CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Breakfast the next morning was pleasant. Gerald and Christopher spoke back and forth about Gerald's future plans, while Michaela sat quietly listening. It was peaceful to be able to sit there with the two men. It gave her a sense of family she'd never had before, and to think that she was a part of this newfound ease between them made her heart swell with contentment. At least, she had done something good.
"Well, I'm eager to see to some arrangements for the classes I decided on, so I'll be off now." Gerald rose and gave Michaela a kiss on the cheek. "Take good care of Father, won't you?"
She smiled up at him, her face luminous. She was so happy to be among them, a part of them. It seemed as if all her fears had faded, all her doubts. She wanted more than anything to belong to this family. Forever. If only it could be.
Once Gerald had gone, Michaela finished the last of her orange juice and then set her napkin aside. The house would be quiet with Gerald off at the university every day. She would have to spend more time helping Mrs. Avery and Leo. It would be awkward at first, not having her friend around to keep her company, to delight her with his wit and charm, but she would still have....
She glanced up to gaze upon the man who had come to occupy most all her thoughts of late, and was surprised to find him watching her, his eyes half hooded, an odd lift to the corners of his mouth. She offered him a tentative smile and was rewarded when his broadened.
"Michaela, if you will, I'd like to speak to you in my office."
Her sense of peace shifted into tension. Was this the moment of truth?
Apprehension dogging her steps, she followed him down the hall. Had she worn out her welcome? She shouldn't expect to stay indefinitely, no matter how earnestly he had invited her to do so. It just wasn't proper. She had nothing to offer them, and once they found out about her deception, she would no longer be welcome, anyway.
She hesitated just inside the door, her throat constricted with doubt. But he was still smiling as he paused in the middle of the room and turned back to meet her eyes. She stared at him for a time, puzzled. She didn't know what to make of the playful light in his eyes. She had assumed he was calling her into his office on some serious matter, but judging by his expression, it was something altogether different.
When her brows furrowed in confusion as she stared up at him, his smile shifted somewhat, and some of the sparkle in his eyes gave way to concern.
"You don't like it?"
"Like it?" She shook her head, utterly perplexed.
He stepped to the side and swept a hand toward the desk. Her eyes followed the gesture, widening when they fell upon the hulking black machine that sat in the very center of it. She gasped and took a few steps further into the room. It was a typewriter, brand new by the looks of it, a big red bow tied around the middle of it.
"Well, it's...certainly...big."
"Yes, it is that, isn't it?" He took her hand and drew her to the desk.
"I've never seen one like it before."
"It's the latest model, quite efficient from what I understand."
"I can imagine. You must be very proud to own it," Michaela murmured, running her hands admiringly over the shiny black keys.
"But you misunderstand. I bought it for you."
She turned to stare at him, agape. "Me?"
He smiled. "Yes."
She glanced back at the typewriter, stunned. It was an exorbitant gift. Much as she might want to, she couldn't possibly take it. "I can't accept this. It's far too extravagant. It must have cost—"
"We won't discuss the cost."
She felt the heat rise to her face and half turned away to hide the blush. He was right. It was rude of her to discuss the cost of a gift. "I just—"
"Think of all the pencils that can be saved."
She almost laughed at that, but the situation was far too serious to allow it. She looked up at him again, and her heart skipped a few beats when she realized what he was saying.
"I couldn't help but notice how many are missing."
"I'm sorry," she was quick to say. "I can replace them."
"Michaela, you must stop this infernal apologizing." He said it softly but with such intensity that she couldn't ignore him. "I don't expect you to replace them. That isn't what I meant at all. It's just that.... I thought this would be much better for you."
She was speechless. She didn't know how to respond. She still couldn't believe he would give her something so wonderful.
"You must accept it. You don't give yourself nearly enough credit. It isn't just I who have helped you. You've changed things here in my house. For the better. Gerald isn't nearly so melancholy since you've arrived. And Mrs. Avery is chirping about like a new mother hen."
She looked at the typewriter again. It wasn't that she didn't want it. She would be thrilled to have it. It was just so...much. Lord, to think that for ages she had begged her father to purchase a typewriter for her writing, but he had refused, citing that he would not support her flights of fancy. She would have been satisfied with a used one, but he wouldn't even see his way clear to allow her that. She even promised to use it to help him with his business if only he would agree, but when they had argued bitterly over it, she was forced to give up the notion. Still, he was so angry with her for asking that he locked her in her room for two weeks. The only visitor he allowed her was Geoffrey Yelvington, the man he wanted her to marry. It had been the most miserable two weeks of her life. She hadn't even been allowed paper and pencil with which to occupy herself. And now this wonderful man was offering the very thing she had always wanted, and she hadn't even asked. How did he know so much about her needs, her desires? It was as if he knew her soul, her heart.
She was startled out of her thoughts when she felt Christopher's hand on hers. She glanced up and met his gaze. It was just a brief touch, there and gone, but it was enough to let her know that he'd seen the sadness in her eyes, the loss. She started to look away, to mask her feelings, but he stopped her.
