Searching for Sara (Extended Edition)

by Nona Mae King

  “My apologies, Sara. I distracted you.”

  “Mr. Christopher, it was all myself.” She offered forward the charcoal, still holding his gaze. “I should try again with the watercolors. Is that fine?”

  His expression softened to a smile as he took the charcoal. “Fine.”

  Sara focused on the white as she heard him gather up the palette and brush. Please, Lord. Can I see a little thing? But she didn’t know why she thought seeing an image on a bit of paper would help anyone.

  “Sara.”

  She met his gaze. “Yes, sir?”

  “Do not try so hard to see or feel anything. The watercolors won’t come as eager as your charcoal images do now. Instead of expecting that, you must remember when you first began sketching.”

  “Could I see your paintings? Maybe it would help?”

  Christopher’s focus jerked away. “I set aside my art long ago.”

  “Oh.” Sara worried her lower lip, questions hounding her until frustration burned. She cast it heavenward and spoke. “Mr. Christopher, did... did your wife help you decide just where to display your paintings? Did she design the reception for them at the gallery?”

  The shadow of memories crashed across his face. She could almost hear the parties and laughter from those receptions hosted so long ago. His wife likely took such great care with each one.

  “Yes,” he admitted. “She did.”

  “Would...." Sara bolstered her courage. “Would no’ those be good, happy memories to have around you? So you do no’ feel she’s all that far away?”

  Although, when he put them away, the reminder of her absence must have felt akin to a knife hacking his soul. Was no’ my mum’s crafts the same? But after weeks and months of no longer having her voice, the presence of the crafts and the basket soothed and comforted. They were all that remained, and the memories were welcome.

  “Do you no’ think your Carla would want them out?” Sara whispered.

  Christopher released a deep and slow breath as he nodded.

  “I know unveiling those memories is a bittersweet duty, sir, but...." Sara rest her hand upon his arm, the action drawing his gaze. “But they deserve an unveiling to the light. A celebration of her life, sir.”

  A light of hope, and a reminder of his own inspiration.

  Seventeen

  A Conflicted Truth

  “Chris, we’ve got a problem.”

  Christopher didn’t bother looking up from three of Sara’s newest sketches laid out on his desk as Teddy entered his office at the gallery. “Problem? What problem?” The sketches were her best yet. They seemed aglow with a newfound acceptance.

  Teddy presented a folded newspaper. “Here.”

  Raising an eyebrow, Christopher took the offered paper and sought out the main article.

  New artist and new beauty take Richmond by storm at the unveiling held at the ‘Richmond Gallery of Modern Art’ the previous Friday. Not many details were given of the mysterious talent of S. A. L.. Yet at the appearance of English lady Miss Ann Kreyssler, even the reclusive Mr. Christopher Lake was in immediate and constant attendance.

  Reliable sources say that another unveiling has been scheduled for the unknown S. A. L., with invitations limited as previously. Will the lovely Miss Ann Kreyssler be in attendance? And is Miss Ann Kreyssler soon to be the newest Mrs. Christopher Lake?

  His slammed it aside. “How did a reporter get that information? We restricted invitations!”

  Teddy crossed his arms. “Yes, but a starving artist could say a few words all too eagerly for a little extra wealth.”

  Sara. Christopher gathered up the sketches and tucked them safely into his desk.

  “What’s the line of attack?”

  “None.” Christopher grabbed his overcoat from the back of the office chair and shrugged into it. “No comments. No interviews.”

  “And Sara?”

  “I will make certain she does not blame herself if she has seen this. If she has been spared, I will make certain that continues.”

  “See you later?”

  “Perhaps.”

  Christopher strode from the gallery and down the walk toward Monument Avenue. “She will likely attempt to protect my reputation, even should that put her own future at risk.” He shook his head and jerked at his gloves. “Well, Carla? What do you suggest? If I grant an interview and answer the questions truthfully, he—or she—could take things out of context. But what options do I have? Say ‘No comment’ when asked about our friendship? That will lead them to a false conclusion worse than their interpretation of the truth. Blast!”

