Releasing Yesterday Page 12

  “Can you spare us a word or two, Mr. Wyndham, so we can prepare for our doom?” Christopher’s tone resonated with irritation and helplessness.

  “Pardon?” His silver-blue glance momentarily shifted from the documents gathered.

  “These past few weeks have been of particular distress for Miss Little, so if you could relieve her mind as to the subject matter of the documents? I’m certain she is imagining the worst.”

  “Certainly. My apologies. The subject matter pertains to this cottage, my assumption being the lady is aware she is the new owner of these premises?”

  “Something was mentioned to that effect, yes, but, well, do you know why her mother did not inform her previously of ownership?”

  “I am afraid I cannot speak to that information, being an uninvolved party save for the care-taking of this cottage. May I proceed?”

  “Yes, of course.” Christopher pressed her palm with his, but this time the usual comfort of his warmth did nothing against the internal silence as she watched life’s challenges unfold around her.

  “There is a monthly stipend that was set aside as a provision for a care-taker, should you opt against permanent residency. Should you, instead, decide to place the property for sale, our firm can handle the details and provide you with a list of interested parties, as we have received many inquiries over the last several years—”

  Sara shook her head, the breathless “No,” only just heard above the speaking gentleman with the perfectly coiffed hair and high collar.

  Christopher’s warmth did not fade from its grasp of her hand. “We will continue to retain ownership, Mr. Wyndham, thank you. In fact, I will assume responsibility for arranging the care of the property, including contracting any permanent staff. Any recommendations by you would be welcome, of course. Here is my card.”

  “Excellent.” Mr. Wyndham offered forward the portfolio of legal and professional documents. “Should you have any questions, do not hesitate to put your people in contact with us.”

  “Of course. Now,” Christopher’s glance shifted to encompass each gentleman in turn, “on to the second portion. I believe Mr. Wyndham deferred to you, Mr. Graham?”

  Mr. Conklin shifted, gathering Christopher’s attention and flaring a spike of anxiety within Sara’s tired spirit. “Mr. Graham, I believe you have a word on that?”

  “There has been a delay, or rather,” Mr. Graham sifted through his documentation, “a contest, so there is need to put the subject on hold until a later time.”

  “The subject being…?”

  Sara flinched at the ice of irritation in Christopher’s tone. His hand immediately firmed its gentle grip upon hers.

  “The subject being a monetary inheritance. A portion of which is being contested by a party not presently in attendance, nor were they invited to participate in the matter of this will. Unfortunately, as Mr. Wyndham can explain in further detail at a later date, there was a stipulation in the verbal contract which is causing a modicum of—”

  “A verbal contract.” Mr. Conklin’s harsh grumble silenced the room as completely as a brandished sword or musket. “The written contract currently on hand with the bank supersedes any verbal stipulation, and I will make certain my father understands the penalty should he continue further.”

  “That is all well and good, Mr. Conklin, but in the interim we must proceed with caution so as to prevent the possibility of legal ramifications.”

  “Legal ramifications be hanged. She is more than deserving of those funds, having suffered her entire life for them.”

  Christopher’s release of Sara’s hand jolted her from the relentless visions of her memory as he stepped between Mr. Graham and Mr. Conklin. “Gentlemen, please. Might we have a bit of clarification for certain interested parties?”

  Mr. Graham cleared his throat, the moment’s respite gathering his calm and attention from Sara to Christopher and finally Mr. Conklin. “Do you wish to proceed as stipulated in your previous communication to us then? Or shall we do as Mr. Fortescue recommends?”

  A darting of eyes to Sara darkened the dread, and her fingers clutched their hold of Christopher’s arm.

  “What is this?” Christopher caressed her hand.

  Mr. Conklin leaned into a murmured conversation with Mr. Wyndham before giving a curt nod and turning in his chair to focus entirely on Sara, gaze relentless in its pursuit of hers.

