Searching for Sara

“Please, Papa. I want my birthday.”

  “All right then. I’ll see a man tomorrow about your birthday. But I haven’t any idea how to arrange a masquerade, Gwyn. I’m afraid all I can manage is a party.”

  Gwyn’s lower lip trembled. “Oh.”

  “I know how to plan a masquerade, Gwyn,” Sara offered. She rested a hand on his daughter’s head. “May I be responsible for it? It’s been ever so long since I had one to do.”

  “Please, Papa?”

  “Of course, but we don’t need to worry about it now. Your birthday isn’t until July, and it’s only just February.”

  Gwyn sniggered. “I forgot.”

  Christopher laughed. “And, Sara, you’re only to agree if it isn’t a bother. I don’t want you taking on too many projects.”

  “Oh no, sir. It will be fun.” The twinkle in her eyes made him believe it.

  “All right then. You’re welcome to the duty, but you must promise to ask for help. Harold, Emily, all of them will be more than willing to offer their expertise. Especially myself. I imagine Dix and Paul will likely want to be involved as well.”

  Sara nodded.

  “Very good.” Christopher was about to turn from the room when he noticed the opened Harper’s Weekly on the foot of Gwyn’s bed. “Ah. Anything on the unveiling the other night?”

  “Pardon? Oh!” Sara’s face gleamed. “There was such a lovely article. Did you want me to read it for you?”

  “Certainly.” Christopher lifted Gwyn into his arms and sat on the edge of the chest at the foot of her bed. The fact that she showed such excitement soothed his nerves.

  Mr. Christopher Lake of ‘The Richmond Gallery of Modern Art’ held one of the most successful displays of the new year. Though little information was provided on the artist, S. A. L., the works shown were a refreshing breeze of inspiration and innocence seldom seen since the civil war.

  Mr. Joseph Conklin, long-time patron and sponsor of the arts, was quoted as saying “The artist has an instant following. A talent only very few, of which Mr. Christopher Lake is included, can attest to. When he or she is ready to accept their deserved attention, I will certainly be the first to offer them a sponsorship. In the meantime, I voice praises to Mr. Lake for protecting their identity and what is likely a sensitive soul.”

  These are encouraging words for artist and gallery alike, and this reporter hopes that another display will be arranged forthwith.

  Sara lowered the paper and offered Christopher a brilliant smile. “Was that no’ wonderful? And all those nice things Mr. Conklin said. I knew I liked him, and now I think he’s smashing.”

  Intrigue arched his eyebrow. “Did you meet him at the unveiling? I don’t recall ever meeting a Mr. Conklin.”

  Sara’s eyes widened. “I thought he knew you.”

  “People know me simply by reputation. Ah well. He was likely there upon invitation of a friend.” Christopher motioned to the article. “I’m eager to meet him after that bit of praise. And the offering of a sponsorship? You should take that as a compliment, definitely.”

  “What’s sponsorship, Papa?” Gwyn asked. “Is it good?”

  “Extremely good. It means this gentleman is willing to pay for Sara’s work to be displayed at galleries all over the country. Perhaps even own them all himself.”

  Gwyn squealed and threw her arms around Christopher’s neck. “Oh goodie!”

  Christopher laughed and intercepted Sara’s smile. She flushed and looked away. “It seems your future is set,” he offered. “Would you like me to contact Mr. Conklin and pass off the responsibility of the second showing to him?”

  “Oh no—I mean . . . . Can I no’ have you as my sponsor still?”

  “Of course, I only ask that you give it some thought. After all, if Mr. Conklin has the ‘in’ to more galleries than I, it would be a shame to pass up the opportunity.”

  “Oh.” Sara lowered her gaze to her fidgeting fingers. “Well, I suppose . . . ."

  “Sara.” She peeked up at him, and he offered her a reassuring smile. “It’s fine. You don’t need to make a decision right now. If he offers the sponsorship at the next showing, you can tell him then. Or you can ask more questions about what a sponsorship would entail. For right now, if you’re more comfortable with my gallery, then I’m certainly not going to usher you somewhere else.”

  Sara’s timid smile returned as she nodded.

