Releasing Yesterday Read online

  "What will you do, Sara Little? What are the options open to you? Continue as you have, living hidden within your distractions, or submit yourself to the truth?"

  "I…" She shook her head, unable to give words to the cacophony of desires and wishes raging within. It was the first time she did not know what to do. The first time she could not even fathom setting this burden at her Lord's feet.

  The rustle of silk did not draw’s Sara’s focus. Nor did the gentle clasp of Rachel’s hand upon hers. “Why can you not move beyond the questions and accusations, dear heart? What is so important that you refuse to hear a waiting truth? Is it such a horrid prospect to forgive him?”

  Sara pulled her hand free, the action causing a shudder within as she choked out a sob. “What will it mean to my mother’s memory to forgive him for—”

  “Your mother’s memory does not ask for vengeance, nor sympathy, nor justice. That is a choice you have taken upon yourself. One which separates you from your Lord’s grace. Is your pride so certain this course is right?”

  Silence bit at her heart, the chilled separation of her spirit from the warmth of her Lord—a bitter pill of truth. How much longer would she ignore that warning just to keep from voicing "I am afraid of what he might say of her. Of... of...."

  "Of being disappointed? Of being wrong?"

  Sara clutched at her skirt with white-knuckled ferocity. "He abandoned her, abandoned us." Sapphire eyes sparkled as they met Rachel's calm, emerald gaze. "He is too late to rescue me."

  Rachel held her gaze, unfaltering. "Will there be no rescue for him then, dear heart?"

  Pages and flashes of memories collided before her mind's eye, of parties and glances and confessions all hiding an agony of guilt and regret. She looked from that unflinching gaze and stood, hands clutched as she walked to the side window.

  Rachel's voice followed, neither harsh nor gentle. "Does his suffering ease the agony of your history?"

  Sara's knees trembled, and only the clutch of the windowsill prevented her topple. Only by her Lord's grace and her own determination had she survived her history. When had she ever sought relief in the tragedy of others? Is that truly what she wished for now? She stared, unseeing, into the streets below, the carriages and people streaming as a flowing river through a jagged canyon. But all she could hear was the thudding of her heart as it broke. The rustle of silk skirts clashed with the heart-sickening silence. Then the door closed and the silence collapsed upon her, unrelenting.

  Nineteen

  A Choice

  Sara stared out over London, once thought her own, and no longer heard the whispers. The skyline did not tease her mind with possibilities of images. The hustle, bustle, and shouts of city life did not coax her curiosity to imagine stories and histories. This London belonged to a different connection. A different Sara. Her sigh drifted to a whimper, eyes burning as the questions tumbled within her mind. Trembling fingers attempted to usher them aside, brushing her nails through her hair while desperately imagining the humming soprano of her mother.

  The memories pressed at her, recollection of every word spoken—or not spoken. Of each moment when Mr. Conklin could have confessed and yet chose to leave it to the shadows. The possible reasons why his father kept them separate, even going so far as to buy her mother’s silence…. Why could she not have a simple truth as a family history?

  “Sara?”

  Christopher’s sleepy whisper beckoned her back from the memories, inviting a timid smile as she turned her head toward the rustle of his form against the bedding. How wonderful to have him so near, a willing buffer against the questions she could not persuade her spirit to release to the Lord.

  Christopher searched the darkness for his robe before venturing to her side. He sat beside her on the window seat, seeking her hand as well as her gaze, though she could not bear to meet them. “How long have you been awake? You should have woken me.”

  “I did no’ want to worry you.” And she had always been able to fend off the shadows before.

  “I would rather be woken by you leaving my bed than to wake to the cold of your absence.” He caressed her forehead with a kiss. “Would you like to talk about what is troubling you? Or would you rather I drone on about the reception and display in New York once we return? Or how on this earth we will tell Mother of our wedding that won’t result in tears of disappointment?”

