Searching for Sara (Extended Edition)

by Nona Mae King

  “Teddy?”

  “Mr. Christopher’s friend.” Amy adjusted Sara’s coat over the skirt of her blue dress before turning for the scarf. “They went together on the gallery out of college. He does the clay and stone works, and Mr. Christopher the paintings and sketches.” Amy adjusted the scarf over Sara’s thick waves and tucked it into the wool coat. “He’s right handsome, but a bit on the—” The young woman shot Sara a glance before finishing with the scarf and turning to retrieve the gloves. “Just take what he says with a grain of salt and sand and you’ll be fine.”

  Sara’s eyes widened. “Is he–”

  “Oh he’s no rogue, or whatever you call ‘em, but he twists a word just the way he wants.” Amy presented Sara the gloves. “I just heard the carriage come ’round. You have fun there at the gallery, and make sure Mr. Christopher shows you ‘round and tells you all the stories of the receptions he and the missus used to throw.”

  Then Gregory ushered Sara outside and into the carriage. “The gallery, straightaway,” he said, matter-of-fact.

  Sara closed her eyes, whispering a prayer as the carriage lurched forward. Over and again she reminded herself of Mr. Lake’s kindness. Why would his associates be different? Certainly he wouldn’t partner with a bully such as Mr. Brockle?

  The carriage creaked to a halt, the door opening moments later to the smiling face of the driver, Patrick. “You need help to the door, miss? The streets be slick.”

  She accepted his help down, only just keeping her feet from tangling in the fullness of her skirt. “N-no, Patrick. Thank you. I do no’ want to keep you.”

  “No trouble, miss. That’s what I’m here for.”

  Sara sent the lanky, middle-aged driver a timid smile.

  Gathering the front of her coat in trembling hands, Sara ascended the stairs. The gallery loomed as impressive now as when she first arrived. An artist at a gallery such as this? Dare she believe it? She stared at the gallery doors, biting her lip as her hands worried the front of her coat. Push them open. You can do this. He asked you to come by. She reached out—

  “Of course, Top. No prob—Well, hello! Who might you be?”

  Sara startled back as she stared into the silver gaze of a tall, attractive redhead. “I am sorry, sir. I did no’ mean—”

  “What’s the ma—Oh! Sara. You made it after all.”

  Sara’s gaze retreated to Mr. Lake’s familiar face. “I... Miss Gwyn went down for a nap, and so I... I thought this would be the best time.”

  Mr. Lake stepped back to usher her inside. “Perfect timing. Come in before you catch your death. Teddy, don’t stand there gawking. Close the door before you die of exposure.”

  She lowered her focus to the floor. The gallery doors closed behind her as she followed Mr. Lake. “Let us have some hot cider. You are trembling.”

  “Yes, sir—I mean, Mr. Lake.”

  Another figure came to walk beside her. Sara cast a frightened look to the redhead. He smiled. “S-sir.”

  “Ah. Yes. Er, this is Theodore Parker. Teddy. My partner and friend. He helps me plan the events. Teddy, this is Miss Sara Little. The artist I told you about.”

  “A pleasure to finally put a face to the art, Sara.”

  Sara curtsied. “Sir.”

  “None of that,” Teddy said, chuckling. “Call me Ted, Teddy, or something the like. You can even call me Parker if you want. Top over here knows as well as anyone I don’t deserve respect.”

  Top? Sara peeked at Mr. Lake. He frowned at his friend, his hands clasped behind his back. “I will try, sir... I mean...." Teddy winked at her. Sara flushed and looked away. “Mr. Parker.” She heard Mr. Lake chuckle.

  “Mr. Parker? That sounds horrible. Like I’m a partner of some respectable establishment.”

  Sara halted. “But are you no’...."

  “The partner of some respectable establishment?” His silver eyes twinkled. “Yes, but I don’t care for the sound of it at all.”

  She blinked at him, then she smiled. Americans.

  “Lo and behold she smiles, Top. Something I said must have struck a funny bone.”

  “Teddy, Sara smiles on a regular basis. You haven’t a special talent for bringing it about.”

