Searching for Sara

by Nona Mae King

  He lifted Gwyn up into his arms. “Good morning, Angel Girl.”

  “Are you feeling better, Papa?” Her emerald eyes clouded with concern.

  “Yes, I am, and I apologize for worrying you. I did a very bad thing running away without a ‘Good bye’. I hope you can forgive me.”

  “Of course, Papa.” Gwyn punctuated the statement with a kiss on his cheek.

  Sara hadn’t even yet offered a sidelong glance or a timid smile.

  “Did you get mad that you forgot about Sara in your pictures?” Gwyn ventured.

  Christopher paled, his eyes snapping to his daughter’s innocent expression. “What?”

  “The pictures. You hate forgetting. You thought Sara would be mad?”

  Christopher cleared his throat and lowered Gwyn to her feet. “I wasn’t necessarily mad, Gwyn. I was confused.”

  “Because you never met Sara before?”

  A reluctant smile broke through the humiliation. “Gwyn, are you certain you’re only five years old?”

  Gwyn giggled. “Silly Papa.”

  “Then how did you become so smart?” She giggled again, inviting his kiss to each hand and then her forehead. “I hear from Harold you would like to go play with the fish and frogs. Go along. Try not to fall in, please.”

  Gwyn nodded and scampered off toward the conservatory.

  The rustle of material behind him drew his quick attention. Sara moved toward the door. “Sara, wait.”

  She halted, her hand white-knuckled on the doorknob. Her back stiff.

  He stood beside her, watching her cheeks alternately pale and flush. Her lips parted, her breathing rapid as she blinked down at her hand. “Sara . . . ." But he couldn’t say more. There was too much he didn’t understand.

  “It’s fine, sir,” she whispered. Sara released a slow breath before meeting his gaze. Her blue eyes . . . their blackened depths sparkled with the threat of tears. “We worried after you, certainly, but we knew God held you in His hands.”

  “I didn’t mean for you to think you were at fault.”

  “I know.” She lowered her gaze. “It’s only a bit of a bad habit.”

  Mesmerized, Christopher watched the way she twisted her gloves in her hands. The slight flush of her cheeks—He swallowed hard and presented his hand, trying to reason why he hadn’t seen the likeness before. “Forgiven?”

  Sara’s gaze was drawn to his reach. Then she smiled and met his gaze, those eyes sparkling to life as she accepted his hand in a gentle grip. “Of course, sir.”

  The warmth of her clasp soothed the guilt. He motioned toward the sitting room entrance, he prompted “Coffee?” while continuing to hold her hand in his.

  “Oh. I only came to bring Gwyn.” Her cheeks flushed, but she didn’t lower her eyes. “And to make certain you were well. You still need your holiday, and I do no’ want to bother.”

  Christopher found he was unable to release her hand—He forced a release, enunciating his motion to the sitting room with a gentle hand to her back. “Come along, Sara. Stay a while . . . please?”

  Her smile softened and she nodded.

  Christopher guided her to the wingback chair across from his. He watched the light of the room dance in her hair as she prepared his coffee. The line of her nose. The natural color of her cheeks heightened by the delicate contour of her cheekbones. So much like what he would have imagined.

  He accepted the offered cup and stared into the cream-lightened darkness. “How much did Dix tell you about the sketches?” His ears and face burned.

  “A-a little.”

  “I . . . ." Christopher cleared his throat. “I’ve been sketching and doodling with pencils since before I could remember. My mother once said that everywhere I went she would find at least three sketches, two dull pencils, and a multitude of smudges on her furniture.”

  Sara laughed, the soft melody welcome in the quiet of his home. He peeked at her as she toyed with the lip of her coffee cup. How long had he attempted to imagine a finish to the Lady of Charcoal? And now? Christopher’s smile faded, and he swallowed hard. When Sara glanced up to catch his scrutiny, he dropped his gaze.

  “My tutors complained I didn’t focus on my studies, but they could never complain I slacked in my work. I kept up my marks, even when I spent a majority of my time sketching out the verbal images I studied of history. One tutor said I was better able to remember dates and facts when I put those studies to paper.”

