Searching for Sara

  “Indeed you. Who better? Come along.” He escorted her closer to the easel. “Out with it. What say you?”

  Each picture served a progression of the one before. The first depicted a night laden with storms, a single candle shining in the parapet of a mammoth castle. The second, a spring day in the garden of a small church. The third, a seaport with vessels waiting for their journey beginnings. The fourth, a massive wrought-iron gate, stoic walls on each side. The hint of a garden portrayed by vines creeping over the boundary. Finally, the fifth, and her favorite. A child peeked over the walls of the garden to that which beckoned beyond its borders.

  “Why, it seems to tell a bit of a story, does it no’?”

  “Good.” He studied the display, his hazel eyes glittering with approval. “Such being my intent, but have I the correct chronology?”

  “Oh it’s perfect. I can hardly believe all this hid in that bunch of sketches I gave you. No wonder you have such a lovely gallery, Christopher. You see things we others miss.”

  “I wasn’t expecting high praise for doing my duty—Where are my manners?” He motioned toward the door. “Would you care for some lunch? My stomach reminds me of the time.”

  “I—” Her eyes darted behind him to the door. “Should I not get back?”

  “Is Dix expecting you at a specific time?” He pulled his watch from his vest pocket. “Of course I wouldn’t want her to worry after you. I can have Harold bring the carriage back around.”

  “Christopher, I . . . ." Sara’s cheeks flushed molten as she held his gaze. “I would like to stay for lunch, and since the Donovans are out . . . . But only if it would no’ be trouble for you, sir.”

  “No trouble at all, my dear. Come along with me and say ‘Hello’ to Gwyn. She has missed you terribly.” He slowed his pace to ascend the stairs beside her. “I am surprised Dix did not invite you along with them. This would have been a prime opportunity to see the face of Richmond.”

  “I know, sir, but . . . ." She enjoyed the peace of a life without duties. Relished the calm. To have no expectations but the fitting of her own wardrobe? She still viewed the time with suspicion.

  “But?”

  She peeked at him from under her lashes. “Is it wrong of me to like doing nothing but the fancies?”

  Christopher laughed. “Of course not, Sara. It is, by far, a better opportunity than bouncing about in a cramped carriage. As long as Dix does not fuss at you, I say take as many days as possible to do ‘nothing but the fancies’. I hope that includes more sketches for a future display.” He opened the library door and peeked his head in before Sara could respond. “Gwyn. We have a guest.”

  “Sara!”

  Sara returned Gwyn’s tight embrace. “Good day to you, poppet.”

  The girl pulled back, her eyes wide. “I wanted to tell Papa about breakfast, but I am to stay outside his studio when the door is shut.”

  “Do no’ fret. You were here to serve the guests their tea or coffee, and what a gift to your father.” Sara smoothed the girl’s soft cheeks. “You were their little hostess if your papa needed the help.”

  “Hostess?” Gwyn whispered, her emerald eyes agleam. “Papa, I could be hostess?”

  “Of course, Angel Girl.” Christopher dropped to one knee and took her hands in his. “But I fell into my hermit habits this morning. No guests to be charmed; no tea to be served. I dare say you couldn’t have missed me too greatly, though.”

  Gwyn wrapped her arms around her father’s neck and pressed her lips against his cheek for a wet smack. Sara’s heart swelled with relief when his aspect softened. His devotion to Gwyn acted as a door beyond the torture . . . and yet, something different brightened his look when the three planned her display. A warmer tone in his voice. Had he not painted since his wife’s passing? Sara tilted her head in silent study. Could art be the key?

  “I sat outside the door and listened to you talk to yourself.” Gwyn giggled. “I had your picture, too.”

  “Picture?”

  The girl nodded, her curls dancing upon the collar Sara crocheted for her. “Sara made a picture. I borrowed it.”

  Christopher shifted his attention to Sara as she hid a smile. She had wondered where it vanished to.

  “A picture, is it? Sara, are you keeping things from your sponsor?” He crossed his arms in feigned displeasure . . . an expression Sara still found gave her a fright. “This will never do. Gwyn, may I see it?”

