The Whisper Of Wings (7 page)

She stared at him, horrified, hot tears already beginning to stream down her face. She shook her head, half to clear it, half to negate the unbearable truth. Her knees were suddenly weak, and she felt herself slipping away before she could do anything about it.

Christopher caught her before she slumped to the floor, hoisting her into his arms and carrying her to the couch. He had been certain the news would be a shock to her, but he had known no other way to deliver it than simply stating it as the fact it was.

She hadn't really fainted, had just gone completely limp from the emotional blow. She was able to sit up when he placed her on the couch, though she no longer seemed aware that she was even doing so. In fact, she didn't seem aware of much of anything at all. She was more upset than he had expected, almost catatonic as she stared into space, tear after unchecked tear trickling down her cheeks.

At a complete loss, he rang for Mrs. Avery, hoping that perhaps she could help. Being the closest to the girl, perhaps she could offer some solace, something he was unable to give. Not for lack of want but rather for lack of knowing how to go about it. He was far too ignorant when it came to these matters of human emotion, terribly uncertain as to how one should deal with them.

When Mrs. Avery didn't appear quickly enough to suit him, he stuck his head out into the hall and shouted for her. He never shouted for the servants—he was far too British for that—and the unusual conduct on his part must have frightened her, for she instantly came out of the kitchen, drying her hands with the edge of her apron. Christopher was damn relieved to see her.

"What is it, Mr. Standeven? Has something happened?" she called as she hurried down the hall toward him, her face etched with concern.

"Do hurry, woman," he urged, with a bit more of a bite to his tone than he intended. "It's our guest. I'm afraid the news of Mrs. Hollingsworth's death proved a bit much for her."

Mrs. Avery pushed past him into the room, anxious to get to her precious charge. "Oh, dear," she murmured when her eyes took in the pathetic creature who still sat numbly on the couch staring into space.

"Yes, well. I suppose I should have been a little more subtle about it," Christopher muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

Mrs. Avery ignored him, just went straight to the couch and sat down next to the girl. She put both arms around her, pressed her tightly against her side, and began rocking her gently. "There, there, dear. Poor, poor dear."

The comfort the matronly woman offered brought a well of fresh tears pouring down Michaela's face, and she began to sob as Mrs. Avery drew her head down to her shoulder.

"I have no one now. No one to turn to," she whispered through her tears.

She negated the plea in her voice by pulling away from Mrs. Avery and straightening her spine as if she were preparing to go into battle. "I should go now. I won't be a bother any longer."

"I think we've already established that you will stay," Christopher intervened. He couldn't very well let her go off in such a state.

"But...without Mrs. Hollingsworth, I...." She turned her eyes up to meet his, and he felt something sharp shoot through his chest, something indefinable. The torture in her eyes, the uncertainty, the fear...it was almost tangible. "I have no reason to live."

"But of course you do," Mrs. Avery insisted, taking her limp hand in both her strong ones. "Don't be silly."

"She would have helped me," Michaela said, turning her tear-filled eyes on the elder woman again.

Moved to distraction by the pain she saw in the young woman's face, Agnes strongly declared, "I will help you just the same." She turned to look at Mr. Standeven. "We all will."

"But you don't even know me," Michaela argued.

"We know you well enough," Christopher said. He stepped closer and knelt down before her to put a reassuring hand on her knee. "I don't want you to worry anymore that you are imposing. That is the furthest thing from the truth. You must only concern yourself with getting well."

When she looked as though she might argue the point, he was quick to stop her. "Michaela, you are welcome in my home."

He gave her knee a little pat and stood up. "Now, I don't want to hear any more about you leaving. At least, not until you are well enough to make that decision for yourself. You may stay as long as you like, as long as it takes to get your memory back. Then, when you are comfortable with it, you may talk about leaving us."

Michaela stared down at the spot on her knee where his hand had been, almost wishing it was still there. She felt oddly empty since he had withdrawn his touch.

"Now then," Mrs. Avery crooned. "You see. It will be all right after all."

They were trying so hard to comfort her, to make her feel welcome among them. The least she could do was be more polite about accepting their generosity.

"Thank you," she managed. But she couldn't quite make herself look at Mr. Standeven. She felt so clumsy and awkward again, as she always seemed to feel whenever she was in his presence.

"You are most welcome," he returned, his voice that odd mixture of crisp business and husky concern again, that mixture that so intrigued her.