  “I better get myself back to the gallery, Gwyn. I’ll come by a little later this afternoon. Fair enough?” Gwyn nodded. He kissed her cheek, accepted her return, and then turned to exit. He met Dix and Paul at the foot of the stairs. Their expressions were hopeful and curious.

  “Well?” Paul pressed.

  “Harper’s Weekly held a glowing review of the unveiling, which Sara read to me.”

  Dix released a deep breath. “Praise the Lord.”

  Christopher took his overcoat from Paul. “I need to get back.” He motioned to the front entrance with a movement of his head. “Don’t be surprised if you have reporters coming ‘round. Everyone knows you’re my sister.”

  “Let them come. I’ll rout them out of the county,” she warned.

  Paul chuckled. “We’ll be fine, Chris. You just watch yourself and Teddy.”

  Christopher reluctantly made his way out and down the front steps, experiencing a challenge in wrestling himself into his overcoat as he did so.

  “Mr. Christopher Lake?”

  Hackles rose as Christopher lifted his focus to the young-faced man waiting at the bottom steps of the Donovan home. “May I help you?”

  “I’m Roger Whitaker, sir. With The Virginia Chronicle?”

  “Mr. Whitaker,” Christopher said with forced civility. “Before you proceed, you will need to make an appointment for any type of interview. Come by the gallery at a later date and we’ll see what’s available.” Christopher finished wrestling into his coat and passed the man on the lower step. “If you’ll excuse me.”

  “Have you courted Miss Kreyssler since your mourning officially ended?”

  Christopher halted, body tense. “Pardon?”

  Mr. Whitaker cleared his throat. “Is it true that you’re courting Miss Kreyssler?”

  “Mr. Whitaker, I refuse to answer your question on principle. Questions regarding my personal life are none of your concern. Understood?”

  Mr. Whitaker gave a slight nod.

  “I’m glad we understand each other. Good day.” Christopher turned and strode away.

  Christopher scoffed and jammed his hands deeper into his overcoat pockets. He should have known the sudden activity would draw attention. He hissed with annoyance. Christopher didn’t know how to protect Sara from speculation.

  ~§~

  “What happened?”

  Christopher had just closed the front door of the gallery when Teddy strode forward from a side-room.

  “Paul caught the article before she had a chance to read it, handing off an edition of Harper’s instead.”

  “And they didn’t have the same version?” Teddy asked, cautious.

  “No, thank God. Only praises and a quote from a Mr. Joseph Conklin.”

  “The art critic?”

  Christopher smirked. “I’m glad someone knew who he was. Sara apparently met him at the unveiling.”

  “Holy Hannah! Joseph Conklin at the unveiling?” Teddy grinned. “We’re on the map, now.”

  “When were we not?”

  Teddy laughed. “With the extra attention, you’re going to bring out your art, right?”

  Christopher’s smirk vanished. He passed to the coat-rack. “With what the Chronicle supposes? I don’t know if it’s wise to go ahead with it. Especially if Sara decides to reveal her identity.”

  “What? Since when do you let anyone influence you?”

  “Since my late wife asked me to take care of this woman,” Christopher barked. “To give her the choice. To protect her as I protected the others. If I reveal my art and the fact that S. A. L. is Miss An
n Kreyssler, an invitee of me and my late wife as well as an acquaintance of my sister, they will suppose the worst and make Sara’s life miserable. Do you really want me to do that just so that our gallery can display my art and make a lot of money from the sale of it?”

  Teddy frowned. “I didn’t say it like that.”

  Christopher released a deep breath and rubbed at his scalp. “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s fine. So when are we going to get this mess with the Chronicle straightened out?”

  “If you’re implying I should give an interview, I don’t trust that they won’t twist what I say to get the wanted impression.”

  “So? Have Harper’s get the interview.”

  “But why should I give any response at all? It will only make them believe there is something to their supposition, and that would only compound the issue. We’ve seen it before.”

  Teddy grumbled under his breath. “Blasted reporters.”

  Christopher smirked. “Yes, but they have their good qualities, such as free advertising and name-dropping.”

  “At a price, admit.”

  “Admitted.”

