The sharpness of an elbow struck his side. He motioned to Teddy. “You remember Mr. Parker?”
“Yes, I believe I do.” Sara accepted his clasp, but her eyes remained lowered. “Mr. Parker. How are you?”
Teddy grimaced. “Well. And you?”
Sara tugged her hand free. Christopher pitied the man. He offered her his arm. “Come along, Miss Kreyssler. Let me give you the tour.” Once he guided Sara to one of the more secluded rooms of watercolors and free-form art, he halted and lifted an accusatory finger. “You’ve been practicing that entrance this entire week, haven’t you?”
“No, sir. I promise.”
“I’m not so sure I believe you. But in any case, I’m glad you’re here.” Christopher gathered her hands in his, drawing her gaze from a scrutiny of the hardwood floor. “You’re a success, my dear.”
Her lower lip trembled. “Truly?”
A tear escaped to caress her cheek. She swiped it away, but another followed.
“Sara." Christopher tucked his kerchief into her hand. “Didn’t you believe me when I said your art would be loved?” It still amazed him that she could be so unaware of her innate talent.
She dabbed the tears from her eyes. “Thank you for pressing me to do this, sir.”
“Thank you for allowing me to do so. You should have hooked me under the chin.”
Sara’s eyes crinkled at the corners with her smile.
“Come along.” Christopher guided her hand to the nook of his arm. “We don’t have much time before midnight.”
“I do no’ think your sister’s carriage will turn into a pumpkin,” she said, laughing. “She’d be madder than a wet cat if it did.”
“Yes, well, I would rather not risk it. You must admit your life to this point resembles a fairy tale.”
“I know. I should have stopped pinching myself days ago, but...." She revealed a red mark just above her elbow. “See?” She nervously laughed, her cheeks warming to a romantic shade of rose.
Christopher smiled. Carla, what a dear woman we’ve rescued. He wished she could have met her, for he knew Carla would have fallen madly in love with her, as Dix and Gwyn had done.
“Watercolors are so different from charcoals and oils,” Sara observed, her soft comment drawing his focus to the watercolors to their left. “They are... a whisper of a dream rather than the telling of a story.” She sighed. “I wish I could paint like that.”
“If you’re serious about that comment...."
Sara’s sapphire eyes brightened. “Sir?”
“Paul and Dix instructed me to inquire whether you wanted me to have a hand at instructing you.”
She offered a tremulous smile. “I would count that a great blessing, sir.”
“Good. I would have offered earlier, but they charged me to wait until after the display. Taking on too much and whatnot. Dix always chews my ears about it. She says that I take on too many projects and that’s why I practically never finish any of them.”
“You canno’ help but be excited about your gallery here. Not if that’s your passion.”
His smile vanished, the word lancing a brand of ice and fire across his mind and heart. He lowered his hand from her arm.
“Mr. Christopher?” Sara’s scrutiny darkened her eyes to the tortured blue of a stormy sea.
“I am well, my dear. I have neither seen nor painted an image since Carla’s death.” What passion remained for him now? At times, the gallery seemed more a torture than a triumph.
Sara’s gaze didn’t waver in its study of his features, setting his teeth on edge. “You miss it.”
The safe vision of the watercolor drew Christopher’s gaze. “As much as I miss her.”
She faced the same landscape, what seemed a sneering testament to a once peaceful existence. Sara experienced a greater blessing in her life. She used her artistry and passion even through a death and a struggle of survival. Her passion became the art now on display around him. Yet his ardor faded in the face of struggle, swallowed by the void of grief.
Sara suddenly looped her arm through his, the simple action of support drawing his gaze.
“It is still there,” she whispered. “You have but to listen.”
His chest tightened at the promise he desperately wanted to believe. She sounded so certain, how could he not?
Fifteen
The Other Side of the Platter
Sara fingered the lip of her crystal tumbler of punch, staring wide-eyed at the art before her. An oil mountain-scape, it gave life to a part of America she hadn’t yet seen. Sara read the note card. Crater Lake, Oregon; E. C. White.
