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."
"My dear. Nothing you ask would be an imposition."
"Well, I was just wondering if you would help me find where Mrs. Hollingsworth is buried. I'd like to pay my respects."
Beaming, he gave her hand a reassuring pat. "Consider it done. I shall do my best to find out this very afternoon."
She sagged with relief. "Thank you. Thank you so much."
"Now you must do me a favor."
She tensed, suddenly wary again, afraid he would catch her in all her lies and discover what an imposter she really was.
"You must stop behaving like every request you make is entirely too burdensome. You are a welcome guest here, and the Standevens treat all their guests like royalty."
She studied him from beneath her lashes. Gerald was obviously an educated man. He spoke with a precision that was nearly flawless, yet he had none of his father's accent. He must have been born in the States. She wondered if his mother was an American, but was too shy to inquire. She already felt like an interloper. Prying would most certainly be in poor taste.
"When would you like to go?"
She was momentarily confused. "Go?"
"To pay your respects to Mrs. Hollingsworth."
She felt a twinge of panic, then managed to squelch it for the sake of her oldest friend. "I s-suppose the sooner the better."
He reached out and patted her hand. "There's nothing to be afraid of, Michaela. I'll go along and keep you company. That is, if you don't mind."
She brightened a bit. "I would be very grateful." She glanced away to hide her expression. She didn't necessarily want to admit her fears, and the embarrassment kept her staring at her toes. "I must confess I'm still not very keen on the idea of leaving the house."
"Don't you worry. You'll be safe with me."
"Thank you...Gerald." She hesitated over his name, still a little uncomfortable with the lack of formality.
"I assure you, it's my pleasure to serve you." He smiled down at her. "Now, would you like to come along while I arrange for the car?"
"I think I'd prefer to stay here," she politely declined. "It's been so long since I've been in this garden. I didn't realize how much I missed it."
"Very well then," he said, giving her hand another pat before he got to his feet. "I'll just leave you alone."
She watched him stride away. He seemed happy to be doing something for her, and that made her feel decidedly welcomed. It was a wonderful feeling.
At the window of the study overlooking the garden, Christopher frowned as he watched his son walk away from the young woman still seated on the bench. Michaela remained where Gerald left her, her head bowed, looking for all the world like a timid little girl. He watched her for a time, completely absorbed, fighting the urge to join her. Gerald's footsteps in the hall roused him out of his contemplation and he forced himself to turn away from the window and pretend to be busy at his desk.
Unaware of her silent observer, Michaela glanced around at her surroundings. Nothing had really changed here at the old Hollingsworth mansion. The garden was precisely the same as she remembered it, blooming with the most coveted assortment of flowers in New Orleans. It was beautiful, too beautiful for this city. She reached out and stroked the velvety petals of the nearest rose, a striking testimony to the bush's efforts. Odd, how she almost despised New Orleans now. Or was that simply fear?
The honk of a car horn drifted into the peaceful garden from the street beyond, startling her so that she accidentally pricked herself on a thorn. She sucked in a breath of alarm and squeezed the tip of her finger. A droplet of blood formed where the thorn had pierced her, then slid off to spatter on the seat beside her. She stared at the red streak on her finger, momentarily riveted. A vision of what she had been through on those streets beyond the gate came back with a sickening clarity, causing her throat to tighten with panic. Her hands began to tremble as she tried to push the memory from her mind. It was no use. The fear grew to gigantic proportions, every sound from the street beyond the gate striking an answering chord of memory in her mind. Unable to sit there a second longer, she leapt to her feet and ran for the house, a cry of denial falling from her lips even as she clamped her hands over her ears to shut out the sounds.
Inside, she managed to find the back stairs and silently fled to her room and the safe haven it represented, grateful that no one had seen her. She closed
the door firmly behind her and rested her back against the panels, her chest heaving with the sobs she couldn't stop. She couldn't do it any longer, couldn't keep up this brave facade. It was a lie. It was all a lie! She couldn't keep trying to pretend that she was okay when inside she was frightened out of her mind, immobilized by the very thought of ever having to leave this house again, to face people, that mindless sea of faces out there on the streets, strangers, all of them.
She lowered her head in humiliation and let the tears flow. It wasn't just the fear of the street any longer. It was the fear that she would never be able to get over the horrible feelings of dread that plagued her. The fear that she would be a prisoner of her own panic for the rest of her life, the possibility that she would never get past it, that she would forever stay trapped in her own mind.
She sank to her knees and sobbed. How would she be able to pay her respects to her oldest, dearest friend when she was in this condition? She must get control of herself. She must!
It proved impossibly difficult, but a few hours later, she managed to force herself into the car Gerald had arranged for. She'd managed to dry her tears and, with a carefully contrived facade of courage, joined the family for lunch. Pretending that all was well during the meal was much simpler than getting into the car and leaving the grounds of the familiar mansion. But she faced it with conviction and determination, gritting her teeth and holding tightly to Mrs. Avery's hand, her eyes closed to the streets beyond the windows of the vehicle as she tried to think of anything else besides where she was. She was grateful that Mrs. Avery had decided to come along. Without her, she might not have been able to convince herself to make the trip at all.
At the cemetery, she knelt before the grave of her old friend and whispered a prayer, then laid a bouquet of pink roses alongside the tombstone. Gerald and Mrs. Avery gave her a moment of solitude. Michaela just knelt there and stared at the name etched into the stone, remembering the woman who had always been so kind to her.
"I don't know what I'm going to do without you, my dear friend," she whispered. "But if you have the ear of our Lord, I would plead for a prayer. I need your help. Tell me what to do, who to trust."