"I just didn't expect to hear such news. I didn't know," she sniffed, not knowing what else to say.

"It was quite sudden," he explained.

Mrs. Avery gave her hand a gentle squeeze, and Michaela rewarded her by meeting her eyes, a silent "thank you" in her gaze.

"The house belongs to her niece now," Christopher went on. Somehow, the remark didn't seem appropriate to the circumstances, but the short silences between them were filled with a crackling tension and awkwardness that bordered on the unbearable. Odd, he had always enjoyed silence, solitude. He even used silence in his business associations. It proved a trustworthy tactic to put the other man off guard. Now he was experiencing that same uncertainty they must feel. And for the first time in his life he found himself wanting to fill the silences instead of enjoy them or use them. Bloody hell, he was actually buckling under a case of the nerves. How could a man of his phenomenal discipline, a man so respected, and sometimes feared, by his business associates be so affected by a mere slip of a woman?

"Lucy," she murmured.

He turned to stare at her. She was beginning to remember quite a lot. "Then you know the family?"

"Yes. That is, I...did."

When Michaela finally tipped her chin up to look at him, Christopher was relieved to see that her tears had stopped. Her eyes were much clearer now, full of healthy curiosity. She was strong after all. She would pull through.

"If Lucy still owns the house, then why...."

He already knew what she was getting at. What was he doing in a house that was owned by someone else? "She lives with her husband now. He has a sizeable estate. They have no need for this house, but apparently, she doesn't have the heart to sell it. I've rented it for a time."

"You know her well?"

He shook his head. "I've never even met her. The broker explained it all to me."

She nodded.

"Michaela. This Lucy, was she a friend of yours?"

Michaela nervously toyed with the fabric of her skirt. Perhaps she had sounded too sure of herself, too sure of everything. Had it been a mistake?

His eyes were probing hers now, trying to read the answer in her expression. "You said you had no one to turn to now. If she's a friend—"

Before he'd even finished, Michaela pulled her hand out of Mrs. Avery's and started to rise. "I should leave. I really shouldn't be imposing on you. It's wrong."

He put a gentle hand on her shoulder and pressed her back down onto the couch. "Wrong? Is it wrong for one human being to help another?"

She shook her head, her eyes never leaving his. She couldn't seem to tear her gaze away from his, and she had a terrible urge to fidget. It was all she could do to keep from giving in to the anxiety, to keep him from seeing just how strongly he affected her. "I suppose not. It's just that...."

"Go on," he urged.

"I don't belong here. I...." Her eyes clouded, and he could see the fear in them again. "I don't know where I belong anymore."

"All the more reason for you to stay on with us, dearie," Mrs. Avery comforted. "Until you remember where you belong."

"What if I never remember?"

"Then you will have a new family," Mrs. Avery answered. "I'll be your family. And you'll become so tired of being stuck with a fussy old woman trying to take care of you that you'll forget that you don't remember how you came to be with us. And I won't mind a bit. I've never had a family of my own, except for Gerald and Mr. Standeven."

Christopher towered over the two of them, Mrs. Avery's prattling fading and blending into the questions he still had, the questions that were as yet unanswered. He was trying to be patient, but it was bloody difficult considering his curiosity was so overpowering.

"Michaela, I need to understand why you came to Mrs. Hollingsworth. Why didn't you feel that you could trust her daughter? If you can remember, I'd like you to tell me."

Michaela felt her heart change speeds again, and her voice quavered when she finally managed to speak. "Trust?"

He didn't answer for a time, only stared down at her, and she had the distinct impression that he understood more about what she was feeling than he was willing to divulge. Perhaps he was even protecting her, just a little.

"You've had enough trauma for one day," he finally said, a slight frown resting between his brows. Whether or not it was a frown of disapproval she couldn't tell. "I think perhaps we should let you rest now."

Michaela stood up, immensely relieved at being dismissed. If she had to stay in the same room with him under that probing gaze of his for another second, she was certain she would buckle. She already feared that she'd said too much, far too much.

Christopher watched her walk to the door. She half scurried, half ran from him, her gaze carefully averted so he couldn't read her expression. Mrs. Avery would've followed the girl, but he gave a slight shake of his head, indicating that he wished her to stay behind.

"She needs shoes."

