Releasing Yesterday Read online

  Sara laughed. "Yes, mum."

  "Wonderful." She allowed a sidelong glance before speaking again, and Sara felt the impact of that look clear to the back of her stomach. "I must admit there is a portion of the situation with your mother and this mysterious will which worries me. Something waits."

  Sara blinked at her.

  Rachel waved it aside. "Ignore me, dear heart. Robert has mentioned I am in odd spirits this morning, and I'm not so certain it doesn't have something to do with the fact I have been up most of the night with dear Hank. The voyage has not agreed with him, though the dear has been more than brave."

  Sara inclined her head, grateful for the encouragement to set the troublesome concern aside. She did not feel ready even in the slightest for whatever wait down life's well-journeyed road and, for a little while, she would prefer to simply act the part of a maiden in love. Whether or not that action was wise fell beyond her caring at the moment.

  She intercepted Christopher's fetching smile and returned one of her own, eagerness to spend time with him swelling within and causing her fingers to tremble hold of her sketchbook. Perhaps speaking to Rachel regarding an earlier wedding ceremony was not such a frivolous thought? Rachel intercepted Sara's glance, inviting a wave of crimson.

  The woman smiled that serene, small curve of lip which Sara began to view as comforting. "Yes, dear heart, once we have settled ourselves, we will speak of a great many things, none the least of which will be the relationship between you and your fiancé who is attempting to gather your attention."

  "Oh." Sara turned, meeting Christopher's gaze and awkwardly noting Robert Trent's hidden chuckle. "You … I did no' hear."

  "It's quite all right, Sweet Sara. Rob made the fantastic suggestion of approaching the Captain with a request to view our entrance into port from that vantage. What say you?"

  Sara clapped her hands. "Oh! That would be more wonderful than I could imagine."

  "Excellent." Christopher looped her arm around his and led the way. "Your expression and response will make it worth the awkward agony of the asking."

  They all laughed.

  ~**~

  She felt torn, the taut line of her features served as a clear confession. As the vessel approached port, further revealing the layers of her one-time home, Christopher couldn’t help but catalog her micro-reactions.

  The dip and rise of her eyebrows.

  The tense and release of her hand upon his arm.

  The tease of teeth upon rose lips and the immediate caress of a smile.

  Life had dealt her hard lessons, softened only by her resolve to hold to their blessings. Now, after being separated from their harsh realities for a year, how did she deal with her return? The possibility of opening a door to her mother’s past.

  Christopher released a slow breath, shifting his focus to the work of the crew as they prepared the vessel for disembarking. Rachel Trent, as usual for her, performed her own survey of his and Sara’s reactions to their arrival. Whether she would comment immediately remained at her whim, for there really was no way to know—at least, not for him.

  Rachel did not easily sway to the pull and push of emotions, one of the reasons he respected her opinions in matters too close to his own heart.

  “How close to the place of your childhood?” Rachel posed the question in her calm lilt, focus carefully averted.

  The words didn’t permeate Sara’s internal reverie, likely another fact cataloged by the woman for later review.

  Christopher felt a tug at his other sleeve and shifted his attention to the upturned, roundness of Henry Trent. His cheeks carried more color than on previous occasions, a fact which relieved his father-trained heart. “Yes, Hank?”

  “Did you say Gwyn would be here?” The boy blinked up at him in curious expectation, trolling his own memory for the exact conversation.

  He tousled the boy’s hair. “Certainly you can’t have missed her. Doesn’t she follow you around very much like a puppy and then order you to play and do artsy things with her?”

  Hank dutifully straightened his hair, casting an aside glance which reeked of the scolding he desired to offer.

  Chuckling, Christopher gave the boy a squeeze upon the shoulder to try and settle his ire. “While I don’t know if she will be at the place where we come ashore, she is definitely here in England. In fact, I believe your mother and father made some arrangements for you to stay with Paul and Dix and Gwyn while Sara stays with them. How does that suit you?”

  “Truly?” Hank blinked up at him, the excitement sparkling across his features.

