avail. She closed the shutters, adjusted the slats to let the cool night air flow into the bedroom and hurried to the nightstand. The gold embossed letters on the black leather cover of the book resting there glowed softly in the candlelight. Robert Burns. She slid into bed, took the poetry volume into her hands and let it fall open where it would. All she wanted was words to read to chase the pictures from her head. She pulled the lamp closer and looked down at the page.
“Oppress’d with grief, oppress’d with care,
A burden more than I can bear,”
Sarah slapped the book shut, tossed it aside and slipped from bed. She didn’t need to read about grief, she was living grief! She rushed, barefoot, into the nursery, ran to the crib and scooped Nora into her arms. The toddler blinked her eyes and yawned. “Nanny?”
“Yes, Nora, it’s Nanny Sarah. Close your eyes and go back to sleep.”
Sarah walked to the rocker, sat and wiped away the tears blurring her vision. She covered Nora’s small bare feet with part of the skirt of her long nightgown, took hold of one little hand and began to hum a lullaby. Quietness settled over her as she rocked, her tense nerves calmed. She kissed Nora’s warm, baby-smooth forehead, touched a strand of silky golden curl, then leaned back and closed her eyes. She had been unsuccessful in her attempt to get Mrs. Quincy to talk about Clayton Bainbridge or his wife over tea. Maybe tomorrow.
The thought of him brought the memory of Clayton Bainbridge helping her to her feet. The feel of his hands, so warm, so strong yet gentle on her arms. The way his eyes had looked as he gazed down at her.
Sarah opened her eyes and stared down at the child in her arms, disquieted and troubled. Clayton Bainbridge had made her feel…what? She searched for the right word for the unfamiliar emotion that had made her want to turn and run from him, then frowned and gave up. What did it matter? It was of no importance. It had been only a momentary aberration caused by her fear of the storm that had quickly disappeared when Clayton Bainbridge had returned to his customary, unpleasant anger.
Chapter Five
W hat a beautiful day! The only reminders of the thunderstorm were the areas of damp, dark earth beneath the bushes where the sun’s rays hadn’t yet reached, and the colorful memory of flowers that littered the ground. Sarah sighed and crossed the back porch to the stairs. The storm had stripped the beauty from every branch and stalk in the enclosed garden. Not one flower was left intact. Still, the storm was over and the horrible constriction in her chest had eased. She took a deep breath of the clean fresh air and helped Nora down the steps to the brick pathway.
“Well, Nora, what shall we do first?” She reached down and straightened the pinafore that protected the toddler’s yellow dress. “Do you want to go sit in the pergola and watch the birds take their baths?”
“Birds!” Nora’s lace-trimmed sunbonnet slipped awry at her emphatic nod. Sarah laughed, adjusted the bonnet and took hold of her charge’s tiny hand. Hoofs crunched against gravel. She looked toward the carriage house, saw Clayton Bainbridge mount his horse and start down the path toward them. She smiled as he neared. “Good morning, Mr. Bainbridge.”
“Miss Randolph.” Clayton gave her a brief nod, touched his fingers to the brim of his hat and rode on.
Not so much as a glance at his daughter. Sarah stared after him, anger flashing. But as she watched him ride toward the road, her anger dissipated, vanquished by an odd sort of sadness. It was almost as if she could feel his unhappiness, his loneliness.
“’Quirrel!”
Nora’s tiny hand pulled from her grasp. Sarah brushed the strange sensation aside and watched Nora run, as fast as her little legs would carry her, toward the squirrel that was scampering along the railing of the pergola. Her anger sparked anew. If Mr. Clayton Bainbridge was lonely, he had no one but
“Oppress’d with grief, oppress’d with care,
A burden more than I can bear,”
Sarah slapped the book shut, tossed it aside and slipped from bed. She didn’t need to read about grief, she was living grief! She rushed, barefoot, into the nursery, ran to the crib and scooped Nora into her arms. The toddler blinked her eyes and yawned. “Nanny?”
“Yes, Nora, it’s Nanny Sarah. Close your eyes and go back to sleep.”
Sarah walked to the rocker, sat and wiped away the tears blurring her vision. She covered Nora’s small bare feet with part of the skirt of her long nightgown, took hold of one little hand and began to hum a lullaby. Quietness settled over her as she rocked, her tense nerves calmed. She kissed Nora’s warm, baby-smooth forehead, touched a strand of silky golden curl, then leaned back and closed her eyes. She had been unsuccessful in her attempt to get Mrs. Quincy to talk about Clayton Bainbridge or his wife over tea. Maybe tomorrow.
The thought of him brought the memory of Clayton Bainbridge helping her to her feet. The feel of his hands, so warm, so strong yet gentle on her arms. The way his eyes had looked as he gazed down at her.
Sarah opened her eyes and stared down at the child in her arms, disquieted and troubled. Clayton Bainbridge had made her feel…what? She searched for the right word for the unfamiliar emotion that had made her want to turn and run from him, then frowned and gave up. What did it matter? It was of no importance. It had been only a momentary aberration caused by her fear of the storm that had quickly disappeared when Clayton Bainbridge had returned to his customary, unpleasant anger.
Chapter Five
W hat a beautiful day! The only reminders of the thunderstorm were the areas of damp, dark earth beneath the bushes where the sun’s rays hadn’t yet reached, and the colorful memory of flowers that littered the ground. Sarah sighed and crossed the back porch to the stairs. The storm had stripped the beauty from every branch and stalk in the enclosed garden. Not one flower was left intact. Still, the storm was over and the horrible constriction in her chest had eased. She took a deep breath of the clean fresh air and helped Nora down the steps to the brick pathway.
“Well, Nora, what shall we do first?” She reached down and straightened the pinafore that protected the toddler’s yellow dress. “Do you want to go sit in the pergola and watch the birds take their baths?”
“Birds!” Nora’s lace-trimmed sunbonnet slipped awry at her emphatic nod. Sarah laughed, adjusted the bonnet and took hold of her charge’s tiny hand. Hoofs crunched against gravel. She looked toward the carriage house, saw Clayton Bainbridge mount his horse and start down the path toward them. She smiled as he neared. “Good morning, Mr. Bainbridge.”
“Miss Randolph.” Clayton gave her a brief nod, touched his fingers to the brim of his hat and rode on.
Not so much as a glance at his daughter. Sarah stared after him, anger flashing. But as she watched him ride toward the road, her anger dissipated, vanquished by an odd sort of sadness. It was almost as if she could feel his unhappiness, his loneliness.
“’Quirrel!”
Nora’s tiny hand pulled from her grasp. Sarah brushed the strange sensation aside and watched Nora run, as fast as her little legs would carry her, toward the squirrel that was scampering along the railing of the pergola. Her anger sparked anew. If Mr. Clayton Bainbridge was lonely, he had no one but
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