Family of the Heart (12 page)

She released the air trapped in her lungs, crossed to the bed, adjusted the lamp and removed her robe and slippers. It was difficult to tell in the shadowy light from the lamp, but Clayton Bainbridge had looked angry. Was it only the late hour that had saved her from dismissal? She would know tomorrow.

Sarah sighed, slipped beneath the covers and nestled down into her pillows. She closed her eyes, sat bolt upright and stared at the stairway door. That was it! That was the difference in the nightmare. Clayton Bainbridge had kept her from falling in the water—had held her safe in his arms.

C
layton rode past the railed pens holding the mules and horses resting from yesterday’s hard labor, stopped in front of the handler’s shed and dismounted. “Unsaddle Pacer and put him in his pen and give him some hay, Murphy. I will be here the rest of the day.” He handed over the reins, patted the roan’s neck, then grabbed his leather pouch from behind his saddle and hurried toward the work hut. The work at this site would be finished today. Tomorrow afternoon at the latest. And then they would move to the next job.

Clayton glanced around. Workers were already hard at work cleaning up the site. Men were throwing construction debris from the bottom of the canal into skid wagons to be hauled up the high, sloping bank. On the towpath across the ditch, men with scrapers were lining up to smooth the surface. Things were moving apace.

He nodded to the men loading unused timbers onto a wagon to be moved to the aqueduct that was their next work site and quickened his steps. The canal repairs were progressing faster than he dared hope, thanks to his good fortune in hiring John Wexford. The man had proved himself wholly capable of bossing the easier jobs—and of controlling the hot-tempered, quick-fisted workers. He still had to check on Wexford’s sites every couple of days, and his accelerated workload—dawn to dusk every day—was exhausting, but that was welcome. He had not had a glimpse of Sarah Randolph or the child in weeks. He left before they rose and came home after they were abed. Of course that would stop after the July first deadline. And then he would have to act.

Clayton frowned, stepped into the temporary, collapsible hut and tossed the pouch on the scarred tabletop. It still seemed the best solution would be to have Sarah take the child home to Philadelphia and care for it there. It would be well cared for—and they would both be out of his life. The only flaw in the plan was Sarah Randolph. She had not taken the nanny position to earn her living, so offering her increased wages to rear the child might not influence her to agree. If he knew why she—

Wild whoops split the air. Clayton pivoted and rushed back outside. Across the canal, the four men guiding the wooden scrapers were each urging their horses to greater speed, fighting for the lead position. In the dirt behind them were crooked grooves and ridges gouged out of the ground by the corners and edges of the wildly tipping scrapers.

Activity around him ceased as the workers stopped to cheer on their favorites in the impromptu race.

“Stop!” Clayton cupped his hands around his mouth. “You men on the far towpath—stop your horses!” His effort was useless, his order lost in the whooping, shouting din. The wild race went on. One of the scrapers slammed into another, sending it careening toward the edge of the bank. The worker hooted and urged his horse to greater speed, passing the worker trying to steady his wobbling scraper and get back in the race.

Fools. They were going to kill someone!
Clayton ran to the edge of the canal and dropped over the side. Half running, half sliding, he charged down the sloping bank, hit the base running and sprinted across the canal bottom at an angle to intercept the racers, the workers he passed laughing and exhorting him to run faster. Heart pumping, breath coming in short gasps, he attacked the opposite bank, scrabbling for footing on the sloping ground, losing momentum as he neared the top.

The sound of pounding hoofs broke through the roar of laughing, shouting voices. He looked up, saw a worker rolling head over heels in the dirt, his wild-eyed horse panicked by the uncontrolled, crazily bumping and swaying scraper he pulled, bearing down on him. The scraper tilted, dropped over the edge. Clayton threw himself sideways. He flopped onto his stomach and hugged the ground. The scraper bounced, hit him in the back, grazed his head. Pain stabbed through him. Lights exploded behind his eyelids. The strength left his body, thought dissolved. Everything went dark and silent.

“Kitties are soft.” Nora patted the black-and-gray-striped kitten in her lap, bent forward and placed her ear against the fluffy fur. “An’ they go rrrrr-rrrrr.”

