Family of the Heart

by Dorothy Clark

  Sarah sighed and plucked a leaf from a bush, shredding it with her thumbnails as she ambled down the path toward the pagoda. A full week she had been disappointed in her purpose. What would her mother do?

  She frowned and brushed the bits of leaf from her fingertips. She knew the answer to that question. Her mother would pray. But she had no intention of doing so. Nothing seemed to shake her mother’s faith, but her own had been shattered by Aaron’s death. She was not interested in communing with a God that turned a deaf ear to her cries. She cast an angry glance upward and caught her breath. Layers of vibrant red streaked across the cerulean sky, each tier outlined by the glittering golden rays of the hidden sun and diminishing in intensity as they touched the wooded hill. Sunset. She had not realized it was so late. She did not want to—

  “Breathtaking, isn’t it?”

  And heartbreaking. Sarah blew out a breath to rid herself of the onrush of bitterness and turned toward the house. Clayton Bainbridge stood on the porch looking at the sky. “Yes, it is.” She did not elaborate on her answer. He was talking about the beauty of the sunset, not her reaction to it—let him think she agreed. She tensed as he descended the steps and came down the path toward her.

  “It feels good to be outside, to breathe fresh air after being cooped up in the house all day.” He stopped beside her, looked up at the sky and fell silent.

  Why didn’t he say what he wanted? Surely he wasn’t planning to stay out here with her. Sarah went rigid. She did not want to share the sunset with him…or anything else for that matter. It intruded upon her memories of Aaron. She launched a change of subject. “Are your interviews going well?” The question drew Clayton’s gaze to her and the expression in his eyes made her stomach tighten. She could not tell what he was thinking. Did he resent her crossing the servant/employer line by asking about his work? She reached for another leaf, began slitting it with her thumbnail.

  “They are going well enough. Though they are taking time from my work I can ill afford to lose. I hope to finish them tomorrow, but it will be difficult. I need at least ten more men.”

  Through her lowered lashes, Sarah watched him lift his hand and rub the nape of his neck, a gesture that brought her father to mind. Justin Randolph did the same thing when he was troubled. Compassion welled, unbidden and unwanted.

  “You see, the commissioners have set time constraints. All the repair work is to be completed by July first.” Clayton’s gaze sought hers. “And without enough laborers…”

  There was concern in his voice, worry in his eyes. She tried to ignore the compassion but it was too strong. She tossed the mangled leaf away, brushed off a shred clinging to her skirt. “Perhaps if you explain their timetable is unreasonable they will grant you an extension.” Something flickered in his eyes. Astonishment? Not surprising, he probably thought she was simply a mindless piece of social froth. He could not know the education and respect given the women in the Randolph family.

  “Unfortunately, that is not possible. July fourth marks the tenth anniversary of the opening of the Miami Canal and the governor is planning a big celebration. Unreasonable or not, the work must be finished by that date. But, I did not come out here to bore you with a discussion of my work, Miss Randolph—except as it concerns you.” He paused, looked off into the distance.

  Sarah studied his face. He looked…uncomfortable. “I do not understand, Mr. Bainbridge. How does your work concern me?”

  Clayton’s gaze swung back to her. “The governor’s celebration I spoke of—” He looked away again. “There is to be a trip to Dayton aboard a specially outfitted packet boat. I am invited—” he frowned “—nay, ordered to go along. The head commissioner made it quite clear that I must do so.” He looked straight at her. “The trip will no doubt assure that I receive the position of head engineer for the new northern extension.” He paused again.

  Why was there such tension in his voice and posture? Sarah hesitated, but he had said it concerned her. “And is this a position you covet?”

  He nodded. “Very much. It will mean great advancement in my career.”

  She studied his taut face. He certainly did not look pleased. “Then I offer my felicitations. But, I confess to confusion. I do not grasp how this concerns me.”