  “You have my word. So, is that acceptable?”

  The boy’s answer consisted of a tight hug and then excited chatter to his mother and father as Christopher shifted his attention to Sara for a quick update of her attitude. A soft serenity had fallen over her. Your presence is all you must offer, he reminded himself. Unless she specifically requested his insight on a matter, any matter, his only role stood as her silent strength. The fact ate at his desire to act, to repair, to do something which would push the resolve forward—whatever it would serve to resolve, he did not yet fully understand.

  Sara’s fingers upon his arm tightened their pressure, drawing his focus as he slid a smile into place. So many years of entertaining when he did not care to do so had their benefits, apparently. “Are you ready to venture forth?” he asked, an encouragement to adventure, to rally, to … do something other than dwell on the questions and possibilities.

  She inclined her head, her whisper of a smile setting his mind on a merciless spin downward into the questions of how to settle her heart. He pushed it aside and covered her hand with his. “Rachel, Rob, Hank? Are you ready to set foot onto this next stage of our adventure? I don’t know about you, but something on the other side of that gangplank is tugging on my attention.” Something of her father and mother, to be sure.

  “A delightful notion.” Rob offered his arm to Rachel, who in turn gathered up her son’s hand. “Shall we, Ange?”

  “Yes, I think we shall.”

  Christopher lingered beside Sara, a press of her hand the prelude to guiding her still-distracted self from the spectacular vantage of their arrival toward the main deck and the site of their exit.

  “Christopher?”

  The whispered inquiry drew his focus, though her gaze continued to focus beyond even where her eyes could see. “Yes?”

  She blinked and shifted her profile, finally meeting his gaze with eyes which mirrored uncertainty and determination. “Could we, perhaps, stop at my mother’s grave before...?”

  Before anything, everything, nothing. There could be no way to know what waited for them at the solicitors. “Of course. Shall I ask Rachel and Rob to go on ahead?”

  “No, I….” She worried her lower lip, gaze retreating as her fingers tightened their press of his arm. “I can go alone later.”

  “Sara…”

  “No, it is fine. I do no’ wish to put everyone off, and we have but a bit of time before obligations will whisk us away….”

  “Sara, the journey is yours more so than it is ours. We simply wish to be present as your support, your friends, whatever you have need of at the moment. If you would like to stop by your mother’s grave, we will do so without hesitation.” How often had he himself ventured to Carla’s grave as he attempted to swallow the reality of her passing?

  A trembling hand swiped away a tear as she nodded, not even trusting her voice to a simple response. Christopher pressed a kiss upon her forehead and then once again drew her forward.

  ~**~

  Sara brushed the debris of moss and leaf flakes from the inset lettering of her mother’s name. Christopher’s breath was the only sound on the still air. “Hello, mama.” The breeze almost stole her choked whisper.

  Words by the score threatened to overwhelm her, leaving her soul aching and lost. The scuff of Christopher’s shoe upon the gravel path the only sound which jerked her back from the black maw of a tumultu
ous downward spiral. Her fingers grasped for his hand when it rested upon her shoulder.

  She sent him a smile, painfully aware of the quick collapse of her lips. Blurred vision focused again on her mother’s name. “This is Christopher Lake, mama, my fiancé.” A tremble of a laugh tickled the air, and Sara felt thankful that the promise of their union could still break through the darkness which continuously rose. “It has finally come to me, mama, the love you told me to always pray for.” Her voice drifted, stolen away by a sudden gust and the shuddering wave of grief and regret.

  “I love your daughter very much,” Christopher said, the hushed offering soothing and comforting. “You did fine with Sweet Sara, Ms. Little. Very fine indeed.”

  “Is he no’ wonderful, mama? I am so very happy,” she struggled out, brushing any hint of wetness from her cheeks and eyes. “We are on our way to the solicitors, but I will stop again on my way to our lodging and say ‘good night.’” She rested her hand upon the coarse stone of the grave marker and then accepted Christopher’s offered arm.

