Releasing Yesterday Page 11

  ~**~

  Christopher slumped into the chair nearest the cold fireplace in the sitting room of the Trent’s Brownstone. Rachel, sitting across from him, lowered the New York Times.

  Robert set aside his cup and empty pipe, eyes dark as he cast an aside to Rachel. “How is she?”

  "Her father is not the villain she thought, and her mother has requested that she seek him out." Silence filled the corners of his mind, broken only by the crisp sounds of the paper as Rachel set it aside. Christopher’s head fell back against the wing-back chair, aching eyes focusing on the deco of the high ceiling. “In addition to that bit of news, she has discovered her mother owned a cottage for these many years. It has now passed to Sara, and we venture there tomorrow for the will reading.”

  “A cottage? Hm. That hints at a bit of comfort that could have been hers had this come to light at her mother’s passing.” Rob once again clenched the unlit and empty pipe in his mouth. “Such a revelation will not bode well against the memory of her mother.”

  The weight of that truth closed his eyes. "I know, though I have no notion how to ease her heart. Talking is not my strong point, especially in regards to personal tragedies. Sara is phenomenal at knowing what needs to be said in any given situation. If only I possessed the same gift."

  “You do in your own way, Chris,” Rachel said, her eyes bright as she regarded him, “when you allow your spirit the freedom to navigate."

  He released a long, slow breath. All he had prepared for related to a confession of disobeying her wishes in searching for the mystery of her father's history. Now that her mother presented the request for Sara to do so, what came as the next step? Instead of joy, he only saw silent agony. Shock. Confusion. The intensity of it pressed against his mind's eye with relentless intensity, much as the image of her standing at the cusp of her mother's grave.

  "Chris?"

  He raised his head, his vision only just able to focus on Rachel’s coolly-calm features. "Yes?"

  "You cannot let her ignore the request of her mother."

  “But a will reading, in her current state? Seeking out her father? Bestowing upon her a cottage which could have been her home?” He grumbled and gave a brusque shake of her head. “Her mother’s request … it seems too harsh. Too much to take in all at once.”

  Rachel’s intense gaze flicked away, a surprising showing of—she brushed at her cheek, the glimmer of a tear jarring Christopher to the core. Rob rest a hand upon her hand, inviting a whispered assurance before she once again focused on Christopher. “We, all of us, hide moments of weakness which motivate decisions best left to the shadows. Should she be allowed to ignore her mother’s plea, Sara’s heart will not recover.”

  Christopher released a deep breath, inclining his head as he scrubbed at his scalp. “I know, and we can already see the affects. Even my own mind continues to wander to the ‘why’ behind her mother’s choice.” His gaze rose to meet Robert’s, though Rachel’s focus remained elsewhere. “So many truths about her life would--”

  “You cannot.” The edge to Rachel’s voice grabbed Christopher’s attention the same moment it guided Robert’s hand to cover hers. She pressed her lips into a thin line, though her gaze did not release his. “Chris, you cannot live in that moment. If you cannot move forward beyond what might have been, there is no hope that she will be able to do the same.”

  Christopher’s gaze retreated from Rachel’s to the delicately folded newspaper across from her. “Moments such as these find me cursing my tendency to strive to understand the motivations of others.”

  “We understand that facet of your character, Chris,” Robert offered, “but it sounds as if her mother is offering Sara a hand beyond the history, one that Sara has likely never before seen as a detriment to her future. However, if both of you continue to look behind, at all the questions and reasons unanswered, all that has come from her strength of faith and character will begin to crumble.”

  Christopher inclined in his head, hearing the wisdom in the warning even though his heart and mind seemed at odds with how to prevent the questions. If he must look forward, Lord, Your strength will likely be my one salvation.

  ~**~

  The next morning, Christopher stood outside Sara’s room at the Trent Brownstone in London unable to persuade his hand to perform the necessary knock, perfunctory or otherwise. As he stared at the dulled brass of the door handle, he knew the whole trying adventure would be one exercise in patience and discipline after another. He could not control this situation, nor did he know what would be revealed, making it impossible to serve as any form of buffer for her.