“Oh how lovely,” she whispered.
“I understand from a friend this happens to be Mr. Lake’s favorite.”
Startled, she turned. An older gentleman stood behind her. He looked about the same age as Mr. Stillwell with blue eyes, gray hair, and a somewhat slender physique. He stood about as tall as Mr. Lake.
“Good evening, sir.”
“Good evening, my dear.” He presented a hand. “My name is Joseph Conklin. Whom do I have the honor of meeting?”
“Ann K-Kreyssler.” It sounded odd to voice the last name of her father in relation to her identity.
“Very pleased to make your acquaintance.” Mr. Conklin motioned to the landscape. “Do you paint?”
“Oh no, but I wish I could. It seems as if it might come off the very page.”
“Yes. Eva has quite a talent with the brush.”
“You know her?”
Mr. Conklin chuckled. “I know quite a few artists, being as I do my best to support them. We must stick together, you know.”
“You paint, sir?”
“No,” he said, quiet. “Not for a long time.” He glanced toward her. “Well, at least not as often as I would have liked.”
“But why ever not?”
“Too much control given to what should not have had it.” Mr. Conklin adjusted the hanging of the frame. “So, have you come to mingle? Or have you come to do your best to persuade Mr. Lake to sell you one of the forbidden sketches?”
Sara’s nervous laugh twittered through the room. “I came because I had no’ ever been to an artist unveiling before—You truly like them?”
“Yes, indeed. I haven’t seen a hand like that for years. Not since returning from England, where I believe I happened upon one of Mr. Lake’s first displays.” He motioned toward her. “Where do you hail from?”
“London. I was born in a borough there.”
“Richmond-Upon-Thames?”
Sara’s eyes widened. “You know it?”
“In passing.” Mr. Conklin focused beyond Sara to the crowd in the main room, nodded, and then offered her his hand. “I must away. A pleasure to meet you, my dear. I hope to see you again.”
Sara curtsied. “Thank you, sir. Have a pleasant evening.”
The warmth of Mr. Conklin’s hand lingered even after he passed to meet an associate in the crowd. All Mr. Lake’s acquaintances seemed kind and thoughtful.
A hiss from the side entrance drew her attention. Teddy Parker leaned around the doorframe, his handsome features taut with pleading. Sara almost wrinkled her nose. She didn’t know what to believe about him. He didn’t seem a bad sort, but the way he flirted and carried on brought to hand so many memories of broken hearts.
“Hello, Mr. Parker.”
Teddy hesitated before entering the small room. “Are you enjoying yourself? No one bothering you?”
She only shook her head as she regarded him and his sidelong glances.
“This is Top’s favorite. It is a lake in Oregon made by a volcanic eruption. Top wants to go there someday. To prove it as lovely as the picture, I suppose—“ Teddy faced her, hands outstretched. “Sara, I feel horrible about the other night. Too much wine. It goes to my head every time.”
She continued to examine the landscape. Before coming to America, nobody had apologized to her about their behavior. It made her feel... more.
�
��Top said that if I didn’t apologize, and make doubly sure you knew I wouldn’t do it again, he would forbid me from visiting the house.”
Sara blinked at him, unprepared for the confession of Mr. Christopher’s ultimatum. “Mr. Parker, are you promising to be better behaved?”
“I don’t know if I can. My bad habit seems to be talking first and thinking only after I feel the sting of the slap.”
A reluctant laugh bubbled up. “Well, if you do better, I will help you.”
Teddy grinned. “No fooling?”
“ ‘No fooling.’ You have likely only not had the chance to learn about ladies, being a sculptor. And you did no’ have sisters, did you?”
Teddy shook his head. “Three brothers. And Dix never did have the patience to put up with me longer than a dinner, and that only because Top came between us. Or Paul.”
“See? You only need a bit of practice.”
“One problem. All the practice will likely get me into trouble.”