Unable to contain herself a moment longer, she let the tears flow freely, weeping until she was spent. When all her grief had been poured out, she rose and briefly touched the tombstone.
"May you sing in heaven's choir, my friend," she murmured before turning away.
Gerald and Mrs. Avery waited for her by the car. As Michaela joined them, Mrs. Avery drew a protective arm around her.
"There, there, dear. Everything will be all right. You'll see."
Michaela gave her a teary smile and allowed Gerald to help her into the car. Back at the mansion, she retired to her room completely exhausted.
Agnes peeked in on her later. She brought a cup of hot tea laced with brandy, but when she found Michaela already sound asleep, she wisely left her undisturbed. She returned the tea to the kitchen and then went straight to Mr. Standeven's study. After seeing Michaela grieving at the grave of her departed friend, Agnes was even more convicted than ever. The girl needed her help, and she would certainly give it, no matter the cost.
She found Mr. Standeven poring over a pile of paperwork that seemed to have grown larger than usual. She took a deep breath and gave the open door a respectful knock.
When Christopher glanced up and noticed his housekeeper standing in the doorway, he abandoned his work. Standing, he motioned her inside. "Mrs. Avery. Come in. I've been anxious to hear how your jaunt went."
She sighed as she stepped further into the room, a frown wrinkling her elderly brow. "I'm afraid the poor girl is completely drained. The trip was very hard on her. Much harder than I expected."
Christopher matched her frown of concern with one of his own. "What do you mean?"
"She was frightened out of her mind. She was so nervous. She clung to me every step of the way. It was all we could do to convince her to leave the car and walk to the tombstone. And once she was there, she collapsed before it and wept as if her entire life were coming to an end." She paused and bit her lip. "It was heartbreaking, Mr. Standeven. I could scarcely bear to watch."
Christopher didn't speak for a full minute, just stared at his housekeeper, his thoughts carefully concealed.
"She's asleep now," Mrs. Avery murmured.
Christopher nodded. "In view of the circumstances, I suppose she is in need of rest."
"She was apparently very close to the woman."
Christopher turned his back and crossed the room to stand at the window. His eyes automatically went to the bench where Michaela had sat just that morning. She'd looked frightened then, too.
"What are we going to do, Mr. Standeven?" Mrs. Avery queried, having moved to the window, as well.
"All we can do." He glanced down at her. "We must be patient, Mrs. Avery. It is all we can do at the moment."
She nodded silently.
He stared down at her for a long time. There was more. He was certain of it. Something she wanted to say. Something she was afraid to say.
"Well, then. I have work to do," he finally prodded.
"Yes, Mr. Standeven."
She started to turn away, but he remembered something else and stopped her.
"What about the clothes?"
Mrs. Avery gave him a sheepish glance. "I'm sorry, Mr. Standeven. I couldn't bring myself to even broach the subject. She was just so distraught I knew she wouldn't be interested. It would have seemed...too cold."
He nodded. Mrs. Avery was right. It wouldn't have been the proper time.
"She was terrified the entire time," the housekeeper continued, as if she still needed to convince him. "I don't think she really wants to go out. She seems to prefer staying near the house. I think she feels it's safe here for her."
"That's understandable considering what she's been through."
"She behaved as if she were afraid someone might come along and snatch her away."
He frowned. Mrs. Avery's proclamation was an unusual perspective. Who would snatch Michaela away?
Mrs. Avery trailed off and glanced at the floor between them. She seemed unusually nervous today. It wasn't like her.
When she didn't continue, Christopher went on. "Well, then. In view of the circumstances, I suppose you will just have to see to the clothing yourself. She certainly can't continue to go around in those baggy ensembles you've managed to dig up for her. She looks like.... Well, she looks like a maid."
"Mr. Standeven...." Mrs. Avery was so clearly distraught that she wasn't able to meet his eyes.
He impatiently waited for her to continue. If she would only get round to it so that he could return his attention to what was most important in his life, the running of his business.
"Get on with it, woman," he urged. Lately, his work had suffered from his preoccupation with their houseguest, and it was giving him cause for much frustration.
Finally, Mrs. Avery worked up the courage she'd been seeking. "I was just wondering. May she stay on with us...permanently?" Before he could answer, she went on in a rush. "I know it's a lot to ask, but I would be willing to take full responsibility. She would be in my charge. The expenses could come out of my pocket."
She trailed off and waited, but he only stood there staring at her, as if weighing the idea, his expression impassive as always.
"It's just that I feel so sorry for the poor girl. I've always wanted a daughter, you know, and...I don't think she has anywhere else to go."
"Perhaps you give your heart too quickly, Mrs. Avery. Suppose it doesn't turn out well? Suppose she isn't the angel you and my son seem to think she is?"
"Oh my, no. I don't believe it for a minute. She's too frightened of everything to be anything but a dear."
"Yes, well, it was just a thought."
Agnes toyed with the edge of her apron. Never in the many years that she'd worked for him had she ever asked Mr. Standeven for anything. To ask such an enormous fa
vor now seemed impossible. But she couldn't let it go. She had a feeling about this girl, and she had to be true to her instincts.
"I realize you must see me as a foolish old woman, but...." She squared her shoulders and took a deep, bolstering breath. This was what she wanted, and she must have the courage to stand her ground whatever the consequences. "I just can't help myself."
"You've always been vulnerable to a stray," he murmured, his voice giving nothing of his feelings away.
The old housekeeper blushed to the roots of her hair. No matter how obstinate he was, she could be just as unyielding. She had already decided she wasn't going to give up on this. She felt it too deeply.
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."
The Whisper Of Wings Page 8