The Whisper Of Wings

by Cassandra Ormand

  He dropped his hand back down to his side and moved away. He would find another time to apologize to her, a more convenient time.

  Later that evening, aware that Michaela hadn't left her room all afternoon, Christopher found Mrs. Avery and insisted that she retrieve Michaela and convince her to share dinner with them. And he made it quite clear that he would not buckle to any argument she might invent.

  Michaela, agitated by the request, only obeyed for fear of seeming ungracious. But it was not an easy thing she did when she stepped into the dining room and faced the family again. She had hoped that Mr. Standeven would allow Mrs. Avery to join them, but the housekeeper was disappointingly absent from the table. Only Gerald and his imposing father awaited her.

  Gerald was quiet over dinner, sulking most of the time, barely picking at his meal as he apologized to her with his eyes. She tried to smile and reassure him. She knew the psychologist hadn't been his decision.

  To please them both, she forced herself to eat a meal that had no taste as far as she was concerned, her insides shaking the whole time. She was still in fear of being found out, still in fear of being sent back to a place she'd never wanted to call home, back to the fate she had only just recently managed to escape.

  It wasn't enough time! her mind screamed. No matter how hard she tried to convince herself, her short stint of freedom hadn't been nearly long enough, not after a lifetime of squelched hopes and suppressed dreams.

  Christopher didn't bother to pretend to eat. Mrs. Avery may as well have set rocks before him for all his interest in food. All he could think about was the stricken look he'd seen on Michaela's face the moment he had opened the library door. Perhaps he should have interrupted Sadie's indiscretion, handled it personally, then apologized to Michaela for his own blunder. At the very least, it would have made his evening somewhat more bearable than it was. He was unfortunately torn between needing desperately to apologize and fearing a reprisal, the only certainty being that he needed to exercise extreme caution. He didn't want to disrespect Michaela's privacy. On the other hand, he needed to make her understand that he had only been looking after her welfare.

  Unable to stand the tension and indecision a moment longer, he stood up, his jaw clenched so tightly it felt like his teeth would crack. He'd never been at such an impasse in all his life. And over what? A mere slip of a girl!

  With an air of annoyance, he tossed his napkin onto the table, and, without a word, turned and left the dining room.

  Michaela was stunned by his sudden exit, and she watched him leave with open curiosity.

  Gerald seemed relieved. The moment his father was gone, he set his fork down and got up to come around the end of the table. He dropped down onto one knee before her and took both her hands in his to apologize profusely for the torture she'd been put through. But Michaela couldn't keep her mind on his efforts. She was too busy worrying about his father, wondering what was eating at him, afraid it involved her.

  Intent on retiring early, shutting himself away from all the accusing eyes, Christopher slowly climbed the stairs, feeling rather weary and older than his forty-three years. Passing Michaela's room, he paused and stared at the closed door, the memory of the afternoon's encounter whispering through his mind. He didn't want to intrude, but his curiosity had been eating at him all afternoon. What precisely had Sadie stumbled into?

  Feeling like a thief, he glanced around to make sure he was alone in the hall. Satisfied that no one was watching, he turned back to the door, lifted a hand and touched its panels. As he contemplated going inside, his heart hammered in his chest with the anxiety of being caught. It seemed ridiculous that a grown man could feel nervous about something so minimal as spying on his guest. And it conjured all sorts of bad memories of his years spent in the mines, the anxiety that gripped him every second of every day as he'd worked beside those men, sweating and laboring under the torturous conditions deep inside the earth. The choking dust, the lack of oxygen, and always the danger. Danger of cave-ins, accidents, and crazed men looking to fill their pockets with instant wealth.

  Despite the twinge of conscience, he opened the door and stepped inside. He swept the room with a searching gaze. It was clean and neat, everything in order, almost barrenly so. The interior was so pristinely kept that it almost seemed devoid of an occupant. All except for one thing. The desk that sat by the window seat. It was the only furniture in the room that bore any signs of an inhabitant.

