She flushed and shook her head.
“You’re an eager one, aren’t you.” Christopher chuckled. “Well, here it is.”
As he presented the covered canvas to her he found himself almost hungrily watching her expressions. Waiting for the shocked gasp once she lifted the cover. Listening for the whispered “Oh my.” followed quickly by the welcome “Christopher....” She looked up to meet his gaze, tears brimming. “I can hardly believe this was one of mine. You present it in a way more real and alive than my timid dream of something wanted once.”
Red burned his ears as he self-consciously chuckled. “Oh come now. It’s not as good as that.”
“But it is.” The painting drew her gaze. “It so is.”
“I’m glad you like it.” The statement drew a slight movement of her lips in a brighter smile. “I wasn’t so certain one way or the other. I…” He lowered his gaze, absently rubbing at a paint stain on his fingernail when he felt her gaze. “I don’t normally interpret others’ work, so it isn’t a strong suit of my . . . ability.” Christopher glanced up in time to catch her continued soft smile.
Then she lowered her focus again to the canvas. “But you are an artist.” She slightly shook her head. “Such an artist.”
Christopher’s face flamed. “Fine, fine. Enough embarrassing the instructor. It’s time to get to work.” He touched her arm, drawing her attention and her smile before motioning to the canvas. “May I?”
Sara nodded, offering him back the canvas for its return to the cubby. When he turned again to face her, the smile of encouragement and softness on her countenance remained, her hands loosely clasped in front of her as she watched him. His chest tightened at that expression, somehow seeing a parallel with so many soft looks from his Carla—He set it aside, giving her a smile and then touching her elbow as he motioned toward the conservatory entrance.
“It has been an age since I have seen the colors of spring.”
“A quiet walk was always my habit when I first began the challenge of watercolors,” he told her. And the desire to walk with her to create new memories beckoned.
~§~
4 April 1894
“I think that’s the best it’s going to get,” Teddy said, fists on hips as the trio regarded the penciled sketch of the intended display hanging upon the gallery’s main exhibit wall.
They had worked non-stop on perfecting the impression of a time-line, one that would correctly display Christopher’s artistic growth. It had been an interesting experience, and not too different from when the trio worked to perfect Sara’s own art displays. Disagreements, discussions, laughter, and an experience of times Sara had previously never known: A collection of friends drawing closer while doing an enjoyed project.
For Sara, it was an extremely engaging idea and experience to be so intimately involved.
Christopher adjusted his crossed arms. “What do you think, Sara? Good enough?”
Sara continued to regard the charcoal, to watercolor, to oil progression with an absent frown of concentration as she nibbled the nail of her index finger, cheeks burning as Christopher’s questioning glance became a somewhat boyish smirk. “Good enough.”
“At last.” Teddy turned away. “I’m going to head out and get the invitations. I ordered too few envelopes, but we’ve still got a stash in Minnie-Gwynnie’s project room.” Teddy shrugged into his overcoat. “Why don’t you two start addressing those from the address list in the envelope box? I’ll be back once I have the cards. Hopefully they have enough,” he finished, mumbling while closing the gallery door behind him.
Christopher motioned behind him, down the hall toward the room where Sara had first seen Gwyn. “I hope you don’t mind writing about one hundred invitations long-hand. Carla started me on the habit for those first displays. Said that it showed more care when they were handwritten rather than printed at a print-shop.”
“So few people put such thought into things as simple as invitations.”
“Teddy abhors the project, and with good reason.” A smirk threatened as his hazel eyes twinkled. “His handwriting is atrocious. It looks as if a chicken stepped through an ink blot.”
“It could no’ be as bad as that!”
He ushered her inside to the adult-sized table and chairs in the opposite corner from Gwyn’s. “I’ll have him write one, just to prove it.”
Sara laughed.
He retrieved a box of envelopes from the bookcase behind them and sat across from her. His knee brushed hers. “Pardon me,” he said with an accompanying glance.