  “Did I say I did? I just commented. Less coffee for you, I think. You get cranky—Of course, your sister is due later and we both know how she can be. Nor have we lunched yet, and the layout of the display has not cooperated.”

  The two sounded like bickering brothers. Another peek at Mr. Lake revealed a boyish smirk.

  “I had lunch,” he said. “You were too engrossed to notice.”

  “And you didn’t offer me anything?” Teddy scoffed.

  “I offered. You grunted and continued on about the layout. Then you promptly pushed me aside and moved everything around again.” Mr. Lake intercepted Sara’s scrutiny and smiled.

  “I don’t believe it,” Teddy said. “You always insist I think with my stomach. So why didn’t I smell the food you offered?”

  “How should I know? Your mind never does seem to work the same twice in one day. I’m forever believing you’ve lost what little sense you had.”

  Sara laughed—both men focused on her, inciting a wave of crimson to her cheeks.

  “Well, well. She laughs as pretty as she looks.”

  “Teddy.” Mr. Lake’s eyes narrowed.

  “Oh. I apologize, Sara.”

  Her gaze darted from his.

  “Teddy, pour Sara a mug of cider.” Mr. Lake held open the door to the kitchen. “I will show her what we have in mind for the display.”

  “Why do I—”

  “Ted.”

  “Fine, fine. Cider.” He disappeared into the kitchen.

  Mr. Lake gestured toward the main hall. “The testament to my lacking as a sponsor is this way.”

  “Sir, layouts are a challenge for all things.” How many times did she herself receive brow-beatings for failing to please the Housekeeper?

  Mr. Lake clasped his hands behind his back, a quick glance sending her heart into her throat. “It is as you say, but considering my past experience, and my enthusiasm for this particular display, I do not believe that a feasible excuse.”

  Considering her sketches would be the topic, Sara felt an immensity of humility in any type of exhibit, poor or otherwise.

  “Oh, you should know that my sister and her husband arrive in about an hour. Would you care to join me?”

  “Oh no, Mr. Lake. Gwyn will be terribly put out if I do no’ help her finish the picture-book we started. And she asked me to show her some needlepoint on a pillo—Oh bother! That was to be a surprise.”

  Christopher chuckled. “My performance of surprise is quite accomplished. Just ask Carla—Ah. I...." His countenance tightened, the color of his face retreating to ash.

  Concern caught her breath. “Mr. Christopher?”

  He cleared his throat while tugging a golden pocket-watch from his vest. “It was nothing. Simple slip.”

  “A-are you well, sir?”

  “Fine.”

  But Sara could read the agony in the pallor of his face. For almost two years he had borne life without his dear wife. She knew well the chill of that misery.

  A gentle touch on his right arm invoked a violent shudder. Sara nearly cried aloud at the haunted expression in his eyes. Then he tore his gaze away.

  “Mr. C-Christopher, the ache goes away. Truly. It does.”

  He shook his head, his throat working hard at swallowing the grief. The ache of loss seemed to overwhelm him. Did it twist the view of his daughter? Haunt his dreams with whispers of a dead wife? Did it even pervert the joy that should have been warm in the memories?

  Sara blinked away the tears and stepped close, forcing her hand into the grip of his fist. He clutched at it, his gaze never wavering from the blank wall before him. Dear Lord, please help him find peace. The chaos of grief tarnished everything.

  ~ ~ ~

  Sara watched the carriage rumble away toward
the train station, the tickle of a falling tear drawing a quick swipe. Sweet Jesus, please. Mr. Lake’s heart broke under the weight of the agony, and reminiscing his wife didn’t offer him the comfort that it did for Gwyn, Emily, or Harold. The memories didn’t bring him a smile, as Sara’s did for her mother. But why? Why would happy memories hurt?

  Yet Sara remembered her own fight against the memories. Accepting them would have meant accepting his wife’s death, and a forever separation from everything he had shared with her. “You did no’ want that either, Sara-Ann. Remember? You wanted your mum, not the dreams of things that would no’ happen again. You wanted her voice, not a whisper.”

  The memories had softened the grief eventually, but only after weeks and months of allowing herself to relive those treasured moments spent with her mother before and after her sickness. Sara lowered her gaze to her hands as they clenched the gloves still unworn. The Lord had gentled their touch to her mind and heart, too, knowing she needed the time.

