Searching for Sara

  Sara tried not to think about the fact she rushed over like an overflowing tub. The press to show Mr. Lake why she believed in prayer was like a hand on her heart. If he could understand why she believed God cared . . . . “With Mr. Piffle I met another Sarah who taught me patience. She was the governess of the master’s children.” Sara wrinkled her nose. “Little beasts, they were. Never happy unless they pranked someone. The master went after me with the switch for breaking a dish in the hall—”

  Dix and Mr. Lake both grunted.

  Sara-Ann! She grabbed at a tattered bit of tranquility and held her breath for a moment. “She said I have a natural voice for reading, so she taught me how to read poetry and literature. She helped me speak more calmly, too.” Sara cheeks flushed, and she sent Dix and Paul a timid smile. “When I get nervous I slip back into the bad habits.”

  “Don’t fret, love. We, all of us, have some form of bad habit or other.”

  “Yes, indeed.” Paul cast Dix a mischief smile. “Sweet here snorts when she finds something particularly amusing.”

  “Paul Michael Donovan! I do not.” She punctuated the assertion with the tossing of her napkin.

  Paul tucked the napkin into the front pocket of his suit coat. “Yes, dear.”

  “You fool. Can you not see Sara is attempting to bare her soul. My word.” Paul feigned a dutiful expression, though it didn’t mask the twinkle. “Now, Sara love, what else did you learn from your adventures?”

  “Well . . . ." A glimpse at Mr. Lake revealed nothing. “When I was sixteen I worked in Cornwall—that was my only other position outside the city. I met a pleasant young man by the name of George.” The thought of him still invited a skip to her heart. “He taught me how to fish, how to clean them, and he taught me how to speak to . . . to people without sounding like a spitting cat.”

  “And he likely attempted to steal a first kiss.”

  Sara’s cheeks flushed molten.

  “Paul, leave the dear alone.”

  “I am not causing harm, Sweet. I am simply stating what I did when you were sixteen.”

  “Keep any further comments to yourself. It is terrifying enough for the poor dear to be telling all. She certainly is not in need of help from you, you little dickens.”

  Paul smiled at Sara. “I apologize. I will do better at behaving myself.” He leaned forward and pointed to Mr. Lake. “He told me to say it.”

  “Paul." Dix turned more toward Sara. “It must have been hard to leave such a friend behind.”

  “Yes, mum. But . . . but I would not have wished it not to happen. The experience, I mean. Life is like that, having to say good-bye to people we care for. I reasoned God waited with something better down the road a ways. I but needed to get from this little adventure what I could. Since I never had a . . . . Since I never had a beau before, I thought He wanted to teach me something through it. Maybe He wanted me to see it was fine to want that. That He wanted it for me, and that I should pray for what I wanted in a . . . a husband.”

  Dix smiled. “You are so adorably mature, Sara love.”

  Sara’s laugh trembled. “I still have my fits about what I will and will no’ do, mum.”

  “Even I can list a few times where I myself flew into a tantrum.” Paul offered Sara wine, which she refused.

  “Some more than others.” Dix shot a look toward her brother. Then she touched Sara’s shoulder. “You have us on the edge of our seats, love.”

  Sara noticed a shadow settled over Mr. Lake’s face, and he picked at a section of the tablecloth. Please, Lord. Please help him understand why I trust You. She blinked away a hint of tears.

  “What about Mr. Brockle?” Dix prompted.

  Sara heard the clink of silverware from Mr. Lake. “M-Mr. Brockle?”

  “Indeed.” Paul leaned forward. “What in heaven’s name could you learn in such a place?”

  “Oh. I-I . . . ." At times she felt working for Mr. Brockle tested her very belief God answered prayers. After all, she worked for him longer than any other position, despite what she had to endure. But God asked her to wait. To trust Him. Even when Mr. Brockle threatened so many things—

  “Why, Sara, you’re trembling!” Dix took Sara’s hands in hers. “What’s the matter, love?”

