Sara put down the butter knife. “Well, I’ve made plans also.” She began to eat, allowing the words to hang in mid-air. She chewed, swallowed, then picked up her teacup. “But first I must thank you for everything you’ve done for me.” She set the cup down. “Especially you, Claire. You’ve been like a sister to me. But even the good things in our lives must come to an end.”
“Sara?” Claire laid down her fork.
“This is my last meal with you both. I’ve already packed my things. I hope you don’t mind if I take the dresses, Claire, until I have the means to pay you for them.”
“The clothes were gifts, Sara. But I don’t understand. What do you mean, you’re leaving? Where are you going?”
“Home.”
Tom pushed back his chair. “How do you plan to go home?”
“By train, of course. I know this is much to ask, but if you were to loan me the train fare, I would wire the money as soon as I arrived. I’m sure Mrs. Whitaker will oblige. In fact, I plan to wire her a telegram, telling her about my plans.” Sara coughed into a napkin. “You see, I’ve known for some time I wouldn’t be able to stay here. Marriage wasn’t meant to be.” She turned to Tom. “And while I shouldn’t have been listening to your conversation, Mr. Haskins, it did confirm what has been in my heart all along. You and I walk different paths. You’ve been kind to let me stay here and learn, but it’s time I moved on with my life and discover my destiny and the man I’m supposed to share it with.”
“Sara, there’s still so much to learn,” Claire intervened. “And we’ve only just begun with your reading. Remember how you wanted to read the Bible? I’m sure Tom doesn’t mean for you to leave….” She cast a warning look in his direction.
“Of course not. It would be good for you to stay.”
Sara shook her head. “I can’t. I need to find my own way in this world. And if you would be so kind as to lend me the train fare…” Her voice drifted off.
“I don’t think it’s wise to go back to the city, of all places,” he said. “New York holds nothing for you. At least here you have a chance for a better life.”
“I will do fine in New York. There I can be myself and not some decoration.”
Tom winced at the word she had chosen. When did she ever think she was simply a decoration? “What do you plan to do for money in the city? You can’t just peddle with your mother’s teacup—or return to rags and sleeping in abandoned cellars. That’s no way to exist.”
Sara’s eyes blazed with a look Tom could not ever remember seeing in a woman. She jumped to her feet, her dress rustling. The table shook. Tea sloshed out of the cups. “I’m sorry you think my existence was so horrible, but it was fine for me. I was happy. And loved. And I will find my own way back.” She hurried from the table.
Claire grabbed his arm. “Tom, go after her! Make her see reason. Don’t let her leave like this.”
“Claire, if she runs from the truth, how do I stop her? She’s made her decision. We gave her everything, and yet she feels she must do this.”
“If you consider the situation, we gave everything but love and a purpose for her life.” Claire rose from the table and left as well. Tom stared at the cold food along with his equally cold cup of tea. He was drifting in a fog like the kind that often blanketed the mountains. Clouds that hid the fine, rocky pinnacles, fooling the visitor into thinking the land was flat. Was he also surrounded in a fog, unable to see what existed before him? Was he truly blind, or was Sara?
A door banged. Footsteps came and went down the hall. He heard voices. Claire was trying to reason with Sara. He took a swallow of cold tea. Sara won’t leave, he decided. Either Claire will convince her to stay, or she will realize she has no other place to go. No matter how tense things seemed now, Tom knew they had a habit of working out. Women also needed each other’s companionship.
Again a door banged. Claire came rushing in. “Tom, she’s leaving right this moment. Do something!”
Tom stood to his feet just as Sara walked with determined steps into the foyer, clutching her ratty carpetbag and wearing her tattered coat. “Sara, where are you going?”
“I told you my decision at dinner.”
“Don’t be foolish. You have no place to go. And it’s a cold night.”
“I’ll find a place. I lived on the streets of New York, you know, as distasteful as that is to you. I can take care of myself.”
“Please, Sara, don’t do this,” Claire begged. “Not now. At least wait until morning. Things always look better in the morning.”