  His face took on that stony look she so disliked. “The governor has requested that those accompanying him on the packet bring their families along. I explained my wife was deceased and protested the child was too young to be away from its nanny, but I was informed there are ample accommodations for that circumstance. You are to come along to tend the child.”

  “Oh. I see.” So that was what was troubling him. He would be forced to acknowledge Nora. Anger surged. But also excitement. It was the perfect opportunity to bring father and daughter together.

  “Of course I will give you extra compensation for caring for Nora during the excursion. And also pay for two suitable gowns.” He cleared his throat. “You do not look like a nanny—” he waved a hand toward her “—your gowns, I mean.”

  Sarah glanced down at the full, rosette- and lace-trimmed, long skirt of her rose-colored silk dress. “I know my gowns are inappropriate and give people the wrong impression, Mr. Bainbridge. But I had no time to order suitable ones before I came.” She looked up at him. “However, your offer is unnecessary. I have already commissioned several new gowns. They should be ready soon.”

  “I see. In that case, I shall bid you a good evening, Miss Randolph. I will explain more about the excursion as the time nears.” Clayton gave her a small nod and turned back toward the house. She watched him walk away, again feeling that odd connection to him she had experienced that day in the garden. She and Clayton Bainbridge both were plagued by loneliness and painful memories.

  Like long walks in the sunset.

  Sarah swallowed hard and looked down at her lengthening shadow on the lawn. One shadow. Aaron’s taller, broader silhouette was gone forever. She would never know the comfort of his presence beside her again.

  A sudden glow of candlelight spilled through the slatted shutters of an upstairs window brightening the dusk. Sarah stared up at it, her throat tight, her heart aching. Her pain seemed unbearable at times, but how much worse must it be for Clayton Bainbridge who had to sleep alone every night in his marriage bed?

  Sarah blinked tears from her eyes and clenched her hands. A walk in the garden had lost all appeal. She closed her mind to the fading sunset and headed for the porch.

  She would have to board a boat!

  Sarah froze. Panic squeezed her lungs. Her stomach roiled, her body shook. She forced her legs to move, made it to the porch before they gave way. She dropped onto the seat of the wooden bench and stared out into the garden, forcing her mind to concentrate on something else in order to gain control before going inside.

  Were those high stone walls surrounding the garden built by Clayton’s grandfather? She placed herself in that earlier time, and gave her imagination full rein. What would it have been like to suddenly see Indians pouring over those walls? To see painted, half-naked, yelling savages racing toward you with tomahawks raised? Her skin prickled. Her shoulders stiffened. She stared into the deepening shadows of the night, saw movement and edged along the seat toward the door.

  A dark shadow swooped down out of the night sky straight for the porch, sent a screech shrilling through the air.

  Sarah shot to her feet and stumbled to the door. She jerked it open, leaped inside, slammed it shut and sagged against the wall, listening to the roar of her racing pulse.

  “What happened? What is wrong?”

  She started, looked up. Clayton Bainbridge was hurrying toward her from across the library, a scowl on his face and a book in his hand.

  “Indians.” She meant it to be light, amusing. To distract him from her appearance and the fear she knew was reflected on her face. And it might have worked—if she had not burst into tears.

  “Feel better now?”

  Sarah nodded, longed for h
er mother and father, Ellen, the comfort of home. She could not stop shaking.

  “Would you like another sip of wine? It always seemed to help Deborah when she was…discomposed.”

  “No. No more.” She gathered her courage and looked up. “I apologize, Mr. Bainbridge. I—It—” She took a breath, swallowed, looked into his eyes and knew she would have to tell him at least part of the truth. “The sunset brought back some painful memories and I tried to suppress them by imagining what it was like during the Indians raids on this place. And then the owl—” She stopped; it sounded so foolish, but it was the best she could do given the state of her tangled emotions. She gave a helpless little wave. “There is no excuse for my actions. But I am sorry.”

