Searching for Sara

  “Yes.”

  His absent response voided her smile. She noticed another glance her direction, and his ears darkened to scarlet.

  “My friend made an innocent comment, as a matter of fact. I am quite embarrassed. I, er, you are a single lady and I a widower—” Sara gasped, fighting a sudden swell of nausea. “Yes. I believe I had a similar reaction. Since your protection and care are my responsibility, I arranged a safer place for you to stay. With Paul and Dixon Donovan. We are neighbors, for the most part.”

  “Mr. Lake . . . ." Sara’s step faltered and stopped; her hands clasped, white-knuckled. “Sir, I am t-too much of a bother. I-I can stay at a church or—”

  “Nonsense! Your presence has been nothing but a blessing, especially to Gwyn. Everyone has commented on her raised spirits. Even you seem less tired after a good rest.”

  “B-but I am naught but a girl off the street to you, sir. What if I were lying about your wife and the friends from England? What if it’s but a tale?” Her voice cracked. Sara looked away.

  She didn’t understand why he would do something like this for someone like her. What did a servant girl know about a reputation? More than one of her acquaintances gave into the temptation of a trip to the master’s bed. That he would think to save her reputation! Tears tickled her cheeks.

  “You have shown yourself kind-hearted and compassionate, so I will not believe your situation a lie. Gwyn will enjoy having you to herself, and I . . . ." He smiled and gave her arm a gentle pressure. “Well, perhaps I will be better able to work at the gallery when I know Gwyn is in such capable hands.”

  “But, sir—”

  “No.” Mr. Lake chuckled. “You should enjoy this adventure. Gwyn will.”

  Sara looked down. “Y-Yes, sir.”

  “I will allow your escape to your artistry now, and Harold will fetch you before dinner so you may have the time to change. Is that well enough?”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, s-sir.”

  Mr. Lake remained quiet for a long moment. Then he turned and made his way back to the Manor. Sara lowered herself onto the bench seat with a slow sigh.

  Seven

  Revealing Heroes

  6 January 1894

  Christopher stared at the tombstone. His hand trembled as he clutched two rings strung on a chain of fine gold. ‘You must keep living,’ Carla had whispered, her hand clasping his with her last moment of strength. ‘Hold to your passion.’ Then she slipped into eternity. His wife, his love, his reason for living—dead, and their son with her. Why? But there were no answers. There never would be.

  A breeze ruffled his dark curls, the bite of winter stinging his face. He turned away, girding himself for yet another day without the melody of her laughter. Eighteen months seemed an eternity, and while his soul yearned for comfort, he couldn’t find his way beyond the silence. He could still feel her breath upon his face. The fragrance of her teased his senses when he passed the library. In the midst of his loneliness he could feel her skin against his—

  A moan ravaged his throat, and his hands fisted at his sides. You lied. His head fell back, the blackness of his hazel eyes staring heavenward. You asked for trust and I gave it to You. I believed You would heal her, but You did nothing.

  Thunder grumbled a warning of the coming winter storm. Christopher clambered into the carriage. It lurched forward. Without Carla, what did life offer? Christopher dropped his head in his hands. Reliving their moments together wouldn’t make that fact any less true, any less painful, or any less . . . forever.

  ~§~

  The front doors of the gallery thudded closed. “Teddy?”

  Sculptor and friend Theodore ‘Teddy’ Parker partnered with Christopher to open the gallery out of college. Together, their connections with the artistic community set them up as the gallery of Richmond’s younger set.

  “Top! Where are you?”

  “Main hall.” Christopher frowned as he studied the layout of the main reception area.

  The staccato of Teddy’s shoes on the marble flooring signaled his approach. “What has you by the scruff?”

  “A new artist to unveil but I have not the faintest of notions how we should exhibit them, unless we use one of the smaller rooms. Of course, if we hold a reception for a secondary artist at the same time that might be key to a larger audience.”

  “Who’s the artist?”

  “Hm?” Christopher looked up. As usual, Teddy’s straight red hair needed a comb, and stone dust plagued his once nice suit. “What was that?”

  A smirk teased Teddy’s lips. “The artist? Who is it? I don’t recall signing anyone to a contract.”

