Searching for Sara

  Sara’s step faltered at the entry to her room. A tower of hatboxes and trunks assaulted her vision, and Amy worked at the task of unpacking.

  The young maid glanced toward the doorway and smiled. She lifted up a formal of dark navy. “Aren’t these the loveliest gowns you’ve ever seen?”

  Horror pushed Sara back a step, ugly memories propelling her into a run back downstairs. She threw wide Mr. Lake’s office door and rushed inside. “Please, sir, you cannot!”

  He sat back in his chair, nonplussed. “What in heaven’s name is the matter?”

  “Please, sir, I . . . ." Sara wrung her hands until they throbbed. “The clothes . . . . I can manage on my own, sir. You need no’—”

  “Ah. Yes. I quite forgot.” He motioned to the chair across from his desk. “Please, Sara. Have a seat and calm yourself.”

  Her knees trembled as she lowered herself onto the chair edge. Please, Lord. I do no’ want to believe him the kind . . . .

  “Let me assure you there is nothing inappropriate in the giving nor your acceptance of the wardrobe. I apologize for any impertinence, but it must be done. You said you haven’t money enough to support yourself and it is in my power to end this specific need. In fact, I consider it my responsibility because of our role in your journey here.”

  “B-but—" Shame set her cheeks afire. “Thank you, sir.”

  Mr. Lake released a quick breath. “I apologize if I seem to tread over you like a pig in a field of flowers. Carla warned of my tendency to badger. ‘Chris,’ she would say, ‘you shove instead of nudge. It isn’t very diplomatic.’ ” He shrugged. “Ah well. What is done is done. Next time I will allow Gwyn’s charm to work its magic before asking you to mend my shirts.”

  Sara laughed, her hand lifting too late to muffle the sound.

  “Much better. Now, please do what you need to anything you find acceptable. They are yours to do with as you see fit, remnants from a benefit we held a season ago. Ladies and gentlemen ventured from all over creation, or so it seemed, to donate fashions to that evening.” Mr. Lake flipped to a page in the great album. “In fact, I have a photograph.”

  Blurred vision prevented Sara from discerning much more than a vast array of shapes and sizes. “It sounds lovely, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  “Mr. Lake.”

  “Y-yes, Mr. Lake.”

  He smiled. “I will see you for lunch then.”

  Sara pulled the office door closed behind her. He didn’t seem to understand that, to her, the trunks held more than simple frocks and gowns. They commanded her to follow a different set of rules, to entertain an opposite mind-set. Possibilities and fancies lay within those trunks. Sara wasn’t certain she wanted to free them. If she released one, she could set loose those bits of her own heart tucked away. Did she have courage enough to step into this new life?

  Her eyes drifted from the shine of the hardwood at her feet to the second story. If she wanted a change, she needed to embrace the journey with her whole heart. Sara released a deep breath and stepped forward, preparing her heart for the feel of the first satiny folds of her future.

  Six

  Memories of a Lost Passion

  “Blast it.”

  Christopher scowled at the album cover. While he expected Sara’s refusal of the supplement to her wardrobe, the initial refusal of his sponsorship caught him by surprise. Her attitude thus far reflected meek deference, so he anticipated an immediate acceptance of his professional experience. He hadn’t intended to press her into a decision. How would he encourage trust if he continue to badger her into terrifying situations?

  “Papa? Why are you mad?”

  Gwyn’s appearance melted his frown to a smile. He helped her into one of the wingback chairs. “I acted more than a tad bossy toward Miss Sara. Mama would be furious.” He would have given almost anything to hear her irritation as long as it meant her warmth beside him—

  “Not Sara! I like her.”

  “I know.” Christopher kissed her forehead. “I will apologize again at lunch.”

  “You should say sorry now, Papa.” She wriggled from the chair and pulled him from the room.

  He laughed, allowing her to drag him down the hall. “Gwyn, Angel, I believe it would be prudent to leave well enough alone at the moment. At least until lunch.”

  She didn’t release his hand until they stood outside the French doors leading into the conservatory. All emotion vanished from his countenance as he stared at the polished handles.

  “You get flowers for Sara now, Papa, and I will get her.” She scampered away.

