“Oh my God.”
The knock sounded again, followed by a timid “M-Mr. Christopher?”
“Sara,” they whispered in unison.
“What am I to do?” Christopher skirted his desk, shuffling his feet to the door. “Just a moment, Sara,” he called.
“How should I know? I’m the one with the big mouth.” Teddy’s silver eyes clouded, conflicted.
“Don’t mention the article.” He gestured to the folded newspaper on his desk. “Get rid of that.”
Teddy plunked it into a nearby wastebasket. “Now what?”
“Act . . . nonchalant.” Christopher opened the door to offer Sara a smile—it vanished. Her sapphire eyes glimmered, pale face streaked with tears. Her hands trembled while holding an edition of Harper’s Weekly. He released a quick breath and accepted the paper. “I know. I read it. Come in, my dear.” He clasped her hand to give it a gentle squeeze, her fingers reddened from cold.
“It’s not f-fair.” Her voice broke.
Christopher guided her to a chair across from his desk. Teddy retreated, mumbling something about actions against reporters as Christopher sat beside her. He gathered up her trembling hands while struggling against the chill of helplessness.
“M-Mr. Christopher, I-I did no’ mean for . . . ." Any remaining words were strangled by a sob. She shook her head, gaze never rising from their clasped hands.
“Of course you didn’t. Reports like this are expected.” Blast it. “It will pass. Trust me.”
“But if I go to the next reception they will print more of the same,” she choked out. “Now we canno’ even celebrate your birthday, and your party was to be such a grand affair. A surprise.” She shook her head again. “It’s not fair. Not fair!”
Christopher rubbed at her icy fingers. “Sara, it’s fine.”
“No, it is no’ fine,” she cried. “You were but trying to help, and me to be someone other than what I was—Now they print things that are no’ so and make you . . . ." Sara lowered her head, and her shoulders quivered.
Rage broiled anew. “This is my fault. If I hadn’t pressured you into displaying your art, you would have been ready to have your name displayed—”
She lifted her eyes, her lower lip trembled. “It’s no’ your fault, Christopher. It’s them. They that printed those half-truths and twisted tellings just so they could sell a few more papers to line their pockets! After all the good you done, they do this! It’s no’ right. They should be ashamed—of—themselves—” Sobs robbed the remaining words, and she tugged her hands free to cover her face.
“Sara." Christopher brought a hand up to rub her back. His fingers and palm tingled. “Sara, people in my position are under constant scrutiny. People shouldn’t pry into the personal lives of others, it’s true, but unfortunately it’s seen as a necessary evil. Of course Teddy and I will complain to the editor, but in the end it’s about what our friends and family know is true rather than what a paper reports.”
Sara met his gaze. “But you are an example to others. Young artists. New artists. Authors and poets. Girls like Amy and me. Children like Gwyn. You must no’ let them say such things about you, Christopher. It’s no’ right. God wants you to be an example of all the good and honorable things. So people know they can help others, just as you do. If a newspaper says you do it to—” She shook her head, brows furrowed.
“You are better than what they say you are. You took people in when you did no’ have any need to do it. You gave me a chance to make something of myself; something no one else ever took time to do!”
Her chin tilted upward, eyes flashing. Christopher stared, his breath trapped in his chest and battered by a hammering heart.
“I will no’ have them say such dreadful things. If they want an interview, I will tell them what I think of them, spouting nonsense like a horde of mewling babes to try and have their way. They should be ashamed of themselves!”
Then Sara set her jaw, the determination filling the melody of her tone and sparkling in the depth of her eyes. The passion glowed upon her face, the flush of warmth in her cheeks and her parted lips crashing over him with a desire to take her face in his hands and—Christopher wrenched his hands free and stood, stumbling back before realization dawned.
Color drained from her face. She bolted, her path to the door keeping the chairs between them. “I . . . I’ll go,” she choked out.
“Oh God. Sara—” Christopher stepped after her, hand extended as she opened the door and rushed out. “Sara, wait.”
Her step faltered but didn’t stop. Instead, she picked up the front of her skirts and ran.
