Searching for Sara

  “Was she troubled by the sudden move?” Dix’s chocolate-brown eyes darkened.

  “Sara or Gwyn?”

  “Don’t be daft. How was Sara?”

  “Dix, I made certain to explain everything.”

  “It must have been a shock for the poor dear. Did you discover why so long passed before she could come?”

  Christopher motioned to the exit. “I will answer your questions in the carriage. Is your luggage being forwarded?”

  “Yes. Everything is arranged. Dix and I have enough at the house to hold us until it arrives. But we aren’t concerning ourselves with that just now. How is Sara acclimating?”

  “She is fine, Paul. Gwyn is absolutely smitten.” Christopher began to think his daughter the only reason Sara remained. After all, how many times did he browbeat the girl in order to have his way with her art?

  The trio exited the station into the crisp briskness of the winter afternoon. They scurried into the carriage.

  “How are you?” Paul asked. His gray eyes scrutinized Christopher’s profile. “This must have been a shock.”

  “Stop your clucking. Both of you.”

  “Cluck-cluck,” Dix retorted. “Will you at least tell us what has been decided for her?”

  “She has an exceptional talent with pencils and charcoal.”

  Dix smiled at her husband. “You were right, Paul. Charcoal dust on her fingers.”

  “Playing detective again?”

  “Everyone needs a hobby. You had one, too. Remember?”

  Christopher flinched. “Paul, I do not paint any longer. Leave it alone.”

  “Carla would be heart-broken.”

  Paul squeezed Dix’s hand. “Leave him be, my love.” Her expression protested, but she remained silent. “How long will you need us to stay, Chris? Will Sara be attending any showings in New York? I assume you will arrange some.”

  “Yes, but I believe Sara would feel more at ease if either you or Dix acted as her representative.”

  “I don’t doubt she declined. The showings in New York would be too extreme for someone such as her. I will do my best to act on her behalf, but we won’t arrange an exhibit there for a little while, correct? Not until a few here have met with success?”

  “Correct. I want her to see how well received she is before asking her to take another step forward. I have warned her of the possibility.”

  “Oh, Paul, I can hardly wait to meet her again. She was such a dear at the party. Very attentive and sincere.” Dix frowned. “I only wish her employer—do you recall his name, Paul? Brockle?—I only wish he would have left her alone. Shouting and harassing the poor dear. What a brute! I am only glad she esca—He didn’t happen to be the one causing the complications?”

  “Yes. It seems he made untoward advances and then threatened to dismiss her without pay or references if she left his employ.” Christopher did his best not to chuckle when Dix sputtered with rage.

  “What happened?” Paul asked.

  “She left his employ without pay or references. She stayed with a friend of her mother’s until she could save up enough to purchase her ticket.” If she had but written him sooner the cost of her passage would have been provided.

  “The poor dear.” Dix shook her head.

  “Indeed. She is a courageous young woman.”

  “Yes, she is.” Christopher stared out at the passing winter scenery. “She reminds me of Carla, in that respect.”

  “Gwyn has likely done wonders in helping Sara acclimate. She is so much her mother’s daughter,” Dix offered carefully.

  Christopher nodded, his gaze lowering to the pocket-watch in his hand. Then he cleared his throat and tucked it away. “Yes, and that is the reason I had Gwyn stay with her.”

  “I hoped you might.” Paul chuckled. “You know how Gwyn loves adventure.”

  Dix laughed. “Paul, do you remember the last time she came to stay? You and Chris had a showing in the City and Carla and Gwyn came to spend the week.”

  Paul frowned, tapping his lips with a finger—he snapped. “The three of you designed a play, sets and costumes included, and performed it when we returned. Pirates?”

  “Female pirates, to Gwyn’s pleasure.”

  Christopher smiled. “Gwyn was just three and played an admiral, didn’t she?”

  “Yes, and we had to keep prompting her with her lines and said most of them ourselves.”

  “My favorite part was your capture and Gwyn trying to wrestle around that wooden sword!” Paul laughed.

  “Oh . . . ." Dix wiped tears from the corners of her eyes. “Dear me, such fun. I wonder if we have the costumes yet?”

  “Seems to me we tucked those away in the attic, along with the other projects you three devised while Topper and I were away.”

