halted, glanced at the dining room, now dark and uninviting. But candlelight poured through an open door on her left, tempted her into the yet unexplored room. She paused just inside the door, ready to apologize for intruding and make a hasty retreat. But this room, too, was empty.
She relaxed and looked around, admiring the room’s slate-green plastered walls, the deep mustard color of the woodwork and window shutters. An old, one-drawer table holding a flaming candle in a large pewter candlestick and a family Bible snuggled into the recess created by the fireplace. A framed needlepoint sampler hung on the wall above the table. Two tapestry-covered chairs sided a settee with a candlestand at one end. She moved to her right, stepped around a tea table and entered a large alcove lined with shelves of books. In its center stood a pedestal game table with a game of Draughts displayed on its surface.
Sarah smiled, slid one of the pieces forward on the board, moved it back to its starting place. How Mary and James loved to challenge and bait each other while playing Draughts—while doing anything. Her younger sister and brother were fiercely competitive. Who was mediating their clashes of wills now that she was gone from home?
A sound of footsteps startled her from her reverie. The door in the outside wall swung inward, exposing the night. The candlelight flickered wildly in a gust of wind that carried a strong scent of rain. The breath froze in her lungs. Sarah stared at the dark gap of the open door, pressed her hand to the base of her throat and took a step back toward the safety of the hall.
Clayton Bainbridge stepped out of the darkness, halting her flight. Surprise flitted across his face. He gave her a small nod. “Good evening.”
Sarah stood in place, acutely aware of her pulse pounding beneath her hand, the tightness spreading through her chest. She inclined her head.
“Sorry if I gave you a start, I did not realize you were in here.” Clayton pulled the door closed, faced her. “It seems we are in for a bit of weather. The wind is coming up fast.”
The sighing moan of wind seeking entrance at the windowpanes accompanied by a distant rumble of thunder testified to the truth of his prediction. Sarah darted her gaze toward the window, fought back a shudder. She would have to hurry. Get back to her room before the storm broke upon them.
“Were you looking for me? Is there a problem?”
She jerked her attention back to Clayton Bainbridge. “No. No problem. I…I was searching for something to read.” She lowered her hand, squared her shoulders. “I hope you do not mind?”
“Not at all.” Clayton’s gaze shifted to the books. “Were you looking for anything in particular?”
“No.” Lightning lit the sky in the distance. Sarah winced and turned her back to the windows, focusing on the books in front of her. “I only wanted something to read until I can fall asleep.” Little chance of that now. She edged in the direction of the door.
Clayton strode up beside her, reached out and pulled a book off the shelf. “The music of Robert Burns’s poetry always works for me.” His thumb slid back and forth over the black leather cover then stilled.
She was trapped. Sarah watched him, held fear at bay by trying to identify the myriad emotions that shadowed his eyes. Sadness…anger…loneliness…and something—He lifted his head, looked at her. She flicked her gaze back to the books. Warmth crawled into her cheeks. Had she been fast enough? Or had he caught her staring at him?
“Do you like poetry, Miss Randolph?”
She nodded. “Yes, I do.” The wind moaned louder, raindrops spattered against the windows at the far end of the room. The warmth drained from her cheeks. The tightness in her chest increased. If only he would move out of her way!
“Do you enjoy Burns? Or perhaps you prefer Blake or Wordsworth?”
“I have no preference. I like them all.” Lightning flashed, throwing light against the walls. There was a loud, sharp crack. Sarah flinched and bit down on her lower lip to stop the scream that rose in her throat.
“But not thunderstorms?”
She glanced up at Clayton. He was studying her. And she knew exactly how she looked—face pale, mouth taut, eyes wide and fearful. No point in trying to deny it. “No. Not thunderstorms. Not anymore.” There was a brilliant flash, a sizzle and crack, the burst of thunder. “Excuse me.”
Sarah pushed her way between Clayton and the game table, rushed into the hallway and sagged against the wall, struggling to catch a breath. She could still hear the thunder, but its rumble was muffled by the walls, and there were no windows to show the lightning. If only she could get to her room! But her legs were trembling so hard she was afraid to move away from the support of the wall. If she could breathe—
“Are you all right, Miss Randolph?”
He had followed her! Sarah nodded, gathered her meager strength and pushed away from the wall. Her knees gave way. Clayton Bainbridge’s quick grip on her elbow kept her from falling. She turned her face away from his perusal. “Thank you.” She struggled for breath to speak. Panted out words. “If you will…excuse me, I need to…go upstairs. Nora may wake and be…frightened by the storm.”
“In a moment. You are in no condition to climb stairs.” He half carried her the few steps to a Windsor chair. “You are very pale.” His eyes darkened. His face drew taut. “Rest here while I get you some brandy. A swallow always helped my wife when she had one of her spells.” He turned toward the drawing room.
“No, please. That isn’t necessary.” Sarah pushed to her feet, forced her trembling legs to support her. “Thank you for your kindness, but I need to go upstairs to Nora.” And to hide from the storm.
Thunder boomed. Sarah winced and rushed to the stairs. She heard him come to stand at the bottom, felt his gaze on her as she climbed. He must think her insane to react so fearfully to a simple thunderstorm. Would he judge her unsafe to care for his child because of it?
The sound of rain pelting the roof and throwing itself in a suicidal frenzy against the shuttered windows of the nursery drove the worry from her mind. “Sufficient unto the day are the troubles thereof…” Tomorrow would take care of itself. She had the night to get through.
Sarah tucked the covers more snugly around the peacefully slumbering Nora and ran tiptoe to the dressing room to prepare for bed. Prayers formed in her mind in automatic response to every howl of the wind, every flash of lightning and clap of thunder, but she left them unspoken. She had learned not to waste her time uttering cries for mercy to a God who did not hear or did not care. It would profit her more to hide beneath her covers and wait for the tempest to pass.
She shivered her way to bed, slid beneath the coverlet and pulled the pillow over her head to block out the sights and sounds of the foul weather, but it was too late. The storm had brought back all the memories, and she was powerless to stop the terrifying images that flashed one after the other across the window of her mind.
Lightning flashed. Thunder cracked, rumbled away. Clayton pushed away from his desk and crossed to the window. Rain coursed down the small panes of glass in torrents, making the barely visible trunks of the trees in the yard look liquid and flowing. He had not seen a storm this bad in years. He frowned and rubbed at the tense muscles at the back of his neck. Hopefully it would pass over soon. If not, the weak wall they were working to reinforce at the lock might not hold. And if it collapsed it would put them weeks