  Gwyn led them into the library. Sara hovered in the doorway, uncertain. Any image of his late wife could shepherd a return of the agony. Hadn’t she seen the hurt after his sister’s urgency to let her go? Sara watched Christopher as Gwyn pointed out the different portions of the picture. He examined it in silence, unreadable.

  “Can you finish it today, Sara?” Gwyn drew Sara into the room toward her father. “I want to show everyone. Can we put it in a frame so I can have it in my room?”

  Sara forced a smile. “I will try to finish it today, but I do no’ know about a frame. You should ask your papa.”

  “Papa?” Gwyn tugged on his sleeve. “Do we have a frame?”

  Christopher smoothed her blonde curls, his gaze drawn from the sketch to his daughter’s expectant scrutiny. “Of course we can frame it, Gwyn. I am sure we have one hiding upstairs. I will go in search after lunch while you wait for the finish.” Then he set the image aside and gathered the squirming girl into his arms. “In the meantime, let us not keep our guest waiting.”

  ~§~

  Christopher listened with rapt attention to the melody of his home, his lips tilted upward in a half smile. Thomas told a joke to Harold of two men in a boat. A young kitchen maid wove the tale of her Christmas experience to the cook. There could also be heard the sound of feminine laughter mixed with a child’s joy―

  A fresh medley of flowers flared Christopher’s nostrils. He gripped the baluster, his heart suffering a momentary convulse. Memories resurfaced on the fading breeze of that aroma. Christopher turned aside, his steps instinctual. The conservatory. Her favorite refuge.

  “Gwyn has not laughed as often as she does now, Carla.” He closed the double doors behind him and slipped his hands into his trouser pockets. He kicked an errant pebble. “Dix is right, again, in saying Gwyn needs the comfort of a woman’s heart. There is a definite change in her. More stories and sketches. More chatter. More laughter. Since Sara’s arrival, Gwyn has not suffered from nightmares.”

  He groaned and lowered himself onto the top-most step of the gazebo. “Carla, I do not know what to do. Dix presses me to marry so Gwyn will once more have the blessing of a woman’s care. But.”

  Grumbling, he tossed a pebble into the pond. Gwyn craved the love of a mother, and Christopher could feel his own need rising. The thirst for support . . . and he recalled again Sara’s soft and broken voice encouraging him to lean on others. Her press to talk of his grief while seeking the companionship of his family and friends.

  Christopher shook his head and stood, though he felt a definite reluctance to leave the conservatory in search of the promised frame. The search would take him to the third floor, a rustling of the dust and images from his past. As he rummaged through those crates for the sake of his daughter’s happiness, the need would yet again rise from the depths.

  He pushed through the conservatory doors and navigated the short distance to the main staircase. Though he told Dix there remained nothing to offer a new wife, he knew that as a bald-faced lie. Regardless of how passionate he argued against the desires, they remained, and now they beat at him. The night dreams of his life with Carla were no longer enough. Remembering the devotion did nothing more than keep him teetering on the brink of sanity.

  The base of the narrow third-story stairs paused his step. He stared up into the muted light of the third floor. Would he truly be able to face the canvas, so bright with life he no longer saw—He clenched his jaw, his hand clutching the railing as he ascended.

  The same fourth step from the top cre
aked an echoing refrain. The railing still threatened splinters with its spiky touch, needing sandpaper and a coat or two of stain. The trunks, boxes, old furniture and toys beckoned him to remember images and memories long since tucked away. Those whispers of past stories halted his step, resurging the guilt. Had his faith been stronger, he could have saved the one person he would have died for—

  Christopher shook the memories free and shuffled forward, reluctant to approach the crates which encased his oils and supplies. He unpacked one, unveiling the canvas beneath the protective sheet. A watercolor landscape of a stream and church. The beauty of nature and the peaceful existence of man with its Creator.

  The frame creaked under his grasp, jerking him back to the present. The next canvas represented a similar scene, but with the hint of a fatherly visage within the clouds. Similar to the sketched countenance in Sara’s rendering, but hers alongside the image of his wife—Christopher set the frame aside.

