Releasing Yesterday Read online

  Joseph adjusted his position within the two-person settee, his fingers tightening momentarily upon his knees. It brought to mind another confrontation nearly four decades before and left him hoping this one would be far less negative. "Your reputation precedes you at parties, events, and even when broaching business opportunities."

  "Ah." Robert sat beside his wife, a surprising expression of amusement relaxing the atmosphere. "How does that fact strike you, my love?"

  "Quite well." Her gaze did not waver from reading his posture and expression until the hint of a motion from Robert beside her broke the focus. After an aside glance to her husband, she adjusted her fingers upon the fan and beckoned a return of the practiced smile of before. "Which aspect of that reputation are you seeking in particular?"

  "Your penchant for the brutal truth." Joseph relaxed the clutch of fingers upon knees, grateful for the interruption of their butler with a refreshed tray of tea and biscuits. Tea was poured and offered, accepted and sipped, and then set aside—all under the scrutiny of Rachel Trent, the woman who could see truth in the minutest of details.

  "Brutal truths are not necessarily healthy, nor required," Rachel said, her gaze directed toward the preparation of her husband's black tea with honey and cream.

  "They are often a punishment." Robert accepted the tea, but showed no inclination of even testing the preparation as he regarded Joseph sitting across from them.

  "You have spoken true," though Joseph had not counted on the husband being quite as insightful.

  "And how much longer do you expect to punish yourself for a wrong your father committed?"

  "How long did she suffer, Mrs. Trent?” he asked, ignoring the tone which sounded sharp even to his own ears. “A lifetime for a lifetime seems more than fair, considering her history."

  Rachel caressed the air around her calm features with gentle motions of the fan. "Sara's mother has already paid that price. Why should you, also, bear this burden?"

  Joseph's jaw flinched, eyes narrowing for the hint of a moment. "Her death is the reason I choose to bear it," he said, voice gruff and dry.

  "Mr. Conklin," Rachel leaned slightly forward, countenance coolly still, "her death is upon her own shoulders, brought about by the choices she made. Even Sara's struggles are the result of those choices. Why do you dwell there, even now?"

  There was no possibility of preventing the cringe, and the chink of cup against saucer echoed through the room. In that question, Rachel Trent exceeded her own reputation. The ripples of the tea continued, encouraging Joseph to set down the cup and saucer. He met her piercing emerald gaze. "If I had returned to my new bride, or even showed respect enough to bring her with me, her life—Sara's life—would have seen blessing and security instead of struggles and want."

  Her fan snapped closed, heightening the spark in her gaze. "That choice, of leaving her to the life you set aside for her, is nothing to fault yourself for. You had provided for her a place to live in comfort, servants to care for her, and a modest income to fill her needs. How many more blessings of security and safety could you have provided? You expect me to believe you did not send an invitation to her?"

  His jaw clenched, but there could be no denial of the truth she spoke. Joseph looked away. "I did."

  "Precisely. Just as you did provide for her. You did invite her to return to you. You did offer her all you could at the time," the fan spread and once more began a soft whisper against the air, "and yet you continue to blame yourself for her choice of alienation. Her choice of accepting monies meant for nothing less than a separation. She was a victim, yes, but of her own choosing."

  "That does not lessen the tragedy." Robert's statement and quiet, serious tone drew Joseph's gaze back again. "And we, of course, do not intend our words for that end, but we do seek acknowledgment, on your behalf. Without that, there is no moving forward in this truth you seek. There will be no repair to a relationship. No foundation for the building of one."

  In that, the punishment of the brutality. But how could he acknowledge a lack of blame? How could he heap the pain of Sara's history solely upon Ann's shoulders? How could he do such a heinous thing when he had vowed to protect her? "I am not prepared for that acknowledgment." It could not be done... could it?

  "Then you are not prepared to be her father."

  A dagger would have hurt far less than Rachel's cutting words. He felt sick at the truth, even though he, in the same moment, denied it could be that truth he sought. Joseph lifted his eyes, burning with a lifetime of regrets, and blinked at the emerald gaze glimmering back at him.

