Searching for Sara

  Sara caressed the tatted boutonniere finished earlier that day. Keeping her hands busy always helped her relax, and today had been no different. Even so, her mind continued to escape to thoughts of Christopher, praying for his peace. Lifting his spirit in a plead for grace and comfort. Life had been such a struggle for him, and to have this beat upon him, it tore at her heart.

  “Sara love, you have that dreamy expression in your eyes again,” Dix observed. She lowered the paper. “Thinking of Chris?”

  Sara flushed.

  “I thought so.” Dix set the paper aside and thoughtfully regarded the woman sitting so timid and silent across from her. “Are you going to tell him how you feel?”

  Sara paled, her imagination crafting his response and the misery . . . . She shook her head.

  “Why not? He genuinely cares for you, though he’s convinced himself it halts at friendship.” Dix scoffed. “Did the same thing for Carla, poor soul. I swear that boy is oblivious to all things but art.”

  Surprise widened Sara’s eyes. “What?”

  “Oh? I haven’t told you this story?” Dix smirked. “It’s by far the funniest. Let me see. Well, I know Gwyn told you Carla and Chris met at my 30th birthday party. It was our last month in England, so we decided to throw a grand affair at the gallery sponsoring Chris’ exhibit. Carla was the younger sister of one of Paul’s friends, who happened to be visiting a relative or something of the sort, and so she was invited to the party.”

  Dix laughed. “The poor dear; Chris I mean. He never was very elegant around ladies, due to his shyness mostly. That and he never gave much thought to them. Well, no thought to treating them differently than his other friends. Of which he didn’t have many,” Dix added as an after-thought. She arched an eyebrow at the revelation and then waved it away. “Never mind. Anyway. Somehow Chris was volunteered to gather Carla a glass of punch—it was likely a dare from Teddy—and promptly spilled it across the front of her gown. Not intentionally, mind you, though I do believe Teddy hoped for a less-than-glorious moment. Whether he did or not, Chris redeemed himself by—”

  “Painting a picture over it,” Sara finished excitedly.

  Dix laughed. “My goodness, I still remember the roar of laughter as Carla very quickly became the center of attention, this young man kneeling at her feet painting a landscape or sunset or whatever it was on her gown. I don’t know what made Chris think of it. I suppose it doesn’t matter. During the romantic event, Carla talked to Chris of his painting and his display there at the gallery, what his goals were, somehow urged him to talk about his tentative plans to begin his own gallery . . . . I hadn’t seen Chris so animated before in my life.

  “It was much the same when Carla came to stay with Paul and myself while her parents toured Europe. Chris would come over to talk about art and architecture, and the time together gave them a firm and fast friendship. She loved hearing about his inspirations and commenting on his artwork just as much as she loved helping him and Teddy plan receptions and introductions to help the gallery gather its following.

  “Chris was extremely comfortable with her and asked her opinion on practically everything. They would discuss the oddest things until the latest hours, and then he would be here early the next morning to escort her to the gallery, talking the entire way. Finally, Carla flat-out asked me if Chris would ever propose.”

  Dix laughed. “Believe me, I was floored. Chris hadn’t ever mentioned romantic feelings for Carla, and he apparently hadn’t mentioned them to her either. But all the attention and the activities they did together . . . she had fallen in love with him somewhere along the way, and I guess I don’t blame her. Chris has always had a natural charm about him. Except when he loses his temper, of course.”

  Sara restrained a giggle.

  “Anyway, I told her that if she loved him it would be in her best interest to sit him down and let him know. After all, she knew how shy he was due to how intensely he disliked the parties he would escort her to. So, the very next day Carla told him she loved him, and that she wanted to know how he felt about her.

  “If I remember correctly,” Dix said, frowning slightly, “Chris honestly said he didn’t know if he loved her or not. He told her he liked spending time with her, that he liked her differently than he had liked anyone else, but he wasn’t sure if he loved her because he hadn’t ever been ‘in love’ before. Then, Chris told her he would need to take a day or two to think about it before telling her one way or the other.”

  Dix chuckled and shook her head. “Carla hadn’t expected that honest of a reply, I don’t think. She either expected a resounding ‘yes’ or an emphatic ‘no’. But Chris has always been more thoughtful of decisions that affected his future. Just as he was more intense within his artwork rather than in his outward expressions. I think it was easier for him. Carla was the externally passionate one of the relationship, and I think he learned a great deal from knowing her.