  Teddy motioned toward the front door. “So what do we do about the whole Sara Ann Little-Kreyssler mystery? They’ll pounce on that whether we reveal her at the next unveiling or not. Well, Harper’s might not, but Chronicle will.” Teddy chortled. “We should reveal her anyway, as a spit in the eye to whatever they might say as the truth. You’ve got enough of a fan-following that I doubt they’ll believe anything bad about you. And what’s so bad about supposedly courting Sara these months out of mourning anyway, even if you did just meet her? She’s a sweet thing, and you two are friends.”

  Christopher balled his hands into fists before stepping again toward the main hall. “Friends. Exactly. The last thing she needs is for everyone to be convinced there’s more to our relationship. It would keep any prospective beaus out of contact with her, and she doesn’t need that problem.”

  Eighteen

  Perspectives

  6 February 1894

  “I still believe we should use the main hall,” Teddy said.

  Christopher frowned. “Ted, she’s not ready for the main hall. You saw her expression yourself when you asked.”

  “But if we use the main hall, we can have her sketches displayed to the left and a display of her watercolors over on the opposite wall. A type of tribute. A featured artist, anyway. Don’t you agree?”

  “There won’t be any watercolors,” he said, and he saw again her sad expression at the realization she didn’t progress as she thought she should. “She’s having problems seeing the image. I’m sure it’s nothing, but she’s understandably disheartened. Try not to mention it.”

  “Of course.”

  Christopher motioned to the main display. “That’s a good idea, though. Maybe if we displayed another artist?"

  “Oh? Like who?”

  “She continues to suggest I bring out my watercolors and oils again.”

  Teddy reeled to face him, his eyes wide and blinking. “You—you’re considering it?”

  “I am.”

  Teddy grinned. “It’s about time someone pushed you the right direction.” He rubbed his hands together. “We should arrange it so that both oils and watercolors can be displayed at once. No, we should have them in separate rooms. Watercolors with the others, only with a focus on yours because of the re-introduction . . . . Am I boring you?”

  Christopher focused on Teddy, frown disappearing. “Hm?”

  Teddy pointed to the entrance. “Go home, Top.”

  “I’m not going home. We have too much to do.”

  His friend took up Christopher’s overcoat, hat, and scarf. “You’re distracted, and you’re no good to me that way. Go start choosing which you want displayed. Have Sara help you if you have problems choosing. Maybe she’ll keep you on task.” Teddy shoved Christopher’s things at him and then directed him toward the exit. “I’ll try and remember the old layouts and do something with it. Thank God we sold all of Sean’s art. We have more room for the new ones coming in.”

  Christopher shrugged into his overcoat. “I don’t know why I even bothered to come in this morning. You don’t listen to anything I say. I could stay at home and play with Gwyn.”

  Teddy laughed. “So do it, then. Maybe I’ll get some work done on my own projects.” He pointed to the exit. “Now go, and I don’t want to see you until you have at least five pieces of each media chosen.”

  Christopher exited the gallery, breathing in deep of the chilled air before striking out toward home. When he arrived, the house was silent. Gwyn hadn’t yet woken, the time being only a little past eight in the morning, and the lack of her laughter made the hairs on his neck rise. Though silence had been the norm for more than a year, Christopher still didn’t care for the sound of it, nor the lack of feeling inside. It reminded him too much of the silence the day Carla lost the baby. The silence following her death. The silence broken only by Gwyn’s tears and calls for her mother.

  His step hesitated down the front hall—Harold stepped from his office. “Good morning, Harold. I’ve been ‘shooed’ home earlier than I thought.”

  “Mr. Theodore practicing his role as partner with more gusto?”

  “Something like that, yes.”

  “Would you care for coffee in the studio before Miss Sara arrives?”

  He glanced toward the open studio door as he handed over his overcoat, scarf, and gloves. “That would be . . . good, Harold. Thank you.” Harold went to see to it, leaving Christopher in the hall staring at his studio doorway. He could still hear the whispers of Sara’s happy voice, excitement brimming at the prospect of artistic learning. Her eyes. They sparkled so bright, Carla. He hadn’t seen an expression like that for . . . for ages.

  Eagerness to paint.