  In all honesty, she would rather the current challenges be the property of someone else—anyone else. Even her smile did not convince him any longer. A flickering lamp in the street below gathered her attention. The shadows danced around the stoic sentinel like naughty children.

  “Talk to me, Sara.”

  Sara released a quick breath, her shoulders quivering upwards. “Of what, Christopher?” The only answer left to her was silence; silence and the darting glances of concern from her friends. The unrelenting questions. The press of something just beyond her reach. Heaviness. Sara’s breath shuddered as her gaze retreated from the scenery beyond to the clasp of his hand upon hers. “We, neither of us, can truly know ‘why’.”

  “Sometimes it’s best not to know,” he offered, “though we often convince ourselves knowing is the only way to set things aside. ‘If I can but simply understand,’ we tell ourselves, ‘then I can move beyond it all.’” He shook his head, his gaze finally drawing hers. “But that is the greatest hurt; the lie which does nothing but make the wound fester. A wise woman said that to me once upon a time. Well, something similar at any rate.”

  Sara’s lips trembled upward. “If only she could listen to her own advice.”

  “Yes, well, speaking from personal experience, listening to the advice we offer others seems to be the ever-present challenge for mankind.” The press of his fingers upon hers heralded their release. He stood. “I believe a walk would serve us well. There is something oddly comforting in viewing the dance of shadows, lamps, and shifting fog at your feet. If nothing else, we will have another tale of daring to compete with Rachel and Rob. Do you mind?”

  She blinked up at him and very slightly shook her head. “I do no’ understand. What is daring in a walk?”

  Christopher retrieved her dressing gown and held it out for her. “Doing so in slippers and dressing gowns—or robes—with the rationale that anyone who sees us will dismiss it as lunacy and go about their business. That and escaping the house without Rob and Rachel knowing we’ve gone.”

  She accepted the dressing gown in hand, teasing the soft, heavy material with numb fingers as she weighed consequences. “But w-where will we…?”

  “I thought a visit to your mother might be a nice relief. When I felt particularly distressed, a morning escape to Carla’s grave would help me venture onward. It seemed so much easier to whisper the questions and regrets when able to touch a tangible connection to her, though it be a gravestone.” He draped the dressing gown over her shoulders and drew her close. “Venting the rising questions will help, Sara. Trust me.”

  She inclined her head, memories drifting back to a freshly-turned grave and an unabashed release of tears and fury. “Amicus.”

  “Pardon?”

  “The priest.” Sara turned within the circle of Christopher’s arms and blinked up at him, a flicker of hope releasing a smile. “Mother… she must have told him something.”

  “Ah. Yes. You might be right at that. Odd that he didn’t volunteer any information before, though. Yes? But never you mind. Perhaps he received a letter as well, instructing him to silence. It won’t hurt to ask.”

  Nodding, Sara’s fingers trembled with eagerness and hope as she struggled with the fastenings of her heavy dressing gown.

  Christopher’s chuckle drew her attention. “If only we had come to this conclusion a bit earlier. How many times have we ventured to the quaint little church of your childhood now?”

  “The simplest answers seem to keep the furthest from us.”

  “Truer words have not been spoken. At least, not for a while.”

/>   Sara braided her hair as Christopher sought out the slippers most suitable for the jaunt from the house to the church from her childhood. Eagerness continued to build as she accepted his help into the soft calfskin with the hard-leather sole.

  “Shall I fetch your coat?” She shook her head. “It is liable to be damp outside, Sara. Eagerness aside, I would rather not have you grow ill from the folly of a long walk in the delightful weather that is London.” Laughing, Sara followed him from the bedroom to the hallway cove. “Here you are, my dear. Now, shall we?”

  Sara inclined her head, her fingers seeking out their usual position within the crook of his elbow as he escorted her to the mostly-deserted street below. Amicus had known her mother since before Sara herself had been born. Certainly he would be more than willing to set her mind at ease? Is that not what priests did? A gentle touch against her fingers drew her back, and she shifted her attention to Christopher. His small smile seemed oddly…askew. “What is it?”

