“You and she were close.”
Sara nodded, tears brimming. “She was all I had, sir.”
“What of the children of the families where you were employed?”
She counted the knots three times before she could continue. “They did no’ care for me.”
“Ah.” Mr. Lake adjusted the crocheted doily in his fingers. “You were likely the quiet one. Carla was so different.”
A stab of pain marred his face, and he set the doily aside to again meet her gaze. This time his expression was guarded. Dear Lord, why do his memories cause pain—
“I need your opinion on how to display your work.”
Sara lost count. When she tried to pick it up again, she could no longer remember the pattern. “Y-yes, sir?”
“To save—”
The door opened. Gregory entered with a tea-cart.
Mr. Lake directed the cart from the butler’s care. The tall, balding man bowed and exited, closing the door behind him. More prim and proper than Harold at Lake Manor, his emotional distance reminded Sara of the many houses she worked throughout her life. She missed Harold and the bright welcome of Lake Manor.
Mr. Lake halted the cart between their chairs and began the task of preparing two cups before Sara could offer. “Do you prefer sugar or honey in your coffee?” he asked as he poured. “Will you want cream?”
Sara stared, bewildered. “I . . . ."
He set down the carafe. “You have never tried coffee, have you?”
Sara gave a slight shake to her head, humiliation tightening her throat.
“Ah. A first.”
“Sir?”
Mr. Lake presented her the cup and saucer. “It is hot, so take care.”
She gazed down into the deep richness. The strong aroma reminding her of home, but a different side of the memory. Sara gingerly tilted the cup to draw in a tiny sip. The flavor was full and powerful, though a hint of bitterness caused a wrinkle of nose.
“Never have I witnessed such a complete exploration.” He chuckled. “The verdict?”
“Sir?”
“Your first experience? How did coffee fare?”
“It is wonderful, sir. It only needs a bit of cream and honey to soften it.”
“So I have won you over.” Mr. Lake added the cream and honey and returned her cup. “Believe it or not, coffee is either liked or disliked. Though, some enjoy the aroma. The way of opinions, I suppose. Teddy once commented coffee is like a punch in the mouth.”
She took another sip. The sweetness of the honey and the silky smoothness of the cream enhanced the richness brought a smile. “I love it.”
“To coffee.” Mr. Lake lifted his cup toward her. “Quick may it grow, rich may it brew, and dark may it pour.”
Sara laughed, her cheeks burning at the unexpected emotion of ease. It felt unlike anything she remembered. Simple. Comfortable. Another separation from her old life.
“Do you realize you called me ‘sir’ at least twelve times in this brief conversation? I do believe you only said ‘Mr. Lake’ twice.”
Sara blinked at him.
He sipped his coffee, his examination of her launching her into a mild panic. His expression seemed a mixture of seriousness and that hint of mischief. “Not once did you even attempt to stumble over ‘Mr. Christopher’. You could say it once, couldn’t you? If only to prove you consider the possibility.”
“I . . . ." Sara’s eyes strayed to the doorway. “I do try to remember, Mr.—”
“Mr. Christopher.”
“M-M-Mister . . . ." To her shame, her cup rattled against the saucer.
“Oh dear.” He set aside his coffee. “Sara, I apologize. As you can see, I am a pest. More so than usual this morning. Dix would banish me from the house if she were present.”
Sara gawked at him. She could count on one hand the times she received an apology.
“I am sorry,” he said again.
A clear tone of regret rang in his voice. Sara offered a small smile. “It is fine . . . Mr. C-Christopher.”
He blinked. Then his handsome face relaxed. “That wasn’t so difficult, was it? The world has not ended. You are still there. I am still here.”
Sara found herself laughing.
“Now, about your art display. Would you like to be present anonymously, so that you can hear viewer reactions?”
Sara’s smile vanished. “I . . . ." She fingered her cup with trembling fingers.
“Sara, I do not intend to force an attendance upon you. We made an arrangement that I would screen responses. I am more than willing to do so. This is only an opportunity to change your mind.”
“You . . . you do no’ mind, Mr. Lake?”