"Don't," he whispered, reaching up to put a hand alongside her cheek and turn her back to face him. Her heart began to race in response, and she thought she might faint when he gently stroked her cheekbone with his thumb, his eyes roving over her face, a smoldering heat glittering in their blue depths. Her lips parted of their own volition, and her breathing became ragged. She could feel herself growing weak from his nearness, and realized with some alarm that she wanted him to kiss her, wanted it in the most desperate sort of way.
Christopher had to force himself to drop his hand away. The look on her face was one of passion, need. He could have kissed her then, he was sure. But he didn't dare. He didn't want to frighten her. And there was still the matter of his son. If Christopher involved himself with Michaela, it would destroy Gerald. He must take more care. He was being reckless, foolish, and it could well pull his family apart. Perhaps it would be wiser were he to avoid being alone with her in the future. But, blast it all, he couldn't seem to make himself stay away.
Michaela was grateful when he turned away from her. She needed a moment to collect herself, needed the support of the desk in front of her to keep herself from falling. She leaned against the desk with both hands, hoping her knees were not as weak as they felt. Why must she feel this way about a man she could never have? Why must she always be the tragic heroine?
"Michaela, there is something I have to tell you."
She didn't dare look at him. His voice was far too serious now, almost solemn. He knew something. She could sense it. And there was that rush of anxiety again, choking her into immobility.
"I purchased the typewriter for your writing."
She gasped, her hands automatically coming up to cover the color she knew was flooding into her cheeks. She'd had no idea he knew about her writing.
"I found out by accident," he admitted.
She didn't say anything. She couldn't speak. She was mortified, embarrassed, and frightened beyond reason. If he knew about her writing, th
en he knew her amnesia was a farce, had always been a farce.
"Michaela?"
She took a deep breath to steady herself, resigned to her fate. She might as well confess everything now. There was no sense in pretending any longer. "Did Sadie tell you?"
He shook his head. "I...overheard. That day you found her reading in your room. I came upstairs to apologize for forcing the psychologist on you."
As she listened, she began to relax. He didn't seem angry at all. In fact, he was almost contrite.
"I was sort of trapped there. I couldn't help but overhear." He deliberately left out the part about reading some of her work. She would never forgive him for that.
"But you never said anything."
"I was embarrassed that I had been eavesdropping." He gave a rather helpless shrug of his broad shoulders, his back still half-turned from her. "You must never blame Sadie," he said, his voice muffled, his head bent.
Still a bit stunned by it all, she silently studied his broad back.
"I want you to have the typewriter. I want you to continue...." Christopher broke off again. Damn, but he felt awkward. He'd never felt so awkward in all his life. He couldn't seem to string two sentences together.
When he turned back to face her, his eyes were full of sincerity, and his voice was earnest when he spoke. "Perhaps one day you will tell me about it. I know it's presumptuous of me, but I would very much like to read your work. That is, if it isn't so personal as a diary."
She almost laughed then, from sheer relief. He seemed as eager as a boy with a new slingshot, and his enthusiasm lifted her spirits.
"My son shared his dreams with you. Don't you need someone to share your dreams with? Won't you tell me about your dreams?"
Oh, Lord, how she wanted to. If only he realized how desperately she wanted to. "I don't know where to begin. I can't explain it. I just know that writing seems to be a part of me, as though I was always meant to do it."
He smiled, his eyes dazzling. "Like diamonds are a part of me. It's in my blood. No one can explain it. It just is."
"As architecture is for Gerald."
"Yes." He nodded, gazing down at her in delight. They had a common understanding now, and it was wonderful to share. "Yes."
Michaela smiled up at him. She liked this new feeling. Oddly enough, they understood one another. "So, you don't think I'm silly for wanting to write novels?"
"Not at all."
"Even though I'm a woman?"
Christopher's eyes narrowed. What a curious thing for her to say. "I think it's a perfectly marvelous thing for you to do. I fully expect you to be the next Marjorie Rawlings, or Agatha Christie."
"Better," she insisted, feeling a surge of bliss flood her body. It felt so good to talk to someone who sanctioned her choice. It was a first for her.
"Ambitious," he mused, his eyes glittering with approval. Christopher liked that. He'd never thought she could flower so beautifully, but dreams had a way of proving themselves that way.
"It is my dream," she whispered, "not just to write, but to have people read what I write and love it."
Driven by this new closeness to her and eager to be even closer, he rashly blurted, "Michaela, tell me what happened. What brought you to my door."
The moment the words were out, he knew he had pushed too far, but he couldn't take them back now.
Michaela hesitated on the verge of telling him everything. She felt so close to him right now. It felt almost safe to confide in him, but she didn't want to ruin it. She was afraid her admission might destroy everything, and she couldn't quite bring herself to do it.
Christopher was quick to redeem himself. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be a boar about it."
"Maybe in time I can," she offered. She wanted so badly to please him.
"I would like that." He smiled.
She returned the smile, though hers was uncertain. He hadn't questioned her about the amnesia. He had only asked her to share her trauma with him. Odd, he didn't seem interested in the amnesia anymore. She wondered why. Did he already know? Had he already forgiven her for the lies? Dare she hope?
