A tightness in his throat warped the words to nothing. He clenched his jaw, glaring at the sidewalk as he once again envisioned Sara’s tear-stained cheeks. The agony in her strangled voice. “Sara deserves far more than what I can do on my own. She says You have protected her all this time. Help me do the same.” And with a final look toward heaven, he said, “Just help me. Fair enough?”
Twenty-Five
Ruffles
26 February 1894
A soft knock drew Christopher to his feet and toward the door. Sara straightened from retrieving a tea service from the bench outside his office. Dressed in pastels of lavender and cream, the twinkle in her blue eyes and the flush on her cheeks encouraged his smile.
“I brought coffee,” she said, her tone soft and timid. “Fresh scones, too.”
“Is that Sara’s voice I hear?” Teddy scurried over. “Coffee!”
“Gregory was kind enough to arrange a carriage this morning, so I brewed it here.”
Teddy accepted the tray from her and returned to Christopher’s desk. The clink and clang of silver and china immediately followed.
Sara’s cheeks flushed rose when she met Christopher’s gaze. “Good morning.”
“Good morning.” The initial instinct to take her hands to his lips overwhelmed his senses and nearly prevailed. To feel the tender pressure, the gentle warmth, the soft caress—He averted his gaze, his ears burning. “Come in and have a seat, Sara. I need a few minutes before I will be ready to go.”
Sara passed to the chair beside Teddy.
“Go?” Teddy paused mid-bite of a steaming scone. “Go where?”
“We’re off to the Chronicle to have a . . . discussion about the articles.”
Teddy blinked at them as Sara prepared Christopher’s cup. “You’re going to the Chronicle?”
Christopher retrieved his pen. “That’s what I said, isn’t it?” He gestured to Sara, ignoring Teddy’s perplexed expression. “Sara, what do you suggest as talking points? It was my intention to have a general idea of what to mention, how to counter, et cetera, et cetera.”
She offered him his prepared coffee. “Definitely ask why he felt he should ‘suppose’ rather than ‘interview’.”
Christopher’s fingers caressed hers as he accepted the cup, an internal spark caused a clink of china. She clasped her hands in her lap. “So, be as polite as possible while giving him the benefit of the doubt?”
“I would no’ want us to suppose, either.”
Teddy set down his cup, a definite clatter resounding throughout the office. “Why wasn’t I invited? Top, you know I wanted to go down there and ruffle some shirtfronts!”
Christopher laughed. “Now, Ted—”
“Don’t patronize me, Top. Am I your friend or aren’t I?”
“It isn’t a matter of friends or partners. It’s my responsibility—”
“I’m your partner, Top, so don’t give me this balderdash about responsibilities not falling on both our shoulders. I demand to know why you didn’t tell me you were going.”
Christopher laughed. “Teddy, for God’s sake. It isn’t that hard to figure out the reason. We want to try and save our reputation, not make it worse.”
Teddy scoffed. “Thanks for the vote of confidence. It’s nice to see I’m involved in the gallery’s inner workings, partner.”
“Ted! I was teasing.”
“It wasn’t amusing. I don’t appreciate being titled the irresponsible one. I’m as responsible as you are, Chris, and you damn well know it. Sorry,” he cast as an aside to Sara.
“Of course you’re right. I apologize. Let’s not get up in arms about it.”
“Fine.”
“Did you wish to come along?”
“Why do you think I’m making an ass out of myself in the first place?”
Christopher laughed at the sheer ridiculousness of it all.
~§~
When Sara entered the Chronicle, she first noticed the unique smell.
It seemed a combination of scents, ink and long hours of hard work intermingled. It wasn’t necessarily unpleasant. If anything, it gave Sara a hint at the amount of work a paper entailed behind the scenes. The atmosphere also held a combination of voices, machinery, and the creaking of office chairs.
There were only three rooms. The largest one held two desks toward the back, two on the left toward an office, and then one single desk toward the front entrance where a lady of . . . colorful and . . . unique appearance typed something on what Sara had previously discovered to be a ‘typewriter’.
