Sara nodded, eyes wide.
“Now.” He retrieved one of the small brushes from the easel’s tray. “These are made of horse hair, so they’re a bit firm, but not so much as to give you much of a fight. The larger ones are of the more coarse hair, for texture and backgrounds and the like. Here. Try this.”
Sara took it from him, hesitant, her eyes focused on the dark brown of the bristles.
Christopher chuckled. “No need to be fearful, my dear. Tickle the paper a few times.”
Her uncertain expression melted to a smile as she focused to the blank piece of paper. Once she felt and heard the first cautious swish, she retreated.
“No fear, Sara.” Christopher covered her hand with his and guided a few more certain strokes across the paper. When his hand enveloped hers yet again, Sara blinked at the touch. “Note how the grain of the paper effects the bristles? Let us try another brush. One more firm.” He released her long enough to gather one of the larger brushes.
“Do you feel the added resistance?”
Sara nodded, wide eyes unable to look away from their shared touch. It felt different than any other purposeful touch experienced. Even George, when he taught her how to clean a fish, hadn’t felt the same. Gentle, yes, and warm, but not—Sara tilted her head as she stared at their hands.
“Question?” Christopher released his hold, leaving a lingering warmth and impression of a gentle grip.
“Not just yet.” Her eyebrows furrowed as she thought back . . . .
“Then let’s give something a try.”
Sara blinked and turned to look at him. His handsome face seemed brighter as he gathered a watercolor palette. Then he adjusted a small cup of water in the tray of the easel and met her gaze, his hazel eyes clear of any shadow. He helped position the palette within her hands, directing fingers and holds alike, and turned her again to face the easel.
“Now.” Christopher directed her brush to the cup of water. “The trick with watercolors, in my opinion, is to use the water itself to manipulate the clarity or vagueness of the paint. If you want an impression of color, then you use more water. If you want something brighter or more brilliant, you use less. It all depends upon the mood you wish to convey.”
Sara watched his hold guide her hand from water-cup to palette.
“Even the flair of the strokes used effects the painting, most often in how the color is spread about the paper or how it seems to absorb the colors into its grain. If more water is used later, you can often achieve a bit more of a streak or . . . mysterious quality, I suppose.” He guided Sara’s hand and the brush along the paper with gentle strokes, the sound much like a whisper for attention.
“Oo. I like that.” Sara continued with the gentle strokes until very little color transferred from brush to paper.
“You like which? The feel or the sound?”
Sara beamed over her left shoulder at him. “Yes.”
He chuckled. “That’s fine then. Now, take stock of what you have there. Only a bit of blue. Is that enough for what you want? Or do you think it needs more?”
Sara looked to the soft and dreamy strokes of blue against white. “I . . . I do no’ know.”
“Well, let’s continue on.” His warm hold surrounded her hand to direct it to water and then paint. “Then we’ll see what comes about.”
Sara’s eyes danced with her smile.
But the picture didn’t become much more than blues and greens, an experiment with a new media and the different types of strokes it offered. Sara allowed herself to be taught, enjoying it more than anything in her life.
Christopher’s patience reminded her of her mother, encouraging her with new things and allowing a retreat to the familiar to make a habit. Neither took notice that Dix never arrived from her retrieval of coffee.
~§~
1 February 1894
Christopher heard the pitter-patter of Gwyn’s steps toward his studio. “Good morning, Papa.” She rubbed sleep from her eyes with the backs of her hands, her blonde curls dancing around her head.
He turned from the set-up of easel and paint to greet her. “Good morning, Angel Girl. What brings you down so early?”
Gwyn wrapped her arms around Christopher’s neck. “I missed you,” could barely be deciphered between yawns.
He scooped her up and ascended the stairs to the second story. “I apologize for not spending more time with you, Angel.”
She released a slow and deep breath as she snuggled against him. “You’re helping Sara not be homesick.”
Christopher kissed her forehead, her blonde curls tickling his nose. “You are a help in that.”
