Releasing Yesterday Read online

  Rachel set aside her cup, her gaze unfaltering, though Sara felt numb to the effect at the moment, overwhelmed at the prospect of more questions and doubts thrust upon the memory of her mother. “Chris, be wary. This path is more than what it seems.”

  Christopher inclined his head, keeping commentary to himself as he encouraged Sara from her seat and guided her from the suite of rooms. “How are you this morning?”

  But Sara didn’t know how to answer such a simple question. She didn’t even understand her own heart, torn as it was between two futures and two histories. She floundered between them with no way to ground herself.

  He offered her a parasol of blush and ribbon, watching her as trembling fingers struggled with the opening. She couldn’t bear to see the pained shadow of helplessness and concern knowing that she herself had no way of softening the blow to his heart.

  “The bank is but a bit down the road. Do you mind if we walk?”

  She shook her head, accepting his offered arm and relishing the comfort in the simple act.

  “How do you fare, Sweet Sara?”

  “Tired, a bit.” The smile wavered but remained as she attempted to dissuade the shadow of concern upon his features. “Thank you for being with me, Christopher.”

  “You could not keep me from that.” His eyes did not cease their knowing scrutiny. “After the meeting with Mr. Wyndham, we should talk.”

  Her insides trembled, but somehow the upward tilt of lip remained. How she hoped the subject matter would not be another collection of life-changing challenges! “Yes?”

  Christopher’s easy smile soothed her heart. “Yes, and nothing more shall be said upon the subject until I have you safely tucked away in a secluded arbor, or some such bit of wonder. There is a park on the way back.”

  Eagerness to close the door of these events behind her swelled within, softening the effect of the smile as he caressed the tip of her nose. So reminiscent of the days spent preparing for her first display after their engagement. How she craved a return of those times….

  “I am so thankful for Hank’s presence,” he observed. “Gwyn has not seemed to notice how little time I have spent with her of late. Paul and Dix are beside themselves with the care of the duo, having skits and adventures galore, apparently.” A sidelong glance. “She did ask when you would become her new mother, but didn’t give me time enough to answer before scampering off to paint new sets for a play she was determined to have that very evening.” The chuckle sent a welcome tingle along her skin. “If the performance date is truly this evening, what do you say to being my guest to the event?”

  To lose herself in the joys and abandon of children? “Oh yes, please.”

  Christopher’s laugh lessened the shadow of anxiety. “With an acceptance so charming, I will think more seriously about helping the two complete what needs they have to ensure there is a performance.”

  “Could we, perhaps, both help them? Even if we do no’ see them perform tonight, it will be such fun to be together.”

  “You know, that is a wonderful idea. After our talk in the promised secluded park, we will venture straight to the scene of the event and offer our services. Hank and Gwyn will be thrilled, and I’m certain Paul and Dix will welcome the respite.”

  Sara nodded, taking in the joyful possibilities as a thirsty man drank in the merest hint of water. Then their progress slowed, halting at the base of the steps leading into the broad entry of the bank. Her fingers tightened against his arm. A contested inheritance she never knew existed…. Why could she not leave it untouched, unknown, away from her memories. To know anything more would invite regrets.

  “Come along, Sweet Sara. Only a step more and we can close this door firmly behind us.”

  The whisper of his voice at her ear drew her back, only just aware of his guidance up and into the massive building of brick and marble. Lanterns and brightness offset by the rich darkness of wood, leather, and rugs. Mr. Wyndham appeared from the left, greeting them in professional undertones of deference and respect, an attitude Sara had seldom experienced before meeting Christopher and his family.

  Mr. Wyndham led them toward the back and his private office. Mr. Trent stood at their entrance, his empty pipe tucked quickly into the side pocket of his suit coat. The whisper of lines outlining his mouth seemed more distinct than when she previously met the gentleman. Her heart hung heavy within her chest.

  “From your expression, it seems you have begun without us.” Christopher offered Sara the first leather chair beside Mr. Trent.