The two desks on the left side of the main room were occupied by two men in shirt-sleeves and vests chatting together of varying subjects that Sara couldn’t make out. The two desks toward the back were more like tables, and they held typesetting materials and templates for the initial master.
Beyond those stood the entry into a southern room, which Sara reasoned to hold the printing press. Several people could be heard talking and mulling about around it, but she couldn’t tell if they still prepared the latest edition, or if it had already been finalized and sent out.
The office on the left side of the main room drew Sara’s attention. The gentleman within didn’t seem to be a harsh sort of man, unlike Mr. Brockle, but he did give an impression of . . . assurance and . . . Sara wasn’t certain what else. He sported red hair similar to Teddy’s, but the editor’s had been neatly combed.
He wore shirt-sleeves and a vest, both clean and pressed, and his desk looked to be organized and very professional. In fact, the entire Chronicle seemed highly organized. Such gave Sara some hope that he might be reasoned with.
When Sara noticed Teddy approaching the colorful lady, she readied herself for the coming conflict.
“Do you have an appointment?” the lady asked in a somewhat nasal tone.
Teddy crossed his arms. “We’ve been trying to get an appointment for the past week, missy.”
“There’s no need to take that tone, sir. If you’ve no appointment, then you’ve no appointment. Leave your card and someone will get back to you.”
“Like hell I’m goin—”
Christopher stepped up beside him. “Miss, if you could at least tell the editor that we’ve arrived. Theodore Parker and Christopher Lake from the Richmond Gallery of Art.”
The men at the desks outside the main office fell silent and shifted around in their seats. Sara clasped her hands in front of her.
The lady pressed her lips into a thin line before entering the editor’s office beyond the two gentlemen. The editor made a single statement, which caused a bit of a fuss from the lady, and then he ushered her back out to the main room with a motion of his hand.
She returned, red-cheeked and eyes flashing, and slammed down her note pad. “Go right in.”
“Thank you.” Christopher silenced the snide remark from Teddy with a simple glance.
Sara was urged to precede them and kept her eyes strictly focused on either her clasped hands or the progress of her shoes toward the editor’s office. Then the door was opened, three pairs of feet entered, and the door was closed again.
“Thank you for seeing us.” Christopher spoke, tone polite. “This is Theodore Parker, my partner at the gallery, and I’m Christopher Lake.”
“Good day, gentlemen. Barney Taylor. Editor. And you? Miss . . . ?”
Sara couldn’t stop the twitch, and when she looked up, she clearly noticed both Teddy and Christopher’s glances toward her. The editor produced a hand. “Miss Little,” she introduced softly, accepting his hand in a gentle grip while praying hers didn’t tremble. “Though I’ve also come to be known as Miss Kreyssler.”
Mr. Taylor’s right eyebrow twitched the same moment Teddy and Christopher exchanged glances.
“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Taylor,” Sara released his hand only after directing toward him a small and graceful curtsy. “You have a lovely establishment.”
“Thank you.” Suspicion slowed his response. He m
otioned toward the trio. “What can I do for you?”
“Let’s not act so naive,” Teddy retorted darkly. Sara restrained the twitch and felt a modicum of ease when Christopher touched her elbow.
“Good.” The editor crossed his arms. “You’ve likely come regarding the articles.”
“Is that what you’re calling slander now?”
“Ted,” Christopher warned.
“Don’t make libelous accusations, Mr. Parker,” Mr. Taylor warned. “I’ve the necessary facts to support the presented theories. And in case you hadn’t noticed, this is a newspaper. We’re in the business of publishing news, popular opinion or not.”
“News involves facts beyond hearsay,” Teddy reminded, his voice somewhat harsh while still exhibiting control. “To this point your newspaper only seems to publish those articles that either pose personal questions to the general public, or make assumptions based on circumstantial facts at best. In my experience, it’s common practice to approach those involved before publishing the information, verification the main objective.”
“Any attempts at interviews thus far, Mr. Parker, have resulted in nothing short of a rude refusal to comment.”
