Searching for Sara

  Mr. Lake focused on her, his lips curving upward. “They won’t scold, Miss Sara. Come along. I feel certain you will discover a favorite friend.”

  Sara shuffled forward, each step assaulting her memory with sharp tones from the past. Shoulders hunched, her heart thudded the memories silent. Then those massive shelves loomed before her. Caution flared, but she ignored it as she withdrew one of the leather volumes. An inscription drew her focus.

  ‘To Carla: my passion and inspiration, the woman who has always persuaded me to be the man I am. Love forever, Christopher.’

  Tears stung as Sara tucked the volume away again.

  “Ah.” Mr. Lake’s exclamation drew her focus in time to accept a presented book. “You should start with this one.”

  “Aesop’s Fables.” Sara blinked up at him. “I love folktales, sir.”

  “I thought you might. What better to unlock the imagination of an artist? Be forewarned, Gwyn will demand you read these aloud more than any other.”

  She clasped the leather-bound volume to her chest. “Yes, sir.”

  “Excellent. Your room is last, though certainly not least. We made certain you would have the best view of the surrounding streets. There are some immaculate rose gardens to set your imagination afire, although they are blanketed by snow at present. Come along then.” Mr. Lake escorted her to the room adjacent the library. “This will be home.”

  The door opened in silent welcome to reveal a space alive with color. There were no dour shades, no peeling wallpaper nor cracked paint. Two large windows overlooked the streets of Richmond, the sun reflecting in warmth and brightness from the snow blanketing the streets and carriages. A happy pop of flame and fire drew Sara’s misty gaze to an inset marble fireplace.

  She choked back a sob, tears escaping before she could brush them aside. “It is more lovely than anything before, sir. Than anything I ever dreamed. Sir, I.…” She fumbled with the kerchief tucked into her cuff.

  “Miss Sara, did . . . .” Mr. Lake offered her the chair from the oak vanity. “Did Carla know of your situation? I do not recall her mentioning specifics of such a difficulty. Nor Dix, my sister, who referred you.”

  Sara shook her head.

  “Why would you keep such a fact secret? We could have presented more help.”

  Sara lowered her gaze to the leather volume clasped in white-knuckled hands. “Orphans do no’ often find a position like this, sir.”

  Mr. Lake tapped his lips with a single finger. “Miss Sara, I have a question for you. Please answer as truthfully as you can.”

  “O-of course, sir.”

  “Why did you come to America?”

  She blinked at him. His hazel eyes didn’t burn with annoyance or anger. They were calm and . . . kind. “Sir?”

  “What did you want from your journey here? Not to be confused with what you might have expected. I want to know what you wanted, then and now.”

  All the dreams and expectations ever hidden in her heart clashed to the surface of her memory. Sara choked down her hesitation, unable to break his gaze. “I came to America for a second chance at life, sir. A second chance at . . . myself.”

  Mr. Lake nodded. “Ah. Now we come to it. Please, go on.”

  “In England I was no better than a slave, sir, just an orphan. But you made me feel more in one letter. So here I am, two dresses to my name, and not money enough to support myself beyond tomorrow. I . . . ." She tore her gaze from his. “I been taking care of myself with the Lord’s blessing since no taller than a stump. Never held a position longer than three months, and no man will marry a servant girl scared of her own shadow. Sir, you and your wife offered me a place to call home and—” Tears robbed her voice.

  “That is something you do not wish to lose.”

  Sara inclined her head, shame keeping her eyes downcast. She didn’t want to sound desperate. She could work anywhere if given the chance.

  Mr. Lake released a quiet breath, his slow nod drawing back her attention. “Consider today the first in your new home. You are free to wander within these meager walls. Free to come and go as you please. Lake Manor is your home. Understood?”

  An intensity of relief and wonder constricted her throat, allowing her only an imperceptible nod.

  Mr. Lake’s lips tilted upward. “Then I will leave you to your new surroundings.” He paused at the door. “Let me know if you need anything, Sara. Agreed?”

  He didn’t wait for a response, though she would have been hard-pressed to offer one. The door closed and a single tear dripped onto the rug at her feet.

