Searching for Sara

by Nona Mae King

  Sara stepped from the passenger car, her blue eyes wide as she surveyed the hustle and bustle to and from the platform.

  The conductor tipped his cap toward her. “You take care, miss, and remember what I said about needing a place to stay. The missus would love to have you.”

  “Thank you, sir. In his letter, Mr. Lake said someone would meet me.”

  “Very good, miss, but I’ll keep watch just the same.” The conductor touched the brim of his cap and then tended to the other passengers.

  Sara smiled after him. The locomotive blasted a warning call, and Sara’s breath caught at a sudden tremor of excitement. When in her memory did she experience such an adventure? She laughed and stepped forward, navigating the icy train platform with care.

  Once inside, Sara settled herself upon an oak and iron bench in the corner near the door. The warmth of the crowded station served as a pleasant change from the winter’s chill. Luggage dollies clacked about, and the shouts of porters offered a comforting sense of similarity with England. That, when paired with the people bustling to and fro, would act as a perfect addition to her collection of sketches.

  Sara pulled free her sheaf of papers and half-used pencil. Only a scarce few pages remained for scenes such as this. She hadn’t decided yet if she dared sacrifice her last coins to purchase another handful. She guided the bit of pencil across the page with a deft whisper and tried to soothe her anxiety. Both Mr. and Mrs. Lake wrote of an opportunity here. How could she then begrudge the spending of a few meager coins when surrounded with such possibilities? Yet not knowing the details steeled her against the impulsive desire.

  Her brows furrowed, her gaze flicking from the developing sketch to her valise and the letters. ‘My husband and I will fully support you whatever your chosen path might be.’ Those words resonated in her heart.

  “Miss Sara Little?”

  The baritone voice caused a hiccup within as she lifted her gaze. An attractive gentleman in a tailored gray suit drew her attention. His brown curls and straight nose bore an uncanny resemblance to the lady who referred her.

  She tucked the portfolio into her valise while whispering a prayer for strength and courage. “I am Sara Little.”

  He navigated through the crowd with ease, begging their pardon at any jostle. It served as a delightful change from the arrogance of men in past experience.

  “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Little. I am Christopher Lake. I wrote in response to your last letter?” He enfolded her hand in a friendly grip.

  “Mr. Lake.” Sara curtsied. It amazed her the master himself would have come to fetch her, though he did not seem miffed at the duty. “You should no’ have troubled yourself with me, sir.”

  “Nonsense. No trouble. I apologize for my tardiness. Today has been a rash of the unexpected.” He motioned to the bench just vacated. “Please.”

  “Thank you, sir.” His brow furrowed and Sara’s breath caught. “Something amiss, sir?”

  “Miss Little, I . . . ." He cleared his throat, his hazel eyes the dark of a spring storm.

  Hope began to mold. Had she misunderstood the invitation? “Y-yes, sir?”

  “My wife passed on before I received your request for travel instructions.”

  A chill tightened her spine.

  “Now, I do not tell you in order to send you from whence you came. It is but, well, we did not hear from you for such a space of time that my late wife and I thought perhaps you experienced a change of heart.”

  “N-no, sir, I am sorry, sir.” She bit her lip to prevent a further rush of words.

  “Just as I am sorry you were required to seek my help rather than I volunteering it forward. As Carla—as my wife mentioned in her letter, and as the lady who referred you knows, we feel it a call upon our lives to help those who may not necessarily have the ability to help themselves.”

  Mr. Lake’s hazel eyes held her gaze as if awaiting a response. “Th-thank you, sir.”

  “Hm? Oh. Quite welcome.” His regard of her didn’t waver. The hairs on her neck stood at attention. “What do you do?”

  “Sir?”

  “What do you do?”

  “I . . . I do what needs to be done, sir.” Servitude had been the way of her life since she could remember. How else could she answer a question like that?

  He smiled, and the action lightened the darkness of his eyes. “No, Miss Little, not how are you employed. My mistake. What is it that you do as a creative outlet? Neither Dix nor Paul confessed a knowledge of your interests, so I am at a loss where my focus should begin.”