“Of course not. I will mingle on your behalf; as your sponsor it gives me the right. Though I doubt I look as good in that burgundy gown I saw Amy working on earlier.”
Sara flushed and lowered her eyes.
“Oh. I decided not to display all your work. Did I tell you? This shall serve a tease to their palate, drawing them back for more. I plan to also speak with Paul and Dix regarding a minor showing at the gallery in New York.”
“N-New York?”
Mr. Lake smiled. “You would not need to attend, Sara. Proxy is perfectly acceptable, and I am certain Dix and Paul would be happy to act in your stead.” He drew out his pocket watch. “I better trudge to the gallery. If you can stop by sometime today, we will begin plotting the best layout to enhance your work’s intense simplicity. I will also want your final opinion on which art to display and which to save for future.”
Sara mutely nodded, her eyes wide as he stood.
“Have a good morning, and give Gwyn my love.”
She squeaked out, “Yes, Mr. Lake.”
When the door closed behind him, she lowered her gaze to her coffee, her thoughts jumbled. Mr. Lake acted kind, but in a way that didn’t rouse her suspicious. He behaved thoughtful and compassionate. He urged her beyond what she knew, so she could try for what she dreamed of most: A second chance at life. But.
Sara set aside her cup. Growing up, emotions became dangerous for her. So, she taught herself to feel nothing for her employers or fellow employees other than mild gratefulness or respect. No matter how handsome or charming, Sara kept her distance.
Now she didn’t know how to build up that distance. Mr. Lake wasn’t her employer. He wasn’t a fellow employee. He was the husband of the woman who offered her an opportunity for a new future. He was the director of a gallery of such beautiful things. He was . . . her introduction to a world she and her mother only whispered about.
Sighing, Sara lowered her gaze—she lifted her hands. ‘God gave you these hands,’ her mother often said to her, ‘and He gave you the gift of creating beautiful things with them. Pictures of dreams. Scenes of innocence so many people cannot see. Pretties designed with your mind and crafted with care.’ But they were calloused, dry and somewhat wrinkled. They were mature hands belonging to an older ‘Sara’.
“Here you are.”
“Amy?”
Amy came to stand beside her. “Yes, miss?”
Sara raised her hands, her heart catching in her throat. “Can I get pretty hands?”
The young woman smiled. “I’ll get my things.”
Nine
Timid Ventures
Sara’s blue eyes didn’t waver from their regard of the front door. Mr. Lake’s invitation to the gallery pulled at her, but each moment she reached for the latch, terror rose. Venturing to the gallery would mean welcoming commentary on her art, and that from those of an artistic profession!
She turned aside but couldn’t retreat. A whisper in her soul coaxed a first fateful step outside her area of comfort. To experience another waiting adventure. It only required a step beyond all she knew.
The fear continued to press, overwhelming her imagination with irrational possibilities. She lowered her head. The Lord protected her, His provision a constant. Forever had He led her to a next position for food
and clothing, shelter, something to learn. Sara sighed deep and once again faced the massive wooden door.
Gregory exited the parlor. “Oh. Miss Little.”
“Mr. Gregory.” She curtsied.
“Do you require something, Miss Little?”
Hesitancy tightened Sara’s throat, but she pressed onward. “Mr. Lake asked me to stop by the gallery. Miss Gwyn is down for a nap, and so I thought . . . ."
“Will you need a carriage then, miss?”
Sara nodded, silent for fear of voicing a protest.
Gregory bowed. “I will see to it immediately.” He made his way outside, closing the sturdy door behind him.
Again, she stared at the door—
“Here’s your coat and gloves, Sara.”
Sara gave a startled jump. “Th-thank you, Amy.”
“I found a nice warm scarf you can wrap up in so as to keep yourself warm. I think it’s angora—Here now. What’s the matter?”
Sara’s cheeks burned. “I am such a goose.”
Amy set the scarf and gloves aside on the hall table to help Sara into the dark-blue wool coat. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. You think you’re going to take to America the first days here? It’ll come.”
She sent the young woman a timid smile. She reminded her so much of Beth in moments such as these. “Thank you, Amy. Days like this I forget to trust God with the keeping, though He’s never turned from me before. I have no reason to be in a fright.”