  ~§~

  Christopher stared out his office window. He didn’t see the bustle of the avenue nor the diamond stars above. He saw Sara Little’s tears, and the darkening of fear in her blue gaze. Yet her desperate desire to belong continued to press her forward, with no family to fall back to should she fail. He shook his head.

  Trust would be the most important aspect of the woman’s character to cultivate. That would require patience. He crossed his arms and returned his focus to the winter landscape. With Carla gone, what if he provided less than what she intended? He could rob Sara of her last ounce of hope.

  Did he still understand the meaning of the word?

  Christopher exited his office, each step on the stairs requiring more energy than the previous. The eighteen months since Carla’s death were a painful blur of forced laughter. With Sara’s arrival came again the incessant memories of his wife, their shared desire to help others, a common love for the less fortunate, her laughter and touch.

  He jerked open the bedroom door and stumbled inside, his gaze averted from their bed—The sound of voices drew his attention to Gwyn’s room.

  “Didn’t you want to?”

  “Of course I did, poppet, but I worked for an evil tyrant of a man named Mr. Brockle. He threatened to tell all the people I was a horrible, lazy person if I left.”

  Christopher crept to the connecting door between their rooms. Sara tucked Gwyn into bed, the covers up to her chin.

  “What did you do?” his daughter asked.

  “I was scared, so I thought if I stayed for a bit he would let me come away.” Sara searched out a chair and drew it close.

  Gwyn watched with wide eyes. “He didn’t?”

  “No, miss. Though I suppose it foolish of me to hope for that end.”

  “Papa woulda bust him in the nose.”

  Christopher restrained a chuckle as Sara laughed.

  “I wanted to do that, too, poppet, truth be told.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “I kept asking if I could go, and if he could say nice things to your mum and papa about me. But he said ‘no’ again and again.”

  Christopher frowned. It was no wonder she cringed from him after such a past as that. He commended her determination to arrive at all.

  “One day I snuck myself out the back and made my way to a church.”

  “A church? Did Mr. Bockle find you?”

  “No. The priest wouldn’t tell him I hid there.” Sara cast a secretive glance behind her. “He was a friend of my mum.”

  Christopher watched with interest the interaction between his daughter and Sara. For the first time since their meeting she seemed at ease, comfortable. Perhaps Gwyn was the key? He smirked. He might not have his wife to help him set this woman on her new life’s path, but their daughter was more than up to the task of bringing Sara beyond her shell.

  His smile drifted as he continued to watch the ease with which the woman soothed his daughter to sleep. Then she placed a kiss upon Gwyn’s forehead and turned to leave the room. When she paused outside the door to peek in one last time, Christopher met her in the hall. Fear glittered in her eyes at first, as before, until she recognized him. Her cheeks flushed and she wrung her hands. Christopher wasn’t certain if she did so out of fright or simple nervousness.

  “I know it’s late, sir, and I did no’ mean to bother you.” Her words rushed together. “The poppet could
no’ sleep and asked if I would tell her a tale.”

  He tried to offer her an encouraging smile. “Curfew only applies to Gwyn.”

  Sara blinked as if she hadn’t expected him to joke with her. Then her features softened into a hesitant smile. She was lovely when she didn’t cower, and that realization made him understand why Paul and Dix urged her to write. There was a welcoming spirit about her. Something that would be of great benefit to the gallery and their dreams for others.

  The challenge would be to find the best way to draw her beyond the fear to trust.

  Five

  First Daze

  5 January 1894

  Sara stared at the reflection of the morning sun dancing across the ceiling of her room—Her room. It wasn’t a cell or closet, nor even servants quarters. She woke in a room all her own. She rolled onto her side and cuddled the down pillow. At any moment she expected the explosion of Mr. Brockle’s bellow. But she heard only the occasional rumble of conversation.

  Her eyes focused to the bedside table and a miniature representation of the Lake family. They were a bit of wholeness Sara dreamed of having herself. It is still possible, Sara Ann. Now is your time to stop listening to the “do this” and the “do not do this” and listen for what God has waiting for you. Maybe that was a family?

  “Amen,” she whispered, all her hopes and dreams carried on the breath heavenward.