  “Yes, well, I arrived earlier than intended and decided to begin conversations. Mr. Wyndham has been gracious enough to answer what questions he can.”

  “Ah. Excellent. Thank you, Mr. Wyndham.” Christopher continued to stand beside her, his hand lingering close enough to imbue his warmth into her arm. “What information must we know?”

  Mr. Wyndham motioned toward Mr. Trent, and Sara tried to ignore the choking tension rising within her. Instead, she focused on Mr. Trent’s handsome face, his comforting expression, and his slight upward tilt of lip. “The contest revolves around the last ten or eleven years of deposits, as these were done outside the stipulations of the verbal contract. However, the written contract made no such stipulation of dates, such being the reason the bank manager did not contact your benefactor after learning of her death.”

  “What do you recommend?” Christopher brushed her arm with a single finger as he posed the question.

  “Miss Sara’s mother clearly intended to follow the verbal contract, insomuch that I can tell from her will, so I say we acquiesce to your benefactor’s wishes and return the funds to him.”

  “Who is he?” Sara’s whispered inquiry drew the attention of all three, but she could not lift her gaze from the blind scrutiny of her gloved hands.

  “As Mr. Conklin admitted before, your benefactor is Joseph Conklin, Sr., your grandfather,” Mr. Trent volunteered, his tone tempered with reserve.

  A grandfather. A deeper family history than she ever imagined. “Why did he…?”

  This time the answer did not immediately follow, and Mr. Wyndham cast a glance toward Christopher before venturing a response. “The clear facts are not directly known, Miss Little, as to why this Trust was begun. My apologies, but you will need to inquire of Mr. Conklin Jr. or his father.”

  She inclined her head, a sinking suspicion causing her head to spin. “Why else is money set aside for a simple maid? A contract for silence. For distance. To preserve a family name and reputation.” Had her mother truly been…? A trembling hand pressed against her forehead. “Please return the extra monies, Mr. Wyndham. Mr. Trent, please consider the remainder a donation for your Foundation.”

  “Sara!” Christopher leaned in close. “Sara, no. Your mother wished this for your future.”

  Mr. Trent shifted his position, glance darting from Mr. Wyndham’s shocked countenance to Sara’s pale complexion. “While we appreciate the gesture, I cannot so freely accept such a sizable sum without first discussing the possibilities with you and Rachel. Please consider delaying this decision until a later date.”

  But she wanted nothing from a man who heaped additional doubt upon her mother’s memory. The Lord had made His own provisions for her, and now Christopher stood ready to continue to support her future. “It is not mine. I do not want it.” This one last wish of her mother would fall to those more desperate than she, something she knew her mother would have preferred, if given the choice.

  “I understand your position, but as I said, we will discuss the matter at length with Rachel before proceeding. Yes?”

  “Thank you, Rob.” Christopher stood, steadying Sara to her feet and drawing her close, directing her attention away from Mr. Trent and Mr. Wyndham. “If there is nothing more…?”

  “Not until we have the discussion with Rachel, and assure her that our appointment for lunch still stands.”

  Nodding, Christopher guided Sara from the building, his hand enfolding hers.
Sara closed her eyes as her spirit drank it in, the warmth and comfort in the firm grip. But if he planned to offer any encouragement or suggestion, he wrestled it into silence, content to simply be. But Sara thirsted for direction, an acknowledgment of a wise choice, any word to alleviate her doubts, though she didn’t know how to ask.

  She fought a smile into place and offered it to him, blinking away when the sting of tears nearly broke into a flood. Then his fingers sought her arm in that gentlemanly courtesy of escort and support, his touch a continuous caress. The action spoke to the hurt which seemed to harden with each passing moment. But how did she share this burden?

  “I am thinking of booking us passage back to America.”

  The softly spoken confession drew her eyes and attention. “When?”

