Family of the Heart (22 page)

Everyone was sleeping. Sarah went to the dressing room and changed into her nightgown and robe. She draped her gown over a chair, walked to the empty berth, slid beneath the covers and stared out the window at the dark night sky.

She loved him. She could not deny it any longer. With all her being she longed to be Clayton’s wife. To have his children. But it was impossible. He still loved his wife. And he barely tolerated her presence.

Tears welled, flowed down her cheeks. What was she to do? How was she to get through tomorrow without giving her feelings away?
Oh, dear God, help me to stay calm tomorrow, to not reveal my love to Clayton.

Sobs threatened. Sarah took a deep breath and wiped the tears from her cheeks. Tomorrow. One day. She could manage that. She would simply stay as far away from Clayton as possible for the rest of the journey.

Stony Point. It wrenched her heart to think of leaving, but the time had come. Sarah looked in the dressing-room mirror a last time. Lavender half circles stained the skin below her eyes, a testimony to the last two sleepless nights. But there was nothing to be done about them. At least they would not be so visible in the shade of her hat’s deep brim. She settled the yellow, flower-bedecked bonnet in place and turned away. The deep ruffle around the bottom of her yellow silk gown whispered across the plank floor as she walked to the bedroom.

The bare space on the rag rug increased the lump in her throat. Her trunk was waiting in the carriage. Quincy had carried it down earlier, right after Clayton had been called away on business.

She would never see him again.

Sarah’s steps faltered. She stopped, held her eyes wide and took a deep breath to stop the tears pushing for release.
Do not cry! For Nora’s sake, do not cry.
She hurried through the bedroom, refusing to think about the woman who would live here in her place, and started down the winder stairs to the kitchen.

Nora’s voice floated up to her. She set her mind against the horrid ache in her heart, fixed a smile on her face and stepped into the kitchen.

Eldora looked her way, disappointment on her face, censure in her pose. “So, you are really going.” It was not a question. It was an indictment.

Sarah steeled her heart and nodded. “I must, Eldora. I hope someday you will understand and not judge me too harshly.” She swallowed, forced herself to go on. “I will always remember you with gratitude and affection.”

“Me go bye-bye?” Nora stopped petting Rogue and scrambled to her feet. Her blond curls bounced as she ran across the slate floor.

Sarah closed her eyes, took a breath, then opened them and knelt to take Nora in her arms. The last time.
Dear heavenly Father, help me! For Nora’s sake give me strength.
She leaned back and looked into Nora’s blue eyes. “Not this time, sweetie. Nanny Sarah has to go away. Far away.” She cleared the tears from her throat. “And you must stay here with your papa, and Eldora and Quincy. And Lucy.”

Nora’s lower lip pouted out. She shook her head. She leaned close and put her arms about her neck. “Me wants you. Me go, too.”

Sarah blinked hard, hugged Nora as tight as she dared and rose to her feet. She smiled and forced a playful note into her voice. “Now, what would your papa do if you went away with me? And who would play with the kitties and Rogue? Gracious! They would be very, very sad without you.” She glanced at Eldora, sent a silent plea for help.

“And who would I have to make cookies for?” Eldora shook her head, walked over and held out her arms. “And you know what else? I have a job for you to do. I promised your papa I would make him some ginger cookies. But I am almighty busy. Would you help me?”

Nora nodded and leaned into the housekeeper’s pudgy arms.

Sarah whirled and ran from the kitchen. Tears blinded her. She wiped them away, fumbled with the front door and stumbled to the carriage. Her chest ached with pressure. Sobs racked her body. She wrapped her arms around herself trying to stop the pain, and huddled in the corner of the carriage as they drove away.

“H
ow are you feeling this morning, Sarah?”

“I am all right, Mother.” Sarah put down her book and summoned a smile.

“You did not eat any breakfast.” Her mother eyed her, as only a mother can. “And you ate very little last evening.”

“I was not hungry.”

“And you were pacing around in your room until the wee hours this morning because you were not tired? Sarah, dear, you are talking to your mother.” Her mother reached down and touched her cheek. “Did you get any sleep at all?”

“A little.” Sarah took a breath, rose from her chair and walked over to look out the French doors. “I did not mean to disturb your rest, Mother. I did not realize you could hear me.”

“That is not my concern, Sarah. You are.” Her mother came up beside her, put her arm around her shoulders. “Do you want to talk about Mr. Bainbridge, and why you suddenly decided to come home?”

Sarah bit down on her lower lip and shook her head.

“Sarah, the Lord…”

“I am not blaming God for anything, Mother. I know now I was wrong to blame Him for Aaron’s death. It was not God that decided to sail home on the
Seadrift
that day. It was Aaron. And he did so against the advice of a sailor who was familiar with New England weather. He warned Aaron of a coming storm. But it was such a beautiful day when we set sail Aaron was certain the sailor was wrong.”

