Twenty
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 hand 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."
"You would not. In fact, both of us would rather have it out sooner rather than later."
A quick peek from Sara confounded his mind of any words, the darkness of her eyes bringing memories of her mother's final farewell. He forced his feet to move forward until he safely settled himself into the nearest wing-back chair. "Then, by all means," he said.
Another sidelong peek from Sara sent hope soaring before he could gather it under more firm control. Then she whispered something to Christopher, him leaning closer for a repeat before he inclined his head while offering her a smile. It ached to see the relationship, for he saw the happiness provided to her which he himself had not been able to offer. Though it did make him thankful for Christopher Lake on a completely alternate level. He had rescued her. Healed her. Comforted and protected her when he himself had not known of her existence.
His mind spiraled into the realm of morbid curiosity. Of what life would have been like if he had returned, escaping the demands of his family. Or how life would have changed if Ann had been persuaded to journey with him, ushering her into introductions to a family who would not have truly appreciated her spirit.
He knew there was nothing to be gained, other than a silent torture, but he could not restrain the questions. The images. The flights of fancy kept distant since he received her letter—The thoughts crashed away, broken as his hand instinctively reached into his suit coat pocket. ‘Pursue her, dearest Timothy, as only you can do.’
A hand gripped his shoulder, drawing him back from the dark silence and to the whisper and rumble of the city life bustling outside his window. He offered Christopher Lake a tight-lipped smile.
"If you need to wait, we understand."
But the hope … Joseph spared a glance toward his daughter’s rigid form, her face pale and her fingers trembling even as they clutched her gloves and reticule. Hope fluttered strongest when near her, the whisper of her mother on the young woman's voice encouraging him to keep trying. "No," he said gruffly. "I will be fine."
Christopher regarded him for a long moment before giving a single incline of his head and whispering, "Take heart, man. She is trying," before returning to his seat beside her.
But Joseph wished beyond anything that the young man had kept that truth to himself. It would be far easier to deal with a refusal to allow him into her life if he never knew she attempted to do so in the first place. But now, with that assurance spoken, he was lost within the hope of a happy ending.
And it was more than too late for any sort of happy ending. Decades too late. Joseph focused on Christopher with a hard stare, and the young man did not flinch away from it. "Then let us move on with this conversation."
Christopher did not say a word and, at first, even his features did not show a reaction. Than he simply smiled, a small smile that hinted of a similar type of tortured agony. An understanding? Something of use in his conversations with his new bride? Joseph thrust the thought away. It did not matter. If any forgiveness was offered him, it must be of her choosing and hers alone. Otherwise, he did not want it.
Or, at least, that is what he told himself, at that moment, and every waking hour to that point. He could not admit to himself how easy it would be to settle for something less.
~**~
“Then let us move on with this conversation.”
Sara felt painfully aware of Mr. Conklin, akin to a new employer when she still lived as a servant. She felt powerless to do anything to stem the tide of uncertainty and heartache. Instead, she kept her focus solely on her fingers, hidden within a tender clasp from Christopher, the touch comforting a struggling heart.
But why did she choose the struggle? Her mother never presented an emotion of hate when it came to his memory. Never once in all their conversations. Regret, yes. Loneliness, yes. But never rage nor any of the darker tortures that could have hollowed her spirit.
"Mum forgave you," she whispered. Mr. Conklin said nothing, and she could not force herself to view his reaction to the simple statement. "I do no' know how to do the same."
"I know." His gruff voice clawed at her soul, chastising her reluctance. Yet that petty aspect of her heart deemed it a small price. Who was this person who now stood in her place? Wishing ill on a person's soul?
Her fingers sought out the pearl drop necklace at her throat, the chill of the piece sending a sobering message. But she could not go back to a place of ignorance. His confession had escaped and now stood as a barricade between them. Because, as Rachel said, she herself chose to leave it as such. She had closed that door, and it would be up to her to open it yet again.
"There is an odd similarity about our meeting I cannot set aside."