  The role of “fiancé” served less to his liking when compared to that of “sponsor” in situations such as this.

  He gave his jacket a tug, bolstering his courage with the action before forcing a tap to her door. A mumbled reply sounded within, the pause grating on his last nerve before she opened the door to reveal ashen features and the shadows of lack of sleep.

  His throat choked off any greeting save a forced smile, which she returned as she stepped into the hall and closed the door behind her. Then her eyes retreated to the effort of untangling the ribbon handle of her reticule from trembling fingers, a ragged sigh crumbling his heart to dust.

  He rested a hand upon her shoulder. “If I could take this burden from you, Sara, I would do so in less than a moment.” The gruff confession did not seem to affect anything save ceasing the movement of her hands. Then she ever so slowly inclined her head, unable to even spare a glance toward him. He brushed the back of his finger upon her cheek, concerned at the pallor, and then motioned toward the stairs to the main floor.

  The Trents remained suspiciously absent, as did Gwyn, while he and Sara navigated their way through the Brownstone to the waiting carriage.

  But Sara’s distress distracted his mind from the mystery. Sleep deprivation marred her features, her usual grace a sluggish half-stumble. He kept a hand at her elbow through the house and to the carriage, not even trusting her to the first, elevated step up.

  Once the carriage creaked forward, Sara’s fingers clutched her reticule with white-knuckled intensity, and the occasional flinch of her shoulders stung his heart and spirit. When roles were reversed, how had she distracted him from the plummeting agony? If his presence served as enough of a comfort, she would not seem afraid even to breathe—

  A cold hand stretched out from beside him and clutched his balled fist. He blinked at Sara sitting so silent beside him, but her gaze continued to focus on the tenacious grip of her reticule, breathing staggered. He tightened the pressure of his hand upon hers, almost desperate to relay an ounce of strength. If only there were words to offer….

  “I am sorry.”

  Her whisper sounded as a plea, for what he could not understand. “Sweet Sara….” He caressed her cool hand with his. “Why do you feel the need to apologize? I certainly hope I haven’t made you feel as if you must do so.”

  Her fingers tightened upon his grasp, a muffled sniff dragging at his heart. “You… you are so patient with me, though I have done naught but put you on your ear. Your life has become a mess.”

  “A mess? Heavens, my dear, if this is a mess may it never end.” He pressed at her hand, doing his utmost to encourage even a peek in his direction. “If you had the power to do so, what would you change? This trip to England? This jaunt to a cottage in Richmond Upon Thames? The challenges of heart and home since your coming?”

  Silence settled over her for a heart-breaking moment before her free hand lifted in a helpless motion of distress and then fell still.

  “Each difficulty has its place, and can we say we would not have grown as close without them? I lean more of my Father in the Heavens now that I cannot trust my own strength. I have these challenges to thank for that growth.” Though he felt less than thankful at her suffering.

  Her head dipped, her haggard sigh grabbing at his throat. “But… but, Christopher, I did no’ wish to be angry at my m
um for the lack of a father. I did no’ wish to doubt her, not when I feel I am who I am because of her kindness and gentle firmness.”

  “I know.” He drew her close, his arm folding about her as his spirit lifted a heavy prayer toward the heavens. “But there is nothing to be done other than being angry, and doubting, and struggling to make sense of the truths we now find. We must ride the storm’s swells as well as revel in the calm waters.”

  She leaned fully against him, turning her head into the curve of his shoulder. “Can I no’ be done? Can I no’ rest?”

  “I pray for that daily, Sweet Sara.” How he prayed for that rest to come soon, even if such a desire was motivated by his own helplessness. “At least rest in the knowledge that we, none of us, will leave you to yourself. We are here to help however you may need us. Rachel, Rob, Dix, Paul, even Gwyn, Hank, and Teddy don’t want you to struggle alone.”

  Perhaps it fell as the first time in her life where she did not need to step into the challenge by herself?

