The Whisper Of Wings

by Cassandra Ormand

  Footsteps in the hall behind him alerted him to someone approaching. Feeling like a young pup caught with a prize laying hen, he pulled away from the door and crossed the hall, pretending that he was only just now coming out of the sitting room. But he was too late. Apparently, he had been so intent on listening at the door of the library that he'd been a little belated in hearing the telltale footsteps of his housekeeper. Mrs. Avery paused to stare at him, a knowing expression on her face. He cleared his throat and smoothed his rolled up shirtsleeves, meeting her gaze with a bit of chagrin, something he hadn't felt in ages, if ever. She gave him a beatific smile, as if she knew something he didn't, and walked on down the hall. He stared after her, wondering what that smile meant.

  The moment she was out of sight, he was back at the door, leaning against the wall nearby, his arms folded across his chest, hoping he appeared more casual than he felt. He hated himself for it—he'd become such a snoop—yet he couldn't seem to keep himself from eavesdropping wherever Michaela was concerned. Especially when it was directly connected to her well-being.

  He checked his watch. The doctor was taking a long time. Perhaps he should knock and inquire after their creature comforts. But that would be intrusive. Michaela might at that very moment be confiding everything to Dr. Woodard, and Christopher didn't want to hamper her progress with an interruption.

  A moment later, he heard the rattle of the doorknob. He straightened, no longer caring what anyone might think of his presence there, and yanked the door open before the person on the other side could do so. He was surprised when it was Michaela's startled face that greeted him first, surprised that it was she who had apparently initiated a departure from the psychologist. Something deep inside him shriveled at the sight of the accusation in her eyes. She stared up at him for what seemed like an eternity, her chin trembling with unconcealed emotion. And in that interminable moment, when her unforgiving eyes portrayed her feelings of betrayal, he thought he heard the minutest sound from somewhere deep inside his soul—something like the tiny sound of porcelain breaking—and he was almost positive it was his heart. Before he could say anything, she pushed past him and hurried down the hall, her eyes filling with tears as she raced for the stairs. He watched her go, utterly powerless to stop her. He knew she wouldn't obey even if he tried to call her back. She was far too stricken for that. And in view of the outcome of her first therapy session, he wasn't eager to force her to stay when she so obviously wanted to get away from the situation.

  He was so caught up in castigating himself for pushing her too far too fast that he was barely aware that Dr. Woodard had come to stand beside him until the man spoke.

  "I'm afraid it didn't go well, Mr. Standeven."

  Christopher turned to contemplate the man, his own gaze half accusing, though he knew he shouldn't blame the man. It was his own fault. He shouldn't have been so eager, should have waited until Michaela was ready.

  "If you like, we can try again later," Dr. Woodard offered. "Sometimes it takes time for a patient to warm to therapy."

  Christopher shook his head. He could kick himself for being so impatient. That rift he'd been so afraid of putting between himself and Michaela was there now, wider than ever, perhaps irreversible. "That won't be necessary."

  Christopher studied the man, trying to gauge the doctor's feelings about the situation. He seemed none the worse for wear. He was probably accustomed to these little failures. "Perhaps you'd like to step into my office and explain exactly what did happen."

  Dr. Woodard shrugged. "Nothing to explain really. She wouldn't say much, only that she didn't wish to discuss anything with me."

  Christopher's frown deepened.

  "She was not at all comfortable in my presence," Dr. Woodard mused. "That's not unusual. However...." He paused and raised contemplative eyes to Christopher's. "I surmise that she is not suffering from clinical amnesia."

  Christopher was not surprised. He had suspected that for some time now, but the knowledge that he had been right all along didn't lessen his own remorse at forcing the issue. It didn't change the way he felt toward her, certainly didn't change his desire to help her, and it didn't lessen Michaela's suffering.

  "How so?" Christopher queried.

  "Well, she doesn't display any of the signs, other than the fact that she can't talk about her past. But I feel that is more of a choice than an affliction. It's rare for anyone suffering amnesia to remember their first name and nothing else, nothing at all."

  Christopher Standeven's mouth tightened, and Dr. Woodard was met with the scowl that caused so many to shrivel in deference to the sheer willpower exuded by the man.

  "I suspected as much," Christopher muttered.

  "I would like to continue working with her. I'm sure there is a very good reason why she doesn't want to talk about whatever happened to her. Didn't you mention that she'd been...."

  Christopher shook his head. "I don't feel that she is quite ready for this."

  Dr. Woodard shrugged. "It will take time. She's been terribly traumatized, to the exact point I can't say for certain. It will be entirely up to her, when and if she decides to talk about it. Until then...."

  "She will be in my care, Dr. Woodard." Christopher made certain that his tone insured the doctor that there was no doubt as to that fact.

  Woodard nodded. "And I'm sure that care is exemplary."

  Christopher started to walk the man toward the front door. "I fear that we have pushed her further away from the healing process."

  "Don't be so sure of that. If she knows you want to help her, she may come around all the sooner. On the other hand, you could be right. Only time will tell. Time and patience."

  Somehow, that didn't make Christopher feel any better about what he'd done. If she were to suffer from this encounter, he blamed only himself.