“I’m sorry, Claire, but I have to go. It’s the only thing left to do.”
With that, she disappeared into the night. Claire pushed Tom toward the door, ordering him to bring her back. When he ventured out, the night had already swallowed her whole. He returned and closed the door behind him. “I will look for her in the morning, Claire. There’s nothing more we can do. I think we all need time to sort this out.”
“How could you let it come to this?” Claire wailed.
“Claire, I’m sorry that Sara overheard what happened. But I should not be condemned for the fact that maybe another woman is interested in me. And I in her.”
“Annabelle Loving is nothing, and you know it. She’s a fancy postcard; a wrapped package with nothing inside. Maybe even an example of that whitewashed tomb Jesus talks about in scripture. You’re letting go of someone who is trying with all her heart to be a good wife for you—the woman from Proverbs who wants to be worthy so a man will call her excellent, worthy of his love and trust in everything. Can you really trust in your heart that Annabelle will ever be that kind of wife?”
Tom stood silent. He looked to his heart’s response, a heart that longed for someone to share in life, the goals and dreams. Annabelle seemed to be the one, with her words about Italy. But then there was Sara. Sara, who had suffered and worked and tried her best to change with her circumstances. Sara, who had a natural independence and a strong self-will. He gazed out the window into the darkness blanketing Bethlehem and prayed for a new dawn of understanding.
Chapter Thirteen
Tom was in no mood to receive visitors, but when two distinguished-looking gentlemen arrived at his doorstep the next morning, he straightened his vest and shirt and went to receive them. The house was strangely quiet this day. As soon as he had risen from bed, he looked out the front window to the street, hoping to find Sara returning and offering an apology for leaving so brusquely. And he, in turn, would have a ready apology on his lips for not being honest about his feelings, for not sharing with her about his friendship with Annabelle, for allowing her hope to be dashed to the ground.
The men at the door removed their top hats and bowed slightly upon Tom’s greeting. “Please excuse the intrusion. I’m Henry Wentright, and I’m looking for a Mr. Haskins, Bethlehem’s famous painter,” said the one.
Tom was at a loss for words. Bethlehem’s famous painter? The title sounded like one Annabelle might bestow on him. “I’m not certain I’m famous, but I do paintings, yes. Won’t you come in?”
Claire immediately scurried out to see the callers then hastened to the kitchen to put the kettle on. Tom showed them to the parlor. “How can I help you gentlemen?”
“I would very much like to have a portrait made of my wife,” Henry said. “It’s for her birthday. I think she would like it very much.”
“Actually, my specialty is landscape art in the manner of the Hudson River composition.”
The men looked at each other. “I thought perhaps you did portraits. You see, we heard you do excellent work. In fact, we heard it directly from the young lady who is a guest in your home. She seemed very eager to share about your paintings.”
Tom was cut to the quick. When Claire arrived with the teapot and cups, he gave her a questioning glance.
“Is your guest available? Perhaps she can help clarify what she meant.”
“She’s quite attractive, I must say,” said the second man. “Henry here da
res not say such things, as he is happily married. But I’m not, you know. In fact, what is her name? She didn’t say.”
They must be referring to Sara. And she had captured the attention of two wealthy men. When? Maybe even this morning. He wondered if perhaps they were privy to where she was staying. He stood to his feet. “Her name is Sara. Please, can you tell me where and when you saw her?”
“Why, we saw her on Main Street just yesterday. Didn’t we, Henry?”
“That’s correct, Stuart. She was taking a walk, enjoying the nice day. And a good thing we were out then, too, as it’s turned quite chilly.”
Sara must have encountered them before she stormed from this house. They would have no idea where she was now. He sensed Claire’s eyes like daggers on him as she poured tea for each guest. “Well, thank you for the information. And I’m sorry I can’t help you with the portrait.”
“I would like to see some of your work,” Stuart asked. “A lady as lovely as Sara must have a good eye for detail. If you don’t mind?”
