A smirk continued to tilt his lips upward. “Yes, dearest.”
“Oh, you’re impossible.” But she laughed just the same.
~ ~ ~
Sara adjusted her position on one of the steamer trunks near the window. The snow began again, and its lazy drifting reminded her of the many dances seen as a child peeking through the railing.
She lowered her chin to her knees, hugging her legs to her chest. Sweet Jesus, please help him. There’s so much joy waiting on the other side of the grief. He only needed to struggle through the sorrow and accept the Lord’s help to the other side. But to say that to him? She felt afraid he would react with as much rage as before. Lord, please take the little joy he has and make it more. Maybe then he will see You wait to give him back his art. Maybe then the haunting she saw in his hazel eyes would disappear?
Sara’s heart ached as she lifted tear-filled blue eyes to an absent viewing of the snow’s winter dance. He had lost so many parts of himself. How would she show him the Lord wanted to give them back?
“Sara?”
Sara offered a smile to Amy as she entered the room dressed in her nightgown, robe, and slippers. “Hello, Amy.”
The young woman scurried to Sara’s position on the trunk and sat across from her, also tucking her knees up to her chest. “How was the party? Was it everything and more?”
“It was. Thank you so for pressing.”
Amy softly clapped her hands and scooted a bit closer. “Tell me what happened.”
The telling of the artists and the images, the guests and the compliments, the surprise of her coming and the disappointment of leaving was as exciting as the entire night had been. When the telling was finished, Amy sighed deep and cast a wistful expression out the window to the falling snow. Sara’s eyes crinkled at the corners before she, too, looked out to the winter wonderland of Virginia. Her new home. She hadn’t ever suspected that she would come to see this place as that. But she felt safe here.
“Is Mister Christopher going to plan another party soon?” Amy asked.
Sara very slightly shook her head, resting her cheek again on her knees. “I don’t know.”
“Oh I hope so. It’s so nice to know the gallery’s full of people again. He hasn’t done that for a while. Not since Sean’s display, and that took longer than the ones he and the missus would plan.” Amy sighed. “Those were so wonderful. I loved listening to the people talking. They were so nice and thoughtful, too! They’d always ask my opinion, even though I were dressed in a maid’s apron!” Amy giggled.
Smiling, Sara’s eyes focused on the larger snowflakes dancing past her window. “All of Mister Christopher’s friends are like that,” she said, absent-minded, remembering the eager conversations and the acceptance that had made her feel giddy and... new. She sighed and then meeting Amy’s gaze to offer a smile. “I better off to bed.”
Amy nodded, following behind as she made her way to her bedside. “Will you be having yourself a lesson tomorrow?”
Sara shrugged, a somewhat silly smile on her face as she scrambled into bed and pulled the covers to her chin. “I do no’ know,” she yawned, “and it do no’ matter. I have taken myself to a party. I wore a lovely gown. And they love my sketches.” She snuggled into the covers and closed her eyes, lips caressed with a sleepy expression of happiness. “They love me.”
Amy smiled down at Sara a moment before leaning forward to adjust the covers around her mistress and then sneak softly out.
Sixteen
A New Canvas
29 January 1894
“Sara love, you are positively aglow with rhapsody.”
Sara’s cheeks blazed. “He’s teaching me to paint, mum. No one understood what that meant for me before. My art, I mean. I taught myself. To read and practice, and then practice again. My mum encouraged me, but she did no’ have the wherewithal to teach me. Your brother...." She blinked away the tears and watched the blur of passing scenery.
“I know, love, and you are sweet in that you don’t have the words to say for the glory of it all. Makes it worth a bit more to everyone.”
The carriage lumbered to a stop outside Lake Manor. Sara rushed out before the driver dismounted his perch. Dix followed in her usual sedate grace.
“Good morning, Harold.” Sara’s fingers trembled as she fussed with her coat, scarf, and gloves.