  "The offer stands," Dr. Woodard suggested. "I can come back at any time."

  Christopher shook his head again, adamant. "I'm afraid I'm not interested in putting Michaela through this again. Not unless she requests it."

  Halfway up the stairs, Michaela paused on the landing and flattened herself against the wall, her eyes on the hallway below. She could hear the muffled voices of the two men, but she couldn't make out what they were saying. It had been such a trying morning, and she didn't quite know what to do now. Should she lock herself in her room, or flee the mansion altogether? What fate awaited her now? The thought frightened her. There would be questions following on the heels of her departure from the psychologist. Surely, now Mr. Standeven realized that she was a liar, and he would be intent on ousting the imposter from his house.

  She took a few deep, shuddering breaths. Earlier that morning, she'd been horrified to discover that their breakfast guest was a psychologist Mr. Standeven had brought in to help her with her amnesia. It was only with strong coercion that she agreed to go into the library at all. The doctor had assumed she would feel more comfortable speaking in private, when in truth she didn't want to speak to him at all. It was the most difficult thing she'd ever done, walking into that room with him, hearing the sound of the door closing behind her. It was like walking into a prison. Or worse, a trap. She was terrified that he would pull the truth from her, by whatever means was available to the science of psychology, and then the beautiful life she'd stumbled into would crumble around her. But she couldn't refuse to go with him, not when any objection would only arouse suspicion.

  The doctor had assured her that he meant her no harm, but his confession did nothing to ease her mind. She only agreed to sit down at his persistent, gentle insistence. Despite the fact that she wanted to pace the room, run for the door, snatch it open, and flee the house, she knew she mustn't. It would only make her look guilty. And it was by sheer force of will that she made herself stay in the room with him. She had nowhere to go, anyway.

  Michaela pressed herself up against the arm of the davenport, as far away from the psychologist as she dared get without seeming rude. Or worse, parano
id. She worried the fringe of the tassels on the lamp that sat on the table beside her. She seemed to need it to focus on. The psychologist made her nervous. She was frightened that he would find her out and tell the Standevens, frightened of being sent back. She knew he could see her fear. She only hoped that by some divine intervention he would mistake it for the fear that had repressed her memory.

  Why hadn't Gerald stopped them? Why hadn't he seen the panic on her face and come to her rescue? Instead, he'd just sat there, his face a mask of disapproval as he glared at his father over the morning meal.

  And Mrs. Avery...she had tried so hard to be reassuring. Why hadn't she seen that it was the last thing Michaela needed at the moment?

  Of course, she couldn't really blame them. It had been Christopher Standeven's idea. But why? Did he suspect? Had he ceased to trust her? Did he not want her in his home anymore?

  Still pressed against the wall on the landing, she bit back a half-sob. She didn't want to blame him. She was certain he had only meant to help her. Or, at least, that's what Mrs. Avery had tried to tell her. Perhaps it was true. She wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt, anyway.

  When she heard the sound of footsteps and the men's voices drawing nearer, she pushed herself away from the wall and hurried up the last flight of stairs, racing down the upper hallway on silent feet. When she got to the door of her bedroom, she flung it open and rushed inside. She was just turning to shut it behind her when a gasping sound from the interior of her room made her spin on her heel.

  Michaela stared in astonishment as Sadie rose from the desk near the window, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. Michaela's gaze flew to the sheaf of paper the girl still held in her hand. Sadie's eyes slowly followed hers, and as if in response to her guilt, her fingers convulsively jerked open, leaving the papers to flutter to the floor. Her papers! Her writing! The girl had been snooping, had read her work. How could this day get any worse? She felt like her life was falling apart again, just when it had started to come together for her. It was too much all at once.

  Christopher was anxious to be rid of the psychologist, eager to find Michaela and apologize, and it was with unabashed haste that he showed the man to the door. As soon as the doctor was gone, Christopher turned to the stairs, taking them two at a time. He wanted to make sure Michaela understood that he'd meant her no harm. She had to know that she was still welcome here in his house, safe and secure with his family. No one was going to pressure her again, or toss her out on her lovely ear. If he explained himself now, perhaps he could somehow win back a modicum of that trust he so craved from her.

  Michaela was appalled by Sadie's intrusion. She'd been so certain no one would breach her privacy. It was a blow that left her reeling, and all she could do was stand there and stare in astonishment, the maid staring back in surprised contrition.

  Somehow, at last, she found the impetus to move. She rushed across the room and dropped to her knees to collect the papers, haphazardly creasing them in her haste. The words on the page, words she'd written in her own neat longhand, blurred through the tears that were forming in her eyes, tears of bitter sadness. Would everyone in this household betray her this day?

  "What were you doing?" she demanded of the girl, too mortified to control her anger. "These are my things. You had no right to read this."

  She stood up and clutched the papers to her chest as if to protect what little remained of her privacy.

  Christopher paused just outside Michaela's half open door, perplexed by the anger he heard in her voice. Her words puzzled him, and he inclined his head to listen more closely. He'd never known her to raise her voice, never known her to be so bold.

