The Whisper Of Wings (6 page)

She didn't say anything, just sat there trying to remember the events of that fateful day when she had come to them and wondering why she'd been counted worthy of such compassion.

She slowly became aware that he hadn't resumed his meal. In fact, he seemed rather intent on her now—too intent—his eyes so piercing that she felt compelled to look at him, however briefly.

"I'm afraid you have us at a disadvantage," he murmured, his gaze questioning. "You've been properly introduced to all of us here at the table, but we don't know your name."

She automatically opened her mouth to respond, but then clamped it firmly shut again. Fear clutched at her throat. Had he somehow surmised her situation and suddenly disapproved? Would he throw her out of his house now? Would she once again be on the streets alone?

Such a look of abject terror passed across her face that Christopher regretted his haste in pressing her. For a second, he'd been certain she would answer, but then the fear had returned and she'd frozen again. He shouldn't have pushed so fast. Clearly, she wasn't ready.

"Not to worry," he felt compelled to comfort her. "We shan't press you. The doctor seems to think you're suffering from a bit of amnesia."

Her gaze flew to his face.
Amnesia!
Yes, of course. She had amnesia. It was such a simple excuse, so readily available. Worried that her expression had given her away and he would see what she was trying to hide, she dropped her gaze again to the untouched soup in front of her.

"He assures us it will pass in due time. There's nothing to be afraid of."

"What will I do?" she murmured, then was surprised to realize that she'd spoken the words aloud. The question sounded so feeble, so weak, like a plea.

"You'll stay here with us until you are well," Gerald interrupted. "It's the only logical solution. After all, we can't see our way clear to toss you out into the streets."

Although, that's precisely where she had come from, she wryly thought.

"Oh, I do so wish we knew what to call you," Mrs. Avery spoke up.

She turned her head to look at the white-haired woman who had been so kind to her, bringing her hot liquids and hearty soups all week. She barely remembered it—she'd slept most of the time—but she recalled enough to know that this woman was innately kind-hearted. At first, she'd been mortified at having to be taken care of, but as the days passed, she had come to like Mrs. Avery, to regard her as a friend.

"Don't you remember?" Mrs. Avery pressed.

"Perhaps just your given name?" Gerald urged.

Her head began to reel from the agony of decision. She wanted to answer them, but she couldn't. She dare not. Not yet. Not until she had decided what to do next, where she would go.

Thankfully, she was spared from having to make any reply when Mr. Standeven cut in. "The important thing is that you realize you are safe here. Do you understand that?"

Too bashful now to meet his gaze again, she nodded, already beginning to relax. She was relieved that he didn't want to press the issue. But she did glance up a few seconds later, long enough to catch him passing Mrs. Avery a meaningful look. What did it mean? she wondered.

Christopher found his eyes wandering to the woman more and more. She certainly didn't speak much. According to Mrs. Avery, she hadn't since she'd been taken in a week ago. The silence was probably caused by her ordeal. She seemed overly nervous, uncertain. By all appearances, her spirit had been torn from her, leaving only a shell of a human being behind. How well he understood that. The streets and what they had presented to her must have been a nightmare.

"You haven't touched your soup," he murmured, his eyes never leaving her expressive face. If she knew just how expressive her face was, would she try even harder to hide behind the curtain of her hair? "Perhaps you'd feel better if we left you alone for awhile. I'm sure this has all been very stressful for you and not easily adjusted to."

Her eyes slid to Mrs. Avery, as if seeking reassurance. The matronly woman gave her a bolstering smile and a slight nod of her head, a silent affirmation that it was perfectly all right to eat there at the table alone if that was what she needed.

When he noticed the way she automatically turned to Mrs. Avery for reassurance, Christopher felt an unfamiliar stab of something rather foreign, something that closely resembled jealousy. She seemed to have struck up an instant bond with his housekeeper, seemed to trust her implicitly. Why didn't she trust him just as easily? After all, it was his generosity that allowed her shelter here.

Irritated by his own response, he rose and picked up his plate. He wanted—perhaps needed—to get away from her for awhile. She had only been in his house a short time but already she seemed to be the center of it, and she was occupying entirely too much of his own thoughts. Perhaps distance would break the spell.

