Searching for Sara

  She dabbed the tears from her eyes. “Thank you for pressing me to do this, sir.”

  “Thank you for allowing me to do so. You should have hooked me under the chin.”

  Sara’s eyes crinkled at the corners with her smile.

  “Come along.” Christopher guided her hand to the nook of his arm. “We don’t have much time before midnight.”

  “I do no’ think your sister’s carriage will turn into a pumpkin,” she said, laughing. “She’d be madder than a wet cat if it did.”

  “Yes, well, I would rather not risk it. You must admit your life to this point resembles a fairy tale.”

  “I know. I should have stopped pinching myself days ago, but . . . ." She revealed a red mark just above her elbow. “See?” She nervously laughed, her cheeks warming to a romantic shade of rose.

  Christopher smiled. Carla, what a dear woman we’ve rescued. He wished she could have met her, for he knew Carla would have fallen madly in love with her, as Dix and Gwyn had done.

  “Watercolors are so different from charcoals and oils,” Sara observed, her soft comment drawing his focus to the watercolors to their left. “They are . . . a whisper of a dream rather than the telling of a story.” She sighed. “I wish I could paint like that.”

  “If you’re serious about that comment . . . ."

  Sara’s sapphire eyes brightened. “Sir?”

  “Paul and Dix instructed me to inquire whether you wanted me to have a hand at instructing you.”

  She offered a tremulous smile. “I would count that a great blessing, sir.”

  “Good. I would have offered earlier, but they charged me to wait until after the display. Taking on too much and whatnot. Dix always chews my ears about it. She says that I take on too many projects and that’s why I practically never finish any of them.”

  “You canno’ help but be excited about your gallery here. Not if that’s your passion.”

  His smile vanished, the word lancing a brand of ice and fire across his mind and heart. He lowered his hand from her arm.

  “Mr. Christopher?” Sara’s scrutiny darkened her eyes to the tortured blue of a stormy sea.

  “I am well, my dear. I have neither seen nor painted an image since Carla’s death.” What passion remained for him now? At times, the gallery seemed more a torture than a triumph.

  Sara’s gaze didn’t waver in its study of his features, setting his teeth on edge. “You miss it.”

  The safe vision of the watercolor drew Christopher’s gaze. “As much as I miss her.”

  She faced the same landscape, what seemed a sneering testament to a once peaceful existence. Sara experienced a greater blessing in her life. She used her artistry and passion even through a death and a struggle of survival. Her passion became the art now on display around him. Yet his ardor faded in the face of struggle, swallowed by the void of grief.

  Sara suddenly looped her arm through his, the simple action of support drawing his gaze.

  “It is still there,” she whispered. “You have but to listen.”

  His chest tightened at the promise he desperately wanted to believe. She sounded so certain, how could he not?

  Fifteen

  The Other Side of the Platter

  Sara fingered the lip of her crystal tumbler of punch, staring wide-eyed at the art before her. An oil mountain-scape, it gave life to a part of America she hadn’t yet seen. Sara read the note card. Crater Lake, Oregon; E. C. White.

  “Oh how lovely,” she whispered.

  “I understand from a friend this happens to be Mr. Lake’s favorite.”

  Startled, she turned. An older gentleman stood behind her. He looked about the same age as Mr. Stillwell with blue eyes, gray hair, and a somewhat slender physique. He stood about as tall as Mr. Lake.

  “Good evening, sir.”

  “Good evening, my dear.” He presented a hand. “My name is Joseph Conklin. Whom do I have the honor of meeting?”

  “Ann K-Kreyssler.” It sounded odd to voice the last name of her father in relation to her identity.

  “Very pleased to make your acquaintance.” Mr. Conklin motioned to the landscape. “Do you paint?”

  “Oh no, but I wish I could. It seems as if it might come off the very page.”

  “Yes. Eva has quite a talent with the brush.”

  “You know her?”

  Mr. Conklin chuckled. “I know quite a few artists, being as I do my best to support them. We must stick together, you know.”

  “You paint, sir?”