“Good morning to you, Miss Sara. Mr. Christopher is in his studio setting up. Good morning, Mrs. Donovan.”
“Harold, for heaven sake,” Dix scolded. “Stop calling me that. You make me feel like a grandmother.”
“Will you be having coffee?”
“That sounds lovely, Harold.”
Sara squeezed Dix’s hands. “It feels like a first Christmas, when my mum bought me my pencils.”
Christopher’s baritone chuckle sounded from behind. “Eagerness borne from excitement is a good motivator for the first days of learning.”
Anticipation burned Sara’s cheeks as she faced him. The comfortable beige trousers and painter’s apron suited him. “Good morning, Mr. Christopher.”
He nodded to both. “Good day, ladies. I hope you had a pleasant ride.”
“As much as one can in the winter.”
“Dix, why don’t you warm your attitude with a cup of Emily’s special roast while I introduce Sara to her work-station.”
“That is a capital idea.”
Christopher laughed. “Go on, Dix. Take your time. I’m sure my student won’t miss you.”
Something different shined in his expression, something Sara didn’t remember seeing before.
“Come along, O student of mine.” He ushered her to his studio.
“I canno’ thank you enough for offering.” Each word tumbled over itself, her insides fluttering with nervous exhilaration. “I do no’ care how difficult, I will do my best, and do all my studies, and read whatever you want for me to read. I just want to paint as well as you do.”
A smile teased his lips. “I see.”
“Your sister had herself a miniature you painted of yourself for one of your classes at the college. And Mr. Paul? He had a watercolor of Monument Avenue you done and did no’ care for. They showed them to me yesterday when I balked whether or not I wanted to come.”
Christopher’s hazel eyes twinkled down at her, arms crossed as he nodded along with her statements.
“Not that I did no’ think you wonderfully talented. I know you are—I have a feeling on things like that—but will I be a very good student? I have no’ been a student before, and I did no’ want to annoy you with silly mistakes that even Gwyn would no’ do. But then your sister and Mr. Paul said that it’s fine for students to make mistakes.”
He laughed. “Your enthusiasm is appreciated. Let us put it to good use.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Ah ah. I might be your instructor, but rules remain the same.” He motioned to the easel and paper, directing her focus with a hand on her shoulder. “This is an experimental area for right now. I only need you to do simple brush strokes with the different styles of brushes so that you can get your fingers, hands, and wrists familiar with their feel. Then we’ll add some paints so you can get accustomed to the friction of paint, brush, and paper.”
Sara nodded, eyes wide.
“Now.” He retrieved one of the small brushes from the easel’s tray. “These are made of horse hair, so they’re a bit firm, but not so much as to give you much of a fight. The larger ones are of the more coarse hair, for texture and backgrounds and the like. Here. Try this.”
Sara took it from him, hesitant, her eyes focused on the dark brown of the bristles.
Christopher chuckled. “No need to be fearful, my dear. Tickle the paper a few times.”
Her uncertain expression melted to a smile as she focused to the blank piece of paper. Once she felt and heard the first cautious swish, she retreated.
“No fear, Sara.” Christopher covered her hand with his and guided a few more certain stroke
s across the paper. When his hand enveloped hers yet again, Sara blinked at the touch. “Note how the grain of the paper effects the bristles? Let us try another brush. One more firm.” He released her long enough to gather one of the larger brushes.
“Do you feel the added resistance?”
Sara nodded, wide eyes unable to look away from their shared touch. It felt different than any other purposeful touch experienced. Even George, when he taught her how to clean a fish, hadn’t felt the same. Gentle, yes, and warm, but not—Sara tilted her head as she stared at their hands.
“Question?” Christopher released his hold, leaving a lingering warmth and impression of a gentle grip.
“Not just yet.” Her eyebrows furrowed as she thought back....
“Then let’s give something a try.”