"I'll have the servants take the typewriter to your room," he said, already going to the pull and ringing for them. "I'm sure you're eager to try it out."
She smiled, happy that everything was back the way it should be. Her enthusiasm had returned, and now she was eager to try her hand at typing.
"I can't thank you enough," she murmured. "You have no idea what this means to me."
Christopher stared down at her. Her eyes were shining, her cheeks had a healthy glow, and she looked happier than he'd ever seen her look before. He'd done the right thing by purchasing the typewriter for her, and he was glad. His gift had been the perfect way to confess that he knew about her writing, and it had served to draw them much closer together.
"I'm so glad," he replied, his eyes hungrily roaming her face. He wanted to remember that look, the happiness, the contentment. "It pleases me to please you."
Michaela wavered slightly. Something in his voice, something in his eyes, made her breath catch in her throat. She had no doubt that he meant every word. All of this seemed far too enchanting to be real, but somehow she knew it was.
His hand was halfway to her cheek, and he looked like he was about to touch her. He even seemed to sway toward her just a little. Michaela felt herself straining forward to meet him, her heart a deafening roar in her ears with the very idea of him touching her face again, perhaps even kissing her, when a sound from the doorway broke the spell. With a gasp, she pulled back. He immediately dropped his hand away, his brows coming down in that characteristic expression that was neither frown nor scowl, only the rigidly disciplined part of him coming to the fore again, that serious, intent look he always presented to the world. Watching him now, she thought she'd never loved him more.
She ignored the servants as they stepped into the room to receive their instructions, her heart turning over in her chest when the full realization hit her. She reeled just slightly and had to clutch at the desk to keep herself upright, hoping and praying that no one noticed. She loved him. She was in love with Christopher Standeven. It was almost too preposterous to consider, yet...it was so right. All wrong, but so awfully right.
"By the way, Michaela. There was something else. I wanted to forewarn you."
She glanced up at Christopher through a haze of disbelief and stupefaction. She was so intent on her new plight that she barely heard him. This was madness, this feeling. She had never meant to fall in love with him.
He frowned. "Are you well?"
"Quite well," she somehow found the voice to answer.
"Are you certain? You look a bit pale," he said, gazing down at her in open concern. "Would you like to sit down for a bit?"
"I'm fine. I suppose it's just the excitement."
He stared at her for a moment longer, then seemed to accept her explanation. Michaela was grateful. She couldn't bear it if he were to start asking questions now. In her present weakness, she might capitulate and tell him everything, and a confession at this point might prove disastrous. This sudden revelation of love had left her head swimming with the confusion and the shock of it all.
She tried to force the thoughts of her love for him out of her mind, tried to pay attention to what he was saying, but she had trouble concentrating. There were a hundred questions, doubts, and fears crowding her mind. Did he feel anything for her? Anything at all? When he touched her, did he get that same electric shock that she experienced? He seemed to like to touch her, to gaze upon her. And just moments ago, for one wild second, she'd thought he might kiss her. Did that mean anything?
"My business associate will be arriving this afternoon. His daughter will more than likely be accompanying him, perhaps even his son. But you needn't worry. You may continue about the house as you always have," Christopher was saying.
The thought of strangers intruding into her haven snapped Michaela back into the conversation. She wasn'
t certain she could handle the idea of guests. She'd grown accustomed to having the family all to herself, as they had grown accustomed to her odd presence among them. How would guests react to her? What would they think? Would they ply her with questions? And now, in the face of this new knowledge, she would be even more nervous, worried that someone might realize that she had fallen hopelessly in love with the man who had taken her in off the streets.
Sensing her anxiety, Christopher reached out and placed his hands on her shoulders. "You'll do fine," he assured her.
She lifted her eyes to meet his. He was so disarmingly close. Her heart began that odd little tattoo that was becoming so sweetly familiar. She was just trying to formulate a response to his reassurances when he dropped his hands and turned back to the servants to give them specific instructions as to the carrying and placement of the typewriter. She gave a little embarrassed half smile, feeling awkward again. Of course. How silly of her. His remark hadn't required a response. He had only been trying to reassure her in that wonderful way of his.
As the men lifted the precious gift, Michaela offered Christopher another smile of gratitude, then hurried after the servants, the imminent arrival of guests forgotten for the moment. She felt lighter than air as she followed the servants up the stairs. With Christopher's approval, she felt that she could do anything. She'd never had her family's approval of anything she'd ever done, and his endorsement made her intensely happy. It meant so much to her.
Setting aside her revelations of love, she embraced the new opportunity she'd been given. She was so eager to learn everything about the typewriter that she stayed in her room for the remainder of the day, typing away. It was so exciting. For a change, she actually felt like somebody. She felt worthy.
At midday, Mrs. Avery popped in to see her. Michaela didn't even bother to hide her materials. She didn't need to now. Thanks to Christopher, she need never write in secret again.
"I brought you a sandwich for lunch. Mr. Standeven thought you might be busy."
The Whisper Of Wings Page 21