  Lord, how do I tell him You helped me say ‘good-bye’? Sara released a deep breath. If he had suffered this way the entire time she had been gone.... Mr. Lake’s separation from God must have been that deeper torture she sensed. His faith and security had toppled in so many more ways than just the death of his wife. Hadn’t Sara also felt lost and betrayed when her mother died?

  Sara absently nodded as she turned to climb the steps of the Donovan home, wiping away more tears. Sweet Jesus, You give me the words to say. It was a promise that Sara would fight every warning in her head and history to do. She couldn’t let him keep God on the outside. It was his only hope of peace.

  God was the only key to life past the grief.

  ~ ~ ~

  Christopher absently rubbed the face of the golden pocket-watch as he stared out onto the distant rolling white hills of Virginia. Silence. Insulated stillness. Stark whiteness. Once, snow and winter had been romantic. Fun. Warm. Welcoming. A time of family and togetherness. Adventures and trips elsewhere. Singing—Christopher drew in a ragged breath and closed his eyes, his soul rocking in time with the sway of the carriage, trying to heal. To recoup. To slink past the memories.

  “Chris." Poke. “Christopher Andrew, do stop falling asleep. Mother and Father will think you don’t want them here.”

  Christopher opened his eyes and looked to his left, down into the vibrant green eyes of his wife and lover. He smiled, and a shadow seemed to melt from an aching heart. “I’m sorry, Carla. I was up late last night finishing that landscape.”

  Carla’s eyes brightened with the smile of her expression. “Oh how wonderful! I had promised to show it to Mother when we went to the gallery this evening before dinner. She wants to put a landscape in the sitting room over the mantle. I thought that winter scene would be perfect, and such a wonderful contrast to the roaring fire.”

  The loveliness of her face, the dimple on the right side of her mouth. He lightly stroked the line of her jaw. “Perfect,” he whispered.

  Carla’s expression softened, and she drew his hand away from her face to press her lips against the palm. Then she snuggled against him. “Chris, can we plan a trip to England? I miss Dix and Paul’s faces.”

  “Of course.”

  “We could visit the gallery there that first gave you your start. And we could meet Paul and Dix’s new friends, they wrote of a young woman they specifically want me to meet, and I’ve always wanted to visit the cathedrals and museums there. So that I could see where you were first inspired.”

  “It sounds as if you have it all planned.”

  Carla laughed. “No, no, Chris. I only thought of it a few days ago. I meant to talk to you about it yesterday, but I was distracted by Mother’s letter asking to come for a visit.”

  “All right. Just as long as you hadn’t planned on leaving me behind.”

  Carla laughed again. “Of course not.”

  Christopher groaned and sat up to cradle his face in his hands. It wasn’t fair. They made so many plans for their future. A future ripped from him as surely as a newborn son stolen from a waiting family. Wiping roughly at the wetness on his cheeks, he pulled Carla’s gift to him from his pocket—and stared down at the unfamiliar kerchief with a frown of confusion. It lightened to a very slight smile.

  “M-Mr. Lake?”

  Christopher looked from the passing winter scenery to Sara sitting across from him. “Hm?”

  She hesitantly stretched out a hand, in which she held a bit of cloth. Christopher accepted it, looking down to a handkerchief having a finely worked monogram of ‘C. A. L.’ in one corner. It was also edged with tatting similar to what she had done that morning.

  “I asked Mrs. Emily for your initials so that I could make this for you,” she said in a somewhat rushed whisper. “For everything done for me." She motioned to it. “I have meant to give it to you since day before yesterday." She ducked her head a bit and sent him a timid glance as she softly confessed, “I am a silly goose when it comes to giving things. I never know what to say.”

  Christopher lifted his eyes to meet hers, and he offered her a reassuring smile. “Thank you, Sara. Thank you very much.”

  She flushed and smiled as she clasped her hands tightly in her lap. “You’re welcome, sir.”

  Christopher fingered the monogram, the stitching fine and delicate. The almost earthy colors giving a soft, masculine feel the same as the tatted edges gave an effect of elegance and care. Great thought had gone into the creation and design of it.

