Searching for Sara

by Nona Mae King

  “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 sa
fer 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.”

  Christopher blinked back the burning and stepped forward again. “Why?”

  “He . . . has something waiting. The happy ending you want.”

  Hope pushed him up to the crest of the stairs, standing within the shadows of the grays of fear while being pulled by the promise of soft shades of color and laughter. Then his gaze was drawn to the form on the far side of the room, sitting upon a box while sifting through one of his portfolios . . . Carla.

  Swallowing the grief and loss, Christopher stepped forward. He remembered the scene as if it were yesterday, finding Carla here and wondering why . . . . He released a deep breath as he came to stand behind her, resting a hand on her shoulder and closing his eyes at the remembered warmth.

  Carla looked up, her green eyes and delicate features brightening with her “Oh, Chris. Did I worry you? I’m sorry.”

  Throat tightening, Christopher leaned down to place a kiss on her lips . . . Oh God. He forced himself to straighten and motioned to the sketches and watercolors within the portfolio balanced so carefully on her lap, eyes hungrily taking in the loveliness of her face. “What are you looking for?”

  “Nothing,” she said, her gaze once again drawn by the images. “I was only looking. I love looking at your art. It’s so lovely. So alive.”

  Christopher moved his hand from her shoulder to her hair, the softness of the curls heightening the loss and the– He lowered his hand to his side, hiding the warmth in a fist. “These are only old dabbles, Carla.”

  “I . . . .” Carla bit a fingernail as she retrieved a sketch with her other hand, balancing the portfolio more securely on her lap. “I was looking for . . . her.”

  Eyes darkening, Christopher focused on the pencils, charcoals and watercolors, memory focused on the sketch of a simple room and a single lady facing out a solitary window. Nothing seen of her but the back of her silhouette and the grace of her carriage.

  Carla lifted her focus from the sketch to Christopher’s blank expression. “Chris, who is she? Where did you meet her? Why don’t you ever talk about her?”

  Christopher slightly shook his head. “She doesn’t exist, Carla. Only a figment.” But there came a whisper of familiarity when he allowed his gaze to stray. She can’t be real. He shook free of the thought. I’ve been alone too long. Forcing his gaze from the images, he met her serious expression. “Come down for lunch, Carla. You’ve been up here since breakfast.”

  But when he attempted to take the image and the portfolio away, Carla kept it from his grasp.

  “A figment couldn’t possibly feel this real,” she protested, looking again to the woman’s profile. “I can almost hear her breathing, Chris. Everything about her is so . . . vivid.”

  Again drawing Christopher’s pained focus, the brightness and compelling image caused a twisting within. Especially when the Lady seemed more apt to step from the gray to the color of life. But he knew it impossible, she being a romantic imagining. A dream for paper alone.

  Christopher cleared his throat. “Carla,” he assured as he took the sketch carefully from her grasp. She looked up. “Carla, it’s a sketch, nothing more. You’re my reality.” Now that too had gone.

  “But what if she’s looking for you?” Carla pressed. “You can’t just leave her alone.”

  Christopher’s expression softened, even amidst the grief and loss to never again have her intense concern and compassion beside him . . . “I’ll sketch her a beau. Fine?”

  Carla stood from the box to embrace him, causing Christopher to close his eyes as he held her.

  “I knew you would understand.” She pulled back, emerald gaze aglow. “I will bring your charcoals.”

  She turned and made her way downstairs. Christopher lowered his gaze to the sketches and colors . . . and the Lady. It pained him to change the simplicity of the silhouette and her content. Her calm waiting. Her patient understanding . . . .

  Twenty

  Inspiration’s Subtle Whisper

  8 February 1894

  “Chris.”

  Teddy crested the second story as Christopher closed the third-floor doorway. “Ted.”

  “Top, I was out of line yesterday. What is it to me what you do with a newspaper intern?”

  “You weren’t completely in the wrong, Teddy. A warning now and again keeps me deliberate.” How else could he be brought face-to-face with changes needed? Christopher motioned down the hall. “Would you like some coffee? I’m expecting Sara for our lesson. We could plan the display instead.”

  “Only if that means planning a joint one.”