  “A vessel leaves next week.” He cleared his throat, a quick dart of glance only just meeting hers before shifting away to the distance. “I know we were to be here for three months at the very least, and I had hoped to make a point of journeying to the different places of your childhood, but, to be honest, I cannot bear to see the shadows of memory on your face. Every alley and shop-front brings back a vision of your mother which tears the wound afresh.” His step faltered, though his caress upon her arm lingered. “You need a moment’s peace,” he whispered, “and I don’t believe these memories offer that to you any longer.”

  Her gaze shifted to the vision of his shoes beside hers. “I canno’ escape memories.” And now she was given a different perspective to them, offered an additional truth which shifted her understanding. “Do I no’ need to face them?”

  “I am concerned for you, Sara, but helpless to do anything beyond matters of business, floundering….” Christopher scrubbed at his neck, tugging at the high collar before drawing her to the side and urging her to face him. The truth of his words scarred his handsome face. “Let me take you home. We can face this history together when we are home.”

  Home.

  Desperation gave rise to a desire to do something, anything, which would free her heart from the agony. The ache. The quest for solace…. Sara’s throat tightened, tears burning their way free as she offered him a tremulous smile. “Can we no’ face it here? Are we no’ together?”

  “But I can’t help you here. Your history overpowers everything.” He caressed her cheek, a finger lingering on the line of her jaw.

  Sara stepped into his waiting embrace, breathing deep of his aroma as his arms held her tight against him. She took in his warmth, allowing herself to dwell solely in that moment for the first time in what seemed years. How had her mother survived without this? How empty and alone—She pressed her forehead against his chest, desperate to free her aching heart of the questions.

  “Let me take you home, Sara, your new home, and we can return once your spirit is settled.”

  But would she return? If she ran away now, would she truly be more willing to face the questions? To listen to the history whispered in the lines of her mother’s letter? “Christopher….” But she felt so tired. So utterly spent.

  He held her face within his gentle hands, his gaze unwavering as determination darkened his brown eyes to obsidian. “Then let us add our own memories to your mother’s cottage, to the church where I first saw you. Let us be married. Here, in your England. Now.”

  ~**~

  Joseph Conklin shifted in the hardwood bench of the small granite church from a happier period of his life. It almost seemed a haunted bridge between his youth and the reality of a two-fold loss: his wife and his daughter. His gaze lowered to the gold band on his finger, with it the regret that he never had the opportunity to give Ann hers. But, at the time, every coin at his disposal went to the purchase of her cottage until he would be in a more secure, financial position separate from his father.

  He released a slow breath, the memories sighing across his inner vision with bittersweet intensity. He fished Ann’s last letter from his pocket, his fingers teasing the paper before pulling it free from the envelope. Regret marred his features at the opening salutation: ‘My dearest Timothy.’ But there would be no more second chances for them. He could only rest in the fact she forgave him and encouraged their daughter to seek him out.

  He could not question her motives why she did not tell him of Sara in the twelve years before her death. He could not even allow the questions as to why she made the decision to accept his father’s bribery. She gave the reason as security for Sara’s future, and that must be enough. Especially now that Sara signed her inheritance away, or so reported Mr. Wyndham. Perhaps it would be a blessing in disguise, as not accepting the monies would prevent her from falling under the power of his father’s influence. She would be free, truly free, to define her life as she and her fiancé deemed appropriate.

  If only he had seen fit to do the same so many years ago.

  Joseph shuddered from the thought. The burden of the “if only” served no purpose other than to deepen the guilt and doubts. If he were truly determined to follow the request of his beloved Ann, thought and prayer would—

  The soft scuff of feet at the church’s entrance turned his head, and he ducked into the shadows before bright faces and expressions could find him. A smiling Christopher Lake and Sara Little paused in the mixed light of the entry, staring deep into the lifelong promise of one another’s gaze before stepping forward with clear intent in their pace. Joseph remembered well the purpose and glow which shined upon them like the first true sun of Spring: a decision to begin their lives together against all odds.