  “That’s enough!” Mr. Lake shot to his feet. His chair grunted against the hardwood floor and clattered behind him. All present stared at him, open-mouthed. Sara paled, staring at his reddened face with burning eyes. “You’ve pressed her too far. Can you give no thought to how heart-wrenching these stories might be? Are you so concerned with your own thrill?”

  “Chris!” Dix sputtered.

  Mr. Lake strode around the table to grab Sara’s arm. He lifted her to her feet. “Find another source of amusement and adventure for this evening.” His gaze snapped to Sara’s ashen countenance. She shrank back from him. “I am walking you home. Where’s your coat?”

  “H-h-hall.”

  “I expected better of you, Dix. Come along, Sara.”

  Sara accepted his rough help into her coat, and his firm push of her scarf and gloves. Then he took hold of her arm once more and hustled her out of Lake Manor and back toward the Donovan home. She fell into step beside him, pacing two steps for every one of his.

  The brisk walk felt glorious, especially the sharp tang of the wind that hinted at a coming snow. It reminded her of winters walking to church with her mother. It even brought back a memory of one crisp evening with George. However, the most precious memories were those overcome by the presence of God beside her. Giving comfort. Giving peace. Letting her know He held her future.

  She tucked her hands deeper into the satin softness of her overcoat pockets. Mr. Lake’s hold loosened to a gentler clasp, and his quick pace slowed. Sara peeked at his profile. The rage had gone, leaving his cheeks red from the bite of the winter wind. It bothered her how he had flown at his sister for such an innocent question. Dix couldn’t have known all the trouble that came under Mr. Brockle’s roof, and Sara didn’t mind—

  “I apologize.” Mr. Lake’s jaw muscle convulsed. “For myself. For my sister. For many things.”

  “But you did no’ do anything, Mr. Lake.”

  He pulled her to a stop. Sara blinked up at him. “Sara, I attacked your faith. My sister and her husband bombarded you with questions on a personal life that is none of their business. I have been rude and argumentative throughout dinner . . . . How can you say that and believe it?”

  “B-b-b—” Sara couldn’t focus on the next syllable for the haunting that marred his handsome face.

  “But what? You offer understanding and patience yet we return harshness, a sick sense of curiosity, and an arrogant belief we deserve to know all of your experiences.” He held her gaze for such a long time that Sara found it difficult to breathe. Then he sighed and shook his head, releasing his hold of her arm. “Again. I apologize.”

  “For what, sir? I . . . I do no’ mind talking about what’s passed. I’d be the pot calling the kettle black if I told you that we should never blame God for the bad. I felt hell’s fury at Him for taking my mum. It happens. He knows. It breaks His heart, but He works through the rage. Otherwise, I would no’ be standing here. I’d likely be at the bottom of the Thames.”

  Mr. Lake’s gaze snapped to her face. “What did you say?”

  “I told you. I’ve been on my own since twelve. Twelve years old, Mr. Lake. What kind of life is that for a young mite without her mum and no memory of her pop? I had to grow up in one day what should have taken me another five years at least. What else could I do but trust the Lord above? Drop myself into the Thames? I could no’ do that, not when I felt there was something yet to come. I had to keep looking at the one day and let God keep the ‘tomorrow’s in His hand.”

  A tear escaped. She swiped it away while Mr. Lake offered a comforting grip to her arm. “So you be angry at God. He can bear it, and He will find the way to get at you through it. Likely settin’ you on your bum with the wonder
of it. That’s what He did for me, and I do no’ think you deserve less, not with the heart He gave you to help people who did no’ have no one else to care one way or the other. So you go ahead and rant. He listens. He always does. It do no’ matter if we be right or not. He listens.”

  Mr. Lake didn’t respond. He only presented her with a handkerchief, his dark eyes watchful as she dried her face and eyes. When Sara handed the kerchief back, he continued to hold her gloved hand in his, staring down at their grip with a blank expression. Sara didn’t like that look on his face. He shouldn’t be afraid to think things. He shouldn’t be haunted by memories of a loving wife. Another tear dripped onto their gloved hands.

  “Sara . . . you offer more understanding than I deserve.”

  “No. I give you more than what you give yourself. I give you a bit of what God wants to give you.”

