Family of the Heart

by Dorothy Clark

  Sarah held on to the door frame and fought for strength. He is not dead, only hurt. The reassurance did little to help. Clayton Bainbridge was as pale as the sheets on his bed. Except for the blood on his face. She shuddered, focused her attention on the steady rise and fall of the covers over his chest and took a tentative step to test her legs—moved forward with more confidence when her knees supported her. They quivered dangerously when she reached his bed and took a closer look at him. The hair on the left side of his head was matted with dried blood that extended across his temple and covered his eyelid.

  Sarah pressed her hand to her churning stomach and glanced back toward the door. Where was that doctor? Anger surged. Eldora should not have left her here alone. She had no experience in caring for sick or injured people! She looked back down at Clayton, took a deep breath. Eldora said to clean his wounds, but what if she hurt him? She dipped one of the cloths into the bowl, squeezed out the excess water and dabbed at his matted hair. The blood was hard and dry. Her effort ineffective. She dropped the cloth back in the water and dried her hands on another. She had tried.

  I’ll set ’em to soakin’.

  Eldora’s words brought her to a halt. Sarah paused, looked back at the bed. If it would work for clothes, why not for hair? She sighed, squeezed out the rag again, laid it on Clayton’s matted hair and wet another. It was not as bad with the gory wound hidden beneath the cloth.

  The blood on his temple came off with a gentle scrubbing, but she was afraid to rub at his eyelid. She placed another damp cloth over his eye and dried her hands.

  Sunshine streamed in the window above the table. Sarah leaned forward and peered out. Directly beneath was the porch roof, and stretched out beyond was the walled garden. So Clayton Bainbridge could see and hear Nora playing outside from here in his room. A smile curled her lips. She would remember that for when he was better. How long would that be?

  She straightened, looked over at him so pale and still. How could he get better if no one cared for him? That wound needed cleansing. Her stomach rebelled at the thought.

  Sarah took a breath to quell the nausea and picked up the moist cloth. Perhaps if she did only a bit at a time. She moved the first cloth back an inch and began working at the blood at his hairline.

  “You’ll never get him cleaned up unless you put a little more effort into your work, young lady.”

  Sarah gasped, spun toward the open door. A short, stout man, dressed in a black suit and carrying a black leather bag in his hand, gave her a friendly smile. “Didn’t mean to startle you. I’m Dr. Parker.”

  “Thank goodness!”

  He chuckled. “Not used to caring for the sick and injured, eh, Miss…”

  “Randolph. And you are correct, Doctor. I am a nanny, not a nurse. So, if you will excuse me?” She started toward the door, stopped when he held up his hand.

  “I’m afraid not, Miss Randolph. I may have need of you.”

  Sarah’s heart sank. She hoped with her whole being his prediction would prove false. She nodded, watched the doctor walk to the other side of the bed. He set his bag on the edge, leaned down and lifted the cloths away. Her stomach flopped. She took the cloths and dropped them in the bowl.

  The doctor’s lips puckered in concentration. His forehead furrowed. He reached down, palpated the flesh under Clayton’s matted hair.

  Sarah’s knees threatened to buckle. She grabbed hold of the bedpost.

  “Quite a lump there.” The lines at the corners of the doctor’s mouth deepened. He pulled a pair of glasses from his pocket, perched them on his rather large nose and leaned closer. He tugged at the bloody hair, exposing a long gash—and turned his attention to the eye.

  Her stomach roiled. Sarah turned to the water bowl and doused the cloths up and down, scrubbed them between her hands to remove the red stains. Anything was better than watching the doctor work.

  “Hmm, nothing wrong with his eye. Blood is all from that cut on his head. Strange things head wounds. Bleed like a stuck pig, but always seem to heal well.”

  Sarah swallowed, wished the doctor would not mutter aloud. She could have done without the image his words conveyed. She studied the green vine pattern that trailed around the rolled-over edge of the china bowl.

  “Too swollen for stitches. Nothing to do but clean him up and wait to see if he comes around.”

  If. Sarah’s legs trembled. She braced herself against the bedside table, dried her hands and again took hold of the carved corner post on the bed. “If he comes around?”

  The doctor glanced at her, removed his glasses and stuck them back in his pocket. “Yes. Head wounds are chancy things. But we can pray and hope for the best.”