  “No,” he said, quiet. “Not for a long time.” He glanced toward her. “Well, at least not as often as I would have liked.”

  “But why ever not?”

  “Too much control given to what should not have had it.” Mr. Conklin adjusted the hanging of the frame. “So, have you come to mingle? Or have you come to do your best to persuade Mr. Lake to sell you one of the forbidden sketches?”

  Sara’s nervous laugh twittered through the room. “I came because I had no’ ever been to an artist unveiling before—You truly like them?”

  “Yes, indeed. I haven’t seen a hand like that for years. Not since returning from England, where I believe I happened upon one of Mr. Lake’s first displays.” He motioned toward her. “Where do you hail from?”

  “London. I was born in a borough there.”

  “Richmond-Upon-Thames?”

  Sara’s eyes widened. “You know it?”

  “In passing.” Mr. Conklin focused beyond Sara to the crowd in the main room, nodded, and then offered her his hand. “I must away. A pleasure to meet you, my dear. I hope to see you again.”

  Sara curtsied. “Thank you, sir. Have a pleasant evening.”

  The warmth of Mr. Conklin’s hand lingered even after he passed to meet an associate in the crowd. All Mr. Lake’s acquaintances seemed kind and thoughtful.

  A hiss from the side entrance drew her attention. Teddy Parker leaned around the doorframe, his handsome features taut with pleading. Sara almost wrinkled her nose. She didn’t know what to believe about him. He didn’t seem a bad sort, but the way he flirted and carried on brought to hand so many memories of broken hearts.

  “Hello, Mr. Parker.”

  Teddy hesitated before entering the small room. “Are you enjoying yourself? No one bothering you?”

  She only shook her head as she regarded him and his sidelong glances.

  “This is Top’s favorite. It is a lake in Oregon made by a volcanic eruption. Top wants to go there someday. To prove it as lovely as the picture, I suppose—“ Teddy faced her, hands outstretched. “Sara, I feel horrible about the other night. Too much wine. It goes to my head every time.”

  She continued to examine the landscape. Before coming to America, nobody had apologized to her about their behavior. It made her feel . . . more.

  “Top said that if I didn’t apologize, and make doubly sure you knew I wouldn’t do it again, he would forbid me from visiting the house.”

  Sara blinked at him, unprepared for the confession of Mr. Christopher’s ultimatum. “Mr. Parker, are you promising to be better behaved?”

  “I don’t know if I can. My bad habit seems to be talking first and thinking only after I feel the sting of the slap.”

  A reluctant laugh bubbled up. “Well, if you do better, I will help you.”

  Teddy grinned. “No fooling?”

  “ ‘No fooling.’ You have likely only not had the chance to learn about ladies, being a sculptor. And you did no’ have sisters, did you?”

  Teddy shook his head. “Three brothers. And Dix never did have the patience to put up with me longer than a dinner, and that only because Top came between us. Or Paul.”

  “See? You only need a bit of practice.”

  “One problem. All the practice will likely get me into trouble.”

  “Trouble? With who?”

  Teddy chuckled. “With you or Top, or both.”

  “As long as you try, I will no’ get upset with you. And Mr. L
ake will no’ be angry. I will explain what happened, if he does.”

  Teddy’s smile remained as he reached out to give her hand a squeeze. “No. That’s fine. I will be a big boy and face him myself. We have been friends since college, so I think I understand most of his quirks.”

  “Is that why you call him ‘Top’?” She tugged her hand from his.

  Teddy tucked his hands into his trouser pockets. “Top? I call him that because he stood at the top of our graduating class, and almost everything else. Especially popular with the ladies, although he focused more on his collegiate studies than studies of other . . . more gentle things.”

  “Mr. Parker."

  Teddy’s gaze glittered with curiosity. “What?”

  “You should no’ talk about things like that with a lady.”

  “Things like what?”

  “Anything personal about Mr. Lake. It is no’ your place.”

  Teddy raised an eyebrow. “Hm. I will need to remember that one. Might save the two of us some arguments.”