Sara peeked at him, but his gaze never wavered from its focus of the centerpiece upon the coffee table.
"Art. I connected myself to your mother through art. Art is how I found you as well. In both instances I had given it up as lost, sacrificed to the will of family and financial power. Both times I have come to appreciate the power behind embracing art as a creation and an empowering force. You, Christopher Lake, are a prime example.”
“Am I?” Christopher regarded Mr. Conklin with wide eyes.
“You are. Art is your escape, sir, and your passion. An outlet as well as an overwhelming interest. An outstretched hand to others. Even an outward display of faith.”
The truth of the observation spoke volumes to his understanding of a creative spirit. It reminded Sara of their first meeting at the display, of their conversation and how strongly she felt drawn to him. But the reminder deepened the ache and a shadow of confusion and anger. She closed her eyes, almost desperate to fight back the pain.
Mr. Conklin released a slow breath. "My art has never shared such a position of motivation. Nor have my beliefs. Sad, surely, and a poor testament to my character. Perhaps you are correct, after all, to remain so distant? Who is to say I will not abandon you again when put to the test of my family? Perhaps I am a fool to hope for—never mind. Gads. Where is the blessed coffee?" He stood, escaping the couple’s scrutiny in search of the valet.
Shame bombarded her like the crash of an ocean wave. White-knuckled hands confessed as much to Christopher beside her. Rachel and Dix both would have scolded. Her mother … but she could not face that truth, though she recognized even a fraction of the result. How could she so easily torture a person's already ragged soul?
"I do no' know who I am," she whispered.
Another beat of silence and then Christopher’s arm surrounded her, sharing what warmth and strength he could. "You are an artist, a broken heart. Someone struggling to find their way."
He pressed a kiss upon her hair, but the chastisement remained unspoken. Perhaps that is what caused it to sink deeper into a known truth within her? He did not chastise nor praise. The subject was simply left alone. Like a spoiled child, they allowed her to turn from the only right course. Would she have done the same with Christopher? Would her mother?
"Christopher, it is no' right." She turned, guilt and shame a weight against her, fighting against the action of tilting her chin to meet his understanding gaze.
"I know. But I do not know how to speak to you in this, Sara. What do I know of losing a father?"
"You understand betrayal and loss," she murmured, her gaze retreating from his to spare herself the further torture of seeing the truth reflected.
"Yes, but," he sighed, "somehow it doesn't feel right to impose my view. The loss of a wife and child is so very different in many ways."
But Christopher would understand the other side. The pain of the man who attempted to fill the role of father for her own life. The loss. The burden of moving on. "If you were in his place … what would you have me do?"
Christopher's fingers increased their pressure upon her arm for a long moment before retreating. "I would want you to talk to me. To release all the anguish suffered to this point. To accuse. To question. To berate and condemn … anything to allow you the one freedom you never had before: emotional freedom."
The truth of it stung like a slap, and the burn of the after-affect ushered the tears to the surface yet again. The emotional freedom. How many times did the Lord encourage her to speak to Him in emotional freedom because she did not have a family? To let loose the aches of her soul so He could heal and refresh.
But the challenge of speaking to another person was their own freedom to rebuff and rebut. To contradict. To reveal the lies. Sara, for all her piety, refused to give Mr. Conklin that opportunity, as Christopher said before. He was not offered the honor of defending himself.
She lowered her tear-blurred vision to her clenched hands. "I am ashamed of myself," she whispered. Christopher remained silent, his hand warm as it continued to cover and caress hers. "Dix would scold."
"Yes, well, Dix scolds everyone regardless of the situation."
The humor could not even tease the corner of her lips. "She would be right to do so. Rachel as well … I am a horrid person."
"No." He lifted her chin to face him. "No, you are a hurt person struggling to find their way to the other side." He caressed her forehead with a kiss. “You are almost there, Sweet Sara. "
Sara inclined her head, and her thoughts already drifted toward an honorable man and a needless agony he suffered alone. As if summoned, Joseph Conklin entered the suite followed by the valet, a silver coffee service tray in hand.