Gwyn sleepily smiled. “I am?”
He lay her down and tucked the covers up to her chin, placing another kiss on her forehead. “You and I will both keep helping Sara. Yes?”
Gwyn nodded, another yawn making her squeeze her eyes shut. Then she rolled to her side and hugged her pillow close. “I’m helping, Mamma,” she whispered, her breathing deepening as sleep embraced her.
Christopher sat upon the edge of the bed as he watched her sleep, smoothing her blonde curls from her face. Carla would sit on the edge of their daughter’s bed for hours, watching her breathe. Other mornings the two would laugh over stories of fantasy and fairy tale. Days and evenings of watching them together. Hearing their laughter. Watching their games. Enjoying the picture of motherhood and devotion—
Christopher’s throat convulsed. The temptation to fight back the memories gripped him . . . . Then he heard Sara’s timid voice. Her urgency to remember the woman he loved so he could once again be the man who had loved her. The laughter. The music. The poetry of life and living. The peace. The joy. The celebration of family. Christopher raised a hand to his burning eyes and wiped it hard down his face, feeling the wetness on his cheeks and somehow acknowledging a slight release within.
He stood, his mind overwhelmed by the fog of remembered scenes. “I miss you, Carla,” he whispered, gruff.
‘And that’s fine.’
Such a simple statement, yet it gave him permission to allow the ache and release it.
~§~
Sara hurried up the steps and into Lake Manor. Dix chuckled, her pace serene. Harold waited in the hall and accepted Sara’s coat, scarf, and gloves before letting her know that Christopher waited in his studio. As per usual, Dix could not be immediately present, but she urged Sara on without her.
Christopher straightened. As tradition dictated, he dressed in a simple shirt and well-used trousers. Paint-stains colored both. “Good morning.”
Sara’s cheeks stung from the fervor of her smile. “Good morning.”
“How did you sleep?”
“I could no’ for all the pictures flying around in my head and the excitement of what’s down the road.”
“We had a full week, haven’t we? Though I will be easier on you today. Fewer hours cooped up in here. The rest of the day is yours to use as you see fit.”
“Oh I do no’ mind, Mr. Christopher. All the busyness is wonderful.” She nervously laughed. “I canno’ sit around all day just tatting and crocheting.”
“You may regret those words when you don’t know which way is up for all your projects.”
“I do no’ think you can get me as busy as in England, sir. But you are welcome to try.”
“A spoken challenge. My, my.” He motioned to the blank page on the easel. “Here is your newest bit of nothing waiting for your inspiration. What do you feel should be done first?”
Sara stepped up to the easel, searching the white for the waiting scene. Christopher stood beside her. “I do no’ know. It’s the same as before: Blank.”
“It is different when you sketch?”
“Yes, sir. There have always been pictures in my mind. Almost in my fingertips.”
“Ah. Well, let us try something new and different.” Christopher searched his desk-drawers. A moment later he returned to present her a small tin of charcoals. “When you take these i
n hand?”
Sara accepted a charcoal from the tin and focused once more on the page—she blinked.
“You see an image, do you?”
She nodded, her blue eyes wide. “Why would it come with the charcoals and not the brush?”
“Inspiration often does not appreciate explanation. Your creative spirit is comfortable with the charcoal, so it allows you to see what awaits. This does not mean you stop use of the brush. No. Only continue teaching your spirit to see with other eyes.” He directed her toward the easel, guiding the charcoal toward the paper’s stark whiteness. “I did not always paint with watercolors or oils.”
Sara whispered the charcoal against the paper. “Did you see the images first? Like I do with my charcoals?”
“No. With each media a period of instruction became necessary.”
Sara bit her lip as she drew the silhouette of the peeking image. “Should I watercolor the images I sketch out? Do you suppose that might help?”
“Possibly. In fact, let’s try that and see what happens. Although I believe it would serve better to begin with pencils rather than charcoals.”
Sara’s lips quivered with a smile as she continued to bring out the image of family, welcome, and acceptance.
