Searching for Sara

  “Ah. Then it is safe to assume you are enjoying yourself?”

  “Oh yes, sir. So much. America has such a hushed air of expectation. Since coming all I know of tomorrow is the sun will rise and set.” He chuckled, setting her cheeks aflame. “I-I am sorry, sir. I am singing like a teapot at full steam.”

  “Do not feel a need to apologize. Without conversation I doubt I will reason out where your talents are best utilized.”

  “Yes, sir—”

  “Please. I know it is too soon to request you call me Christopher or Chris, but ‘sir’ is simply too much. Will you attempt to replace the ‘sir’ with ‘Mr. Lake’?”

  Hesitation teased her voice, but she gulped it down. “Of course, Mr. Lake.”

  “That’s fine. Now, our next step will be a deeper discussion on what we offer young artists. This can be shared over lunch. Then I will show you the house and allow you time to settle yourself before dinner. These past months have been collections of the unexpected, I am certain.”

  The carriage lurched to a halt. Sara leaned forward as Mr. Lake and Gwyn disembarked. A hand fluttered to her chest. “So lovely!” Lake Manor reminded her of a particular country cottage she worked as a sixteen-year-old scullery maid.

  Mr. Lake cast a glance over his shoulder to the setting of his home, bright against the blue skies. “Thank you. I have always been fond of it myself.” He retrieved her valise and steadied her descent from the carriage. Gwyn scampered ahead of them and disappeared behind the manor’s cedar doors.

  Mr. Lake offered his arm. “Disregard the foolish notions of my daughter. The porch steps are often slick, so exercise caution.”

  She stared at his arm, her heart threatening to pound from her chest as she accepted. She hadn’t been treated with gentlemanly regard since—He tucked her hand into the bend of his elbow and stepped forward with careful confidence. As they reached the top step the door opened to reveal an older man with the recognizable attitude of deference.

  Gwyn dashed from around the man’s legs, excitement twinkling in her eyes. “Harold, this is Sara. Papa said she is staying with us.”

  “Yes, Miss Gwyn. The lady’s room is prepared, Mr. Christopher. Might I welcome you to Lake Manor, miss? If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask. I am the butler, Harold.”

  Sara curtsied. Relief at his genuine kindness settled her heart.

  “Mr. Christopher, Mr. Theodore is on the telephone for you. A matter of life or death?”

  Telephone? Sara leaned slightly to one side, her gaze scouring the hall for a peek at such an extravagant luxury.

  “When does Teddy not believe something is grim? He likely realized Gwyn was to be in his charge while I rescued Miss Sara from the station.” Mr. Lake presented Sara’s valise to the butler. “I am sorry, but Gwynnie will need to be responsible for your tour. Harold, can you make certain these ladies have lunch? With Teddy there’s no telling how long I will be.”

  “Of course, Mr. Christopher.”

  He disappeared through the second door of the hall.

  “Come on, Sara, I want to show you our house!” Gwyn clasped Sara’s hand and pulled her forward into the front hall. Oak hardwood floors, watercolors and oils, antiques, plush carpets of red and gold all melded together in artistic grace and simple complexity.

  “It is lovely, miss.”

  “This is the first house Papa ever owned. When he got it, he did a lot to make it pretty—oh wait!” Gwyn dashed to the front door and indicated a push-button switch to the left. “This makes the lights go on or off. Watch.” She clicked it, squealing with glee as darkness fell over them. “There’s one in all the rooms. No more drippy candles.” She punctuated the statement with another click.

  “Goodness!”

  “The first room is Papa’s studio.” Gwyn motioned behind to a door on the immediate right of the front entry. “He has pretty pictures on the walls, and this is where he keeps all his painting stuff.” The girl pulled Sara toward a door, beyond which could be heard muffled conversation. “This is Papa’s office, where he talks to the other drawers and sells them to people.”

  Sara stifled a laugh.

  “The conservatory is there. It has a gazebo and a pond and flowers. It stays hot all year so we can have flowers whenever we want. We have another garden, but now it’s too cold to grow. It stays closed, but I can show it to you when it’s not winter.”

  “That would be grand, miss.”