  A bulky portfolio drew his focus, the last item within the first crate. His furrowed brow relaxed as shaky fingers groped to untie the leather string. With dreaded sluggishness he revealed those first images created during his studies at Richmond College. Charcoals, pencil sketches, even some small watercolors. The most prominent, the silhouette of a woman’s back as she gazed out a window.

  Though he titled them doodles, Carla declared them a key to his inspiration. He still recalled her reaction when he revealed them to her that first time, her emerald eyes bright and shining. ‘Doodles? These? Certainly you jest! Look at the wonderful lines. This young woman seems as if she’s about to turn and give you a smile. Who is she?’

  Christopher slapped the portfolio closed. “Nothing but a faceless visage. Once I married you, you were the finish to my images. How can I consider a different face? How can I draw a different silhouette when it is yours I feel?”

  Yet they wanted him to love another.

  He hurled the portfolio away and fled downstairs, each page whispering ‘gone’ across the hardwood floor.

  ~§~

  “Mr. Christopher?”

  Christopher straightened, lowering his hand from his face to the vision of Sara’s concern. He forced a smile and indicated the sketch in her hand. “I see you have finished. Let us have a look.”

  She presented him the drawing accompanied by her usual timorous smile.

  The intensity of each stroke whispered to his soul of wistfulness. The poignant image of family stole his breath. “Magnificent.”

  “Did I . . . did I get the likeness of your wife right, sir? I meant to ask before.”

  Christopher only just prevented himself from touching his wife’s lips. “She smiled like that when . . . when she said ‘good-bye’ that last morning.” Agony burned behind his eyes. He cleared his throat and stared out across the pond. A gentle and warm touch covered his hand, accompanied by the whisper of prayer. It brought a memory of better days. How long since he experienced simple pleasures?

  “We loved to sit here, listening,” he admitted. “Shortly after Gwyn’s birth we spent most of our mornings here with her. Carla and Gwyn were meant for canvas.”

  He lowered his gaze, his focus drawn to the warmth covering his—He withdrew his hand but the warmth lingered.

  “I-I am sorry, sir.”

  “For what?” The gruffness of his voice surprised him.

  “Taking . . . taking liberties. I thought it would be a comfort.”

  “You did not take liberties, Sara. I—It was a comfort.” A comfort he hadn’t experienced for ages. “Do not trouble yourself.”

  “But I do, sir.” She stole a look from under her lashes. “I do no’ want you to think poorly of me.”

  Christopher gaped down at her. Think poorly of a woman so tenacious in her concern for others? “I do not. How could I?”

  “N-no?”

  A reluctant smile loosened the strain behind his eyes. “You do not need me to prove my character is more than your Mr. Brockle, do you?”

  Sara wrinkled her nose. “I know you be nothing like him, sir. I could hardly be polite without making him think he could take liberties he should no’ even thought. Mr. Brockle being engaged, too.”

  “Gasp and horror.”

  “You would no’ poke fun if you had ever met Mr. Brockle.”

  Christopher laughed. “No. I guess I would not. I believe Paul called him an ‘old sod’. Though I feel quite certain Mr. Brockle has earned more colorful titles than that.”

  “Yes, sir, but I did no’ think Mr. Paul would have come to hear them.”

  “Our Mr. Paul fancies himself a detective.” Christopher motioned ahead and offered her his arm. “In fact, he will at times call the Police Department to request files of unsolved cases.”

  “Truly?” Sara asked, her voice hushed. “Has he . . .?”

  “Solved any cases?”

  Sara nodded. She listened with baited breath, and for the first time in a year he felt himself relax. “No, Paul has not solved any cases that I know of, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t been a help. Actually, I heard him tout that the Police Department gave him an honorary title of Detective. In appreciation for some new information on one of their older cases.”

  “How exciting!”

  “Paul would deny that. He states most of a policeman’s day is surrounded by paperwork and investigating . . . leads, I believe is what he called them.”

  She smiled, her blue eyes like sapphires. “What a dear he is. He and your sister both. When did you first meet Mr. Paul?”

  “Dear Lord. I have known him since I can remember, or close to. Hm. Eight years? Seven? Yes, I believe I was seven when I first met Paul.”

  “Goodness!”