He chuckled. “I seem to take advantage of your apparent eagerness to study.”
“Oh no, Mr. Christopher. This is such fun! Not a chore with the house, or the mister or missus.”
“What of the ‘something good’ you mentioned? Another Sarah teaching you to read prose and public speaking, et cetera.”
“But not a thing with art, sir. My mum tried, but she could no’ teach what she could no’ do. And reading books or looking at pictures and paintings is no’ the same as having a breathing person explain how something is done and why.” She pointed at him with her charcoal pencil. “You are the first who ever thought about teaching me something.”
“A first? For me and for you, it seems.”
“For you?”
“You, my dear, are my first student.”
Sara gaped at him. “But what about your Carla?”
He cleared his throat and lowered his focus to the floor. “She loved the arts, yes, but she didn’t have the talent for its creation. She once attributed it to a lack of patience.” Christopher straightened the charcoals within the metal tin. “We, both of us, attempted those interests to the other.” He closed the tin and set it aside to hide a slight cringe. “A common sharing of interest couples partake in, I imagine.”
A sorrowful expression darkened his handsome face, and Sara noted how his gaze could not rise from the charcoal tin. Lord . . . . But how did she pray away his discomfiture? Sara turned back to the easel—the image gone. Sara sighed and lowered the charcoal.
“My apologies, Sara. I distracted you.”
“Mr. Christopher, it was all myself.” She offered forward the charcoal, still holding his gaze. “I should try again with the watercolors. Is that fine?”
His expression softened to a smile as he took the charcoal. “Fine.”
Sara focused on the white as she heard him gather up the palette and brush. Please, Lord. Can I see a little thing? But she didn’t know why she thought seeing an image on a bit of paper would help anyone.
“Sara.”
She met his gaze. “Yes, sir?”
“Do not try so hard to see or feel anything. The watercolors won’t come as eager as your charcoal images do now. Instead of expecting that, you must remember when you first began sketching.”
“Could I see your paintings? Maybe it would help?”
Christopher’s focus jerked away. “I set aside my art long ago.”
“Oh.” Sara worried her lower lip, questions hounding her until frustration burned. She cast it heavenward and spoke. “Mr. Christopher, did . . . did your wife help you decide just where to display your paintings? Did she design the reception for them at the gallery?”
The shadow of memories crashed across his face. She could almost hear the parties and laughter from those receptions hosted so long ago. His wife likely took such great care with each one.
“Yes,” he admitted. “She did.”
“Would . . . ." Sara bolstered her courage. “Would no’ those be good, happy memories to have around you? So you do no’ feel she’s all that far away?”
Although, when he put them away, the reminder of her absence must have felt akin to a knife hacking his soul. Was no’ my mum’s crafts the same? But after weeks and months of no longer having her voice, the presence of the crafts and the basket soothed and comforted. They were all that remained, and the memories were welcome.
“Do you no’ think your Carla would want them out?” Sara whispered.
Christopher released a deep and slow breath as he nodded.
“I know unveiling those memories is a bittersweet duty, sir, but . . . ." Sara rest her hand upon his arm, the action drawing his gaze. “But they deserve an unveiling to the light. A celebration of her life, sir.”
A light of hope, and a reminder of his own inspiration.
Seventeen
A Conflicted Truth
“Chris, we’ve got a problem.”
Christopher didn’t bother looking up from three of Sara’s newest sketches laid out on his desk as Teddy entered his office at the gallery. “Problem? What problem?” The sketches were her best yet. They seemed aglow with a newfound acceptance.
Teddy presented a folded newspaper. “Here.”
Raising an eyebrow, Christopher took the offered paper and sought out the main article.
New artist and new beauty take Richmond by storm at the unveiling held at the ‘Richmond Gallery of Modern Art’ the previous Friday. Not many details were given of the mysterious talent of S. A. L.. Yet at the appearance of English lady Miss Ann Kreyssler, even the reclusive Mr. Christopher Lake was in immediate and constant attendance.