  “Ah. A new talent from England.” A talent he couldn’t wait to unveil. People would flock to her. Would it bolster her confidence?

  “And what little bird did you eat?”

  “Hm?”

  “Nothing. What style?”

  “Charcoals and pencils.” Christopher frowned at the wall across from him that displayed a modest collection of watercolors. Could her images be described so simply? They were extraordinary sketches of life. Captured bits of innocence. Scenes from a feminine heart somehow undamaged by a harsh life. “Charcoals and pencils.”

  “Yes, you said that. It has been a while since we received a display of those. Oils have been the rage of late. How many?”

  “Only four or five.”

  “Excuse me? I don’t believe I heard aright. Fourteen?”

  “No. I said four, and you know I did. This is a teaser, Teddy. Once we gauge the response, then I will ask the artist to release more.” Hopefully Sara would allow a second and third display. Amy and Emily both reported Sara had produced a sheaf full of images. Eagerness to see them bit at his patience.

  “If displayed here, you know they are going to clamor—Why the timidity?”

  Christopher shot Teddy a glance. “The artist had to be gently”—or not so gently—“urged to agree to any display at all. So, in respect of that hesitation, we will wait.”

  Teddy inclined his head. “You want them to see their own success.”

  “Something like that. Yes.” The enthusiasm would be an instant bolster to Sara’s confidence.

  “Might I see what we plan to cause a spectacle with?”

  “Of course.” Teddy followed Christopher to the office. “I have chosen my favorites, but I refuse to make a final choice until I have a chance to speak with the artist.”

  “Fine. When will they be coming by?”

  “I hope sometime tomorrow afternoon.” He only had to reason out the best way to coax her.

  Teddy cast him a probing glance. “Will they remain anonymous from everyone? Or will you deign to let me meet them?”

  “I haven’t decided.”

  Teddy cuffed Christopher on the arm. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “That I have known you long enough to encourage prudence.”

  “Wha—” A knowing smile heightened Teddy’s usual expression of mischief. “Now it all makes sense.”

  Christopher withheld a groan. “What are you talking about?”

  “Does she have a name?”

  “Who?” The heat spread to Christopher’s face.

  “Don’t give me that, Top. The artist from England, what’s her name?”

  “Don’t be an ass.” Christopher stalked into his office.

  “I’m not being an ass. Did I say it was a horrible bit of truth the artist is a woman? I only want to know her name—”

  “I am warning you, Ted.” Christopher snatched up Sara’s sketches. The action created a smudge in one corner. He flinched.

  “Of what? I haven’t said a word these past eighteen months,” Teddy complained. “I let you bury yourself, though I knew what would come of it. But what did I know about losing a wife? Especially someone like Carla.”

  “Drop it, Teddy.”

  “Chris—” He intercepted Christopher’s sharp look and frowned. “Fine. Are these the charcoals—These are spectacular!?
??

  The sketch in Teddy’s hands drew his attention. As with all Sara’s sketches, an intensity in the image spoke to the viewer’s soul. An intensity of innocence. Of purity untouched.

  “Who is this woman?”

  “Sara Little.” Christopher leaned against his desk and crossed his arms. “Hardship is woven in her life, Teddy, which is why Paul and Dix encouraged her to contact us. As a rescue.”

  Teddy blinked. “You . . . . Why did you not tell me?”

  “It has been two years since we made the arrangements for her.”

  His friend nodded. “Thought she experienced a change of heart?”

  “Something to that effect, yes. It broke Carla’s heart, as I recall.” Now, to think back on the prayers she lifted for Sara . . . . “Something has protected her these two years.” He motioned to the sketches in Teddy’s hand. “You hold the proof, as is her very persona when you meet her.”

  Teddy thumbed through the sketches once again. “You want me to order those invitations we use?” He shot Christopher a sidelong glance as he set the sketches aside. “We may as well set things to motion.”

  “I would appreciate that.” Christopher met his friend’s gaze. “I am not up to the trip.”

  Teddy smirked. “You haven’t been up for much of anything. Thank God you’ve finally got yourself an artist to display. I didn’t want to do something drastic.”