  “Oh.” She considered the question, her fingers knit together to prevent a nervous flutter. “I sew well enough, selling gowns to pay for my passage.”

  “That rings with promise.” He motioned to her valise and the papers peeking forth. “Do you have a portfolio of the designs?”

  “N-no, sir.” She tucked the pages deeper within, her gaze downcast. “They were lost.”

  “Ah. No matter. Considering your presence in America, I believe I will take you at your word. Have you tried your hand at any other type of craft?”

  “I can sketch a bit.” Her heart raced with the rush of confession. “My mum said I have quite a way with a pencil.”

  “Ah! Now we come to something I understand.” He stood and took up her valise. “Come along. Let us talk more about your ‘way with a pencil’.”

  Sara tightened the shawl around her shoulders as she followed him from the station. Outside, he led her to the waiting carriage. She gaped at the golden lettering, The Richmond Gallery of Art.

  “Neither of us mentioned the gallery? Odd. I hope it does not pose a problem.”

  “No, sir. I never . . . ." She never considered herself appropriate staff for a gallery.

  “I can see you have questions.” He opened the carriage door. “You may ask as many as you like once we escape this wind. Much longer and we’ll catch our death.”

  He steadied Sara’s ascent into the carriage and then sat across from her. The carriage lurched forward. “We have always been eager to take someone less fortunate under our wing. It added excitement to our own lives, the adventure of creating an artist’s opportunity.”

  A darkness shadowed his countenance while he spoke. Then he forced a smile. It didn’t quite reach the hazel of his eyes. “Now, a question, and that strictly out of curiosity. Please don’t think me impertinent, but what delayed your journey?”

  Sara blinked at him. “P-pardon?”

  Mr. Lake cleared his throat. “Well, I understood from your letter—That is, you first contacted us some time ago, so I wonder now if you experienced difficulties due to family concerns. Would you need me to contact them and set them at ease? They shouldn’t believe we take advantage.”

  She stared at him, baffled. “Y-you would do that, sir?”

  “Contact your family? Certainly! I feel it stands as my responsibility since my wife and I set you on this path. Now, tell me what kept you. If there is a lingering doubt, I shall put it to rest.”

  “B-but there is nothing to tell, sir. I only had to save for my passage. That is why—” Her gaze fell to her white-knuckled hands. They began to throb. “That’s why I stitched the gowns.”

  “An entire wardrobe on your own? It is a wonder you arrived at all.” He withdrew a gold pocket-watch from his vest pocket to toy with it in his palm.

  A quick examination from beneath her lashes discerned a trace of gauntness to his cheeks. It teased a sense of recollection in the back of Sara’s mind. But that fell away when the carriage drew up in front of an immense, single-story brick building.

  “Ah! Here we are.”

  Mr. Lake retrieved Sara’s valise and steadied her descent. She whispered her thanks, her cheeks burning as she followed in his wake up the gallery’s marble steps.

  “Being from England you will find our gallery somewhat modest in size and scope to your own. However, I must assure you it provides an adequate introduction point for local talent.
”

  “It seems quite grand, sir.” The charming simplicity to the red brick and white shutters invited entry. The museums of her limited experience loomed with an almost dour outlook. How could one appreciate the wonders of art when overpowered by the expectations of silence and reserve?

  He held the door for her, the warmth and brightness inviting her deeper into the front hallway. “We are here to have you sketch my daughter. To her dismay, I would not allow her to tag along with me to the station. My daughter finds the Richmond Station the most adventurous of places, especially for hiding.”

  Sara laughed, the quiet sound echoing as a whisper of welcome. She flushed and lowered her gaze. The feeling of comfort and safety hadn’t been expected.

  “This way, Miss Little. Gwyn’s favorite room is just down this hall.”

  At the end of the main hall they came upon a pair of overstuffed green brocade chairs setup beyond a picture window. It encouraged comfort, a place to chat and observe. She felt certain that served its express purpose during art forums.

  A cozy library stood beyond the picture window, and a young girl dressed in velvet and satin sprawled upon the floor flipping through the pages of a picture book.

  “Such a darling,” Sara whispered.