  Inside the room, Sadie seemed remorseful. "I am so sorry, mademoiselle. I did not mean to pry. The papers were just lying there, and I had to move them to dust."

  Michaela felt a surge of hope, and her voice was much calmer when she managed, "Then you didn't read...."

  She trailed off when Sadie lowered her eyes in shame and slowly shook her head. "I am sorry, mademoiselle. It caught my eye, and I could not help myself. Once I began, I could not stop. I was drawn in." She raised hopeful eyes. "It is really quite good."

  Michaela just stood there staring at her. Although Sadie had apologized, Michaela was still too upset to be forgiving.

  Outside the door, Christopher frowned. What a curious statement. What did Sadie mean when she said it was really quite good? What had she read?

  When he heard a rustling sound coming from within the room, he quickly moved back into the shadows of the next room, straining to hear the rest, his curiosity piqued.

  "I am sorry, mademoiselle," Sadie pleaded in her soft French accent. "Please, I beg you, do not say anything to Mr. Standeven about this. Please. I meant no harm. It will not happen again. I swear it."

  Too numb to respond, Michaela just stood there and allowed Sadie to brush past her. She was too concerned about her own plight to worry about what might happen to Sadie were Mr. Standeven to find out. The maid had no idea how safe her indiscretion was, didn't realize that she needn't even bother to ask. Michaela couldn't possibly tell Mr. Standeven what had transpired. She was too worried about her own position in his household.

  Appalled by the fact that an employee of his had breached the privacy of a guest in his home, Christopher watched the maid sweep past. His initial reaction was to go after her and dismiss her. He was so angry that he was about to do just that when Michaela stepped out of her room and started down the hall after Sadie, only to pause just in front of the door of the room where he was hiding, so close that he could have reached out and touched her. He stood perfectly still, holding his breath and hoping beyond hope that she didn't by some terrible twist of fate turn her head and see him standing there. If she discovered him, it would shred the last vestiges of her trust in him. Were she to realize that he was eavesdropping on her, she would never confide in him.

  She stood in profile to him, and he could see every nuance in her expression, in every line of her body. She was almost leaning forward, her eyes shining with something he'd longed to see for weeks now. Hope. She actually looked hopeful.

  "Sadie?" she called after the maid.

  He heard the shuffling sound of shoes against the floor and knew Sadie had turned back to look at her.

  "Did you really like it?" Michaela asked.

  "Oui, mademoiselle."

  "I'm sorry I snapped at you."

  "No, mademoiselle. You must not apologize," Sadie insisted. "It is I who am at fault."

  When Michaela didn't respond, the maid turned away and would have continued on down the hall if Michaela hadn't once again stopped her.

  "Sadie?"

  Sadie paused and turned back to face her again.

  "You may read it any time you like. If...." She hesitated, a bit uncertain. "If you want to."

  Sadie smiled. "Oui, mademoiselle. That would give me great pleasure. I am anxious to know what happens in the end."

  Michaela nodded, pleased.

  Sadie took a step back in her direction. "If I may be so bold, mademoiselle. You should not hide such talent."

  Michaela couldn't tell her that she had indeed tried to hide her talent for writing. For so long, in fact, that she didn't know any other way. No one had ever had a kind word to say about her desire to put her imagination on paper. Instead, they had only castigated her, made her feel as though her pursuit was foolish.

  "Don't be ridiculous, Michaela," her mother had always chided her. "You'll never be able to do anything with that nonsense. If you really want a career, why don't you do something practical, like teach."

  "She's stupid enough to think someone would actually want to read that drivel she writes," her sister added, too many times to count.

  And then her father's hateful tone, rising above it all, "It's a man's place to earn wages, to put food on the table. Women should be married, having children to carry on the name, not looking for an impossible career that was never meant f
or women to begin with. You're not normal. You're a little touched. I've suspected it for some time. It's a wonder any man would offer for you, considering all those silly notions rattling around in that head of yours. You should count your blessings, Michaela, be a little more grateful."

  She hadn't bothered to argue with her father, to insist that there were plenty of female authors who were doing quite well by those "silly notions." She knew it would do her no good. He cared nothing for her dreams, her choices. He barely seemed to care anything for her as a person. He was only interested in how best she could serve him.

  With a small sigh, Michaela returned to the present. "Thank you for saying so, Sadie, but...." She gave a little shake of her head and half turned away, then glanced back at the maid in earnest. "Sadie, please don't say anything to anyone about this."

  "Oui, mademoiselle. It will be our little secret, no."

  "Thank you."

  Sadie dipped her chin a fraction, then smiled and proceeded down the stairs, leaving Michaela to go back to her room.

  Still hidden in the shadows, Christopher heard the sound of the latch clicking into place and knew that Michaela had once again locked herself away from the rest of the world. He stayed in the shadows until he was certain that no one remained in the hall, and then he left his hiding place and went to Michaela's door on silent feet. His hand half raised to knock, he hesitated. Perhaps he shouldn't disturb her just now. She'd been through so much in one short afternoon that he felt it only right to allow her a little time to recover. She was probably still upset about the psychologist, and he didn't want to push her any further than he already had. His meddling had already caused enough damage, and he didn't want to add to the problem.