Family of the Heart. Dorothy Clark
performance of it.
“What a good girl you are, Nora.” Sarah smiled approval. “You ate all of your lunch.”
“Soup.”
“Yes, you liked the soup, didn’t you?”
Nora’s answering nod set her golden curls bouncing. “Cookie?”
Sarah shook her head, wet a cloth and washed the toddler’s face and hands. “No cookie today. You had pudding for dessert.”
“Cookie!”
Sarah looked at the toddler’s determined expression. It seemed a battle of wills was about to ensue. At least the sound of the storm would cover Nora’s squalls. She lifted her charge into her arms. “No cookie. It is time for your nap.”
Nora let out an irate wail. Sarah lifted the yelling, kicking toddler into her arms and walked to the rocker on the hearth.
“Cookie!” Nora howled the word, pushed and twisted, trying to free herself.
“No cookie. Not today.” Sarah tightened her grip enough so the child would not hurt herself and began to rock. She hummed softly, ignoring the fighting, crying toddler. Nora’s storm was as furious as the one outside, but she lacked the strength to sustain her effort to get her own way. After a few minutes of futile exertion, she gave up the fight, stuck her thumb in her mouth and began to suck.
Sarah watched the tiny eyelids drift closed as the toddler succumbed to the rhythmic motion, the steady whisper of the wood rockers against the floor. She wiped away Nora’s tears, studied the dainty brown brows, the tiny nose and soft contours of her baby face. She was a beautiful child. Spoiled but beautiful. Why did Clayton Bainbridge refuse to allow her in his presence? Refuse to even acknowledge her by name? Was she not his?
Sarah’s pulse quickened. She stared down at Nora, thinking, remembering, drawing a parallel between her childhood and Nora’s. Even if Nora was Clayton’s natural child, it could be that he didn’t know how to be a father. Perhaps he only needed to be encouraged in his relationship with his daughter—the way Elizabeth had encouraged her father to love her and Mary.
Her father.
Sarah leaned her head against the chair back and closed her eyes. She had never told anyone, including Mary, that she knew Justin Randolph was not their real father. Justin, his servants, everyone thought she had been too young to remember, but the day that man had come to Randolph Court and taken her mother away was indelibly etched in her memory. And she remembered how the servants had gossiped about how Justin Randolph had gone after them and found the man dead and her mother severely injured from a carriage accident.
She had been only three years old, but she vividly recalled Justin bringing her mother back home, and the horrible whispering when she died. She remembered it well because her nanny had taunted her by telling her the man who died was her real father, and that he and her mother were both evil and that’s why they had died, that she would die, too, if she wasn’t good. She had been so terrified she had decided not to talk for fear she would say something wrong that would make her die. But when Justin Randolph had married Elizabeth, everything had changed.
Sarah opened her eyes and looked down at Nora asleep in her lap. She had never thought it through before, but Elizabeth had changed everything because she had brought love into their house. Elizabeth had taken her and Mary—two orphans forced upon Justin’s care by the death of their mother and real father—into her heart. She had loved them and treated them as daughters. And Justin Randolph had followed her example.
Her example. Excitement tingled along Sarah’s nerves. The situations were entirely different, of course. Elizabeth had married Justin Randolph. And she had no intention of ever marrying. Aaron had been her dream, her love; she would not betray his memory. But still…If she could only bring Nora into Clayton Bainbridge’s presence…Resolve replaced the excitement. There had to be a way. And she would find it. Or she would make a way.
Sarah hugged Nora close, kissed her soft baby cheek, put her in the crib and hummed her way to her bedroom. The brilliance of a lightning flash flickered through the small cracks between the window shutters. Thunder boomed. She flinched, started to back out of her room, then squared her shoulders, marched to the writing desk and pulled it into the center of the room, turning it so her back was to the windows. She was ready to write her parents now, and no storm was going to stop her. Determination brought her inspiration. She opened the clothing cupboard, pulled her green-velvet coal-scuttle bonnet off its hook and put it on, letting the wide silk ties dangle free. There was a loud thunderclap.
Sarah flinched, then smiled. It worked. The deep brim shielding her face prevented her from seeing the lightning flashes from the corners of her eyes. Feeling both cowardly and clever, not to mention a little like a horse with blinders on, she seated herself and took up paper and pen.
The afternoon had passed quickly. Too quickly. Sarah picked up the children’s picture books she had used to entertain Nora and put them back on the shelf. She would have to make up more simple baby games. Little Nora caught on to them quickly. She was a very bright little girl—with quite a temper.
Sarah glanced at the toddler now asleep in her crib and shook her head. Supper had been a real challenge. Who would think that such a small body could house such a mass of determination. It had taken all of her ingenuity to get Nora to eat her meat and vegetables before her dessert.
Sarah’s smile slipped into a frown. She had a suspicion, based on Nora’s frequent requests for sweets and her unpleasant behavior when they were not forthcoming, that the former nanny may have used sweets to quiet her. But Nora’s bout of bad temper at supper had soon dissipated, her sunny disposition had returned and they had played quietly until her evening bedtime. She really was an adorable child.
Sarah tucked the blankets more closely around the little girl and roamed into her bedroom seeking distraction. She glanced at the desk that was again in its proper place beneath the window on the far wall. Her letter to her parents rested on the cleared surface, folded and addressed, sealed and ready to be posted. Perhaps she would do that tomorrow afternoon if the weather cleared. She had considered giving it to Ellen to carry home with her, but the post would be faster. And she had been thinking of going to town to visit the shops. Of course Nora’s hour or two of nap time did not allow for much exploring. Still, she should have time enough to accomplish all she needed to do, including visiting Ellen to send her on her way.
A clap of thunder invaded her thoughts, reminded her the storm was still raging, though awareness of it was never far away. It hovered like a dark cloud in the background, ready to carry forward painful memories at every flash of lightning or howl of the wind. Sarah shivered, adjusted the wick on the oil lamp and smoothed a wrinkle from the lindsey-woolsey coverlet on the bed. This was not working out as she had planned. She had counted on the demands of a toddler keeping her too busy to remember—or to feel the pain of her loss. But with Nora’s afternoon nap and early bedtime that hope had proven false. She had too much free time, especially with the storm adding to her unrest. If only…
Sarah lifted her gaze to the door at the right of the fireplace and absently tapped her thumbnail against her lips. Why not? What had she to lose? She opened the door wide, in order to hear Nora if she woke, and started down the winder stairs, longing for a hot cup of tea and some adult company. The storm had lessened in ferocity, but it still had her shaken and overwrought. She opened the door at the bottom, stepped into the kitchen and turned toward the table. Mrs. Quincy looked across the room, staring at her, most likely resenting this uninvited invasion of her domain. “Good evening.” She smiled and moved forward into the room.
The older woman nodded, leaned her direction and squinted her eyes. “Are you feeling all right, Miss Randolph? You look a bit under the weather.”
Sarah forced a laugh. “An apt description, Mrs. Quincy. I do not care for thunderstorms.” She glanced toward the stove, noted the pots steaming there and looked back. “I wondered if I might have some tea? And if you would care to share it with me? I would be glad of the company.”
The housekeeper