Family of the Heart

by Dorothy Clark

  She dismissed the couple’s foolishness, shook off her irritation and went back to studying the room. Had she forgotten anything? She had already gathered the toiletries for herself and Nora and placed them in the dressing room. She had brought picture books and a few of Nora’s favorite toys. If Quincy would bring the dollhouse it should be enough to keep Nora content for a few days. She glanced at Clayton, lying motionless on the bed. Surely it would not be longer than that.

  She walked to the bed, replaced the warmed cloth on his forehead with a fresh, cool one. Lifted the cloth off his wound.

  “Nasty gash.” Quincy put the mattress and pile of bed linen he carried in the corner and took a closer look.

  Sarah placed a cold cloth over the wound. “I wish he would move or open his eyes or something. He is so still I keep looking at the covers over his chest to be sure he is breathing.”

  “He’s a tough one. He’ll come around.”

  “Yes.” One should not entertain doubt. Sarah sighed, watched Quincy head back to the nursery for the rocker and walked to the corner to make up Nora’s bed. It was not easy to believe good would happen. Not when her fiancé had been struck by lightning and lost in the ocean in front of her very eyes. Not when she had almost drowned.

  Sarah replaced the cloths again, looked from her patient to Nora, who was sound asleep on her mattress. Clayton was a very handsome man, but she saw little of him in his daughter.

  She frowned, picked up the wash bowl and carried it to the dressing room to get fresh water. This was not the time to be dwelling on Clayton’s lack of attention or affection for his daughter. That would wait until he recovered from his injuries. She kept her ears tuned for any sound of movement from Clayton or Nora, dumped out the water, refilled the bowl and set it aside.

  A quick glance into the mirror set her to amending the neglect to her own appearance. She looked tired. Not surprising. It was the small hours of the morning and she had not yet slept. She was afraid to. What if he woke, moved and harmed himself? It did not seem likely, but she was still afraid to sleep. Cool water would help. She washed her face, applied a dab of cream and tucked a few stray strands of hair back into place.

  The light flickered. Sarah leaned down and adjusted the wick of the dressing-room lamp. The stained cloths she had rinsed clean and hung to dry over the edge of the tub caught her eye. She shook her head, a smile tugged at her lips. She must write her parents of her nursing efforts. They would never believe it. She was so squeamish as a child she was unable to look at a simple scratch without feeling ill. Even as an adult she averted her gaze from any sort of wound, no matter how small. Until now.

  The smile faded. Sarah carried the bowl back to the bedside table, hoping all the cold cloths would help with the swelling as the doctor said. She yawned and stretched her back then roamed about the room, uncomfortable at being among Clayton’s personal belongings. A frown creased her forehead. She did a slow pirouette, looking at the walls, the tops of his tables and desk. That was odd. There was no portrait or miniature of his wife in sight. Her father had—

  “Unnnggh.”

  Sarah whipped around. Clayton was rolling his head from side to side. She gasped and rushed to the bed. “Mr. Bainbridge, you must lie still!”

  He raised his hand, clawing at the cloth over his eyes, trying to lift his head.

  “No, you must not move!” Sarah grabbed his hand, pulled it to her chest, pushed gently on his forehead.

  He sagged back. Quieted. His arm went limp.

  She tucked it back under the covers, replaced the cloth and stood there shaking. Had he been awake? He had not opened his eyes. She stared down at him, hoping he would move, terrified that he might. Oh, if only Eldora were here. But she was sound asleep downstairs.

  She stood by the bed until her body screamed at her to move. She took a step, grabbing for the corner post as her numb legs collapsed beneath her.

  Tears stung her eyes. Sarah pulled herself straight and made small circles with her ankles, wincing at the pains shooting into her calves. When the pains abated, she took a tentative step, released her grip on the bedpost and moved around the room.

  A leather pouch full of papers someone had dropped on the floor beside Clayton’s desk drew her attention. She picked it up and carried it to the cupboard by the fireplace. Clayton’s clothes hung inside, his shoes and boots on the floor beneath them. Would he ever wear them again?