He didn't bother to mince words with his housekeeper. He felt as if all the patience had been drained from him, and he was oddly irritable. The girl he now knew as Michaela still withheld her trust from him, and it rankled him to the core. She seemed to trust everyone else. Why not him? Hadn't he been magnanimous enough?

But he wasn't entirely alone. There was Lucy, a woman she had once called friend. Michaela had obviously lost whatever trust her friend had once held. Why?

The puzzle was becoming ever more intriguing.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Standeven," Mrs. Avery said. "We couldn't find anything among the maids that would fit. Perhaps I—"

"I want you to take her out, get her some clothing of her own, some shoes. Until her amnesia has passed.... Well, she can't very well go anywhere until she knows where she is to go. But she will need clothing if she is to stay in my house, is that understood? Clothing of her own. I won't have her slinking about looking like a beggar."

Agnes stifled a smile. Mr. Standeven was being especially generous. Perhaps the girl had touched his heart after all. Until now, he'd always been the very epitome of disciplined crispness. Clearly, their little guest had gotten under his skin.

"That will be all," he brusquely stated.

She obediently hurried out the door.

Alone in the study again, Christopher turned back to his paperwork, but he couldn't force his mind away from thoughts of Michaela. He was pleased that she had remembered her name. Now they knew what to call her. It lent a rather more personal effect. She wasn't just
the
girl
anymore. She was Michaela, a beautiful young woman. But at the same time he felt a sense of regret. The sooner she recovered her memory, the sooner she would be leaving them. The idea disturbed him more than he cared to admit. Perhaps he shouldn't press the issue quite so intently.

Annoyed with himself, he snatched up the paperwork he had previously tossed aside. He was being ridiculous. Of course, she should recover her memory. It was best for all of them, especially for him. He hadn't been able to get anything accomplished since her arrival.

Blast it all, he couldn't quite squelch the notion that she was very deliberately hiding something from him, something important. The fact that she hadn't wanted to discuss Lucy probably meant that she remembered all too well why she no longer trusted her old friend. Perhaps Lucy had betrayed that friendship. And if Michaela remembered that, then she remembered other things, as well. Things she didn't want to talk about.

CHAPTER SIX

Michaela watched the street from the second story bedroom window.
Her
bedroom, Mrs. Avery kept insisting, though she still wasn't quite comfortable enough with her circumstances to think of it as such. Nor had she been able to bring herself to wander about the rest of the house at will. That would seem presumptuous, and she didn't want her gracious host to think she took his hospitality for granted. Lord knows, she didn't. It had never been in her nature to take anything for granted.

She sighed and pressed her forehead against the pane of glass. The mere thought of leaving this house now, of braving those treacherous streets that taunted from just the other side of the gate, made her cringe inwardly. She had never been so anxious about anything in all her life. Yet, a departure was inevitable. She had no place here in this household, not with the only woman who could have helped her having passed on. These people weren't her family. They weren't even her friends. They were barely acquaintances. Could she really continue to impose on them?

She loved Mrs. Avery already. The woman was like a mother to her, the sort of mother she'd always dreamed of having. Perfect, caring, endearing. She couldn't bear the thought of leaving that behind. But how long could she expect their welcome to last? How longsuffering would Mr. Standeven be to her presence in his household? She knew it would wear thin eventually, despite his insistence that she was no burden. She was nothing but a burden, a woman well beyond marriageable years, a woman virtually worthless in every way. Hadn't her father always told her that she was of no use unless she made the right connection, a sanctioned connection?

"God cursed me with two daughters,"
he'd been known to say.

And Mother. The woman's vicious words still rang in her ears.
"You were very fortunate to receive a proposal from such an upstanding, educated man at your age. A Yelvington no less. Twenty-six is too old. What will you do when you're thirty, when no man will offer? You have no respect for this family, Michaela. You never did. Would to God you were more like your sister. She did the right thing."

Michaela pressed her hands over her ears, as if to shut out the anger in those ghostly voices. But it was no use. Those memories would never leave her. She could run to the ends of the earth and still be haunted by the bitterness and betrayal of her family. They hadn't cared for her. How could she possibly believe that complete strangers would come to care?

Even Lucy, who had once understood, had turned against her. Mr. Standeven had wondered why she felt she couldn't trust her old friend. Dear Lucy. She had been on mother's side.

"It's not so bad as all that. Besides, when the babies come, everything will change. You'll have something to love, someone to love you back."