  Someone called Teddy’s name. He winked and then disappeared back into the crowd. No, he wasn’t a bad sort, only very . . . free-spirited. Sara restrained a laugh.

  The sound of approaching steps behind her drew her attention. She smiled. “Oh, Mr. Christopher! All these people and the conversations—So wonderful!”

  His hazel eyes twinkled. “Then why are you hiding?”

  “Because I love watching them when they do no’ know it. You can learn so much more about people by watching.”

  “Yes, I have found myself trapped in the same habit.”

  A pastime Sara completely understood, especially with his gift of art. “Will you invite different people for the next reception?”

  “I had not yet decided. Most likely, but there are a few local patrons I should invite as well. I also hoped to invite a few directors from New York galleries.”

  Sara took in a quick breath, and her fingers tightened on her crystal punch glass.

  “Here now.” He took her glass from her and set it on the tray of a passing waiter. He directed her hand to his arm. “No frowns this evening, Miss Kreyssler. This is your night.” She flushed. “Now, let us have a stare at the newest group ‘ooo’ing and ‘ahh’ing over a mysterious artist’s first display. Unfortunately, that is all we will have time for before I will need to escort you to your carriage and send you on your way.”

  Sara’s smile faded. “Could I no’ stay longer?”

  “I am afraid I promised Dix to have you home before one o’clock. She’s of the mind too much excitement wouldn’t be . . . wise. I will be certain to keep quiet next time.”

  Sara laughed.

  ~§~

  Christopher held Sara’s overcoat for her. She slipped her arms into the sleeves as the clock chimed the three-quarter hour. Almost two o’clock, Dix had been giving him the reproachful-eye every moment she could spare. But the conversations had been a relief, Sara’s presence a tie to his beloved wife, and the laughter satiating a previously unchecked hunger. Reluctance was plain in Sara’s expression, so he ignored both his sister and the time with pleasure.

  He adjusted the coat over Sara’s shoulders. “Dix will chew my ears for delaying you.”

  “I hope not, sir. I had such fun, and so different from the parties in England!”

  “Oh?”

  “The laughter. It sounded . . . more real. And the people? They were all so charming.”

  Christopher chuckled and motioned her toward the front doors. “They believe you to be the mysterious new artist, Sara. Could you not tell they were attempting to winkle it out of you?”

  Sara laughed. “A fairytale party. I am glad you forgot the time.”

  He signaled for her carriage before closing the outer doors against the chill of the early morning. “I confess my intent was selfish. No one else laughs at my jokes.” Her eyes gleamed. “But in all seriousness, I am glad you decided to come. You altered the tone of the party.”

  The carriage rumbled to a stop outside. Christopher escorted her out, and held the carriage door open as he steadied her ascent. “Good evening, Sara. I will see you tomorrow.” He secured the door and stepped back.

  Sara lowered the glass. “Christopher.” Her choked voice drew him forward. She clasped his hand. “Thank you so much.”

  “It was my pleasure, Sara.”

  The carriage lurched forward, pulling her hand from his. She leaned out, errant curls of mahogany dancing in the wind as she watched him. Then the carriage disappeared into the mists of snow and early morning fog, leaving Christopher alone on the gallery steps. His smile waned, and he lowered his gaze to his hands before turning away. His shoulders wilted.

  Dix met him just inside. “You must have meant you would have her home before two.”

  He shrugged out of his overcoat and handed it off to Harold. “No, I meant one.”

  “Lost track of the time, did you?”

  “I purposefully ignored it.”

  “I see.”

  “Dix, you would have done the same if you had seen the expression in her eyes. She did not want to go, and I do not blame her. You did not truly wish me to force her away before she was ready, did you?”

  His sister laughed. “Heavens, no! Why do you think I suggested one o’clock? You never listen to me, and you go against any suggestions I make, as a general rule.”

  “Of all the—You conniver.” He grinned. “Good for you. I deserved that.”

  She wrapped his arm in hers and drew him forward. “Come now. Tell me what had you two sniggering all evening. It was wonderful to watch.”