  “Oh it would be great fun to bring them down, Paul. Sara would make a wonderful damsel in distress.”

  Paul shot Christopher a glance. “Let’s be sure to talk to Sara. With her talent at crafts and sketches, she is likely to have wonderful ideas for rejuvenating the sets and costumes.”

  “Think of the plays Gwyn has likely imagined while we’ve been away!” She clapped her hands. “Oh, I can hardly wait!”

  “Don’t volunteer Sara until she is given the opportunity to warm up to us, Sweet. Otherwise, you’re liable to undo those miracles Topper and Gwyn have done.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, darling! Sara and I will get along famously. Isn’t that right, Chris?”

  Christopher looked away from the winter scenery. “Hm?”

  “Sara and I,” Dix prodded. “We’ll become fast friends, which I am determined to prove this evening at dinner.”

  “Only if you are gentle with her.”

  “Chris, don’t be ridiculous! Certainly I know Sara is timid. I met her long before she knew the safety of Lake Manor.”

  “I am only offering a reminder, dearest. She has already been submitted to Teddy’s playful flirtation. I do not believe she could emotionally handle your instant affection without a little warning.”

  Dix scoffed. “As I say, brother mine, just you watch my dear Sara Little in the comfort of Lake Manor as we dine this evening.”

  Ten

  Bittersweet Reminders of Nothing

  Gwyn leaned across the arm of the chair, paddling her feet as she watched Sara guide the charcoal across the page. “That is pretty. Is it me?” She pointed to the child on a log.

  “Yes it is. Your papa is there, and God in the clouds . . . and do you see that face right there? That’s your mama looking over you.”

  “So pretty . . . ." Gwyn’s face puckered. “Where are you?”

  “Not in this picture. This is your family.”

  “But you are in our family now! Papa said so.”

  “Gwyn . . . ."

  “If you’re not in it, it’s not done.”

  Sara worried her lower lip as she hesitantly lifted her pencil–

  “Excuse me, miss.” Gregory stood in the doorway of the observatory. “The Donovans have arrived.”

  “Uncle Paul!” Gwyn scampered from the room, squeals and laughter followed in her wake.

  Sara set the paper and pencils aside, but her fingers lingered. She couldn’t ignore what the sketch already whispered, though it made her heart jump—Gwyn’s squeal of welcome drew Sara back to reality. She shook the image from her mind and hurried outside.

  Paul Donovan set Gwyn upon his hip. As was her custom with anyone, Gwyn cupped his handsome face in her hands and grinned. Paul, Dixon, and Christopher all laughed, the sincerity of it setting Sara’s heart at ease.

  Paul Donovan’s sandy-blond hair and gray eyes added a certain depth to his clean-shaven face and kind tone. His gangly appearance brought with it the memory of their first meeting at a dinner party in England. Expecting his height and excessive amount of limb and leg to become a detriment to his dance, Sara had watched in awe as he guided Dixon Donovan around the floor with the grace of a nobleman. Even now the recollec
tion of surrounding shocked whispers brought a smile.

  “Hello, Angel Girl. How is our favorite niece?” Dixon Donovan rested a hand on her niece’s shoulder. The smile on her rose lips shone in her brown eyes, heightening the beauty of her heart-shaped face.

  “Silly, Aunt! I’m your only one.”

  Dixon Donovan pinched Gwyn’s nose. “True. I wonder if that is why your Uncle and I only brought one of these.” She drew a gold bracelet from the inside of her glove.

  “Oh!” The afternoon sunshine twinkled off the golden charms, dancing in Gwyn’s wide eyes. “Thank you, Uncle. Thank you, Aunt.”

  “Do you see the charms?” Mr. Donovan reached out to touch one. It looked to be an almost horseshoe-like arch. “That is the Arc de Triomphe in Paris. This is Big Ben, in England—”

  “England?” Gwyn peeked over her right shoulder to Sara. “Have you seen Big Ben?”

  Sara nodded, desperate to be calm even as everyone focused upon her. “I did, miss. I worked for a family who lived in just the right place for me to see it every morning.” The only blessing of the position.

  “Truly?” Gwyn offered up the bracelet. “What are these others? Have you seen them, too?”

  Sara peeked at Mr. Lake as she cradled the bracelet. “I am not the one to ask after these lovelies, Gwyn.”