“Trouble? With who?”
Teddy chuckled. “With you or Top, or both.”
“As long as you try, I will no’ get upset with you. And Mr. Lake will no’ be angry. I will explain what happened, if he does.”
Teddy’s smile remained as he reached out to give her hand a squeeze. “No. That’s fine. I will be a big boy and face him myself. We have been friends since college, so I think I understand most of his quirks.”
“Is that why you call him ‘Top’?” She tugged her hand from his.
Teddy tucked his hands into his trouser pockets. “Top? I call him that because he stood at the top of our graduating class, and almost everything else. Especially popular with the ladies, although he focused more on his collegiate studies than studies of other... more gentle things.”
“Mr. Parker."
Teddy’s gaze glittered with curiosity. “What?”
“You should no’ talk about things like that with a lady.”
“Things like what?”
“Anything personal about Mr. Lake. It is no’ your place.”
Teddy raised an eyebrow. “Hm. I will need to remember that one. Might save the two of us some arguments.”
Someone called Teddy’s name. He winked and then disappeared back into the crowd. No, he wasn’t a bad sort, only very... free-spirited. Sara restrained a laugh.
The sound of approaching steps behind her drew her attention. She smiled. “Oh, Mr. Christopher! All these people and the conversations—So wonderful!”
His hazel eyes twinkled. “Then why are you hiding?”
“Because I love watching them when they do no’ know it. You can learn so much more about people by watching.”
“Yes, I have found myself trapped in the same habit.”
A pastime Sara completely understood, especially with his gift of art. “Will you invite different people for the next reception?”
“I had not yet decided. Most likely, but there are a few local patrons I should invite as well. I also hoped to invite a few directors from New York galleries.”
Sara took in a quick breath, and her fingers tightened on her crystal punch glass.
“Here now.” He took her glass from her and set it on the tray of a passing waiter. He directed her hand to his arm. “No frowns this evening, Miss Kreyssler. This is your night.” She flushed. “Now, let us have a stare at the newest group ‘ooo’ing and ‘ahh’ing over a mysterious artist’s first display. Unfortunately, that is all we will have time for before I will need to escort you to your carriage and send you on your way.”
Sara’s smile faded. “Could I no’ stay longer?”
“I am afraid I promised Dix to have you home before one o’clock. She’s of the mind too much excitement wouldn’t be... wise. I will be certain to keep quiet next time.”
Sara laughed.
~ ~ ~
Christopher held Sara’s overcoat for her. She slipped her arms into the sleeves as the clock chimed the three-quarter hour. Almost two o’clock, Dix had been giving him the reproachful-eye every moment she could spare. But the conversations had been a relief, Sara’s presence a tie to his beloved wife, and the laughter satiating a previously unchecked hunger. Reluctance was plain in Sara’s expression, so he ignored both his sister and the time with pleasure.
He adjusted the coat over Sara’s shoulders. “Dix will chew my ears for delaying you.”
“I hope not, sir. I had such fun, and so different from the parties in England!”
“Oh?”
“The laughter. It sounded... more real. And the people? They were all so charming.”
Christopher chuckled and motioned her toward the front doors. “They believe you to be the mysterious new artist, Sara. Could you not tell they were attempting to winkle it out of you?”
Sara laughed. “A fairytale party. I am glad you forgot the time.”
He signaled for her carriage before closing the outer doors against the chill of the early morning. “I confess my intent was selfish. No one else laughs at my jokes.” Her eyes gleamed. “But in all seriousness, I am glad you decided to come. You altered the tone of the party.”
The carriage rumbled to a stop outside. Christopher escorted her out, and held the carriage door open as he steadied her ascent. “Good evening, Sara. I will see you tomorrow.” He secured the door and stepped back.
Sara lowered the glass. “Christopher.” Her choked voice drew him forward. She clasped his hand. “Thank you so much.”
“It was my pleasure, Sara.”
