The Whisper Of Wings

by Cassandra Ormand

  Michaela beamed up at her. "Please thank him for me," she said, then bent her head back over the typewriter.

  Mrs. Avery was almost to the door when Michaela turned around to contemplate her. "He's such a wonderful man, Mrs. Avery. He's...my wings."

  Mrs. Avery paused and turned back to give her a smile. "Your wings. What a beautiful notion."

  "He's teaching me to fly," Michaela said softly.

  Agnes stepped closer, her blue eyes studying Michaela's upturned face. She'd never seen it shine with such enthusiasm, such....

  She dropped her eyes. Good Lord, had she seen something else there in those innocent orbs? Something like...love? For Mr. Standeven?

  Her smile broadened. Perhaps that wasn't such a bad thing. After all, she'd seen the way Mr. Standeven looked at Michaela. Anyone with half an eye could see that he cared for her.

  Michaela assessed the secretive smile on Mrs. Avery's face, curious as to its origin. She almost looked like the cat with the cream. "Mrs. Avery?"

  The older woman gave a little start, her gaze flying back to Michaela's face. "Oh, dear me. I don't know where my mind went. I won't keep you a moment longer."

  Michaela gave her a reassuring smile. "It happens to me, too. In fact, it's been happening a lot lately."

  Mrs. Avery touched her shoulder, a gesture of affection Michaela had come to love. "It's understandable, what with your writing and all. I'm glad your amnesia didn't destroy your gift."

  Michaela felt herself blanch. But she needn't have worried because Mrs. Avery was already going on, completely oblivious to Michaela's sudden bout of panic. Apparently, her comment about amnesia had not been calculated to draw a confession from Michaela. The older woman had simply made an observation.

  "I won't trouble you with it now, but I'd love to hear all about your work." The housekeeper threw her hands up in the air and gave a little squeal of delight. "Oh, it's so exciting."

  Michaela stood up and gave her a quick hug. "Thank you, Mrs. Avery. Thank you for everything. I'm so happy."

  "I'm so glad you're happy."

  "I don't ever want this to end. I wish I could stay here with you forever."

  Agnes felt her smile slip. The girl sounded as though she wouldn't be staying on with them, and that worried her. She didn't want the poor dear thinking she had to rush off.

  "But you may, Michaela," she assured her. "Don't ever forget that. You're as much a part of this family now as I am."

  Tears gathered in Michaela's eyes, and she gave the housekeeper another hug. If only she could believe that she was a part of the family. But it simply wasn't so. Sooner or later she would have to strike out on her own. She couldn't trouble the Standeven household for the rest of her life. She couldn't remain in their debt indefinitely. And then, of course, there was that other matter to consider now. Unrequited love. How could she stay so near a man who would never love her in return?

  "Well, I shouldn't keep you. You seemed so busy when I came in and now here I am holding you up. You just don't get any rash ideas in your head," Agnes said as she made her way to the door. "I tell you, you're family, Michaela. Don't you forget that."

  Michaela smiled as she watched her go, then sighed and turned back to her little desk and to the typewriter that nearly swamped it.

  Michaela had been so involved in learning the typewriter that she'd forgotten about the impending arrival of Mr. Standeven's guests until she descended the stairs and found herself standing in the foyer amongst a small group of total strangers. It had slipped her mind so that she hadn't even had time to be nervous about their arrival, but all her misgivings came back in one mortifying jolt when Christopher began introducing her around.

  Mason Telford was a charming man, a very distinguished older gentleman of the fashionably upper crust. He held himself with much the same regal bearing as Christopher Standeven, but he wasn't nearly so impassive or disciplined. In contrast, he was very warm and given to spontaneous bursts of wit. Michaela instantly liked him.

  His offspring, on the other hand, were another matter. She was told that his thirty-year-old daughter Portia Telford received her dark, exotic beauty from a Brazilian mother. She was far too thin, far too caught up in herself, and her eyes glittered with undisguised malice, which she turned on Michaela with a vengeance. She hadn't received any of her father's warmth or charm, and Michaela felt some of that old sense of unworthiness returning the moment their eyes met. The hand she offered Michaela was cold and lifeless, and she cast an openly critical eye over the simple attire she wore.

