Releasing Yesterday Page 10

  "I will read it for you," Christopher whispered. "Mr. Fortesque, do you needs be present?"

  "Yes, son, I am afraid I do."

  "Very well then." Christopher released a long, deliberate breath before Sara could hear the crinkle and tear of the envelop, the dry scratch as he unfurled the missive and cleared his throat to begin the message. A message both her heart and mind ached to hear while dreading the result.

  "'My dearest Sara Ann. There are so many tales you need to be told. Please forgive me for what I am about to tell you. Forgive that it has taken me so long to confess these truths, and in such a way that you are unable to vent your ire. Your mother is a coward. But I love you, poppet. You are a dear, sweet child and I pray with all my being that my loss does not ravage your spirit.'"

  Grief burst from Sara and she hid her face in her hands, shoulders shuddering even as Christopher paused the reading to rest a comforting hand upon her shoulder. She could hear her, her mother, speaking in her dulcet tones of comfort and regret. Almost smell her scent of lavender and black tea.

  "Shall I continue?" Christopher's whisper, so unsure and lost….

  Sara inclined her head, craving every last word from her letter.

  "’So many times you asked after your father, and I simply could not confess the truth, nor the shame of my actions. But with this letter I set it all to rights. Your father is alive, poppet. An artist and businessman from America, though at first he fashioned himself the latter and not the former.

  ‘When I first met him I was just seventeen and working as an apprentice dressmaker for a friend of my mother. We fell in love and, as most stories go, married younger than what is wise and quicker than what even I would recommend to you as your mother.

  ‘Mother turned me out when I told her, accusing your father of being just another American set to ruin me. But I knew better. Our life would be happiness and love forever, or so I thought. So, in my youthful arrogance I arranged to live above the dressmaker's shop until we could be wed but a few weeks later.

  ‘Your father purchased a cottage and every piece of furniture and trinket my heart desired, and I was so happy. I decorated the walls with art of his own making, and adorned the pillows and teacups with my own hands. It came to be my own piece of heaven, a new legacy never had before.

  ‘When barely one year had passed, his family called him from my side. The reasons why do not matter. It was important he go, I understood that and encouraged him to do so. What I did not understand at the time was how important it be I go with him. A family cannot blossom when separated, and I am afraid you have come to learn that lesson earlier than you should.

  ‘While my mother's accusation fell short of your dear father, it rang true for the man who raised him: your grandfather. He would not rest until he found a way to separate us, and I am afraid I surrendered when I should have stood firm.

  ‘If I had stood my ground, you would have had a father for these first twelve years of your life, a better home than what I could provide, and a better station than what I have left you. But my pride believed the lies your grandfather told me, and pushed me to give in to the darker side of my nature.

  ‘I gave up on us, selling our love to the highest bidder, and never told your father of his sweet Sara. Too late I realized the error of my ways, and it robbed you of a father and me of the love I so desired to hold for the rest of my life.

  ‘But now you have the chance to make it right, poppet. Please take the small token I have left for you and do what I could not: find your father and hold fast to the family I could not give you. Find him, poppet, and tell him I am sorry.’”

  The last word drifted into memory, tears spent to their last breath as Sara stared at her white-knuckled clutch of the front of her skirt. Thoughts remained distant, hidden behind a wall of numbing disbelief.

  Mr. Fortesque cleared his throat, though the gruff choke did not roust Sara's attention. "There remains only one last requirement of my firm: a reading of the will."

  Horror and reluctance dragged Sara's gaze to the solicitor's, and the comforting warmth and pressure of Christopher's hand as it rest upon her shoulder did nothing to alleviate the hard lump in her middle.

  "You cannot be serious,” Christopher said, objection tight and harsh in his tone. “Her mother has been gone these ten and more years, and now you bombard her with facts and truths…. Can we not spread this out and give her a moment to take it in?" Who knew better than he the power of memories and past images?