  It was surprising, the feeling of relief that came with the telling of his history. Especially when Sara listened with such rapt attention. “When I went to study at Richmond College, my passion remained the same. I wanted to create beautiful imagery, to remind a country still reeling from a civil war that beauty could be found in the aftermath. That the future generations could remember a pain and learn from it to create better things. I felt . . . called to create things of family and beauty in creation. As if I were God’s whisper to a grieving nation. A reminder of peace after what seemed an eternity of war.”

  She offered a timid smile, blue eyes glimmering as she softly whispered, “What a lovely gift to give.”

  Christopher looked down and released a slow breath. “Then the imagery began to change. I began to . . . ." His hands tightened on the arms of the chair as he remembered the growing urge for a partner. Remembering a press on his heart to begin praying for what he wanted in a wife.

  “Mr. Christopher?”

  He blinked and looked up, noticing the fearful expression.

  “Are you well, sir?” she whispered.

  Christopher nodded. Then he noticed his right fist lightly pounding the arm of the chair. He halted the motion but couldn’t drag his gaze from the scrutiny of his fisted hand. “I began to see the Lady of Charcoal in mind and canvas for ages. Ten years? Twelve? I don’t remember anymore. I thought they would stop when Carla and I married. They didn’t.”

  He heard the gentle rustle of her movement and felt her soft hold on his hand. His grip loosened, and he opened his eyes to meet hers. She knelt at his feet. “I thought it was some horrid joke,” he confessed, his voice gruff. “I mean, my own wife brought you here, Sara. My own wife.”

  She inclined her head.

  Christopher clenched his jaw, his eyes drifting to her hand covering his. Comfort. Support. Friendship. So many things he hadn’t experienced in a woman since Carla. So many things he tried to deny he wanted. And now? His throat tightened.

  Sara’s hand tightened on his. “Is there . . . is there nothing I can do? I want to help, but . . . . You would tell me if I could do something to help?”

  I’ve seen you most of my adult life. You’ve been an encouragement. A hope. A promise. “What more help could you be?”

  “B-but it seems I push you into a bad way, even when I try no’ to bother.” Her voice quivered.

  “Sara . . . you’ve been as much of a help as Paul or Dix. More even.”

  “But—Would it be easier if I had no’ come?”

  His insides recoiled. “Easier? Sara, my daily life has been easier with your coming. Listening to my grief without judgment. Offering another perspective without condemnation . . . . You gave me the push I needed to step past the grief which might have destroyed my family.” He enveloped her hand in a tight clasp, causing a flush of brilliant crimson. “If you were not here, my life would not be what it is now.”

  And those words settled into the very center of his being. An intensity of truth that smoldered and then sparked to a sudden burst of life. Giving him reason to struggle forward in his search to confess three simple words.

  Twenty-Nine

  Moments in Time

  3 March 1894

  “Do you want to pick them out, or can Minnie-Gwynnie have the honors?”

  Christopher, Gwyn, Sara, and Teddy stood in thoughtful consideration as they regarded the covered canvases on the far wall of the third story. Teddy wouldn’t be swayed to wait another day for the unveiling of Christopher’s art. To Sara’s deligh
t, he invited her to attend their own, more personal unveiling.

  Gwyn scrambled to her father and took his hands in a tight clasp. “Please, Papa. Let Sara wake the first one!”

  “Of course Sara can wake the first one. But no prompting from you. Take your turn the same as the rest of us.”

  Gwyn squealed her delight.

  “Poppet.” Sara caressed the girl’s blonde curls. “Calm yourself down, or you will need a nap before the day is done.”

  Gwyn muffled the giggle, though she continued to bubble over with such youthful euphoria that she slightly bounced on the balls of both feet.

  Sara laughed and embraced the girl. “Come along. You can stand close beside me as I unveil.” She drew the girl along and they both knelt at the base of the daunting collection of hidden canvases. “Now, which one should I open?"

  Gwyn hugged herself to keep silent.

  A massive shape lured Sara’s attention. She reached for it, expectation catching in her throat—

  “Wait.”