  Sarah caught her breath, set the pouch on the shelf beside his hats where it would be safe from Nora’s curiosity and quickly closed the door. The click of the latch was loud in the silence. The horrible silence of an endless night.

  Sarah rubbed at her tired eyes, looked longingly at the rocker. She did not dare sit down. She was too tired. She might not wake if he started thrashing around again.

  “Deborah—” Clayton rolled his head from side to side.

  Sarah raced back to the bed. “Mr. Bainbridge, please lie still. You will hurt yourself.”

  “—died.” Clayton dragged his arm from beneath the covers. His hand flopped against his chest. “My fault—my fault.”

  “Mr. Bainbridge, please! It’s Sarah Randolph. Can you hear me?”

  “Baby—” He rolled his head, the cloth crumpled into a wad. “Deborah—No…no—”

  What should she do? He did not even know she was here!

  His hand lifted slightly, moved toward his head.

  Sarah grabbed it, held it in both of hers. He quieted. She fixed the cloth, covered his arm, pulled the rocker close and sat, too exhausted to stay on her feet a moment longer. She had to rest for a minute. Her eyelids slipped down. Her head dropped forward.

  Sarah jerked upright, tried to focus. It was no use, she was simply too tired. She uncovered Clayton’s hand, clasped hold of it, propped her arm on the bed so it could not fall off and rested her head against the rocker back. She should have thought of this earlier. She could sleep now. If he moved he would wake her. She sighed and closed her eyes.

  Clayton opened his eyes, stared at the ceiling in the dim, yellow light. He had fallen asleep with the lamp on. He turned his head. Pain exploded behind his eyes, throbbed in his temples. His stomach churned. He took a couple of deep breaths, eased his head back to the former position. It helped. The pain was not quite as severe.

  What was wrong with him?

  There was a soft rustle on his left, something moved beneath his hand. Careful not to move his head, he shifted his gaze that direction. Sarah Randolph was asleep in a chair beside his bed. His heart lurched. Why—A jolt of apprehension set his pulse pounding, his head throbbing harder. He must be ill. He moved his hand slightly, felt a response. She was holding his hand. He must be very ill. He should ask. He opened his mouth, took a breath, then let it out slowly. She looked so tired, was sleeping so soundly. He would wait…ask…tomorrow…

  He curled his fingers ever so slowly until her hand was snug in his grip and closed his eyes.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Clayton woke to birdsong and to pearl-gray light filtering through dew-kissed windowpanes. Dawn. His usual time to rise. But not today. His head throbbed. And beyond that pain was a discomfort, a weakness in his body. Something was wrong with him. Memory rushed back. Or maybe it was a dream. It had to be. Why would Sarah Randolph be sleeping in a chair beside his bed? He took a slow, deep breath, focused on his left hand, became aware of the soft, warm flesh it encased. It was no dream. Last night was real.

  So what was wrong with him?

  Clayton frowned, dredged through his memory but found no answer. Could illness cause such a thing? Could you be so sick you could not remember becoming ill? Fear brought a tightness to his chest. He fought down the temptation to seek comfort by tightening his grip around Sarah’s hand. He had no right. No one knew that better than he. But he could not make himself release her hand—told himself it was only that he did not want to wake her. An excuse he could live with.

  Perhaps he was trying too hard. Perhaps he would remem
ber if he relaxed and let his mind drift.

  Clayton forced down the fear, closed his eyes against the strengthening light and listened to the gentle sounds of morning’s awakening. Nothing came to him but a growing certainty that he was creating a painful memory for the empty years ahead. His face tightened. He opened his eyes and slowly uncurled his fingers.

  Sarah Randolph gasped. Her hand jerked free of his grasp. She surged to her feet, leaned over him and stared down into his eyes. “You are awake!”

  The soft gladness in her voice, the sight of her relieved, happy smile brought a longing that stole his breath, constricted his throat. If only—

  “You are awake?” Worry shadowed her eyes. “Can you hear me?”