She shuddered, walked to the mantel and stared up at a painting of a clipper ship under full sail, her rail almost plowing the water as she skimmed across the waves. Her father had painted it. He often painted his ships. She hated the painting that hung over the fireplace in his study. It showed a ship, mast broken, rigging fallen and trailing in a raging ocean. He had been aboard that ship during the hurricane that so damaged it. But he had survived. Just as she had survived the storm that swept down on the
Seadrift.

“I did not realize how dangerous sailing upon the ocean can be.” She sighed. “Since I can remember, all I wanted was to marry a ship’s captain and sail with him around the world on our honeymoon. I…I never thought further than that.”

Sarah turned, looked across the library. “Is it possible to get a man mixed up with a dream, Mother? I mean, to think you loved a man when it was what he stood for that you really loved?” Tears blurred her vision. She wiped them away. “I…I thought I loved Aaron—and I did. He was always so calm and kind and respectful. But now I do not believe I was
in
love with Aaron. I just wanted to be safe. And I always felt safe with him. Not…nervous.”

She took a breath, plunged. “Mother, when Father…
looks
…at you, do you go all breathless and weak in the knees, as if you are going to fall?”

“No, dear.” Her mother shook her head, smiled. “
I
always go all breathless and feel as if I am going to melt.”

Sarah stared, gulped, ran across the room to the safe haven of her mother’s arms. “Wh-what am I going t-to do, M-Mother?”

Her mother held her close, stroked her hair. “A very wise lady once gave me some excellent advice when I was in a similar situation, Sarah. The same advice I am going to give you—go to Mr. Bainbridge and tell him you love him.”

Sarah lifted her head, drew back out of her mother’s arms and shook her head. “No. No, I cannot do that, Mother.
Ever.
You see, Mr. Bainbridge has made it very clear that he does not want me in his life.”

“Him a
big
kitty.” Nora pointed at the picture on the right side of the page.

Clayton smiled at her sleepy tone and looked down. His daughter was losing her battle against sleep. “Yes, a
very
big kitty. He is called a lion.”

“What him special name?” She snuggled closer against his chest. Yawned.

“He does not have a special name. Why don’t you give him one?”

She nodded, closed her eyes. “Me likes…”

Clayton chuckled, set the book aside and rose from the rocker. “That is one lion who will never have a special name.” He kissed Nora’s warm, rosy cheek, laid her in her crib and pulled the coverlet over her. She would soon be too big for the crib. He should go into the attic and see if that small child’s bed he had slept in was there.

His child.
The fact still had the power to knock him slightly off-kilter when he thought about it. The guilt over causing her mother’s death lingered, hovered in the background, when he looked at her, but no longer consumed him to the degree he would not even acknowledge his own daughter.

He frowned, brushed Nora’s curls back off her face. Was he doing her a disservice by not hiring another nanny? They seemed to be managing all right without one. Eldora and Lucy, even Quincy, watched over her while he was working. And he had breakfast with Nora every morning, and tucked her into bed every night. He had been the only one that could calm her enough to go to sleep when Sarah had left.

Sarah.

Clayton turned from the crib and walked into the adjoining bedroom. Sarah was the real reason he did not seek another nanny. He missed her. Longed for her presence.

He stepped through her door onto the landing, glanced at his own door, both open now as they had been when she was caring for him, and his face tightened. No, he would not hire another nanny. They would continue on as they were. The idea of another woman across the landing, so close to his own room, was intolerable.

He checked to make sure the gate he had built for the top of the stairs was latched. The bedroom doors had to stay open all night so he could hear if Nora needed him, and he wanted no possibility of his little daughter taking a fall down the winder stairs. He glanced down the stairwell, sucked in his breath at the memory of Sarah descending the steps, light from the lamp in her hand illuminating the downward spiral, glinting on the silky mass of brown hair loosely restrained at the nape of her neck and spilling down the back of her quilted robe. The mere thought of her struck him breathless.

Clayton fisted his hands.
Men are not permitted that luxury, though we are allowed to punch a wall—or each other. Or fight Indians.
Another memory. The house, his mind, his heart was rife with them. They had been talking about her crying, because she was upset by memories of the man she loved. The man who had so captured her heart she wanted no other. He stared at the wall, quivered with the desire to punch his fist through it. But it would solve nothing. And it would only, once again, prove his weakness. His lack of self-control. And it would show that he had been right to let her return to Philadelphia.

Clayton strode into his bedroom, the muscle along his jaw twitching. Letting Sarah go was the hardest thing he had ever done, but she deserved a man of honor and moral strength. A man like her fiancé, who had died in that storm at sea. A man who betrayed a deathbed promise to his best friend did not qualify.

“What is it, Eldora?” Clayton looked up from the cost estimations he was figuring for the northern canal extension.

“You have a visitor. She’s waitin’ in the drawing room. I’ll bring tea.” The housekeeper threw him a look and trudged off down the hall toward the kitchen.

