“I would love to help,” she said, her voice breathless with excitement. “Are you choosing oils or watercolors?”
To his surprise, that enthusiasm lessened the dread. “I hadn’t decided yet. Teddy believes I should choose five of each media, but I’m not so sure I should. Wouldn’t it be better to keep it simple?”
“But you’ve been painting for so long! Everyone will be so eager to see how you’ve grown over the years. You should have a bit of a time-line almost. Don’t you think? That way it would give encouragement to the different depths of artists that come.”
“That isn’t a bad idea.” Christopher chuckled. “Who’s sponsoring whom?”
Sara’s smile blossomed to laughter. “I suppose I have a few more opinions than I should.”
“Nonsense.” Christopher ushered her toward the hall with a light touch at her elbow. “Teddy specifically instructed me to have you keep me on task. He doesn’t believe I’m seriously considering it.”
“But why would you no’?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he’s hoping to have them on display with yours. Although that’s not only ambitious but cruel. I wouldn’t want to rob you of attention.”
“I would no’ mind, sir. You deserve as much.”
Christopher steadied her step up the stairs to the second story. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve already a fan-following. Yours is the reputation that needs a lift. Explaining that to Teddy will be the challenge.”
Sara smiled. “You need no’ tell him.”
Christopher halted his final step to the second story and faced her with an expression of shock. “What?”
A flush colored her cheeks, but her blue eyes still twinkled with a surprising bit of mischief. “Do no’ tell him you’d rather wait. He canno’ do much about it if he finds out the evening of the party.”
The expression of shock melted to a smile. “Teddy, she’s plotting against you. I don’t have the heart to warn him. His view of you will be crushed.”
Sara laughed.
Christopher motioned her toward the doorway of the third-story stairway, a return of the reluctance slogging his step. “I won’t tell him you put me up to it. He has a tendency of being a prankster.”
The two arrived at the door to the third-story stairwell. He cleared his throat and opened the entry to click on the light. “Forgive the dust and clutter. I, uh—" He scrubbed at the back of his neck. “I haven’t been here in . . . a while.”
Her smile overflowed with assurance, but Christopher’s reluctance and dread didn’t retreat. He ascended the stairs before her. Each step caused a shift within.
“The fourth step from the top creaks.” He partially turned, offering a hand to steady her up the narrow staircase.
Sara gathered the front of her skirts and accepted his hand to follow his careful ascent. Once the two crested the stairs, he released the warmth of her clasp and motioned toward the far wall. He tried to ignore the knot in the pit of his stomach.
“The crates are here, although I believe I unpacked one looking for a frame for Gwyn.”
They crossed the room toward the dozen or so crates stacked neatly parallel one to the other. Sara’s steps matched his for hesitation. Christopher fought back the rising dread as he gathered the sketches and images loosed from the abused portfolio. Then he set the portfolio onto the floor by the far wall with a soft thump.
The packed crates drew his focus. He noticed Sara’s occasional glances to his profile. He couldn’t remember how many images and silhouettes of a previous passion lay hidden within the crates. Just as he wasn’t sure that viewing them wouldn’t give him a shock. What would that do to Sara? She would blame herself for the suggestion.
“I do no’. You only just . . . ."
“I’m fine.” Christopher met her gaze. “I only don’t know what to expect as a reaction.”
“Mr. Christopher . . . . Sir, we do no’ need to do this today. Just the thought of bringing them out again is likely enough. It’s never wise to force one’s heart when it’s not ready.”
The crates whispered at him, and the reluctance twisted into a firmer emotion of dread—He shook his head and allowed himself to take a step back. “I can’t. Not yet.”
“And that’s fine,” she said, her voice gentle and . . . warm with understanding.
He lowered his gaze. “Maybe tomorrow?” Already hidden for what seemed a lifetime, what was another day?
~§~
7 February 1894
“Chris.”
“Hm?” Christopher looked up from his letter from Joseph Conklin. Teddy approached. “Don’t tell me. You have another idea for Sara’s display.”
