“Pick a date.”
Teddy blinked. “Pardon?”
“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 long 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 becam
e 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.
“You and she were close.”
Sara nodded, tears brimming. “She was all I had, sir.”
“What of the children of the families where you were employed?”
She counted the knots three times before she could continue. “They did no’ care for me.”
“Ah.” Mr. Lake adjusted the crocheted doily in his fingers. “You were likely the quiet one. Carla was so different.”
A stab of pain marred his face, and he set the doily aside to again meet her gaze. This time his expression was guarded. Dear Lord, why do his memories cause pain—
“I need your opinion on how to display your work.”
Sara lost count. When she tried to pick it up again, she could no longer remember the pattern. “Y-yes, sir?”
“To save—”
The door opened. Gregory entered with a tea-cart.
Mr. Lake directed the cart from the butler’s care. The tall, balding man bowed and exited, closing the door behind him. More prim and proper than Harold at Lake Manor, his emotional distance reminded Sara of the many houses she worked throughout her life. She missed Harold and the bright welcome of Lake Manor.
Mr. Lake halted the cart between their chairs and began the task of preparing two cups before Sara could offer. “Do you prefer sugar or honey in your coffee?” he asked as he poured. “Will you want cream?”
Sara stared, bewildered. “I...."
He set down the carafe. “You have never tried coffee, have you?”
Sara gave a slight shake to her head, humiliation tightening her throat.
“Ah. A first.”
“Sir?”
Mr. Lake presented her the cup and saucer. “It is hot, so take care.”
She gazed down into the deep richness. The strong aroma reminding her of home, but a different side of the memory. Sara gingerly tilted the cup to draw in a tiny sip. The flavor was full and powerful, though a hint of bitterness caused a wrinkle of nose.
“Never have I witnessed such a complete exploration.” He chuckled. “The verdict?”
“Sir?”
“Your first experience? How did coffee fare?”
“It is wonderful, sir. It only needs a bit of cream and honey to soften it.”
“So I have won you over.” Mr. Lake added the cream and honey and returned her cup. “Believe it or not, coffee is either liked or disliked. Though, some enjoy the aroma. The way of opinions, I suppose. Teddy once commented coffee is like a punch in the mouth.”
She took another sip. The sweetness of the honey and the silky smoothness of the cream enhanced the richness brought a smile. “I love it.”
“To coffee.” Mr. Lake lifted his cup toward her. “Quick may it grow, rich may it brew, and dark may it pour.”
Sara laughed, her cheeks burning at the unexpected emotion of ease. It felt unlike anything she remembered. Simple. Comfortable. Another separation from her old life.
“Do you realize you called me ‘sir’ at least twelve times in this brief conversation? I do believe you only said ‘Mr. Lake’ twice.”
Sara blinked at him.
He sipped his coffee, his examination of her launching her into a mild panic. His expression seemed a mixture of seriousness and that hint of mischief. “Not once did you even attempt to stumble over ‘Mr. Christopher’. You could say it once, couldn’t you? If only to prove you consider the possibility.”
“I...." Sara’s eyes strayed to the doorway. “I do try to remember, Mr.—”
“Mr. Christopher.”
“M-M-Mister...." To her shame, her cup rattled against the saucer.
“Oh dear.” He set aside his coffee. “Sara, I apologize. As you can see, I am a pest. More so than usual this morning. Dix would banish me from the house if she were present.”
Sara gawked at him. She could count on one hand the times she received an apology.
“I am sorry,” he said again.
A clear tone of regret rang in his voice. Sara offered a small smile. “It is fine... Mr. C-Christopher.”
He blinked. Then his handsome face relaxed. “That wasn’t so difficult, was it? The world has not ended. You are still there. I am still here.”
Sara found herself laughing.
“Now, about your art display. Would you like to be present anonymously, so that you can hear viewer reactions?”
Sara’s smile vanished. “I...." She fingered her cup with trembling fingers.
“Sara, I do not intend to force an attendance upon you. We made an arrangement that I would screen responses. I am more than willing to do so. This is only an opportunity to change your mind.”
“You... you do no’ mind, Mr. Lake?”
“Of course not. I will mingle on your behalf; as your sponsor it gives me the right. Though I doubt I look as good in that burgundy gown I saw Amy working on earlier.”
Sara flushed and lowered her eyes.
