Dorothy Clark - Family of the Heart

“Sorry if I gave you a start, I did not realize you were in here.” Clayton pulled the door closed, faced her. “It seems we are in for a bit of weather. The wind is coming up fast.”

The sighing moan of wind seeking entrance at the windowpanes accompanied by a distant rumble of thunder testified to the truth of his prediction. Sarah darted her gaze toward the window, fought back a shudder. She would have to hurry. Get back to her room before the storm broke upon them.

“Were you looking for me? Is there a problem?”

She jerked her attention back to Clayton Bainbridge. “No. No problem. I…I was searching for something to read.” She lowered her hand, squared her shoulders. “I hope you do not mind?”

“Not at all.” Clayton’s gaze shifted to the books. “Were you looking for anything in particular?”

“No.” Lightning lit the sky in the distance. Sarah winced and turned her back to the windows, focusing on the books in front of her. “I only wanted something to read until I can fall asleep.” Little chance of that now. She edged in the direction of the door.

Clayton strode up beside her, reached out and pulled a book off the shelf. “The music of Robert Burns’s poetry always works for me.” His thumb slid back and forth over the black leather cover then stilled.

She was trapped. Sarah watched him, held fear at bay by trying to identify the myriad emotions that shadowed his eyes. Sadness…anger…loneliness…and something—He lifted his head, looked at her. She flicked her gaze back to the books. Warmth crawled into her cheeks. Had she been fast enough? Or had he caught her staring at him?

“Do you like poetry, Miss Randolph?”

She nodded. “Yes, I do.” The wind moaned louder, raindrops spattered against the windows at the far end of the room. The warmth drained from her cheeks. The tightness in her chest increased. If only he would move out of her way!

“Do you enjoy Burns? Or perhaps you prefer Blake or Wordsworth?”

“I have no preference. I like them all.” Lightning flashed, throwing light against the walls. There was a loud, sharp crack. Sarah flinched and bit down on her lower lip to stop the scream that rose in her throat.

“But not thunderstorms?”

She glanced up at Clayton. He was studying her. And she knew exactly how she looked—face pale, mouth taut, eyes wide and fearful. No point in trying to deny it. “No. Not thunderstorms. Not anymore.” There was a brilliant flash, a sizzle and crack, the burst of thunder. “Excuse me.”

Sarah pushed her way between Clayton and the game table, rushed into the hallway and sagged against the wall, struggling to catch a breath. She could still hear the thunder, but its rumble was muffled by the walls, and there were no windows to show the lightning. If only she could get to her room! But her legs were trembling so hard she was afraid to move away from the support of the wall. If she could breathe—

“Are you all right, Miss Randolph?”

He had followed her! Sarah nodded, gathered her meager strength and pushed away from the wall. Her knees gave way. Clayton Bainbridge’s quick grip on her elbow kept her from falling. She turned her face away from his perusal. “Thank you.” She struggled for breath to speak. Panted out words. “If you will…excuse me, I need to…go upstairs. Nora may wake and be…frightened by the storm.”

“In a moment. You are in no condition to climb stairs.” He half carried her the few steps to a Windsor chair. “You are very pale.” His eyes darkened. His face drew taut. “Rest here while I get you some brandy. A swallow always helped my wife when she had one of her spells.” He turned toward the drawing room.

“No, please. That isn’t necessary.” Sarah pushed to her feet, forced her trembling legs to support her. “Thank you for your kindness, but I need to go upstairs to Nora.” And to hide from the storm.

Thunder boomed. Sarah winced and rushed to the stairs. She heard him come to stand at the bottom, felt his gaze on her as she climbed. He must think her insane to react so fearfully to a simple thunderstorm. Would he judge her unsafe to care for his child because of it?

The sound of rain pelting the roof and throwing itself in a suicidal frenzy against the shuttered windows of the nursery drove the worry from her mind. “Sufficient unto the day are the troubles thereof…” Tomorrow would take care of itself. She had the night to get through.

Sarah tucked the covers more snugly around the peacefully slumbering Nora and ran tiptoe to the dressing room to prepare for bed. Prayers formed in her mind in automatic response to every howl of the wind, every flash of lightning and clap of thunder, but she left them unspoken. She had learned not to waste her time uttering cries for mercy to a God who did not hear or did not care. It would profit her more to hide beneath her covers and wait for the tempest to pass.

She shivered her way to bed, slid beneath the coverlet and pulled the pillow over her head to block out the sights and sounds of the foul weather, but it was too late. The storm had brought back all the memories, and she was powerless to stop the terrifying images that flashed one after the other across the window of her mind.

Lightning flashed. Thunder cracked, rumbled away. Clayton pushed away from his desk and crossed to the window. Rain coursed down the small panes of glass in torrents, making the barely visible trunks of the trees in the yard look liquid and flowing. He had not seen a storm this bad in years. He frowned and rubbed at the tense muscles at the back of his neck. Hopefully it would pass over soon. If not, the weak wall they were working to reinforce at the lock might not hold. And if it collapsed it would put them weeks behind the time he had scheduled for the repairs.

Clayton shook his head and turned from the window. There was no sense in worrying—or praying. He knew that from all those wasted prayers he uttered when he found out Deborah was expecting his child. What would be, would be. And he could do nothing until morning. He might better spend his time sleeping because, one way or another, tomorrow was going to be a hard day. He snuffed out the lamps, left his study and headed for the stairs. The sight of his hand on the banister evoked the memory of Sarah Randolph’s white-knuckled grip as she had climbed. She had trembled so beneath his hand, he had expected her strength to give out after a few steps, had worried she might fall. But she had made it to the top. And to the nursery. He had listened to make sure.

Clayton cast a quick glance down the hallway to the nursery door. All was quiet. He entered his bedroom and crossed to the dressing room to prepare for bed. What could have happened to make Sarah Randolph so terrified of a storm? Something had. When he noticed her pale face and asked if she liked thunderstorms she had answered, Not anymore. Yes, something frightening had definitely happened to Miss Sarah Randolph during a thunderstorm. But what?

Clayton puzzled over the question, created possible scenarios to answer it while he listened to the sounds of the storm’s fury. It was better than dwelling on the possible damage the weak locks were sustaining.

“Tompkins, start those men digging a runoff ditch five feet back from the top of the bank, then follow me.” Clayton slipped and slid his way down the muddy slope and turned left to inspect the lock under repair. One quick look was enough. He squinted up through the driving rain at his foreman and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Tompkins, get some men and timbers down here! We need to shore up this wall.”

His foreman waved a hand to indicate he had heard him above the howling wind and ran off to do as ordered.