  He felt a stab of guilt. He shouldn't intrude, shouldn't disrespect Michaela's privacy. He was as blameworthy as the maid. Bloody hell, he had to get out of here before someone came along and saw him. The last thing he wanted was for Michaela to discover what an unrepentant fool he'd become. Or anyone else, for that matter.

  Still, he couldn't leave just yet. He took a step closer to the desk, examining the sheaf of blank paper that was neatly stacked on the right hand side, the pencil he'd given Michaela sitting next to it, carefully butted up against the stack so as not to roll off. And in the middle, another, smaller stack of papers, someone's neat scrawl easily visible even from where he stood, presumably Michaela's handwriting.

  He went to the desk and leaned forward to read what was on the topmost page. In moments, he became lost in the writing. He reached down and picked up the stack, quickly reading through the first several pages. When he finally returned the papers to the desk, he made sure they were exactly as he had found them, then hurried to the door. Once outside, he breathed a bit easier, his anxiety slowly dissipating with every step that took him away from Michaela's room.

  By the time he reached his own room, he was shaking his head and smiling in dazed disbelief. It was a story. He had been reading the beginning of a very intricately devised, and rather dazzlingly told, story. Not one that involved Michaela's plight at all, but one of pure fiction.

  She was writing a novel. That's why she'd been in his office looking for paper. But why on earth would she want to hide something like that, as though it were wrong for her to be doing it?

  He frowned as he closed his bedroom door behind him. Why indeed.

  For the umpteenth time that evening, Christopher glanced at the shelf clock that resided on the mantel above the fireplace. He'd been sitting there in the antique Turkish Victorian chair, fully dressed, his mind a jumble of thoughts. It had been more than an hour since his odd discovery, and with every minute that passed, he became more restless and contemplative, staring at the phone number he'd scribbled on a piece of notepaper. A phone number he'd gotten from the private investigator he'd hired to find out who Michaela was.

  For this long while now, he'd held back from making the call, almost afraid to find out the truth. He was reluctant to let Michaela go, wasn't at all sure he even wanted to know who she really was anymore. He was afraid that knowledge might take her away from him. But he couldn't put the call off any longer. Like it or not, it was something that had to be done. He must know, once and for all.

  More resigned than convicted, he pushed himself out of the chair and went to the door. It was still early enough. He could make the call from his office.

  In the hallway, he paused outside Michaela's door. Was she in there now, perhaps asleep already? Or was she still awake, as restless as he was? Was she in there despising him, blaming him still?

  Something made him take a step toward her door, his hand half outstretched, as if to touch her. He could almost sense her in there, could almost feel the warmth of her reaching out to embrace him even through the polished oak that separated them. If only he could go to her, make her understand. But to do so now, to visit an unmarried woman's bedroom in the middle of the night would be unseemly, ungentlemanly. What if she wasn't properly dressed?

  A tremor raced down his spine at the thought of her wearing nothing but a thin nightgown. If was to find her in such a state, he wasn't certain he would be able to restrain himself.

  No. He would wait. He must. If only for the sake of her reputation. Perhaps for his own s
ake, as well. And Gerald's. He hadn't forgotten the way his son looked at her, adored her. Yes. For Gerald's sake, he would ignore his own desires.

  He pulled away and continued down the hallway with footsteps as heavy as his heart, his mouth twisted into a scowl. Damn the uncertainty. It was eating him alive.

  By the time he got to his study, he had fully convinced himself that he was doing the right thing. If his son were to fall in love with Michaela and perhaps want to marry her someday, then he had the right to know precisely who she was.

  Feeling testy, he lifted the receiver out of its cradle and rang for assistance. Now that he'd made the decision, he wanted to get it over with. He rubbed an agitated hand across the back of his neck while he waited for someone to answer the ring, no longer sure of his own motives for making the call. A nagging voice deep inside kept suggesting that he might hope to discover that Michaela was not the angel she appeared to be but a swindler instead, if only so that Gerald would become less infatuated with her. He knew it was selfishness talking, and deep down he desperately wanted Michaela to be just who she swore she was. He wanted everyone to be happy, even if it meant unhappiness for himself.