Sara blinked and turned to look at him. His handsome face seemed brighter as he gathered a watercolor palette. Then he adjusted a small cup of water in the tray of the easel and met her gaze, his hazel eyes clear of any shadow. He helped position the palette within her hands, directing fingers and holds alike, and turned her again to face the easel.
“Now.” Christopher directed her brush to the cup of water. “The trick with watercolors, in my opinion, is to use the water itself to manipulate the clarity or vagueness of the paint. If you want an impression of color, then you use more water. If you want something brighter or more brilliant, you use less. It all depends upon the mood you wish to convey.”
Sara watched his hold guide her hand from water-cup to palette.
“Even the flair of the strokes used effects the painting, most often in how the color is spread about the paper or how it seems to absorb the colors into its grain. If more water is used later, you can often achieve a bit more of a streak or... mysterious quality, I suppose.” He guided Sara’s hand and the brush along the paper with gentle strokes, the sound much like a whisper for attention.
“Oo. I like that.” Sara continued with the gentle strokes until very little color transferred from brush to paper.
“You like which? The feel or the sound?”
Sara beamed over her left shoulder at him. “Yes.”
He chuckled. “That’s fine then. Now, take stock of what you have there. Only a bit of blue. Is that enough for what you want? Or do you think it needs more?”
Sara looked to the soft and dreamy strokes of blue against white. “I... I do no’ know.”
“Well, let’s continue on.” His warm hold surrounded her hand to direct it to water and then paint. “Then we’ll see what comes about.”
Sara’s eyes danced with her smile.
But the picture didn’t become much more than blues and greens, an experiment with a new media and the different types of strokes it offered. Sara allowed herself to be taught, enjoying it more than anything in her life.
Christopher’s patience reminded her of her mother, encouraging her with new things and allowing a retreat to the familiar to make a habit. Neither took notice that Dix never arrived from her retrieval of coffee.
~ ~ ~
1 February 1894
Christopher heard the pitter-patter of Gwyn’s steps toward his studio. “Good morning, Papa.” She rubbed sleep from her eyes with the backs of her hands, her blonde curls dancing around her head.
He turned from the set-up of easel and paint to greet her. “Good morning, Angel Girl. What brings you down so early?”
Gwyn wrapped her arms around Christopher’s neck. “I missed you,” could barely be deciphered between yawns.
He scooped her up and ascended the stairs to the second story. “I apologize for not spending more time with you, Angel.”
She released a slow and deep breath as she snuggled against him. “You’re helping Sara not be homesick.”
Christopher kissed her forehead, her blonde curls tickling his nose. “You are a help in that.”
Gwyn sleepily smiled. “I am?”
He lay her down and tucked the covers up to her chin, placing another kiss on her forehead. “You and I will both keep helping Sara. Yes?”
Gwyn nodded, another yawn making her squeeze her eyes shut. Then she rolled to her side and hugged her pillow close. “I’m helping, Mamma,” she whispered, her breathing deepening as sleep embraced her.
Christopher sat upon the edge of the bed as he watched her sleep, smoothing her blonde curls from her face. Carla would sit on the edge of their daughter’s bed for hours, watching her breathe. Other mornings the two would laugh over stories of fantasy and fairy tale. Days and evenings of watching them together. Hearing their laughter. Watching their games. Enjoying the picture of motherhood and devotion—
Christopher’s throat convulsed. The temptation to fight back the memories gripped him.... Then he heard Sara’s timid voice. Her urgency to remember the woman he loved so he could once again be the man who had loved her. The laughter. The music. The poetry of life and living. The peace. The joy. The celebration of family. Christopher raised a hand to his burning eyes and wiped it hard down his face, feeling the wetness on his cheeks and somehow acknowledging a slight release within.
He stood, his mind overwhelmed by the fog of remembered scenes. “I miss you, Carla,” he whispered, gruff.
‘And that’s fine.’
Such a simple statement, yet it gave him permission to allow the ache and release it.
