Searching for Sara, page 25
“No party and no presents,” Gwyn pulled back, gazing up at Sara with wide eyes. “You don’t know?”
Sara flushed. “I have no’ had a true birthday party, Gwyn. Just a bit of cake with my mum.”
Gwyn gasped and sat up. Then she scurried from the bed and dashed from the room. “Auntie Dix! Uncle Paul!”
Sara surrendered to a soft laugh and threw back the covers. When she opened the door to the adjoining bath, Amy was already inside filling the tub with hot water.
“Good morning. Did you sleep better?”
“Yes, Amy. Thank you. The tea helped.”
“Good. Are you having a lesson at the Manor today?”
“I…” Sara paled, and the want to see how he fared tore at her calm. “I do no’ know.” Would he want to see her so soon after his revelation?
“Well I’m sure we can find an excuse to get you over there.” Amy helped Sara into the tub. “After all, Gwyn’s still here. She’ll be needing an escort over, and who better to do it than yourself?”
Sara lightly bit her lower lip. “I would no’ want to make a nuisance of myself.”
“Oh fiddle-diddle. After breakfast we’ll pack you and Gwyn up and send you on your way. You’ve been getting right good with those watercolors of yours.”
Sara stared at the soap suds on the water. She loved him, and on the cuff of the admittance there settled a terror. What if he found out and turned her away? She didn’t want to lose this place that finally felt like home. “I . . . I do no’ think I will.”
Amy’s hands halted mid-motion in Sara’s soapy tresses. When she came around to face her, Sara couldn’t meet her gaze. “But why not? You love the lessons. You come back brighter and happier each morning you have them!”
“I . . . I know. B-but Mr. Christopher only came back but last night. I think he should have some time to himself before starting again with me.”
“But—But Mr. Christopher hasn’t painted since his Carla went to the Lord. This is the first time he’s—”
“Amy,” Sara pressed, eyes wide and glimmering. “Amy, please.”
The young woman sat back on her heels with a grunt. “Well I’ll be. You’ve fallen for him.” Sara’s gaze retreated, cheeks crimson. Amy clutched the rim of the tub. “Then why in the world would you want to leave him to himself after he sent the house into such an uproar? Don’t you want to be there for him?”
Sara choked back a sob. “I canno’ go. I want to, but I . . . I canno’ do it.”
“Why not?” Amy insisted. “He’s been more his usual self since you came.”
“He loves his wife, Amy. ” Her heart grew to an unbearable weight with the crushing realization. “It does no’ matter if she’s in heaven or here on earth. It does no’ matter if my heart burns for him. He loves her. I-I canno’ push him to go where he’s not ready. I am his friend before anything else, and a friend would—”
“Go see if he’s well. Any friend would do the same.” Amy rested a hand on Sara’s shoulder. “He had a shock, so you get yourself over there and make sure he’s getting by. Certainly you don’t press or prod about anything. You just go there. Like you did before.” The young woman’s grip tightened, drawing Sara’s anguished gaze. “Like you want to now.”
~§~
Christopher could sense Teddy regarding him over his coffee cup as he read through his mail. His friend had come that morning under the pretense of strong-arming him into a surrender of his art for the promised display at the gallery. No mention was made of the mysterious disappearance. No mention of Sara or whether or not she would be arriving for an art lesson that morning. But Christopher knew Teddy wouldn’t be able to resist for too much longer.
The chink of china coffee-cup on saucer sounded the warning bell.
“So what in blazes happened? I should hook you on the jaw with what you did to everyone.”
Christopher lowered the paper, uncertain how to explain the situation. Even he was unsure where he stood in anything. “I apologize, Ted. I . . . I needed some time to myself.”
“Time for what? No one will tell me a blasted thing about why you bolted. From Sara’s reaction I thought maybe she said something—”
“No. Sara did nothing wrong.” That she might attempt to shoulder the brunt of the guilt served as a spike to the heart.
“That’s what I thought, but what else could set you off unless she said an innocent comment about Carla or some such thing?”
“It wasn’t Carla.” And that in itself was a confession of a multitude of things.