  A voice on the other end of the line drew him out of his grim thoughts.

  "Yes, I'm calling for a Mrs. Dunne," he spoke into the phone.

  "That would be me," a weary sounding woman replied.

  "Mrs. Dunne, so sorry for the call, but I'm glad to have reached you."

  "Is that so?" came the laconic answer.

  "Yes well, you don't know me, and I hope you don't think my call is out of order, but I feel it is necessary. We both seem to have a common problem."

  "And what would that be?"

  "I understand you have a daughter who is missing. I was wondering if you could tell me a little bit about her."

  "What is this, some sort of joke?"

  "No, don't hang up, Mrs. Dunne. I assure you this is no joke. I believe I might be able to help you."

  "Help me?"

  "Yes, if you would just agree to tell me something of your daughter, I might know where she is."

  "And who would you be?" she gruffly demanded.

  "That would be irrelevant at this point. You will simply have to trust that I am a friend and that I have only your daughter's well-being in mind. If indeed she is your daughter."

  "You think you know where Michaela is?" she queried with somewhat more interest than she'd displayed before.

  Christopher felt something inside him whither a little, suddenly fearing that the wheels he may have just set in motion would take the very object of his concern away from him. Mrs. Dunne had called her Michaela, thereby putting an end to any doubt he may have had as to her relation to his charge. Suddenly, he wasn't so sure he wanted to continue the conversation. Perhaps ignorance was best after all.

  "Are you there?" the woman shouted into the phone.

  "Yes. Yes, I'm still here," he managed, despite the constricted feeling in his chest. "Mrs. Dunne, I need to know about your daughter."

  "Why should I tell you anything? Just tell me where she is, and someone will come get her."

  "I'm afraid I can't do that. You see, I'm not certain this young woman is your daughter."

  "Let me speak to her," she insisted.

  "I'm afraid I can't do that, either." Christopher was equally insistent. "The woman in my care has been terribly traumatized. I fear that such an encounter might be harmful to her precarious condition."

  "Do you have any idea who you're talking to? I'm her mother. I could have you jailed for holding my daughter against her will."

  "Mrs. Dunne. Be reasonable. You have no idea who I am. Nor do you know if this woman truly is your daughter. Even if she turns out to be your kin, she is well over the age of consent, and I assure you I am not holding her against her will. Quite the contrary. So, you see, I don't believe you have a leg to stand on."

  "I may not. But her fiancé certainly does."

  "Fiancé?" Now he was stunned.

  "Michaela has breached a promise of marriage, and she'll pay for it. She'll make the entire family pay."

  "Perhaps if you explain the situation to me, I might be able to help in some way."

  "Just send my daughter home."

  "Mrs. Dunne, I only called you out of common courtesy, to let you know that you need not worry, that your daughter is well and safe. But until she makes the decision to return home of her own free will, she will remain in my care," he stated, barely able to contain his anger.

  "That's impossible. She has to come home." She paused briefly before continuing in a shrill voice. "What is this, a kidnapping? Is it money you want?" She went on without giving him the opportunity to answer. "Well, I haven't got any. You hear me. You'll get no ransom from me."

  "You have no idea who you are speaking to," he hissed in such a lethal voice that she immediately stopped. "I don't take unjustified accusations lightly. Your daughter is not being held for ransom. She is safer than she has ever been. I suspect much safer than she was under your roof."

  He heard a sharp gasp through the receiver and knew he'd struck a nerve.

  Christopher didn't want to speak to the hateful woman a moment longer. He was appalled at her lack of caring. She hadn't even inquired after Michaela's welfare.

  "I will be speaking to you again at some point in the future. For your daughter's sake, I suggest you keep this conversation to yourself."

  That said, he slammed the receiver down before she could respond. The woman had left a bitter taste in his mouth. Michaela's mother was an unpleasant person.

