The Whisper Of Wings (9 page)

She was surprised when he stepped closer. He almost reached out to touch her shoulder, as if to comfort her frazzled nerves, but seemed to think better of it and left off with a shrug.

"Mrs. Avery, I don't see you as anything but what you've always been. A sweet, caring woman. You needn't ask me if Michaela can stay on with us. I merely thought that the decision had already been made."

"Oh, sir," she gushed, relieved and overjoyed all at the same time. She'd never in her wildest imaginations believed he would agree so readily. "You won't regret it, I promise."

Christopher didn't reply, just nodded curtly. After all, he didn't want her to think he was too soft.

Then she did a truly unusual thing. She threw her arms around his neck and gave him a quick, hard hug before turning to leave. At first, he was stunned by her open affection, but then he felt a rather odd surge of acceptance settle over him, and the corners of his mouth twitched up in the barest hint of a smile.

He stopped her at the door. "Mrs. Avery."

She turned back with a smile and a twinkle in her eyes. "Yes, Mr. Standeven?"

"I want it clear from the very beginning that she is not to be one of my employees."

She stared at him, puzzled. But she didn't ask questions. It was enough that he had agreed to allow Michaela to stay.

"Yes, Mr. Standeven. And thank you. You've made me very happy."

"I'm pleased that you are."

She stood there and gazed at him for a long time, her pale blue eyes twinkling with something he hadn't seen in years, a joy that had faded when his wife had died and Gerald had grown to adulthood. It had never occurred to him before, but he realized now how much he had missed the happiness he saw in her face, the purpose.

Mrs. Avery heaved one teary sounding sigh and left the room. Christopher stood for a moment in silent reflection. Mrs. Avery had obviously had a difficult time mustering the courage to ask him what seemed like such a simple request, and the idea disturbed him. When had he become an ogre that his staff felt they had to appease? Was he really so callused as all that? He'd certainly never thought of himself as anything but generous, loyal, caring, but perhaps that wasn't the perception of others. Perhaps the old girl was right. Maybe he was putting too much of himself into his work.

He solemnly stared at the paperwork on his desk. Over the past several years, his workload had grown to staggering proportions.

Work. It was the only thing that had sustained him after his wife's passing. He'd known little else.

He reached out and picked up a ledger. This was familiar. This was what he did, who he was. Why should he question it now?

With a sigh, he sat down, his mind already back on the work at hand. Let the rest of the household concern themselves with their new charge, at least for the time being, anyway. He had work to do.

Sometime later, Gerald stopped by the study. He politely knocked against the panel of the open door and waited for his father to look up and give him a nod of permission before entering.

"Something on your mind, Gerald?" Christopher inquired, his eyes on the paperwork he'd been trying so desperately to resolve.

Gerald casually seated himself in the chair opposite the desk. "I was just thinking about Michaela."

"Mm. As everyone seems to be," Christopher murmured. He pushed the paperwork aside and met his son's gaze with an air of resignation. "What is it that you wanted to discuss?"

Gerald fidgeted for a moment, then seemed to bolster himself enough to speak his mind. He wasn't nearly as nervous as Mrs. Avery had been, but he was clearly uncomfortable. "I was just wondering how long you were willing to let Michaela stay on here."

Christopher hid a smile. Obviously, Gerald hadn't spoken with Mrs. Avery yet. His son didn't know the girl's fate had already been decided for her.

"Until she regains her memory, I suppose."

Gerald nodded, his eyes carefully averted.

"Is there something else, Gerald? You seem a bit concerned."

"I was just thinking that perhaps we could find something useful for her to do, so that she won't feel like a charity case. It's very important that she feel accepted."

Christopher's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "She's almost a complete stranger among us. There's bound to be some discomfort on both sides," he pointed out.

When Gerald didn't make any further comment, he continued, "I've already made it quite clear to Mrs. Avery that I will not put our guest in my employ. Otherwise, she may do as she pleases."

Gerald's eyes darted up to meet his father's, and he was hard pressed to stifle his glee. It hadn't exactly been a resounding acquiescence, but it was acquiescence all the same. Michaela was a part of the household now, just as much as any of them were. He would never have thought his father would tolerate it, but he had. By some odd twist of fate, he had. Gerald didn't question it. He was merely glad that Michaela could stay.

Gerald stood up and extended his hand across the desk between them. "Thank you, Father. You won't regret it," he said as he gave his father's hand a grateful pump, literally beaming now. "I suppose I should let you get back to work now."

"Yes," Christopher murmured, watching his son curiously.

