Dorothy Clark - Family of the Heart

Sarah glanced at the toddler now asleep in her crib and shook her head. Supper had been a real challenge. Who would think that such a small body could house such a mass of determination. It had taken all of her ingenuity to get Nora to eat her meat and vegetables before her dessert.

Sarah’s smile slipped into a frown. She had a suspicion, based on Nora’s frequent requests for sweets and her unpleasant behavior when they were not forthcoming, that the former nanny may have used sweets to quiet her. But Nora’s bout of bad temper at supper had soon dissipated, her sunny disposition had returned and they had played quietly until her evening bedtime. She really was an adorable child.

Sarah tucked the blankets more closely around the little girl and roamed into her bedroom seeking distraction. She glanced at the desk that was again in its proper place beneath the window on the far wall. Her letter to her parents rested on the cleared surface, folded and addressed, sealed and ready to be posted. Perhaps she would do that tomorrow afternoon if the weather cleared. She had considered giving it to Ellen to carry home with her, but the post would be faster. And she had been thinking of going to town to visit the shops. Of course Nora’s hour or two of nap time did not allow for much exploring. Still, she should have time enough to accomplish all she needed to do, including visiting Ellen to send her on her way.

A clap of thunder invaded her thoughts, reminded her the storm was still raging, though awareness of it was never far away. It hovered like a dark cloud in the background, ready to carry forward painful memories at every flash of lightning or howl of the wind. Sarah shivered, adjusted the wick on the oil lamp and smoothed a wrinkle from the lindsey-woolsey coverlet on the bed. This was not working out as she had planned. She had counted on the demands of a toddler keeping her too busy to remember—or to feel the pain of her loss. But with Nora’s afternoon nap and early bedtime that hope had proven false. She had too much free time, especially with the storm adding to her unrest. If only…

Sarah lifted her gaze to the door at the right of the fireplace and absently tapped her thumbnail against her lips. Why not? What had she to lose? She opened the door wide, in order to hear Nora if she woke, and started down the winder stairs, longing for a hot cup of tea and some adult company. The storm had lessened in ferocity, but it still had her shaken and overwrought. She opened the door at the bottom, stepped into the kitchen and turned toward the table. Mrs. Quincy looked across the room, staring at her, most likely resenting this uninvited invasion of her domain. “Good evening.” She smiled and moved forward into the room.

The older woman nodded, leaned her direction and squinted her eyes. “Are you feeling all right, Miss Randolph? You look a bit under the weather.”

Sarah forced a laugh. “An apt description, Mrs. Quincy. I do not care for thunderstorms.” She glanced toward the stove, noted the pots steaming there and looked back. “I wondered if I might have some tea? And if you would care to share it with me? I would be glad of the company.”

The housekeeper studied her for a long moment, then walked to a cupboard standing against the wall, took out a tin of tea and headed for the stove. “This storm’s been a bad one. Guess you’re thankful it’s about wore itself out.” She measured tea into a red and white china teapot and added hot water from the kettle on the stove.

“Yes, I am.” Sarah moved closer to the long worktable and changed the subject. “I apologize for making extra work for you. Is there anything I can do to help?”

Mrs. Quincy gave a snort of laughter. “Lands, this ain’t work! My feet and I are grateful for the chance to sit down.” She placed the teapot on its tray, added some biscuits from a tin box sitting on the cupboard beside the stove and inclined her head toward the shelves hanging on the wall. “You can get two of them cups if you’re of a mind to help.”

Sarah hastened to do as she was bid. She had been accepted. At least for the moment. No doubt because of Mrs. Quincy’s tired feet.

Clayton dismounted in front of the carriage house, opened one of the wide double doors and led Pacer inside, the argument he had been waging with himself on the long, miserable ride home still engaging his mind. It was the storm. The ceaseless tempest coupled with his inherent protective instinct toward women was what had brought the image of Sarah Randolph’s pale, frightened face returning to him throughout the day. It had nothing to do with the woman herself. It was only that he had never known anyone so terrified of a thunderstorm. He had been pondering the possible causes of that fear since last night. Most likely it was some long-remembered childhood fright.

A gust of wind drove the rain into his face, splattered the deluge against the building and tried to rip the door from his grasp. He battled the wind for possession, managed to pull the door closed and headed toward Pacer’s stall. Sassy nickered softly, welcoming her barn mate home. Pacer tossed his head and snorted, nudged his back.

“Easy, boy, you will have some oats soon enough. But first we have to get you dry.”

The door opened. The wind howled through the breach, lifted hay and dust from the plank floor, swirling it through the air to stick to his wet face and clothes. Clayton blinked, blew a bit of straw off his upper lip.

Alfred Quincy wrestled the door closed. “Saw you ride in.” He walked over and held out his hand for the reins. “There’s hot venison stew waiting for you.”

Clayton nodded. Droplets of water clinging to his hat brim broke free and slithered down his cheeks and neck. He swiped them away. “A plate of hot stew is exactly what I need after the cold soaking I have had today.” He gave his mount a solid pat on the shoulder. “And Pacer deserves a long rubdown and a double scoop of oats. He earned them today.”

“I’ll see to it.”

Clayton nodded, stepped outside, lowered his head against the wind and pelting rain and ran toward the house. That stew was going to taste good tonight. There had been no time to eat today and his stomach was growling so fiercely he could not tell its rumblings from the distant thunder.

The kitchen door opened. Cold, damp air gusted across the room. The lamps flickered. Sarah turned, saw the rain-soaked figure standing against the blackness of the stormy night and gasped. The cup she held slipped from her grasp and smashed against the slate floor. The sound of the breaking china brought her back to her senses. “Oh, I…I am sorry.” Her voice quavered. She clamped her teeth down on her lower lip and crouched to pick up the pieces of broken cup, grateful for the table that hid her as she struggled to compose herself.

The door closed. The light steadied. Boot heels clacked on the floor. A shadow fell across her. Sarah closed her eyes, wished she were up in her room. She did not want Clayton Bainbridge to see her like this again. She tried to will herself to stop trembling.

“You look…unwell…Miss Randolph. Leave the cup.”

Sarah shook her head, opened her eyes. “That would not be fair to Mrs. Quincy. I broke it and I shall clear it away.” She cleared the sound of tears from her voice. “And I am not ‘unwell.’ I am fine.” She reached for a jagged piece of cup and stabbed her finger. Blood welled up to form a bright droplet against her flesh. She gathered another piece, started to rise to throw them away, wobbled and resumed her crouch, reaching for another piece of the cup to disguise the unsuccessful effort. “It was only that you startled me.”

The shadow covered her. Clayton Bainbridge’s hands closed around her upper arms. He lifted her to her feet. She looked up and met his gaze. Her knees quivered. She dropped her gaze to the pieces of china in her hand.