Reliable sources say that another unveiling has been scheduled for the unknown S. A. L., with invitations limited as previously. Will the lovely Miss Ann Kreyssler be in attendance? And is Miss Ann Kreyssler soon to be the newest Mrs. Christopher Lake?
His slammed it aside. “How did a reporter get that information? We restricted invitations!”
Teddy crossed his arms. “Yes, but a starving artist could say a few words all too eagerly for a little extra wealth.”
Sara. Christopher gathered up the sketches and tucked them safely into his desk.
“What’s the line of attack?”
“None.” Christopher grabbed his overcoat from the back of the office chair and shrugged into it. “No comments. No interviews.”
“And Sara?”
“I will make certain she does not blame herself if she has seen this. If she has been spared, I will make certain that continues.”
“See you later?”
“Perhaps.”
Christopher strode from the gallery and down the walk toward Monument Avenue. “She will likely attempt to protect my reputation, even should that put her own future at risk.” He shook his head and jerked at his gloves. “Well, Carla? What do you suggest? If I grant an interview and answer the questions truthfully, he—or she—could take things out of context. But what options do I have? Say ‘No comment’ when asked about our friendship? That will lead them to a false conclusion worse than their interpretation of the truth. Blast!”
An ideal compromise did not present itself.
But, as of yet, no harm had been done, since blind suppositions had only been tossed about to get a reaction. If those suppositions grew into whispers of something deeper, he had no idea how to counteract the repercussions.
“Carla, I wish you were here.” Then Sara’s future would be safe.
Dix and Paul opened the door of their townhouse as Christopher reached the bottom step. He hurried inside and shed his overcoat. “Has she seen it?”
“No, but how do we keep her from it?” Dix cast a furtive glance upstairs. “She enjoys reading the paper in the morning
—Harper’s Weekly wouldn’t publish something like that, would they?”
Dread settled in the pit of Christopher’s stomach. “Why do you ask?”
She motioned upstairs. “She’s reading it right now. With Gwyn.”
“Blast.” He rushed upstairs.
The door of Sara’s room stood open. When he heard laughter and cheerful chatter, Christopher released a relieved sigh. Inside, Sara and Gwyn lay on the floor coloring pictures. The scene rang of innocence, fun, and family, and it caused Christopher’s chest to tighten as he fisted his scarf.
“Mamma said she wanted a masked ball, but they were too busy,” Gwyn was saying.
“Masquerades are a lot of work, Gwyn, and so is a gallery. Your mamma likely did no’ want to stress your papa. Not with all the hard work he does already.”
“But it would be fun, Sara.” Gwyn sighed. “I want one like this.” She pushed the picture toward Sara. “See? There’s Papa and you and Auntie Dix and Uncle Paul and Teddy—Oh! I forgot Mamma!”
Christopher cringed as Gwyn took the picture back to add the image of her mother. Sara glanced toward the doorway—Her cheeks flushed and she sat up. Unable to force a smile, Christopher brought a finger to his lips.
Sara lowered her gaze to the task of arranging her skirts. “You should show that picture to your papa, Gwyn. Maybe he will be persuaded to have a ball for your next birthday?”
“Truly?” Gwyn asked, eyes still intensely focused on her project.
“It never hurts to ask.” Sara cast Christopher a questioning glance. “I will ask when I next see him.
“You will ask who what when you see them?” Christopher stepped forward.
“Papa!” Gwyn scrambled to her feet and over to his waiting arms.
“Hello, Angel Girl.”
“Papa, may I have a masked ball for my birthday please?”
“Oh.” Christopher feigned seriousness. “I didn’t know you actually wanted a birthday.”
Gwyn’s mouth dropped open. “Papa!”
“You’ve had so much fun as a five-year-old, I thought you didn’t want a birthday. I cancelled it.”
“But you can’t! I want to turn six!”
Sara laughed and gracefully stood. “She has been quite enthralled with the idea, sir.”
“Oh? I don’t want to un-cancel your birthday and then have you change your mind.”