Sarah laughed at the child’s imitation. “That is called a purr. It means the kitty is happy.” She reached over and removed Nora’s bonnet. The ties were proving too much of a temptation for the kitten. One of the swipes of those tiny sharp claws might catch Nora’s face instead of the bow beneath her chin.

The gray kitten, stalking imagined prey through the grass, jumped for the ribbon tie dangling in the air as Sarah placed the bonnet on the bench behind her. She laughed and lifted the wiggling kitten into the air, holding it so she could see its face. “I think these fluffy little bundles of energy need names.” She looked over at Nora. “What do you think? What shall we call them?”

“Kitty!”

Sarah looked down at Nora’s beaming face. How much Clayton Bainbridge was missing. For the past month he had left for work at dawn and came home after sunset. There had been no opportunity to bring father and daughter together. And it would probably continue that way until after that July fourth anniversary celebration. Three more weeks.

She sighed, pulled her attention back to Nora. “That is a good suggestion, but they are all kitties. They each need a special name—one only for them.” Confusion clouded the toddler’s shining eyes. “It is the same as Mrs. Quincy and I. We are both ladies, but her special name is Eldora, and mine is Sarah. And you are a little girl, but your special name is Nora.” She looked back at the squirming kitten. “And I think this kitty’s special name should be Wiggles.”

Nora giggled. “I like Wiggles.”

“So do I.” Sarah pulled the kitten close and scratched behind its ears. It arched its back and rubbed against her hand. “And what about your kitty? What do you think its name should be?”

“Happy.”

Sarah smiled at the quick response. “That is a very nice name.” She glanced toward the other two kittens wrestling each other on the lawn. “And what about those two kitties? What shall we name the black one?”

“Fluffy.”

“And the black-and-white one?”

“Bun’le.”

“Bundle?”

Nora gave an emphatic nod. “Fluffy bun’les of engerny.”

Oh. Of course. “Very clever. Bundle it is.” Sarah laughed, leaned over and dropped a kiss on top of Nora’s golden curls. The little girl was so intelligent, so eager to learn and to please. She was an absolute delight. Her family would adore the little sweetheart. And so would Clayton Bainbridge if he would—

A sudden screech of metal against metal jangled her nerves. Sarah tilted her head to the side, listening to the bump and creak of a wagon coming slowly up the road toward the house. And a rider with it. The wagon stopped out front, but the horse’s hoofbeats grew louder, turned into the gravel way. Clayton Bainbridge must be home.

Sarah set the cat on the grass, rose to her feet, gave her long skirt a quick shake to rid it of any clinging grass or fur and reached for Nora’s bonnet.

“Horsy!” Nora flopped over onto her hands and knees, pushed herself erect and ran toward the gate.

“Nora, wait!” Sarah rushed after her, stopped, stared. It was Clayton’s horse, but there was a strange man leading him. Where was—

“Sarah.”

There was urgency in the call. She jerked her head around toward the porch. “What is it, Eldora?”

“Come in, please. I need you.” The housekeeper turned and hurried back into the house.

Sarah glanced from the still-open door to the riderless horse. A sick feeling settled in the pit of her stomach. She turned and scooped Nora into her arms.

“Horse.” Nora twisted round and pointed a tiny finger toward Clayton’s mount.

The sick feeling worsened. “We will go see the horses later, Nora. Right now we have to go in the house.” Sarah rushed up the brick path, climbed the steps and crossed the porch, uneasiness growing with every step. Maybe she was wrong. Yes, she was being foolish, allowing her imagination to run amok. She hurried through the library and into the hallway. “Eldora?”

“She said yer t’ come up here, miss.”

Sarah looked up. A dusty, dirty man stood at the top of the stairs. One of Clayton’s workers? She wasn’t wrong. Her heart lurched. Her legs wobbled.
Not now! Please, knees, do not give out on me now.
She shifted Nora onto her hip, took hold of the banister with her free hand and pulled herself upward.

“Would ya like I should carry the young’un up fer ya?” The man started down the stairs.

Nora stuck her thumb in her mouth and burrowed into the hollow of her neck. Sarah met the man’s gaze and shook her head. The tightness in her chest made her too winded to speak. She continued to climb, every step making her more terrified of what awaited.