  Sara twitched. Christopher stood beside her. To her surprise, boyish delight brightened his handsome face and very nearly mirrored that of his daughter.

  “You gave me a fright,” she scolded playfully.

  “Did I? Sorry. I believe I know which one that is. I have a fancy to see your reaction.” He crouched down beside her. “Go ahead.”

  Sara pulled aside the cover—Tears misted her eyes. “Oh Christopher." Her heart caught in her throat at the vivid imagery of the Thames of England. Stars and street lamps both glimmered upon the mirror surface of the water. Avenue life, peaceful and quiet. Buildings and houses in full color and radiance. A brighter reminder of home. “How wonderfully lovely.”

  Gwyn squealed. “I knew! I knew!”

  “I painted this from a sketch done years earlier, and from my own memories of course.” He chuckled. “I had forgotten this hid up here. I thought I sent it to Mother as a gift three Christmases ago.” He cast her a sidelong smile. “When’s your birthday?”

  “January second,” she said, though her eyes and heart still absorbed the vivid image of a distant home.

  Christopher snapped. “Drat.” He drew the painting from the others. “I’ll have this sent over and hung in your room. Happy Belated Birthday.”

  Sara blinked up at him. “But I could no’ accept something so grand!”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Teddy protested. “It didn’t cost him a nickel. So, if anything, it’s a poor gift. A cheap one, anyway.”

  “Oh no, Teddy. It is of himself, better than any one thing he could have purchased.”

  “Good point, Sara,” Christopher said. He gave Teddy a firm nudge. “You could have reasoned that out for yourself. Thought is what counts in a gift given. Not the cost.”

  His friend smirked. “He says that now. Just wait until it comes time for you to give him his gift. That is something else entirely.”

  “Here now, Parker! Speak for yourself.” Christopher shot Teddy a glare while setting the painting aside. “Which one is next?”

  “How about this one?” Teddy pointed toward a mid-sized canvas on the right.

  “I believe that—Well, I won’t tell you. It’s a bit of a kick to see Sara’s reaction.”

  But Sara felt an aversion when her eyes fell upon the covered canvas, an impulse away that faded her smile. “Could we no’ . . . could we open the portfolio?” She indicated a small leather folder leaning against one of the other covered canvases.

  “Why? Those are just unfinished or unframed. Here.” Christopher stepped toward the previously mentioned canvas. “Let’s unveil this one.”

  “Christopher, no.” She caught at his arm. “Please.”

  He gaped at her. “Why, Sara, what is the matter?”

  “Sara, Top never did an image of the war, if that has you worried.”

  “I . . . ." She stared down at the cover shielding the canvas from their view. “I do no’ want to unveil that one.”

  Christopher regarded her a moment before giving her hand a gentle clasp. “Fair enough. We’ll rummage through the folder. It might make a good start for this time-line, don’t you think, Teddy? Although it would be a good idea to open with the image of Richmond College. What do you think?”

  He guided her toward the portfolio. Sara released a deep sigh and nodded as she followed beside, some part of her attention drawn to the canvas in the right corner.

  Christopher was right. The portfolio held unfinished charcoals or watercolors, activities to perfect flowing lines and facial expressions, and a few sketches and watercolors of different types of flowers. Several of the sketches could be used for the beginning of the time-line, but the remaining would be filed away should Christopher wish to reminisce.

  Then the unveiling began again, this time Christopher and Teddy doing more of the unveiling with Gwyn hovering over each revealed canvas. Sara watched the trio with a soft smile, sighing now and again as she saw his stress fade almost completely from his features.

  The morning he admitted the importance of the Lady of Charcoal she noticed the difference to his expressions. That relieved her heart enough to feel right in keeping her confession of love to herself. There was still so much to learn of this man of calm, intense passion. She felt certain fear did not keep the words ‘I love you’ from being spoken. Instead, there was a press in her heart which made her believe he wasn’t yet ready.

  Or perhaps it was she who still needed to wait? Whatever the reason, the waiting seemed right, and Sara was willing to be patient for him. He had already suffered more than any man should, and if a pre-mature confession caused more pain….