  To stretch out beyond something she knew.

  Christopher cleared his throat and forced himself forward into the studio, unable to do anything but stare at the blank canvas set up for Sara’s lesson. Nothing came. No image. No tickle of inspiration. He dragged his gaze away and fisted his hands. He hadn’t seen an image in—A sharp pang made him close his eyes, running his hands down his face to rub inspiration alive within. When he focused again on the canvas, the starkness remained.

  He lowered himself into the wingback chair and hid his face in his hands. Again he tried to force aside the burning need to create an image of loveliness and family. The desire to have again the thirst to paint. The feel of the pencil on paper. The brush. The paint on canvas . . . . Why, God? Why did You take everything?

  Art had always been his passion, a release to create beautiful things. To inspire those trapped in an ugly world. To give hope to those who didn’t have it....

  A year.

  The passion had laid stagnant since the death of his wife, and even his love and devotion for Gwyn hadn’t brought it to life. Now . . . . Christopher fisted his hands before standing to his feet in exhausted slowness, his eyes and mind riveted on the canvas. He smoothed a hand across it, remembering. Reliving….

  His focus shifted to the paints and pencils, those brushes forgotten for so long. His throat tightened at the memories as he reached for the palette—He flinched away and turned, striding from the studio even as the memory of Sara’s voice and laughter whispered.

  ~§~

  Christopher tapped on the lip of his coffee cup while waiting for Sara in his office. His focus continued to drift to the closed door between his office and studio. That blank bit of paper waited for her inspired hand, it wouldn’t give up its image to his touch. A frown furrowed his brows as he forced his gaze to his cold coffee.

  Then he heard the quick sound of Sara’s steps up the front stairs. The whisper of the front door opening followed by Harold’s greeting. Sara’s reply rang with excitement and eagerness, the same as every morning. As usual, Harold would barely have hold of her heavy wool coat before she would hurry toward the studio—

/>   “Oh . . . ."

  Christopher heard the confusion in that single, breathy word when she stepped into the doorway of the empty studio. He released a slow breath but didn’t stand. He didn’t call out. Something about the expectation and dread of seeing the eagerness in her expression wouldn’t allow him. It was too much of a reminder to so many visions of the same.

  Then he heard the rustle of her skirts as she stepped down the hall.

  “M-Mr. Lake?”

  Christopher continued to stare down at his coffee as she came to stand in the doorway, his finger still tapping the lip of the cup.

  “Oh.” The word was tainted with concern. “G-Good morning, Mr. Lake.”

  He forced himself to smile and look up as she entered, hesitant. She wore royal blue with a softening of cream at the collar and cuffs. “Good morning. Where’s Dix?”

  Sara motioned behind. “She’s talking with Harold. Did you want me to fetch her?”

  And have her prod and badger? “No.”

  Again, a simple, “Oh,” after which she began worrying her lower lip. Debating. Arguing. Praying. Then she took another hesitant step forward. “Are you well, sir?” Her tone so unobtrusive, respectful, and steeped in concern that he wondered how any of her employers’ wives or mothers could have believed her to be anything but a charming and caring woman.

  Christopher set aside his coffee cup, forgoing the forced smile. “I’m not much in the mood for lessons, Sara. I apologize.”

  The expected disappointment didn’t appear. “That’s fine, sir. It was selfish of me to suppose we would do them daily. I did no’ mean to cause hardship.”

  “You didn’t.” Not intentionally. Christopher lowered his gaze. She never hurt anyone intentionally. With her it was always an offer, a suggestion that would make something about their life easier. Carla would have respected that of her.

  “Oh.” Thoughtful silence. “Then, I suppose I’ll have your sister take me home again. Would you and Gwyn care to come for tea this afternoon? I’ve thought of making scones.”

  Christopher met her gaze, and he again noticed the reluctance. It mirrored his own to be left alone with the blank piece of white which remained so silent. It reflected his dread of being left to the duty of unpacking the images upstairs that would only remind him of a past passion.

  “Actually, since I have you here, we may as well make our way upstairs and choose the first pictures for my . . . ." Christopher forced a smile. “My re-introduction into artistic society.”