“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.”
“Being treated unfairly can’t offer too many blessings.”
“I suppose that’s true. But I did no’ think on that. I remembered the other things. The Sarah’s and George’s, and Emma’s and Beth’s.” Her smile widened. “And the Mr. Brockle’s, believe it or not.” He scoffed. “Oh no, Mr. Christopher. Do no’ jeer.”
“And why not? From what I’ve heard from Paul and Dix, the man was—”
“Yes, he was, but Mr. Brockle did something for me no one else had. He tested my faith. I had no’ ever been asked to trust God as much as I did back then. I nearly fell out of faith more than once, but you know what? If I had no’ been put to the test, I would no’ been ready to trust Him through this new life. I would no’ truly known, deep, that God could... could...." Sara’s hand fluttered for the answer. “I would no’ put all that’s happened into His hands.”
Christopher regarded her a moment before lowering his gaze. “I trusted Him that much once.”
“And then you lost your wife,” she whispered, fingering the edge of her cup. “I know it’s not what you want to hear, and I’m sorry, but this is where the trust comes in. He truly does have something waiting, Mr. Christopher. Maybe it’s the happy ending you want so dreadfully?”
His jaw muscle twitched, and the teacup clinked.
“I know,” she said, the words rushed. “You want Him to prove that He can be trusted, because He seemed to promise one thing and another came about.” Sara hesitated. “He can give as many proofs as you need.”
Christopher set down his mug with a firm clatter of china, angry hazel eyes sparking as they met her blue ones. “Then He better start now, Miss Little, because it will take more than a few to prove He cares one way or the other.” He stood.
As did Sara, ignoring the burning of her cheeks as she blocked the exit. “Please do no’ go. I... I do no’ mean to nag at you.”
He fisted his hands and frowned down into her wide blue gaze. Then he skulked back to his chair, slumping into it much like a pouting child, his chin in his hand.
“I suppose America and your sister are bad influences,” Sara confessed. She sat across from him. “I never would have said word one about anything before coming here.”
He shifted in his seat while stealing a look.
She moved her gaze to her tea. “I am sorry, sir.”
“Don’t apologize to me, Sara,” he said suddenly, contrite. “It’s I who should beg your forgiveness. I bark at you because I know you listen to my ranting.”
“I do no’ mind so much.” She sent him a fleeting look.
“So you say, but your expression tells a different story.” He accepted his tea from her with an attempted smile, but Sara could still see the pain. Christopher broke their gaze. “How are you with your studies?”
“I...." Please, Lord. Help me help him. “I am painting on smaller bits of paper, in case the size was what gave me the fright.”
“Has it helped?”
“It seems to, a little.” She peeked at him, and his distant expression pulled at her heart. I truly am trying to help, Mr. Christopher. “I love combining the watercolors with pencils. It gives an added little bit that you canno’ find on the watercolors in the books.”
This time Christopher didn’t answer at all; he only fingered his cup while staring beyond it. Expression blank. Sara lowered her cup to the tray and swallowed hard, sitting there still and silent as she continued to watch his face while praying. She didn’t know what else to do. What to say. How to help. How to comfort—
“Carla, do y—” Horror washed all color from Christopher’s face, and his cup and saucer clinked to the tray. “Sara, forgive me.”
Sara forced a smile, his wife’s name still ringing in her ears. “What do you need to be forgiven for?”
“I....” He scrubbed a hand through his brown curls.
A wave of compassion and concern propelled her from her seat to kneel at his feet. She held his dark gaze. “Do no’ fret, sir. You said her name for years. Why no’ fall into the habit again?”
“Because she’s gone. Dead. Buried.” Each word resonated with gruff agony. “Because she’s not here to comfort, to assure, to reassure, to—” He shook his head. “She’s not here. She won’t be. Ever.”
“Mr. Christopher, I might not be your sweet Carla, but I can listen if you need to talk about something.” She would do all within her power to help him beyond the grief. Hadn’t he been the key to the blessing at the end of her own rough journey?