  “Teddy."

  “I know. You don’t want to do that until the mess is sorted out with the Chronicle.” Teddy followed Christopher downstairs. “But I don’t see any retractions being printed, and I don’t see you stomping down there with threats of suits. So, that said, I think it should be a joint display, thereby being a spit in the eye to what they reported.”

  “I don’t think they would see it as that, Ted. Something tells me that it won’t be the first time they’ve used these tactics to get a story to increase circulation.”

  “Because they did it so well?”

  Christopher chuckled. “Something like that.”

  “Yes, well, if it were up to me—which it isn’t, blast it—I would stomp down there and mess up some office papers and shirtfronts until they agreed to my demands. You and Sara deserve better than what they’ve alluded to. Blast it! The gallery deserves better.”

  “I know, Teddy, but let’s offer them another chance. Who’s to say they won’t be on their best behavior for the next unveiling?”

  Teddy scoffed, but further comment was interrupted by the sound of quick steps. Then the door opened and Sara rushed inside before Harold could approach. Teddy and Christopher both watched in amusement as she chatted to Harold about the morning and that past Sunday’s service while he helped her from scarf and coat. Then she cast him a bright smile and turned toward the studio.

  When she saw Teddy and Christopher, her eyes sparkled like stars. “Good morning, Mr. Lake. Mr. Parker. How are you? Is it no' a lovely morning? The sun fairly sparkles off the snow.”

  Teddy laughed, but Christopher swallowed his own amusement to offer a calm, “Good morning, Sara. I’m fine, thank you. And, yes, it is a lovely morning. Makes me miss spring.” He motioned toward her. “How are you?”

  “Oh I am lovely, Mr. Lake. Thank you.”

  Teddy sniggered, and Christopher elbowed him while never shifting from Sara’s gemlike gaze. “Where’s Dix?”

  “Mr. Paul brought me today as your sister has
company coming for a late breakfast.” She motioned behind her. “He will be right in. He wanted to have a word with Patrick.”

  Paul entered a few moments thereafter, looking toward the trio to offer a smile and a “Morning, all,” as he passed his hat, gloves, and coat to Harold. “Good morning, Harold.”

  “Good morning, sir. I will have coffee in but a few moments.”

  “Outstanding. Thank you.” Paul stood beside Sara. “Teddy. Topper. I hope you don’t mind the change. Sweet has company coming.”

  “So I heard. Unfortunately, we have a bit of a change ourselves. Sara, I hope you weren’t set on having a lesson this morning. I volunteered the two of us for a meeting with Teddy to plan your second display. At least on paper. Perhaps we can shift your lesson to afterward?”

  “What a grand idea!” Sara focused on Teddy with that same bright expression. “But I am afraid you canno’ stay for the lesson after, Mr. Parker. I am no’ good at the watercolors yet, and do no’ want an audience.” She giggled. “A silly goose.”

  Teddy cleared his throat, forcing away the smirk while sending Christopher a sidelong glance. Then, with as much decorum as was possible for Teddy Parker, he said, “Nah. When I started out with the stone-works, I broke all my not-so-wonderfuls. I didn’t want anyone to see how bad I was.” Teddy motioned to Christopher. “Top’s the only one with a sadistic streak. He keeps everything. Doodles. Mess-ups. Roughs. Finals. Things that would be better off burnt. He says he wants to keep himself humble. I think he only wants to dig for compliments.”

  Paul chuckled.

  “Mr. Parker.” Sara put hands on hips and actually sent Teddy a playful frown. “You are to poke fun when he is no’ in the room.”

  Christopher and Paul laughed. Teddy, ever the character, snapped his fingers and cast Sara a wink. “Right. I forgot that.”

  Sara wrinkled her nose at both of them. Christopher tore his gaze away, clearing of his throat at a sudden flare of heat and a rising ache. Teddy accepted the look with a full grin, of course.

  “Come along then.” Christopher gestured for his office, drawing Sara’s smile. “Why don’t we see what everyone thinks, firstly. Then we can see which artwork we believe will receive the highest praise, although I’m of the mind all should be shown. I don’t remember seeing a mediocre one in the lot.”