"Gerald?" He called him back just as he reached the door.

Gerald turned and lifted a questioning brow.

"Just one thing. Why? Why do you want Michaela to stay on with us?"

Gerald glanced down at the floor, as if pondering the question, then shrugged before meeting his father's gaze again. "I don't know."

Christopher watched his son leave the room. Indeed. That would have been his answer, as well...if anyone had asked. But no one had. No one save for himself.

He sighed and ran a hand across the back of his neck. His shoulders were oddly tense. Perhaps it was the rash decision he'd been asked to make. Not that it was unexpected. He had decided Michaela's fate almost the moment she had opened her eyes and looked up at him on that very first day. That was the only time her gaze hadn't been tinged with fear, when she had been carefully assessing him as he stood there looking down at her. Would to God that he could see those beautiful green eyes absent of fear once again.

It was so strange, though, when he really analyzed it. What made such a rigid, disciplined man as himself do something so...youthful? He'd never taken in a stranger in all his life. Why now? And why this half-starved young woman?

Why indeed?

He only hoped he didn't live to regret it. Decisions that were ruled by the heart had a tendency toward disaster.

He frowned. Something else had been plaguing him for the past few days. The amnesia. He wasn't convinced that Michaela's amnesia wasn't by choice. He knew the streets had stripped her of everything she possessed, but what had driven her into the streets to begin with? She was clearly well bred. The way she spoke, her mannerisms. She knew all the proper etiquette. What had happened to make her give it all up? And why did she want to suppress it? Could he ever coax the truth from her? Was that why he allowed her to stay on, just to satisfy his own curiosity? Or was there more?

Still frowning, he picked up the phone and called a local private investigator. He had waited long enough. It was time to get some answers.

Alone in the bed upstairs, Michaela frowned and whimpered in her sleep. Damp with fear, her hands clutched at the blanket draped across her hips, her head tossing back and forth. A cry of alarm fell from her lips as she jolted out of sleep, her chest heaving from the ordeal of trying to break herself out of the dream, a dream that was slowly but surely becoming a recurring nightmare.

Sobbing in frustration, she climbed out of bed and hurried into the bathroom to run some cool water over her face. If she could only scrub the memory away. But she couldn't. No matter how hard she scrubbed with the cloth, she couldn't get rid of the feeling of that man's hands on her body, bruising her thighs, hurting her, pressing into her flesh.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Mrs. Avery stood aside and watched as Michaela opened the next box. Michaela beamed with delight at what she found inside.

"Oh, Mrs. Avery! They're all so beautiful. I've never seen such beautiful clothing."

"I'm glad you're pleased. I was afraid I'd gotten the wrong size. Or the wrong colors."

"There are so many of them," she murmured, her gaze once again going over the packages evenly laid out before her. They literally swamped her big bed, huge boxes full of dresses and stockings and shoes, even gloves to match. Mrs. Avery had sneaked them into her room and then called her in from the garden. Michaela was astounded to find her bed piled with parcels of every size and description. Mrs. Avery urged her to open them, and Michaela squealed with absolute wonder when she saw the organza dress in the first box she chose.

Before long, she tore into the other boxes, each one a delight in itself. She'd grown tired of wearing the two borrowed dresses. She'd missed having a wardrobe of her own, and these new clothes were a welcome surprise.

Her eyes shining with enthusiasm, she picked up one of the stockings and fingered it. It was pure silk. Mesmerized by the beautiful array of fabrics before her, she let the stocking drop from her hand to flutter back down into its box, and then touched the dress beside it.

"Oh, they're perfect. Just perfect...." Her hands suddenly went still and she stood transfixed beside the bed, the light in her eyes abruptly extinguished.

Mrs. Avery stepped forward and put a hand on her shoulder. "What is it, dearie?"

Michaela couldn't meet her eyes. She felt so ashamed. She suddenly realized that she couldn't possibly keep the gift. It was far too extravagant, and she had no way of repaying Mrs. Avery. "H-how did you pay for all this? Surely, you can't afford clothing like this."

"Mr. Standeven paid for them."

Michaela turned perplexed eyes on her, a frown between her delicate brows. "Mr. Standeven?"

"He insisted."

Michaela shook her head. "But...."

"Now, don't you worry about a thing, dear. We all wanted you to have your own clothes. It's only right and fair. Don't you go thinking all those negative things."

Michaela shook her head again. "It's not right. I can't accept these."

"But—"

Before Agnes had the chance to voice her protest, Michaela snatched up the nearest box and fled the room, such a look of determination on the girl's face as she'd never seen before.