  “Enough of that, Dix,” she murmured. “Let me think—Ah. On day three I believe, Chris confessed to Carla that he believed he loved her and he would like to talk to her father about beginning to court her, if it was all right with her. It was such an adorable conversation; Chris stuttered and stumbled throughout the entire thing.”

  Sara’s expression softened as she sighed, “Poor Christopher.”

  Dix waved a hand. “It was good for him. So, Chris and Carla began courting, Chris grew even more fond, and then he proposed on their . . . nine-month anniversary? Or was it six? I can never remember that.” Dix motioned toward Sara. “But the lesson to remember is that Carla had to confess her feelings to him in order to get him to reevaluate his feelings for her. Artwork he knows. Inspirations and presentations of artistic thoughts he understands. But his own feelings regarding women? I’m not so sure he understands that as well. He’s decidedly better than he was before, but . . . I don’t know. Once he believes he’s set into a specific type of relationship, he has a tendency of tenaciously keeping it there.”

  Sara lowered her gaze to the carnation boutonniere. “You think . . . I might need to tell him first?”

  “It’s a possibility, Sara love. Just put that in your prayers and let the Lord lead you.”

  Absently nodding, Sara smoothed and delicately adjusted the petals of the tatted flower. A possibility of a first terrifying confession with two very different consequences. Sara sighed, using that to set the situation into the Lord’s hands. She didn’t know what would be best, just as she didn’t know if she felt anything but a true love for Christopher. But she trusted God would do the best for everyone. She only needed to prepare her heart for the possibility.

  The telephone under the stairs chirped. Both women moved their focus to the doorway as Gregory answered. “Why, Good day, Mr. Donovan.”

  “Paul!” Dix scurried from the room.

  Sara lowered her gaze to her trembling fingers, love and concern overwhelming her. But she needed to continue as she had. Being a friend. A listening ear. An understanding yet guarded heart.

  Such had never been a challenge before. But now? When she could feel herself growing more and more in love? What exactly did ‘guarded heart’ mean? Did it mean she didn’t confess how much of a friend he was? Did it mean she was even more careful how she watched him? Or how she spoke to him? Or how . . . how she thought of him?

  Sara released a deep breath. Sweet Jesus. Everything had changed.

  “Paul?” she heard Dix call into the phone. “Is he . . . ?”

  Sara very slowly closed her eyes. Please let him be—

  “Praise the Lord!”

  Sara released a choked sob of relief.

  “Of course, darling. We can make do by ourselves now we know he’s with you. . . . Certainly. Hold the line.”

  Sara vaguely heard the sound of Dix’s approaching steps.

  “Sara love? Paul would like to speak with you.”

  She took in a tremulous breath and wiped the tears from her cheeks as she made her way to the a
lcove. Then she took up the phone ear-piece with trembling fingers. “Yes, Mr. Paul?”

  “Hello, my dear. I wanted to give you a specific message from Chris. He is sorry for worrying you, and expressly directed me to tell you it isn’t your fault.

  Sara closed her eyes, leaning hard against the phone as she nodded her head and tried to smile through the relief. “Thank you, Mr. Paul,” she whispered, quickly wiping more tears from her cheeks.

  “You’re most welcome. We’re visiting a friend of his from Richmond College. We’ll try to be back before your lesson tomorrow.”

  “M-mister Christopher doesn’t need to come back so soon just for my lesson,” she whispered. “He should make a holiday of it. You know how much he needs one, Mr. Paul.”

  “Yes, I believe you’re right, and I’ll be certain to tell him. Tell Gwyn her papa sends his love and that we’ll be home as soon as we’re able.”

  “I will, Mr. Paul.”

  “Thank you, dear. Can I talk to Sweet again?”

  Sara handed the ear-piece back to Dix and exited the alcove. Her knees collapsed as she reached the bench in the hall, the sobs of relief shuddering free.

  Twenty-Eight

  Dreams of Home

  1 March 1894

  “Sara?”

  Sara stretched under the down cover as the pit-pat of a child’s step could be heard on the hardwood floor. Pushing herself up in bed, she gave Gwyn a sleepy smile as the little girl scurried up and then wriggled under the covers beside her. “Why, Gwyn. What’s the matter? You have a dream again last night?”