“Your attempts were made after initial publication! You expected a warmer welcome? Our refusals to comment were based on principle, of which you seem to be sadly lacking.”
“My principle is based upon the fact that the public has a right to know information regarding those involved in the community.”
“Including the slanderous assumptions regarding Miss Kreyssler?” Teddy pressed, hands fisting. “Personal matters don’t affect Richmond, Mr. Taylor, and had you truly been sensitive to the repercussions to her blameless reputation, you would have made more of an effort to contact her before publishing that last article.”
“Mr. Lake holds a position of respect and sway in Richmond. The public is interested in what interests him. I report that.” Mr. Taylor motioned toward Sara with his arm. “Miss Kreyssler happened to be involved in that realm of—”
“Our gallery is that which holds sway over the public opinion, Mr. Taylor. Not Mr. Lake’s friendship with Miss Kreyssler, nor mine with the same. If your goal was anything beyond sensationalism to sell more papers, you would have made more of an attempt to contact us regarding an appointment involving that business. Due to your lack of follow-through, what you’ve reported is not only hearsay and gossip, but near-slander. Any lawyer with half a mind will tell you the same.”
Mr. Taylor’s eyes narrowed. “Mr. Parker, I don’t appreciate being threat–”
“You don’t appreciate?” Teddy stepped forward, pressing his hands palm-down onto the desk. “You’ve deliberately put a negative light on our gallery’s reputation and those people involved, publishing questions simply to get a reaction. If a retraction of your suppositions isn’t printed within a week, with a personal apology included for Miss Kreyssler, my lawyer will be contacting you with a writ. Is that understood?”
Mr. Taylor clenched his jaw.
Teddy brusquely nodded. “Good.”
Then the trio made their way out, very aware of the scrutiny of their progress. Once inside the carriage, Teddy grinned. “That was entertaining.”
Both Sara and Christopher laughed. “Bravo!”
“Good job with your politeness, Sara. With all the nonsense he’s printed, it really made him look the ass. Sorry I didn’t let you two get a word in.”
“I think the only reason neither of us said anything was that you shocked the living breath out of us.”
“I told you I excel at confrontations. You’ve only never given me the opportunity.”
“I resent that remark,” Christopher protested. “The last time I let you have your blessed confrontation, I was banned from that hotel in New York City.” Teddy laughed and Christopher pointed at him. “You only think it’s hilarious because you stuck me with your penalty.”
Sara’s expression softened as she watched the two. Why she enjoyed watching them bicker she had no idea. She supposed the reason given before was true, the fact she hadn’t ever had family to argue with before, but there seemed to be something more than that. Perhaps it was the fact she was trusted enough with their personal lives to be entrusted, also, with this aspect of their relationship.
“What time is it?” Teddy asked suddenly, retrieving his watch from his vest-pocket. “Drat! I’ve a meeting!” He nearly tumbled from the carriage. “Promise me you’ll head over to Lake Manor and put together a small collection to display—even if only five pieces.”
Sara noticed Christopher’s more forced smile.
“Fair enough, Teddy. I’ve had enough of your nagging to last a lifetime. Plus, I had an earful from Gwyn the other day because I ‘woke’ some of my pictures without her.”
“Good, but I’m checking up on you this evening. If I don’t see progress, I’m picking them myself.” Teddy scrutinized his surroundings and then rushed down the sidewalk. Christopher tapped the roof, signaling the driver to carry on. When he sat back in the seat with a deep breath to watch the passing scenery, Sara worried her lip.
“I’ll be fine,” he told her without meeting her gaze.
Sara could only pray it was the truth.
~§~
The carriage lurched to a stop outside Lake Manor.
Christopher stepped down and turned to receive Sara, who carefully set aside the rug and accepted his hand, cheeks flushed.
“Mind your step– Wait! Your heel!” Christopher caught Sara’s waist and moved with her stumble.
She gasped his name, her hands resting against his chest as she looked up into his face with wide eyes. “Did I hurt you?” they asked simultaneously. Sara’s rose lips parted with her quickened breath, which smelled of honey.