  “Miss Little, the inheritance of which we speak was set aside by your mother, paid by contract with my father. I am—”

  Sara shrank back, jerking her hand from Christopher’s tender clasp to cover her ears. Her entire body trembled as she shook her head, eyes unable to retreat from Mr. Conklin’s. “No,” she whimpered. It was the one truth she did not know how to take in.

  A shadow fell across his features as a cloak, his jaw tightening with a recognizable resolve. She closed her eyes against the viewing of his reaction, the only proof her spirit needed to acknowledge the truth he was determined to speak.

  “You are my daughter.”

  Eleven

  Truth’s Dawning

  A knock launched Christopher upright. "Enter."

  But Sara's was not the face revealed by the opening door to the guest room in the Trent Brownstone. Eagerness fled, leaving him exhausted. "Hello, Nigel."

  The Trent butler offered a bow, further heightening the stoic professionalism of the older gentleman. "Sir, there is an urgent message for you." He presented a folded bit of paper. "The runner is ordered to wait for your response."

  "Very well. Thank you, Nigel. Have him wait in the hall."

  "Already done. I shall wait just outside for your answer."

  "Thank you." Christopher opened the crisp paper and blinked at the three-word request. 'Can we meet? Conklin’ Christopher scrubbed at his scalp. After the revelation of the man’s true identity yesterday, Christopher didn’t know what else could possibly need to be said.

  Renown art connoisseur Joseph Conklin was, in actuality, Sara Little’s long lost father? Christopher shook his head. There was no answer to the mystery without first asking the question, and he knew Sara's heart did not possess the strength to withstand the asking. How could he possibly encourage a meeting between them?

  But did he have the right to ask and receive the answer in her stead? Perhaps, as her sponsor, it gave credence to an intermediary? Christopher pressed his lips into a thin line. He would be damned either way, in all likelihood, but any action at all fell easier than nothing. Hadn't he already fell victim to inaction once?

  He scrawled an approximate time for their meeting, as well as the address for his loft a few miles away. Once he presented the note to Nigel, Christopher slumped against the door and prayed for the best.

  The folded legal documents presented to him at the will-reading the day before drew his gaze. They rest so innocent upon the dresser near the door, but they alone had caused such heartbreak. They proved not only that Joseph Conklin was in fact Sara’s father, but he had no knowledge of her existence until a year before.

  Once again, his fingers sought the document barring Sara's mother from any contact with her husband. Why the senior Conklin would put such in effect would be his first question, though even Mr. Conklin might not yet hold the answer. There were so many questions!

  Christopher jerked open the door and strode down the hall. But his steps slowed and halted outside Sara's bedroom. He hadn't seen her since the night before, Amy turning aside food and visitors alike per her mistress’s request. Rachel’s favorite china tea-set was the only entrant to the silence of that room.

  He scrubbed at his scalp, arguing against what seemed a poor decision even as he stepped to the door and softly tapped. A rustle of skirts preceded the crack of the door. Beyond, the room stood still and dark, no sounds of laughter or wonder, something he had come to expect from Sara. Even Amy's usual brightness had grown taut, shadowed by her growing concern.

  "She's asleep again, Mister Christopher."

&nbs
p; Fitful slumber. Heart aching tears. Stark silence. The constant repetition pained him. "May I—No. Nothing." Then he offered a pitiable smile and headed downstairs for his hat and overcoat.

  Lord, please comfort her spirit. He himself could think of nothing to offer as a release. In fact, he did not even believe his presence would be a comfort to her, trapped as she was in this circle of depression. He must ask the questions she was ill-prepared to face at the moment.

  Christopher accepted his hat and gloves from Nigel. "Will you please send a runner with any change in Miss Little's state of mind? I will be at my loft."

  "Yes, sir. Of course."

  "Assure her I will return for dinner this evening, should she ask. At least let Amy know, if she doesn't ask. Also, please let Rob and Rachel know I’ve gone to the loft for a meeting with Mr. Conklin, should they inquire, and they are welcome to join me, though I believe they will want to remain here to care for Sara, and to watch over Gwyn and Hank." You're rambling. "Thank you, Nigel."

  "Yes, sir."

