I am interviewing dressmakers as I find myself in immediate need of a few gowns.”

  A faint flush appeared on Mrs. Westerfield’s cheeks. “I assure you, Miss…”

  “Randolph.”

  “—Miss Randolph, I make the finest, most stylish gowns in Cincinnati. If you will permit me to show you a few of my recent designs.” Mrs. Westerfield turned and led the way toward a settee.

  Sarah smiled and seated herself, looked with interest at the sketches the dressmaker handed her. “And was your gown made by you or a seamstress in your employ, Mrs. Westerfield?” She eyed the excellent workmanship of the woman’s day dress.

  “I designed my frock, and Miss Bernard, my highly skilled h
ead seamstress, crafted the dress. I would not wear the work of another, Miss Randolph.”

  “Nor will I.” Sarah handed Mrs. Westerfield three sketches. “These are the gowns I have chosen. Please have Miss Bernard make them in your highest quality fabrics, one in ecru, one in brown, and one in dark blue. But I do not want the lavish adornments, only simple trims suitable for a nanny. I want them commissioned immediately and delivered to Stony Point when they are completed.”

  “I shall select the fabrics and trim myself, Miss Randolph.” Mrs. Westerfield smiled. “And please forgive my confusion. I thought the gowns you have ordered were for you. Miss Bernard will begin work on them as soon as the nanny comes in for a fitting.”

  “You have made no error, Mrs. Westerfield. The gowns are for me. I am the new nanny at Stony Point.” Sarah ignored the look of astonishment that flashed over the dressmaker’s face and rose to her feet. “I have another appointment, so if you will direct me to Miss Bernard for my fitting…”

  Only fifteen minutes left. Sarah hurried into the Franklin House, nodded to the desk clerk and rushed up the stairs to her room. “Ellen?”

  “Miss Sarah! Oh, Miss Sarah, I’ve been so worried about you what with the storm an’ all!” Her maid set aside what she called “busy work,” bustled over, pulled her into a strong hug, then stepped back and studied her face. “Are you all right, child?”

  Sarah blinked a rush of tears from her eyes and nodded. “I am fine, Ellen. But I have missed you.” She gave a little laugh. “I have a new appreciation for how hard you work. You have always made everything look so easy. Whenever I needed anything I simply called for you. Now…” She laughed again, gave a helpless little shrug.

  “Miss Sarah—”

  “Don’t scold, Ellen. There is no time. I must meet Mr. Quincy in a few minutes to—”

  “You’re going back? You’re going to continue being a nanny?” Ellen’s eyes clouded. “I thought you’d come to your senses.” She shook her head. “Your mother and father are not going to be happy about this. They—”

  Sarah placed her hand on the older woman’s arm, halting her words. “There is no time for a lecture, Ellen. I only have time to say goodbye, and I do not want to waste it in useless debate.”

  The maid studied her for a moment, drew herself up straight. “You’re sending me back to Randolph Court?”

  Tears surged into Sarah’s eyes at the hurt in Ellen’s voice. She forced a smile. “I have no choice, Ellen. I shall miss you dreadfully. But whoever has heard of a nanny with her own lady’s maid?” Her voice caught. She took a breath. “This little girl needs me, Ellen. And right now I need her.”

  “And when I’m not here and the nightmare comes?”

  “I will imagine you hugging me and pampering me with warm blankets and hot tea. Now—” Sarah cleared her throat and swept her hand through the air toward the trunks stacked against the wall. “Take my clothes with you. I have commissioned new gowns suitable for a nanny.” She glanced down at her watch, reached into her reticule and pulled out a small packet of money and a folded letter. “This will cover the expense of your journey and answer any questions that might be asked of you. Now I must go. Safe journey, Ellen. Oh, I shall miss you so.” She gave the older woman a quick hug and hurried toward the door, blinking back tears.

  “And I’ll miss you, Miss Sarah. May the Lord bless you and watch over you.”

  The soft-spoken words—the last words Ellen spoke to her every night—followed her down the hall.

  Now she was truly alone.

  Clayton put down his pen, stretched his arms out and to the back and rolled his shoulders to get rid of the kinks caused by the hours spent drawing on the blueprint. He had worked longer than he intended, but it was of no consequence. No one waited for him to finish. All he faced was an empty house and another lonely night.

  He shoved back from his desk, rubbed at his tired eyes and snuffed the lamps. The silence of the late night closed around him. Moonlight poured in the windows. Candlelight painted a yellow stripe under the door. Time to go to bed.

  He reached for the jacket he had hung on the back of his chair, paused and glanced toward the door at the sound of soft footfalls. A shadow blocked out the gold of the candlelight, passed on. Eldora? No—she was heavy on her feet. And sound asleep by this time.