  "Unfortunately, no. The reading of the will in a particular location is a stipulation put therein by your mother, for there are multiple parties involved. My apologies, and my belated condolences at your loss."

  He retrieved another parchment from the sheaf of papers upon his desk. "Here is the notice and the location for the reading, the aforementioned cottage. It is listed as an asset under the late Mrs. Kreyssler and is now passed to Ms. Little. Please note the time stipulated for your arrival and be prompt, bringing with you this notice bearing my signature and thereby signifying you have verified your identity. Questions?"

  “You’re damn right there are questions.” Christopher’s irritation ricocheted off the cool wall of protective numbness. “This business should have been resolved years ago, as you said yourself. Why is this only just now coming to light?”

  Mr. Fortesque steepled his fingers, his gaze unwavering from Christopher’s. “Is such a detail necessary to--”

  “It may not be necessary to complete the current transaction, no, but if roles were reversed, would you yourself not inquire? To see if there stood a possibility of--”

  “Repercussions. I see.” The statement, matter-of-fact, chilled Sara to the core, overwhelming her mind and spirit with the desire to escape.

  “I suppose one might view such as a threat, but is it wrong of me to want to know what caused a more-than-ten-year delay on the knowledge of this will? This could have altered the very course of her life!” Christopher snatched the offered sheaf of papers from the desk top.

  Sara's eyes fought with their focus of her hands lying limp within her lap. Her mother asked her this last favor, and how could she refuse? Her mother's soul fairly rang within the air with the urgency of her simple request.

  “No, Mr. Lake, your desire to know is certainly not wrong nor unreasonable. In all honesty, you are correct: I would do the same, were situations reversed.” Mr. Fortesque leaned forward in his chair, and Sara could feel the potency of his gaze before it flicked away. “I can assure you, Mr. Lake, there was no intentional act of non-disclosure, on our part. A clerk, who is no longer with us, took it upon himself to determine the … importance—or lack thereof—to the notification of Mrs. Kreyssler’s passing. Certain recent audits and interviews caused this fact to come to light, and we set upon the correction. Does this satisfy your curiosity?”

  “Regardless of whether it does or not, I suppose it is foolish to argue the point. What changes? Nothing.” Christopher flipped through the pages of the legal document, lips pressed in a thin line. “Very well. We shall be at the rendezvous point for the will reading. Good day, Mr. Fortesque.”

  ~**~

  A rustle of fabric jerked Christopher’s focus to Sara as she staggered to the office exit. The wide gaze of anguish had gone, leaving in its wake a shadow of emptiness.

  "Sara." He closed the distance between them, aware of the utter silence from both Mr. Fortescue and Mr. Graham as they watched her intended escape.

  Her knees buckled, and he only just caught her in his arms. "Let's get you home," he said, his voice quiet as the pain at her agony nearly wrenched his heart from his chest. He admired her restraint, emotions kept to a slight quiver of shoulders as she clutched his hand. Outside the building, he gave a curt nod to the doorman who immediately gathered the attention of a waiting cabby.

  Sara's fingers tightened upon his arm, a tear escaping her rigid control. She turned her head toward him, away from the inquisitive glance of the doorman as he pas
sed to open the carriage door. In an effort to encourage the man away, Christopher tucked a generous tip into his hand and quickly ushered Sara up into the carriage.

  The cabby accepted his brusque direction and surged forward. Relief flowed as an audible sigh of relief as he leaned back in the seat and allowed instinct to take control. He drew Sara into his arms, her soft hiccup and the clutch of fingers on his lapels the only hint of her agony. “If Mr. Fortescue contacted me beforehand, I could have prevented this. Who dashes one’s reality against stones when faced with something of this magnitude?” Christopher grumbled, helplessness thrashing his calm.

  Sara stirred against him, fingers vainly attempting to smooth the damp wrinkles from his suit lapels. Her lashes caressed the rising flush of her cheeks before she peeked at him.

