Family of the Heart. Dorothy Clark

      “Here are the biscuits you asked for, Miss Randolph.”

      “Bisit!” Nora pushed to her feet and ran toward the house.

      Mrs. Quincy stepped onto the porch, holding a tray. The door banged closed behind her.

      Sarah caught up to Nora, lifted into her arms and carried her up the steps. “Bless you for the interruption, Mrs. Quincy.” She settled Nora on a chair and gave the stout woman a grateful smile. “She found a worm.”

      The housekeeper nodded. “At least ’tis better than a bumblebee. Worms don’t sting.” She set the tray on the table.

      “Gracious! I forgot about bees.” Sarah wiped Nora’s small hands with the bottom of the grass-stained pinafore then folded them together. “Close your eyes, Nora.”

      The toddler’s lips pulled down. “Bisit.”

      “You shall have your biscuit after we ask the blessing.” Nora let out a screech. Sarah folded her own hands and waited. The child’s acts of rebellion were getting shorter. The toddler stopped yelling, stared up at her, then closed her eyes. Sarah bowed her head. “Dear gracious, heavenly Father, we thank Thee for this food. Amen.” She handed Nora a biscuit and glanced up. There was a distinct look of approval in Mrs. Quincy’s eyes. What had brought about her change of attitude?

      “I brought lemonade for you, Miss Randolph. Mrs. Bainbridge liked to sip lemonade while she rested here on the porch. But if it’s not to your liking I could bring you some tea.”

      “Lemonade is fine, Mrs. Quincy. Have you time to join me?”

      The housekeeper shot a yearning glance at the padded bench and shook her head. “There’s cleaning to oversee, and the baking to be done. Another time, mayhap.” She turned toward the door.

      “Of course.” Sarah took a breath and seized her opportunity. “You said Mrs. Bainbridge rested here on the porch. And Mr. Bainbridge mentioned she had ‘spells.’ Was she unwell?”

      The stout woman stopped, nodded. “’Twas some sort of weakness in her heart stole her breath from her if she moved about. Oft times till she swooned.” She looked down at Nora and her voice took on a reflective tone. “She was too frail for childbearin’. She died shortly after this one was born. Nora has the look of her.”

      Sarah studied Nora’s delicate features. “Mrs. Bainbridge must have been a beautiful woman. It’s a pity Nora will never know her.”

      “She was beautiful…an’ spoiled. An’ the little one was followin’ along after her, till now.” Mrs. Quincy looked up, blinked and gave a little shake of her head. “But ’tis not my place to speak of such things. Don’t know why I’m standin’ here wastin’ time when there’s work to be done.” She hurried across the porch. “I’ll send Lucy to fetch the tray.” The door banged shut behind her.

      “Bisit?”

      “No, Nora. No more biscuits.” Sarah gave her a sip of lemonade and lifted her off the chair. “Come with me. I am going to teach you to do a somersault.” She helped her down the steps onto the grass, knelt down and placed one hand on the toddler’s tummy, the other on her upper back. “All right, we are ready. Now bend waaaay over…”

      

      “Here we are, miss.”

      Sarah glanced at the building on her right, noted the Post Office sign above the large multipaned window and climbed from the buggy. “Thank you for bringing me along to town, Mr. Quincy. I shan’t delay your return home. I will meet you here in one hour.” She watched him drive off down the street, shook out the three braid-trimmed tiers of the long skirt of her rose-colored silk dress, checked the time on the locket watch pinned to her bodice and crossed the sidewalk to the door. A gentleman passing by hastened to open it for her.

      Sarah smiled her thanks, entered, then paused inside the door waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dimmer light after the brightness of the afternoon sunshine.

      “—mark my words, Edith dear, this sickness going around will increase because of the foul weather during that storm—” The two women approaching the door broke off their conversation to give her a polite nod as they passed.

      Sarah returned the politeness.

      “May I help you, miss?”

      She looked toward the sound of the voice. “I should like to post a letter.” She pulled the folded and sealed missive from her reticule and walked to the table where a man stood sorting a large bag of letters into small piles.

      He took the letter into his ink-stained hand and squinted down at the address. “Randolph Court, Philadelphia.” He moved to a high desk standing at right angles to the table, glanced at her. “That will be twenty-five cents. You going to pay?”

      Sarah shook her head. “No, Father will pay.” She watched him write the charge, date and Cincinnati on the top corner of the folded letter. Her stomach tightened in protest. Her parents thought she was still in Pittsburgh. Well, there was no help for it. And any fears the city name engendered would be allayed when they read the letter. “I expect a reply. Will you please direct it to Stony Point? My name is Sarah Randolph.”

      “Of course, Miss Randolph.” The man pulled a ledger from a shelf below the desk surface and jotted down the information. “How long will you be visiting at Stony Point?”

      “Oh, no. You misunderstood. I am not visiting. I am the new nanny.” The man’s mouth gaped open. Sarah gave him another smile and turned; her silk dress rustled softly as she headed for the exit. A man, who had just entered, doffed his hat, made her a small bow and held the door open. She inclined her head in acknowledgment of the politeness and stepped through the portal into the afternoon sunshine.

      One chore completed. And she had a little less than an hour to accomplish the others. Sarah moved into the shadow cast by a large brick building, walked to the corner, turned left and made her way up Main Street, scanning the storefronts. She had spotted what seemed a suitable establishment along the way to the post office. Where…? Ah, there it was. Mrs. Westerfield, Milliner & Mantuamaker and dealer in Millinery and Lace Goods and Embroidery. She moved closer and read the smaller print of the sign.

      Keeps constant on hand a splendid stock of Leghorn, Tuscan & Straw Bonnets and Florence Braid, artificial flowers, Paris ribbons, plain & figured silks, satins & etc. suitable for bonnets and dresses which she is prepared to manufacture in the most fashionable style.

      Sarah checked her reflection in the window. The flowers adorning her silk hat trembled slightly in the warm breeze. She adjusted the tilt of the hat, smoothed the lace at her throat and entered. A cluster of women examining trimmings displayed in a glass case, and two women seated on a settee studying a book of patterns, glanced up at the discreet tinkle of the small bell on the door. The women looked at her with varying degrees of curiosity, gave small, polite nods and returned to their business.

      “If you will excuse me a moment, ladies.” The woman behind the glass case smiled and came forward. “Welcome to Mrs. Westerfield’s salon. May I help you?”

      “I would like to speak with Mrs. Westerfield please.”

      “Certainly. I will be a moment. If you would care to have a seat?” The woman gestured toward a grouping of chairs, walked to a door at the back, gave a light tap and disappeared into another room.

      Sarah strolled over to look at a display of paintings on the wall. Bits of conversation from the women at the counter drifted her way as she studied the drawings of the latest fashions.

      “—heard that Rose Southernby has taken to her bed?”

      “Oh, I do like this red silk braid!”

      “Did you say Rose is ill?”

      “Yes. Dr. Lambert has been making daily calls. She is not at all well, and—The red silk braid is a little…bright, Charlotte. Perhaps the gold…”