Christopher was shocked when his shy houseguest suddenly presented herself in his study, carrying a box of new clothing with her. Without waiting for permission to enter, she strode toward the desk with uncharacteristic purpose, and a strength that was at once intriguing and curious. He rose from his chair and started round the desk to meet her halfway. As if it were somehow vile or indecent, she thrust the box at him, catching him somewhere in the mid-gut region. She let go of it before he had the chance to grasp hold of it, and he had to compensate quickly to keep the package from falling to the floor.

"I cannot accept these," she insisted. She spoke with considerable force, her eyes intently trained on some point just beyond his shoulder, her jaw set in determination.

He glanced down at the box. He suddenly understood what she must feel, the assumption she must have made at encountering his generous gift. But he wasn't fool enough to address it. If she had assumed he was offering to
keep
her, he didn't want to embarrass her further by explaining that making her a kept woman was not his intention. He must find another way to make her understand that he only wanted her to have the security of possessing her own wardrobe.

"Are they not to your satisfaction?" he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Her gaze flickered to his face, only to flit back to the unseen spot over his shoulder again when she realized he was studying her. She was suddenly unsure of herself again—his question had surprised her—and her courage wavered. She hadn't meant to sound so ungrateful.

"They are far more than I deserve," she managed, still avoiding his gaze, though she could feel his eyes on her, intent, searching, as always.

"You don't honestly believe that, do you?"

She didn't answer. She couldn't. Of course, she believed it. She wouldn't have said it if she didn't.

She was startled when he stepped forward and put a finger under her chin to tip her head back, forcing her to look up at him. Her heart began to hammer painfully against her ribcage, and his next words made her breath catch in her throat. He was so close, so disturbingly close.

"Michaela, no matter what everyone else has led you to believe, you deserve happiness."

She was momentarily mesmerized, by his voice and by the warmth of his hand under her chin. His eyes drew her into their depths, inviting her into the secure haven they so clearly offered. Why? Why was he being so kind to her? Did she truly deserve it? Could he make her believe that?

"I...." She paused, and the tip of her tongue darted out to moisten dry lips. "I can't repay you. For the clothes. I don't know h-how."

Christopher suddenly became aware that he was far too conscious of her nearness, and dropped his hand away from her chin.

Michaela perceived the gesture as rejection. His expression was closed, and she immediately became guarded.

"You don't have to repay me," he murmured, so low that she almost didn't hear him. He seemed to have withdrawn into himself again, his mind elsewhere.

"You've been too kind as it is," she murmured.

"Michaela, do you like it here?"

The question caught her by surprise, but she managed to answer. "Yes."

"Enough to stay on?"

Michaela was so stunned by the question that she couldn't speak.

He turned to look at her, his eyes demanding an answer. "Would you like to stay on with us?"

"Stay on?" she questioned, still confused.

"Yes. I'm sure we can find something for you to do."

"Do?"

"You seem to be overly concerned about repaying me for a kindness I never wanted to hold in account."

She was speechless. She hadn't expected this.

"We would all like you to stay on with us. I'm not asking you to be my employee. I have plenty enough of those. But if you would like to do something, if it would help you feel like the scales were more balanced, then I'm sure we can oblige you."

The phone on the desk began to ring shrilly. At first, Christopher intended to ignore it, to wait for Mrs. Avery to pick up from the other room. When she didn't—presumably she had her hands full elsewhere—his eyes automatically went to the black rotary unit on the desk. He studied it for a second, then glanced back at Michaela. She stood before him, her eyes downcast, her hands twisting together in front of her. Despite the bravado she had displayed in refusing the clothing, she was still a frightened little waif, still uncertain of her surroundings, of her future. He felt a twist of empathy for her.

"Michaela."

She lifted her chin to look at him, to acknowledge the softly spoken way in which he said her name. The way he seemed always to say her name, that way about him that warmed the chill in her heart.

"Will you answer that for me?"

Her eyes widened as if he'd just asked her to step out in front of a moving locomotive. "Pardon?" Her voice trembled when she spoke.

"The telephone. Will you answer it?"

Eager to please, she slowly stepped forward and picked up the receiver.

"Standeven residence. How may I be of service?" she murmured into the mouthpiece, though her voice was a bit tremulous from the anxiety of having to answer a total stranger's phone, and the anxiety of being watched so closely by Mr. Standeven.

"It's a Mr. James Telford calling for you," she told him, her gaze somewhere in the middle of his chest. She couldn't look him in the eye. She was still too intimidated by him.