“I found him,” Mr. Conklin grumbled.
Pain and uncertainty marred his countenance, so different from the smiling and thoughtful expressions from their past visits. She had done this to him, without hesitation nor care. Sara’s gaze retreated to the silver platter. I am sorry, Lord. The valet retreated, leaving the trio to sit in silence as all simply stared at the silver cups, waiting.
Sara breathed in, deep, and shifted her position to pour a cup of coffee first for Christopher and then for… her father. “Cream?” She ignored the broken whisper, although she could do nothing but notice how it affected him.
Mr. Conklin’s hands clenched. “No. Thank you.”
She willed her eyes to meet his as she offered forward the cup, her other hand motioning to the chair across from them. "Please."
Mr. Conklin clenched his jaw, the muscle twitching wildly, before he did so.
Once he accepted the cup of coffee, he simply stared into the steaming depths, lips pressed into a thin line. How often had she seen this same expression of consternation, frustration, and helplessness shadowing Christopher’s countenance?
Sara’s eyes retreated. "Why did you seek me out now? Why did you wish me to know you are my father?" How many times had she uttered those questions to the dark? To the heavens. To her very self when they should have been spoken to the man sitting so stiff and rigid across from her?
But Mr. Conklin balked at the answer, his expression wiped clean of emotion and reaction. "Why?" Even his voice held nothing but the syllable.
“Sara,” Christopher’s protest drew a return of her father’s hard stare.
Mr. Conklin sharply lifted a hand toward Christopher. "No. It is fine. She deserves no less." Each word an emphatic enunciation of the lifetime of agony compacted within the confines of the room. "You ask why I wish you to know me as your father. How could I leave you to whatever knowledge you had of my fate when I knew the truth, that all important truth, had not been divulged to you? Sara….” His jaw clenched for a telling moment, “you have been greatly wronged. This fact should be put right."
Silence descended, Sara's gaze unable to rise from the coffee cooling within her untouched cup. “But what does that mean?” Her whispered question hurt, herself and him she felt certain, but it was the barest, rawest truth she could possibly feel and imagine at that moment. She didn’t understand what it meant, for him or for her, to put something like a history of one untruth to the wayside.
Conklin shifted in his seat and retrieved something from his vest pocket. A kerchief with tatted edges. Sara gasped, her hand clutching the necklace at her throat as she stared, wide eyed, at the bit of familiar fabric he unfurled with deliberate tenderness. Beyond anything she had ever known before, she knew that handkerchief had been crafted by her mother.
Mr. Conklin stared down at the item hidden within the folds of the material for such a long moment ... he offered it forward, his gaze determined in meeting Sara's countenance. She, however, leaned back, her eyes not wavering from their view of the kerchief and its precious treasure.
A ring fashioned from a trio of bent sewing pins.
Conklin cleared his throat, and again, before venturing any type of speech. Sara recognized the courageous action as a last, desperate attempt to convey all of his wishes into this one approach.
"This ... there was so little money in those first days. So, Ann and I agreed to make do with what we had between us. She took the pins used in the making of her dress and my suit-coat and we made this. I….” He cleared his throat, blinking back the glimmer. “I put this on Ann’s finger on our wedding day, and she sent it back to me with a note requesting I give her up and not return. There was nothing left for me there, she wrote." Conklin's gaze retreated to the ring once again, and only then did Sara reach a trembling hand to retrieve it from the kerchief. "She ... I could not find her when I returned. Our home vacant. Our accounts untouched."
Confusion marred Sara's face, freeing the tears to trace paths down her pale cheeks. "I ..." She shook her head, her eyes unable to lift from their regard of the ring. "I do no' understand." The action seemed so utterly contrary to the mother of her memory.
"Nor did I, I can assure you. We were happy. We had plans, so many plans, for the future." His gruff voice wavered and disappeared, giving over to another wave of chokes as he attempted to clear the grief, both past and present. "When I saw you at The Gallery Lake, I very nearly called out your mother's name. Then to find you sported the very same along with my surname!”