  “That she is. Gwynnie is five years young, precocious, and forever brimming with questions.” He offered Sara the nearest chair and then presented her a pencil and sketchbook. “Take as much time as you need. While engrossed in a storybook, the dear forgets there is a world outside this room. I will wait in the office, the first door on the left just before the exit.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He inclined his head, cast his daughter a fond glance, and then proceeded from whence they came. Sara stared after him. Mr. Lake bore such a striking contrast to her last employer. He showed compassion, demonstrating a kindness and understanding that seemed a facet of his persona. I would not mind working for a gentleman like him, Lord.

  Sara lowered her focus to the pencils and paper and began outlining the different parts and positions of the child and objects in the room. Mr. Lake’s attitude encouraged conversation while giving her a feeling of welcome. The only welcome received before was that of inappropriate innuendo.

  Her eyebrows dipped into a frown as her pencil glided with deft motions across the paper. Here will be different, she promised. This is America. A land of dreams and promises. While Sara didn’t understand yet what that fully meant, she recognized these past months as the first when she hadn’t dreaded the morning.

  Sara shivered with expectancy, her frown vanishing into a smile. Now she but needed to continue to step forward, daily, and strive for her different future. Hadn’t this already presented the most challenge for her heart? She could feel the whisper of her new future lingering on the outer portions of God’s page, waiting for His design.

  Sara buffed the final touches to the sketch and then held it out for review. “Well enough.”

  She gathered her things and hastened to Mr. Lake’s office. Her hesitant knock received no answer. Sara clutched the front of her brown traveling dress as her troubled gaze drifted to the polished brass of the handle. She repeated again the instructions explained, nodding along as she once more lifted her hand to rap.

  This time the door opened. Mr. Lake’s gaze met hers, a familiar haunting of grief darkening his features. Her breath caught in her throat.

  “Ah. Miss Little.” His stiff smile ushered the shadow away. “Please, come in.”

  Sara cast him a quick scrutiny as she entered the office. But whatever memory caused such poignant melancholy had gone.

  “Now then.” He leaned against his desk, the light oak enhancing the charcoal of his suit. “What have you drawn for me?”

  “I-I suppose I should have taken more time, sir, only my mind ran away with me.” She lowered herself into the nearest chair before presenting the sketch with unsteady fingers.

  “Nonsense. Let us have a look.”

  An easel in the corner distracted her from his scrutiny of her sketch. The light of the bay window behind his desk served a stark exclamation to the blank canvas.

  “This is quite good. The strokes are sure and steady, and the shading is exceptional.”

  Her insides clashed between the euphoria of praise and the anxiety of not wanting to say anything foolish. “Thank you, sir.”

  He lifted his gaze to meet hers. “Is this the only media you use? Have you done much with oils, or watercolor?”

  “No, sir. My mum and I did no’ have the means to purchase oils or any of that. I only ever learned how to sketch with pencils and charcoal.”

  Nodding, he set the paper aside and met her gaze. “Lunch?”

  “Certainly, sir. What would you like? Are the kitchens just down the hall?” She stood, the familiar question setting her at ease.

  “I—” His brows dipped. “Pardon?”

  “Oh.” Sara’s gaze faltered. “N-nothing for me, sir. Thank you.”

  “No? I have been instructed time and again not to make decisions on an empty stomach. Let us gather Gwyn and make our way to the Manor for a bite.” He proceeded to the open doorway.

  Sara couldn’t force a step toward the door. “You need no’ bother with me, sir.”

  “It is no bother. Come along. I can assure you there is plenty for all.”

  “No, sir, truly. I have no’ yet found a place. I can sup there.” She didn’t believe her nerves would tolerate eating in front of a prospective employer.

  “Miss Little, what type of host would allow a visitor—of my country and my gallery—to fend for herself?”

  Sara clicked her mouth shut. It is only a bit of lunch, Sara Ann. She worried her lower lip as she escaped to the hall. When he came to walk beside her she uttered a prayer for calm. Only lunch.

  “How long have you been an active artist?”