“Fine, so she didn’t say anything about Car—”
“No, Teddy. You don’t understand. The images. The silhouettes. The charcoals and pencils I’ve done for years . . . . They weren’t Carla.”
“Of course they weren’t,” Teddy said, his brow furrowing. “Her line wasn’t right for those. Didn’t you know that?”
Christopher blinked. “What?”
Teddy scoffed. “Oh for the love of—Chris, I’ve known for years Carla wasn’t your mysterious Lady of Charcoal. You didn’t start drawing Carla until after you began courting. The Lady of Charcoal came out a bit less then.” Teddy shrugged. “I figured you were leaving fantasies behind for the real image.”
“Not . . . ." Christopher scratched at his scalp. “But I thought—Why didn’t you tell me?”
Teddy’s countenance twisted in confusion. “Tell you what? That Carla wasn’t the Lady of Charcoal? Why? It didn’t matter. You were falling in love with her. Anyone with a brain could see how she felt for you. The Lady of Charcoal was just a fantasy. We all have them.”
“Sara is the Lady of Charcoal, Teddy!”
Teddy gave a snap of his fingers. “That’s why she seemed so blasted familiar! I’ve been gawking at those images for ages—” He howled with laughter.
Christopher frowned. “This isn’t funny.” The doorbell chimed, and a few moments later Harold passed by the sitting room entrance to answer.
“Not funny, Top? Come on! Of all the craziness in life, this is the best.”
“Fine. Laugh while you can, but your day is coming.”
Teddy chuckled as he retrieved his coffee.
“Mr. Christopher?” Harold stood at the sitting room doorway.
“Yes?”
“Miss Sara has brought Miss Gwyn home from the Donovans.”
Dread and eagerness battled as Christopher stood. “Oh.”
Teddy regarded his friend, an amused smirk twisting his lips. With a shrug, he set aside his coffee and gathered his coat and hat from the floor beside him. “Well, I’m off. I never did contact those few who signed up for the children’s classes.” He paused long enough to cuff Christopher on the arm. Then he stepped into the hall and had a brief discourse with Sara before closing the front door behind him.
Harold cleared his throat, drawing Christopher’s attention. “Miss Gwyn informs me she has already breakfasted and wishes to play with the fish and frogs in the conservatory. Only after saying ‘Good morning’ to yourself, of course. Miss Sara . . . ." Harold cast a glance behind him. “Master Chris, the young lady doesn’t look well.”
“What?” Concern propelled him from the room with quick steps. Sara sat upon a chair outside the sitting room’s entrance, her face white and her eyes dull. Gwyn stood beside her speaking in soothing whispers as one little hand stroked her cheek.
Christopher swallowed the rising lump and stepped forward, the sound of his shoes on the hardwood floor drawing his daughter’s gaze. Sara’s cheeks flushed before turning a concerning shade of yellow. Her eyes didn’t stray from their regard of the gloves clasped in white-knuckled hands. He offered Gwyn a somewhat forced smile as she scurried forward with a delighted call of “Papa!” Sara’s entire body grew taut.
He lifted Gwyn up into his arms. “Good morning, Angel Girl.”
“Are you feeling better, Papa?” Her emerald eyes clouded with concern.
“Yes, I am, and I apologize for worrying you. I did a very bad thing running away without a ‘Good bye’. I hope you can forgive me.”
“Of course, Papa.” Gwyn punctuated the statement with a kiss on his cheek.
Sara hadn’t even yet offered a sidelong glance or a timid smile.
“Did you get mad that you forgot about Sara in your pictures?” Gwyn ventured.
Christopher paled, his eyes snapping to his daughter’s innocent expression. “What?”
“The pictures. You hate forgetting. You thought Sara would be mad?”
Christopher cleared his throat and lowered Gwyn to her feet. “I wasn’t necessarily mad, Gwyn. I was confused.”
“Because you never met Sara before?”
A reluctant smile broke through the humiliation. “Gwyn, are you certain you’re only five years old?”
Gwyn giggled. “Silly Papa.”