  An ideal compromise did not present itself.

  But, as of yet, no harm had been done, since blind suppositions had only been tossed about to get a reaction. If those suppositions grew into whispers of something deeper, he had no idea how to counteract the repercussions.

  “Carla, I wish you were here.” Then Sara’s future would be safe.

  Dix and Paul opened the door of their townhouse as Christopher reached the bottom step. He hurried inside and shed his overcoat. “Has she seen it?”

  “No, but how do we keep her from it?” Dix cast a furtive glance upstairs. “She enjoys reading the paper in the morning—Harper’s Weekly wouldn’t publish something like that, would they?”

  Dread settled in the pit of Christopher’s stomach. “Why do you ask?”

  She motioned upstairs. “She’s reading it right now. With Gwyn.”

  “Blast.” He rushed upstairs.

  The door of Sara’s room stood open. When he heard laughter and cheerful chatter, Christopher released a relieved sigh. Inside, Sara and Gwyn lay on the floor coloring pictures. The scene rang of innocence, fun, and family, and it caused Christopher’s chest to tighten as he fisted his scarf.

  “Mamma said she wanted a masked ball, but they were too busy,” Gwyn was saying.

  “Masquerades are a lot of work, Gwyn, and so is a gallery. Your mamma likely did no’ want to stress your papa. Not with all the hard work he does already.”

  “But it would be fun, Sara.” Gwyn sighed. “I want one like this.” She pushed the picture toward Sara. “See? There’s Papa and you and Auntie Dix and Uncle Paul and Teddy—Oh! I forgot Mamma!”

  Christopher cringed as Gwyn took the picture back to add the image of her mother. Sara glanced toward the doorway—Her cheeks flushed and she sat up. Unable to force a smile, Christopher brought a finger to his lips.

  Sara lowered her gaze to the task of arranging her skirts. “You should show that picture to your papa, Gwyn. Maybe he will be persuaded to have a ball for your next birthday?”

  “Truly?” Gwyn asked, eyes still intensely focused on her project.

  “It never hurts to ask.” Sara cast Christopher a questioning glance. “I will ask when I next see him.

  “You will ask who what when you see them?” Christopher stepped forward.

  “Papa!” Gwyn scrambled to her feet and over to his waiting arms.

  “Hello, Angel Girl.”

  “Papa, may I have a masked ball for my birthday please?”

  “Oh.” Christopher feigned seriousness. “I didn’t know you actually wanted a birthday.”

  Gwyn’s mouth dropped open. “Papa!”

  “You’ve had so much fun as a five-year-old, I thought you didn’t want a birthday. I cancelled it.”

  “But you can’t! I want to turn six!”

  Sara laughed and gracefully stood. “She has been quite enthralled with the idea, sir.”

  “Oh? I don’t want to un-cancel your birthday and then have you change your mind.”

  “Please, Papa. I want my birthday.”

  “All right then. I’ll see a man tomorrow about your birthday. But I haven’t any idea how to arrange a masquerade, Gwyn. I’m afraid all I can manage is a party.”

  Gwyn’s lower lip trembled. “Oh.”

  “I know how to plan a masquerade, Gwyn,” Sara offered. She rested a hand on his daughter’s head. “Ma
y I be responsible for it? It’s been ever so long since I had one to do.”

  “Please, Papa?”

  “Of course, but we don’t need to worry about it now. Your birthday isn’t until July, and it’s only just February.”

  Gwyn sniggered. “I forgot.”

  Christopher laughed. “And, Sara, you’re only to agree if it isn’t a bother. I don’t want you taking on too many projects.”

  “Oh no, sir. It will be fun.” The twinkle in her eyes made him believe it.

  “All right then. You’re welcome to the duty, but you must promise to ask for help. Harold, Emily, all of them will be more than willing to offer their expertise. Especially myself. I imagine Dix and Paul will likely want to be involved as well.”

  Sara nodded.

  “Very good.” Christopher was about to turn from the room when he noticed the opened Harper’s Weekly on the foot of Gwyn’s bed. “Ah. Anything on the unveiling the other night?”