  They crested the stairs of the second story, the girl’s step continuing forward as she labeled each door they passed. “There’s Papa’s room, the library, and my room is here by Papa. And this—” Gwyn threw open the door and rushed inside to stand in the center, arms outstretched. “This is my play room.”

  White papered walls and light wood flooring whispered of fun and excitement, as did the child-art decorating the walls and the shelves of animals and dolls at just the right height. An adorable room, typical of a five-year-old girl.

  “You like it?”

  “Indeed, miss. I adore it.”

  The girl slumped into a chair at a nearby table with a content sigh. “Now what?”

  “What of the third floor?” Sara couldn’t imagine not being shown the staff quarters.

  “Papa keeps his stuff there. I don’t want to break it, so I stay down here.” Gwyn traced a pattern on the tabletop. “Sometimes Papa will take me and show pictures. Or he’ll let me play with his toys.”

  Sara sat herself across from the girl. The child’s face beamed with memories. “You like that.”

  “I do! He gave me some of his toys once.” Gwyn pointed to the tall bookshelf behind her and an old wooden dog on wheels with a pull-string, a toy soldier, and a wooden music box. “Papa put them there so I won’t break one.” She stared up at them for a long moment before plopping her chin onto her hand. The poor dear brimmed with boredom.

  “Do you know how to make a picture book?” Sara asked.

  Gwyn’s eyes sparkled, her little body shooting upright. “A picture book? With colors on all the pages?”

  Sara laughed. “Yes, miss. I have this idea for a story, but I need help with the pictures.”

  Gwyn’s jaw dropped open by increments as Sara spoke, wonder widening her gaze. “May I help?”

  “I hoped you would.”

  Gwyn bolted to her feet, scurrying from cubby to nook to table like a cottontail rabbit. How many times did her own mother offer the same diversion? It served an unexpected reminder of a past she thought forever lost.

  ~§~

  Lunchtime passed without Mr. Lake. Instead, Harold brought a tray of simple sandwiches. The absence didn’t bother Gwyn, preoccupied with the sudden decision to use her colored chalk. The girl accepted her assignments with eagerness and a multitude of questions. They laughed over unexpected plot twists and mistakes both, delving into deeper inspirations before they finished their current task.

  Sara didn’t remember ever having such fun.

  “What an adventure—Goodness, we are dusted from head to toe! We should wash up, poppet. What would your papa think if he were to come and see us in such a state?”

  “That fun once again came of chaos, of course,” said a male voice.

  Sara flinched, her eyes drawn to the figure of Mr. Lake as he leaned against the entryway of the nursery. An almost boyish smirk softened the age of his features.

  Gwyn dashed forward. “Papa, you were spying!”

  “Guilty as charged.” He lifted her up into his arms. “What have you been up to while your papa suffered at the gallery?”

  “We made a book, Papa, but now we need a cover!”

  “Indeed?”

  “The letters. We want the big and fancy ones. Like a big book.”

  “Ah-ha. I suppose this person to create the cover must have many years of writing practice so they can create those oh-so-wonderful script letters your heart so desires.”

  Gwyn solemnly nodded. “Do you know one?”

  “Not a si
ngle soul.”

  The shock of his response dropped the girl’s jaw. A smile whispered across Mr. Lake’s lips moments before his daughter squealed.

  “Papa, you could do it! Oh Papa, please!”

  “I would be honored, Angel Girl.”

  Gwyn threw her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek.

  “Such exuberance. I do believe you understand the worth of your picture book.”

  She pulled back, her eyes wide. “Is it worth a lot of monies, Papa?”

  “With Miss Little contributing, I have no doubt you could sell your storybook for quite a sum.” He punctuated the statement with a fond touch to her nose.

  “I don’t want to sell my storybook.”

  “Then keep it to yourself, but I hope you will at least show it to me.”

  “Papa’s so silly.”

  “Well, ‘Silly’ has come to escort you ladies to dinner, though I believe you should take your cohort’s sage advice and wash the dust from your faces and hands.” He nudged Gwyn toward Sara. “I will wait for you downstairs.”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  Sara did her best to keep her mind distant from the thought of dining with the Lakes as she helped Gwyn wash her face and hands. But the memories of so many lunches and dinners could not be silenced. She set aside the dampened washcloth and followed as Gwyn rushed from the play room.