  He pulled his hand from hers. “I can’t accept it from Him.”

  “I know. So does He. Like I said before, if you be angry you tell Him. He can take it.”

  “He takes many things.”

  The vehemence with which he spoke tore at Sara’s very soul, reminding her of her own rage at being left alone. She took his hand. “If you want to say God took her, then I guess that’s so. He took her from all the pain to a heaven she dreamt about. Yes, it would have been a miracle to heal her, but . . . He sees a bigger canvas.”

  Mr. Lake’s hold of her hand tightened. “Why couldn’t He see my wife and son within my landscape?”

  “I do no’ know, sir. But I know God loves us too much to leave pain like yours alone.” Sara pressed a handkerchief into his hand. “Please, Mr. Christopher. You be sad she’s gone. You miss her. You be angry, guilty for being angry. Please let it go.”

  He stared at the handkerchief, his face a slight shade of green.

  “The ache goes away,” she whispered. “I promise.”

  He inclined his head, his gaze never wavering from their clasped hands. When a single tear escaped his eye, Sara began to pray for him with more fervor than she ever prayed in her life.

  ~§~

  Christopher stared up at the ceiling of his room, unable to sleep for the whisper on the wind and in his mind. A name? He couldn’t hear it. A phrase? He couldn’t understand it. All he could hear was the hiss of a soft tone.

  He gave an exasperated breath and tossed back the covers, snatching up his robe and jerking his arms into the sleeves as he strode to the exit and the hallway beyond. The whisper quieted, and all he saw in the dimness was a collection of grays and blackness. Muted tones without color. Harsh lines and angles smoothed only by shadows.

  Like a charcoal.

  Hesitation slowed Christopher’s step from the room, but the whispers . . . . He looked sharply to his left, toward the doorway leading to the third story stairwell. It drew him forward, palms sweaty as he clenched and unclenched his hands. The whisper could be heard and yet not, but maybe the voice would be brighter if he opened the door…?

  When Christopher stood outside the third story door, his reach for the handle hesitated. Again, there were no colors. Only muted blacks, shades of gray and shadowed white. While the whisper urged him forward, the lack of color kept him back. Afraid to touch it lest it bleed color from his own life. Taking away that which made him who he was.

  “Christopher . . . .”

  Color and muted shadows swirled around the handle, inviting hope that something more waited beyond the black and gray. That all he had to do was open a simple door.

  Christopher clenched his jaw and reached out, shutting his eyes tight as he twisted the handle and jerked the door open. Releasing it with a quick motion, he wiped his hand on the softness of his robe as he stepped into the inky blackness.

  Yet there appeared something different about it. Light blues of moonlight swirled and twisted within the grays and blacks, tainting the shadows with color and light. Offering a promise of what could be. Showing a glimpse of what waited beyond the charcoal. Yet he couldn’t step forward. The stairs led to a place where color waited. Color he had, once. In fact, he could see it there, beginning to creep down the stairs toward him. Whispering his name. Whispering phrases he couldn’t bear to hear. Scattering the grays and blackness of a safer existence. One without risk of pain. One without color of life or living—

  “Christopher?”

  He shook his head. “I’m afraid.”

  “I know, and that’s fine.”

  That whisper of promise and safety beckoned him forward, through the shadows of gray and black and up into the softening to blue and brown. Steps hesitant. Mouth dry. Chest tight. Hand gripping the rail . . . and then the last step loomed.

  Christopher stared down at it, unable to move to the soft colors that waited just beyond. Unable to leave behind the grays and blacks of his safer muteness. The numbness. He shook his head again. “I can’t.”

  “He knows it. It breaks His heart, but He works through it.”

  Christopher’s grip tightened on the rail and he took a step down. “After all I’ve done? After all I’ve blamed Him for?”

  “He can bear it.”

  Christopher moved down another step. “Why?”

  “He has something waiting for you.”

  Christopher bolted upright, the sweat dripping from his chin. Then he fell back, mopping the wetness from his face with shaking hands.

  Twelve

  Fancies

  9 January 1894

  “Sara?”