  He offered a smile. “Don't believe you have anything to apologize for, or be ashamed of, or anything remotely similar. To be honest, if I were presented with the same situation, I would have cuffed him square on the jaw."

  A smile teased the corner of her lips, but the situation wrestled even that brief respite from view. "If the request were made by any other...."

  "You would find it easier to say 'no' and never speak of it again? But to hear those earnest words from such as your mother?" Sara inclined her head, though her gaze did not seek his. "Understandable." Christopher caressed another tear from her cheek before drawing her into another embrace. "I will plot a journey to the location of the reading and make traveling arrangements for you--"

  "Do no' leave me to this alone." Her arms tightened around him.

  “Of course you will not journey alone. I shall be there each step of the way. You have my word.” But did he dare make such a vow when their impending nuptials began to press at his desire already?

  She inclined her head and then sat back. Christopher's hands drifted to her upper arms as he watched her midnight-blue eyes stare at his tie. Well did he understand such a deep torture.

  "What am I to do?" The whispered question rang hollow, twisting a dagger in his spirit and dragging his gaze to the sunlight halo upon her mahogany tresses. "I spared no' a single thought to my father since my eighteenth birthday, no' until I saw you and your precious Gwyn. Even if it were for but a moment, I hated him for leaving us to our fate. How could he do such a thing to my mum? To me?"

  "And now you discover he did not abandon you as you thought." Christopher caressed a wisp of hair from her temple. "This is the one answer I wish I could offer."

  She continued to stare, unflinching, thoughts a jumble of emotion across pale features. A downward spiral so utterly familiar. He gave her arms a tender pressure, praying it would interrupt the hazardous direction, and breathed a sigh of relief when she blinked up at him.

  "You simply cannot allow the questions freedom. The doubts. The confusion. Every dark agony. Trust me, push them aside to the Lord. You are not ready to face the answers or the questions." But how challenging had he found a similar request when faced with the loss of a young wife and newborn child?

  "I...." She blinked again, awareness and light beginning to dawn, softening the midnight-blue to sapphire.

  "Shall we pray right now?" Any distraction from an unflinching onslaught of unanswerable questions would serve as a needed respite to her aching spirit. She inclined her head, tears threatening as her lashes fluttered against the burning.

  Christopher had no idea what words to offer in this desperate plea for grace and peace, but as their hands tightened their hold of the other, his spirit simply stretched heavenward and he entrusted that, too, to the Lord's guidance.

  Ten

  Truth’s Shadow

  The Trent family welcomed Sara into their home with little difficulty and absolutely no mention of the resulting cause. Rachel did not question her pallor, nor her silence. Sara herself felt as if she journeyed through a mist--a haze which life and its challenges were wont to permeate. All her heart could absorb was the warmth and pressure of Christopher's presence beside her, his hand enfolding hers.

  Rachel said nothing as she safely ensconced Sara into the guest room, memories a dull throb against the pain of Mr. Fortesque’s revelation. Instead of being charmed by the twilight scene of the bustling city or the baby grand piano in the adjoining room, Sara stared at the soot-stained innards of the unused fireplace, cradling her mother's last gift to her in a trembling palm--the pearl-drop necklace.

  Time did not matter to Sara as she sat, memories of a harsh past relentless against her aching spirit. How different would that life have been with the ownership of a cottage? Would illness still have claimed her mother's life?

  A shadow fell across her, looming forward until a familiar presence sat across from her. Her lashes fluttered away the memories and focused on Christopher's dark gaze. She blinked and felt the warmth as her mind returned from the chilled fog of grief.

  He placed a cup of coffee across from her, concern shadowing the conservative smile of his lips. "Rachel brewed this especially for you," he said, his velvet tones buffeting against the cool calm of shock and agony.

  A tear escaped the choking hold on her emotions and wiped away his smile. He covered her hand with his, but said nothing. "I am a fool, Christopher."

  His eyes drank in the expressions of her face before allowing himself a single word, "Why?"