  “I arranged a showing of Sean’s art. Remember?”

  “Sure, and you started that five months ago. It took you, what? Nearly two months just to get the little thing planned? Sean wondered if you would ever set the date for the display.”

  Christopher sat at his desk. “Yes, well, this is not the only gallery I own.” But the excuse rang hollow.

  “Don’t pull that one. You haven’t set foot out of Virginia—” Christopher frowned. Teddy backed toward the door, arms raised. “I will talk to the printers and give the final approval for—Wait. I can’t do that until we know a date. Any idea?”

  “Pick a date.”

  Teddy blinked. “Are you serious?”

  “Go away. I have work to do.”

  Teddy smirked. “I know. It’s called ‘Ignore’.” The staccato clicks of his shoes receded down the hall and out of the gallery.

  A small smile tickled the corners of Christopher’s lips. Sara’s sketches drew his gaze and he gathered them from the corner of his desk. His smile faded. ‘Something has protected her these two years.’ A sharp pain behind his right eye elicited a hiss. He lifted a hand to rub at his forehead.

  A whisper drew his attention. “Hello?” Another whisper. He stood from his desk and opened the door. “Gwyn!”

  His daughter smiled up at him. She stood in front of a lunch cart. “Sara and I made lunch!”

  Sara hovered on the opposite end of the cart, her cheeks flushed and her eyes downcast. “Why the excitement? Were you and Miss Little bored?”

  Gwyn shook her head, expression serious. “I missed you.”

  Christopher smoothed her curls. “I appreciate it, Angel Girl. To tell the truth, I fought with boredom myself. Come along.” He urged her inside, holding the door for Sara who followed with the lunch cart. The ivory of her dress enhanced the richness of her mahogany waves and the soft blush of her cheeks.

  Gwyn grabbed his hand and tugged him to a chair. As Sara prepared the cart with grace and quiet, he attempted to hear his daughter’s excited chatter regarding their adventure that morning.

  “You had yourself a busy day. I am glad I wasn’t missed too terribly.”

  His daughter gasped, emerald gaze shimmering. “Oh, Papa! We missed you terribly!”

  “As I missed you, Angel Girl. Not once did I hear a giggle.”

  Gwyn squealed, as he knew she would, and threw herself into his arms. Sara laughed. The feminine sound of joy grabbed Christopher by the throat, draining all blood from his face. He forced a smile. How long since he heard laughter – feminine, adult laughter?

  He cleared his throat and shot the young woman a quick glance. Her cheeks burned crimson, blue eyes intent upon her clasped hands. “Thank you, Miss Litt—”

  “Papa?”

  “Gwyn. What have I told you of interrupting?”

  “I didn’t mean to, Papa.”

  “I know, Angel. Ask your question.”

  “Why do you call Sara ‘Miss Little’?”

  “Only in certain public situations. It would be unfair to demand she call me Chris and not return the courtesy.”

  “Did your papa call you a special name?” Gwyn asked.

  Sara paled, her expression stricken as she stared at his daughter.

  He hissed. “Gwyneth Marie!” The reaction turned yet another page of confession into her past. An absent father? An abusive one?

  Gwyn’s chin trembled. “I-I’m sorry, Papa.”

  “Sir, please. “ Sara’s voice quivered, her shoulders slumped. “She couldn’t know, sir.”

  His daughter leaned against Sara, her little hands caressing the young woman’s tear-stained face. Sara forced a tremulous smile.

  “Don’t cry, Sara,” Gwyn pleaded. “Please don’t cry.”

  She gathered Gwyn into her arms.

  Christopher couldn’t look from the embrace. Though it brought to mind vivid memories of Carla, he sat mesmerized by the ache in his soul. A thirst for a similar embrace. For a remembered warmth. For a revisit to a fragrance of femininity and compassion. Tenderness. Softness—

  Something collapsed within his hand. He set aside the mangled spoon and covered it with his napkin.

  “Sara . . . ." He met Sara’s glimmering blue gaze. The grief of her father’s loss could be seen so clear. “Please forgive me, but, do you know your father?”