  "You vowed to protect her, Joseph," Rachel said, the higher tone of her voice the only hint to the broiling emotions swirling in her eyes, "and you did so, to the best of your ability with the facts you had at hand. How could she possibly expect you to continue to be her protection when she did not deem you worthy of the confession of her doubt? How could she expect you to right a wrong, when there was no admittance of a perceived injustice? The injustice fell upon her head, in her decision to keep you separate. She voided her contract with you the moment she accepted your father's words above yours. That decision voided her history from falling within your responsibility. The only course of action open to you is that path which you currently navigate: reparation."

  Robert placed a gentle hand upon Rachel’s shoulder, and only then did Joseph notice the trembling of her body, nearly overcome by the passions with which she spoke. It was a passion so very reminiscent of his Ann. Joseph lowered his gaze, his hand instinctual in seeking the letter within his inside breast pocket. He retrieved its crinkled pages, staring down at it for a long moment before tucking it away.

  "Her spirit lingers within those words you hide near your heart." Rachel offered a slight smile to Robert as she sat back, once again fully focused upon the man in front of her. Once more composed and calmly intense.

  Joseph nodded.

  "Did she offer you explanation? Excuse? Reason for her actions?"

  Joseph shook his head. "She offered forgiveness, though she said it was not needed, and asked for the same." The only explanation offered being that which he read between the lines of the letter, of his findings, and of the words spoken by his father upon confrontation...how many years ago? Could it truly only be one year since he discovered the truth of Sara's existence? Joseph scrubbed a hand through his hair, the weight of it pausing at his neck as he stared down at the cold tea, placid and still in the elegant cup and saucer upon the oak table.

  "Yet you cannot take comfort in even that?" This time, Rachel's voice did not venture above a whisper, though the question should have resounded with...incredulity.

  "Does it not seem too simple?"

  "Forgiving one's self is not so simple an act, Mr. Conklin." Robert slipped from the seat, steps slow and measured to the mantle where he retrieved his pipe. He turned it over and again within his fingers before speaking again. "Forgiving one's self is a daily practice in taking control over one's thoughts and offering, instead, a prayer for peace. For success of a foe or friend. For mercy or grace. For another day to act toward change." Robert met Joseph's gaze and offered him the hint of a smile. "You know what I say is true, because I can see in your countenance that you already put this into practice."

  The scoff echoed before he could catch himself. He cleared his throat and stood. "My apologies, but I think I have overstayed my welcome. I thank you for your hospitality and beg your leave."

  Rachel regarded him for a long moment before she slowly stood. The muscles of his chest and back tensed as his perception could not help but be painfully aware of her scrutiny. "The path you have taken... it is a hard journey, and will require dedication to the extent of shouldering even more misery. Please, do not believe you must venture the path alone. In that is not your punishment."

  His jaw ached as he stood there, chaos rumbling in his thoughts before he risked meeting her gaze. "Then where is my punishment to be had, Mrs. Trent? You say I am without fault, b
ut...." He shook his head. "Where is my punishment to be had?"

  Rachel's fingers tightened, white-knuckled, upon her fan before she stepped toward him, delicate fingers wrapping themselves about his fisted hands. Even still her green eyes did not stray from his gaze. "The agony and anger you suffer each day at the injustice upon your daughter is the only punishment deserved, and even that is more than what should have been heaped upon you. You suffer that because you are, in fact, a father robbed of the opportunity to protect his daughter from life's demons. Let all other whispers of guilt fall to the wayside, for they are not yours, and they keep you from the true peace you need to survive this journey."

  A fact he had not thought of, but he could not deny it as anything other than what it was: truth. He forced a smile, though the act felt it would tear his heart, and covered her hand with his. To his surprise, they were like ice. "Thank you, my lady, for tempering your honesty with grace and mercy."

  Her lips trembled upward in a smile. "Please do not hesitate to call again."