  Christopher blinked, slowly, and fisted his hands at the swell of dread and misery. He tried to shake free of the memories, but he knew it wouldn’t deny the nightmares access . . . and he needed to fetch a flower. He shuddered as he pushed into her garden.

  ~§~

  Sara set aside the ivory gown of lace and satin brocade and opened her bedroom door. Gwyn smiled up at her. “Hello, Miss Gwyn—”

  “Look at the pretty dresses!” She scurried past Sara to caress the gowns and frocks strewn across the bed. “Are these yours? Are you going to wear one?”

  Sara laughed. “Not just yet, poppet.”

  “We need to separate them into seasons before she can do anything,” Amy said.

  “Can I help?”

  Amy and Sara exchanged amused glances. “It won’t be very exciting.”

  “But . . . but I want to help.” Her green eyes shimmered.

  “Of course you can help.” Sara knelt in front of a trunk and drew the girl close. “We but wanted you to know how dull this adventure will be.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Just remember that when you’re bawling to be let out.” Amy pulled aside the layer of tissue paper on the second trunk. “Lord have mercy!”

  Sara withdrew the gown of rich mahogany velvet to the accompaniment of a symphony of rustles. “Has there ever been such a gown?”

  “Sara, try it on!”

  She flushed. She wasn’t ready for that step into this unknown realm. “Not yet, Amy. Let’s hang the rest before we start.”

  “You would be beautiful. Like Mama.” Gwyn’s curls bobbed in unanimous agreement.

  “Thank you, poppet.” Sara peeked at the girl. “What do you remember about your mum?” At her age, even one year from the care of a mother equated most of her lifetime.

  “I remember her laugh. When Mama laughed, Papa did too.” Gwyn leaned her arms against the trunk. “I miss her at Christmas most.”

  “Goodness gracious what a time that would be.” Amy clasped her hands to her chest, memories dancing in her expression. “The mister and missus would throw the grandest parties. Such lovely voices they had, singing the hymns like angels.”

  Sara touched the girl on the nose. “Those are good memories, Gwyn.”

  “Mama says we’ll be happy, but . . . ." Gwyn hid her face against Sara’s chest. The girl’s shoulders trembled.

  “Oh, poppet. I know it’s hard, but it takes a little bit to let the pain go.” Sara brushed the tears from the girl’s cheeks. “You keep loving your papa and, one day, happiness will find you again.”

  “Will you stay to help?” Gwyn’s eyes twinkled with her sudden smile. “Maybe Papa will laugh like he used to?”

  Sara caressed more of the wetness from the cherub face. “Of course, poppet.” It would be a daily prayer, for a kind man like Mr. Lake deserved happiness.

  “Goodness gracious me, look at the time!” Amy bolted to her feet. “We’ve got to get you dressed for lunch or it’s my head!”

  Amy helped Sara into a frock of orchid and ivory and then hurried to the kitchens to help serve. Sara only just finished lacing her boots when Harold announced lunch. When Gwyn and Sara arrived, Mr. Lake wasn’t to be found.

  “Where’s Papa?”

  Harold entered the room from the kitchen before Sara could hazard a guess. “Your father is in the conservatory, Miss Gwyn.”

  “Oh! I forgot!”
Gwin tightened her grasp on Sara’s hand and tugged her from the room through the kitchen. “We’ll be right back, Harold!”

  “Why, Gwyn, what is it?”

  “We need to go!” The girl shoved through the etched glass doors of the conservatory, Sara tugged along in her wake. “Papa! Papa, I forgot!”

  “Gwyn!” Sara laughed. “Gwyn, Poppet, what is the—” They turned the path corner and Sara drew the girl up. Her father sat upon the steps of the vine-trellised gazebo, his shoulders stooped and his expression forlorn. He held a rosebud in a gentle clasp.

  Gwyn tugged at Sara’s hand. “But, Sara,” she complained, tone hushed as if even she could sense the melancholy taint.

  Sara drew the girl back a step. “Your papa needs a bit of time to himself.” Though even she could discern the grief that settled over him. How could she leave him to himself?

  Gwyn pulled at Sara’s arm. “He was getting you a flower.”

  A flower from the garden of his beloved wife. A journey into a painful memory. Hesitation trembled in her knees, but she struggled toward the gazebo.