"Well, then. We will give you some privacy."

He paused and stared down at her bent head. If it was at all possible, she seemed to have shrunk into herself even more, as if she were trying to make herself as small and invisible as possible. In time, perhaps she would learn to trust them, all of them. Until then, he was perfectly willing to allow her a few concessions. She would come around, he was certain of it.

"We'll be in the kitchen if you should need us."

He nodded to his son, who obligingly stood and took up his own plate.

She dared to sneak a peek at the younger man. He caught her glance and gave her an encouraging smile. She felt so wretched sitting there while they all took up their plates and left the room in deference to her. She should be the one eating in the kitchen, not them. Truly, it had been so difficult to get the courage to come downstairs and dine with them in the first place. She'd become so accustomed to taking her meals in her room all this past week that she simply didn't know how to present herself. After all, she was an uninvited guest in their home. Surely, they didn't enjoy the burden she had placed on them any more than she did. Still, they had accepted it.

Why?

They needn't have. They could have sent her off to the hospital, or even turned her over to the police as a vagrant. But they hadn't, and she was grateful for that. They might never know just how grateful. To alert the police might be the worst thing in the world for her at this point. It was the last thing she wanted. If the police knew where she was, then her family would know, too. What was left of them, anyway. And she couldn't bear to go back to them. Not now. Perhaps not ever.

Mrs. Avery came back into the room to retrieve a few last dishes. Before she left again, she paused beside her and whispered, "Don't eat too fast. You don't want to upset your stomach."

She nodded miserably. She felt like an idiot. How could she let them do all this for her? Why hadn't she said anything, insisted that she leave instead?

She knew the answer. Because
he
had been watching her with those piercing eyes, those eyes that seemed to see everything, to know everything, and she'd been too frightened to speak out.

It was all wrong, all skewed. Why were they being so kind to her when no one had ever been kind to her before?

She wanted to cry, wanted to leap up and run. Run from them, from the house she had once known so well. But she couldn't. Where would she go? Back out into the streets? The mere thought made her shudder with revulsion and fear. She couldn't subject herself to that again. She would never survive it.

No. She couldn't run, no matter how unworthy she felt. She would stay as long as they would allow it. Perhaps, given time, she could come up with another solution, just as soon as she was strong enough. For now, all she could do was rest, mend, and hope.

She bit back a tear. It was all so frightening, so confusing. She'd been so certain that she could make it on her own. She had believed that taking the matter into her own hands was better than the alternative her family had tried to force on her. How could she have been so naive?

Perhaps Lucy was right. Maybe it would have been better to stay.

No! Never!
She would never believe that. She would never go back.

What could she do then? No future lay ahead for her. Were it not for this family, she would probably have died on the streets, alone in an alley somewhere, cold and scared.

She felt so divided. She already felt dead, as if her body would surely follow into the cold numbness where her spirit led. Already, she seemed to be moving in a surreal world, somehow separated from everything around her, as if she was watching herself from a great distance. Yet, she still had a desire to go on living. It hadn't quite been crushed. Not yet, anyway.

She brushed a tear from her cheek. It was this family. They had given her hope. They represented everything she had always wanted in life. Happiness, caring. They supported one another. They loved one another.

A rustling noise at the door drew her gaze. A maid had entered the dining hall to collect a few more plates. She smiled when she noticed her timid observer.

"Sorry, miss. Didn't mean to startle you. I just wanted to get a few more plates." She glanced down at the untouched bowl of soup. "Is it not to your liking? Would you care for anything else? Mr. Standeven has informed us that you are to have anything you like."

She struggled to find her voice. The maid's announcement came as a shock. Mr. Standeven's generosity was truly a surprise. He seemed to have no qualms whatsoever about her beggarly condition.

"That's very kind of him, but the soup is sufficient."

"Would you like me to warm it for you?"

"Thank you. But...it's fine."

"Very well then. I'll just leave you to it."

She watched the maid pick up a few last dishes and then leave the room just as quietly as she had entered. They were all so kind, so unlike the household she had grown accustomed to. Their concessions astonished her. Their caring went beyond the bounds of the humanity she had known. It gave her an odd warmth somewhere in the region of her stomach, a warmth that was slowly but surely beginning to spread throughout her body, despite all her doubt.