  At the entry of the personal dining room, Sara could do more than stare, her hands white-knuckled in front of her. Staff stood at the ready to serve as Mr. Lake settled Gwyn into her chair to his right. When he turned to seat Sara, surprise launched his eyebrows upward.

  His gaze sought hers. “Is something wrong?”

  “No, sir. I . . . ." But how did she explain a life of eating with the other servants downstairs?

  He pulled out the chair to his left. “Come along, Miss Sara. Decisions are seldom as daunting over the comfort of a meal.”

  Grappling with her courage proved difficult, but she persuaded the dozen or so steps required to navigate her way from entry to chair. Guilt assaulted her as dinner commenced, and she found it impossible to make eye contact nor do much more than pick at her food. She felt like an imposter dining with the Lakes with such familiarity. What did a maid know of true civility and genteel manners?

  Their plates were cleared from the table and Gwyn escorted upstairs to begin her evening toilette. A heavy silence invaded the room without the girl’s effervescent presence. Sara lowered her gaze to the wrinkled twist of her napkin.

  “Thank you for the distraction of the storybook.” A blank look shadowed Mr. Lake’s expression. “My wife would often do such projects with her. She claimed Gwyn inherited her creative spirit from me, but I often wonder if it is simply the nature of children.”

  “You are an artist, sir?”

  “Oils.” He straightened a shift in the tablecloth. “Though I worked with watercolor for several years and, as most people do, I began with pencils and charcoals. Life has proven too hectic for artistry the past year.” The smile he offered seemed stiff. “So, let us talk possibilities. You should be allowed a day to settle before answering uncomfortable questions, of course. But you should know beyond a shadow of a doubt what we intended when we first contacted you.”

  Sara blinked at her napkin. A bubble of anxiety hovered in her throat and prevented any response.

  “Finding a patron is an extreme challenge,” he continued, “especially for artists not yet introduced to the creative community. You display a natural talent and, hopefully, you will agree to my sponsorship.”

  The word snapped her attention outward to his sincere gaze. “S-sponsorship, sir?”

  “Indeed. Much as when a father introduces a debutante into society, a sponsor introduces a young artist using his or her reputation as a . . . launching point, as it were. I will wait until you have acclimated yourself, of course, but my intention will be to introduce you as our gallery’s newest prodigy.”

  Four

  Subtle Treasures

  Sara stared at him, horror strangling her voice. A hasty refusal could mean the difference between a new life and homelessness. “I-I could no’ possibly, sir . . . ." Put her art on display so all could mock her lack of training?

  “You are working toward a different future. Under my sponsorship you will have ample opportunity to shine. Your sketches will inspire, a rare opportunity.”

  “Sir, thank you, but—an artist, sir? You . . . . Sir, I’m the help.” Her voice caught. No one would mistake the daughter of a lady’s companion as a woman of society.

  His expression softened. “Let us make no final decisions this evening. You will need a day to decide what it is you want for the future. All of this must be overwhelming, especially for one unfamiliar with the way of things here.” He motioned toward the dining room’s entrance. “Let me show you to your room.”

  Sara smoothed the skirts of her brown wool traveling habit. The Lord never before asked her to trust someone with her artistic side. “Thank you, sir.” Nor had He asked her to confess anything of her personal life. It kept her safely distant. Did the Lord truly intend her to—

  A sudden, light touch at her elbow caused a twitch. Mr. Lake made no comment. “Would you be interested in the lesser enthusiastic tour?”

  “I do no’ want to trouble you, sir.”

  “Nonsense. No trouble. I am certain you would find it intriguing, being an artist.” His gesture encompassed their surroundings. “Lake Manor was originally built in 1856. During the Civil War she suffered myriad of damage from looters and soldiers, to say nothing of the battles that raged within cannon distance.”

  Sara gazed with interest at the bright halls, paintings and colorful rugs. “She is a charming home, sir.”