  "I thank you for the invitation." He bowed, intercepting Robert's incline of head as he navigated his way from the sitting room to the hallway. The butler offered forward his hat and coat and then held the door for his exit. "Please extend my warmest regards." Their man nodded and then closed the door behind him.

  Joseph faced forward, eyes unseeing as his spirit began the arduous task of absorbing all that was spoken. He rubbed at a sharp pain in his chest, held a long breath, and then stepped forward into the crowds, not certain if he tread upon the same, or different path.

  ~**~

  As the week progressed, the excitement of returning to America with her new family was tempered by the myriad possible reactions to her and Christopher's elopement. Sara attempted in vain to set the concerns aside, but they continued to prey upon her spirit, seemingly fed by the lingering doubt regarding her father.

  Her father.

  The supple material of her sketchbook drew her gaze to the peeking corners smudged with charcoal and pencil. Her fingers traced the golden letters of her name across the leather, inviting a smile at the memories within. She opened the book, the creak of the spine and rustle of the pages a welcome whisper as she thumbed through the sketches and charcoals. The visions of her journey here flowed over her spirit as a soothing warmth. Christopher. Gwyn. They both covered the shadows of her memories of this one-time-home with their tender strength and laughter.

  They also served as excellent distractions from any further consideration of what should be done. Unfortunately, today they were not at hand, Gwyn at a play-date with Hank accompanied by Dixon Donovan, and Christopher venturing to the journalist liaison with Roger Whitaker and Paul Donovan. It afforded Sara the opportunity to be her own entertainment, though that did not hold the same pleasure it once had.

  When she attempted to sketch a favorite vision, there came immediately a marring to that vision before she could set it to paper. A whisper of her mother's words. The pained expression during a gruff confession. A truth of action she could not hold at the moment. It hurt to give it more than but a passing consideration.

  But she knew the whisper would continue. They always did when there remained an unfinished resolve, be it to a sketch, a story, or a life's challenge. If she learned nothing in all the years of her short life, it was that. Yet, even so, she continued to keep that press and whisper on the outside.

  Her lip trembled, ceased only by a gentle bite as she stared at the unfinished sketches within the last pages of her book. The press would continue, and until she found the courage to face a resolve--any resolve—her muse would.... Her gaze lingered on her sketchbook a moment longer before she closed the images away and set the book aside.

  Sara released a deep breath, rubbing warmth back into the cool of her fingers. A soft knock shattered the silence, drawing Sara's unseeing gaze from the shadows dancing upon the quieting streets below. Before she could respond, Rachel entered the suite of rooms set aside for her and Christopher, a collection of newspapers in hand. Sara stood, fingers trembling as they straightened her skirts. She bobbed a curtsy, slipping into comfortable habits before she could stop herself.

  Rachel made no comment. Instead, she brandished her unique hint of smile. "I have come bearing newsprint, conversation, and coffee—or tea."

  Sara attempted a smile, which came easier than anticipated when in the presence of Rachel Trent. Yes, her heart was one of compassion, but her gift for seeing the truth in a situation was... disquieting.

  Nigel, the Trent’s butler, followed a few moments later with the promised silver coffee service. He positioned it upon the French Provincial coffee table between the two sitting chairs. “I shall bring biscuits and sandwiches in a little while.” He bowed and proceeded from the room.

  Rachel waved away Sara's attempt to serve, her own actions of the duty fluid and practiced even as her gaze regarded Sara's countenance. Sara's fingers laced together in her lap and she did not lift her focus from the cups and saucers. Honestly, she expected the visit earlier in the morning, especially given the fact Sara had not left her suite of rooms since Christopher and Gwyn ventured out after breakfast.

  When Christopher closed the door behind him, Sara set to the task of readying any number of possible subjects Rachel might allow for distraction. But as the minutes and then hours ticked by without visit, Sara's thoughts wandered to the subjects and topics she kept on the outside of that allowed boundary. Sara took in and released a slow, deep breath. But how did one prepare for a conversation with Rachel Trent?