She gave a cautious glance around the room to make certain she was indeed alone, then turned her attention to her soup. It looked delicious, and her stomach instantly responded to the visual stimulus by emitting an insistent growl. After all they'd done for her, the least she could do was show her appreciation by eating Mrs. LeFonde's dinner before it became stone cold. Relaxing a little, she picked up her spoon and dipped it into the warm stew.

Christopher Standeven stood watching through the half open door. She looked so vulnerable sitting there, so lost. Perhaps it was the vulnerability that intrigued him so, that made his own protective instincts rise so willingly to the fore.

Who was she? He yearned to know. Never in all his life had he been more curious about another human being. Never had he stooped to the vulgarity of eavesdropping.

Eavesdropping?

When he realized the magnitude of what he was doing, his jaw tightened and he resolved to make an end of it before it got out of control. Despite the fact that she was his guest, he had no right to spy on her or to pry into her affairs. His only business with her was to provide shelter and anything else he could offer in order to help her regain her memory. That was all. In future, he would do well to remember that.

He waited until she took her first bite of stew before he quietly turned and made his way back down the hall, his curiosity forcibly quashed for the moment.

CHAPTER FIVE

Somehow, she found the bravado to make her way downstairs, to venture toward the study to retrieve a book from one of the many which sat along the oak shelves lining the walls. Mrs. Avery had encouraged her to do anything she pleased in the house, to relax and enjoy, not to be fettered by her ordeal. The older woman had insisted that she was welcome. But in the doorway, she paused, her heart beginning to throb intensely at the sight of Christopher Standeven standing in the middle of the room. He was half turned away from her, his head bowed over the sheaf of papers he held in his hands. She would have turned and left immediately, but something held her there. Something compelled her to take this opportunity to look at him, really look at him for the first time. He was so arresting, so dignified in his bearing.

He was tall, with broad shoulders and slender hips. He wore gray trousers and a white button-up shirt left open at the throat, the sleeves turned up to just below the elbows. Somehow, his attire made him look even taller, even more imposing, and more handsome. He had such striking features, with his jet-black hair, his high forehead, and his crisp blue eyes. And skin that looked smooth, touchable.

For the first time she noticed the silver strands of hair at his temples, strands that only added to his mystique. When he wasn't aware that he was being observed, he didn't seem quite as threatening, though he was nonetheless commanding. He was very intent on the paperwork he held in his hands. Something he was reading apparently displeased him.

He must have sensed her presence because he suddenly turned his head and looked directly at her. When his eyes met hers, she felt a familiar flutter of anxiety in her chest.

Christopher stared at the girl for a moment. He hadn't expected to see her roaming about the house. She was so timid that it was a bit of a surprise to find her standing just inside the doorway of the study. Not that she wasn't welcome to go about wherever she chose. She simply seemed to prefer staying away from him. She flitted about the house like a silent ghost, her bare feet a whisper against the highly polished hardwood floors, speaking only when spoken to, though she had already established a rapport with his son. She had come to trust Gerald, as she did Mrs. Avery, but she was still uncertain about Christopher. What was it about him that made her withdraw so? Was he really so imposing as all that? No doubt he had an intimidating effect on his business associates, a fact he preferred, but this was altogether different. He didn't want her to be frightened of him in any way.

His eyes swept the length of her. Despite the simple attire, a truly stunning young woman stood before him. Her hair fell to just below her collarbone, parted on the side, with a slight wave to it. It was a rich, vibrant brown, almost copper in certain lights. Her eyes were the deepest green he'd ever seen, wide and dewy. Eyes that still had a spark of innocence in them despite what she had been through. They intrigued him, begged him to protect her, and whenever she dared to turn them on him, he would have moved heaven and earth to do just that. Protect her. Fiercely, if need be.

He guessed her to be about 5'7", and had she not been out on the streets starving, she would have a curvaceous figure, the sort of figure that started wars. He silently vowed to feed her more, to replace those curves she had lost through deprivation.

She felt a quiver pass through her as Mr. Standeven's gaze took in every detail of her person, and automatically took a faltering step backwards.