  Oh, yes, prayer. The usual balm for frightened, hurting people. Anger took the wobble from her knees. Sarah released her grip on the bedpost and folded her hands in front of her. “Is Mr. Bainbridge in pain?”

  “No. Not as long as he’s unconscious. It may be a different story when he wakes. The man that came to get me said some kind of wagon hit Clay in the back. I won’t know if he has any injury from that until he wakes and can tell me if he has pain.” He fastened a steady gaze on her. “Meantime, someone will have to stay with him day and night. He may have bouts of restlessness and he cannot be let to thrash around. He could do himself further injury.”

  There was no one but her! Panic clutched at her. Sarah caught her breath, cleared her throat. “Is there someone who does nursing care you could recommend, Doctor? I will pay—” She stopped as he shook his head.

  “Diphtheria is going around the city. It’s waning, but I wouldn’t recommend you have strangers come into the house, Miss Randolph. It could be dangerous for all of you.”

  Nora. She could not endanger the little girl and the others because of her cowardice. Sarah straightened. “Very well, Doctor. What must I do?”

  “Not much you can do. Clean Clay up, stay with him and keep him quiet. Cold cloths sometimes help with the swelling.” The doctor picked up his bag and walked to the door. “If there’s any change for the worse in his condition, send Quincy for me. Otherwise, I’ll come by to check on him tomorrow. He comes from strong stock, and he may come around by then.”

  Sarah listened to the doctor cross the hall—his footsteps fading away down the stairs. Silence fell. She stared down at Clayton Bainbridge so still and white upon the bed. If he died, Nora would have no one—she would be the same as the children that filled her aunt Laina’s orphanage in Philadelphia. Tears welled into her eyes. Sarah blinked them away, but more flowed down her cheeks. Fear for the toddler’s future seized her, overrode her anger and drove her to her knees. For the first time since the shipwreck, she bowed her head and folded her hands.

  “Almighty God, all my life I have been taught by my parents that You are a merciful and loving Father. That You hear and answer the prayers of Your children. Since Aaron’s death, I do not believe that to be so.” Bitterness rose, closed her throat. She took a breath and choked out words. “But my unbelief cannot change the truth. Mother and Father say the Bible is true—and I know Scripture says that You desire only good for Your children. Therefore, I ask You to have mercy on Clayton Bainbridge. I ask You to heal him, not only in his body but in his heart as well, that Nora may grow up knowing the love of her father.” The anger edged back. “She is only a baby, God. She needs him. Spare him for her sake, I pray. Amen.”

  Sarah opened her eyes and rose, uncertain whether she had done Nora good or harm. The prayer had somehow come out more of a challenge than a plea. How did her mother always find faith in times of adversity? She found nothing but doubt. A long sigh escaped her. She wrung out a cloth, took a breath and began to wash the blood off Clayton’s eye.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Sarah wiped the last bit of red from Clayton’s eyelid. Soaking the dried blood with the warm wet cloths worked. My, he had long eyelashes! And straight, dark brows—with dirt clinging to a few hairs. She scanned his face, leaned closer. And more dirt on his
ear and jaw she had not noticed. No doubt because of all that blood.

  She shuddered, rinsed the cloth and scrubbed gently at the dried mud, knowing she was only delaying the inevitable but unable to keep from hoping Eldora would return to cleanse the area around his wound. It was cowardly, but she kept putting off the task and hoping.

  The bones of his face felt heavy and strong—so different from her own. She wiped the cloth over Clayton’s rugged cheekbones, his long nose and square jaw. His shaved whiskers stubbornly resisted the cloth. She frowned and paused in her work to stare down at him. His whiskers did not normally appear in such contrast to his skin.

