Releasing Yesterday Read online

  "The illness lingered on her, at times giving us a false hope she would recover. Due to that, I allowed Father to persuade me to extend my stay, though I wrote to Ann daily of Mother's progress and my desire to return. I—Why did I not board the first vessel to England when she made no reply?"

  The man shook it off, gripping the arms of the chair as his gaze shifted from the window to Christopher's features and back again.

  "When Mother passed on, I informed Father my intent to return to my wife and my art, and that I would not be dissuaded." A wry smile marred his features. "He regarded me with such a chilling stare and then produced a letter from a solicitor stating the marriage had been annulled upon her request. That I was barred from seeing her, or even inquiring after further information." He snapped his fingers. "Like that, my happiness became forfeit. Such utter helplessness...."

  Words died and Mr. Conklin stood, hands clasped behind his back as he stared into the bustling street below. "Almost twenty-five years later, I received a letter from the same solicitor in England confessing to a mistake some ten years since. Ten years. They were to have sent me documents of Sara’s existence and the details of her Trust at Ann’s death."

  "She never wanted the annulment, did she?"

  He shook his head. "I can only assume my father threatened her in some way, she being a servant and I--" He swore and slammed his fist onto the window pane. "My father paid her a monthly stipend to stay distant, apparently, which she never touched. Instead, she set up a Trust with these same solicitors under our daughter's name."

  "You have confronted your father regarding this?"

  Mr. Conklin's scoff echoed within the dread silence of the studio, harsh and angry. "He is as silent as the grave regarding this bit of scandal, admitting only to the facts discovered within the legal documents presented at yesterday’s meeting. It matters little, one way or the other."

  "I disagree, but that is a conversation for a later date. So, rather than assume I understand your intent, what is your plan going forward?"

  The man's sunken eyes shifted, meeting Christopher's gaze and, this time, not retreating. "She is proof of a one-time happiness, I...."

  The man wanted forgiveness, craved it with every fiber of his being, but more than that, he sought a bridge to a family he could have had with the love of his life. As a father, a widower, and a re-made man, Christopher understood the power of that longing. He could not believe it of her himself, but he couldn’t prevent himself from vocalizing the warning, "You understand she may never forgive you?"

  The man flinched. "Yes."

  But what was there left for him other than to stumble ahead in an attempt to make right what he did not know had gone so terribly awry? "Unfortunately, I do not feel it is my place to help you in this directly. I will speak with her, but in the end the decision is hers alone." Mr. Conklin inclined his head. Christopher stood, scrubbing at the back of his neck as so many words chased themselves around his head. "Sara is a warm-hearted and forgiving woman, Mr. Conklin. Take hope in that at least."

  "Yes." He gathered up his hat, teasing the brim with a trembling hand before turning for the door. Christopher followed him out. "A weight has lifted from these bones simply with the telling." He offered forward a hand and met Christopher's gaze. "You do her a great service, more than you know. Would that I had been able to do the same for her and her mother."

  Christopher clasped the man's hand in both of his, praying for wisdom and regretting the silence which was the only answer. "I will be in touch."

  Mr. Conklin gave his hand one last grip before retreating down the steps and crossing the street. His form vanished into the crowd. Christopher stepped back into the front hall, slumping against the door while attempting to reason the next step.

  Twelve

  Truth’s Torment

  Sara did not recall the journey to and from Christopher's loft. The moment she saw Mr. Conklin standing so forlorn on the front step, her entire spirit shuddered. Now her knees buckled and she slumped into the chair of her vanity, eyes closed in a desperate attempt to forget the mar of regret across his expression. He had known of her place of birth. He seemed to recognize her pearl drop necklace. Why did she not notice...? But she had long since forgotten any hope of finding her father. Long since schooled her heart against caring. Not harboring hope proved difficult, so she practiced forgetting, even in the face of all the fathers she worked for, she was desperate to forget the possibility of her own.