  “Pardon? Oh!” Sara’s face gleamed. “There was such a lovely article. Did you want me to read it for you?”

  “Certainly.” Christopher lifted Gwyn into his arms and sat on the edge of the chest at the foot of her bed. The fact that she showed such excitement soothed his nerves.

  Mr. Christopher Lake of ‘The Richmond Gallery of Modern Art’ held one of the most successful displays of the new year. Though little information was provided on the artist, S. A. L., the works shown were a refreshing breeze of inspiration and innocence seldom seen since the civil war.

  Mr. Joseph Conklin, long-time patron and sponsor of the arts, was quoted as saying “The artist has an instant following. A talent only very few, of which Mr. Christopher Lake is included, can attest to. When he or she is ready to accept their deserved attention, I will certainly be the first to offer them a sponsorship. In the meantime, I voice praises to Mr. Lake for protecting their identity and what is likely a sensitive soul.”

  These are encouraging words for artist and gallery alike, and this reporter hopes that another display will be arranged forthwith.

  Sara lowered the paper and offered Christopher a brilliant smile. “Was that no’ wonderful? And all those nice things Mr. Conklin said. I knew I liked him, and now I think he’s smashing.”

  Intrigue arched his eyebrow. “Did you meet him at the unveiling? I don’t recall ever meeting a Mr. Conklin.”

  Sara’s eyes widened. “I thought he knew you.”

  “People know me simply by reputation. Ah well. He was likely there upon invitation of a friend.” Christopher motioned to the article. “I’m eager to meet him after that bit of praise. And the offering of a sponsorship? You should take that as a compliment, definitely.”

  “What’s sponsorship, Papa?” Gwyn asked. “Is it good?”

  “Extremely good. It means this gentleman is willing to pay for Sara’s work to be displayed at galleries all over the country. Perhaps even own them all himself.”

  Gwyn squealed and threw her arms around Christopher’s neck. “Oh goodie!”

  Christopher laughed and intercepted Sara’s smile. She flushed and looked away. “It seems your future is set,” he offered. “Would you like me to contact Mr. Conklin and pass off the responsibility of the second showing to him?”

  “Oh no—I mean.... Can I no’ have you as my sponsor still?”

  “Of course, I only ask that you give it some thought. After all, if Mr. Conklin has the ‘in’ to more galleries than I, it would be a shame to pass up the opportunity.”

  “Oh.” Sara lowered her gaze to her fidgeting fingers. “Well, I suppose...."

  “Sara.” She peeked up at him, and he offered her a reassuring smile. “It’s fine. You don’t need to make a decision right now. If he offers the sponsorship at the next showing, you can tell him then. Or you can ask more questions about what a sponsorship would entail. For right now, if you’re more comfortable with my gallery, then I’m certainly not going to usher you somewhere else.”

  Sara’s timid smile returned as she nodded.

  “I better get myself back to the gallery, Gwyn. I’ll come by a little later this afternoon. Fair enough?” Gwyn nodded. He kissed her cheek, accepted her return, and then turned to exit. He met Dix and Paul at the foot of the stairs. Their expressions were hopeful and curious.

  “Well?” Paul pressed.

  “Harper’s Weekly held a glowing review of the unveiling, which Sara read to me.”

  Dix released a deep breath. “Praise the Lord.”

  Christopher took his overcoat from Paul. “I need to get back.” He motioned to the front entrance with a movement of his head. “Don’t be surprised if you have reporters coming ‘round. Everyone knows you’re my sister.”

  “Let them come. I’ll rout them out of the county,” she warned.

  Paul chuckled. “We’ll be fine, Chris. You just watch yourself and Teddy.”

  Christopher reluctantly made his way out and down the front steps, experiencing a challenge in wrestling himself into his overcoat as he did so.

  “Mr. Christopher Lake?”

  Hackles rose as Christopher lifted his focus to the young-faced man waiting at the bottom steps of the Donovan home. “May I help you?”

