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“The child will be fully in your charge, Miss Randolph. While I shall provide all that is needed for its care, I will have no personal contact with it. Is that clear?”
Sarah lifted her chin and met Clayton Bainbridge’s gaze with her own. “Your words… yes. But—”
“There is no but, Miss Randolph. Those are the special conditions of your employment. I realize you will require some personal time. The maid Lucy will sit with the child while she naps in the afternoon. And your evenings will be free. Other than that, you will spend all of your time with the child. Do you wish to accept the position?”
Incredible! The man might as well be a marble statue. Had Clayton Bainbridge no feelings? An image of the sweet toddler sleeping upstairs flashed into her head. “Yes, Mr. Bainbridge, I accept the position. I must, sir. Because your daughter is a little girl, not an it.”
Sarah squared her shoulders, whirled away from the look of astonishment on Clayton Bainbridge’s face and swept from the room.
MILLS & BOON
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DOROTHY CLARK
Critically acclaimed, award-winning author Dorothy Clark is a creative person. She lives in a home she designed and helped her husband build (she swings a mean hammer!) with the able assistance of their three children. She also designs and helps her husband build furniture. When she is not thus engaged, she can be found cheering her grandchildren on at various sports events, or furiously taking notes about possible settings for future novels as she and her husband travel throughout the United States and Canada. Dorothy believes in God, love, family and happy endings, which explains why she feels so at home writing her stories for Steeple Hill. Dorothy enjoys hearing from her readers, and may be contacted at [email protected].
Dorothy Clark
Family of the Heart
For thou wilt light my candle: the Lord my God
will enlighten my darkness.
—Psalms 18:28
This book is dedicated with boundless gratitude
to my extremely talented writer friend and critique
partner, Sam Pakan, who read every chapter
(though there is not a fistfight or dead body in any
of them), encouraged me and prayed for me when
“life” happened and interfered with my writing
time, and stuck with me through the last two weeks
of my writing marathon though he was racing to
meet his own book deadline. You sure know how to
go the “second mile,” cowboy. Thank you.
“Commit thy works unto the Lord, and thy thoughts
shall be established.”
Your word is truth. Thank You, Jesus.
To You be the glory.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Epilogue
Questions for Discussion
Chapter One
Cincinnati
April, 1838
The hired carriage climbed over the break of the hill and rolled to a stop. Sarah Randolph grabbed for the hold strap as the rig leaned to one side then quickly righted itself when the driver stepped off onto the ground. A moment later the door opened and the driver peered inside. “This is it, miss. This is Stony Point.”
Every nerve in her stomach fluttered to life. For one panicked moment Sarah wished she were back at the hotel with Ellen to tend her, but only for a moment. She needed something to do. Something to help her through the pain of Aaron’s death. Somewhere to get away from the tormenting memories of him that haunted the streets of Philadelphia. And this position as a nanny answered those needs.
Sarah lifted her chin in renewed determination and climbed from the carriage. A worm of worry wriggled through her as she watched the driver walk around to the back and unbuckle the straps holding her trunk in place. She’d brought only the plainest, most serviceable of her day dresses, but none of her gowns were really appropriate for a nanny. If only there had been time to obtain more suitable attire.
Sarah let out a sigh and closed her mind to the concern. It was of no matter now—her gowns would simply have to do. She glanced down, shook out her long bottle-green velvet skirt, smoothed down the tab-cut leaves at the waist edge of her matching spencer, then lifted her head and appraised the house in front of her. It was well named. The rectangular stone house, with its set-back kitchen ell, sat square in the middle of the point of land that forced the road to curve.
It was an attractive house. Not large, compared to the homes of the elite of Philadelphia, but two stories of generous and pleasing proportion. And, though there was nothing ornate or fancy about the place, it had charm. Shutters, painted the dark green of the pines on the hillside, embraced the home’s symmetrically placed multipaned windows and framed its solid wood-plank front door. Ivy spread clinging arms in profuse abandon on the front and climbed the gable end, stretching a few tentacles toward the wood shingles of the roof.
“Ready, miss.” The driver, holding her large trunk balanced on one beefy shoulder, appeared beside her.
Sarah stepped back, giving him room to open the gate sandwiched between the two lamp-topped stone pillars that anchored the low stone walls enclosing the home’s front yard. She