The Whisper Of Wings

by Cassandra Ormand

  Her gaze fluttered to the floor again, her entire body quaking at all the attention she was receiving, especially from one so commanding. She felt small in his presence, insignificant, even more so when she thought about how she'd come to be there. How could he be so magnanimous, so unruffled? He acted as though it were the most natural thing in the world to take a young woman, a stranger, in off the streets. How could she ever thank him, all of them? It would be so awkward.

  When she didn't respond, Christopher allowed her hand to slip from his. He hadn't really anticipated an answer from her. In view of her amnesia, he couldn't very well expect her to be at ease with conversation, especially considering that they were all strangers to her. She must feel terribly out of place, poor girl.

  The moment he relinquished her hand, she felt an odd sense of abandonment and isolation. His clasp had been firm, yet gentle, so warm and inviting that for a scant moment she had felt a deep sense of security. It was the only real assurance she'd felt in a very long time, and she was loath to let it slip away so soon.

  She peeked at him through her lowered lashes. He didn't seem to notice her awkward silence, her obvious angst, or perhaps he simply didn't want to make light of it, for he was already urging them all in the direction of the table.

  "Shall we be seated? Mrs. LeFonde went to great pains to prepare the meal, and she doesn't take kindly to a lack of interest."

  It was Mr. Standeven who held her chair until she was seated, his proximity enough to jangle her already frazzled nerves, Mr. Standeven who signaled that they should all begin the meal. He was so clearly the head of the household, so dynamic she could scarcely be in his company. He was indeed a man worthy of awe.

  She glanced down at the meal before her. Mrs. LeFonde had prepared a soup not unlike those she'd been given throughout the week, though this one was much heartier, with big chunks of vegetables and beef that overwhelmed the thick broth. A bread plate sat beside the bowl, a small pat of butter on a tiny plate next to it, and she shyly glanced toward the center of the table where slices of various breads sat arrayed on a small tray. It was an unusual meal for such a wealthy family to have. More like something one would find on a farmer's table. Not that it wasn't perfectly suitable. Just so odd. She had expected fine French cuisine, or the best of Creole. Anything but an ordinary thick stew, a meal designed for the quick nutrition it could deliver rather than presentation or taste.

  Mrs. Avery must have noticed her curiosity because she suddenly offered, "Mr. Standeven thought you might be more comfortable if we all shared the same meal."

  She didn't dare look at Mr. Standeven, though she was almost certain she sensed a sudden stiffness in his demeanor, as if he didn't approve of Mrs. Avery's guileless divulgence.

  She lowered her gaze to her plate again. She didn't quite know how to respond. She knew the housekeeper was only trying to make her feel more comfortable, but she only felt all the more awkward knowing that the head of the household had made such a concession on her behalf.

  "It's quite good," Gerald proclaimed in an effort to ease the tension. "Mrs. LeFonde has really outdone herself. We should have this more often."

  She forced herself to glance up at him and was rewarded with a dazzling smile. He seemed so pleased that she would even acknowledge him that she was glad she had.

  "I can't wait for you to try her gumbo. It's excellent. The best New Orleans has to offer, or anywhere else, I'd wager." Still smiling, he gave her a reassuring nod and indicated her bowl with the barest of glances.

  Odd. His remark seemed to imply that she would be staying on for some time, as if they had all accepted that fact, taken it for granted really.

  "Mm. It's very good," Mrs. Avery chimed in, noisily slurping a spoonful of soup.

  A quick shift of her peripheral vision and she could see that even the head of the household had already begun the meal. Encouraged, she picked up her spoon but was unable to bring a mouthful to her lips. She could feel Mr. Standeven's presence beside her, like a touch. She was too aware of him sitting there at the head of the table, just a chair away, too aware of the way he held his back so rigid, his shoulders so square. She was even aware of the way he ate in a slow, almost methodical way that she found oddly soothing.

  Christopher watched her from the corner of his eye. Poor girl. She still seemed a bit shell-shocked, so lost and in need. Again, he felt that unfamiliar surge inside him. He wanted to be the one who administered to that need, wanted to be the one to help her. He couldn't quite fathom why. He only knew it was there, powerful, unquestionable, something he couldn't ignore.

  She seemed shy in their presence, uncertain. Clearly, she didn't know what to expect. Not that he blamed her. Anyone would feel uncomfortable in the same situation. Odd, though. He didn't like to think of her being uncomfortable in his presence. Perhaps he could bring her out a bit. Maybe she simply needed to know that she was considered a guest in his house rather than an accident.

  With his customary care, he dabbed at the corners of his mouth with his napkin, then allowed it to drop back into his lap, more a preliminary pause to collect his thoughts, to choose his words carefully, than to eradicate any debris that might be on his chin.

  "We're delighted to see you looking so well. For a time, you had us all in a bit of a stir."

  She seemed to tense at the mere sound of his voice, immediately dropping her gaze to the bowl of soup in front of her, the end of the spoon lying inert somewhere at the bottom. She paled considerably, and he noticed the fingers holding the spoon's handle had a slight tremor to them.

  "I'm sorry. I d-didn't mean—"

  "Oh, no, no. You mustn't tax yourself so. I only meant that we were quite worried about you."

  He saw her lashes flutter and thought she might actually work up the courage to look at him. But apparently her uncertainty won out, for she kept her eyes trained on her soup.

  "I.... Thank you for...." She fumbled to a halt and caught her bottom lip in her teeth, as though she simply didn't know how to put her thoughts into words.

  Christopher watched her in silence. He could imagine how awkward she must feel, not knowing what to think, what to expect.

  "I don't know how to thank you," she finally managed. "I dare say, I don't know how I'll repay you for your kindness."

  "That is a subject you mustn't concern yourself with. I've not asked for repayment."

  He could see the pulse in her throat, throbbing hard, too fast. She was distraught. If only he could find a way to put her mind at rest, but he'd long since lost the finesse to do so. It had been years since he'd had to reassure anyone, or at least anyone like her.

  "I've stayed overly long. I feel that I should leave," she answered, her voice a mere whisper.

  "Nonsense. You must stay," Gerald was quick to say.

  She glanced up and met the younger man's sincere gaze, leaving Christopher to wonder what it was about his own person that kept her from looking at him so easily.

  "Everyone agrees. Isn't that so, Father?"

  So, the formidable man at the head of the table was his father. She'd wondered what their relationship was. He certainly didn't look old enough to be Gerald's father. He was far too vital, too handsome, despite his disciplined demeanor.

  "The voice of reason has spoken. I'm afraid your fate has been decided for you," Christopher replied.

  She thought she detected a hint of amusement in his voice, enough to make her dare to sneak another glance at him. She turned away in embarrassment when she realized he was looking directly at her. But the glance had been long enough to experience all over again that same penetrating look from those same outstanding blue eyes that had bored into hers just moments before she had fainted on his driveway. Her body instantly responded with a sudden rush of blood to her cheeks, and she wanted desperately to be swallowed by the floor at her feet. What must these people think of her? Certainly not what she feared. They were being so kind to her. To her, a perfect stranger.

  "Besides
which, I sincerely doubt Mrs. Avery would let go of you. She has become quite attached," he added.

  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.

&n
bsp; 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.