  “I’m Roger Whitaker, sir. With The Virginia Chronicle?”

  “Mr. Whitaker,” Christopher said with forced civility. “Before you proceed, you will need to make an appointment for any type of interview. Come by the gallery at a later date and we’ll see what’s available.” Christopher finished wrestling into his coat and passed the man on the lower step. “If you’ll excuse me.”

  “Have you courted Miss Kreyssler since your mourning officially ended?”

  Christopher halted, body tense. “Pardon?”

  Mr. Whitaker cleared his throat. “Is it true that you’re courting Miss Kreyssler?”

  “Mr. Whitaker, I refuse to answer your question on principle. Questions regarding my personal life are none of your concern. Understood?”

  Mr. Whitaker gave a slight nod.

  “I’m glad we understand each other. Good day.” Christopher turned and strode away.

  Christopher scoffed and jammed his hands deeper into his overcoat pockets. He should have known the sudden activity would draw attention. He hissed with annoyance. Christopher didn’t know how to protect Sara from speculation.

  ~ ~ ~

  “What happened?”

  Christopher had just closed the front door of the gallery when Teddy strode forward from a side-room.

  “Paul caught the article before she had a chance to read it, handing off an edition of Harper’s instead.”

  “And they didn’t have the same version?” Teddy asked, cautious.

  “No, thank God. Only praises and a quote from a Mr. Joseph Conklin.”

  “The art critic?”

  Christopher smirked. “I’m glad someone knew who he was. Sara apparently met him at the unveiling.”

  “Holy Hannah! Joseph Conklin at the unveiling?” Teddy grinned. “We’re on the map, now.”

  “When were we not?”

  Teddy laughed. “With the extra attention, you’re going to bring out your art, right?”

  Christopher’s smirk vanished. He passed to the coat-rack. “With what the Chronicle supposes? I don’t know if it’s wise to go ahead with it. Especially if Sara decides to reveal her identity.”

  “What? Since when do you let anyone influence you?”

  “Since my late wife asked me to take care of this woman,” Christopher barked. “To give her the choice. To protect her as I protected the others. If I reveal my art and the fact that S. A. L. is Miss Ann Kreyssler, an invitee of me and my late wife as well as an acquaintance of my sister, they will suppose the worst and make Sara’s life miserable. Do you really want me to do that just so that our gallery can display my art and make a lot of money from the sale of it?”

  Teddy frowned. “I didn’t say it like that.”

  Christopher released a deep breath and rubbed at his scalp.
“I know. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s fine. So when are we going to get this mess with the Chronicle straightened out?”

  “If you’re implying I should give an interview, I don’t trust that they won’t twist what I say to get the wanted impression.”

  “So? Have Harper’s get the interview.”

  “But why should I give any response at all? It will only make them believe there is something to their supposition, and that would only compound the issue. We’ve seen it before.”

  Teddy grumbled under his breath. “Blasted reporters.”

  Christopher smirked. “Yes, but they have their good qualities, such as free advertising and name-dropping.”

  “At a price, admit.”

  “Admitted.”

  Teddy motioned toward the front door. “So what do we do about the whole Sara Ann Little-Kreyssler mystery? They’ll pounce on that whether we reveal her at the next unveiling or not. Well, Harper’s might not, but Chronicle will.” Teddy chortled. “We should reveal her anyway, as a spit in the eye to whatever they might say as the truth. You’ve got enough of a fan-following that I doubt they’ll believe anything bad about you. And what’s so bad about supposedly courting Sara these months out of mourning anyway, even if you did just meet her? She’s a sweet thing, and you two are friends.”

  Christopher balled his hands into fists before stepping again toward the main hall. “Friends. Exactly. The last thing she needs is for everyone to be convinced there’s more to our relationship. It would keep any prospective beaus out of contact with her, and she doesn’t need that problem.”

  Eighteen

  Perspectives

  6 February 1894

  “I still believe we should use the main hall,” Teddy said.

  Christopher frowned. “Ted, she’s not ready for the main hall. You saw her expression yourself when you asked.”