  Dix and Paul stepped into the parlor dressed in such finery Sara wondered if they set off to a party. “Yes, mum?”

  “Paul and I need to go out for a time. Some dear friends have invited us for an impromptu luncheon. I wish we could take you along, but Paul is certain I may ruin the mystery of your identity.”

  “It’s fine, mum.” Though she cherished the luxury of being alone in the house, she missed the sounds of Lake Manor. Sara’s lips drooped.

  “Don’t fret, dear. Nothing said at dinner did any harm.”

  Paul caressed his wife’s arm. “We’ll be late.”

  “Coming.” She kissed Sara on the cheek. “Pray for him, love, though I know you do so more than he realizes anyway. You should have Gregory arrange a carriage to Lake Manor. Chris promised to breakfast with us, but he’s likely enthralled with the planning of your unveiling. If you don’t go yourself, you won’t see him until the night of the event.” Dix blew Sara a kiss. “Good day, love. Enjoy yourself.”

  “Have a nice luncheon.”

  Then Paul urged Dix out to the waiting carriage. Sara stared at the parlor entry, voices from the night before ringing in her memory. Mr. Lake’s sister worried about him. Last night Dix confided that at times she believed he may come to harm . . . at his own hand.

  Sara lowered herself onto the couch with deliberate care. Concern chilled her soul. She didn’t want to believe he would harm himself. To damn his soul for the missing of his wife? When she felt a gentle press in her heart, she stood.

  Gregory passed.

  “Gregory?” She hurried to the parlor entry as he turned.

  “Yes, miss?”

  “May I have a carriage p-please?”

  “Right away, miss. I will need but a moment.”

  She gathered her things, trembling fingers rebelling against fastening the coat buttons. The sharp clatter of the carriage horses matched her heartbeat as she hurried down the steps. The driver helped her up, commenting on the weather as he secured the door behind her.

  The carriage surged forward and Sara bowed her head. She didn’t want to be a detriment to Mr. Lake’s healing. What if she acted too hasty? What if she caused more pain? Sara breathed deep, willing herself to leave the worry to God. Lord, please keep him safe. Let Him feel . . . peace. But would he allow himself such a thing?

  The carriage rumbled to a stop and Sara swung wide the door. The moment her feet touched the ground she gathered her skirts and rushed up the front walk.

  Harold opened the door a
s she crested the top stair. “Why, Miss Sara. Good morning.”

  “Good morning, Harold, sir.” She passed him into the hall. “Is Mr. C-Christopher?”

  “He’s in his studio, miss.”

  Sara bit her lip, her hands still clenched upon the fabric of her dress. Why did she come?

  Harold regarded her a moment. “Might I take your coat, miss?”

  “Oh. Y-Yes.”

  “Did you wish me to announce you? I’m certain Mr. Christopher will want to know that you’ve arrived. It won’t take but a moment.”

  “I . . . ."

  Harold ushered her toward the studio. “Wait right here, Miss Sara.”

  Harold knocked and entered, closing the door behind him. Her heart skipped a beat when she recognized Christopher’s baritone voice. If Harold didn’t show concern, did that mean all was well? Sara crossed herself and whispered a prayer of thanks.

  The butler stepped out. “You may go in, Miss Sara.”

  “Thank you, sir.” She passed into the studio, unable to lift her gaze from the hardwood floor. The door clicked shut behind her.

  “Hello.” Christopher’s voice rang different than she remembered. Calm.

  Sara curtsied, swallowing the sudden lump in her throat. “Hello, sir.” She risked a peek. “We expected you for breakfast—”

  “Breakfast! I completely forgot.” He chuckled. “Has Dix convinced herself I am pouting?”

  Relief swelled to a smile. “No, sir. She thought you might be busy with the display.” He looked at ease in his beige slacks and shirtsleeves, and those rolled up to his elbows.

  “As you can see, I am fine. I made the mistake of plotting your display more in-depth over coffee.” He motioned toward an easel and corkboard displaying an arrangement of five pieces of her work. “I had an epiphany of how I want your art specifically displayed, using your initial ideas of course. What do you think?”

  “Me, sir?”