  The girl pointed to another charm: A ship. “You don’t know what this is from?”

  “No, miss, but your Uncle and Aunt do.”

  “You could pretend, Sara? We could get close to what is real.”

  Sara laughed, her smile fading when she heard the crisp sound of Mr. Lake’s retreating steps. Dixon squeezed Paul’s shoulder and followed her brother. Concern fluttered and made Sara’s throat tighten, but she forced a smile.

  ~§~

  Christopher slumped against the door, his breathing rough. Stories compared with real life. Games of imagination to bring laughter. He fisted his hands, fighting against the memories no longer enough—

  The door clicked and pulled away. “Chris?”

  Christopher straightened. “I am fine, Dix.”

  “So it finally begins.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The realization you have no idea how to continue. The need to move beyond the shock of her death. Moving on.”

  “Moving on?” Christopher gaped at her. “To what?”

  “To the life put on hold since Carla’s passing.”

  He scoffed. “And what life would that be? Tell me, Dix. What life has been ‘put on hold’ but the one stolen from me?”

  “That is enough!” Dix slammed down her gloves. “Christopher Andrew, stop feeling sorry for yourself! You lost a wife and newborn babe, yes. It was horribly unfair, yes. But what gives you the right to keep Gwyn separated from a woman’s care?”

  “Oh? So I am to be a good lad and compare pedigrees and histories, choosing the prettiest face to satisfy a man’s needs and a daughter’s grief?”

  “Gwyn deserves a mother, and you need a wife.”

  “I had one!”

  “Yes, and God freed her from the pain of a baby too soon coming.” Christopher turned away. Dix released a slow breath. “You can no longer exist on memories. How long will you separate yourself from what you both want? What you crave?”

  “Carla is my wife, Dix. My lover. My friend. My passion.” Christopher buried his hands in his hair. “Do you know what it is like to lose that? She took me with her when she died, leaving nothing.”

  “Chris . . . ." She gripped his arm. “This loyalty to Carla is misplaced.”

  “She is my wife!”

  “And she is dead.” Christopher flinched. “She is gone, Chris. Move forward with your life. Carla would never want you to suffer like this.”

  “I told you. There is nothing left.” He strode down the hall into the shadows.

  Dix stared after him.

  ~§~

  “I hope you have found everything satisfactory here at the house.” Paul Donovan adjusted Gwyn in his arms. “I suppose it seems more reserved than Lake Manor, but we are fond.”

  Sara struggled with her attention. Mrs. Donovan and Mr. Lake had been gone such a long time. “It is a lovely home. My favorite rooms are the library and the observatory. At least, that is what I call the room by the garden.”

  Paul chuckled. “I spend quite a bit of time there myself. Reading. Pondering. Or listening to Dix read Harper’s Weekly. It’s especially enjoyable in the spring. There is a family of—”

  Dix Donovan exited the house.

  Sara’s heart twittered at the troubled expression on the woman’s countenance. “Is something wrong, mum?”

  “Where’s Papa?”

  Dix offered Gwyn a reassuring smile. “Don’t you worry about your papa, dear. He needed some time to stretch his legs after a long carriage ride.” Dix cast Sara a direct look. “Could you find out from Chris when he would care to leave for Lake Manor for dinner this evening? I believe I saw him heading for the back garden.”

  Sara hurried forward into the townhouse, her steps echoing the patter of her heart. Mr. Lake stood a few yards down the garden’s main path, both hands clenched behind his back as he stared forward. She stepped toward him, hesitant. What could she say? Words meant nothing in the face of grief. All she knew to offer was what God offered her, a listening ear and an understanding heart.

  The breeze pinched her face, coloring her breath white as it danced and mingled with his. If he’s searching, can You help him take the right path? I know how lonely a place it is to be without the people you count on most. Like drowning when you see your freedom just out of reach. Sara blinked away the tears. But You helped me get back each time. Can you help him, too? Use me.

  “They tell me to move on.”

  Sara met his gaze, his hazel eyes obsidian.

  “How do I forget someone like Carla? The mother of my child. The inspiration to my art. The passion of my gallery . . . . Sara, how do I simply ‘move on’?”