  His mouth set in a grim line, he turned away from the phone. He was only a tiny bit closer to the truth, but already he was beginning to understand Michaela, to understand why she had braved the streets alone and run away. She must not have been able to bear the thought of living under the same roof with that woman.

  Bloody hell, he was angry. The gall of that woman! Hadn't she even a tiny shred of love for the child she'd borne?

  If only he knew more about the situation, perhaps he could help Michaela in some way. He needed to find out who this fiancé was.

  Halfway across the room, he stopped and turned back to the desk to stare at the phone. Perhaps there was another way. Now that he knew who Michaela was. Perhaps he didn't need her mother at all.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Christopher sat at his desk, contemplating last night's discovery and the rather distasteful talk he'd had with Michaela's mother. He couldn't stop thinking about Michaela. At least, now he knew her secret. She'd been running away from a family that didn't love her. Such a reprehensible crime. He couldn't even imagine not loving his own flesh and blood.

  His instincts had been correct. She had never lost her memory. She'd merely been pretending because she was afraid of being sent back if she told them the truth. He didn't blame her.

  Now that he knew, things became somewhat more complicated. He wasn't certain if he should tell her about the phone call. She didn't necessarily have to know. Not yet, anyway. He was content to let her stay here with the family until she felt safe telling him the truth for herself. After all, she was a consenting adult. Twenty-six was certainly old enough for her to make her own decisions, and she clearly did not want to be under her mother's roof. Of course, after speaking with Mrs. Dunne, he understood, at least in part, why Michaela had left home in the first place. What he couldn't guess at would have to come from Michaela herself, whenever she was ready.

  The decision was final. She would stay until she told him otherwise.

  He glanced at the work on his desk. It wasn't even capable of capturing his attention anymore, not when all of the questions concerning Michaela had only half been answered.

  Poor Michaela. Mrs. Dunne hadn't even expressed a concern for her daughter. She was only interested in this fiancé and the repercussions Michaela's disappearance would have on the engagement. They obviously didn't love her. It was sad. How could anyone not love beautiful, kindhearte
d Michaela?

  Now he knew that Michaela's family life was to blame for her withdrawal into herself, for her shyness, the awkwardness, and the idea that she had to hide her accomplishments. But so much was still missing from the puzzle. If only Michaela would talk to him, count him worthy of her trust. He might be able to help her.

  Bloody hell, he wanted the answers as badly as ever. And he wasn't a man who was easily daunted. He would get those answers, if he had to do it all himself. He wished his man in New Orleans would hasten the process. Perhaps soon he would hear something.

  When the phone on his desk began to ring, he snatched it up with more haste than usual, hoping it was news from the investigator. Instead, it was his old friend and business partner Mason Telford. Christopher couldn't hide the disappointment in his voice.

  "Well, you could at least pretend you're glad to hear from me, old man," Mason mused, chuckling.

  "Sorry. I'm afraid I'm a bit preoccupied today."

  "You must be tied in knots about the woman attached to that lovely voice that keeps answering your telephone. I must admit I've been intrigued. Just what are you hiding up there, Christopher? I can't wait to meet the young woman."

  Silence crackled between them. Christopher didn't have much to say on the subject. In fact, he was downright touchy about it. He didn't want to discuss Michaela, not with anyone. He still felt that undeniable tug to protect her, almost jealously.

  "Christopher? Are you still there?"

  "Yes, I'm here."

  "Are you indeed?" Mason's reply was laced with sarcasm.

  "Business is rather pressing of late," he said in the way of an apology.

  "Indeed," Mason muttered. He seemed to sense that Christopher was not in the mood to be teased. "Well, then. I was just calling to arrange for a visit. I have some business I'd like to discuss with you."

  Christopher assured him that he was welcome to arrive at any time he saw fit and then broke the connection, relieved that Mason hadn't questioned him further about Michaela. Frowning, he returned his attention to the paperwork on his desk. There were phone calls he needed to make, business to attend to, as usual, but his mind was not on any of the urgent matters set before him. He would be hard pressed to accomplish any work today.