  “I agree. The more formal dining hall is beyond here. We haven’t hosted a party sizable enough to warrant it’s use, but I feel certain one day they will . . . convince me to open the doors and plan one. To be honest, I have enjoyed the peace and quiet.”

  Mr. Lake opened the double doors to the formal dining hall and pushed a switch on the left side of the entry. Two crystal chandeliers twinkled to life, their reflections casting rainbows upon the walls and hardwood floors. A grand piano and harp stood in the far corner by a stack of folded chairs. Oils, watercolors and charcoal sketches hung along the walls, giving an added flair of sophistication.

  “How grand, sir!”

  His lips danced with a smile and he pulled the doors closed once more. They continued to the far side of the hall. When he focused on the entry to the conservatory, his expression darkened. He cleared his throat and reached out to open the doors. “The conservatory.” He descended three steps to the path winding deeper into the lush flora and fauna.

  Sara followed, her gaze unable to cease its examination of his profile. “My wife loved this garden. It blossomed to an uncanny representation of each fact of her character.” A quick glance toward Sara drew him back from the memories. “Any time you need a quiet place to relax and gather yourself, I recommend this be your first venture.”

  Sara nodded, her eyes wide as he ushered her from the conservatory and drew the doors shut with a firm hand.

  “There is also a kitchen and staff quarters down the back hall, and entry to our spring garden, which happens to be Gwyn’s favorite escape during spring and summer. Let us make our way upstairs to the library and your room. The library is Gwyn’s preferred hideaway, besides her play room, so prepare to spend most of your time shared between the two.”

  “You—” Sara’s step halted as she gawked at him “You wouldn’t mind me reading your books, sir?”

  “Of course not.”

  “But . . . ." She couldn’t stop the rush of her heart at the possibility. “M-mightn’t I spoil them?”

  “I didn’t buy them to gather dust.” Mr. Lake crossed his arms, his brows knitting together. “Which of your employers reprimanded you for reading their books?”

  Sara lowered her eyes, remembering a s
hining bald head and a pinched expression. Hard, cold green eyes behind glasses that heightened accusations—Sara bit her lip a little too hard and flinched. “The b-books were never for the likes of me, sir.”

  “I see.”

  She peeked at him, unable to read his expression.

  “Let us strike a bargain, shall we?”

  “A bargain, sir?”

  “At Lake Manor you can read any and all books at any time. No permissions needed, no explanations demanded should I find you reading in the wee hours of the morning. You’ve but to promise to read as many books as you wish each day.”

  Her breath caught, and her eager nod only just shook free her voice. “Thank you, Mr. Lake, sir. I will, sir.”

  He chuckled. “Please. You promised to call me ‘Mr. Lake’, remember?” He escorted her to the foot of the stairs. “I haven’t yet asked of your family’s wishes. Will your parents be joining you once you are settled?”

  Sara’s heart faltered, her gaze snapping to his as she nearly tripped up the first step. “P-pardon?”

  “I . . . ." He cleared his throat. “Well, I assumed you would want to inform them of your safe arrival. Should you need help with the cost of their passage, it would be my responsibility as your sponsor.”

  Shame and grief burned her eyes. “My mum p-passed when I was twelve.” And how could she admit to never even knowing her father’s name?

  “Gads—" Mr. Lake’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Sara, I apologize.”

  She offered a tremulous smile. “It was only polite for you to ask after them, sir, and I did no’ intend to put you on the spot.”

  “You are very gracious.” Mr. Lake turned again to ascend the stairs. Sara noticed the absent way he tapped the balustrade. Nervousness settled like a stone. The knowledge of her being an orphan usually caused families to hesitate in taking her on staff.

  They crested the stairs, Mr. Lake pausing the briefest moment before motioning to the right. “The library.” He opened the door and stepped inside, standing opposite the towering bookshelves with lightly crossed his arms. “You are bound to find a book or four to keep you and Gwyn busy. She never tires of hearing them.” He withdrew a leather-bound volume. “Shall we see if we can find one for you?”

  Sara wrung her hands in the doorway, uncertainty threatening her knees with collapse. The shelves of books continued to draw her gaze back. Could she truly read all of the lovelies found there?