  How would they feel? She touched his cheek. The dark stubble prickled her fingertips. Warmth rushed into her cheeks. She jerked her hand away and reached for a fresh cloth to dry his face. Worry settled its heaviness upon her. Clayton’s complexion was dark and robust from working outside. How could a head injury cause such pallor? She uncovered his arms and checked his hands. Dirt was buried under his nails, ground into his fingers, palms and wrists. She soaped the cloth, washed one limp, unresisting hand, tucked it back under the covers and began on the other. Tears welled into her eyes. Clayton’s thick wrists, broad palms and long fingers looked so powerful. They had been so strong when he had carried her into the house. And now—

  Sarah gulped back a sob and finished washing his hand. It shouldn’t be so. Clayton Bainbridge was a young, healthy man. Much younger than Aaron. And Nora needed him. She dropped the cloth into the bowl. “Must You take him, too, God?” She took a deep breath, fighting to steady her voice. “You shan’t have him. Nora needs her father and I will fight to keep him for her.” Her quavering words hung in the air, unchallenged, unanswered.

  Sarah snatched the cloth from the bowl, squeezed it out and attacked the bloody, matted mass of Clayton’s hair. She was so angry she did not even flinch when she reached the gaping wound. She snatched up a towel, tucked it around Clayton’s head to catch the runoff and dipped cloths and squeezed fresh, clean water over the wound until there was not a bit of dirt, blood or hair left in it. When she finished, she marched to the dressing room, dumped the bowl, filled it with cold water and marched back. She grabbed up a folded clean cloth, dipped and squeezed it and placed it over the wound. There! He was clean and—and—still.

  “Mr. Bainbridge? This is Sarah Randolph. Can you hear me?” No response. She leaned over the bed, staring down at him. “Can you move? Open your eyes? Moan? Do something?” Sarah clenched her hands into fists to keep from grabbing Clayton’s shoulders and shaking him. She whirled away from the bed and stalked about the room, quivering with anger. She was so afraid.

  She walked to the door, listened. There was no sign of anyone coming to rescue her. She moved back to the bed, stood looking down at Clayton. He looked peaceful. And handsome. Softer than usual with his habitual frown erased and the tightness around his mouth relaxed. She wanted to slap him.

  Laughter bubbled up, burst from her mouth. She crossed her arms over her stomach and sank to the floor, the laughter punctuated by sobs. She could not do this. She could not stay here in this room waiting for Clayton Bainbridge to die.

  Her temples hurt. Sarah lifted her hands and rubbed at the pain. She always got a headache when she cried. It was so annoying, she—

  Nora!

  Sarah struggled to her feet and hurried to the window, drawn by the sound of the toddler’s happy giggles. She shielded her eyes against the brightness and looked down into the walled garden. Nora and Quincy were chasing after kittens. She glanced up at the sun hanging low on the horizon. It was time the kittens were put back in the carriage house and Nora was—What was she to do about Nora?

  Sarah turned from the window and glanced about the room. If she had to spend the night here watching over Clayton, where would she sleep? And what about Nora? Gracious, what would she do about Nora? The nursery was too far away to hear her call. Oh, if only this headache would stop. She couldn’t think straight. She hurried into the dressing room, splashed cold water on her face, then sat on the edge of the tub and held a cold cloth to her forehead. The pain eased, finally subsided to a dull discomfort.

  Sarah hung the cloth on a brass bar and fixed her hair. She turned to go into the bedroom, stopped and glanced back at the cloth. How did the doctor know Clayton was not in pain? He could not tell them. What if he had a headache from that lump on his head? She remembered a few bump-related headaches she had when a child. One rather severe one when Mary had accidentally knocked her out of the hayloft. Of course the doctor knew best. Still, what could it hurt?

  She grabbed the cloth and strode into the bedroom and laid it across Clayton’s forehead. Perhaps the doctor was right and it would not help him, but it made her feel better. Now, for practical matters like sleeping arrangements and Nora’s care.

  She pursed her lips, pushed back a tress of hair that persisted in tickling her forehead. They would need the necessary toiletries, of course. And Nora would need cloths. And toys…books…What else? She looked at the deepening shadows in the room, glanced at the lamp on Clayton’s bedside table. The lamp must be lit. She could not tend Clayton without light. And to sit alone in darkness waiting for—She shuddered, wrapped her arms about herself. That would be unendurable. But if she could not leave, how—

  “How is he? Any change?”

  Sarah gasped, swung around toward the door and gave a little laugh. “You startled me, Eldora. I did not hear you come up the stairs. No, there is no change. He has not moved or spoken. But the doctor says someone must stay with him all the time, lest he become restless and injure himself further.”