  She peeked at him. “I have tinkered with charcoals and pencils since before I could write.” Again, his gaze shone with genuine interest. Presented with such a difference from the past mantra of ‘seen and not heard’, she found it a challenge to settle her nerves.

  “Why?”

  “Why what, sir?”

  “Why did you pick up those first pencils and charcoals? What motivates you?”

  Nonplussed, Sara gawked at him.

  “Certainly someone has posed such a question before. You exhibit obvious talent—No one? Gads! Are you certain you haven’t a collection of sketches? A sketchbook of any kind?”

  “N-no, sir.” The thought of the portfolio in her valise pricked her conscience.

  “Ah. Well, I suppose it matters little. If you are a fraction the artist I believe, you shall fit well.”

  But how did a body ‘fit well’ any place? Sara hadn’t done much more than pass a gallery in all her years in London.

  Mr. Lake opened the door to the sitting room and ducked his head inside. “Gwyn? We are off to the Manor for lunch.”

  “Yes, Papa.” The rustle of papers, satin, and velvet preceded her appearance. In the hall, Gwyn cast Sara an uncertain look, her gaze shadowing to emerald.

  “No monsters coming from the art, I hope?” Mr. Lake knelt to greet his daughter with a kiss on the cheek.

  The girl giggled and shook her head, her blonde ringlets dancing around her shoulders. “Of course not, silly Papa.”

  “Good girl.” He motioned toward Sara. “Gwyn, this is Sara Little. She will take lunch with us. Is that fine?”

  His daughter edged closer. Again, the girl directed only the merest of glances toward Sara. “I suppose so.”

  “Who is this shy little girl?” Mr. Lake tousled her curls. “Mama and I invited Sara from England as our guest. Certainly you can offer a ‘hello’.”

  Gwyn’s eyes softened to the lush green of a spring glade. “Truly, Papa? England?”

  “Indeed. As our guest, her comfort is our responsibility. Do you suppose you could make her feel at home? If you could, that would help me a great deal.�
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  The girl nodded, expression adorable in its seriousness. Then she bestowed Sara a bright smile and a curtsy. “My name is Gwyneth Marie. I will take care of you and make sure you don’t get lost.”

  “Thank you, miss.” Sara shook the girl’s hand, eliciting an endearing giggle.

  “Excellent.” Mr. Lake smiled, and the years slipped from his face to reveal a man younger than she first thought. “Miss Little, welcome to Richmond.”

  Three

  Adventure’s Introduction

  As the carriage lumbered toward Lake Manor, Sara struggled with the reality of Mr. Lake’s sincere welcome and his daughter’s acceptance. Yet here she sat, the plush velvet of the carriage cushions soothing her tired soul to peaceful contemplation. A deep breath of relief whispered past her lips, and she smiled when Gwyn tightened her handhold.

  “How did you find your trip? It has been ages since I ventured to England, so I am curious how you fared.”

  Sara’s eyes rose to meet Mr. Lake’s amused expression. “The trip, sir?” She never engaged in lengthy conversations with would-be employers. How much chatter was appropriate? “I . . . I fared well, sir, thank you.”

  A dark eyebrow inched upward. “The weather? The Atlantic can be quite rough this time of year.”

  She couldn’t fathom where to begin. For the first time in her life she traveled beyond England’s shores in the pursuit of a new life. The storms served as poignant inspiration for the images now tucked away in her valise. “It was fine, sir. Thank you.”

  “Good. One’s first journey from one shore to another should be the best possible adventure.”

  Gwyn tugged Sara’s sleeve, drawing her gaze. “What was the best part?”

  “Oh, Miss Gwyn, I could no’ possibly list but one. America has been a dream of mine.”

  The girl’s delicate brows furrowed. “Papa, is Sara to be a drawer?”

  “Artist.” Mr. Lake leaned forward to tap his daughter’s knee. “She will not be expected to hold clothes like a piece of bedroom furniture. But yes, that stands as the intention and will be subject for later discussion. At present I am curious to know what she has thought of her adventure to date?”

  “I . . . ." Sara pulled her gaze from his. “I could no’ say, sir. My arms are pink from pinching to wake from a dream.”