"Will I?"
had been her only reply.

"Oh, Michaela, you make it sound like a death sentence."

"For me it is. Don't you see that, Lucy?"

She'd grown tired of everyone thinking they knew what was best for her. They didn't know anything!

Trust Lucy? Once upon a time, she had. But no longer. She didn't dare run the risk of Lucy alerting someone to her whereabouts.

She couldn't go back there. She wouldn't. Not ever.

She dropped her hands back into her lap—she didn't want to remember anymore—and turned her gaze to the garden beneath the window. It was still beautiful. At least Lucy had done that much for her mother. Eugenia had so loved her garden.

Michaela closed her eyes against the overwhelming grief. It was still painful to think that Eugenia was gone. It had been a year since she'd visited this house. It didn't seem so long ago, but it had been enough time for her beloved friend to go and leave her behind in this wretched world. She was alone, truly alone, and the full import of that realization was beginning to weigh heavily on her heart, making the fear, the panic even more real, even more of a problem.

"Oh, Eugenia," she whispered. "I'm going to miss you so much."

She opened her eyes and stared down at the garden. Perhaps she would go down and spend some time among the roses Eugenia had loved so much. Maybe the memories would make her feel better.

If only she'd known how difficult it would be out on the streets alone. If she'd known, would she have made the same rash decision? That was such a difficult question to answer. At the time, she'd felt like she would rather die than live another minute under those conditions. Here, she was safe. For a time, anyway. She liked these people, and they liked her. Or at least some of them did. She wasn't yet certain of Christopher Standeven.

She sighed again. She shouldn't concern herself with it now. She had promised Mrs. Avery that she would concentrate on nothing else but regaining her strength and her memory.

If only it were that simple. She needed to lean on someone, to ease the burden for a precious few moments. She wanted so desperately to trust, but she'd never really been free to trust. She'd always held a tiny piece of herself back, afraid of the rejection, the ridicule her private dreams would surely receive. Her father had seen to that. When she had confided her one, true desire, he had castigated her continually for it.

She didn't want to think about that anymore. Daddy was gone now, and he would never again be able to abuse her. Even so, the guilt was a crushing weight on her shoulders, always there, his voice always haunting her. He had believed he was right. She had believed he was wrong. But now.... Now she was beginning to wonder if he had been right after all, and that was more than she could bear. It made her feel awful inside, somehow cheated.

In a way, she had been cheated. She felt as if her spirit, her life-force had been torn from her body. And yet this family was trying to give her back her soul, her life. Though they knew little about her, they were trying to help. She wished she could trust them with the truth, but she couldn't bring herself to make that decision yet.

As hard as she tried to rid herself of them, the worries continued to plague her. She left the window seat in search of solace elsewhere, anything to take her mind off the fear of finding herself on the street again. Careful so as not to be heard, she opened the bedroom door and peered out into the hall. When she was certain the hallway was clear, she stepped out and moved on silent feet to the stairs. Each step was cautious, and she listened intently for sounds of life in other parts of the house. She didn't want anyone to see her right now. She wanted to be alone, wanted to get to the garden, to smell the fragrance of the blossoms there, to enjoy the sun, to try to forget.

But fate would not allow her the comfort of complete solitude. Outside, she found Gerald sitting on one of the benches in the rose garden. She hadn't seen him from the bedroom window. Her steps faltered, and she wondered if she should turn back. When he heard her footsteps on the path, he glanced up and gave her a welcoming smile, the sort of smile a lonely heart couldn't resist.

"Good morning, Michaela. What a pleasant surprise to see you. Come to enjoy the garden, have you?"

She felt a smile warm her own lips. She couldn't resist Gerald's boyish charm, his easy spirit, his carefree enjoyment of every aspect of life. He was such a gentle man, so kind and giving. Surely, he could be trusted. Dare she?

"Please, join me," he said, gesturing to the empty space of bench beside him.

A bit hesitant, she murmured, "I don't want to intrude."

"You're doing nothing of the sort. I'm glad of the company."

"Well, if you're sure...."

"I am," he insisted.

She relaxed and slipped onto the bench next to him.

"Now, see there. That wasn't so difficult, was it?"

She shook her head, her lashes hiding her downcast eyes.

"It's a beautiful garden, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is," she answered, her fingers twisting together in her lap. She noticed the gesture and quickly tried to squelch the nervous habit.