Amy buttoned Sara’s coat. “Well then, you better hold tight to that or everyone’ll think you’re scared of your own shadow. That would never do. Teddy’ll likely pick you out to prove how funny he supposedly is. Believe me, you don’t want that.”
“Teddy?”
“Mr. Christopher’s friend.” Amy adjusted Sara’s coat over the skirt of her blue dress before turning for the scarf. “They went together on the gallery out of college. He does the clay and stone works, and Mr. Christopher the paintings and sketches.” Amy adjusted the scarf over Sara’s thick waves and tucked it into the wool coat. “He’s right handsome, but a bit on the—” The young woman shot Sara a glance before finishing with the scarf and turning to retrieve the gloves. “Just take what he says with a grain of salt and sand and you’ll be fine.”
Sara’s eyes widened. “Is he–”
“Oh he’s no rogue, or whatever you call ‘em, but he twists a word just the way he wants.” Amy presented Sara the gloves. “I just heard the carriage come ’round. You have fun there at the gallery, and make sure Mr. Christopher shows you ‘round and tells you all the stories of the receptions he and the missus used to throw.”
Then Gregory ushered Sara outside and into the carriage. “The gallery, straightaway,” he said, matter-of-fact.
Sara closed her eyes, whispering a prayer as the carriage lurched forward. Over and again she reminded herself of Mr. Lake’s kindness. Why would his associates be different? Certainly he wouldn’t partner with a bully such as Mr. Brockle?
The carriage creaked to a halt, the door opening moments later to the smiling face of the driver, Patrick. “You need help to the door, miss? The streets be slick.”
She accepted his help down, only just keeping her feet from tangling in the fullness of her skirt. “N-no, Patrick. Thank you. I do no’ want to keep you.”
“No trouble, miss. That’s what I’m here for.”
Sara sent the lanky, middle-aged driver a timid smile.
Gathering the front of her coat in trembling hands, Sara ascended the stairs. The gallery loomed as impressive now as when she first arrived. An artist at a gallery such as this? Dare she believe it? She stared at the gallery doors, biting her lip as her hands worried the front of her coat. Push them open. You can do this. He asked you to come by. She reached out—
“Of course, Top. No prob—Well, hello! Who might you be?”
Sara startled back as she stared into the silver gaze of a tall, attractive redhead. “I am sorry, sir. I did no’ mean—”
“What’s the ma—Oh! Sara. You made it after all.”
Sara’s gaze retreated to Mr. Lake’s familiar face. “I . . . Miss Gwyn went down for a nap, and so I . . . I thought this would be the best time.”
Mr. Lake stepped back to usher her inside. “Perfect timing. Come in before you catch your death. Teddy, don’t stand there gawking. Close the door before you die of exposure.”
She lowered her focus to the floor. The gallery doors closed behind her as she followed Mr. Lake. “Let us have some hot cider. You are trembling.”
“Yes, sir—I mean, Mr. Lake.”
Another figure came to walk beside her. Sara cast a frightened look to the redhead. He smiled. “S-sir.”
“Ah. Yes. Er, this is Theodore Parker. Teddy. My partner and friend. He helps me plan the events. Teddy, this is Miss Sara Little. The artist I told you about.”
“A pleasure to finally put a face to the art, Sara.”
Sara curtsied. “Sir.”
“None of that,” Teddy said, chuckling. “Call me Ted, Teddy, or something the like. You can even call me Parker if you want. Top over here knows as well as anyone I don’t deserve respect.”
Top? Sara peeked at Mr. Lake. He frowned at his friend, his hands clasped behind his back. “I will try, sir . . . I mean . . . ." Teddy winked at her. Sara flushed and looked away. “Mr. Parker.” She heard Mr. Lake chuckle.
“Mr. Parker? That sounds horrible. Like I’m a partner of some respectable establishment.”
Sara halted. “But are you no’ . . . ."
“The partner of some respectable establishment?” His silver eyes twinkled. “Yes, but I don’t care for the sound of it at all.”
She blinked at him, then she smiled. Americans.
“Lo and behold she smiles, Top. Something I said must have struck a funny bone.”