  “If I remember correctly, Paul and Dix met at a church function about that time. His family had newly arrived in the area, and so Dix did her neighborly duty of showing him about Richmond.” He chuckled. “I still remember the look on her face after the afore-mentioned ‘stolen kiss’ on, or very near, her sixteenth birthday.”

  Sara laughed. To Christopher’s surprise, the joyous melody erupted a wave of pain. He looked away. “Soon thereafter, Paul came by on a regular basis to court her before asking Father for her hand at seventeen. They married just after her eighteenth birthday.”

  “What a blessing to marry your friend,” Sara whispered.

  A blessing? He clenched his jaw. But what of the cursed after? The life without their support. The absolute silence. Christopher sensed Sara’s sidelong scrutiny and cleared his mind before meeting her gaze. “Question?”

  She flushed and shook her head.

  “I suppose we should head to the gallery to work on the display.” The comment drew her gaze of disappointment, unexpected. “If I keep you longer, I will be late getting you home and Dix will believe it is done deliberately.”

  “Will you come to the dinner party this Monday?”

  A reluctance to say a definite denial rose up. He shifted his feet. “Well, I still have a lot of paperwork to do. To finalize Sean’s sale to Jeffrey.”

  “Oh. Of course you would be busy.”

  Guilt nagged at him. “Teddy keeps pressing me to hire an assistant to help, but one never knows the passions of a stranger. What if they are not an adequate fit with the gallery?”

  “Could I, perhaps?”

  Christopher relaxed into a smile. “Has life become too dull with only your crafts?”

  “Oh no. I dreamt so long of working in a gallery. I would no’ forgive myself if I did no’ ask.”

  A smirk tilted his lips upward. “Well, I must confess I would be delighted to have your assistance. We should discuss your wage this evening at dinner.”

  “Oh no, sir! You taking me on would be pay enough.”

  “Such is a statement from a true artist.”

  Cheeks crimson, she lowered her gaze. “No, sir. I but love the thought of helping with all the lovelies. To make a struggling artist’s dream come true?” Sara peeked at him from under her lashe
s. “That could be seen as a true miracle for some of them, and what a blessing that would be. For me and for them.”

  The telltale glint of tears glistened upon the fringe of her lashes. The tautness of Christopher’s heart eased. In this woman you would have found a lifelong friend, Carla. For her heart rang with the same passion for others.

  Thirteen

  Comfort of Liberty

  15 January 1894

  Christopher stared out at the newly fallen layer of snow. The insulating white matched the numbness within him. The carriage door opened against the gusts of biting wind. Laughter could be heard from within the Donovan townhome, giving rise to another wave of reluctance. He fought it back, remembering again the disappointment in Sara’s eyes. She looked to him for protection and guidance. If he took his responsibility with a grain of seriousness . . . .

  He clutched his woolen coat against the blustery weather as he rushed into the front hallway. Gregory helped him from his overcoat and accepted his scarf and gloves. “Dining hall or parlor?”

  “Parlor, sir. Mr. Parker arrived before you, so they decided to warm up with cider and tea.”

  Paul, Dix, and Teddy gathered around the parlor’s marble fireplace.

  “Blow the trumpets, he’s come after all,” Teddy said. He gestured Paul and Dix’s attention to the doorway, watching his friend with a knowing smirk.

  “Pipe down, Parker.” Christopher’s gaze swept the room for any sight of Sara. “Since this is Paul and Dix’s first visit in a year, I thought it would be rude to stay away.”

  Dix kissed his cheek. “Likely story. You only want to eat my food.”

  “Believe what you want, dearest. You will anyway.”

  Sara stood at the farthest window, her attention captured by the dance of falling snow. Burgundy satin set off the red highlights of her hair. She glanced from the scenery, smiling when their gazes met.

  “Excuse me while I offer my greetings to your houseguest.”

  “Of course, dearest. Go on with you.”

  Sara’s cheeks flushed as he came to stand beside her. “Miss Little.”

  “Mr. Lake.” She motioned outside. “Is it no’ lovely, sir?”

  “Snow seems to fall heaviest on party days, I’ve found.” Christopher shifted his scrutiny from Sara’s expression to the drifting flakes of the outside garden. “Carla loved snow. She called it ‘a fresh start for beauty.’”