“Something?” He sneered. “Everything. Nothing. I don’t know.” He pulled his arm from her touch and leaned back. “I don’t know,” he repeated, quiet, lost. Then he faced her, his hazel eyes searching her face for any answer. “Teddy says I’ve changed, and I must say I agree. I don’t like who I’ve become, but when did I change? I don’t remember. I didn’t think I had until Teddy said something.” He moved his focus to the tea service. “Carla would have noticed. She would have said something.”
Sara’s mind and heart scrambled, but words continued to stick in the lump in her throat. Dear God, what do I say? But all she felt was a press to listen and hear.
“I never used someone before—plotting always made me angry—yet here I am, using one to help another. Manipulating a situation so that...." He shook his head. “No. I never did that before... did I?” He met her gaze. “Did I?”
Tears burned, but she could only wordlessly shake her head. Unable to even voice the simple ‘I don’t know’ she knew wouldn’t have helped.
“Giving one an opportunity isn’t manipulating, though... is it? He wants a chance and I’m giving that to him. If it helps... shouldn’t I? I’m not harming his career or his life by having him do it, so how is it wrong?”
Helplessness robbed her of the words she knew he needed to hear. She didn’t like feeling helpless. It was too much like in England, surrounded by condescending people—“Mr. Christopher?”
“Hm?” was all he said, his tone and expression vacant of emotion.
Sara’s throat tightened. Dix was right; he missed his wife. Understandably so, with such a sensitive soul. How else would he react at the face of such loss. Out of reach. Out of sight. Lost. Of course he would pine. Much like the hero from a tragic love-story.
Sara lowered her gaze to her clasped hands—Her eyes focused on a carefully folded letter peeking from a hidden pocket stitched at her waist. “Mr. Christopher?” She pulled the letter free and offered it to him. The action caught his attention, pulling his focus from where it teetered between present and past.
“What’s this?” he asked. His tone didn’t hold the interest expected. As before, it sounded distant.
“A letter from your wife to me.”
“From—” He reached out with a trembling hand. “From Carla?”
“Yes, sir. She hid a gift for me, too. A ‘Merry Christmas’. She said she woke one morning and could no’ set aside the feeling of making a gift for me, even when she was no’ certain I’d like them. There were sachets and creams and oils... lilac and vanilla—” Sara’s voice caught. “Never had such care been taken with a gift to me, and such a collection of fancies and frills.”
Christopher opened the letter as Sara spoke, his dark eyes devouring each word like a man who knew it to be his last meal. He swallowed hard, blinking away the wetness as he read her letter again and yet again.
> “Do you see, sir? She will no’ ever be far away.” Sara’s voice struggled through the tightness of tears. “I have her letters. Gwyn has your pictures and her imagination. You have her very self with you.” Christopher lifted his eyes to meet hers. Sara held it, enveloping his hand as it held the letter. “Please try to remember that. For the help to Gwyn and your own grieving heart.”
He seized her hand, desperation evident in the tight clasp. And as he continued to read the words crafted by his sweet wife, the misery in his expression overwhelmed Sara’s heart. Please, Lord, help me guide him to a safer viewing of the memories. It was the only way she knew to help him to the other side of the loneliness.
~ ~ ~
Christopher sat up. A whisper seemed to tickle his neck at the same time it beckoned his spirit. But dread settled at the return of the grays and blacks, the shadows and muted white of his charcoal dream. Robbing his color of life and living.
Throat tightening, he threw back the covers and slipped from the bed, grabbing up his robe with shaking hands as he stepped toward the door of his room. There he halted, staring at the handle while unable to open it. Knowing the voice would whisper his name, beckoning him to tread through the gray to the muted color which waited.
All he must do was admit the grays weren’t enough.
The thirst for color pulled him to the foot of the narrow stairs, again looking up into the swirling of gray and black which met the hint of blue and brown. He wanted an end to the gray, but what if the color wasn’t enough? What if the gray came again? What if the black stole his color, plunging his passion and art again into the void.
“I—” Christopher tightened his hold on the railing. “I can’t. Not again.”
“He knows it. It breaks His heart, but He works through it...."
Christopher clenched his jaw and took a hesitant step up. “How? I’ve blamed Him for every hardship and loss! I’ve made myself hate Him.”
“He knows your heart.”
Searching for Sara (Extended Edition) Page 17