“Sara!” Christopher scrambled after her. “Sara, stop!” He collided with Teddy exiting from a side-room and Sara made good her escape. Christopher arrived at the front steps of the gallery as the carriage lumbered away.
“Was Sara crying? What did you do?” Teddy demanded.
Christopher turned back, scrubbing at his scalp. “I . . . I didn’t,” he mumbled, nonplussed. But there was no arguing with the dejection that marred the fervor. He grabbed up his hat, squashing it onto his head before wrestling into his overcoat.
Teddy turned from his perplexed examination of the retreating carriage. “Where are you going?”
“Are you daft? I’m going to talk to her.”
“What the devil happened?”
“Don’t ask.” He buttoned up his coat as he hurried down the walk toward the Donovan’s townhouse.
~§~
Sara dried another wave of tears from her face as she stared down at the men’s leather gloves in her trembling clasp. She had finished the embroidered monogram of C.A.L. before reading the article in Harper’s—
A tap sounded.
Sara flinched. “Y-Yes? Who is it?” She swiped any remaining wetness from her cheeks.
“It’s Dix, love. May I come in?”
Sara stood, setting the gloves aside. “Y-yes.”
Dix entered, closing the door gingerly behind her. “Chris is downstairs. He wants to speak with you.”
Sara could feel the tears begin to burn again. “I . . . I canno’, mum.”
“Why? What happened?”
“N-nothing happened, mum,” she whispered.
“Then why are you so upset?” Dix pressed. “Why haven’t you come from your room since flying back from the gallery? Why are you pale as a ghost?” Sara shook her head. The older woman sighed. “Sara love, you need to go downstairs and talk with him. If you’re angry with him, he should know why.”
“Angry?” Sara choked out as she lifted her gaze. “Angry, mum? I could no’ be angry with him. He’s done more than what I ever expected him to do for me. Giving me more than a place to stay. More than a new start. More than . . . more than anyone. I’m only . . . ." Her lips trembled downward as she shook her head. “I’m only sorry I canno’ do more than what I have. I canno’ give him back the wife he loves. I canno’ give him the year he’s lost without her.” Sara covered her face and wept.
Dix pulled Sara close. “I know, dearest,” she soothed. “I know.”
~§~
Christopher pitched his hat onto the nearest chair within the observatory and dropped onto the seat edge—he stood when Dix entered. “Well?”
“She’ll be down in a minute or two.”
Relief flooded over him. He scrubbed a hand through his hair.
Dix calmly sat. “Chris, what happened?”
“An unexpected reaction.” He swiped up his hat and flopped into the chair.
“Hers?”
“Mine.”
“To what?”
“To her.”
“Christopher . . . ." She pressed her lips into a thin line, her brows furrowing. “I’m responsible for the girl, and I cannot help her when I cannot understand the problem. Now, forego the vague answers and tell me—”
“I wanted to kiss her.” Christopher’s face and ears flamed.
“You what?”
“I was trying to c
omfort her about the blasted article in the Chronicle while enjoying her spark of temper and I wanted to kiss her!” He stalked to the fireplace. “Do you need a blasted demonstration?”
“If you don’t stop snarling at me, I’ll toss you out on your ear.”
Christopher gripped the mantle, white-knuckled.
“What do you plan on telling her?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why don’t you tell her the truth?”
He scowled at her. “Oh, yes. Let me tell her I wanted to ravage her there on the spot, immediately chasing her to the nearest man safer than her sponsor. Yes, let’s do that.”
“Oh dear Lord, Chris. Cease the dramatics.” Dix stood beside him, her expression candid. “You are a man living without the comfort and caress of a woman longer than any widowed man should. I’ve admired your control these last several months. Now you’ve met a woman whom you treat as a friend. Considering Sara’s history, her reaction proves that in the past she was trained to believe fond treatment on her part was viewed as . . . repulsive.”
“Blast it—What must I do to prove her friendship is more a comfort than pain?”
“Tell her the truth. You aren’t the first man to have those thoughts, Chris. Or do you forget her reasons for escaping Mr. Brockle?” Dix gripped his arm, her gaze unyielding. “Mark my words, she will be honored you kept yourself from giving into the temptation. That shows just how much you respect her.”