  “Yes.” He forgot and nodded. The pain swelled, burst into splinters and speared him behind the eyes. “Ugh!” His stomach churned.

  “You must not move, Mr. Bainbridge. Please.” Tears welled into the beautiful brown eyes gazing down at him. “The doctor said if you move you could do yourself more harm. You must lie still.”

  The stabbing pain in his head held him mute. Clayton closed his eyes, gritted his teeth and fought a swirling darkness.

  Fabric rustled, water splashed.

  “If you can hear me—I have a cold cloth for your head, Mr. Bainbridge.” Something cold and damp touched his forehead, rested there. “And another for your wound.” The pillow beneath the left side of his head depressed slightly, cold touched the hammering pain centered there. He caught his breath, waiting for the spinning to cease, the pounding to subside to its former throb. The darkness deepened. He felt himself sliding in, reached out a hand, felt Sarah’s soft hands grasp it just before he sank down to the place of unknowing.

  “Hmm, you did a good job cleaning this wound. And the cold cloths seem to have helped with the swelling. It’s no larger. Might even have gone down a tad.” The doctor replaced the cloth, wrapped his fingers around Clayton’s wrist and looked at his watch. He pursed his lips, nodded his head. “Pulse is good and strong.”

  Sarah folded her hands, stared at the doctor from across Clayton’s bed. “And that is a good sign for his recovery?”

  “It is favorable, yes.” He gave her a tired smile, looked back at his patient. “You say he woke?”

  “Yes. Early this morning. For a moment only.”

  “You are sure he was awake? In head cases like this, the person sometimes open their eyes and talks. Nonsense usually.” He took a wooden tube out of his case, placed the flared end on Clayton’s chest, leaned down and put his ear against the small end.

  “I am quite certain, Doctor. He answered yes when I asked if he could hear me.”

  “That all he said?”

  “This morning, yes. Last night he muttered a few words when he was restless.”

  “Thrash around, did he? I warned you he might.” The doctor put the tube back in his bag. Pulled out a small bottle. “I’ll leave this with you. Give him some for pain when he wakes up, if he wants it—but only when he’s fully awake.” He handed her the bottle, closed his bag. “It makes people sleep and he’s already sleeping too much, so half a spoonful should do.”

  Sarah nodded and put the bottle on the nightstand. “Is there anything else?”

  “Keep putting the cold cloths on the wound—they seem to be helping. And continue to keep him quiet. Don’t let him thrash around and hurt himself. And wait for him to wake up—if he’s going to.” He looked at her, frowned. “I think this household must be prepared, Miss Randolph. It is possible Clay will stay this way, even after his wound heals.” He fastened the buckle on his bag and walked to the door. “If he does wake, don’t feed him anything but a good strong broth till I come by again.” He stepped out into the hall.

  Sarah stood frozen in place, staring at the empty doorway. How dare he tell her such news and then simply walk away! How dare he say such a thing. “If he does wake.” If. A horrible little word. She looked down at Clayton lying so still in his bed, and tears sprang into her eyes. He was so young. So vital. His whole life was before him. And what of Nora? Is this all she would ever know of her father—a lifeless form in a bed?

  Death and life are in the power of the tongue…

  The words of Scripture dropped into her mind—clung there. What did it mean? That she was to pray? Sarah stiffened. She knew better. The power of life and death was in a bolt of lightning, a raging sea—or a wound to the head. Not in prayer.

  She turned her back on the bed and walked to the window. She looked down into the walled garden, slid her gaze to the carriage house. Memories of Nora poking a worm, chasing after animals, petting horses and kittens made her heart hurt, her throat tighten. What if the Scripture was true? But how could it be? That day on the ship she had prayed “God save us!” and Aaron had died.

  And all things, whatsoever ye shall ask in prayer, believing, ye shall receive.

  A quietness came. A knowing. Sarah closed her eyes, faced the truth. Her words had only been an expression of her fear, not a call of faith. She had not believed. She had not expected God to save them. She had not prayed. She had only spoken empty words born of her terror and blamed God for not honoring them.