  "What must you have thought when Dixon Donovan pressed that paper into your palm. An invitation to America? Do not keep me in suspense. You must have been beside yourself with the shock of the words." Rachel offered forward the cream pitcher.

  The safe subject invited a wave of soothing relief. Her smile brightened; even she could feel the change. She accepted the cream. "I thought it a horrid joke, mum. I could no' believe the words on the page, telling me to write to a stranger who could set my feet on a new path? I do no' remember how long it took me to draft the letter and set it in the post. Beth got after me very nearly with a switch for dawdling."

  "Beth.” Rachel passed the bowl and wand of honey. “Is that your friend from your old life here?"

  Sara could only nod, the pressure of Beth’s last, firm hug inviting a tightness within her throat as she dipped the honey wand into her coffee.

  Rachel regarded Sara over her coffee cup. "You must have been loath to leave her that day."

  “But she would not go with me.” The whisper could only just make the journey from her lips. “She would not, no matter how I wished for her to come away.” And even that told so little of the overwhelming ache to bring her friend. What joys would she have found, especially compared to her own miraculous blessings?

  Rachel’s cup had long since settled upon its saucer on the table. "Dear heart, you should speak with Chris and Robert on the possibility of sponsoring her over.”

  Sara blinked at Rachel’s unreadable, lovely features as she refreshed their coffee. “S-sponsor?”

  “Indeed. Even should she wish to remain here in England, we have many a friend and business-owner willing and able to take our charges under their wing."

  Sara blinked at her. "Truly?" she whispered, afraid any sound might burst the unexpected bubble of urgency.

  "Of course. While it is an assumption on my part, I see no reason why Chris would suspend the practice of sponsoring individuals. Empowering those less fortunate, or those with fewer connections, stands as one of his core goals.”

  A trembling hand pressed against the rapid beating of her heart. “I will speak with him as soon as he returns,” she said, breathless.

  Rachel’s gaze did not waver from the observation of Sara’s features, robbing away her smile and replacing her excitement with a throb of dread. “How long did you dream of venturing forth to America? For many, it is not the easiest of goals to accomplish."

&nb
sp; Sara accepted the offered refill, thankful when the trembling of her fingers did not clatter the silver. "My mum spoke of venturing to America since I was a child." Because her father lived here? Sara fought back the tears and forced a smile as she lifted her gaze. "She had no family keeping her in England, and she always dreamed of traveling elsewhere, or so she told me. I suppose I could no' help but accept the dream as my own."

  “And now that you understand a different level to that dream?”

  Sara did her best to hide the sharp pain felt at the woman's question. Had her mother intended to reunite them as a true family? She shook the question aside, only just preventing a spill of coffee. “It does no’ matter, mum.” It was done, and the reasons changed nothing.

  “History matters a great deal, for it is this which presses us forward.” Rachel paused long enough to sip her coffee, her gaze not rising from the black depths for a long moment. When they focused on Sara, a shadow of memory marred the woman’s features. “Take care with your decisions from this point forward, dear heart, or you will find yourself burdened with regrets similar in fashion to your dear mother.”

  Sara flinched, eyes retreating to the coffee decanter.

  "There is a hurt festering in you, Sara Little, but not only yours. Your spirit knows, it understands the pain of another."

  Sara's tear-filled gasp broke the last restraint, and wetness flowed down her cheeks, dripping from her chin as she gazed somberly into the depths of the ocean below. "My father," she choked out.

  "Ah. So you have the blessing of family after all." Rachel's eyes shifted their focus to Sara's profile. "Unless his existence is not the blessing I assume?" She flinched, and Rachel inclined her head. "I see. In that is the torture, for how could a fair man have truly abandoned his family, yes? But how could so many years have passed without him deliberately keeping distant?"

  “He….” But did she know, truly, the answer? Her mother wrote nothing of the matter in her letter, and she had not asked him. Sara hid her tear-stained face from the older woman's view, unprepared for the heaving sobs and the reeling ache of her spirit and heart.