  "Because I believed I did no' want to know my father. I held to the lie that I did no' care for the reasons why he left us behind. But now...." She shook her head, confusion and sorrow closing off her throat. Her gaze lowered to their clasped hands. "I do no' know what to do, Christopher. How can I go on when my heart is pulled in so many different directions?"

  "You can only give yourself time, Sara. To heal. To consider. To pray and listen. No one expects anything more or less than that."

  "But ... but I do no' know how to move on."

  "It is a challenging, step-by-step process, and at the moment you struggle with that first, terrifying step. What would you do before when a challenge would present itself?"

  "I..." She peeked at him from beneath damp lashes. "I do no' remember."

  One side of his lips twitched upward. "Liar. Wouldn't you pray for everyone involved?"

  The truth of it felt like a slap across her heart and spirit. She blinked away, not willing to see the tenderness and patience when she knew she acted like a spoiled child.

  "Ah. Yes. That would be a step taken a bit further down the road." He brushed open her hand and retrieved the pearl drop and silver chain from her hold, gathering her focus with the action. "I remember the first time I saw you wearing this bit of silver. Every time thereafter, you seem to toy with it when thinking of something rather troubling. What is the significance?"

  Sara blinked at the necklace in his gentle hold, fingers twisted together to keep from snatching it back. "It was a present to my mother."

  "To your mother and not from?" Sara nodded, her form shrinking back in the chair as the bright intelligence of Christopher's gaze focused from her expression to the necklace and back again. "From your father."

  The statement of truth revealed so much about her deeper desire, one she still attempted to will away, even after her mother’s last plea.

  "Do you mind telling me the tale of this necklace?" His question, so gently probing and yet carrying with it a hint of his determination toward resolve. A feature of his character she often admired.

  Her eyes retreated from the necklace and focused, instead, on the roses painted upon the bone china teacup. "She tucked it into my hand upon her deathbed, saying it was her last ... the last gift from my father." Her mother had impressed upon her the importance of believing the man did in fact love them. That he would come for her and provide Sara the life she had not--Sara forced the memories away so violently her shoulders twitched.

  "It is lovely, a simple statement of love embraced by a not-so-simple piece of jewelry. I would hazard a guess that this metal is not the modest silver you assume."

  Sara's ha
nds fluttered, shoulders lifting in both sigh and shrug as she attempted to will away the curiosity and the hope. "It matters little, Christopher."

  "It matters more than you know, but I will let it pass. That your mother treasured this--"

  "Do no' say the words," she hissed, her eyes wide as they met his gaze. "Please. I canno' bear to hear them."

  "How can you not wish to hear that he cherished her?" He offered forward the necklace, and she once again shrank back. "This is proof of his devotion, Sara."

  "To her but no' to me," she snapped, eyes flashing.

  Those hazel eyes darkened, choking back her growing rage and pushing her from her seat. She retreated to the far window, arms and hands trembling as they surrounded her against the coming truths. She steeled herself against his approaching warmth, preparing herself for the tender placement of his hand upon her shoulder.

  "Sara, it is wrong to place that assumption onto his shoulders without first allowing him to defend his honor."

  But he had not been there to defend hers, nor that of her mother. They were left to the unforgiving assumptions and gossips of those who would not take the time to understand. "I do no' care." The statement sounded harsh and vile, and a part of her could not believe she uttered the words.

  "I see." His hand gave her shoulder a gentle increase in pressure before falling away. She shivered. "This is obviously not the time," he said under his breath. Sara only just prevented herself from turning. "Right. Well, er, then I will take my leave and lay plans for the journey in the morning. Try and rest, my dear."

  Christopher hesitated a moment more before making his way from the room and shutting the door with soft deliberation. Sara's knees buckled and she sat upon the window seat, hands fisted around one of the brightly colored throw pillows neatly arranged upon the cushion.

  She tossed it across the room and hid her face in her hands.