  She sat up to kick her feet over the side of the bed and stare at her toes. This morning would be the first where the only expectation would be her own. No mending, no cleaning, no scrubbing or buffing. What am I to do with myself? After twenty-four years of being a servant forever bustling and chaotic, the never-ending peace seemed surreal.

  It invited a sense of guilt for being idle.

  A smile caressed the edges of Sara’s rose lips, and when she succumbed to a childish impulse and wriggled her toes within the plush rug at her feet, she giggled. At Lake Manor there were soft covers and a warm bed in a room which felt more like a home should. Even more than all she shared with her mother. Lord, might I stay in this dream a bit longer?

  With the sun filtering in through the great windows, she could feel a definite Yes shine in her soul. Was her previous life but a dream?

  Sara released a fast breath as she stood, padding to an adjoining door to search out her bath room. The sight on the other side of the door brought tears. A claw-foot ceramic tub, another large fireplace crackling in greeting, a vanity and chair, full-body mirror, and all the luxurious provisions she could have imagined. Running water. A lavatory in the corner with a pull flush-handle—Sara reached over and pinched herself, sounding a hiss and giggle at the sudden pain.

  She knelt at the tub and spun the appropriate white handle. A few minutes later, hot and cold water began to broil and foam within the tub in a giggle of welcome. Sara rested her forehead upon the coolness of the tub rim, her fingers playing in the roaring water—

  A knock roused her from her prayers. “Yes?”

  The door to the bath cracked open and a pretty face peeked around. “Miss Sara?”

  Sara offered a smile to the young maid. “I am Sara.”

  “Good morning, miss.” She bobbed a curtsy and brushed a few wisps of reddish-brown hair back under her mob cap. “I’m to help you get prepared for breakfast. I’m Amy. Your maid, miss.”

  Sara blinked.

  Amy scurried forward. “Oh, bother, miss. You shouldn’t be drawing your bath! Let me do that.”

  Sara sat back, worrying her lip as she watched Amy test the temperature of the water and make minute adjustments to the ratio. “Please, Amy. I can manage my bath.”

  “Oh no, miss. It will just take a moment to finish and then we’ll get you all dolled up and everything. Mr. Lake is going—drat that rotten bar of soap!” It splashed into the bath water and slunk to the far corner of the tub.

  Sara laughed. “Soap is the worst to hold fast.”

  “I’m sorry, miss. I never been a lady’s maid.” Amy came around the tub to help Sara from her robe, all the while glaring at the reclusive soap. “It’s plain, ain’t it?”

  “You are doing fine, Amy. How long have you been a chambermaid?”

  “This’s only my second week.” Amy groaned. “Mother would box my ears if she saw me slip up like this at home.”

  “At least you have the blessing of running water. Once I used a coal bucket – Was I nervous! – There was coal dust all over the tub and the missus.”

  Amy settled Sara into the tub. “You look more a lady than a maid!”

  “Oh, Amy, do no’ fib. I have no’ the wits to be a lady, and have only been a servant. Learned the trade from my mum.”

  “You’ve got the carriage for a lady, miss, and that’s no lie. But I don’t mind that you’ve seen my side of the serving tray.” Amy giggled as she once again fought with her hold on the soap.

  “Am I no’ still there?”

  “Still where, miss?”

  “I . . . . Mr. Lake says Lake Manor is my home now, but . . . ." The confession still made Sara’s breath catch. “I do no’ know what to do with a blessing like that, Amy. How does a maid view a place like this a home without tripping over her own hem?”

  “That’s a good question, miss—”

  “Call me Sara.”

  “As you please, m—” Amy flushed and Sara laughed. “Don’t be laughing at me! I was in the kitchens for two years before, and so I never did much talking.”

  “The kitchens . . . ." Sara bit her lip and cast Amy a sidelong glance. “Is the cook . . . grumpy?”

  “Oy! Grumpy doesn’t describe it, miss. If you trudge into his kitchen in the middle of a meal because the smell has got you craving a taste, you might as well prepare your ears for a tug!” She winked. “But give up enough compliments and he’ll grant you a feast.”

  Sara laughed.