“Oh. I decided not to display all your work. Did I tell you? This shall serve a tease to their palate, drawing them back for more. I plan to also speak with Paul and Dix regarding a minor showing at the gallery in New York.”
“N-New York?”
Mr. Lake smiled. “You would not need to attend, Sara. Proxy is perfectly acceptable, and I am certain Dix and Paul would be happy to act in your stead.” He drew out his pocket watch. “I better trudge to the gallery. If you can stop by sometime today, we will begin plotting the best layout to enhance your work’s intense simplicity. I will also want your final opinion on which art to display and which to save for future.”
Sara mutely nodded, her eyes wide as he stood.
“Have a good morning, and give Gwyn my love.”
She squeaked out, “Yes, Mr. Lake.”
When the door closed behind him, she lowered her gaze to her coffee, her thoughts jumbled. Mr. Lake acted kind, but in a way that didn’t rouse her suspicious. He behaved thoughtful and compassionate. He urged her beyond what she knew, so she could try for what she dreamed of most: A second chance at life. But.
Sara set aside her cup. Growing up, emotions became dangerous for her. So, she taught herself to feel nothing for her employers or fellow employees other than mild gratefulness or respect. No matter how handsome or charming, Sara kept her distance.
Now she didn’t know how to build up that distance. Mr. Lake wasn’t her employer. He wasn’t a fellow employee. He was the husband of the woman who offered her an opportunity for a new future. He was the director of a gallery of such beautiful things. He was... her introduction to a world she and her mother only whispered about.
Sighing, Sara lowered her gaze—she lifted her hands. ‘God gave you these hands,’ her mother often said to her, ‘and He gave you the gift of creating beautiful things with them. Pictures of dreams. Scenes of innocence so many people cannot see. Pretties designed with your mind and crafted with care.’ But they were calloused, dry and somewhat wrinkled. They were mature hands belonging to an older ‘Sara’.
“Here you are.”
“Amy?”
Amy came to stand beside her. “Yes, miss?”
Sara raised her hands, her heart catching in her throat. “Can I get pretty hands?”
The young woman smiled. “I’ll get my things.”
Nine
Timid Ventures
Sara’s blue eyes didn’t waver from their regard of the front door. Mr. Lake’s invitation to the gallery pulled at her, but each moment she reached for the latch, terror rose. Venturing to the gallery would mean welcoming commentary on her art, and that from those of an artistic profession!
&
nbsp; She turned aside but couldn’t retreat. A whisper in her soul coaxed a first fateful step outside her area of comfort. To experience another waiting adventure. It only required a step beyond all she knew.
The fear continued to press, overwhelming her imagination with irrational possibilities. She lowered her head. The Lord protected her, His provision a constant. Forever had He led her to a next position for food and clothing, shelter, something to learn. Sara sighed deep and once again faced the massive wooden door.
Gregory exited the parlor. “Oh. Miss Little.”
“Mr. Gregory.” She curtsied.
“Do you require something, Miss Little?”
Hesitancy tightened Sara’s throat, but she pressed onward. “Mr. Lake asked me to stop by the gallery. Miss Gwyn is down for a nap, and so I thought...."
“Will you need a carriage then, miss?”
Sara nodded, silent for fear of voicing a protest.
Gregory bowed. “I will see to it immediately.” He made his way outside, closing the sturdy door behind him.
Again, she stared at the door—
“Here’s your coat and gloves, Sara.”
Sara gave a startled jump. “Th-thank you, Amy.”
“I found a nice warm scarf you can wrap up in so as to keep yourself warm. I think it’s angora—Here now. What’s the matter?”
Sara’s cheeks burned. “I am such a goose.”
Amy set the scarf and gloves aside on the hall table to help Sara into the dark-blue wool coat. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. You think you’re going to take to America the first days here? It’ll come.”
She sent the young woman a timid smile. She reminded her so much of Beth in moments such as these. “Thank you, Amy. Days like this I forget to trust God with the keeping, though He’s never turned from me before. I have no reason to be in a fright.”
Amy buttoned Sara’s coat. “Well then, you better hold tight to that or everyone’ll think you’re scared of your own shadow. That would never do. Teddy’ll likely pick you out to prove how funny he supposedly is. Believe me, you don’t want that.”
Searching for Sara (Extended Edition) Page 7