  Christopher retreated from the house, clambering into the carriage as he tried to silence the rising chaos of his mind. The last thing he needed at the moment was to be unable to voice a single, coherent question because of his inability to harness his own thoughts.

  He tugged his ever-present pocket watch from his vest pocket. If he wanted to hold any type of productive interview, of sorts, he would need to make use of what little time he had to outline questions. He gave a curt nod, determination creasing his forehead and darkening his eyes.

  ~**~

  Christopher checked his watch for the third time, giving a twitch at a knock. Conklin was early, and Christopher was less than thrilled with his outline of possible questions to keep him on task. He navigated the distance from his front-room office to the door and blinked down at the young man grinning up at him. "David?"

  The tousled tow-headed fourteen-year-old had been one of many rescued young people benefiting from Rachel and Robert’s many connections. David had been a runner and general help-mate with Christopher’s household since he was eight.

  He offered forward a folded bit of paper. "Got a message for you, Mister Christopher."

  Christopher opened the note, half hoping it declared Conklin's need to postpone the meeting. Unfortunately, he wasn't so blessed. "Sara--why is she coming here?" It was not the answer to prayer he hoped for.

  "You want me to take back a note, Mister Christopher?"

  "Yes!" He retrieved a nub of pencil from his suit coat pocket and scrawled a hasty plea for Sara to wait for him to return. "Here, and make all haste."

  David tapped two fingers against the brim of his felt cap and took off at a sprint.

  Christopher closed the door, pressing his forehead against the rough surface--a soft knock brought his head up. As to who he hoped it would be, he had no idea. He scrubbed a hand through his hair. After a calming breath, he gripped the doorknob and opened to reveal Joseph Conklin staring out at the small park across the way.

  The pressure of myriad futures bore down upon Christopher's shoulders as the elder man doffed his cap. "Mr. Conklin. We may not have time for a full discussion of the situation. A runner informed me Sara--er, your daughter is on her way."

  Distress bleached the man's features. "Of course, this concerns her as well. Should she not be present?"

  Christopher could tell the words sounded in direct opposite with his internal desire. But he also knew--a carriage drew to a halt in front of the steps, Amy's face peering from the window as Mr. Conklin and he focused on its arrival. Dread colored Christopher's entire soul. God, wisdom and calm would feel especially wonderful at the moment.

  Mr. Conklin did not turn his focus from the carriage, though the interior remained darkened against any viewing of the second occupant. Amy turned back, her smile robbed by the subject of her focus within.

  Christopher excused himself from Mr. Conklin and approached the still carriage, his mind refusing to process anything other than a list of possible reasons for her not alighting. A small part of him chided his inability to usher Mr. Conklin into the loft and away from inquiring gazes.

  Amy lowered the plate glass and met Christopher's gaze. "I'm sorry, Mister Christopher. I didn't know you had company." Sara remained hidden and silent in the shadowed darkness of the carriage.

  "You must have missed the return runner, terribly sorry. I've a meeting just now, though. I could attempt to reschedule, of course."

  Amy opened her mouth to answer, but a murmur from Sara within the carriage drew her attention. Unfortunately, the shadows were unforgiving, unable to confess even a hint of thought or emotion.

  There was nothing to do but act, and pray that God would weave from it a blessed future, come what may. "Amy." The girl whispered a response to Sara before shifting her focus back to Christopher. The poor girl likely felt pressed like dough between a table and rolling pin. "Amy, please escort Sara back. This week has not been kind to her in the slightest. I will keep the meeting as short as possible and call on her afterward with the result and my recommendation. Yes?"

  Amy inclined her head, worrying her lower lip before she nodded again and raised the plate glass. The carriage lumbered away, Christopher and Conklin staring after it with equal parts intensity. Dear Lord.... He brushed it aside, whatever "it" was, and turned back to Mr. Conklin. The man fared little better than Sara herself, and he felt a rising wave of determination to ferret out the truths as they could be had.

  But his experience in matters of personal history could fill a single page.

  "Shall we enter, Mr. Conklin, and get to the matter at hand?"