“In there.” The man jerked his thumb toward Clayton’s bedroom, doffed his dirty cap and clumped down the stairs.

Sarah stared at the gaping opening of Clayton’s bedroom door, heard Eldora issuing orders but could not comprehend the words. Did not know who answered. She could not face another death. She could not. She tried to take a breath, gave up and forced her shaking legs to carry her through the doorway. Quincy was bent over a bed, a pile of dirty, bloodstained clothes at his feet. She closed her eyes, swayed, felt movement.
Nora.
She opened her eyes, forced away the light-headedness.

“There you are!” Eldora stepped out of a doorway on her left and waddled toward the bed. She put the large wash bowl she was carrying on the bedside table beside a stack of cloths, turned and fixed her with a look that said she would stand for no foolishness. “I need you to wash Mr. Bainbridge’s wounds. Alfred has to care for the horse, and I have bakin’ in the oven and food on the stove to tend.” She held out her arms. “Give me the child, I’ll keep her with me—leastways till Dr. Parker comes. He should be on his way if that man we sent to fetch him found him at home.” The housekeeper took Nora into her arms and looked over her shoulder. “Bring them dirty clothes down to the wash room, Alfred, and I’ll set ’em to soakin’. That blood’ll never come out, elsewise.” She padded out the door. Quincy gathered up the clothes and followed her.

Sarah held on to the door frame and fought for strength.
He is not dead, only hurt.
The reassurance did little to help. Clayton Bainbridge was as pale as the sheets on his bed. Except for the blood on his face. She shuddered, focused her attention on the steady rise and fall of the covers over his chest and took a tentative step to test her legs—moved forward with more confidence when her knees supported her. They quivered dangerously when she reached his bed and took a closer look at him. The hair on the left side of his head was matted with dried blood that extended across his temple and covered his eyelid.

Sarah pressed her hand to her churning stomach and glanced back toward the door. Where was that doctor? Anger surged. Eldora should not have left her here alone. She had no experience in caring for sick or injured people! She looked back down at Clayton, took a deep breath. Eldora said to clean his wounds, but what if she hurt him? She dipped one of the cloths into the bowl, squeezed out the excess water and dabbed at his matted hair. The blood was hard and dry. Her effort ineffective. She dropped the cloth back in the water and dried her hands on another. She had tried.

I’ll set ’em to soakin’.

Eldora’s words brought her to a halt. Sarah paused, looked back at the bed. If it would work for clothes, why not for hair? She sighed, squeezed out the rag again, laid it on Clayton’s matted hair and wet another. It was not as bad with the gory wound hidden beneath the cloth.

The blood on his temple came off with a gentle scrubbing, but she was afraid to rub at his eyelid. She placed another damp cloth over his eye and dried her hands.

Sunshine streamed in the window above the table. Sarah leaned forward and peered out. Directly beneath was the porch roof, and stretched out beyond was the walled garden. So Clayton Bainbridge could see and hear Nora playing outside from here in his room. A smile curled her lips. She would remember that for when he was better. How long would that be?

She straightened, looked over at him so pale and still. How could he get better if no one cared for him? That wound needed cleansing. Her stomach rebelled at the thought.

Sarah took a breath to quell the nausea and picked up the moist cloth. Perhaps if she did only a bit at a time. She moved the first cloth back an inch and began working at the blood at his hairline.

“You’ll never get him cleaned up unless you put a little more effort into your work, young lady.”

Sarah gasped, spun toward the open door. A short, stout man, dressed in a black suit and carrying a black leather bag in his hand, gave her a friendly smile. “Didn’t mean to startle you. I’m Dr. Parker.”

“Thank goodness!”

He chuckled. “Not used to caring for the sick and injured, eh, Miss…”

“Randolph. And you are correct, Doctor. I am a nanny, not a nurse. So, if you will excuse me?” She started toward the door, stopped when he held up his hand.

“I’m afraid not, Miss Randolph. I may have need of you.”

Sarah’s heart sank. She hoped with her whole being his prediction would prove false. She nodded, watched the doctor walk to the other side of the bed. He set his bag on the edge, leaned down and lifted the cloths away. Her stomach flopped. She took the cloths and dropped them in the bowl.