  He pressed a kiss upon the crown of her head as she released a long, steady breath. Then another. As if she ushered each and every worry and care into the space around them, a burden now shared.

  ~**~

  Sara’s dread grew as the horse and carriage clacked along the cobbled streets toward the borough of her birth and childhood. Questions crashed upon her mind as a storm-ravaged shoreline until all fell silent at the carriage’s sudden stop. She tightened her clutch of Christopher’s hand, unable to even turn her head to observe this place where her history and future would alter focus.

  What answers lay just beyond?

  Christopher brushed a kiss upon the back of her hand and persuaded a release. She only barely perceived his exit from the alternate side of the carriage until he stood before her, carriage door held wide and handsome face smoothed with an encouraging smile. But the weight of her heart and spirit would not allow her to breathe nor move.

  He stepped closer, those warm and strong hands encircling her waist and drawing her forward from the carriage until she stood close beside him on the bustling street. A whisper of encouragement tickled the skin of her ear, ushering her a shadow closer to the reality where he stood. She would not be alone. His strength waited for her to simply reach out.

  Christopher tucked her hand into the nook of his arm, steadying her as they made dogged progress across the narrow expanse of sidewalk to the brick cottage with the overgrown roses and ivy trailing along its face. The peeling white paint of the windows and door. The green of the door faded to the soft color of new grass.

  A sob broke free, her step halting even against Christopher’s gentle tug. “Sara?”

  His tall, broad frame moved between her and the vision of this shadowy memory, drawing her focus from the sway and slip into the past. She clutched at his strength, burning eyes focusing on his as her spirit drank in the firm but gentle pressure of his hands upon her arms.

  “Sara? What is it?”

  She blinked, choking back the tightness of her throat. “I remember this place.” Like the hint of a passing whisper. Her gaze retreated to the cobble path overgrown with moss and spent foliage, confusion furrowing her brows. “Yet how could tha’ be? If mother had such a place as this as part of our fortune, why would she have…?”

  Another pressure upon her arms drew her back from the unfinished question, her eyes drawn to the concerned intensity of the man standing so near. “You cannot allow those questions, Sara. Not when the answer does nothing for your present nor your future.”

  But how could she leave the questions unasked? Wouldn’t their answer help her make sense of... everything? Wouldn’t their answer make the confusion retreat? Wouldn’t the struggle of her life make sense if she—

  “Sara.” The brusque tone snapped her back to the reality of the cottage with the wild front garden, her eyes struggling to remain focused on Christopher. “Release it before the questions drag you further. Let the reasons keep to their own council.” He drew her close, his warmth enveloping her as a shield against a rising chill. “Please, Sara,” he whispered, the words a caress upon her ear and neck. “Remain here with me and leave yesterday behind you.”

  Sara inclined her head, exhausted with the effort of silencing the questions and focusing, instead, on the beat of his heart and the warmth of his prayer upon her ear. Time slipped away as they stood there, Christopher doing his utmost to protect her from the onslaught of questions and doubts from her past life.

  Then the haunting creak of the cottage’s opening front door drew them apart, separating them only the barest breadth of a hand’s distance. Christopher’s eyes sought hers to offer the silent strength and encouragement she treasured.

  A clearing of throat drew Christopher’s attention. “I apologize for the delay. We shall be there presently.” The familiar features of Mr. Graham from the solicitor’s office tightened with impatience before offering a slight nod and closing the door.

  Christopher’s lips curved upward as he shifted back to her. “It seems we continue to irritate our harried clerk, Mr. Graham.” He tucked her hand into the curve of his arm. “Shall we close this final door to yesterday?”

  A wave of eagerness inclined her head. To be done. Finished. With nothing waiting but a new daughter and her vow to this man of God beside her. “Please,” she whispered.

  “Your wish is my command.”

  He guided her forward, occasional stolen glances lifting the hairs on the back of her neck and tightening her fingers upon his arm. Whatever waited, she must remain strong. Give this to the Lord, she insisted to that still portion of her soul which seemed so strangely quiet. Her mother forever acted out of concern for her heart and future. It served as one of her most precious memories. This would be no different. She simply needed to understand.