“And risk her no longer trusting me?” Christopher slumped into the chair, head in his hands.
“It’s your decision.” She left the room.
Christopher heard her offer Sara a quiet phrase of encouragement on her way upstairs.
He stood. Sara entered slowly, her face pale and eyes refusing to meet his. The scent of lilacs tickled his senses as he stepped forward to meet her. “Sara, I . . . I don’t know what to say.”
“There’s no need, sir. I was forward.”
The tone of the ‘sir’ was aloof, reserved. He reached for her hand, but she shrunk from his touch. Blast it. “Sara, you were not forward.”
“I took a liberty I should no’ have taken.” This time she glanced toward him. Hurt glistened in their cobalt depths. “It will no’ happen again.”
“Sara, you’re a friend, a close friend, and as such you have the right to—”
“But you pulled away!” Her lower lip trembled. “I . . . I am sorry, sir.”
He steeled himself against the flinch. “Yes, I did pull away.” This time he pulled her hands from their tight grip of her skirt. “But because I didn’t want to act inappropriately toward you.”
“Y-You never do. You are a gentleman.” Tears blossomed to mild sobs.
A multitude of emotions crashed as Christopher gathered her into a comforting embrace. The action welcomed a diverse collection of memories. Those images of embraces and tears, and softness of curves—A friend. A friend, he repeated. A friend who treated his daughter as if she were her very own. A friend who shared a passion for art—Christopher cut off the thoughts and pushed back from Sara with a gentle nudge. She kept her gaze down. He tucked a kerchief into her hand and watched with rapt attention as she dried the tears. “Sara, I need to confess something.”
She peered at him through glistening lashes. “C-confess?”
He averted his gaze. The intensity of the desire for intimacy utterly floored him. Especially in conjunction with the possibility that such a confession would rob him of what he so desperately craved, her friendship. If he confessed to the needs developing for the first time in a year, would she still trust him? If he confessed her friendship made him remember what he lost, would she offer her comfort so freely?
Yet if he recoiled again, would she accept his apology a second time?
He drew a ragged breath. “My recoil was an extreme reaction to an unexpected desire. Acting on it would have caused you to no longer trust me.”
She didn’t look away, to his surprise. “What?”
He offered her a slightly more certain smile. “You’re a beautiful woman, Sara,” and his face blazed at the admittance, “and when you offer such understanding, compassion, friendship . . . . It propelled me to a place beyond the numbness, fighting back a desire for . . . a kiss.”
This time Sara’s eyes lowered, and she nervously smoothed her skirts. Christopher couldn’t keep from watching her, almost desperate to see if she took offense, or if it caused her fear. She escaped from a history of masters and employees whom took advantage of her sensitive nature. He didn’t wish her to perceive the same from him.
“I was married for six years,” he explained, “and engaged for nine months before that. Those experiences give rise to instantaneous . . . surrender, I suppose, to the desire to kiss, or touch, or some other action reserved for a fiancée or wife. That is the only cause for my recoil, Sara. Your trust is precious.” Indeed, theirs was a type of friendship he missed. One he would tenaciously protect. “Forgiven?”
Sara lifted her gaze, her blue eyes no longer pained, nor confused and hesitant. She smiled and seemed . . . at ease. “Forgiven,” she said.
Relief softened the growing lump of his stomach. “I don’t fault you your conclusions, Sara. What else were you to expect, considering your history?”
“You have been a gentleman, sir. It was wrong of me to suppose otherwise.”
Christopher gave her hands a succession of gentle pressures. “It is that standing I want to preserve most.”
“How . . . ." She bit her lip and tightened her clasp of his hands. “Mr. Christopher, how may I help?”
“With what, my dear?”
Her cheeks flushed, but she didn’t look away. “With your struggle. When I was in England, I but did my best to avoid the master . . . . I-I could no’ come for art lessons but maybe twice a week?”
His insides recoiled against the separation. “I would hate to slow your progress.”