  ~§~

  Amy helped Sara dress before Cook summoned her away, leaving Sara to stare at her freshly cleaned face in the mirror. A lady with silver hair and kind eyes appeared at the doorway. Her uniform of charcoal dress, sturdy belt and key-loop defined her role as Housekeeper.

  “Pardon, Miss Sara. Mr. Christopher wants to see you in his office once you’ve had breakfast. Harold can show you in.”

  Sara dipped in a curtsy. “Thank you, mum.”

  “Call me Emily, dear.”

  Sara stared after them for a long moment before lowering her gaze to her craft basket. Then she adjusted her dress and exited the bedroom to make her way downstairs.

  Harold met her at the bottom step. “Breakfast is through here, Miss Sara.”

  “I am no’ a bit hungry, sir. I m-mean H-Harold. Could I . . . ."

  “Of course. Mr. Christopher is waiting for you in his office.”

  She followed his direction, not noticing her hands fidgeting with the front of her dress. She only heard the staccato of her footsteps on the hardwood floor, the knock against the office door and the muffled “Come in,” followed by a near silent purr.

  Mr. Lake stood near the bookshelves to the left skimming through the pages of a particularly thick book. Silence fell over the room, heightening the clink and clatter of dishes from the kitchens. Mr. Lake’s brow furrowed as Sara opened her mouth to speak, sending her thoughts scattering.

  He raised his gaze. “Ah. Sara.” He tucked the book back upon the shelf and motioned to a chair across from his desk. “Please. Have a seat.”

  Sara settled onto the edge of the chair, her cold fingers knit together to still their trembling.

  “Did you sleep well? I know how excitement can keep one up through the night.”

  “I slept fine, Mr. Lake. Thank you.” Only an hour here and there, but even that didn’t squelch her deeper sense of . . . peace.

  “Good. Have you had a moment to decide regarding your art? Will you allow me to act as your sponsor?”

  Sara felt thankful she hadn’t eaten breakfast. “S-sir, I . . . ."

  He retrieved a
thick album from his desk and sat in the chair beside her. “Here is a glimpse at what we do, so you may see a possible future.”

  Opening the album revealed photographs of a gathering at the gallery. Ladies in fine gowns, gentlemen in suits, a rainbow of sophistication. Mr. Lake turned the pages with deliberate slowness, allowing her the time to view and understand the story the pictures told.

  “Some of the gentlemen we sponsor setup their own galleries with a modicum of success,” he said, occasionally scrutinizing her profile. “The ladies most commonly become wives, but a few have become instructors at respected universities. A small number of artists decide to focus on a more lucrative career than that of painting, but they will occasionally orchestrate another display of new and old work.”

  Sara accepted the album to stare at the large photograph of him, his wife, and a grinning young man. Could taking such a risk lead to such an ending for her? Sara lifted her head to meet his hazel gaze. “I . . . ."

  Mr. Lake nodded. “I understand your hesitation, Sara. Let me be quite clear. As sponsor your protection is my first priority. Meaning, I shelter you from all unhealthy interaction. Your audience, screened. The responses you read, censored. The images you display, selected with the utmost regard to your opinion. I will even withhold your identity. You must only hazard the first, frightening risk and trust me.”

  Sara’s hands clutched the album. Could she trust the Lord to give Mr. Lake wisdom in even this? Could this truly be why the Lord led her to America? “Y-yes, sir.”

  “Your courage is commendable.” He stood, and Sara’s gaze retreated to the dark leather photo album in her hands. “If you should change your mind, don’t hesitate to discuss options with me. Yes, I believe this is the path Carla intended, but there is the matter of discovering your other talents, and I am certain they are many.”

  Sara couldn’t risk a glance for fear of losing hold of her tears. Instead, she curtsied and left the room with another whispered statement of thanks and retreat. How many more secrets would the Lord ask her to reveal to others? How many more doors would He ask her to open, exposing herself to possible ridicule and mockery? How many more tests would He lead her through?

  The challenge of a new way of life loomed as frightful as it had that first day three years ago. That day she determined to leave it all behind and start anew in America. Now she began to see that changing her life would involve more than simply her journey to a different land—