  “Papa!”

  Mr. Lake straightened, drawing a ragged breath. “Ah. I forgot the time. My apologies.” He forced a stiff smile and stood, tossing the rosebud into the pond. The splash caused a flinch. “Come along, Gwynnie.” Mr. Lake enfolded the girl’s hand in his. “Lunch is waiting, and you know how Cook fusses if we run tardy.”

  The pair disappeared around a bend in the walk, their figures lost from sight by the lush greenery. Sara pressed a trembling hand to her forehead, her eyes burning. Now she understood why the Lord called her to this beautiful family. Mr. Lake hadn’t yet grieved his wife, and now an untold agony grew to an oppressive burden. Who better than she could understand how he suffered?

  Sara choked out a prayer for guidance.

  ~§~

  “Mr. Christopher?”

  Christopher looked up from his examination of Sara and Gwyn’s combined effort of the picture-book. Harold stood in his office doorway. “Yes?”

  “Jeffrey Stillwell is here to see you. He has no appointment, but asked to wait for your earliest convenience.”

  “Show him in, Harold. It doesn’t appear I will make it to the gallery today.” Christopher set the sketch aside. “Interrupt me when that call from Paul comes through.”

  “Yes, Mr. Christopher.”

  A moment later a gentleman of short stature entered his office. Jeffrey Stillwell’s silver eyes twinkled with his easy smile. Christopher shook the man’s hand and urged him to sit. “What can I do for you, Jeff? And don’t ask for more of Sean’s work. I haven’t any.”

  “No, no, Chris. I know I wrangled it all. I am on a mission for a friend of mine.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, it seems he wishes to invest into some art or artist.” He chuckled. “He saw my charcoal collection, I believe they were your firsts, and offered me quite a sum.”

  “Odd. Charcoals aren’t normally seen as an investment.”

  “But everyone knows you are not an active artist. That increases their worth, especially in consideration of your talent.”

  “Enough honey,” Christopher said, smiling. “What did you want?”

  Jeff laughed. “Do you know of another artist of your caliber? All for my friend, of course.”

  “Of course.” Christopher glanced to Sara’s sketch of his daughter, hidden near his file tray. “Charcoals?”

  “Why yes. Do you know—”

  “Mr. La—Oh. P-Pardon me.”

  Both Christopher and Jeff turned. Sara Little stood in the doorway the embodiment of uncertainty. She wore a skirt of powder blue with an ivory chiffon blouse that heightened her delicate physique and slender form.

  “Ah. Miss Sara. Come in and meet an acquaintance of mine. This is Jeffrey Stillwell, a regular patron of the gallery here. This is Miss Sara Little, recently of England.”

  Sara bobbed a graceful curtsy. When Jeffrey stepped forward to offer his hand in greeting, her cheeks flushed crimson.

  “Miss Little.” He bowed over her hand. “A pleasure.”

  She glanced toward Christopher. He smiled. “Did you have a question?”

  “Y-yes, Mr. Lake. I wanted to . . . . I m-mean—" She lightly bit her lower lip.

  “Why, my dear!” Jeff urged her to sit. “There’s no need to tear up. Come now. Tell us what has happened.”

  “I . . . I used my last bit of paper.” Sara hid the charcoal stains of her fingers, clasping her hands in her lap.

  “No paper! That is a tragedy for certain. Chris, certainly you will allow her to raid your treasure-trove of supplies?”

  “Certainly. There is a portfolio overflowing with paper on my desk in my studio. Take the entire sheaf.”

  “There now, my dear. Problem solved.” Jeff gave her clenched hands a fatherly squeeze.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “I would love the opportunity to come again and see what you have sketched. How long will you be staying in America, Miss Little? And with whom are you staying?”

  Christopher blinked at a sudden, sickening realization. “Jeff, let us allow Sa—Miss Little to return to her sketching. Shall we?”

  “Thank you, s-sir.” Sara stood and curtsied, once to each gentleman before retreating from the office.

  “What a charming young woman. Lovely—Chris, are you well?”

  “I experienced an epiphany that is a bit of an embarrassment, Jeff.” Christopher slumped into the chair Sara just vacated. “She is a guest in my house. Why did I not think of this before?” He focused on the older man. Perplexity furrowed the man’s brow. “She has no chaperone.”