Teddy smirked. “You don’t have to sound as if I don’t have one worth a moment’s thought, Top.”
Chuckling, Christopher folded the letter and tucked it into his jacket coat’s inner pocket. “Sorry, Ted. Habit.”
“Mr. Christopher Lake?”
Christopher recognized the same young man seen outside Paul and Dix’s two days before. His hackles rose, and he gathered his temper. “Mr. Whitaker, was it?”
The young man nodded and slowed his approach, noticing the guarded hostility on Teddy’s expression. “Yes,” the young man said. “That’s right.”
“What can I do for you?”
Mr. Whitaker swiped the hat from his head and worried it between his fingers. The action revealed straight blond hair combed back from a young face and an attempt to grow the style of beard currently popular. “I think you might have made a wrong assumption the other day,” he began hesitantly, his blue eyes cautious.
Christopher sent Teddy a warning quick glance. Teddy clenched his jaw. “If I did, I apologize.”
Mr. Whitaker cleared his throat. “I guess I can understand why you would. You likely thought I was the one who wrote the article. But I’m just an intern. I actually came to find out the truth. I don’t like the fact the Chronicle published an article that is mostly hearsay and gossip.”
“Try getting an internship with a different paper,” Teddy quipped.
Mr. Whitaker nodded, fingers still worrying his hat. “I’m trying to do just that, but there’s a waiting list for Harper’s, and none of the others will grant an interview. Not until I’ve more experience.”
Christopher felt an itch in the back of his mind and thoughtfully crossed his arms.
“It’s a type of paradox, actually,” Mr. Whitaker continued. “I need a little more experience in order to get accepted as an intern. But I need to become an intern in order to get experience.”
Christopher motioned to the young man, directing his attention away from Teddy. “Why did you come here today, Mr. Whitaker?”
“I—" The young man shot Teddy a quick look. “I wanted to try and explain why I asked that personal question.”
“Fair enough.”
Mr. Whitaker cleared his throat. “I hoped to prove blatant slander published by the Chronicle. Then, I could manipulate the new manager out of the position, or prove to another newspaper I have what it takes to be an intern.”
Teddy smirked. “Revealing all that would definitely get you a higher position.”
“I’m not in it for fame or glory,” Mr. Whitaker countered. “For me it’s about the news. The excitement of uncovering a mystery and reporting on it. Traveling to other places and opening people’s eyes to what goes on there, whether it be politics or customs.”
Christopher nodded, gauging Mr. Whitaker’s young face and his expressions as he spoke.
“When I read the pre-post article, I did my best to keep them from publishing it. I knew we didn’t have the facts to support it. But the manager said the public had a right to know due to the fact that both you and the gallery are high-profile.”
“I see.”
“When I proposed an alternate article . . . ."
“He didn’t take well to the suggestion.” Mr. Whitaker shook his head. Christopher nodded, regarding the young man a moment before asking, “Would
you like a position as our media liaison?”
“Chris,” Teddy spluttered, “we don’t know anything about him or his politics! We can’t simply offer him a job in hopes that he won’t blast our reputation a bit later down the road!”
Christopher ignored Teddy’s protest. “I need representation by a trustworthy individual, Mr. Whitaker. While we haven’t yet arrived to the ‘trust’ aspect, I’m willing to take a risk in order to prove myself right.”
Teddy threw up his hands and stalked away.
Mr. Whitaker stared at Christopher in shock and disbelief. Finally, he swallowed hard and presented a hand. “Thank you. I’ll do my best.”
“I know you will. In fact, I have just the traveling adventure into a mystery that I would like you to investigate.”
Nineteen
Forever Moments of Sweetness
“I will cover the cost of the journey.” Christopher escorted young Roger Whitaker to the gallery entrance. “If you need a place to stay while you’re there, check the names and addresses of my acquaintances.”
“I will be fine. Like I said, I have friends there.”
“Fair enough. Your ticket will be waiting at the station for you. Captain Cowell will have further instructions once you board.” Christopher produced his hand. “Good luck, Roger.”