  Sara swiped away a tear. “No, sir. Barely a name. It hurt my mum to ask. And, the truth of it is I did no’ want to know of him. If he loved us, why did he leave? W-why did he no come home when I needed him? Was I no’ enough—” Her voice cracked, tears choking any further words as she shook her head.

  He didn’t blame her decision, this fight against the hope her father could be alive. After all, if such were the case, why did he allow her to struggle on her own? The lack of her father’s presence contributed to the harshness of her past. Christopher covered her hand with his. He did not know how to comfort her, but he understood the agony of betrayal and loss. Perhaps that would be enough?

  Eight

  A Collection of Firsts

  8 January 1894

  The observation room became Sara’s favorite of the Donovan home. The windows overlooked the rear gardens, now blanketed by snow dancing with the brightness of the early morning sun. She lowered her gaze to the tatting shuttle in her hand. Time never before passed so quiet and calm. Instead of a constant rush and mere moments to herself, she completed a needlework cushion for Gwyn’s room, tatted edgings for Mr. Lake’s kerchief, and uncounted sketches tucked away in her leather portfolio.

  “Sara?”

  Mr. Lake entered, a dashing figure in his pin stripe suit and light gray tie. She stood to bob a nervous curtsy. His sister and brother-in-law arrived that afternoon, and Sara fully expected the early morning to herself. “G-good morning, sir.”

  “Good morning to you. I hope today finds you well.” He motioned for her to sit and settled himself into the wingback chair across from her. The lush jade heightened the darker tones of his skin.

  “I slept well, sir. Thank you.”

  “And Gwyn? She did not keep you up too late watching the snow, did she?” Mr. Lake retrieved one of Sara’s new crocheted doilies from the oak side-table. “She will want to play in the snow this morning. I recommend having one of the younger boys indulge her with a snowball fight. She has impressive aim with . . . a . . . . This is extraordinary!”

  Sara flushed, unable to look from his handsome face as he scrutinized the stitches. “Crocheting, sir?”

  “This must have taken months!”

  Sara laughed. “Not so lo
ng as that, sir. You won’t let me do naught but my crafts.”

  “You mean to say this took but a few days?” Mr. Lake set to a more extensive examination. He seemed to study each knot and loop.

  Sara stole glimpses as she worked the tatting shuttle. His brow creased, concentration evident while his mind planned the process of creating a doily. Sara hadn’t before met a gentleman interested in her crafts. They spoke only of hunting or cards. While she did her best to seem interested, some still accused her of slow-wit. Sara lifted her shoulders in an absent shrug and counted the knots for the kerchief edging.

  “What is that there? Such grace.”

  Mr. Lake’s question drew her gaze. “This, sir? Tatting.” She showed him the ivory thread looped around her fingers. “I use a fine thread to create knots in a specific pattern. These knots form loops and rings combined into a type of lace for edgings. Or I can make doilies, baby bonnets, dress collars, and boutonniere.”

  “With such simple motions of that tool?”

  “Yes, sir. A shuttle.” Sara showed him the shell shuttle pinched between her thumb and index finger. “This was my mother’s.”

  “Such an intriguing art. Is it a common pastime for maids in England?”

  “No, sir. But my mum served as a lady’s maid for the aristocracy.”

  “Ah. A rare opportunity then?”

  Sara nodded. Her gaze settled on the shuttle. Memories of laughter and scolding alike hovered in its luminescence. Whenever she took up the shuttle she felt her mother there beside her, offering encouragement, strength, love. Hours spent learning and laughing.

  “Carla would have envied this skill.”

  Sara met Mr. Lake’s gaze, startled. “Sir?”

  His hazel eyes darkened with an unsettling visage of haunting. “You have shown the grace in the creation of something many of us take for granted. The patience such a delicate art requires would attract her respect.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Sara never thought of tatting in such a way. As a child it became a way to spend more time with her mother. As a young woman, it served an entrance to memories.

  “Your mother taught you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You must have enjoyed that time with her.”

  Sara peeked at him. He continued to watch her hands while his fingers tapped a rhythm on the chair arm. “I did, sir.” She treasured those short hours together, remembering them with fond distinction.