Oh God. He forced his hands from her waist before he could draw her closer. “I’m fine. Did you twist your ankle?” He rubbed his tingling palms onto the sides of his trousers.
“I . . . I do no’ believe so.” She momentarily looked to her foot, lifting her skirts only enough to regard her ankle. “Should it hurt?”
“I would think so.” Christopher noticed he continued to rub his hands on his trousers. He clenched his hands behind his back. “Now I see why gentlemen are to help ladies from carriages.”
Sara flushed and accepted his offered arm. He continued to fist his opposite hand behind him, and his stomach knotted. God, I need your help. He couldn’t withstand close quarters with her after such an extended time in her presence. Not when she continued to support and encourage. To smile and laugh. To comfort.
Harold opened the door. “Good day, Mr. Christopher. Miss Sara. Coffee? Tea?”
“Not yet, Harold. Sara and I have a bit of work to do before dinner this evening.”
“Certainly, Mr. Christopher.”
Harold offered Sara a genuine and warm smile, which she returned, and then helped her from her coat. The duty had barely been completed when Christopher heard his daughter’s running steps. Sara’s face brightened.
Gwyn took hold of Sara’s hands, blonde ringlets bouncing as she danced from one foot to the other. “Sara, Sara! We’re waking Papa’s pictures!”
Sara laughed and gathered Gwyn onto her hip. “And you have waited such a long time for this, have you now?” Gwyn nodded, eyes wide. “Did you want to help?”
“I’m not supposed to go up there,” Gwyn reminded, her voice hushed.
“But both of us will be up there with you, poppet. You are invited.” Sara looked to him for confirmation. He could only smile.
Gwyn squealed and hugged Sara’s neck. “I get to see your picture!”
Christopher raised an eyebrow. “Gwyn, I haven’t any pictures of Sara.”
“You drew them a long time ago. I’ll show you!” She squirmed free and scurried ahead.
They followed more sedate behind her. “I’m afraid her imagination has run away with her. She’ll be broken-hearted when we don’t find the picture.” He shook his head, brow fu
rrowed. “I don’t understand why she would think I had a picture of you.”
“The little miss likely sees it more in her imagination than on paper. I remember being the same when her age.”
Christopher watched Sara’s profile with a growing smile. His step paused outside the now open door to the third-story staircase. Gwyn’s cheerful giggles and excited steps could be heard from within. “And what dreams did your child’s mind bring forth?”
Sara’s cheeks flushed. “Just a child’s wishes. A wish for family. For a home. A place to feel safe.” She peeked at him from under her lashes and then passed to climb the stairs.
‘A place to feel safe.’ Something he attempted to offer her, aware his late wife would have wanted the same. Christopher scrubbed at his scalp and ascended the stairs after her. Gwyn sounded a mournful cry, and the staccato sounds of her approach preceded her appearance at the stair crest.
“Papa.” A few loose sketches hung limp in her hands. “Your pictures were on the floor. Sara’s picture has a wrinkle.” Her lips drooped as she passed the disheveled ream to him. “I wanted it to be perfect.”
Christopher glanced Sara’s direction. She stood near the far window looking out at the snow-covered gardens and houses, her profile little more than a silhouette. The sunlight heightened the line of her profile and the reddish hue of her mahogany locks. “What picture, Gwyn? I haven’t one of Sara.”
Gwyn tugged the sketches from his grasp, the action drawing his attention. Once she cycled through half a dozen images, she handed them back again, her finger pointing to a charcoal on aged paper with tattered edges. “This one.”
He stared at the sketch of a lady’s profile near the window of an upstairs room, nonplussed. It was the same faceless lady he had seen throughout his formative years, especially during college. “Gwyn, Sara isn’t in this picture. This is only the Lady of Charcoal. Remember when I told you about her? She was in my imagination.”
“That’s Sara,” Gwyn insisted.
Christopher released a deep breath and looked up– He dropped the sketches and staggered back. Gwyn’s gasp of despair attracted Sara’s attention from the window. Her smile vanished when her eyes met his.