  Retrieving Carla’s gift from the same pocket, he held each side by side as he recalled the care and compassion behind each offering. He released a deep breath and tucked them both away to look again out the window to the silence of the winter scenery. The insulated stillness. The stark whiteness.

  He closed his eyes as he tried to remember when he loved it. That time seemed forever ago. A year for each month she had been gone. An age and a day—"It has been forever and a day since seeing a winter like this." Sara slid down the glass of the carriage and hesitantly poked her head out.

  Christopher watched her with a slight smile. “Certainly they have snow in England.”

  Sara's lips danced with a genuine smile before sliding the glass back into place and sitting back. “Of course they do, only not like this. I suppose it is... brighter here." She pointed out toward the hills. “And those? They look like piles of baker’s sugar ready for a bit of a fresh-baked cookie.”

  Christopher’s lips twitched upward. “Gwyn would love that visualization.”

  Sara giggled. “I will be certain to tell her. She will likely want a picture of a big baker missing the baking sheet.”

  He chuckled.

  Then Sara leaned her head back against the plush upholstery and released a soft sigh, nestling her hands into the lined pockets of her coat as she still looked out the window. “I love the white here. It is so utterly white. It reminds me of a Psalm about being washed as white as snow." Sara sighed again, and her blue eyes glimmered. “I love the white.”

  Christopher watched her as she absorbed the brisk and natural loveliness of his Virginia. The line of her throat and neck, the caress of an errant curl against her temple and cheek, the softness of the misty gray scarf as it heightened her natural beauty and color of life....

  “Did your wife like the winter, Mr. Lake?” Sara asked softly.

  Christopher’s hands fisted as his chest tightened, and he looked from her face to the coldness outside. “She did,” he recalled, voice tight. “She said it made her appreciate more the waiting warmth of fire and family. Cider. Hot chocolate. Soup in mugs around the fire. Knitted socks and scarves.”

  Sara sighed again. “I am so glad Gwyn had a mum like her,” she whispered. “Those happy memories will lift her when she’s down. They will keep her. Like mine of my own mum.”

  Christopher clenched his jaw, fighting back the sharp retort and the wave of agony-driven rage as the carriage lurched to a stop outside the Donovan home. The driver scrambled down an
d opened the door, offering Sara a hand when Christopher made no move to do so. At the bottom of the carriage step, she turned and sent him a tremulous smile.

  Christopher looked away. “We’ll return as soon as we can.”

  Sara stepped back from the arc of the door as it closed. “Yes, Mr. Lake,” she said softly. “I will have Gwyn prim and proper.”

  “Thank you." The driver climbed back aboard. “Drive on.”

  The carriage lurched forward, and Christopher looked back outside to see her staring after the carriage... and still... and longer still....

  Now, Christopher opened his eyes and reached up to scrub at his scalp. “I’m sorry, Sara.”

  She was right. Gwyn was lucky to have happy memories of her mother. Christopher only wished memories were not all she had. Gwyn and he deserved their family. He clenched his jaw and straightened in his seat, tightly crossing his arms. “What glory could He possibly have received from the death of you and our son? What good will go to others? What good to me? Or to Gwyn?” Christopher felt a press and urgency, but he fought it violently back. It would take a miracle to prove a death could be a blessing.

  ~ ~ ~

  “Chris!”

  Christopher raised his gaze from Carla’s picture within his golden pocket-watch. A man several years his senior approached, an elegant woman beside him. Tow-head and raven-haired beauty, Paul and Dixon Donovan were a striking couple.

  “Paul. Dix. How was the trip?”

  “Harried and rushed, but thrilling.” Dix drew him into an embrace. She kissed his cheek and then held him out at arm’s length, clucking her tongue. “Chris, aren’t you eating? You look positively scrawny.”

  He kissed his elder sister on the forehead. “I missed you too, dearest.”

  She laughed.

  Paul Donovan pulled his brother-in-law into a tight hug. “Topper. How’s Gwyn?”

  “Talking more than ever. Sara has an endless supply of questions on her hands.”

  “Was she troubled by the sudden move?” Dix’s chocolate-brown eyes darkened.