  A sob broke free and Sara covered her face with her hands, unable to staunch the flow of tears even when she heard the soft clink of the adjoining bedroom door. The rustle of silk brocade accompanied the movement of Rachel Trent to the chair beside her. "I am sorry, mum," she whispered.

  Rachel rested a hand on Sara's back. "There is nothing to apologize for, dear heart. Take your moment."

  But neither a moment nor a lifetime would answer the questions pounding in her heart. She wanted to know why. She wanted the truth, no matter how ugly or how heart-breaking. She wanted to know those answers more than she wanted her next breath. But she didn't know how to ask the one question which scraped at her soul.

  Rachel brushed at the hair teasing Sara's neck. "Sara, let us go for a walk. We still have a bit of time before dinner, and there is a park not far from here where the view will soothe your heart and mind both. There is something awe inspiring in the way God works His brush against the sky."

  Sara only allowed a nod before the woman helped her to her feet, accepting Amy's help into gloves, wraps and parasols before being escorted from the room. On their way from the confines of the Brownstone, Rachel gathered up Sara’s sketchbook and pencils, her crisp gaze noting the reluctance with which Sara accepted the soft leather-bound paper. Then the crisp air of the evening surrounded them, gathering thoughts and gazes to the manicured pathway. The whisper of the breeze against the folds of textiles and ribbons was only just noticeable through the chaos of her thoughts.

  Sara's eyes burned as she focused on the act of stepping one foot in front of the other, afraid that her heart would begin pouring into words the agony that began to taint her spirit. She didn't know if she was ready for that admittance.

  Rachel wrapped her arm around Sara’s waist, drawing her close and bestowing upon her a genuine smile. “Well do I recognize the darkness of that expression, dear heart. You seem to be navigating a wilderness in your life at the moment."

  A smile fought its way through the tears, though the weight of the past several days did not allow time to take root. As it faded, the evening’s chill began to overwhelm her, even as Rachel drew her closer still.

  "Some would accuse 'Life' of enacting a balance to the happiness you have experienced up to this point. Though I choose to view the periods of blessing as our oasis and the periods of challenge as our wilderness. Better, yes? I hate to think Life a vindictive sort which begrudges us our bits of happiness."

  Sara inclined her head. "Yes, mum," she whispered. "It was many a year I did no' know if I would live to that last step from the wilderness to the place of rest."

  "The Lord tucked you away in His palm, dear. We are glad of that, to be sure. What challenges you must have suffered as a young girl so soon on your own."

  But those challenges could have been avoided. The constant wonder of their next moment’s peace and rest--Sara closed her eyes against the onslaught, whispering, “It is all in the past." Why, Lord?

  "Indeed. You are writing a new story for yourself, are you not? Painting a new and fresh landscape filled with blessings and challenges alike, and so infinitely more agreeable for a gentle soul such as our Miss Sara Little."

  "Anew. Fresh." Sara's mind drifted, her heart remembering the pained expression of an honorable man. The memories torturing him with the same fervor they used against Christopher. He did not have--she shook it aside, bringing a trembling hand to her face.

  "Yes, dear heart. Not many are blessed with the same opportunity of a blank page. How awe
d Christopher must be to think on the blessing of rescuing you from such misery."

  A blank page. A fresh landscape. The words swam before her eyes, beating upon her mind and heart while the shadow of a haunted countenance thrust a dagger into her spirit. Her step faltered and the two drew up to a weathered wood and iron bench within an alcove of vine and tree. Sara leaned upon the bench, white-knuckled as she clutched the sketchbook to her chest. Rachel guided her to sit, steadying her still with an arm around her waist as sharp emerald eyes missed nothing of the shadows battling across Sara's features. Sara turned her focus to the sketchbook grasped within trembling fingers, the soft, faded brown leather inviting a stroke of fingers across the face.

  "I will not attempt to even hazard a guess as to what tortures your spirit so, but that it is tortured is plain. You are a woman whose spirit resonates with the cares of others. It is this which allows you to instinctively comfort them. But now...." Rachel shook her head, shifting her attention from Sara to the darkening skies above. “What would you say to your own soul to offer comfort?”