He sounded a strangled scoff, and his lips twisted in a wry smirk. “But my life has run a course of bitter disappointments, and the cynical side of my nature refused to believe what my heart felt desperate to hope. So, I began to delve into the mystery of your history."
"Jeffrey Stillwell," Christopher murmured.
Mr. Conklin inclined his head. "Indeed, though the charcoals which first toppled my chilled cynicism were those of your hand, Chris. They planted the seed, preparing me for her arrival, I believe this with all my soul. Then, immediately after that first display of the mysterious S.A.L., I confronted my father for the truth."
"The truth?" Sara's breathless repetition sounded hollow as she stared down at the ring in her palm.
"He manipulated Ann into a lie so that your future would be assured and mine would be altered from what I intended."
She blinked and looked up. "I do no' understand."
"My father wished me to take a different path than a dedication to art. He wanted me to follow the business of art rather than the creation of it, and my relationship with your mother stood in his way. So, he threatened her, though he still does not admit to what he threatened. Even when she confessed she was with child, my child, he did not relent. Instead, he altered his threat to make quite certain I would not be paired with her, nor her child. The marriage was annulled and ... and I was never told of your birth. Not until the solicitor approached me with the admittance of a mistake some ten years in age. Then, and only then, was I finally notified of Ann's death and of your whereabouts."
Sara’s focus snapped, breath seizing as the outer edges of her vision and mind faded to black. She crumbled, ashen skin fading to green as she collapsed back within the settee.
“Sara!”
Christopher’s exclamation grabbed at her, pulling her back from the terrifying darkness. Then she felt his warmth upon her cheeks, her forehead, the caress of his touch upon her hand. Her eyelids fluttered, and she thought she heard a soft moan.
"Brandy," Christopher hissed. Staccato steps faded and then returned. "Sara." Christopher continued to caress her hand within his and she struggled against the sludge to focus on him. "Sara, can you hear me?"
But there were so many voices, muddled together in her head and confusing the little bit of herself she could remember. The father would have been there had he known. The mother had stepped away and then shut a door, one the father could not find to open. Panic and desperation swelled and she groped forward, searching for the door. The smooth, coolness of a glass was steadied in her hand and then the sweet sharpness of a liquid choking down her throat. She moaned, trying to push it away so she could chase after the voices and find the door.
"One more sip," Christopher soothed, "this will help.”
The voices and images scattered and her eyes focused momentarily on Christopher’s features, taut with concern.
“There you are. Good girl. Now, focus on me.”
Sara’s eyes struggled, her mind fuzzy and teetering between reality and a waking dream.
“Here I am,” he said, the dulcet tones drawing her back. “There, yes. Listen to my voice. Good girl. Take another sip.”
Another sip of the liquid traced a path down to her warming stomach. “Christopher?” Her faint voice somehow made it to him.
He smiled. “That's fine. Now focus on me."
Her eyes met his, clarity ushering back the darkness. She struggled to sit up, accepting Christopher's help to do so. "I am s-sorry."
"No need. No, don't stand. Lay back and rest for a moment."
Sara acquiesced, hiding her eyes behind her arm as she leaned back into the settee. She could feel the warmth of the tears trailing down, the sting and bite preventing even a single word. But she could feel him, standing rigid and still beside her, his hands fisted at his sides and his breath choked and stifled.
How long had he suffered in silence? Tormented by the knowledge that a one-time happiness had been cast aside, and not understanding why? Why? Why?
"I should leave you for a moment," he said gruffly.
“No!” Sara bolted upright, grasping at his hand. Her eyes sought his, but they retreated to the joining of their hands. "Please, stay."
Her father swallowed hard, his grip of her hand so tight it hurt. "Ask it,” he choked out. “Whatever you desire, ask."
A single thought would have served her well, but Sara could not contain the frantic rambling of her mind at his simple act of clutching her hand. She stared at that frantic clasp and swallowed the lump of tears and emotion which choked the words to nothing. On the day Sara came into this world, would he have been at her mother's side with this same intensity? Would he have held her mother's hand this tight, that morning she didn't wake?