Tom did mind the man’s obvious interest in Sara. He hadn’t realized how much the idea bothered him until he came face-to-face with it. He went to find his latest painting, still unfinished, of a deer lost in the massive New Hampshire woods.
Stuart exclaimed his interest in purchasing it when it was complete. “It will look perfect in my place of business. In fact, I will give you half the payment now.” He withdrew his purse and counted the money. “You’ll have it ready by tomorrow, I hope. I leave on the train the following morning.”
“Yes, yes, sir, I will.”
“Please, no formality. Stuart is fine.”
“And I’m Tom Haskins. I’ll have your painting done with the utmost haste, sir.”
“Stuart,” the man reminded him with a smile, replacing his purse. “Thank you for your time.”
Tom showed them to the door. When they departed, Claire came forward with her hands on her hips. “So, Sara is quite the vagabond of the street. Here she is, capturing the hearts of eligible bachelors in Bethlehem. The other man, Stuart, had no qualms about pursuing her. And I’m sure there are other gentlemen about as well.”
“I never thought she was a vagabond.”
“Heavens, you certainly did. And she will become one again if you don’t go at once and bring her back. You promised you would.”
He glanced out the window. “Where am I supposed to begin looking for her? For all we know, she left this morning on the train…if she was able to find the money for it.”
“You could at least inquire at the train station and perhaps a few guesthouses. After all, you are responsible for her well-being while she is in Bethlehem. She is like a sister to me. Would you leave me out in the cold with no money?” Claire paused. “Perhaps I shouldn’t be asking that kind of question.”
“Claire, you know I wouldn’t. Yes, I did promise to look for her, and I will. I’ll check around town and ask if anyone has seen her.” He went to fetch his coat. “But I cannot be responsible if she decided to leave on the train. Then it’s done.”
Claire gathered the dishes on a silver tray and moved off in silence.
Tom sighed. How he wished the men had just seen Sara on the street. Then they would know she remained and Claire would have peace. Tom decided he would head for the ticket office and see if the clerk remembered her and then check the neighboring hotels and guesthouses. Or just walk the street and see if somehow their paths crossed.
Tom made his way down Main Street, his hands buried in his pockets, as a stiff wind greeted him. On the breath of wind came the raw whisper of snow, ready to make another appearance. December was on the horizon and, with it, Christmas. He had a vision then of Christmas at the house, with a tall tree gracing the parlor and Claire and Sara laughing gaily as they exchanged gifts. He thought suddenly of something pretty to give Sara on that day—maybe some gloves or a fine hat. Or something to replace that worn carpetbag. Or, at the very least, a new coat.
His throat tightened. How could he have allowed Sara to leave like that? He’d invited her here, after all, with the possibility of marriage. Like Claire said, despite what happened with Annabelle, he was responsible for Sara. She had come in answer to his ad. He should have barred the door to prevent her from leaving. Run into the street, calling her name. Search all night if he had to.
But then there was Annabelle. Perhaps things could be made right by returning the book and declining her father’s generous offer of the trip to Italy. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it quite yet. He felt a certain itch when it came to Miss Loving. She tickled his fancy and aroused his curiosity by the way she spoke to his interests in life. He treasured the book while thoughts of the trip teased him in the night watches. But there remained a nagging question, too. Could one base a lasting relationship on selfish desire?
Tom arrived at the depot, where the daily train had already deposited the new arrivals. The number of visitors to Bethlehem had lessened considerably with the coming of winter. No doubt there would be fresh arrivals on the advent of the Christmas season when visitors found it nostalgic to celebrate the holiday here amid the lure of the fancy resorts and rugged scenery. After all, this was Bethlehem.
“Good morning,” Tom greeted the clerk at the ticket counter.
“Ah, Tom. And where are you planning to travel?”
How Tom would love to travel. He’d been nowhere, save this familiar land. Perhaps one day he should visit New York to see where Sara McGee came from. “Actually, I’m here to inquire if a young lady purchased a ticket this morning. She wore a large straw hat with a green ribbon and a fairly shabby-looking coat.”
