Searching for Sara (Extended Edition)

by Nona Mae King

“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 then. 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?”

  “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.

  ~ ~ ~

  Christopher reached out for in the darkness when the coldness of loneliness began to creep. But he was alone. He sat up. "Carla?"

  Silence.

  Throwing back the coverlet, Christopher slipped from the large bed to wrap a plush navy-blue robe around him. He proceeded across the floor of their room and out into the hallway. Empty and cold. Silent.

  Panic began to flare. “Carla? Where are you?”

  There was no laughter. Only silence. Dead silence. He moved down the hall and began descending the stairs. No scent of flowers. No warmth. He heard a soft sigh. Relief flooded over him as he reached the bottom step and turned toward the hall to his left--Christopher blinked. “Miss Little?”

  She turned and flushed, lowering her blue gaze to her clasped hands. She still wore the powder blue dress with the white blouse she wore that evening, her mahogany-brunette waves gathered on the crown of her head and glistening with streaks of red. The moonlight shining through the conservatory doors and the glass on each side of the front entrance glowed on her clear skin and in her eyes.

  Confusion lowered Christopher’s brows. Especially when, looking to his own attire, he now wore the dinner suit from earlier at dinner. As a matter of fact, he remembered escorting her and Gwyn to Paul and Dix’s afterward.

  He looked up. “Is something wrong?”

  “No, sir,” she said softly. “I was listening.”

  Christopher came to stand near her, again noticing the dramatic scent of lilacs. “Listening? To what?”

  She glanced toward him, dark eyes glimmering. “To the sounds of your home.”

  The conversation rang eerily familiar. “The sounds of my home?”

  As if a cue were spoken, brightness, laughter, and lively activity burst forth around them. Brian and Thomas were heard exchanging encouragements while hauling filled buckets of ash to the conservatory. Amy laughed along with one of Emily’s stories. Harold gave kind instruction to a new steward in the kitchen.

  Christopher shifted his attention to Miss Little's profile. She had closed her eyes, tipping her head back as she once again absorbed the sounds. The enrapture of her expression heightened the delicate loveliness of her face, just as the action of intense listening enhanced the curve of her neck and jaw. The same pose she had taken that evening, the night of her departure to the Donovans’ home.

  “Laughter,” she whispered. “Acceptance. The joy in their work.” A tear escaped, and she quickly wiped it away as she opened her eyes and cast him a peek. “Your home fairly sings with a feeling of belonging, Mr. Lake. I have never heard it so strong before.”

  Christopher stared at her in carefully controlled silence as he felt--He cleared his throat and looked away. “Thank you for taking the time to listen. Usually it’s neither heard nor appreciated.”

  Giving a slight nod, she confessed, “I will miss it so.”

  He allowed his gaze to be drawn back to the gentle lines of her face, noticing that her eyes had again closed. Her ext
reme appreciation for something so often taken for granted reminded him of the harshness of her life before America. Christopher swallowed hard before reaching out to gently clasp her hand. She twitched, another poignant reminder of her harsh history, and opened her eyes to meet his.

  “I will have you over for coffee,” he promised.

  Her natural color flushed as she timidly smiled. “Thank you, sir.”

  He gave the softness of her hand a brief caress. “Call me Christopher, Sara,” he corrected.

  “Chris–”

  Christopher bolted upright with a strangled call of “Carla!” But when he looked to his left, again, there was no one. He reached out to stroke the bare pillow with trembling fingers, tears burning in his throat and eyes. “The voice was yours, Carla.” But she was not beside him. There rang only chilled silence.

  ~ ~ ~

  White-knuckled hands clutched the blankets as Sara listened again for the pained shout. But only the wind howled against the windows. She took in a calming breath--there sounded a child’s cry and she scrambled from under the covers, snatching up her robe as she rushed to the door. Hurrying across the hall, she found Gwyn standing in the center of her room crying, arms searching the darkness. Sara knelt and gathered the weeping girl into her arms.

  “Papa? Where’s Papa? He’s going away. Why’s he going away, Sara? Why’s he leaving?”

  Sara kissed Gwyn's temple, smoothing her blonde hair as the little girl hiccupped and sniffed, body trembling. “Your papa is no’ leaving. You had but a bad dream.”

  Gwyn still sobbing against her shoulder, Sara scooped her up and carried her to the bed. Once she tucked the girl under the covers, Gwyn clutched at her hand. “Sara, don’t go away,” the little girl sniffed.

  “I will stay right here,” Sara whispered as she laid down beside her. The little girl scooted closer, wrapping her arms around her as she snuggled her head against her bosom. “Do no’ fret, poppet.”

  “Don’t let Papa go, Sara,” she mumbled sleepily. “He’s gonna get lost if he goes.”

  “I will no', poppet. I will no'.” But Sara wondered how far he had wandered already.

  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?”