"Don't go," he said, then felt a muscle twitch in his jaw, appalled that he had vocalized the sentiment. Had that really been his voice? It sounded so extrinsic, thin and even a little vulnerable, as if it had come from someone else, someone more willing to let go of inhibitions and allow emotion to speak for him.

She felt compelled to obey despite her timidity. He had such a refined, aristocratic accent, as refined as his bearing. He was an intriguing man, a man accustomed to being obeyed, a man whose thoughts were his and his alone. Such control as she'd never had.

"There was something you came here for?" Christopher was relieved to discover that he had recovered the normal timbre of his voice, the restraint.

"A book." Her voice was barely above a whisper, as though she was as afraid of speaking in his presence as she was of being near him.

"Then you are feeling better."

"Yes. I'm feeling much better, thanks to...you and your family," she said, then fell into embarrassed silence.

Only a bare nod of his head acknowledged her gratitude, while his eyes never left her face. She stood there for a time, held captive by his gaze, uncertain, riveted to the spot, too shy to even turn and leave. It seemed that he was reading her very soul with those eyes, as if he knew everything about her. Her every thought, her every fear. It was an unsettling feeling.

"Michaela." The name burst from her as if he had pulled it out of her with nothing more than his intense stare.

"Pardon?" His facial expression didn't change, but the confusion, the curiosity in his voice was undeniable.

"My name is Michaela."

He almost smiled, but not quite. "Ah, you remember. That is a good sign. Do you remember your surname, as well?"

Again, Christopher saw that panic he had become so familiar with, sapping the light from her eyes, the color from her cheeks. He placed the sheaf of papers on a nearby table and stepped forward to take her hands in both of his.

Upon contact, Michaela felt a surge of warmth flood her body, a sense of total and complete safety. His hands were large and warm, the fingers long, finely tapered, yet strong. Her pulse quickened in response. Something about his touch, something altogether wonderful made her senses take flight. Perhaps it was the very nature of his being, the fact that he was so fascinating. Whatever the case, she'd never felt anything like what she was feeling now. It was powerful, much too powerful to ever hope to fathom.

"You needn't rush yourself. It's enough that we know what to call you now. Does Mrs. Avery know?"

Michaela shook her head.

"Then you must find her and tell her at once. She will be so pleased. She likes you, you know."

Michaela felt her lips twitch upwards in a semblance of a smile. It was nice to know someone liked her.

Somehow, she found the courage to make her feet move again, to turn her back on him and walk toward the door. Just the act of walking seemed an intimidating process under his watchful eye. It felt awkward to her, as if she was just learning to do so. She could literally feel his gaze on her as she quietly padded across the floor, and she became painfully aware of her bare feet, of how ridiculous she must look in the over-sized dress. He was so prepossessing, so dignified, while she looked like a farmhand.

Why was she so intimidated by him? Why must she quake at his glance, tremble at his touch? What gave him such power over her senses? No one had ever made her feel the way he did. She felt useless and small in his presence, but at the same time alive and beautiful. It was an odd mix of feelings.

Only her father had ever had such a strong emotional impact on her. He had been daunting as well, but not especially in a good way. He'd had the power to make her dissolve into tears in seconds. Whenever he became angry, he shouted abuses, resorted to pounding his fist against the table, even threatened at times. Christopher Standeven didn't have to do any of those things. One was awed simply by his disciplined demeanor, by his sheer, unspoken will. But there was a kindness about him that her father had been missing.

An involuntary tremor passed down her spine. She didn't want to think of her father just now. The memories were far too painful. It was best to forget them, to forget everything about her past, to forget her entire family if it would make a difference.

She was almost at the door when he stopped her.

"Michaela."

His voice was soft, an irresistibly sensual brush of sound that reached out and touched her like the barest of caresses. She had no choice but to stop. Her body seemed to do so of its own volition, as if deep down she had wanted him to call her back.

"There is something I'd like to ask you."

She turned back, half-fearful again. There was no animosity in his gaze, only curiosity. But it was the curiosity that frightened her. He had questions. Questions she couldn't possibly answer for him, else he send her back. And she couldn't bear it if she had to go back.