  Tears slid from beneath her closed eyelids and coursed down her cheeks. This is what her parents had tried to explain to her—what she had refused to hear. But it was easier to be angry than to be honest. Easier to be haughty than humble. Easier to blame God than to admit Aaron should never had sailed out into the ocean that day. Sarah wrestled with her pride, sank to her knees and choked out words. “Forgive me, Lord. Please forgive me. And help Thou my unbelief.”

  She stayed there on her knees by the window, waiting, unable to rise though she did not understand why. A pressure built deep inside, grew in intensity. Words formed in her heart, rose to her mouth and poured from her lips. “Almighty God, Thou who hears and answers the prayers of Thy children, have mercy on Clayton Bainbridge, I pray. Restore him to fullness of health and richness of life for Thy glory, O God. For Thy glory. O God, have mercy on Mr. Bainbridge. Have mercy and heal him I pray in the name of Your beloved Son, Jesus. Amen.”

  Sarah drew a breath—a sweet breath, free of the bitterness she had harbored in her heart all these months. She wiped away the tears, opened her eyes and rose to her feet. She walked to the bed and looked down at Clayton. Nothing had changed—he was pale and still. Yet everything had changed. She knew it. Her fear was gone and in its place was a peace she had never before experienced. She replaced the cloths on his head with fresh, cool ones, crossed to the rocker, took hold of his hand, closed her eyes and yielded to her weariness. She would sleep while Eldora and Quincy cared for Nora.

  “An’ Wiggles jumped really, really high. Way up on the big box!”

  The voice tugged at him. Clayton floated to the surface of the darkness. Struggled against heaviness, tried to summon energy to speak.

  “Gracious! He must have been frightened.”

  Sarah. He fought to open his eyes.

  “It was a big, big doggie! But Q’incy chaseded it away.”

  The child. What was the child doing in his room? Clayton stopped fighting the heaviness of his eyelids and listened.

  “My! You had a busy day. But no more talking now. It is time for you to go to sleep.”

  Sleep? It was morning. Or had he slept the day away?

  The rocker creaked, began a quiet, rhythmic movement that was peaceful and comforting in the silence. Sarah hummed softly, the sound conjuring a picture of what a family could be. Should be. But never would be. Not for him. Clayton took a long, slow breath and forced himself to think of Deborah.

  The rocker stopped. He tried not to pay attention, but his will and his body betrayed him. His ears strained to pick up sounds, his brain to sort and identify them. Dress fabric whispered and soft footfalls sounded. Would Sarah return after she put the child to bed? Or would she leave him to go through the dark night alone?

  Clayton frowned, swallowed back the name he wanted to call
out. He reminded himself again he had no right to keep Sarah near—that the very fact that he did not want her to go was proof that she should. He clamped his mouth shut, listened, judged direction and distance by the level of sound and followed Sarah’s movements in his mind. Why was she walking toward the corner instead of the door?

  “Good night, sweetie. Happy dreams.”

  The whispered words were followed by soft sounds he couldn’t identify yet understood. The sounds of a woman tucking a child into bed. So the child was sleeping in his bedroom. He concentrated on the thought. Wondered at how little anger it provoked. He did not seem to have the energy for anger. No doubt because of the sickness. But he still knew what he wanted—no, what was right. What he wanted was wrong. He gathered his strength and opened his eyes to golden lamplight. “Miss Randolph?” It came out a raspy squawk.

  There was a soft gasp, and then Sarah was beside the bed looking down at him, a smile trembling on her lips. “You are truly awake.”

  “Yes.” It was so hard to frown when he wanted to return her smile. He needed to distance himself from her, did not want to ask her to do anything for him—but his throat and mouth were so dry his words were little more than a croak. “Water…please.”

  “Yes, of course.” She started away, whirled back. “You must not move. It is very important that you lie still.”

  She disappeared. He heard her running water in the dressing room. A moment later she was back with a glass of water and a spoon in her hands. “You cannot lift your head, Mr. Bainbridge. The doctor said you could do further injury to yourself if you move. I will give you the water from a spoon.”