“That’s fine, sir.” She retrieved a handful of envelopes as Christopher arranged the pens on each side of the table, one for her and one for him. She readied her pen and the envelope. “Will you be sending an invitation to your parents?”
Christopher handed her the first few pages of the list and kept the remainder for himself. “I invite them to every display, though I know they won’t be able to come each time. The trip from New York is a long one. They send me ‘condolences’ when they know they won’t be able to make it.”
Sara smiled as she watched him write the address, imagining him in the same position when he wrote the travel-itinerary letter to her so many months before . . . . “I hope they can make it to this one.”
“I imagine so. They mentioned you in their last letter.”
“Me?” Sara blinked at him.
“Dix and Paul write to them on a regular basis.” He peeked at her. “And I’ve sent them a letter or two, along with a few pictures from Gwyn.”
A flush colored her cheeks as she lowered her focus to the blank envelope. She didn’t know why she felt surprise that he would have written his parents about her. Wasn’t she under his care? His protection? Wasn’t he doing his best to offer her a new beginning through his gallery? Of course he would write to them and keep them informed.
Christopher set aside the first addressed envelope and situated another, sending her yet another quick glance. “They can’t wait to meet you.”
Sara swiped away a hint of wetness. His parents. She leaned forward and did her best to focus on addressing her first envelope. The people responsible for teaching him to be the man he was. They wanted to meet her.
“Mother is much like Dix,” Christopher warned. He fished out another envelope. “In other words, she’ll instantly consider you part of the family and treat you as such.”
“That’s fine, sir,” Sara whispered. It had been years since she experienced the nurturing tendencies of a mother. It would be heaven to have again. And Christopher’s mother? Her heart soared.
Christopher smirked. “I guess Father is the same way, but where Mother is more subtle, Father will be a bit more forceful in his . . . suggestions. He takes initiatives that will more than likely give you a shock.”
But he was a father. A figurehead of guidance she never experienced. One she craved and longed after for years. “I will no’ mind,” she whispered, and she could hear the hint of tears.
“No. I don’t suppose you would.” The softness in Christopher’s tone made another tear brim, this time to tumble down her cheek. He reached across and covered her hand. “I wish you would let me search for your father, Sara.”
The tone of his voice drew her gaze, and the expression on his handsome face brought her to the brink of her confession. She bit it back. “Mr. Christopher, he’s gone. If he wanted to find me, he could have done so ages ago. Let him be.”
“You deserve your family.”
A soft smile caressed her lips. “I have one.”
Their gazes held for a long moment before Christopher pulled his hand away and lowered his gaze to the partially addressed envelope in front of him. Concern began to rise, but before it took root she heard Christopher quietly say, “And you are welcome,” as he again took up his pen.
Welcome.
Sara lowered her gaze to the pen in her hand. Since day one she felt welcomed and comforted, protected and included. Into his home. H
is family. His gallery. His way of life. Not once did she ever feel a bother, or an encumbrance, or an unwelcome guest. No. He welcomed her into a new life. A new family. Finally, a place to call home.
“Thank you.”
Thirty-Two
Release to Breathe
13 April 1894
Sara stared at herself in the mirror with eyes twinkling in the soft luminance of the kerosene lanterns. Her face slightly flushed, enhancing the emotion which danced within her expression. The cornflower blue of her gown heightened her beauty, the simple line giving her an outward appearance of nobility. A sophisticate she hadn’t known existed. A woman of stature and elegance. Desirable.
“Sara love?”
Sara blinked and looked to the door as it opened to reveal the elegantly beautiful face of Dix. “Yes, mum?”
“Chris is here.” Dix closed the door behind her. “You look ravishing.”
“Thank you, mum. I . . . ." Sara flushed and looked again to the mirror. “I feel lovely. I never have before.”
Dix gently rested her hands on each of Sara’s bare shoulders. “We women always feel beautiful when we’re in love beyond anything we understand or know.”