  The man offered a jerky nod, his hands worrying the hat in a trembling hold. "Quite. Thank you."

  Christopher ushered the man inside and to the studio toward the back. The surroundings of easel and art books comforted Christopher and calmed the chaotic thoughts in his mind. He always felt at peace among the hardwood floors, the modest furnishings, and the clay knick-knacks crafted by Gwyn. Perhaps the hints of family would settle Mr. Conklin's mind as well?

  The man lowered himself with slow deliberation into the first chair within the studio, to the right of the entry and by the north-facing window. Christopher sat opposite, regretting the choice to give his two wait-staff the rest of the week off. "Shall I brew coffee or tea?"

  "No." He shook his head and placed his hat upon the table. "No, thank you."

  "Perhaps a little brandy?" You're rambling, Chris. He cleared his throat to keep himself from saying more.

  Again, Mr. Conklin shook his head, though this time he remained silent. Christopher felt at a loss as to how to begin the conversation, the questions swimming in his head not helping in the slightest.

  "I scarcely know where to begin," Mr. Conklin said, his voice low as his gaze did not waver from his hat.

  Lord.... "Sara is the one who needs to hear the intricate details, Mr. Conklin. I am simply here to relay the basics."

  "And to judge for yourself whether or not I deserve to get to know her."

  Christopher cleared his throat. "Yes, well, I would not put it in such a way as that but, as her sponsor and fiancé, her protection is my responsibility, yes."

  Mr. Conklin inclined his head, a shadow of regret twisting his features. "You perform your duty well, Chris. A credit to your parents and your reputation. If--but no, that is not the way to begin." He pushed his hat away, his eyes dark with memories which would no longer remain silent.

  Christopher remembered well the whisper of that agony. "Mr. Conklin, perhaps it would be better if you allowed me to ask select questions? There is no need for you to delve into the details which are better left for different company."

  "Yet should she opt not to meet with me a second time, I would rather you know the full disclosure, so you can gauge when she is ready for the telling. I owe her that courtesy at least."

  An objection rose and died on Christopher’s lips, a press in his spirit causing him to simply no
d and sit back in the chair. This confession must have been a lifetime in the making.

  "I met Ann Marie Little in a secluded arbor of a park in London, not unlike the park across the way. Came to discover she worked as a seamstress in a dressmaker's shop, living on the third floor with a friend. Joy and contentment danced in her eyes, brightness in her voice as she questioned me of America. Never before had I witnessed such a love of life...." The man's gaze flicked to gauge Christopher's attention. "Romantics would accuse me of love at first sight, and I suppose they would be right. Though I knew my visit to England was to be of short duration, she robbed me of any desire to return home."

  The man had found his connection. Christopher inclined his head, the memories of his own discovery whispering through his memory.

  "I told her the reason for my presence there in England was to study art, though I suppose that was not a complete falsehood. Studying art did encompass a portion of my duty, but the study of others and not my own. Images did not paint themselves in my imagination until after I met the charming Miss Ann Marie. But--"

  A passing carriage drew his attention, his gaze focusing inward and beyond to a long forgotten history. "I was a fool to believe happiness would last. Yes, I married the dear lady after but a few weeks, gladly, and we lived in peace and contentment for what seemed a lifetime, though it was scarce a year. Then... then I received word my mother had fallen gravely ill.” He released a deep breath. “Ann urged me to return to America, so, I promised to tell them of her as well as my decision to pursue the study of art abroad. Then, regardless of their thought on the matter, I would return."

  Emotions and memories crashed across his taut features, dredging up similar waves of regret in Christopher. But the press of his spirit would not allow words. How long had this confession festered within the man?

  "Mother showed both relief and happiness when I told her of Ann and my desire to continue to follow my muse in England. She alone seemed to realize how I had longed to create and not peddle. Father was livid, but as I was of age and with a bit of money of my own, there was little he could do to influence me otherwise. At least, not without risk of scandal. My following a desire toward art did nothing against the family business, and my mother was able to persuade him to leave me to my adventure, though he called it ‘my folly.’