“Then how did you become so smart?” She giggled again, inviting his kiss to each hand and then her forehead. “I hear from Harold you would like to go play with the fish and frogs. Go along. Try not to fall in, please.”
Gwyn nodded and scampered off toward the conservatory.
The rustle of material behind him drew his quick attention. Sara moved toward the door. “Sara, wait.”
She halted, her hand white-knuckled on the doorknob. Her back stiff.
He stood beside her, watching her cheeks alternately pale and flush. Her lips parted, her breathing rapid as she blinked down at her hand. “Sara . . . ." But he couldn’t say more. There was too much he didn’t understand.
“It’s fine, sir,” she whispered. Sara released a slow breath before meeting his gaze. Her blue eyes . . . their blackened depths sparkled with the threat of tears. “We worried after you, certainly, but we knew God held you in His hands.”
“I didn’t mean for you to think you were at fault.”
“I know.” She lowered her gaze. “It’s only a bit of a bad habit.”
Mesmerized, Christopher watched the way she twisted her gloves in her hands. The slight flush of her cheeks—He swallowed hard and presented his hand, trying to reason why he hadn’t seen the likeness before. “Forgiven?”
Sara’s gaze was drawn to his reach. Then she smiled and met his gaze, those eyes sparkling to life as she accepted his hand in a gentle grip. “Of course, sir.”
The warmth of her clasp soothed the guilt. He motioned toward the sitting room entrance, he prompted “Coffee?” while continuing to hold her hand in his.
“Oh. I only came to bring Gwyn.” Her cheeks flushed, but she didn’t lower her eyes. “And to make certain you were well. You still need your holiday, and I do no’ want to bother.”
Christopher found he was unable to release her hand—He forced a release, enunciating his motion to the sitting room with a gentle hand to her back. “Come along, Sara. Stay a while . . . please?”
Her smile softened and she nodded.
Christopher guided her to the wingback chair across from his. He watched the light of the room dance in her hair as she prepared his coffee. The line of her nose. The natural color of her cheeks heightened by the delicate contour of her cheekbones. So much like what he would have imagined.
He accepted the offered cup and stared into the cream-lightened darkness. “How much did Dix tell you about the sketches?” His ears and face burned.
“A-a little.”
“I . . . ." Christopher cleared his throat. “I’ve been sketching and doodling with pencils since before I could remember. My mother once said that everywhere I went she would find at least three sketches, two dull pencils, and a multitude of smudges on her furniture.”
Sara laughed, the soft melody welcome in the quiet of his home. He peeked at her as she toyed with the lip of her coffee cup. How long had he attempted to imagine a finish to the Lady of Charcoal? And now? Christopher’s smile faded, and he swallowed hard. When Sara glanced up to catch his scrutiny, he dropped his gaze.
“My tutors complained I didn’t focus on my studies, but they could never complain I slacked in my work. I kept up my marks, even when I spent a majority of my time sketching out the verbal images I studied of history. One tutor said I was better able to remember dates and facts when I put those studies to paper.”
It was surprising, the feeling of relief that came with the telling of his history. Especially when Sara listened with such rapt attention. “When I went to study at Richmond College, my passion remained the same. I wanted to create beautiful imagery, to remind a country still reeling from a civil war that beauty could be found in the aftermath. That the future generations could remember a pain and learn from it to create better things. I felt . . . called to create things of family and beauty in creation. As if I were God’s whisper to a grieving nation. A reminder of peace after what seemed an eternity of war.”
She offered a timid smile, blue eyes glimmering as she softly whispered, “What a lovely gift to give.”
Christopher looked down and released a slow breath. “Then the imagery began to change. I began to . . . ." His hands tightened on the arms of the chair as he remembered the growing urge for a partner. Remembering a press on his heart to begin praying for what he wanted in a wife.
“Mr. Christopher?”
He blinked and looked up, noticing the fearful expression.
“Are you well, sir?” she whispered.
Christopher nodded. Then he noticed his right fist lightly pounding the arm of the chair. He halted the motion but couldn’t drag his gaze from the scrutiny of his fisted hand. “I began to see the Lady of Charcoal in mind and canvas for ages. Ten years? Twelve? I don’t remember anymore. I thought they would stop when Carla and I married. They didn’t.”