She braved a peek in his direction. Once again, she was struck by how different he was from his father. The brown hair, the hazel eyes, the slightness of his shoulders. It was all such a contrast to Christopher Standeven's startlingly charismatic persona. Yet, it didn't detract from the sheer wonderfulness of Gerald's personality. He might not be a replica of his father's strength and discipline, but he was certainly compelling enough in his own unique way, if only for his warmth and generosity.

"I came out to remember Mrs. Hollingsworth," she stammered.

Gerald had been gazing skyward, watching a few fluffy clouds as they lazily traversed the blue canopy above, but he turned his head to look at her now, his expression serious.

"I'm sorry, Michaela. She must have been a very good friend to you."

Michaela was barely able to bite back a tear. "Yes, she was."

"It's always a shocking blow to lose a friend." His voice was soft, tender, and she sensed rather than saw his gaze still on her. When he reached out to take her hand, she didn't pull away. She was glad for his gesture. It helped ease some of her fear, and she drew comfort from the solace he offered. It seemed so simple, so easy, this reaching out to touch another human being. Not just with hands but with hearts. A lump formed in her throat, and she wanted to weep for all the years that she hadn't received this one simple kindness.

"I know you don't feel so now, Michaela, but everything will work out. You're in good hands. We'll see to it that everything turns out for the best."

She nodded silently. She couldn't speak for holding back the tears that threatened.

"Father may be a bit hard to take at times, so rigid and business-like, but when he puts his mind to something, nothing can stop him. And I think he's put his mind to protecting you, whether he's admitted that to himself or not. He does have a soft spot in him somewhere."

"Do you really think so?" she queried hopefully. "I feel like such an imposter."

"You're no imposter, my dear. Just a wounded angel that has had an unfortunate brush with the seamy side of life."

She almost laughed. "I'm no angel, really."

"Oh, don't deny it. Everyone can see it. In fact, I do believe I see a feather right there, caught in your hair." Teasing, he made as if to reach up and brush it away, and was rewarded when she brought her gaze up to sweep his.

"Angels mend. They always do. God has a special place in his heart for them. He can't have them running about in a state of distress."

"You're too kind, Mr. Standeven," she murmured, then shyly looked back down at her hands. His was still entwined with hers, and the corners of her mouth twitched upwards ever so slightly when he gave her fingers a gentle squeeze.

"You're just too modest to admit how special you are, Michaela."

"How can you know I'm special? You've only just met me."

"It's in the eyes."

She started to shake her head to deny it, but he made a chiding noise in his throat, and she obediently stopped the motion.

"I won't hear otherwise, my dear. I'm afraid I've created an entire fantasy around you, and I won't have you bursting my bubble."

She did laugh then, but only briefly. For a split second, she'd been certain she felt something akin to freedom, some sort of enjoyment she'd long since forgotten how to partake of, and a tiny thread of hope flitted through her heart, there and gone in an instant. If only she could grab hold of it next time, grab hold and never let go.

Gerald sighed and returned his gaze to the sky. "Do you like the sky, Michaela?"

"Very much so."

"And clouds?"

She nodded.

"Will you watch the clouds with me?"

She tipped her head back and studied the sky for a moment. There were only a few clouds there, perfectly white and cottony, hung against a clear blue backdrop. She loved the sky. Always had. As a young girl, she'd enjoyed lying on her back and watching them drift along while she daydreamed of beautiful people who lived in wonderful places.

She frowned and dropped her gaze back to the cobblestones at her feet. If only they were happier memories. If only she'd been allowed to dream. But not for a second had anyone cared enough to let her be herself.

"Michaela?"

She glanced up to find Gerald watching her again.

"I'm sorry. It's just that...."

"You don't have to explain." He gave her hand another squeeze. "When you're ready. Only when you're ready."

"Thank you, she whispered.

He let go of her hand and turned his body to face her more directly. "What can I do for you, Michaela? What can I do to help?"

She thought carefully for a moment. He sounded so sincere, as if it would please him to please her. And perhaps there was one thing he could do for her.

"Well, Mr. Standeven—"

"Gerald," he gently reminded. "I insist that you call me Gerald. All my friends do."

She smiled and was almost surprised that she could afford so many. Gerald seemed to have that effect on her. He could chase away all her doubts and fears.

"I fear that what I am about to ask you may be an imposition."