  “Simply thinking a bit too much on a particular subject that is beyond my control. It seems to be a constant state of being, doesn’t it?”

  Her replying nod felt like moving a stone upon a pedestal as her focus retreated to the walkway ahead of them. “It reminds me, so much, of the days before my mum passed.”

  “Ah.” Christopher’s regard of her hovered for a long moment more before shifting away. “What did you do then? To make it through?”

  “There were tears, so many tears,” she admitted, “though I could no’ do so at her bedside. I tried so hard to be brave then.” The comforting face and voice of Amicus the priest drifted through the hollows of her memory, inviting with it the voracious desire for hope. “Amicus was there for us both. He would spend hours praying with her, speaking in soft tones that could have soothed the souls of angels.”

  “Then, perhaps, he will soothe you again as he did before.” He drew her close against him, the pressure of his arm about her giving dangerous rise to a pressing flood of grief. “If nothing else, we can face the memories together.”

  Together. A trembling finger brushed away a hint of dampness upon her cheek and offered him a smile.

  Christopher chuckled, his occasional glance only heightening his smile. “You had best shift those sapphire gems away, dear one. Daring decisions aside, I’m not so certain I should capitulate to a desire to embrace and kiss at this juncture.” He motioned toward a Constable sauntering toward them.

  Sara giggled and shifted her position, making reluctant due of her fingers upon his arm. It was her greatest prayer that this moment could continue unabated. That the questions and doubts be whisked away by a collection of words and phrases from her mother’s friend and confidant. That she would find, once again, the calm and trusting soul she had been before this last journey to a one-time home.

  And if the shadows remained even after her questions were answered? Now that she knew of her father, did her life overflow with blessings? Now that she discovered an inheritance, did her future seem brighter? The only brightness of her existence stood beside her, doing his utmost to find the balm to her troubled heart.

  Sara blinked away the burning, her eyes strictly focused on the sidewalk as she ushered away the rising questions. How could she continue to put such weight of importance upon having the answers she desired? When did her Lord ever place more importance on her wish for the future rather than His plan for it? If she continued to demand her own truths…. "I do no' know what I want."

  Her whispered admittance drew Christopher to lean close. "And that is fine.”

  She inclined her head and followed his prompt to continue forward, ever nearer the little church where she had, at one time, thought her life would end. To where she had escaped to freedom from oppression. Where she had exchanged vows with this wonderful man beside her. What other blessing could this small stone building possibly hold for her life that she did not already hold?

  Her step faltered, the slight stumble drawing a glance from Christopher as he walked so quiet and reserved beside her. "What does this past matter to my future when I have you, and Gwyn, and—What do I still need to ask that my mum did no' tell me to ask… him?"

  Christopher turned her to face him, resting his hands upon her upper arms in a gentle and warm pressure. "Perhaps that is all you need? The opportunity to ask that question? A moment of prayer? A silent confessional? Perhaps simply being in the presence of this last connection to your mother will help you make a choice to some action of which you don’t know? Whatever it is, there is no hesitation on my part to follow this course. I only want you to find some modicum of peace."

  Sara inclined her head, her gaze unable to venture beyond the slight dance of his Adam's apple. “Thank you, Christopher.” A caress of his kiss upon her head invited a smile and a burning of happy tears. “We can go back now,” she whispered.

  He tucked her close against him, his arm draped about her like a cape of protection, and guided her back the way they had come. “We will venture through this, Sara. I promise you that."

  It was a promise she could hold with her entire being because of his character. He would see it through. No matter the challenge or the heartbreak, he always stood beside her, whether he did so as sponsor, friend, beau, or husband had not mattered. His character did not allow for anything less. With everything she knew of Mr. Conklin, why had her mother--? Sara bit her lip, refusing the onslaught.