  Rachel, Robert, and Hank had gone ahead to their Brownstone to pack the boy to Paul and Dix’s residence. Sara felt thankful for the time separated from inquisitive and measuring gazes.

  “Are you certain you don’t wish to put off the visit to the solicitors until the morrow? We only just arrived, so I would understand putting it off.”

  She shook her head, grateful for his warmth beside her. She breathed in deep of his aroma and held it close, her eyelids fluttering closed as she fought against the creeping need to escape.

  “Thank you for introducing us, your mother and I. Yes, I had seen her from a distance before, but well, never mind.” Christopher cleared his throat, his fingers natural in seeking out her hand upon his arm. “I would give anything to be able to ease your heart about this upcoming visit, Sara.”

  “That is dear of you, Christopher. Thank you.” But a person seldom chose their challenges.

  Sara released a slow breath, her fingers tingling with the warmth of Christopher’s presence as she relaxed into the easy pace of their journey. The sounds of the late-afternoon city bustle a somewhat fond memory from ages past. “I did no’ think to return after so short a time.” Now that her life held such a completely different role, she wondered if she would even recognize what part she must play.

  “Nor I. Honestly, life has thrown us for a bit of a loop of late. It’s hardly fair.”

  He caressed the trembling chill of her fingers upon his arm and offered her an aside of smile and wink. The attempt to draw her from the shadows succeeded, and she fought to remain in the place of smiles and comfort.

  “You must be quite curious as to what your mother has set aside for you, yes?”

  Her nod did not even tremble the loose curl at her neck. “We had so little, Christopher,” she confessed. “What could she…?” But her spirit would not allow a completion of the question, afraid at the myriad of possible answers. How could she tempt life to entertain even more challenges to her character?

  “Well, whether it is simply a dress or a few hundred five-pound notes, your friends are here for you. No matter the challenge or the blessing.” He pressed a whisper of a kiss upon the crown of her head, and the caress of his “I love you” seemed to speak all the promises and assurances she could possibly desire.

  Life could rage and fume, or sing and dance, and she could face the result without fear or agony. How many years had she prayed and hoped for such a truth to finally find her? Her forward step trembled but continued, doggedly forward, her fingers tightening upon the warmth of his presence beside her as she lifted a prayer of thanksgiving.

  Nine

  Revelations

  Sara stared up at the brick and mortar of the solicitor’s office-front, fingering her reticule as she attempted to keep the myriad emotions at bay. Christopher stood silent beside her, a hand at her elbow as they waited for the unknown. Her heart ached, life not allowing her even a moments breath, or so it seemed. Please, Lord, can I no' be done for a bit? An extended holiday of peace and calm would feel much like a mug of hot cocoa and a freshly warmed blanket.

  "Shall we venture inside?" Christopher asked, his voice a gentle pressure to action.

  She inclined her head, a part of her hoping the solicitor wished nothing more than to impart to her some trinket of her mother. But how could such a thing be true when the two of them together barely owned enough to fill a single carpet valise? Sara released a calming breath, refusing to believe the worst.

  They were met at the door by a diminutive and hunched man with smudged glasses, ink stained fingers, and mussed black hair. It caused a smile of sympathy at his harried and rushed aura, and she eagerly accepted the offered chair if only to allow him a moment to breathe.

  Writs and scrolls and parchments mottled the walls, populating the air with paper dust and the attractive yet pressing aroma of paper and age. But there could be found, also, the scent of wood oil on the shining dark wood flooring, the sheen of the desks, and the smooth touch of the wooden arms of the chairs. Amidst all the bustle of courts and proclamations, they took the necessary time to care for their surroundings. Their environment. Their home away from home.

  It reminded her greatly of the last attic room she shared with Beth before making her way to America.

  "Miss…?" the harried clerk pressed.

  "Miss Sara Ann Little," Christopher offered, "here regarding a personal matter, or so wrote one Mr. Edward Fortesque in a letter. I have it here should you wish to—“

  "Ah. Yes. I am Mr. Hiram Graham, Mr. Fortesque's clerk. I will inform him of your presence and see if he is ready to receive you. Wait one moment." Then he shuffled away in a flurry of peppermint and cologne.