“Teddy, Sara smiles on a regular basis. You haven’t a special talent for bringing it about.”
“Did I say I did? I just commented. Less coffee for you, I think. You get cranky—Of course, your sister is due later and we both know how she can be. Nor have we lunched yet, and the layout of the display has not cooperated.”
The two sounded like bickering brothers. Another peek at Mr. Lake revealed a boyish smirk.
“I had lunch,” he said. “You were too engrossed to notice.”
“And you didn’t offer me anything?” Teddy scoffed.
“I offered. You grunted and continued on about the layout. Then you promptly pushed me aside and moved everything around again.” Mr. Lake intercepted Sara’s scrutiny and smiled.
“I don’t believe it,” Teddy said. “You always insist I think with my stomach. So why didn’t I smell the food you offered?”
“How should I know? Your mind never does seem to work the same twice in one day. I’m forever believing you’ve lost what little sense you had.”
Sara laughed—both men focused on her, inciting a wave of crimson to her cheeks.
“Well, well. She laughs as pretty as she looks.”
“Teddy.” Mr. Lake’s eyes narrowed.
“Oh. I apologize, Sara.”
Her gaze darted from his.
“Teddy, pour Sara a mug of cider.” Mr. Lake held open the door to the kitchen. “I will show her what we have in mind for the display.”
“Why do I—”
“Ted.”
“Fine, fine. Cider.” He disappeared into the kitchen.
Mr. Lake gestured toward the main hall. “The testament to my lacking as a sponsor is this way.”
“Sir, layouts are a challenge for all things.” How many times did she herself receive brow-beatings for failing to please the Housekeeper?
Mr. Lake clasped his hands behind his back, a quick glance sending her heart into her throat. “It is as you say, but considering my past experience, and my enthusiasm for this particular display, I do not believe that a feasible excuse.”
Considering her sketches would be the topic, Sara felt an immensity
of humility in any type of exhibit, poor or otherwise.
“Oh, you should know that my sister and her husband arrive in about an hour. Would you care to join me?”
“Oh no, Mr. Lake. Gwyn will be terribly put out if I do no’ help her finish the picture-book we started. And she asked me to show her some needlepoint on a pillo—Oh bother! That was to be a surprise.”
Christopher chuckled. “My performance of surprise is quite accomplished. Just ask Carla—Ah. I . . . ." His countenance tightened, the color of his face retreating to ash.
Concern caught her breath. “Mr. Christopher?”
He cleared his throat while tugging a golden pocket-watch from his vest. “It was nothing. Simple slip.”
“A-are you well, sir?”
“Fine.”
But Sara could read the agony in the pallor of his face. For almost two years he had borne life without his dear wife. She knew well the chill of that misery.
A gentle touch on his right arm invoked a violent shudder. Sara nearly cried aloud at the haunted expression in his eyes. Then he tore his gaze away.
“Mr. C-Christopher, the ache goes away. Truly. It does.”
He shook his head, his throat working hard at swallowing the grief. The ache of loss seemed to overwhelm him. Did it twist the view of his daughter? Haunt his dreams with whispers of a dead wife? Did it even pervert the joy that should have been warm in the memories?
Sara blinked away the tears and stepped close, forcing her hand into the grip of his fist. He clutched at it, his gaze never wavering from the blank wall before him. Dear Lord, please help him find peace. The chaos of grief tarnished everything.
~§~
“Chris!”
Christopher raised his gaze from Carla’s picture within his golden pocket-watch. A man several years his senior approached, an elegant woman beside him. Tow-head and raven-haired beauty, Paul and Dixon Donovan were a striking couple.
“Paul. Dix. How was the trip?”
“Harried and rushed, but thrilling.” Dix drew him into an embrace. She kissed his cheek and then held him out at arm’s length, clucking her tongue. “Chris, aren’t you eating? You look positively scrawny.”
He kissed his elder sister on the forehead. “I missed you too, dearest.”
She laughed.
Paul Donovan pulled his brother-in-law into a tight hug. “Topper. How’s Gwyn?”
“Talking more than ever. Sara has an endless supply of questions on her hands.”