Nora stared up at her. “Cookie.” She scrambled to her feet and held up her arms.
“Cookie?” Sarah laughed and scooped her up. “I’m afraid cookies are not acceptable breakfast fare for little girls. Would a biscuit with some lovely strawberry jam suit?”
Nora’s golden curls bounced as she bobbed her head. “Me like jam!”
“Yes, I thought you might.” Sarah looked around for a bellpull. There was none. She hurried to her bedroom, glanced around, frowned. Where was—The truth burst upon her, rooted her in place. Servants did not have bell-pulls. And in this house she was a servant. She tightened her grip on Nora and sank to the edge of the bed, absorbing the ramifications of that truth. Perhaps it was just as well she would be going home. She had no idea what to do. Someone had to prepare Nora’s breakfast. But without a bellpull how did she summon—
“Bisit.”
Sarah looked into her charge’s big blue eyes and sighed. “Biscuit?…Yes. You shall have your biscuit and jam, Nora.” She took a deep breath, made her decision. She would take Nora to the kitchen—wherever that was—and have cook prepare breakfast for both of them. “But first I must get you washed and brushed and ready for the day.”
Nora squirmed. “Go potty.”
“Oh. Of course. Wait a moment.” Sarah tightened her arms around the toddler, rose and hurried toward the dressing room.
“Good morning.” Sarah smiled as Mrs. Quincy spun around from the iron cooking stove and gaped at her. The woman’s flushed face registered surprise, then censure.
“You’re not to be using the main stairs.” The housekeeper tossed the piece of wood she was holding into the stove, replaced the iron plate and hung the tool she’d used to lift the lid on a hook on the wall. Her long skirts swished as she moved around a large center table and pulled open a door. “These back stairs are the ones you’re to use.”
Sarah glanced at the narrow stairway with the pie-wedge-shaped winding steps.
“Remember that in future.” Mrs. Quincy closed the door, went back to the stove, picked up a spoon and swirled it through the contents in a large iron pot. “Is there somethin’ you needed?”
“Yes.” Sarah’s stomach clenched at the smell of apples and cinnamon that wafted her way. She ignored the reminder that she had been too nervous to eat supper yesterday and carried Nora toward the table. “I am unfamiliar with the way you run the house, and I wondered if you would be so good as to tell me where and when Nora’s meals—and mine—are served.”
Mrs. Quincy put down the spoon, picked up a griddle covered with slices of bacon and placed it on the stove. “Miss Thompson came down, give me orders for what she wanted for herself and the child and went back upstairs. Lucy toted and fetched their trays.”
Sarah winced at the cold, offended note in the housekeeper’s voice. Miss Thompson must have been overbearing in flaunting her elevated position as nanny to the daughter of the house. No wonder Mrs. Quincy was less than welcoming. “I see. Well, I do not wish to be an intrusion in your kitchen, Mrs. Quincy. Miss Nora and I will partake of whatever fare is being offered.” She gave a delicate sniff. “Breakfast smells wonderful.” She paused, rushed ahead, braving the woman’s ire. “However, I do wonder if it might include a biscuit with jam for Miss Nora? I promised her one this morning.” She offered an apologetic smile. “I shan’t make rash promises about meals to her again.”
The starch went out of Mrs. Quincy’s spine. She nodded, broke an egg onto the griddle beside the sizzling bacon, tossed away the shell and reached for another. “I’ve biscuits made. And there’s strawberry jam in the pantry. I’ll put one on the child’s tray. And on yours as well.” She grated pepper onto the eggs, added salt. “Lucy will bring them up directly.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Quincy.” Sarah glanced toward the door that opened on the winder stairs. She didn’t feel safe climbing them with Nora in her arms. She waited until the housekeeper was busy turning the bacon and eggs and walked back the way she had come through the butler’s pantry and into the dining room.
“Bisit-jam.” Nora’s lower lip pushed out in a trembling pout. She twisted around and stretched her pudgy little arm back toward the kitchen.
“Yes, sweetie. You shall have your biscuit. But first we have to go back upstairs.”
“Bisit! Jam!”
“In a moment, Nora.”
The toddler stiffened and let out an irate howl.
Sarah took a firmer hold on the rigid little body and howled louder. Nora stopped yelling and gaped at her. Clearly, the child did not know what to think of an adult who yelled back. How long would that ploy work? Judging from the storm cloud gathering on the small face, Nora was not going to give up easily. The little mouth opened. Sarah shifted her grasp, lifted the toddler into the air and whirled across the dining room. By the time she reached the doorway they were both laughing.
“That is much better.” Sarah stepped through the dining-room doorway into the hall and came to an abrupt halt. It appeared her concern over breakfast was in vain. Clayton Bainbridge was striding down the hall toward her, and she had no doubt she would be dismissed as soon as he saw her. Lucy would be the one caring for Nora today. She squared her shoulders as best she could with Nora in her arms and curved her lips into a polite smile. “Good morning.”
Clayton Bainbridge stopped in midstride and lifted his gaze from the paper he held. Surprise flickered across his face, was quickly replaced by displeasure. He gave a curt nod in acknowledgment of her greeting. His gaze locked on hers, didn’t even flicker toward the toddler she held. “Did I hear yelling, Miss Randolph?”
His tone made her go as rigid as Nora had only moments ago. “Yes, Mr. Bainbridge, you did. Nora and I were playing.” That was true. There was no need to tell him the yelling occurred first. Or that the play was to prevent it from happening again.
“I see. In the future, please confine your ‘play’ to the nursery.” His scowl deepened. “There are back stairs directly to the kitchen, Miss Randolph. It is unnecessary for you to bring the child into this part of the house.” He gestured behind her. “If you go through the dining room to the kitchen, Mrs. Quincy will show you the stairs’ location.”
He was completely ignoring his daughter! Sarah resisted the urge to lift little Nora up into Clayton Bainbridge’s line of sight where he could not dismiss her. “She has already done so.” She matched his cool tone. “But the steps are narrow and winding, and I feel they are unsafe to use when I am carrying your daughter.” And how can you object to that, Mr. Bainbridge? “Now, if you will excuse us, our breakfast trays are waiting.”
Sarah sailed by Clayton to the forbidden staircase and began to ascend, defiance in her every step. What had she to lose? He could not dismiss her twice.
Clayton stared after Sarah Randolph. The woman had an unpleasant and inappropriate autocratic manner. But he would not tolerate her presence much longer. He would dismiss her as soon as she had given the child her breakfast. He pivoted, strode to the dining room, took his seat, glanced at the paper in his hand. A moment later he threw the paper on the table and stormed into the kitchen. The heels of his boots clacked against the stones of the floor as he marched over and yanked open the door enclosing the back stairs. The narrow, wedge-shaped steps wound upward in a tight spiral. His anger burst like a puffball under a foot. Sarah Randolph was right. The winder stairs were unsafe for a woman burdened with a child.
“Was there something you needed, sir?”
Clayton turned to face Mrs. Quincy. She looked a bit undone by his unusual appearance in the kitchen. “Only my breakfast, Eldora.” He closed the door on the happy little giggle floating down the stairway. “And to tell you Miss Randolph