  Pain dug at his chest, driving his gaze away at the same moment he retreated to the back of the church, safe within the relentless darkness of the corners. But he could not force himself completely gone. Even as the priest met the lovers at the front of the church and listened to their confession and request with an understanding smile, he could not abandon his stealthy observation. To see his daughter truly happy, to witness a blessed union which so mirrored what could have been his own destiny.

  Would they become better caretakers of their future?

  Joseph watched as their hushed vows were exchanged, the prayers and blessings were uttered over them, and then they were presented to the witnesses, both known and unknown, as Mr. and Mrs. Christopher Andrew Lake. Sara’s happiness glowed from her as a second sun, sparkling within her eyes and inflaming the gaze of her new husband as he watched her blossom, the melancholic shadows falling away.

  Joseph inclined his head, acknowledging the stark contrast between the reactions to her father and her new husband. Then he turned away, slipping from the church as he admitted the possibility he may need to walk away from another Ann Little. But how did a father step away a second time? Joseph pulled the massive church door closed behind him, his fingers tightening around the brass handle before he forced a release. As habit dictated, he navigated around the back of the church and through the sporadic tombstones to the pale marble stone in the corner nearest the chipped marble pathway.

  He crouched and flicked the leaves and moss from the stone. Silence pervaded the small cemetery, echoing within his own surprising calm as he stared at the name carved upon the headstone: Ann Marie Little. How could she take this last step against me, Lord? How could she utterly erase me from her life?

  Even her last letter and testament had not explained her decision. ‘There is too much needing to be said, dearest Timothy, and so I write none of it; asking, instead, for you to leave it in the past and look to the future with your daughter.’ The declaration seemed more than a little unfair, regardless of the wisdom therein. Paired with the request to build a relationship with a lady more acquaintance and colleague than daughter?

  “You were seldom one to complain,” he scolded himself, voice gruff as he straightened. Nor did he dwell on what could no longer be changed, and yet here he stood. Fingers toyed with the brim of his hat as his gaze continued to focus on her name. A lifetime of regrets, words, memories, and myriad other oppressive emotions burned and swelled within, tigh
tening his throat and cementing his feet from any type of retreat.

  Joseph released a quick breath, wishing the weight of the past could be as easily discarded, and then replaced his hat, touching the brim in silent salute before turning on his heel and pushing himself from the cemetery courtyard.

  ~**~

  Rachel Trent stared at the handsome countenance of her husband, sitting as he was nonchalant and silent across from her. The only hint of his awareness to her scrutiny being the slight upward twitch to his lips, though his gaze never wavered from the newspaper. She sipped again of her coffee, eyebrow arching upward. “You are suspect in your utter silence.”

  “Am I?” He turned the page with deliberate care, his eyes the taunting darkness of a rich chocolate.

  “Indeed. Shall it be a game, then?”

  “If you desire.” Another page, and another upward twitch of lip. "Or I could simply confess."

  “In all honesty, confession is appreciated this time. Gwyn and Hank have worn that particular patience too thin."

  Robert's chuckle only just survived the obstacle of the paper. "Our charming Miss Little has become a wealthy woman, for a matter of five minutes.”

  A blonde eyebrow arched upward. “How so?”

  “She wishes to thrust her wealth upon our Foundation."

  Shock nearly tumbled the coffee cup from Rachel’s fingers. "Did you just say she wishes to bequeath her inheritance to--to the Foundation?"

  "Indeed, that is what I said. Chris and I have attempted to dissuade her, but in her present frame of mind I am afraid she will have none of it. Though I believe she did agree to pause before signing any final documents until we three—or four, counting Christopher—are able to have a discussion."

  Rachel traced the lip of her cup, eyes drifting to the bustling street beyond the sitting room window. “Why would she thrust away this certainty of a secure future? Granted, Chris is more than able to provide for her, but even so. She is not one to rebel against a mother’s wish.”