  “Dear me. When did she arrive?”

  “Yesterday morning.” Christopher scrubbed at his scalp. “We invited her before Carla . . . . Unfortunately, complications delayed Miss Little’s arrival. I did not think of arranging her lodging elsewhere. Why would I?”

  “Could Miss Little stay with your sister? She enjoys guests for extended periods.”

  “Dix and Paul are still in New York.” Christopher scrubbed at his scalp. “Here I am responsible for her welfare and I could have damaged her reputation!”

  “Nonsense. Do not surrender yourself to melodramatics.”

  “Melodramatics, Jeff?” Christopher chuckled. “Yes, of course you are right. It has simply been too long since . . . ."

  Jeff waved the comment aside. “Indeed it has. I certainly will keep this challenge to myself. Might I suggest you call Dixon and make arrangements? Gregory, that is the Donovan Houseman, correct? Gregory will be more than able to care for her until they arrive.

  “I appreciate your secrecy, Jeff. I will keep you apprised of my search for an artist appropriate for your friend.”

  “Thank you, Chris. And do let me know if you need anything. You know the misses and I would love to have company, even should they stay a single night.”

  Christopher gave the man’s extended hand a firm clasp. “Thank you. I will.”

  Jeff exited. Harold appeared a few moments later. “Excuse me, but Mr. Paul is on the line from New York.”

  Christopher made his way to the adjacent studio and picked up the line. “Paul, You have an idiot for a brother-in-law.”

  “Chris, what on earth is the trouble?”

  “I need you and Dix to come out right away.”

  “What has happened?”

  “Do you remember the English woman you referred?”

  “English wom—Dear Lord! She only just arrived?”

  “There were complications. Now I have been a fool and did not arrange separate accommodations for her, though goodness knows she mentioned it more than once.” Christopher grumbled. “She stayed the night here at Lake Manor, Paul.”

  “Understood. Dix and I will leave on the first train available this evening. We should be there by Saturday. Send her on over to our place with her maid, if she has one. You have the key?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fine t
hen. We will see you in two days.”

  “Thank you, Paul.”

  Christopher slammed down the receiver, cursing his stupidity as he exited his studio. Emily passed to the kitchen. “Emily.”

  “Yes, Mr. Christopher?”

  “Miss Little will be staying with Paul and Dixon until further notice.”

  Emily blinked. “Now?”

  “Yes. Straightaway. Can you have Amy pack her things? Let Harold know to have Brian and Thomas ferry them over. I have the key, so I will go along with them.”

  “Certainly, Mr. Christopher.”

  “Ah, and have Gwyn go along after dinner. Have her things packed and sent as well.”

  “Yes, Mr. Christopher.” After another glance, she hurried upstairs.

  ~§~

  The scratch of pencil against paper teased Sara’s rose lips with a content smile. In the east corner of the conservatory she found a nook with a wrought-iron bench surrounded by fragrant bushes. Lilacs, Harold called them. The small hideaway whispered visions of fairytales. Such fun to have sketching her only responsibility! To listen for the murmur of inspiration and explore herself with the act.

  She surveyed her sketch at multiple angles and laughed. Most of the scenes were silly nothings, an allowance of fun she hadn’t experienced before. Her eyes and cheeks glowed with it.

  “Ah. You have found it then.”

  Sara’s pencil tumbled from her fingers. Her gaze met Mr. Lake’s and her fingers clenched the sheaf of remaining paper. A stab of fear quickened her heartbeat. Silly girl! He urged you to come here, yes? “M-Mr. Lake. How are you?”

  He retrieved the pencil, gathering also those sketches beside her. Sara watched him in mild horror.

  “Miss Sara . . . ." He motioned deeper into the conservatory. “Walk with me.”

  “O-of course, sir.”

  The silence pressed at her as they walked along the path, the flora and fauna doing little to soothe the troubled expression from his brow.

  Mr. Lake shot her a lengthy glance. The look preyed on her heart so she feared she would tremble from her skin. But what could she do? Starting conversation hadn’t been expected of her in the past. She willed her voice to remain calm. “Did you have a good visit with your friend?”