The carriage lurched forward, pulling her hand from his. She leaned out, errant curls of mahogany dancing in the wind as she watched him. Then the carriage disappeared into the mists of snow and early morning fog, leaving Christopher alone on the gallery steps. His smile waned, and he lowered his gaze to his hands before turning away. His shoulders wilted.
Dix met him just inside. “You must have meant you would have her home before two.”
He shrugged out of his overcoat and handed it off to Harold. “No, I meant one.”
“Lost track of the time, did you?”
“I purposefully ignored it.”
“I see.”
“Dix, you would have done the same if you had seen the expression in her eyes. She did not want to go, and I do not blame her. You did not truly wish me to force her away before she was ready, did you?”
His sister laughed. “Heavens, no! Why do you think I suggested one o’clock? You never listen to me, and you go against any suggestions I make, as a general rule.”
“Of all the—You conniver.” He grinned. “Good for you. I deserved that.”
She wrapped his arm in hers and drew him forward. “Come now. Tell me what had you two sniggering all evening. It was wonderful to watch.”
“We weren’t sniggering,” he protested.
“Oh please. You and Carla would do the same thing; sneak up on groups of inexperienced art-watchers and then make them embarrass themselves by asking their opinion on the art. I’ve seen you do it a hundred times.”
“They deserve it, Dix, and you know it. Instead of repeating what they’ve heard throughout the Gallery, they should do their best to answer from their self. Until they realize that their interpretation on art is just as relevant and important as someone like myself, I will–”
“All right, all right,” she laughed. “Just tell me what happened.”
“Sara came to their rescue.” Christopher fought back a smile at the memory.
“What? How so?”
“She offered something quite innocent yet valid about one of the other paintings in the gallery, one of the oils I believe, and then pointedly asked what they thought.”
Dix laughed. “The dear girl. Good for her.”
“You should have seen the look of relief on their faces. Apparently they had thought much the same.” Christopher chuckled. “Then she stepped up to her favorite of the sketches--the one with the little girl trying to peek over the wall into the garden?--and confessed she
didn’t know what to think about it. She only knew she liked it. They, of course, were all too willing to offer what they thought about it, and most of the impressions were insightful into the type of artists they are, or soon will be. It was great fun to watch.”
“I imagine so.” Dix gave a shake of her head. “That girl. She’s such an angel. Tries so hard to appreciate and accept everyone. I even saw her laughing with Teddy earlier.”
Christopher frowned. “Yes. I had words with him before that conversation. Made it clear to him that if he didn’t begin to watch his behavior a bit more closely, he’d be banned from the house.”
“Chris, Teddy didn’t mean anything by the kiss. You know that’s how he is.”
“Yes, I know, but Sara doesn’t. She shouldn’t be required to protect herself from flirts who have nothing better to do.”
“He did it to spite that you asked him not to.”
“I wouldn’t be a bit surprised.”
She gave his arm a pinch. “Well, don’t be such an old fuddy-duddy! The experience with people like Teddy will do Sara some good. Loosen her up a bit. And she looked as if she enjoyed herself with him. Handled him nicely, even if I do say so myself.”
“Sara’s experience with people in England is responsible for that,” Christopher reminded.
“Oh? And you making her feel safe and welcome didn’t matter at all?”
Christopher smirked. “Fine, fine. I’m a hero. Hurrah to me.”
Dix pointed at him. “And as such, I had best see you and Gwyn day after tomorrow bright and early for church services.”
“Yes, yes, Dix. I apologized for missing last Sunday, and I promise to be there this week.”
“Good. Now come along with you. We’ve a few more guests to mingle with while encouraging them to leave so that I can go to sleep. I’m getting too old for this.”
“Too old? Dix, you’re not even thirty-eight.”
“Yes, well thirty-eight is making its presence known, and I want to get some sleep.”
Christopher laughed.
Dix pushed at him, eyes twinkling even as she forced a frown. “Don’t laugh. You’ll be complaining soon enough of these late nights when you have a few more years under your belt.”
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