  Christopher suddenly laughed, and Sara’s heart swelled. Yes. She would wait, for love was always worth the bittersweet pain of patience.

  ~§~

  22 March 1894

  “How are you doing, Sara love?”

  Sara pulled her focus from the scenery so slowly changing from winter to spring. Concern and encouragement shadowed the older woman’s expression. “I am fine, mum, thanks for the asking.”

  “His recent change of attitude had a hand in that, I’m certain.”

  Sara flushed. At times she believed him about to confess something she felt terrified to hope for. But then he would simply smile, give her hand a squeeze, and begin talking of something completely different. Each time it left Sara nearly breathless with her unspoken confession. In fact, the words began to ache within the depths of her soul.

  “But why limit your lessons, Sara? They mean so much. To both of you.”

  “I . . . ." Sara allowed a sigh. “I needed to do something, mum. It is so hard for him, being alone when he remembers naught but being with her. How could I continue to come when I knew how it goaded him?” She shook her head, the lush greens and peeking colors drawing her focus outside. “His heart is not ready for the tenderness of another woman, mum. Not yet.”

  Dix leaned forward to cover Sara’s hands. She peeked to meet the older woman’s brown gaze. “The time will come for the soothing, love. If I know my brother, it will come sooner than you think. You’ve but to remember one thing. Because you think of him before anything else, he’ll come to love you the more for it.”

  Tears brimmed as Sara nodded, doing her best to wipe and blink away the wetness as the carriage pulled to a stop outside Lake Manor.

  “One day at a time, Sara love. One day, and one day, and one day."

  Sara choked back a sob as the driver opened the carriage door and offered her a hand down. Then Dix steadied Sara’s ascent of the stairs with an arm around hers, offering occasional and continuous squeezes as Harold greeted their entry. As they stripped from their coat and scarves, however, Sara didn’t hear Christopher’s baritone voice, nor the tinkering of paint brushes against palette or water cup.

  “Something is no’ right,” she whispered. The sounds of Lake Manor seemed heavy.

  “Harold, where’s Chris?”

  “I’m not certain, madam. His bed h
asn’t been slept in, and he has not set foot in either studio or office. Miss Gwyn hasn’t seen him, nor Em, and Thomas said he wasn’t in the conservatory. He seemed a trifle bothered by a packet in the post, and a single canvas on the upper floor kept him up late with Master Theodore, but . . . ."

  Nausea made Sara’s skin go cold.

  “Sara love, see if he has hid himself away on the third floor. Perhaps he went in search of something?”

  Sara nodded and turned away, doing her best to rush while not appearing as if she did so. Oh Lord, please. Sara ascended the stairs with care, the front of her skirt held within white-knuckled hands. “Christopher?”

  “I’m here, Sara.”

  He sat at the far side of the room, his back against the wall as he stared down at a canvas held in a loose grip. The expected haggard expression wasn’t there. He only seemed tired and thoughtful.

  She tried to calm her approach, smoothing the front of her dress to hide the trembling of her hands. She knelt across from him. “Mister Harold said you had no’ been to sleep last night.”

  Christopher head lifted in an absent nod, his gaze still arrested by the image in his hold. “I napped up here.”

  Sara peeked around her, giving a brief shiver at the chill in the room. “Are you well, sir?”

  At that, he met her gaze and offered a slight smile. “I’m fine, Sara. I didn’t mean to worry you.”

  His tender tone caressed her heart, causing a flutter that woke the flame of her cheeks.

  “You were right to keep me from looking at this first. But now . . . ." He motioned to the space beside him. “Now I think it’s best you see it as well.”

  Sara adjusted her position, her heart racing when their arms brushed. Then he presented the canvas to her—Sara gasped at the stark image from her history, a girl standing alone, forlorn, by the maw of a shadowed grave.

  “That’s you, isn’t it?” Christopher’s arm enveloped her shoulders. “After your mother’s funeral?”

  “I-I do no’ . . . ." She stared up at him, tears blocking any view of his face. “H-how did…?”