  “Is Papa home?” the girl whispered.

  Sara smoothed the girls rumpled blonde ringlets. “Yes. Your papa and Uncle Paul came home last night.”

  “How come he didn’t come to get me?”

  Sara’s lips drooped. “He likely did no’ want to wake you, poppet. It was past your bedtime when your Uncle Paul got home.” Sara wrapped her arms around the girl and kissed the crown of her head. “I bet he will come this morning for you.” She hoped so. She prayed so.

  “Sara?” Gwyn looked up at her, emerald eyes glimmering.

  “Yes, poppet?”

  “Why was Papa scared of your picture? Mamma says they made him happy. Like drawing a good dream.”

  A good dream. Sara kissed the girl’s head. Maybe he didn’t want her in that good dream? She was only someone his wife wanted to help. She was only . . . . “I do no’ know, Gwyn. I wish I did.” She was only Sara.

  Gwyn sighed deep. “Sara?”

  “Hm?”

  “I think the picture was something he forgot.”

  Sara opened her eyes, her breath catching in her throat.

  “Papa doesn’t like forgetting. Maybe he was scared he remembered late. Like a birthday.”

  “What happens when a birthday is remembered late?”

  “No party and no presents,” Gwyn pulled back, gazing up at Sara with wide eyes. “You don’t know?”

  Sara flushed. “I have no’ had a true birthday party, Gwyn. Just a bit of cake with my mum.”

  Gwyn gasped and sat up. Then she scurried from the bed and dashed from the room. “Auntie Dix! Uncle Paul!”

  Sara surrendered to a soft laugh and threw back the covers. When she opened the door to the adjoining bath, Amy was already inside filling the tub with hot water.

  “Good morning. Did you sleep better?”

  “Yes, Amy. Thank you. The tea helped.”

  “Good. Are you having a lesson at the Manor today?”

  “I…” Sara paled, and the want to see how he fared tore at her calm. “I do no’ know.” Would he want to see her so soon after his revelation?

  “Well I’m sure we can find an excuse to get you over there.” Amy helped Sara into the tub. “After all, Gwyn’s still here. She’ll be needing an escort over, and who better to do it than yourself?”

  Sara lightly bit her lower lip. “I would no’ want to make a nuisance of myself.”

  “Oh fiddle-diddle. After breakfast we’ll pack you and Gwyn up and send you on your way. You’ve been getting right good with those watercolors of yours.”

  Sara stared at the soap suds on the water. She loved him, and on the cuff of the admittance there settled a terror. What if he found out and turned her away? She didn’t want to lose this place that finally felt like home. “I . . . I do no’ think I will.”

  Amy’s hands halted mid-motion in Sara’s soapy tresses. When she came around to face her, Sara couldn’t meet her gaze. “But why not? You love the lessons. You come back brighter and happier each morning you have them!”

  “I . . . I know. B-but Mr. Christopher only came back but last night. I think he should have some time to himself before starting again with me.”

  “But—But Mr. Christopher hasn’t painted since his Carla went to the Lord. This is the first time he’s—”

  “Amy,” Sara pressed, eyes wide and glimmering. “Amy, please.”

  The young woman sat back on her heels with a grunt. “Well I’ll be. You’ve fallen for him.” Sara’s gaze retreated, cheeks crimson. Amy clutched the rim of the tub. “Then why in the world would you want to leave him to himself after he sent the house into such an uproar? Don’t you want to be there for him?”

  Sara choked back a sob. “I canno’ go. I want to, but I . . . I canno’ do it.”

  “Why not?” Amy insisted. “He’s been more his usual self since you came.”

  “He loves his wife, Amy. ” Her heart grew to an unbearable weight with the crushing realization. “It does no’ matter if she’s in heaven or here on earth. It does no’ matter if my heart burns for him. He loves her. I-I canno’ push him to go where he’s not ready. I am his friend before anything else, and a friend would—”

  “Go see if he’s well. Any friend would do the same.” Amy rested a hand on Sara’s shoulder. “He had a shock, so you get yourself over there and make sure he’s getting by. Certainly you don’t press or prod about anything. You just go there. Like you did before.” The young woman’s grip tightened, drawing Sara’s anguished gaze. “Like you want to now.”