The clerk laughed. “How am I to know which one you mean, Tom? There are plenty of women in hats buying tickets.”
“Well, she would have bought a ticket to New York.”
The clerk snickered once again. “That’s the second most popular destination, my good man, next to Boston.”
Tom could see this was going nowhere. He thanked the man and walked along the platform where the train stood. Steam created frosty white curls of smoke in the air. He recalled Sara’s arrival that day in early October, with her looking like a lost bird amid the ridicule of the townspeople. Things had changed for the better since then…until recently, when everyone in his life had begun to turn from him. He’d not heard from Lawrence since the day they met before his trip up Mount Agassiz. Sara was gone. Claire would hardly speak to him. The only one who remained was Annabelle. But what did all this say for his godly character? Help me know what to do, God, he prayed as his feet walked the street in earnest. Guide my heart and my mind.
He considered his next course of action. Sara had talked of finding a place to stay until she could locate employment and earn the money needed for the train fare to New York. Tom headed for Main Street and began combing places she might be, like several of the cottages that housed visitors. He stopped at several of them but none had seen her, though several of the proprietors expressed interest in one of his paintings for their establishment. At least there was a bright side to this—he was certainly drumming up business for his work.
“My work,” he said with a sigh. He needed to finish the painting for the gentleman, Stuart. And there remained the work commissioned by Mr. Astor. The man would be coming in a mere three weeks to claim the paintings. Tom had been happy with Mr. Astor’s confidence in him. Now he worried he would have many unhappy customers if he didn’t return to his work.
How will I accomplish it in light of what’s happening? Painting required freedom of the mind, heart, and spirit. He could not simply sit and draw on a whim. It had to come forth from his innermost being, and right now that being felt trapped by circumstances of his own making. I have no choice. I need to find Sara and make certain she’s all right. I have to talk to her and tell her about Annabelle. I have to talk to Annabelle, too, and tell her about Sara. I need to straighten out this messy affair and see what is left in the end.
The morn
ing went badly, and by late afternoon he reluctantly returned home to paint. Claire ignored him the rest of the day and at dinner. He struggled as best he could to finish the painting and then left that evening to deliver it to Stuart.
On his way back, he stopped at another guesthouse, though knowing the answer to his inquiry. He knocked on the door, stomping his feet to keep warm. The cold began to seep through his coat and chill him. His feet felt numb. He would need to return home soon and make some tea.
A large woman holding a broom answered the knock. “You need a place to stay?”
“No. I’m here to inquire about a certain young woman. Her name is Sara McGee.”
“Uh-huh. What about her?”
Tom felt an instant surge of excitement. Blessed be the Lord. “I have an important message to give her.”
“Sorry, she’s not in right now.”
“Do you have paper and ink so I can leave her a message?”
She looked at him, twisted her lips, and then strode off, but not before she placed the broom against the wall. “You can come and use the desk there in the hall.” She placed the writing implements before him.
“Thank you.” He rubbed his cold hands together, staring at the blank piece of paper. He had no idea what to write. Should he confess everything? Or share just enough words to bring her back home? The woman nearly standing over him didn’t help his concentration.
“If you want my suggestion, young man, just tell her how you feel. I’m guessing that’s why you’re here, right? That’s what I told the other man.”
He put down his pen. “There was another man here calling on Sara?”
“Oh, you’re about the third caller she’s had. She’s very much admired, this young lady. In fact, just last night she received a gentleman caller right here at the cottage. They sat over there.” She pointed to a couch barely wide enough for two people. “He certainly looked interested in her.”
Tom gritted his teeth. Stuart was wasting no time, was he? In fact, when Tom had delivered the painting this night, the man boasted about having dinner with a special guest. Tom felt his blood run cold and not from the winter’s day. It was something he’d never experienced before. It was the cold sensation of jealousy in his veins.
Love Finds You in Bethlehem, New Hampshire Page 13