~ ~ ~
Sara hurried up the steps and into Lake Manor. Dix chuckled, her pace serene. Harold waited in the hall and accepted Sara’s coat, scarf, and gloves before letting her know that Christopher waited in his studio. As per usual, Dix could not be immediately present, but she urged Sara on without her.
Christopher straightened. As tradition dictated, he dressed in a simple shirt and well-used trousers. Paint-stains colored both. “Good morning.”
Sara’s cheeks stung from the fervor of her smile. “Good morning.”
“How did you sleep?”
“I could no’ for all the pictures flying around in my head and the excitement of what’s down the road.”
“We had a full week, haven’t we? Though I will be easier on you today. Fewer hours cooped up in here. The rest of the day is yours to use as you see fit.”
“Oh I do no’ mind, Mr. Christopher. All the busyness is wonderful.” She nervously laughed. “I canno’ sit around all day just tatting and crocheting.”
“You may regret those words when you don’t know which way is up for all your projects.”
“I do no’ think you can get me as busy as in England, sir. But you are welcome to try.”
“A spoken challenge. My, my.” He motioned to the blank page on the easel. “Here is your newest bit of nothing waiting for your inspiration. What do you feel should be done first?”
Sara stepped up to the easel, searching the white for the waiting scene. Christopher stood beside her. “I do no’ know. It’s the same as before: Blank.”
“It is different when you sketch?”
“Yes, sir. There have always been pictures in my mind. Almost in my fingertips.”
“Ah. Well, let us try something new and different.” Christopher searched his desk-drawers. A moment later he returned to present her a small tin of charcoals. “When you take these in hand?”
Sara accepted a charcoal from the tin and focused once more on the page—she blinked.
“You see an image, do you?”
She nodded, her blue eyes wide. “Why would it come with the charcoals and not the brush?”
“Inspiration often does not appreciate explanation. Your creative spirit is comfortable with the charcoal, so it allows you to see what awaits. This does not mean you stop use of the brush. No. Only continue teaching your spirit to see with other eyes.” He directed her toward the easel, guiding the charcoal toward the paper’s stark whiteness. “I did not always paint with watercolors or oils.”
Sara whispered the charcoal against the paper. “Did you see the images first? Like I do with my charcoals?”
“
No. With each media a period of instruction became necessary.”
Sara bit her lip as she drew the silhouette of the peeking image. “Should I watercolor the images I sketch out? Do you suppose that might help?”
“Possibly. In fact, let’s try that and see what happens. Although I believe it would serve better to begin with pencils rather than charcoals.”
Sara’s lips quivered with a smile as she continued to bring out the image of family, welcome, and acceptance.
He chuckled. “I seem to take advantage of your apparent eagerness to study.”
“Oh no, Mr. Christopher. This is such fun! Not a chore with the house, or the mister or missus.”
“What of the ‘something good’ you mentioned? Another Sarah teaching you to read prose and public speaking, et cetera.”
“But not a thing with art, sir. My mum tried, but she could no’ teach what she could no’ do. And reading books or looking at pictures and paintings is no’ the same as having a breathing person explain how something is done and why.” She pointed at him with her charcoal pencil. “You are the first who ever thought about teaching me something.”
“A first? For me and for you, it seems.”
“For you?”
“You, my dear, are my first student.”
Sara gaped at him. “But what about your Carla?”
He cleared his throat and lowered his focus to the floor. “She loved the arts, yes, but she didn’t have the talent for its creation. She once attributed it to a lack of patience.” Christopher straightened the charcoals within the metal tin. “We, both of us, attempted those interests to the other.” He closed the tin and set it aside to hide a slight cringe. “A common sharing of interest couples partake in, I imagine.”
A sorrowful expression darkened his handsome face, and Sara noted how his gaze could not rise from the charcoal tin. Lord.... But how did she pray away his discomfiture? Sara turned back to the easel—the image gone. Sara sighed and lowered the charcoal.
Searching for Sara (Extended Edition) Page 14