  Even if she didn’t—she shook off the thought, determined to never doubt the goodness of her mother. She couldn’t. She mustn’t. Her heart could not withstand such a blow.

  Christopher tapped upon the door, tipping his head to Mr. Graham who grumbled a greeting and opened the door wide. “We appreciate your patience,” Christopher said, though she could plainly hear the pang of amusement in his tone.

  Mr. Graham coughed an acceptance and forced a smile, motioning inside the bare front room toward a hallway beyond. “The other interested parties wait beyond. If you could make your way…?”

  “Of course. Come along, my dear. Let’s be done with this bit of adventure.”

  Sara’s focus remained upon the dark slats of wooden flooring, sun-stained near the window, worn by the regular tread of feet, marked by the placement of a rug long-since gone. Is this how they were able to survive? Selling the bits of her mother’s past, sacrificing her memories so that her daughter would not starve?

  The warmth of Christopher’s hand upon hers tugged her from the widening maw of questions as they navigated the shadowed hallway. She offered a tremulous smile before forcing her gaze to the two elder men in the small sitting room. Her feet stumbled to a halt, eyes widening as a jolt of pleasant surprise battled the ice of shock.

  “Mr. Conklin?” Christopher shifted his gaze from the elder man to Sara and back again. “What brings you to this humble cottage?”

  Mr. Joseph Conklin cleared his throat, muttering an unintelligible reply accompanied by a slight incline of head before motioning minutely to Mr. Graham. “Let us begin, shall we?”

  “Too right. Please have a seat, lady and gentlemen.” Mr. Graham gathered a selection of papers from the sole piece of furniture, a rather worn desk and rickety chair set up on the side of the sitting room nearest the fireplace.

  Christopher hesitated for a telling moment before steadying Sara’s descent to one of four chairs in the small room. Sara forced her gaze from Mr. Conklin to a particular corner on the desk, focus wavering between the legal jargon of the spoken prologue of the will to the shadow growing in her heart and mind.

  Did Mr. Conklin know her mother? Was he the reason
she seemed to know and understand what action to take to encourage Sara’s gift? Had he been a distant support and sponsor all these years? Had her mother intended to help her along the path of artist?

  “Now.” Mr. Graham set aside the first page of documents, the slap of the others upon the hardwood desk snapping Sara’s attention to the present, harsh reality of ignorance and confusion. “Miss Little, since your identity has been adequately supported and proven, we are free to discuss the contents of the will as well as all stipulations therein. The first of which being the letter shared with you when first we met. There are three in total, although the second has two parts.”

  “Pardon?” Her whispered inquiry could only just be heard over the nature sounds outside the partially open window. Sara’s eyes shifted from Mr. Conklin, to Christopher, to Mr. Graham in mute expectation and alarm. What had her mother left for her?

  “To the second. Mr. Wyndham? Would you care to proceed with this section of the proceedings? Or will you defer to me?”

  The elder man seated beside Mr. Conklin inclined his head, the silver-gray of his trim moustache quivering with a telling exhalation. “I will defer to you on the second part, if I may?”

  Mr. Graham inclined his head, his gaze not shifting from the documents in his long fingers. “Of course. Proceed.”

  Mr. Wyndham leaned momentarily toward Mr. Conklin before focusing on Sara. She shrank back against Christopher even as she forced a tremulous smile toward the gentleman. “Miss Little, I apologize heartily for the tardiness of these proceedings, and for the shock this will be to you and yours. Unfortunately, there were situations outside our--”

  “We have explained such, Mr. Wyndham.” Mr. Graham brushed aside the apology with his brusque tone, immediately motioning toward the portfolio of documents upon the gentleman’s lap. “Please proceed.”

  “Of course.” Mr. Wyndham stood, deftly shifting the portfolio from lap to hand and seeking certain pages from within its confines.

  Sara shifted in her seat, fingers seeking out the comfort of Christopher’s hand without looking away from the older gentleman’s actions.