He stepped closer, close enough to make her tremble. "When you came to us, you mentioned a Mrs. Smythe. Might I inquire as to who she is?"

She sucked in a breath, rooted to the spot. Dare she tell him? Dare she explain? Would it incriminate her? How much was too much?

She shook her head, a little confused. In truth, she didn't remember asking for Mrs. Smythe, and she told him so.

"Hmm. Curious. You seemed quite clear about it. In fact, that was the only point you seemed clear on. I thought sure you would remember her, although the doctor seems to think your amnesia came well before your fall in the driveway."

His eyes were piercing, as if he could see all that lay hidden behind her curtain of lies. Whether it was guilt or the fear that he could read her thoughts that pulled the admission from her was uncertain. She only knew that she felt compelled to give him at least this one answer.

"Y-yes. I remember her. She was the housekeeper here. When I arrived and saw Mrs. Avery, I...didn't know what to think, what to expect. It confused me that Mrs. Smythe didn't answer the door. She always answered the door."

"So, you remember her well."

It was a statement of fact, one she couldn't deny.

"Yes," she managed. Now surely she had incriminated herself. How could she possibly remember Mrs. Smythe if she couldn't remember anything else?

"She's a relative of yours?"

She shook her head. Her throat felt constricted. He was slowly but surely dragging the answers from her, and she had to fight the urge to turn and flee. How far would he get? How much would she admit to him? And how angry would he be when he discovered her secret?

"Michaela?" His voice was a whisper, almost a caress. She shivered a little at the sensation it gave her when he spoke her name aloud. She dare not look at him. She didn't want him to see the truth reflected in her eyes.

By his very presence alone, he silently urged her to answer. She couldn't pretend not to have heard him, nor could she refuse to answer. Could she?

She swallowed the lump in her throat and plunged in despite her fear. After all, she had come this far without a reprisal. "I was looking for Mrs. Hollingsworth."

An odd look crossed his face, one she couldn't fathom, and she felt a sudden stab of intense panic. Perhaps she had gone too far, told him too much. Did he know? Could he tell she didn't really have amnesia? Was he angry now, angry with her for deceiving him? Would he put her back out on the streets?

With an exquisite wrench of some elusive emotion spreading inside her chest, she became startlingly aware of how painful it would be to have his wrath directed at her. She didn't want this magnificent man to be angry with her, to have cause to despise her. But the truth was her burden to carry alone, and she didn't feel comfortable telling him just now. Perhaps not ever. She was too afraid of the consequences, of what these nice people would think of her afterwards, and she didn't want to disturb the fragile fantasy that had begun to construct itself in her mind, the fantasy that for once in her life she was truly accepted. They seemed to like her, and she couldn't bear it if that were to change.

He recaptured her attention when he half turned away from her. He lifted a hand to massage the back of his neck, as if there were sudden tension there. Michaela held her breath and waited. There was no anger in his demeanor. It seemed more like he was puzzling over something, like he found himself in a very awkward position, a dilemma he wasn't entirely sure he could resolve.

"My dear, I'm afraid you won't find Mrs. Hollingsworth here."

He said it so quietly, with such absolute certainty, that she was temporarily shocked into speechlessness. But then the import of his statement began to sink in, and her mind began to buzz with a confusing whirl of possible explanations for his pronouncement.

"Then...I have gone completely mad. Everything seems so familiar. The driveway, the yard, the hall. Everything. Even the dining room table. It's all the same."

She was babbling, her voice rising in panic. She knew it, yet she couldn't seem to stop herself. The doctor was right. She did have amnesia. Or perhaps she really was insane. Was it all just part of her madness, the crazy flight from her home, the man in the alley, the days in the streets? Was none of it real? Had it never even happened? Had her mind conjured a past for her so that she might be better equipped to deal with the trauma of her life, of living?

"Please." His voice insinuated itself into her thoughts. She looked up at him, only just then realizing that he had his hands on her shoulders. "You mustn't get so upset. You're not insane. It is the same house. It's simply that...Mrs. Hollingsworth has passed on."

"What?" she whispered, her voice tremulous with emotion. "No. It can't be. She can't be dead."

"I assure you, she is," he insisted.