  But words were empty.

  The pencil tied upon the face of the sketchbook drew her tightened focus, inviting her touch as she retrieved its smoothed surface. She flipped open the book of pages, navigating through their rough and filled portions to the first bit of emptiness and, with a deep release of restraint, let her fingers fly.

  ~**~

  Joseph Conklin kept himself a discreet distance from the two ladies hidden away in the alcove from his past. But even from this distance he recognized the deftness with which his daughter's pencil caressed the page. Considering how little he knew of her, the fluidity of her movements should have stunned him, but the passion he had heard in her voice when they discussed art belied the swiftness he now saw in each stroke across the page. So like him, with all focus on the subject and little but a glance to life itself.

  A page turned, and a continuation of the scenery began its journey from reality to page. The older woman sat close beside her, watching her artistic passion with an expression of a deeper knowledge. The woman understood the torment his daughter silently suffered.

  Joseph wrestled his focus away, staring down at the bits of leaf and cobble at his feet occasionally tickled by an evening breeze. He gripped the engraved metal of his walking stick and offered this desired future to the Lord. An inclusion. A moment of forgiveness and an allowance to explain. But what explanation could usher away a lifetime of struggle and hardship? There could be no excuse profound enough to—

  His grip of the cane tightened, hands aching in protest before he persuaded his hold to release. Instead, he clutched a fist behind his back and stared out across the vast expanse of park and lantern-kissed streets. This same view had caressed his mind and fingers with inspiration, inviting, also, the meeting with a woman who taught him the true meaning of courage.

  He shoved the thoughts away, brow furrowed as he turned on his heel. But escape wanted nothing to do with his aching spirit. Instead, to his horror, he only just prevented a collision with Christopher Lake.

  "Mr. Conklin?” The man’s gaze shifted to the two women sitting with silent intensity behind him and then to the man standing so thoughtful beside him, empty pipe in hand. Christopher cleared his throat. “Robert Trent, meet Joseph Conklin. Rob is a friend and business associate.”

  Joseph noted his own deeper introduction lacking. He extended a hand, swallowing the sour words begging for release to smear a courteous smile upon his features. “Well met.”

  “Conklin. Conklin.” Robert Trent tapped his chin with the bit of his pipe. “I seem to recall that name as it relates to a rather sizable donation to our Foundation this past year. You would not happen to be that particular Conklin?”

  “Ah.” It had served as a temporary balm to a ravaged spirit. What else could he have done when he discovered he had unwittingly abandoned a child to the torments of being an orphan? “Yes, though I—”

  A scuff of shoe upon cobble distracted his mind from the answer, his gaze shifting minutely to Sara's ashen features. Regret painted his mouth with ash. "It is good to see you again, Miss Little." But he could not force the admittance of wishing to see more of her, or the hope they could share a conversation.

  "Yes, sir."

  "You have been well?"

  "Yes, sir."

  The whispered acknowledgments rang hollow, devoid of sincerity as her gaze did not waver from the ground at her feet. Joseph clenched his jaw and forced his attention to the intense scrutiny of the woman standing so close beside her. He inclined his head. “Joseph Conklin.”

  The woman returned his greeting, green eyes rich with intelligence and an uncanny ability to cut him to the core. “Rachel Trent. Did I hear my husband aright? You are a benefactor of the Foundation?”

  “Yes, I—”

  Robert Trent bent low to his wife’s ear, whispering a collection of phrases which jerked her attention to his features for a long, weighted moment. “I see.” The low tone spoke a warning before those eyes shifted to him. “You should come for tea in the days to come.”

  Joseph blinked at her.

  Christopher cleared his throat, gathering Joseph's reluctant attention. "Perhaps we can meet tomorrow? At the moment we need to see about tracking down another couple, my sister and brother-in-law in fact, and discover the whereabouts of a pair of children left in their care. We were to meet for dinner, you see…."