“I . . . I will practice more on my own. If you send Gwyn, she could help. She’s a natural teacher.” Sara lowered her gaze. “She takes after you.”
Christopher clenched his jaw, his muscles tensing as he fought what he knew to be the right thing. After the article. The growing suppositions . . . . “You’re right.” He dropped his hands from her arms and rubbed them upon his trousers. The thought of losing the time to share his enjoyment of creation chilled him to the core. Blast it.
“Perhaps . . . you could use the time for more painting?” Those blue eyes peeked at him.
He inclined his head, reluctant. She seemed the key to the desire to struggle through the blankness to inspiration, and now he would need to suffer alone? He forced a smile. Sara’s return served as an encouragement he came to expect from her. An offering his aching spirit hungrily accepted. Something that made him cautiously step past a wall of his own making.
Christopher’s smile faded, and he saw the reaction to her expression: Concern. “I better get back to the gallery,” he said in a low voice. The tug-of-war with the decision to leave or stay continued, building as he watched the tumult of emotions in her eyes. He gulped down an urge. “I need to talk to Teddy about that letter to send to the Chronicle’s editor.”
Though he wanted to talk more about his wife and the grief which nearly swept him asunder. About the hope he began to sense in the distance. About the deeper insight to his rage against God, and why He kept pushing to be closer. Any release to the confusion would have been a Godsend, and she so eagerly presented tidbits from her own experiences.
But a man talking to a woman about such things was too intimate; not appropriate for friendship. If society had known how intimately their discussions had grown . . . but she was the first to understand.
Sara’s hand gave his a gentle squeeze. Then she deftly wrapped her arm around his and guided him to the front hall. Christopher seemed trapped within a bubble of staggered thoughts as he stared down at her, remembering so many other occurrences of a lady taking similar soft actions of car
e. To have it again—to feel anything at all—was a whisper of freshness.
Sara buttoned his still-worn overcoat and straightened the lapels. She met and held his gaze as she handed him his scarf and gloves from the side-table. Then she smiled and presented him his hat. Christopher took it with an absent motion, fingering the lip as he held her sapphire gaze while remembering a green one and feeling it begin to fade along with the ache.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
Sara’s blue eyes sang with her smile, even through her continued silence. Then she guided him to the opened door, where Christopher paused. She didn’t expect anything in return. Nothing. Ever. Instead, she always gave. And offered. And supported. And forgave—
The desire to embrace her rose as a drowning wave, pushing him beneath images and memories of similar intimacies. He gulped it down, noticing how her smile faded with his struggle. Who else other than Carla was so sensitive to his tortures. He had been right to confess. How else would she understand that these desires were a welcome return of feeling?
Sara gave his arm a gentle pressure. “I will pray for you, sir,” she whispered.
Christopher nodded, giving her hand a squeeze. Then he squashed his hat onto his head and forced himself to turn and walk away. He swallowed hard, and again, and still again as the chill wind buffeted his face and eyes. But the yearning to feel, again, the softness of a woman in his arms— Christopher groaned and shook his head, but the image was ablaze in his mind.
He flung a glare heavenward. “I can’t do this. I had You before, giving me strength to resist Carla’s innocent charm. Sara deserves the same respect.” His step faltered. “Yes, I’m asking for Your help, begrudgingly. Take it how You want—”
A sharp feeling of reproach drew him up.
Talking to God as if He were an annoying acquaintance felt odd for Christopher. Previously, his prayer time with the Lord was intense and quiet. A time of reading the Bible searching for clues and hints at how he could use it to inspire and change his own life. Listening for the whisper of God to reveal something within or without that was either worthy of notice or change. But death changed things of his character . . . and then there was Sara.
“I’m sorry. Being an ass isn’t the way to acquire Your help, is it? I’m still angry at You for letting her die. For taking my son. For taking my art when it would have been the one thing to help me through it.” He scrubbed at his scalp. “Sara says I’m looking at it wrong. Perhaps I am. Regardless, I am arrogantly offering You another chance. Do with it what You will. For Sara. For Gwyn. For whoever You want. All I know is . . . ."