  ~§~

  Sara adjusted her position on one of the steamer trunks near the window. The snow began again, and its lazy drifting reminded her of the many dances seen as a child peeking through the railing.

  She lowered her chin to her knees, hugging her legs to her chest. Sweet Jesus, please help him. There’s so much joy waiting on the other side of the grief. He only needed to struggle through the sorrow and accept the Lord’s help to the other side. But to say that to him? She felt afraid he would react with as much rage as before. Lord, please take the little joy he has and make it more. Maybe then he will see You wait to give him back his art. Maybe then the haunting she saw in his hazel eyes would disappear?

  Sara’s heart ached as she lifted tear-filled blue eyes to an absent viewing of the snow’s winter dance. He had lost so many parts of himself. How would she show him the Lord wanted to give them back?

  Sixteen

  A New Canvas

  29 January 1894

  “Sara love, you are positively aglow with rhapsody.”

  Sara’s cheeks blazed. “He’s teaching me to paint, mum. No one understood what that meant for me before. My art, I mean. I taught myself. To read and practice, and then practice again. My mum encouraged me, but she did no’ have the wherewithal to teach me. Your brother . . . ." She blinked away the tears and watched the blur of passing scenery.

  “I know, love, and you are sweet in that you don’t have the words to say for the glory of it all. Makes it worth a bit more to everyone.”

  The carriage lumbered to a stop outside Lake Manor. Sara rushed out before the driver dismounted his perch. Dix followed in her usual sedate grace.

  “Good morning, Harold.” Sara’s fingers trembled as she fussed with her coat, scarf, and gloves.

  “Good morning to you, Miss Sara. Mr. Christopher is in his studio setting up. Good morning, Mrs. Donovan.”

  “Harold, for heaven sake,” Dix scolded. “Stop calling me that. You make me feel like a grandmother.”

  “Will you be having coffee?”

  “That sounds lovely, Harold.”

  Sara squeezed Dix’s hands. “It feels like a first Christmas , when my mum bought me my pencils.”

  Christopher’s baritone chuckle sounded from behind. “Eagerness borne from excitement is a good motivator for the first days of learning.”

  Anticipation burned
Sara’s cheeks as she faced him. The comfortable beige trousers and painter’s apron suited him. “Good morning, Mr. Christopher.”

  He nodded to both. “Good day, ladies. I hope you had a pleasant ride.”

  “As much as one can in the winter.”

  “Dix, why don’t you warm your attitude with a cup of Emily’s special roast while I introduce Sara to her work-station.”

  “That is a capital idea.”

  Christopher laughed. “Go on, Dix. Take your time. I’m sure my student won’t miss you.”

  Something different shined in his expression, something Sara didn’t remember seeing before.

  “Come along, O student of mine.” He ushered her to his studio.

  “I canno’ thank you enough for offering.” Each word tumbled over itself, her insides fluttering with nervous exhilaration. “I do no’ care how difficult, I will do my best, and do all my studies, and read whatever you want for me to read. I just want to paint as well as you do.”

  A smile teased his lips. “I see.”

  “Your sister had herself a miniature you painted of yourself for one of your classes at the college. And Mr. Paul? He had a watercolor of Monument Avenue you done and did no’ care for. They showed them to me yesterday when I balked whether or not I wanted to come.”

  Christopher’s hazel eyes twinkled down at her, arms crossed as he nodded along with her statements.

  “Not that I did no’ think you wonderfully talented. I know you are—I have a feeling on things like that—but will I be a very good student? I have no’ been a student before, and I did no’ want to annoy you with silly mistakes that even Gwyn would no’ do. But then your sister and Mr. Paul said that it’s fine for students to make mistakes.”

  He laughed. “Your enthusiasm is appreciated. Let us put it to good use.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Ah ah. I might be your instructor, but rules remain the same.” He motioned to the easel and paper, directing her focus with a hand on her shoulder. “This is an experimental area for right now. I only need you to do simple brush strokes with the different styles of brushes so that you can get your fingers, hands, and wrists familiar with their feel. Then we’ll add some paints so you can get accustomed to the friction of paint, brush, and paper.”