  ~§~

  Christopher could sense Teddy regarding him over his coffee cup as he read through his mail. His friend had come that morning under the pretense of strong-arming him into a surrender of his art for the promised display at the gallery. No mention was made of the mysterious disappearance. No mention of Sara or whether or not she would be arriving for an art lesson that morning. But Christopher knew Teddy wouldn’t be able to resist for too much longer.

  The chink of china coffee-cup on saucer sounded the warning bell.

  “So what in blazes happened? I should hook you on the jaw with what you did to everyone.”

  Christopher lowered the paper, uncertain how to explain the situation. Even he was unsure where he stood in anything. “I apologize, Ted. I . . . I needed some time to myself.”

  “Time for what? No one will tell me a blasted thing about why you bolted. From Sara’s reaction I thought maybe she said something—”

  “No. Sara did nothing wrong.” That she might attempt to shoulder the brunt of the guilt served as a spike to the heart.

  “That’s what I thought, but what else could set you off unless she said an innocent comment about Carla or some such thing?”

  “It wasn’t Carla.” And that in itself was a confession of a multitude of things.

  “Fine, so she didn’t say anything about Car—”

  “No, Teddy. You don’t understand. The images. The silhouettes. The charcoals and pencils I’ve done for years . . . . They weren’t Carla.”

  “Of course they weren’t,” Teddy said, his brow furrowing. “Her line wasn’t right for those. Didn’t you know that?”

  Christopher blinked. “What?”

  Teddy scoffed. “Oh for the love of—Chris, I’ve known for years Carla wasn’t your mysterious Lady of Charcoal. You didn’t start drawing Carla until after you began courting. The Lady of Charcoal came out a bit le
ss then.” Teddy shrugged. “I figured you were leaving fantasies behind for the real image.”

  “Not . . . ." Christopher scratched at his scalp. “But I thought—Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Teddy’s countenance twisted in confusion. “Tell you what? That Carla wasn’t the Lady of Charcoal? Why? It didn’t matter. You were falling in love with her. Anyone with a brain could see how she felt for you. The Lady of Charcoal was just a fantasy. We all have them.”

  “Sara is the Lady of Charcoal, Teddy!”

  Teddy gave a snap of his fingers. “That’s why she seemed so blasted familiar! I’ve been gawking at those images for ages—” He howled with laughter.

  Christopher frowned. “This isn’t funny.” The doorbell chimed, and a few moments later Harold passed by the sitting room entrance to answer.

  “Not funny, Top? Come on! Of all the craziness in life, this is the best.”

  “Fine. Laugh while you can, but your day is coming.”

  Teddy chuckled as he retrieved his coffee.

  “Mr. Christopher?” Harold stood at the sitting room doorway.

  “Yes?”

  “Miss Sara has brought Miss Gwyn home from the Donovans.”

  Dread and eagerness battled as Christopher stood. “Oh.”

  Teddy regarded his friend, an amused smirk twisting his lips. With a shrug, he set aside his coffee and gathered his coat and hat from the floor beside him. “Well, I’m off. I never did contact those few who signed up for the children’s classes.” He paused long enough to cuff Christopher on the arm. Then he stepped into the hall and had a brief discourse with Sara before closing the front door behind him.

  Harold cleared his throat, drawing Christopher’s attention. “Miss Gwyn informs me she has already breakfasted and wishes to play with the fish and frogs in the conservatory. Only after saying ‘Good morning’ to yourself, of course. Miss Sara . . . ." Harold cast a glance behind him. “Master Chris, the young lady doesn’t look well.”

  “What?” Concern propelled him from the room with quick steps. Sara sat upon a chair outside the sitting room’s entrance, her face white and her eyes dull. Gwyn stood beside her speaking in soothing whispers as one little hand stroked her cheek.

  Christopher swallowed the rising lump and stepped forward, the sound of his shoes on the hardwood floor drawing his daughter’s gaze. Sara’s cheeks flushed before turning a concerning shade of yellow. Her eyes didn’t stray from their regard of the gloves clasped in white-knuckled hands. He offered Gwyn a somewhat forced smile as she scurried forward with a delighted call of “Papa!” Sara’s entire body grew taut.