  Sara could not help but smile, though even that action required more effort than she thought possible. She felt so very tired. Christopher rested a hand upon her shoulder, offering a smile as she met his hazel gaze and wished she could have presented a more encouraging picture.

  She gathered his hand, closing her eyes as she attempted to allow her heart to pray and let go. What good would come from fretting about what the result could be? She had Christopher, and his family, and his Gwyn. Nothing could rob her of this new life unless she alone gave it leave to do so, an action which defeated all she had overcome.

  A growing mumble behind the great mahogany door drew her focus, though she could make out neither words nor subject matter. She could only assume questions were being asked and answered. Whether they were about her or their prospects she did not even care to think.

  Then the door opened and Mr. Graham beckoned them forward. Had she ever before felt as if she ventured into the den of a lion? But with Christopher's reassuring presence beside her, his hand upon her elbow, she navigated those few steps from reception to office and accepted the nearest chair, her eyes never leaving the pinched and wrinkled face of the elder man before her.

  Mr. Edward Fortesque looked older even than Christopher's father, but wearing such an expression of foul disposition that she very nearly fled the moment those sharp silver eyes focused on her. She gasped, scolded herself for doing so, and allowed her eyes to retreat to her clasped hands.

  Mr. Fortesque grumbled a greeting, set aside the documents before him, and then retrieved a modest stack of parchments to the fore. Then, and only then, did he sit back in his chair, his hands folded upon his chest as he regarded the two of them in stark honesty.

  Christopher bowed. "Christopher Lake, Miss Little's fiancé."

  Those silver daggers fell upon Christopher in a manner reminiscent of Mr. Brockle. Christopher simply stood silent under their scrutiny, his gaze fluctuating between Mr. Fortesque and the crown of Sara's head.

  "Congratulations," Mr. Fortesque said, and his voice embodied so close to a bark as to give Sara a bit of a fright. "We have been contracted by an anonymous party to verify the identity of one Sara Ann Little. In addition, if the verification is met with success, we have in our possessi
on a few documents that were to have been delivered to you upon your mother's demise. Now," he gathered up a crisp parchment, "to proceed onto the verification. What is the full name of your mother?"

  Sara clutched at Christopher's hand, summoning any wisp of courage from the contact and using that to meet Mr. Fortesque's gaze. "Ann Marie Little Kreyssler."

  Mr. Fortesque regarded the paper for a long moment, silence eking into each nook and cranny of the office. "What is the full name of your father?"

  Helplessness squashed Sara's hope, but she answered regardless. "Timothy Joseph Kreyssler."

  "Where and upon what date were you born?" Less of a pause, but certainly no less of an edge to the tone of his question.

  "Richmond Upon Thames, the second of January, 1871."

  "When did your mother pass? And where is she interred?"

  "The twelfth of April, 1883. Saint Benedict's Church of the Blessed Mother." Sara felt thankful she did not break into a fit of tears.

  Mr. Fortesque set the paper aside, immediately gathering a sealed envelope. He presented it forward. "I apologize for the tardiness of the delivery."

  Christopher stepped forward to accept the letter, taking in the sight of her mother's fluid and feminine handwriting on the front before offering it to Sara.

  Sara could not accept the letter for a long moment, her eyes drinking in the remembered lines of her mother's hand with agonized slowness. Then she forced her trembling fingers to accept the cool and stiff envelope, though she made no move to open and reveal its contents.

  "You will need to read that letter, Miss Little, before I am able to proceed." Mr. Fortesque motioned toward the envelope. "If you please, you may read it silently or out loud."

  Her eyes misted, the tears erasing the flow of sentences from view. Why could she not persuade her fingers to open the letter? How could she still be afraid of what her mother may have penned inside, her missive from the past? Did she truly believe anything of her life might disappoint? Sara shook her head, a wavering hand covering her eyes just as a male hand reached down and retrieved the letter from her weak grasp.