Sara fought against the dazed sluggishness and brought her other hand to cover his, hoping it would gather his attention and lift his head to a deeper scrutiny. Her father--he found her! Did she care what these last few years carried with them? Did it matter, the "why's"? Did any moment but the here and now carry weight with her or with him?
A tear fled his restraint and answered the question she felt too afraid to ask, because it did matter. Too many years of her life were dedicated to the "Why?" for her not to ask. She opened her mouth to speak--
"Wait," he pleaded, voice gruff and barely recognizable as his fingers tightened momentarily upon her hand. He cleared the emotion from his throat. "You have so many questions, this I know, but, please, allow me a single question."
She nodded, unwilling to trust her own words.
"Did Ann… did she never mention me to you?"
Sara's gaze retreated from his, focusing on the comforting tightness of their mingled hands. "She told me once life treated you unfairly and that I should pray for your heart. I was ten. I did no' ask after you again." Not when she considered the answer the easiest way for her mother not to lay blame at his feet. At the age of ten, her mother taking the blame onto herself settled horribly unfair.
"I see." He released such a long and deep breath, his gaze once more shifting to their hands. His hold loosened and pulled away, the chill sending a shiver coursing through her very soul as her eyes sought his. His eyes, however, refused to meet them. Instead, he stepped back, further distancing himself from not just her, but….
"Please." She struggled to her feet, fighting back the dizziness with white-knuckled determination. Christopher was immediately there, steadying her while voicing a soft whisper of "Be gentle, Sara."
Her father shifted his position to the fireplace, only ever so slightly turning to regard her while protecting most of his own expression from her notice. "I did not intend to leave, I simply … that revelation made…." He shook his head and lowered his gaze, his chin very nearly brushing his chest. He fisted his hand at his side. "You must have hated me for the better portion of your life, which I understand, given how English society views orphans and bastards."
She stepped toward him, releasing Christopher’s hand to clutch at her father’s, so cold and trembling, as she gazed up into his dazed countenance. "I am sorry. I… I did no' know how to set aside the ridicule of the other children and parents without the hate."
"You are not to blame. I, on the other hand…." He released a long and deep breath, the slight shake of his head seeming to fend off the ghost of unwanted histories. "Even now my father is able to manipulate and contort me to his will. My dedication to family is strong, and he uses that to the best of his ability. I wish I had separated myself from him ages ago. Then you would not suffer the torture of a meeting with him.” He offered her a pained smile. “No matter how charming you are, my dear, I fear you would not win him over."
"But… but he is my grandfather," she whispered. "I have no' had one before."
"Trust me, child. Your life will be better without him."
Sara blinked up into her father's eyes, her spirit hearing a whisper. A calm settled within, caressing her face with a smile as she gazed up at him. "I told myself once, so many years ago, my life would be better without you, but it was no' the truth. My life had a hole, you were missing. I do no' wish you to have the same. He may hate me, but I will no' give him reason to do so."
Her father stared down at her for such a long moment of time. Then his lips tilted upward, a hand brushing a curl from her temple. "You are so very much like your mother."
Tears burned at her eyes as she continued to smile up at him. "Tell me."
"Art and people were her everything. It mattered little if they had a sharp word or no word at her. To me it seemed she heard naught but the words left unspoken. I loved her the moment I set eyes on her, and we married only a few short weeks after having met." He barked out a laugh. "My father labeled me an impetuous fool and, believe me, there were countless telegrams and messengers insisting I return to America immediately. Never before have I blatantly ignored my father's demands…."
His gaze fell, the quiet descending long enough to make Sara wonder if he now lived within his memory. She met Christopher’s reassuring gaze and smiled. But when she focused again on her father, the shadow of regret scarred his features, aging him far beyond what she thought possible. She reached out a hand, laying it upon his arm as her heart and soul lifted a prayer for release and healing. He can no’ bear such a burden alone, Lord.