  The housekeeper nodded, crossed to a table in front of the fireplace and set down the tray she carried. “Brung your supper. Roast beef and vegetables. There’s broth for him if he wakes.”

  “When.” Where had that come from? Sarah smiled to soften the correction. “Mother always says one should not entertain doubt.”

  “’Tis true.” Eldora lifted the candle from the tray, carried it to the bedside table and lit the lamp. Black smoke billowed upward. She adjusted the wick, replaced the globe and shuffled to the bed. Golden candlelight spilled over Clayton’s pale face and dark hair. Eldora lifted the cloth covering Clayton’s wound and leaned down to examine it.

  Sarah braced herself.

  The housekeeper straightened. “You made a good job of cleanin’ it.” She looked her way, nodded commendation. “Got to go feed the others. I’ll send Quincy for the tray.” She started for the door.

  She was not going to offer to spell her. Perhaps she had not thought about Nora. “Eldora, before you go…”

  The housekeeper stopped and looked at her.

  Sarah took a breath. “I have been thinking about what must be done. Please send Quincy to me when he is free. If I am to stay in this room tonight to watch over Mr. Bainbridge, I will need him to help me with sleeping arrangements. The nursery is too far from this bedroom. I shall have to keep Nora here with me.”

  The older woman’s eyes gleamed, her lips twitched, firmed.

  Sarah straightened. “What is it?”

  Eldora shook her head, started again for the door. “’Tis nothin’ of import. ’Tis only…The way you was speakin’, you sounded like you was mistress of the house.” She moved into the hall. Mumbled something under her breath.

  Sarah, frowned, held back the apology readying on her lips. It sounded as if Eldora had muttered, “Grant it, O Lord.” How dare she pray such a thing! She hurried after the housekeeper. If Eldora wanted a mistress of the house then she would have one until Clayton Bainbridge awoke!

  “Eldora, wait!” Her tone stopped the housekeeper dead in her tracks. Sarah lifted her chin. “I need you to stay with Mr. Bainbridge while I gather a few necessities from my room. I shan’t be long.” She turned her back on the look of satisfaction spreading across the older woman’s face, lifted her long skirts and sailed down the hall allowing her stiff posture and staccato steps to convey her dis
pleasure with Eldora’s attitude.

  “Nanny!” Nora all but jumped out of Quincy’s arms and came running across the bedroom, a big smile on her beaming face.

  Sarah scooped her up, receiving a big hug from soft, warm little arms, and giving one in return.

  “We catched the kitties. An’ I petted the horsies. An’—” Nora’s eyes went wide. She stared down at the figure in the bed. “Him sleepin’?”

  Sarah took a deep breath. “No, sweetie. Your papa is not feeling well, and I must stay with him.” She ignored the shock that flashed in Quincy’s eyes when she said “papa”—no doubt Eldora would hear of that—and kissed the toddler’s cheek. “And you are going to stay here with me. Will you like that?”

  Nora nodded, stuck her thumb in her mouth. “Does his tummy hurted?”

  “No, he hurt his head.” Sarah carried the toddler over to the chair by the window. “Now, you be a good girl and sit here and look at a book while I talk to Quincy.”

  She handed Nora a picture book and turned to Eldora’s husband. “Quincy, I need you to bring Nora’s crib mattress to this room and put it on the floor in that corner.” She indicated the place with a sweep of her hand. “Then, I want you to bring the rocker from the nursery and place it there—beside the bed. That will be the perfect spot. I shall be able to watch over both of them at once.”

  Quincy nodded, ducked his head, stepped out the door into the hallway and hurried off toward the nursery. But not fast enough. She caught sight of his smile.

  Sarah frowned, walked to the door and stared at Quincy’s retreating back. What was he smiling about? There was nothing amusing about this situation—unless he shared the folly of his wife’s wishes.

  Sarah scowled, glanced back at Clayton in the bed and Nora by the window, suspicion growing that Eldora and Quincy had maneuvered her into this position on purpose. Well, she had no choice. But if they thought this was an indication of a permanent change, they were going to be sorely disappointed. Such a thing was out of the question. Her heart belonged to Aaron. She was only tending Mr. Bainbridge because there was no one else. She didn’t even like the man. Who could abide a man who wouldn’t even acknowledge his own child?