She?
Clayton frowned, rose and shrugged into his suit coat. Whoever it was, he would get rid of her quickly. He had work to do. Three long strides took him across the hall to the drawing-room doorway. A slender, dark-haired woman sat in an upholstered chair, facing away from him. He fixed a polite smile on his face and strode into the room. “Good afternoon. I am Clayton Bainbridge, may I help you?”

The woman rose, turned and held out her arms.

“Victoria! My dear friend.” Clayton rushed forward and gave the older woman a hug. “I am astounded by your visit. I had no idea you were back home. When did you return?”

“Charles resigned his post in England two months ago. But we only arrived in Cincinnati last week. I would have come sooner, but my mother is ill. Let me look at you.” She drew back and studied his face. “You are handsome as ever, Clayton.”

“And you are just as lovely as I remember.”

“Flatterer!” She laughed and took hold of his hand. “Now that the polite niceties are out of the way—” She pulled him toward the settee. “Come and talk to me. I have not had a chance to catch up on all that has happened since we left, and there is so much for you to tell me. Do you realize I have been gone over three years?”

“Yes. I know.”

She stopped arranging her skirts and looked up at him. “That sounded grim.” She studied his face so intently he wanted to squirm. “Are you not over Deborah’s death?”

“There are some things you do not get over, Victoria.”

“Bosh. Deborah was beautiful, Clayton, but it has been almost three years since her passing. She would want you to marry again. Especially as your marriage was…well…
chaste.
Except for that one time.”

He went rigid. “You know of that?”

“Now do not go all offended on me, Clayton. I am old enough to be your mother, and you know my reputation for boldness.” She placed her hand on his arm. “Of course I know. I was the closest thing to a mother Deborah ever knew. She confided everything to me.”

“I see.” Clayton surged to his feet, stepped to the fireplace and looked up at his grandparents’ portraits so he did not have to face Victoria. “I am surprised you treat me with such affection.”

There was a small gasp behind him. “What an astonishing thing to say. There has always been fondness between our families. Why would I not?”

He turned to face her, the muscle along his jaw twitching. “Because if Deborah told you everything, you must know I am responsible for her death.” It was the first time he had said the words aloud. The first time he had spoken with anyone about his wife’s death. It was painful, but there was something freeing about it.

“I know no such thing!” She peered up at him, gave his face a close perusal. “I do not follow your reasoning, Clayton. Please explain.”

“How can you not understand, Victoria? I am the one responsible for the baby that took her life.”

“That is preposterous, Clayton. Many women die of childbirth. Do you hold that their husbands are responsible for their deaths?”

“Of course not. But that is different.” The bitterness and self-loathing poured out of him with his words. “Deborah had a weak heart and I knew it. I knew having a child could kill her.”

“And so did she.”

“Yes. But Deborah was innocent of such things.
I
knew that birth precautions often fail.” There, he had admitted it all. Victoria looked stunned. He braced himself for her disgust.

“
What
birth precautions?” The words were quiet, reflective.

“The ones Deborah got from Dr. Anderson.”

Victoria drew in a breath, released it. “She never told you.”

Clayton scowled down at her. “Never told me what?”

“Deborah lied to you, Clayton. She knew you would never agree to treat her as a real wife because you were afraid she would become with child. But that is what she
wanted.
” Victoria rose and came to stand facing him. “When Dr. Anderson told Deborah she had only a year, perhaps a year and a few months left to live—”

“What?”
Clayton stiffened. “I never—”

Victoria touched his arm. “Listen, and you will understand.”

He stared at her, gave a curt nod.

“Dr. Anderson told Deborah she was soon to die, and she decided the only way she could live on was through a child. She had nothing to lose but a few months’ time. Either way she was going to die. So she planned, and she lied.” Victoria took a breath, exhaled. “She swore Dr. Anderson to secrecy about her limited time to live and tried to convince you to treat her as a wife. I know how long you withstood her pleas, Clayton. But Deborah was nothing if not inventive when it came to getting her own way. You know that better than anyone. So she lied to you. She begged you to treat her as a real wife for once—only once—because she knew if she said
once
you would be more likely to yield. And she told you Dr. Anderson had given her birth precautions and assured her it was perfectly safe. She won.” Victoria’s gaze locked on his eyes. “Deborah knew exactly what she was doing
and
the risk she was taking with her life in doing it. You are not guilty of Deborah’s death, Clayton.
She
is. It is all in the letter she wrote me.”

Victoria turned and walked back to the settee, opened her purse and pulled out a letter. She came back and held it out to him. “I saved the letter because I thought your daughter—when she is grown—would like to know her mother wanted her so much she was willing to give up her life for her.”

Deborah’s death was not his fault. Clayton shook his head, lit the lantern and walked to the door in the upstairs hall. He could not grasp it. He had blamed himself for so long. But it had been Deborah’s choice. Dr. Anderson had said her frail heart was about to stop beating, even without her having a child. It was only amazing that she had lived long enough to give birth. But Victoria believed that God had granted Deborah the desire of her heart, and part of her lived on in Nora. And he agreed. For the first time he understood why Deborah had named her baby Nora
Blessing.