Sara lowered her gaze.
“Mother and Father are heart-broken they couldn’t come, but I’ve a feeling there’s a reason it didn’t come about.” The older woman met Sara’s timid gaze in the mirror. “Chris has had a hard year, and I believe you’re his end and beginning. I feel it in my heart and soul. Your spirit of tenderness will do his aching heart good. Hold that truth to you and don’t let it get away.”
“I won’t.”
Then Dix kissed Sara’s cheek, giving her shoulders a brief press. “He’s waiting in the observatory, dearest. Paul and I are going ahead.”
“Of course.”
She left the room, the sound of her steps moving away and down the stairs. Moments later, Sara heard the front door open and close and then the carriage as it rumbled down Monument Avenue toward the gallery. Sara blinked, a trembling hand lifting to finger the simple caged pearl dangling from the silver strand.
“Can you believe this, Mum?” she whispered to the reflection in the standing mirror. “A home and family. Friends. A place to be myself. I . . . ." Her throat tightened around the words as her eyes burned. Her life had become a collection of blessings.
Wiping at her cheeks, Sara turned from the mirror to take up her white crocheted gloves from the dresser near the door and make her way out into the hall. At the thought of each happiness experienced thus far, her smile softened. Each one seemed greater and more poignant than the previous. And tonight? Surrounded by the wonders of Christopher’s art as well as the promise of revealing her identity to a public that loved her? She giggled as she made her way downstairs.
At the sound, Christopher stepped from the observatory to lean against the doorframe, crossing his arms as he watched her descend the remaining stairs. The dark charcoal three-piece suit he wore under his heavy woolen overcoat enhanced his good looks, even going so far as to remind Sara of an Italian Baron she met when thirteen. But Christopher’s smile and the twinkle in his hazel eyes shined much brighter.
“I believe I may be in the wrong house,” Christopher commented. One corner of his lips twitched upward. “I don’t remember escorting a princess here.”
Sara laughed, the melody echoing through the hall and heightening the brightness of the house. “And I only just thought as how you reminded me of a Baron I met once.”
Christopher’s left eyebrow rose. “A Baron?”
“Yes. You and your sister both have that European look about you. Did you no’ know?”
“Had no idea.” He winked. “Perhaps I will have our family lawyer do some ancestral investigating. I could be royalty.”
Sara beamed up at him. To her, he was a prince among men.
~§~
Harold entered the side-room holding Sara’s first display of art. “Mr. Christopher?”
“Yes, Harold?”
Harold motioned behind him toward the main hall. “Everyone is beginning to gather in the main hall, as you requested.”
“Ah. Is it that time already?” Christopher focused on Sara, whose soft expression hadn’t wavered from its examination of his profile. He offered her his arm. “Your fame knocks, my dear. Shall we answer?”
Sara flushed and accepted, that her legs began to tremble as he led her forward. “I am so nervous,” she admitted, breathless.
Christopher covered her hand with his. “Don’t be. You’ll be fine.” One side of his lips twitched higher. “They’ll fall over themselves to print rave reviews if you simply smile and look radiant.”
Her cheeks burned a darker crimson, and Christopher chuckled. “You’re doing that on purpose,” she accused, though she couldn’t repress the giggle.
“You can’t prove that. Besides, I only said the truth.”
Her lips twitched upward, but any further response vanished from mind when every pair of eyes focused on their entrance. Sara fidgeted with the pearl of her necklace as her hand tightened on Christopher’s arm.
“Greetings, all.” Christopher maneuvered her to a small platform erected at the far end of the main hall.
At the base of the steps to the wooden platform, Christopher stepped away, doing so only after giving her a comforting squeeze of the hand and a very slight wink. Then he stepped up onto the platform and faced the crowd.
“I’m glad to see a lot of new faces among the old ones. It means you’ve brought friends. Always a good sign for an artist, and not too bad for my gallery, either.”