  Clayton slipped on his jacket, tugged his waistcoat back in place and opened the door. There was no one in sight. He stepped across the hall and looked into the drawing room. Sarah Randolph was standing in the center of the room and something in the slope of her shoulders and the tilt of her head spoke to him of deep sorrow. He stepped back to go his way and give her privacy. But his movement must have caught her attention for she glanced in his direction. Their gazes connected. For a moment she neither moved nor spoke, then her chin lifted and her shoulders straightened. The melancholy on her face disappeared as quickly as smoke before a strong wind. Except for the shadow that dulled the golden glints that usually sparkled in her brown eyes. The brightness in them now was caused by the glistening moisture of unshed tears.

  Clayton stood frozen in the doorway, wanting to leave but knowing a hasty exit would reveal he had seen her moment of vulnerability. And he knew, too well, how important it was to cover that inner vulnerability with a facade of normalcy to protect your heart and save your pride. He moved into the room, pretended he did not see her tears, did not recognize her sadness. “Did you wish to speak to me?”

  “No, I—” She blinked rapidly, turned away. “I was feeling restless, unable to settle for the night. I hope I did not disturb you.”

  “Not at all. I was finished with my work.” He sought for an innocuous subject, something that would give her time to compose herself. “Is there a problem with your room? Are you uncomfortable or—”

  “No, the room is quite satisfactory. I—” She took a breath, turned back to face him and gave a rueful little smile. “The truth is, I posted a letter to my parents today, and I have become a little homesick. We are very close. Especially since—” Her voice broke. She hurried to the fireplace and looked up at the two portraits that hung side by side above the mantel beam. “What a lovely lady. And the gentleman…” She glanced at him, looked back at the picture. “You have the look of him.”

  A distraction so he would not question her about what she had left unsaid or comment on her tears? Clayton nodded, went along with the change of subject. “Not surprising. That is my grandfather and grandmother, Ezekiel and Rose Bainbridge. They built this place back when this area was the frontier. It served them well. The neighbors used to fort up here when there was an Indian raid.”

  Her eyes widened. “Truly?”

  Clayton smiled at her awed tone. He had captured her attention. Perhaps he could do a little distracting of his own, give her something to think about that would hold her sorrow at bay through the long night hours. He knew the anguish of troubled, sleepless nights. “Truly. Stone doesn’t burn, and most of the other homes were made of log back then. Have you noticed the deep gashes in the front door? They are from Indian tomahawks.”

  “Tomahawks.” She looked toward the entrance hall. “I cannot imagine…”

  But clearly she did. Clayton strode to a window, reached behind the drapes and pulled the solid wood shutters that were folded up against the deep walls of the window well into view. He pointed to the small square holes in them. “These holes were for their rifles. If they had enough warning, they opened the windows—if not, they broke the glass out. Grandma hated that because it took so long to get the glass to replace the broken panes and the flies and mosquitoes always found the holes.”

  He folded the shutters back and indicated a large chest that sat against the wall beside the window. “My father used to stand on that chest so he could load my grandfather’s long rifles during battles. He used to tell me the stories of those battles when I was young. It is one of my fondest memories. That, and my mother singing me to sleep at night.”

  He mov
ed to the fireplace, ran his finger over the hole where a cartridge had buried itself in the heavy beam. “There are many reminders of those days in this house. And a story behind every one of them.” A smile tugged at his lips. He gave it free rein. “I inherited my grandparents’ stories and memories along with their house.”

  “How lovely for you. I never knew my grandparents.” Or my parents, either. She looked up at him. “And your parents?”

  His smile faded. “They died in a smallpox epidemic at Fort Belle Fontaine when I was four years old. My grandparents raised me.”

  “Oh.” Compassion warmed her eyes. “I’m sorry you lost your parents. But how fortunate that you survived.”

  “I was here.” Clayton looked away. The vision of Sarah Randolph standing beside him with the candlelight highlighting her delicate features and playing with the golden strands of her light-brown hair was disconcerting. “It was a new posting and my parents decided to leave me here until they discovered what sort of living quarters were assigned them. I was to join them when they were settled in.”

  “But they died. And your drea—your plans to join them died with them.”

  “Yes.” His wife’s face flashed before him. The acrid taste of bitterness spread through his mouth, tainted his words. “It happens that way sometimes.”

  “Yes. Yes, it does.”

  The words were little more than a whisper, but something in her voice…Clayton looked back. A fresh spate of unshed tears glimmered in her eyes. She blinked, looked down and smoothed at her skirt.

  “The hour is getting late. I believe I shall retire now.” She raised her head and smiled. It was the saddest smile he’d ever seen. “Thank you for sharing some of your family history with me, Mr. Bainbridge. It has made Stony Point come alive for me. I shall wonder over every mark I see. Good evening.”

  Clayton dipped his head in response, clamped his jaws shut and held himself rigidly in place as Sarah Randolph left the room. He did not want to let her go. He wanted to keep her here with him. He wanted to learn what caused that sadness in her eyes and take the sorrow from her. He wanted her company.