  Clayton nodded, placed the glass in his hand on the table beside the wine decanter. “There are times I think it must be fortunate to be a woman and have the outlet of tears for inner turmoil.” He smiled down at her. “Men are not permitted that luxury, though we are allowed to punch a wall—or each other. Or fight Indians.”

  “Of the ‘Owl’ tribe?” She tried again to make it sound light, humorous.

  “Especially them.”

  The understanding in his voice brought tears welling. Sarah blinked them away and gave up all pretense. He was very good at calming a woman. He must have had a lot of practice with his wife. “And have you done so? Punched a wall, I mean—not fought Indians.” That must have been too personal. A frown creased his brow, was quickly erased.

  “On occasion.”

  “And did it help?” Her heart beat furiously at her temerity, but something compelled her to ask. She looked into Clayton’s eyes, waited. At last he shook his head.

  “No.” He looked away, looked back and smiled, but the smile never reached his eyes, and she knew he only did so to lighten the tense atmosphere for her. “At least not always. Only when you punch so hard your hand hurts and you forget the other pain.”

  Sarah gave a light laugh to reward him for his effort. “Then perhaps I shall try it your way should I again have a need of release, Mr. Bainbridge. For tears never work. They merely give you a headache, a stuffy nose and red, puffy eyes—most unattractive.” She rose and gave him a genuine smile. “Thank you for your care, and for your understanding, Mr. Bainbridge. It is most appreciated. Now I shall bid you a good evening.”

  “Good evening, Miss Randolph—and rest easy. No harm will come to you in this house.” His gaze held hers. “It was built stout and strong to keep out enemies.”

  Only mortal ones, Mr. Bainbridge. Grief found you. I can read it in your eyes. Sarah smiled, nodded and walked from the room. Some things were best left unspoken.

  Chapter Eleven

  Sarah made a slow turn in front of the pier glass in the dressing room. The gown was perfect. It was made of lovely, yet sensible, fabric with no flounces or ruffles, its only trim a touch of dark-red roping at the neck, waist and sleeves that enhanced the red in the material’s deep-chestnut color. A plain and serviceable dress—exactly what she had requested. And the workmanship was excellent.

  Sarah smiled and patted the matching red roping that held her hair in a loose knot on the crown of her head. There would be no more confusion as to her nanny position due to her elegant, unsuitable gowns now. They were stowed away in her trunk. It was a shame she could not pack her painful memories away with them. But the faint crescents of fatigue under her eyes testified to the impossibility of that.

  She sighed and went to her bedroom to open the shutters and let in the morning sunshine. She had not slept at all well. But this time it was not only memories of Aaron that had kept her awake. A vision of Clayton Bainbridge’s face, his eyes shadowed with pain, had kept her tossing and turning all night. That, and this strange connection she felt to him. A connection that grew stronger with each encounter.

  Sarah frowned, moved over to the desk, sat in the chair and slipped on her shoes. She did not want these feelings. She did not want to sense Clayton’s grief and pain. Did not want to understand it. Or to feel compassion for him. She had enough pain and grief of her own. All she wanted was to feel safe. That is all she had ever wanted since her mother abandoned her. It seemed little enough to ask.

  No harm will come to you in this house. It was built stout and strong to keep out enemies.

  Oh, if only that were so. But Randolph Court was built of brick, and she had learned that stout walls could not protect one from the worst enemies, the most painful hurts. Nor could wealth, or social position. Death and grief came to all.

  Oh, Aaron, I miss you so. Sarah closed her eyes to conjure the face of her dead fiancé, but it was Clayton Bainbridge’s countenance that came into view. She snapped her eyes open, rose and hurried toward the nursery, wiping the frown from her face and curving her lips into a smile as Nora stood in her crib and held up her arms.

  “Good morning, sweetie.”

  “Mornin’.” Nora yawned, rubbed her eyes. “Me go outside?”