  She gave a slight shake of her head. “You canno’.” He looked away. “No’ the way you think they mean for you to do it. Your Carla will always be with you. Just like my mum is always with me. I know that’s not nearly good enough, because even I find myself wishing for her. When I am lonely. When I am confused and scared . . . . But I have my memories. Of the way she touched my cheek. A whisper of a song she used to sing. The times we talked together . . . . I remember those and feel better. Like she stands with me again.”

  “But Gwyn needs a mother, and I . . . ." He released a ragged breath. “Some days I believe I will go mad from missing her. Others, hearing her laughter is a dagger. I am as afraid to lose those memories as to relive them.”

  “But you loved her, sir. You should no’ forget that.”

  “It is hell to remember.”

  Sara laid her hand upon his arm, the touch drawing his pained gaze. “Do no’ try to remember her alone, sir. You have an angel of a daughter, a best friend at the gallery, your sister and her husband . . . . They all loved her. They miss her. You need to let people help you.”

  “But, Sara, I do not want her to be gone.”

  “I know, sir, and that be fine.”

  Mr. Lake stared down at her for such a long time. Then he gave a slight nod and reached across to cover her hand, his grip tight. “Thank you, Sara.” He turned toward the house, shoulders slumped.

  “Mr. Christopher?” Sara rushed to stand beside him, gazing up at his taut profile with wide eyes. “May I . . . may I pray for you, sir?”

  His persona changed at that question, and narrowed eyes snapped to meet hers. She cringed back. “If He answered prayer, my family would still be whole, your mother would live, and your father would never have abandoned you. But if you still wish to believe in His munificence, who am I to stop you?”

  Then he stalked away, Sara left to stare after him as hot tears streaked winter-flushed cheeks.

  Eleven

  Seeking

  T
he aroma of Sara’s meal did nothing against the leaden weight of her stomach. Most of the conversation throughout dinner faded into the background, blotted by the thundering reminder of Mr. Lake’s last words in the garden. Even the joy of being at Lake Manor for dinner held no glow. Instead, his tone of hatred rang in her memory.

  He despised the One truly responsible for her survival.

  Sara twisted her burgundy napkin. Lord, how do I explain when he has such an aching heart? How do I make him see that You have been my all when the seeing is the pain? She couldn’t bear to think how much more agony his admittance created. Now a heavy mood muted the conversation, and Sara could only blame herself. If she had remembered her own rage at the Lord . . . . A tear dripped from her nose. She wiped the wetness away.

  Someone voiced an offering of something. Sara refused with a slight shake of her head, appetite long since faded. Prayer. That remained the only thing left to her now. She didn’t know how God would heal a sore soul like Mr. Lake’s and—

  A feminine hand covered hers. Sara flinched and met Dixon Donovan’s brown gaze, dark pools of concern.

  “Sorry?” She flushed. “Did you ask me something, mum?”

  “I asked if you were well, love.”

  Sara peeked toward Mr. Lake. He stared at his partially touched meal, his countenance guarded and his jaw clenched. Sara shook her head and returned her gaze to the napkin clenched in her hands. “Fine, mum.”

  Dix shot her brother a glare.

  Panic fluttered. “Did you have fun on your trip? Mine was one adventure after another.” The words tumbled out before Sara could think otherwise.

  “Before or after the long journey via ship?”

  “I-I suppose the whole trip was an adventure.” Sara forced a smile. Mr. Lake hadn’t lifted his gaze from his plate. “I have done nothing like that before. That is why I was so blessed to have your brother send me instructions in his letter.”

  Paul’s not-so-typical American good looks brightened with his smirk. Sara suspected he had quite a bit of Irish blood—“If our dear brother hadn’t responded, how would you have found your way?”

  She paled. “Oh . . . I-I . . . ." She would have prayed and trusted the Lord to guide her steps. Her eyes darted toward Mr. Lake’s stoic countenance.

  Dix followed Sara’s glance. “Yes, love?”

  Sara’s shoulders wilted. “God would have found me a way, sir.” Mr. Lake fisted his hand at her soft confession. But Sara couldn’t deny the truth, no matter the rage he felt toward her Lord. “He has been with me each step of the way. I count on Him. I suppose some would say my life has been rough. But each place was worth more than the few shillings in my pocket. They gave me a roof over my head, and food on the table. I always met someone who taught me something of myself, too.”