Family of the Heart. Dorothy Clark

she had overstepped her place in speaking it.

      Clayton tossed the vest and cravat on top of his jacket and sat in the chair to remove his shoes. Finding another nanny took so much time. And meanwhile chaos would again reign in the household. For some reason Lucy was unable to keep the child from crying all day. And the first nanny had not been that successful at it, either. But at least she had known her place.

      Clayton scowled, tugged a shoe off, dropped it to the floor and wiggled his freed toes, weighing the situation in the light of that last thought. Perhaps he should give Sarah Randolph another chance. Perhaps that outburst was only because she didn’t yet fully realize what her position was. Her erect posture and lifted chin as she faced him down, proved she wasn’t accustomed to servitude. No, Sarah Randolph was a lady. Every inch of her. A beautiful lady. So why was she here?

      Clayton rested his elbows on his knees and stared down at the floor. The anomaly was intriguing. It was obvious Miss Randolph was not impoverished. And it could not be a case of familial division—she had spoken well of her family, and they of her. At least in the letter. Of course there was the matter of her temper.

      A vision of Sarah’s face, brown eyes flashing, burst into his head. She was spirited. And beautiful. Clayton’s face tightened. He grabbed the shoe he had removed, tugged it back on and lunged out of the chair. Bed could wait. Right now he would go to his study and work on his progress report of the needed repairs on the canal locks here in Cincinnati. And on the estimated repairs required on the rest of the southern section of the Miami Canal. He was due to report to the commissioners next week. And the plans had to be perfected, as well. An hour or two spent staring at blueprints would drive away that unwelcome image.

      

      Sarah looked toward the foot of the bed. Her trunk sat there…waiting. She did not dare pack the few items she had taken out for fear of waking little Nora. It would have to wait until morning—or until an angry fist pounded on her door and Mr. Bainbridge told her she was dismissed. She sighed and looked around the bedroom. She had held her post as nanny for what…a few hours? Well, it was her own fault. She should have controlled her temper. But—

      No buts! It was too late for buts. Too late to take back her outburst. And too late to leave this house tonight. Sarah removed her silk gown, hung it in the cupboard beside the fireplace and tugged the soft comfort of an embroidered cotton nightgown over her head. She pushed her feet into her warm, fur-trimmed slippers and shoved her arms into the sleeves of her quilted cotton dressing gown.

      What had caused her to act in such an unaccustomed way? She had gained nothing by giving vent to her outrage over Clayton Bainbridge’s callus attitude toward his daughter. Except for the momentary satisfaction of that look of utter astonishment on his face. Her lips curved at the memory of his widened deep-blue eyes and raised, thick, dark-brown brows, the flare of the nostrils on his long, masculine nose. That had been a gratifying moment. Of course, an instant later anger had replaced the astonishment. His brows had lowered, his eyes had darkened and the full lower lip of his mouth had thinned to match the top one. And that square jaw of his! Gracious! It had firmed to the appearance of granite. No, her outburst had done nothing to help little Nora. Or herself.

      Sarah caught her breath at a sudden onrush of memories, fastened the ties at the neck of her dressing gown and hurried into the nursery. The oil lamp she had left burning with its wick turned low warmed the moonlight pouring in the windows to a soft gold. Tears welled into her eyes as she straightened the coverlet that had become twisted when Nora turned over. She had thought by now she and Aaron might be expecting a child of their own. The tears overflowed. She brushed them away, smoothed a silky golden curl off the toddler’s cheek and, unable to stop herself, bent and kissed the soft smooth skin. Nora stirred, her little lips worked as she sucked on her thumb, went still again.

      Sarah’s heart melted. She resisted the urge to lift the little girl into her arms and cradle her close to her painfully tight chest. The hem of her dressing gown whispered against the wide planks of the floor as she walked back to her own room. What was wrong with Clayton Bainbridge? How could he not want anything to do with his own child? How could he not love her?

      Sarah glanced at her trunk, halted in the doorway. Would whoever took over this position of nanny love little Nora? Would she give her the affection every child deserved? Or would she simply take care of her physical needs and keep her quiet so Mr. Clayton Bainbridge was not disturbed? Oh, why had she ever challenged the man’s cold, detached attitude toward his child? She should have kept quiet—for Nora’s sake. The little girl needed her.

      And she needed this post.

      Sarah blinked back another rush of tears and walked to her bed. She removed her dressing gown, stepped out of her slippers and slid beneath the covers, fighting the impulse to bury her face in the pillow and sob away the hurt inside. Crying wouldn’t stop the aching. It never did. But everyone said time would bring healing.

      If only it were possible to hurry time.

      Sarah breathed out slowly, reached over and turned down the wick of the lamp on her bedside table. She couldn’t bring herself to snuff out the flame. She could do nothing about the darkness inside her, but she could keep the darkness of night at bay. She rested back against the pillow, pulled the covers up to her chin and stared up at the tester overhead, willing time to pass.

      

      Birdsong coaxed her from her exhausted slumber. Sarah opened her eyes and came awake with a start. She shoved to a sitting position, blinked to clear her vision and gazed around the strange room. Where was she?

      Her open trunk provided the answer. The moment she saw it, the events of yesterday came pouring back. She sighed and swung her legs over the side of the bed, searching for the floor with her bare feet. Her toes touched fur and she pushed her feet into the warm softness of her slippers and gave another sigh. She wasn’t accustomed to rising with the dawn, but she had better get ready to face the day. Mr. Bainbridge was most likely an early riser. Even when he wasn’t angry.

      She tiptoed to the door of the nursery, glanced in to make sure Nora was still sleeping and yawned her way to the dressing room to perform her morning toilette. How was she to manage without Ellen?

      

      Soft stirrings emanated from the nursery.

      Sarah gathered her long hair into a pile at the crown of her head the way Ellen had shown her, wrapped the wide silk ribbon that matched her gown around the thick mass and tied it into a bow. When she removed her hands, a few of her soft curls cascaded down the back of her head to the nape of her neck. She frowned and reached to retie the ribbon.

      The stirrings grew louder.

      She had run out of time. Her hair would have to do. Sarah took another look in the mirror to make sure her efforts would hold and hurried from the dressing room into the nursery, smiling at sight of the toddler who was sitting in the middle of the crib, her cheeks rosy with warmth, her blue eyes still heavy with sleep.

      “Good morning, Nora. I’m Nanny Sarah—” at least until I’m summoned downstairs for dismissal “—do you remember me?”

      “’Quirrel.”

      Sarah’s smile widened. “That’s right. We watched the squirrel together yesterday. Aren’t you clever to remember.” She moved closer to the crib and held out her arms. “Are you ready to get up and have some breakfast?” She held her breath, waiting.

      Nora stared up at her. “Cookie.” She scrambled to her feet and held up her arms.

      “Cookie?” Sarah laughed and scooped her up. “I’m afraid cookies are not acceptable breakfast fare for little girls. Would a biscuit with some lovely strawberry jam suit?”

      Nora’s golden curls bounced as she bobbed her head. “Me like jam!”

      “Yes, I thought you might.” Sarah looked around for a bellpull. There was none. She hurried to her bedroom, glanced around, frowned. Where was—The truth burst upon her, rooted her in place. Servants did not have bell-pulls. And in this house she was a servant. She tightened her grip on Nora