  “After we get you cleaned up and have breakfast.” Sarah lifted the toddler into her arms, blinked back tears at the rush of love overflowing her as Nora’s small, sleep-warm arms tightened around her neck. How was she ever going to give up this child? But she didn’t have to think about that now. Nora would not be taken from her in a moment’s time. She would be able to prepare herself for this loss. And meantime she had a purpose for her life.

  Clayton rose from his desk chair and held out his hand. “Most impressive recommendations, Mr. Wexford. The job is yours.”

  “Thank you, sir.” The man stood and shook hands. “I’ll not disappoint you, Mr. Bainbridge.” He picked up his hat and moved toward the door. “When and where shall I report for work, sir?”

  “Come here to the house at eight tomorrow morning. I want to go over some blueprints with you and familiarize you with the various projects.”

  “Very good, sir. I shall be here promptly at eight o’clock.”

  Clayton nodded, faced the group of men gathered outside the door. “There will be no more interviews. The positions have all been filled. Thank you all for coming.” He closed the door on the mumbling, disappointed men and turned back to the study, his steps quick and light. A grin split his face. At last! He had finally found an engineer qualified to oversee the repairs. The man could actually read a blueprint. He could put Wexford in charge of the minor projects, freeing himself to oversee the difficult jobs. He would have no trouble meeting that July first deadline now.

  A muffled, childish giggle, coming from the direction of the back of the house, wiped the grin from his face. Clayton reached to close his study door, paused at the sound of soft, feminine laughter. His exhilaration swelled, pushed at him. He scowled, fought the strengthening urge, the memory of the understanding on Sarah Randolph’s face as he had explained his deadline plight last night in the garden.

  Another burst of muffled laughter reached him. He tightened his grip on the door latch, glanced around his empty study, then stepped back into the entrance hall and closed the door. What good was this elation if he could share it with no one? Surely there would be a moment when the child was off playing by itself when he could speak to Sarah and tell her of his good fortune. There was no harm in that.

  He strode down the hall and into the library, slowing at sight of the open door. No wonder he could hear their laughter. He stepped onto the back porch, spotted Sarah marching, shoulders back, arms pumping, around the trunk of the maple tree at the side of the garden. The child, imitating her posture and giggling, was following close behind. Clayton’s face drew taut. This was not a good time. In fact, it was a bad idea altogether. What had he been thinking? He turned to leave, pivoted back at a sudden squeal. The child was running toward the pagoda, chasing after a squirrel.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Bainbridge.”

  Clayton looked down. His heart thudded. The sun bathed Sarah’s upturned face, highlighted her delicate features, the golden strands among her light-brown hair—especially those strands that had
worked loose from the restraint of the red cord and now dangled from her temples to rest against her cheeks. Cheeks pink from her exertions playing with the child. Why did the woman not wear a bonnet? He dipped his head in greeting, not trusting his voice. Was that plain gown supposed to hide her beauty? It only enhanced it.

  He stood silent, watched her walk to the porch and climb the stairs, all grace and beauty.

  “Were you looking for me?”

  All my life. The unbidden answer crowded all other thought from his mind. Guilt assailed him. Would he betray Deborah’s memory? Bitterness rose, washed through him. Clayton frowned, shook his head. “Someone left the door open. I could hear your laughter all the way to my study. Please make certain the door is closed in the future.”

  He stepped back through the door, closed it firmly and headed back to his study, his elation replaced by a grim determination to avoid Sarah Randolph from now on.

  That had not gone as planned. Sarah glared at the closed door, itching to open it again—to march down the hall to Clayton’s study and demand that he come back to the yard and at least speak to his daughter. She clenched her hands, turned and hurried down the steps before she gave in to the desire.

  “Nora…come with me, sweetie.” She held out her hand, and the toddler came running. Sarah took hold of her tiny hand, opened the gate and started down the gravel way toward the carriage house, hoping Quincy would not be offended if they invaded his territory. She needed a change of scenery. She looked around the far side of the building, but spotted no one.