Chuckles rippled through the crowd, ushering a smile to Sara’s face and relief to her spirit as she watched Christopher charm the group.
“I know my exhibit isn’t the only reason you’ve all put in an appearance, and I appreciate your self-control. I don’t believe I’ve heard one question about the ever-mysterious new artist I discovered. Not even from the newspapers represented here today. So, I won’t keep you waiting longer.”
Hushed silence descended, and Sara caught Christopher’s mischievous tilt of lip. She briefly arched an eyebrow. What are you up to?
“But first,” the crowd released a collection of protests, “a little history, for the benefit of our newspapermen, of course.”
Sara gave a slight shake of her head as she breathed, “Christopher Andrew…”
“S. A. L., we’ll call the artist ‘Sal’ to save time,” the crowd chuckled, “is a charming artist who hails from Richmond.”
A wave of murmurs turned faces toward others with questions and confusion, apparently the exact reaction Christopher hoped for. Sara hid a smile. Richmond Upon Thames, you imp.
“Dix,” Christopher continued, motioning toward his sister within the crowd, “and her husband invited Sal to contact me and my wife some time ago. Due to scheduling conflicts and responsibilities, the trip to our gallery wasn’t taken until earlier this year.” Christopher raised a hand. “And before you ask on specifics of the conflicts, answering will be up to Sal and not myself. Personal information, you understand.”
The newspapermen standing in the front row near Sara nodded even as they scratched down shorthand notes.
Christopher nodded. “Fair enough. So, the artist arrived and agreed to be taken in as a ‘sponsored artist’ of my gallery. I agreed to keep their identity secret until they were ready to reveal themselves. After all, displaying artwork is much the same as opening one’s very soul to criticism and encouragement alike. It requires quite a sum of courage.”
Multitudes within the crowd vocalized agreements, including the newspapermen.
“As I knew it would be, their artwork was an instant sensation. An inspiration and intensity of innocence we haven’t seen in a while.”
“Not since you pulled your art,” came a voice from the crowd.
Christopher smirked. “Yes, yes, Randall. Dix and Teddy have already hounded me about that.”
The crowd laug
hed, and Sara giggled.
“At any rate, your acceptance and encouragement have helped them grow in confidence and ability, believe it or not. Encouraging them even to venture into new media, as you can see by the watercolors now on display. You have made them feel welcome, and because of that, Sal is ready to appear before you to accept your congratulations in person. So, I’m proud to present . . . ."
Christopher stepped down and produced a hand to Sara. The action resulted in murmurs, chuckles and light applause. She flushed and accepted his hand and escort back to the platform. He turned her to face the cheering crowd. “Miss Sara Ann Little, known to many of you as Miss Ann Kreyssler.”
The crowd’s cheers of “Bravo!” and “Excellent!” drowned the remaining introduction.
“I told you so,” he said, casting a wink her direction.
Sara smiled out at the acceptance and encouragement with glimmering blue eyes, unashamed of the tears coursing down her cheeks as she gripped Christopher’s hand. When she finally focused on him, she could barely see his smile for the tears and euphoria.
“Congratulations.”
When questions began, he focused back out at the crowd and lifted a hand. “One at a time. One at a time. We’re all gentlemen and ladies here. No comment, Teddy.”
The crowd roared with laughter.
“What do you propose to do about the articles in the Chronicle?” the newspaperman from Harper’s asked.
Another collection of pressures was the result as Christopher answered. “A retraction and apology has already been printed in this evening’s edition. And, contrary to what the Chronicle would have you believe, Sara and I have been acquaintances. Then I was her sponsor. Then her instructor, and somewhere within we became friends. There have been no trysts nor liaisons.”
“What about you, Miss Little?”
Sara’s focus shifted from Christopher to the older man in the front row with the thinning hair and the smart dark-brown suit. “Pardon?”
“What’s your take on all this?”