He heard the gentle rustle of her movement and felt her soft hold on his hand. His grip loosened, and he opened his eyes to meet hers. She knelt at his feet. “I thought it was some horrid joke,” he confessed, his voice gruff. “I mean, my own wife brought you here, Sara. My own wife.”
She inclined her head.
Christopher clenched his jaw, his eyes drifting to her hand covering his. Comfort. Support. Friendship. So many things he hadn’t experienced in a woman since Carla. So many things he tried to deny he wanted. And now? His throat tightened.
Sara’s hand tightened on his. “Is there . . . is there nothing I can do? I want to help, but . . . . You would tell me if I could do something to help?”
I’ve seen you most of my adult life. You’ve been an encouragement. A hope. A promise. “What more help could you be?”
“B-but it seems I push you into a bad way, even when I try no’ to bother.” Her voice quivered.
“Sara . . . you’ve been as much of a help as Paul or Dix. More even.”
“But—Would it be easier if I had no’ come?”
His insides recoiled. “Easier? Sara, my daily life has been easier with your coming. Listening to my grief without judgment. Offering another perspective without condemnation . . . . You gave me the push I needed to step past the grief which might have destroyed my family.” He enveloped her hand in a tight clasp, causing a flush of brilliant crimson. “If you were not here, my life would not be what it is now.”
And those words settled into the very center of his being. An intensity of truth that smoldered and then sparked to a sudden burst of life. Giving him reason to struggle forward in his search to confess three simple words.
Twenty-Nine
Moments in Time
3 March 1894
“Do you want to pick them out, or can Minnie-Gwynnie have the honors?”
Christopher, Gwyn, Sara, and Teddy stood in thoughtful consideration as they regarded the covered canvases on the far wall of the third story. Teddy wouldn’t be swayed to wait another day for the unveiling of Christopher’s art. To Sara’s delight, he invited her to attend their own, more personal unveiling.
Gwyn scrambled to her father and took his hands in a tight clasp. “Please, Papa. Let Sara wake the first one!”
“Of course Sara can wake the first one. But no prompting from you. Take your turn the same as the rest of us.”
Gwyn squealed her delight.
“Poppet.” Sara caressed the girl’s blonde curls. “Calm yourself down, or you will need a nap before the day is done.”
Gwyn muffled the giggle, though she continued to bubble over with such youthful euphoria that she slightly bounced on the balls of both feet.
Sara laughed and embraced the girl. “Come along. You can stand close beside me as I unveil.” She drew the girl along and they both knelt at the base of the daunting collection of hidden canvases. “Now, which one should I open?"
Gwyn hugged herself to keep silent.
A massive shape lured Sara’s attention. She reached for it, expectation catching in her throat—
“Wait.”
Sara twitched. Christopher stood beside her. To her surprise, boyish delight brightened his handsome face and very nearly mirrored that of his daughter.
“You gave me a fright,” she scolded playfully.
“Did I? Sorry. I believe I know which one that is. I have a fancy to see your reaction.” He crouched down beside her. “Go ahead.”
Sara pulled aside the cover—Tears misted her eyes. “Oh Christopher." Her heart caught in her throat at the vivid imagery of the Thames of England. Stars and street lamps both glimmered upon the mirror surface of the water. Avenue life, peaceful and quiet. Buildings and houses in full color and radiance. A brighter reminder of home. “How wonderfully lovely.”
Gwyn squealed. “I knew! I knew!”
“I painted this from a sketch done years earlier, and from my own memories of course.” He chuckled. “I had forgotten this hid up here. I thought I sent it to Mother as a gift three Christmases ago.” He cast her a sidelong smile. “When’s your birthday?”
“January second,” she said, though her eyes and heart still absorbed the vivid image of a distant home.
Christopher snapped. “Drat.” He drew the painting from the others. “I’ll have this sent over and hung in your room. Happy Belated Birthday.”
Sara blinked up at him. “But I could no’ accept something so grand!”