  “Why can you not move beyond the questions and accusations, dear heart? What is so important that you refuse to hear a waiting truth?” She closed her eyes, releasing a breath that seemed to venture from the very depths of her heart and soul. “When did I place my mum upon a pedastal, Christopher?” Her whispered question drew a kiss upon the crown of her head.

  “That is simply what a child does, Sweet Sara. When your mother passed, you were still at the tender age of viewing her as the epitome of perfection. It is the single most awful feeling for a parent to lose that, and, honestly, a part of me understands why she felt compelled to protect your view of her.”

  But she had long since grown from a child. “Will you go with me to Mr. Conklin’s residence in the morning?”

  “Are you certain?”

  The soothing rhythm of his heart accompanied her nod of head. “Yes.” It was time to set childish ways behind her.

  Twenty

  Releasing Yesterday

  Joseph Conklin stared at himself for a long moment in the full-length mirror of his hotel suite. Emily would comment on the shadows beneath his eyes and the haggardness of his features. If he continued to do nothing but toss and turn each night, tortured by the image of Ann as she bid him that last farewell, he would have no choice but to seek out a physician for an alternative.

  He scoffed, the trunks waiting in the corner for their jaunt to the passenger vessel the next day raising his ire. Did he truly intend to leave nothing resolved? To ignore Ann’s request to seek a reparation between him and his daughter? To pursue her? But Rachel Trent saw the truth of it: he had taken upon himself the duty of punishment.

  Joseph strode forward, disgust at his own cowardice propelling him toward a decision before he could plot the approach. He yanked open the door and very nearly stumbled over the one person he never expected to see outside his room, “Sara.” Additional words died as he blinked down at her, her gaze retreating to glove-covered hands.

  Christopher Lake stood just behind her and startled coherent thought back into Joseph's brain with the sounding of a slight cough. "I apologize for appearing with no warning,” he offered, “but… well, would you mind venturing to the Trent home this afternoon for lunch? Sara and I hoped for a conversation.”

  Hope fluttered, but he fought it back. "Yes. Yes, of course. I would enjoy the opportunity." Sara’s quick swipe of hand to cheek caused Joseph an internal shudder, but he forced a smile. "You are kind to think of me."

  “It has been a long time coming. So, if you would excuse us…?” Christopher gripped Joseph’s han
d in farewell before turning toward Sara and motioning for her to proceed down the path ahead of him.

  Panic ushered Joseph a quick step forward. “Would you care for coffee? It will take but a moment….” He swallowed down the stone of fear they would decline.

  Christopher’s gaze did not stray from Sara’s profile until she inclined her head. Then he offered Joseph an easy smile. “That sounds wonderful, actually. I appreciate the gesture. Sara?”

  Joseph backed away, unable to persuade his focus from his daughter’s rigid form as she entered his hotel suite. Christopher followed immediately after her, his hand always at her elbow and hinting at the silent strength he continued to offer her. Was he the sole reason she—Joseph shoved it aside, striding toward the bell-pull near the mantle of the main sitting room. The valet appeared moments later, acknowledging the order of coffee and biscuits with a silent nod and bow.

  Once the man exited the room, Joseph could not persuade himself to turn from the mantle. He could do nothing but glare at his white-knuckled fist still clutching the bell-pull. He hated himself for his inability to face her, his unwillingness to let her go, his ineptitude at fulfilling Ann’s last request…. He mentally pried his fingers loose and turned, unable to breathe with the effort, and forced his gaze to meet Christopher’s. Sara’s would not lift from their scrutiny of her gloves.

  Christopher covered her hands with his, though he did not look to the action. “Do you mind if we have the conversation now and not at lunch? I understand if your schedule does not permit.”

  Joseph craved an answer to the affirmative, the opportunity to speak freely to both of them beckoning with such fervor he could scarce restrain the words. But, at a second cautious glance to Sara's down-turned face, he hesitated. He did not want to risk widening the chasm between them with a rashly spoken history. "I would not wish to put you out."