“Thank you, for everything.” Then he exited the gallery.
Christopher stared at the door a moment after, his brows drawing together before he turned away.
“And?”
Teddy emerged from a side display of sculptures. His friend looked less than pleased, by the twist of his frown. “Pardon?”
“Don’t give me that,” Teddy grumbled. “I am talking about your sudden insane impulse to give the man some undeserved attention.”
“Insane?” Christopher smirked. “Maybe.”
“I don’t see what’s amusing.” Teddy regarded Christopher through a narrowed gaze. “How insane did you go?”
Christopher’s attention swung to the bare wall reserved for Sara’s display. “I sent him to England.” Guilt kicked at his head for the direct disobedience of her wishes.
Teddy’s jaw dropped. “You did what? Why?”
“Because the young man deserves an opportunity.” Christopher turned on his friend. “Because I refuse to believe that Sara Little has no living relative concerned for her well-being.” The intensity in Christopher’s voice echoed back at him as he glared at his friend. Then he dropped his gaze to his absent rub of the face of his pocket-watch. He didn’t remember pulling it from his vest . . . . He tucked it back again. “Because . . . because it seemed the next step.”
“But we don’t know if we can trust him!” Teddy pressed. “He just walked off the street with some story about—”
“And that’s why I’ve given him no information other than what is necessary. A name. An occupation. A time frame. That’s all, Teddy.” He thudded his open hand against his chest. “Do you really believe that I would openly give this man the opportunity to hurt her? She’s under my protection, and now I have the means to open a door into her past. In order to do that, I need to utilize whatever I can. This man has a passion for mysteries and discoveries. He needs an opportunity to prove himself to others in his field. He seems to have ethics and high-moral character. Why shouldn’t I use that?”
Teddy leaned back, eyes blinking in surprise. “You’ve changed, Top, and I’m not so sure it’s for the better.”
Then he turned away, shaking his head. Christopher stared after him.
~§~
Sara’s hands paused stitching the ribbon work for the purple-velvet gown when she heard voices in the hall. It sounded like Amy and Thomas. Amy had invited him for tea.
“I’m glad you told me,” Thomas could be heard to say, voice quiet. “I wouldn’t even have thought to try if you hadn’t said something. I thought it were all in fun.”
“All in fun?” Amy asked, surprised. Then she giggled. “Did you see me acting that way with Brian or any of the others?”
“Well, no, but—”
“But nothing. I like you, Thomas,” Amy confessed, her voice tender. “I suppose I’m being more forward than I should by telling you, but I don’t care.”
Sara’s smile faded. She fidgeted with the needle.
Thomas chuckled. “I like a girl who’s not afraid to be open about different things. How else am I supposed to know the difference between anything?”
Silence again settled over the two; a silence full of meaning, futures, and tender exchanges. Sara’s throat tightened, and her eyes burned. I could have had that with George. But she shouldn’t look back at the ‘could have’s. It hadn’t come, which meant it hadn’t been time for her. Sara sighed. But I surely want a special someone, sweet Jesus. And He knew it.
Laughter sounded in the hall. Then Thomas promised to escort Amy home that night. Amy walked him to the door, where they shared a meaningful pause, and offered him a gentle good-bye before closing the door behind him. Sara heard the sigh after the click of the closing door, and then the giddy giggle before Amy again entered the sitting room.
The young woman flopped down onto the couch beside Sara. “I did it. Six months of holding my tongue and I finally told Thomas how I feel about him.”
Sara blinked back the burning of tears. “Good for you.” Amy picked up her own needlework project on another evening gown. “Was it very difficult?”
“Not really. I was nervous at first, but only because my Ma had been telling me to keep it to myself.” Amy giggled. “If Ma finds out I said something first, she’ll go to an early grave.”
Sara’s wide blue eyes didn’t look away from Amy’s bright face, and the girl’s smile faded. “How do you know you like him as more than just a friend?”
“There’s just something different in how I feel when he’s around. I can’t help but smile, and my insides get all feathery, and I think about him all the time.”