  "I quite understand.” Joseph stepped aside, bowing to all as he held firm to the walking stick in his aching hand. “Good evening."

  Christopher hesitated before stepping toward Sara and gathering her hand into the nook of his arm. "Good evening." Then the quartet moved away, merging into the heavy shadows of the evening.

  Joseph stared after them, utterly lost to the shadow of defeat and a crumbling hope. But, even still, he could hear the words of his beautiful Ann Marie encouraging him beyond the daunting wall of hurt. Hadn’t he also been tortured by that journey to the blessed peace on the other side? The answers need be spoken. The questions raged and released to the light. He would wait for those until he breathed his last, if only to offer her even a moment’s peace.

  He took in and released a deep breath, ignoring the wobble of his first step forward toward the grove. Keeping his focus away from the tremble of the tight clasp of cane and fist. To see her here, in this place…. His grip tightened for a moment before he closed the distance between sidewalk and moss-kissed bench hidden beneath an overhang of willow and wisteria.

  He clutched at the back of the bench, a smile of memory caressing his lips. “Good day,” he whispered, certain beyond anything explainable that she heard his greeting as she had that day so many years before.

  Joseph chuckled, remembering the cascade of portfolios and sketches like confetti at a parade and a breathless apology from a wide-eyed young lady who quite took his breath away. He lowered aching back and legs to the creaking wood and iron, reliving the warmth and brightness of her presence and voice as they discussed art, America, and dreams.

  That conversation served as the anchor of her very self to his soul. The two made it a point to meet each morning, she before her long work-day at the dressmaker’s shop and he before…before the boredom of the morning overtook his mind. Joseph’s smile waned, sapped at the flutter of voices, laughter, and forgotten promises. He set aside his cane and retrieved a folded paper from his inner-most jacket pocket, unfolding its secret to reveal a detailed sketch of a wedding gown. Resplendent with ribbon, lace, and train it had stood as Ann’s one desire should they ever find themselves in a place in their lives where they could afford a one-time extravagance. It was the one thing he hoped to give her once he returned to England from America.

  Regret and grief closed upon him, shaking his fingers as he once more returned the paper to its shadowed place of hiding. “I am sorry, Ann,” he whispered.

  Little comfort that she forgave him at the end, for it had not been the ending they dre
amt for themselves. He scoffed, the sound choked as he brushed at his eyes, motions jerky. Life itself did not take the turn he intended. Joseph stood, giving his suit coat a firm, downward tug before turning on his heel and striding from the secluded alcove.

  Thirteen

  Hearing Future’s Whisper

  Sara felt like prey under the watchful eye of Rachel Trent the next morning. There was something almost sinister in the heavy air over coffee, the woman’s sharp gaze relentless and unwavering. Thoughts scattered, and even the delectable sweet warmth of the coffee could not soothe. But the words which hung in the heaviness of the silence between them remained unspoken. A tap upon the door of her room drew her gaze the same moment Amy appeared from the side room to answer it. Christopher shuffled his feet at the doorway, eyes belying the concern through the smile upon his lips. It teased her heart from the shadows.

  “Good morning, Sara.” He braved the heavy stillness of the room and leaned down to caress her cheek with a kiss. “Rachel, do you mind if I steal her and Rob away from you this morning? You may retain Gwyn as collateral, once she returns with Paul and Dix, of course.”

  One of Rachel’s eyebrows arched upward, her coffee cup slow from lip to coffee table. “Indeed, although do not fault me my curiosity as to the subject matter which requires a lawyer such as my husband.”

  “There is the matter of inheritance….”

  Sara twitched, painfully aware of Christopher’s glance.

  “A matter which obviously sets both of you on edge, I see.”

  “Yes, well, that seems to be the nature of these things, regardless of what we wish on the matter.” He guided Sara to stand. “Rob has already ventured out to the bank, and we are to meet him there. He mentioned something about plans for a late lunch, so I will do my best to send him on his way once we’ve completed our business.”