"Take a message. Use the pen on my desk, there. And the paper," he instructed, his eyes never leaving her face.

She did just as he requested, carefully writing the man's name and telephone number on the paper her host had indicated. Then she politely thanked the man for calling, assured him that Mr. Standeven would return his call, and gently placed the receiver back in its cradle. When she turned back to face the head of the household, the piece of paper in her hand, his eyes literally burned into hers. For a moment, she thought she'd done something wrong, but he quickly dispelled the notion.

"Very good. I think we've just decided what you can do for me to make you feel more comfortable about my hospitality."

She stared at him, puzzled.

"You can take over the task of answering the phone and taking down messages for me."

"It seems like such a small service," she answered. But he could hear the hint of hopefulness in her voice.

"Oh, but I assure you it isn't. Not really. As I am a very busy man, personal phone calls can be an irritating interruption. And I'm sure Mrs. Avery will be grateful for the respite, since it often interrupts her work, as well."

She was silent as she contemplated this, not realizing that she was gazing up at him rather directly now. She had become painfully aware of how very blue his eyes looked behind sooty black lashes.

"Michaela?"

His voice jarred her back to reality again, and her gaze anxiously flitted away from his, only to fall upon his hands. She was instantly captivated by them, and as much as she tried, she couldn't seem to look away.

"Of course, you don't have to do anything at all. You could always just relax and enjoy my hospitality. It wouldn't be...."

He paused when she lifted the piece of paper and nervously held it out to him. He raised his hand to meet hers and was surprised by his own reaction when their fingers accidentally brushed. But he squelched the feeling before it could germinate.

"Does that mean you want to answer the phone for me?"

She continued to avoid his gaze. "If you really need someone to do it."

"I do."

"Then I accept the duty," she said, sealing the decision.

"Very good. I'm sure it will be mutually beneficial for both of us." He smiled indulgently. "Mrs. Avery usually keeps a pen and paper by the phone in the hall. Feel free to use either outlet."

She stood there rather awkwardly for a moment, then glanced briefly at him before taking a tentative step toward the door.

"Thank you, Mr. Standeven," she murmured, then turned on her heel and left him alone in the study.

Christopher stood staring at the open door that now stood empty of her presence. Enchanting creature, their Michaela. Like a delicate fawn left alone in the wilderness to brave such things as a fawn was not accustomed to. Frightened and helpless, eager for companionship and shelter, and not knowing where to turn. A pity. He would like to see Michaela enjoying all the wonderful things life had to offer. Perhaps one day he would be able to show her some of those wonderful things. Perhaps.

He sighed and turned his back on the door. He was being hopelessly romantic. He shouldn't allow himself such ridiculous meanderings. The girl was more suited to his son. He frowned at the thought and then wondered why the idea made him feel so irritable. Damn this hand fate had dealt him. He had nothing against Michaela herself, only the fact that she was having such an effect on him. She had disrupted more than just his household.

Over the next few days, Michaela settled into her duty of answering the phone quite nicely. Christopher was well pleased that she was gaining confidence, pleased by the new assurance he heard in her voice whenever he listened from the study as she answered the phone down the hall. Her spirits seemed to have lifted a great deal, and she was more settled among the family, more trusting, more relaxed. The normal functioning of the household had managed to recover some of its order and ritual, and as he watched her go about the house in that quiet, unassuming way she had, he could almost believe that she had always been a part of the household. She fit in so well, seemed to belong somehow. Slowly but surely he was beginning to realize how much he liked having her around. He liked it very much.

Then one morning he found himself alone in the study with Michaela. She had just stepped in to leave a neatly written phone message on the edge of his desk. She always placed them just so, on the very outer edge, somewhere that they were easily visible but where they wouldn't interfere with his current work or accidentally get mixed in with the other paperwork. He stared at the small squares of paper, at the neat loops of her handwriting, loops he had grown so accustomed to and somewhat fond of. She was so meticulous in everything she did, wanting everything to be just right, so precise and thoughtful. Like everything else she did, it pleased him.

"Michaela."

Michaela was halfway to the door when he stopped her. Hoping she didn't appear too eager, she slowly turned to face him. Except for a few comments about her day over dinner, he hadn't really spoken to her since last week when he'd asked her to take over the task of answering the phone for him. In that brief space of time, she'd come to realize how very much she enjoyed his company, whatever company he might feel inclined to offer. She enjoyed listening to that wonderful voice, the beautiful British accent. His voice at once soothed and delighted, all the while sending shivers of anticipation all through her body. It was a wicked and delicious pleasure she refused to squelch, despite the many reasons that she should.