Her father blinked, shifting himself from past to present with what must have felt to be a heart-rending pain. How could his father have betrayed him in such a fashion? How could her mother have agreed to let him go? Sara couldn’t fathom if she stood ready to receive the answer, or even what it might mean to the memory of her mother.
"For the greater part of this past year I have tried to reason out what he must have said to her—we were so very close, your mother and I—and I believe he may have told her of my previous … understanding.” His gaze flicked to hers, retreating immediately thereafter. "I was engaged before I traveled to England, a long-standing arrangement.”
Sara blinked, the utter surprise scattering her thoughts. “Engaged?” How would she herself have reacted if she discovered Christopher promised to another woman? Would she have forgiven him that secret?
Her father cleared his throat, shame staining his ears and face red. “At the time I did not care one whit about the so-called engagement, as arrangements like that are as common in America's wealthy families as they are in England. I wrote to her before proposing to your mother, so she would not be shocked at the news from my family or hers. Emily and I… we were friends, if nothing else."
He teased his peppered hair with trembling fingers. Sara's heart ached; for him, for her mother, for a happiness cut short.
"However, after the annulment became final, I convinced myself there was nothing to do but go on as if the best year of my life never existed. Emily,” Her father’s lips twisted in a wry smile. “Dear Em, she protested moving forward, doing her best to persuade me to England, but, stubborn fool that I was, allowed my pride to dictate my next steps. So, months later, she finally acquiesced, though we were unable to finalize the nuptials until after Mother passed.”
Her father shifted his focus to the fireplace, the memories dancing across his face of both regret and happiness. It made Sara eager to experience those involved in rescuing him from the despair of a love lost.
He cleared his throat and met her scrutiny with a lop-sided smile. “Mary and my youngest son, William, are looking forward to meeting you. My older sons, twins Joe and James, have long since moved on with their lives, it's all about college and business. Though they did express interest in coming over for tea at some point, likely with the sole purpose of measuring you up. Beware those two, as they consider their talent for contention a gift."
Sara stared at him, the information dancing about her head much like a swarm of butterflies. "Pardon?" He had married again, of course, but to be welcomed by those people left her mind blank of acceptable reactions. Her history spoke of suspicion and meanness in families such as his. How could they be eager in wanting to meet her? Her mother had walked away from him with no rhyme nor reason.
Her father gave her hand a gentle pressure. "I told you, Emily and I were friends. We have no secrets, though she was incensed at first when I discovered your existence. She felt certain I had kept you secret. When I told her the story, she helped me organize the search for more information. And do not worry. She is not expecting you to call her 'Mother'… although I do think William is rather fond of the idea of having a sister. What is he? Thirteen years old now?"
Her father retrieved a pocket watch and flipped up the front to show a photograph of a beautiful brunette woman and three strapping boys, a pair of identical twins, and a younger son standing in front of the two, their hands upon his shoulders. Sara accepted the watch into trembling fingers and simply blinked down at the faces of this other family.
She vaguely heard the rustle of fabric as Christopher rose from the settee and stood behind her. “A family,” she whispered.
Christopher chuckled. “They are a lovely bunch, Conklin. I always hoped for a boy.”
Conklin laughed. "They have their own challenges, Chris, believe me. One stand-off after another. Diplomacy, and sometimes tyranny in equal measure. Emily loves the boys with every fiber of her being, but when she discovered a young girl abandoned and lost in the shuffle. 'You cannot rest until you find her,' she told me. Not having a daughter of her own likely had something to do with her frantic intensity." His voice faded, the oddity of it drawing her focus. He met and held her gaze. "I am sorry you were left behind, Sara," he said, regret grating in his words. "If I had known…."
Sara imperceptibly nodded, tears stinging her eyes and throat.
He gathered her hands into his, the hard metal of the pocket watch proving this her new reality. “Will you tell me of your life? Of my Ann?”
A collection of possible histories glimmered in her father’s eyes, and she tried to soothe them away with the best smile she could muster. “Yes.”