“It’s different for the others?”
Amy nodded. “I’m comfortable around them, too, but I don’t feel nearly the same. With Thomas . . . ." She flushed. “It’s just different.”
“Are you no’ scared you might make a mistake and hurt his feelings? And what if he does no’ care the same for you? Are you no’ afraid he might leave you? Or hurt you?”
Amy set the gown aside. “Of course. But I know I like him enough to find out. Nothing good ever comes about without a little risk and heartache.”
Sara lowered her gaze to her trembling fingers. “Yes. I suppose that is true.”
“Actually, the little fear is something like a rush,” Amy admitted. “Anticipation, happiness, the risk. It’s all wonderfully glorious because something deep inside is pushing me forward even when something bad could happen. He’s been such a great friend, I know that I can trust him, and I’m willing to make something come out of that. He’s wonderful,” Amy sighed.
Uneasiness flittered away at the giddiness on Amy’s expression. “I am happy for you, and I pray blessings for both of you.”
“Thank you, Sara.” A clock in the hall chimed the half hour. Amy bolted to her feet. “Goodness! I’ve got to get you your afternoon tray!” She scurried from the room.
Sara laughed and focused yet again on her ribbon-work. But then their conversation filtered back through her mind. She hadn’t ever been in the same position before, not even with George. She wasn’t sure how to know when she was sweet on a man enough to say ‘I love you.’ Seeing a look of love and adoration in a smile? Sara released a wistful sigh, her lips caressed upward. Yes. I want that very much—
The front door slammed open. Sara flinched around to face the front entrance. She couldn’t see face nor figure. “Hello?”
There came no answer, only the firm bang of the closing door.
Sara set aside her needlework and made her way to the doorway of the parlor. Christopher Lake looked sharply toward her, hazel eyes dark and brown curls disheveled.
“Why, Mr
. Christopher, what has happened?” She had never seen him so irritated.
“Don’t worry about it. It’s my own issue.” His tone was so near a roar that Sara took a step back. He fisted his hat in his hands. “I’m sorry, Sara. I didn’t mean to bark at you.”
Sara hurried forward to help him wrestle free of his coat. “I been bit and barked at before,” she assured. “I do no’ pay it mind.” She draped his coat over her arm and accepted his shed gloves. She motioned behind her into the parlor. “Did you want some coffee? Maybe some tea?”
“Agitation and coffee don’t mix well.” He glanced toward her. Nodding, he released a quick breath. “But I will have some tea.”
“Certainly. You have yourself a seat. I’ll put these up and be in to pour in a moment.”
He lowered himself into the chair as though he fought against the press of a crushing weight. Exhaustion was plain in the slump of his shoulders as he leaned back and closed his eyes. Lord . . . But she didn’t know what to pray or how to help.
When she returned to the parlor after hanging his overcoat, Christopher’s eyes remained closed, his countenance taut. There was pain and confusion marring his handsome face, similar to when she first met him, though certainly not as severe.
Sara whispered a prayer for guidance and stepped forward. Sitting onto the couch to his left, she poured and sweetened his tea. When she turned to offer it, the memories twisting his features halted her. Those visions flickered as plain as if she saw them within her own mind. Memories of his wife and the sounds she used to make; remembrances of a time when an ache didn’t mute the happiness.
Sara covered his hand with hers, causing a twitch from him as he opened his eyes. He pushed himself up and attempted a smile of thanks. It only served a confession to his hurt. She blinked back the burning of her eyes and prepared her own cup.
“The servant’s life is a hard one?”
Sara looked up, and he glanced in time to catch her curious gaze. “Yes, sir, I suppose it is.”
“How did you manage as you have? Through such challenges no one would fault you an attitude of bitterness.”
“God never asked me to go through a challenge I couldn’t handle with Him beside me.” She peeked at him, unable to label his overly calm expression as he stared into his teacup. “It seemed to work for the best in the end. I only had to make sure I looked for what that blessing was.”
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