  "What an interesting dress. So casual," she mused, her gaze glittering with a defiant sort of challenge that was directed straight at Michaela.

  Michaela withered. If she'd but known, she would have chosen something else, although she had no formal evening attire in her wardrobe. Unaware that she need depart from the usual routine, she had donned a rather simple, but nonetheless becoming, cream-colored organza dress for dinner. Portia eyed it with obvious loathing. Michaela wanted to shrink into herself and disappear. She'd never felt so out of place in all her life, had never felt quite so hated.

  "I did inform everyone that it was to be an informal dinner," Christopher replied.

  Michaela tried her best to read his expression, but his face was as impassive as his tone was. He gave nothing of his emotions away.

  Portia turned to offer him a pretty pout. "Why, Christopher, you know I always dress for dinner."

  Christopher felt his jaw tense. Just as he might have expected, Portia was being a cat, and he was not pleased with her hateful tone. He'd hoped that she would sheath her claws long enough to get through a civilized dinner, but he'd been wrong. Compassion was obviously an emotion that was too far above her.

  Michaela tried to overlook Portia's cutting remark. It was painfully clear that she would have to steel herself to get through the evening, no easy task considering.

  Obviously determined to ignore Portia as well, Christopher moved on to introduce Michaela to Mason's son. James was a taller, darker version of his father. Five years older than his sister, he was coldly aloof. But his eyes seemed to follow Michaela everywhere, like a panther waiting to pounce upon its prey. He was dangerous. She could sense it. And she instinctively thought it best to stay away from him as much as possible.

  The introductions concluded, Gerald possessively linked his arm with hers and escorted her to the dining hall. Michaela was nervous, but Christopher was as gracious and attentive as ever. She was shocked when he offered her the head of the table, directly opposite himself, the place of a hostess, as if she really were an important part of the family. Portia's eyes narrowed in displeasure as she regarded her. Michaela made it a point to ignore the hateful woman. It was clear that Portia had detested her on sight, angry that Michaela might represent a threat.

  Michaela feared dinner would be strained after the rather unpleasant beginning, but Mason Telford was far too interesting for the evening to be a complete loss. He kept up a steady stream of the most enlightening conversation, conversation that heightened Michaela's growing awareness of just how wonderful Christopher Standeven was. Mason included her in everything, as though talking to a good friend. She was grateful for his attention. It kept her mind off the dark-haired beauty seated to his left.

  Several times, Portia attempted to dominate the conversation, but the two great minds of the business men eventually won out, and she was left to follow along with the others, only half listening most of the time. She seemed far more intent on getting Christopher's attention than actually holding a conversation of any interest. But she couldn't hold his attention for very long, and most of the time she appeared bored beyond measure.

  Michaela couldn't help but sneak an occasional glance in her direction. In her opinion, Portia was overdone, with her gaudy red-sequined gown, her jet-black hair piled into a perfect coif upon her regal head, flashing rubies at her ears and throat, and her heavy makeup. It was a dress that screamed "look at me." The racy wom
an obviously had marriage on her mind, marriage to Christopher Standeven, and she would do anything to sink her claws into him. It was clear she didn't like Michaela's intrusion.

  In light of Portia's adept flirtations, Michaela began to retreat into herself more and more as the evening wore on. She could never compete with a woman like Portia. Despite her showy clothing, she was far too sophisticated and beautiful. And the idea that Portia might just get her wish and capture the riveting Christopher Standeven was so disturbing to her that she could scarcely bear to sit and watch it unfold. Even the scant hope that Portia would have succeeded long ago were Christopher of a mind didn't seem to help. The very thought of the spiteful woman marrying him was too much to bear.

  Trying to take her mind off Portia, Michaela deliberately focused on something Christopher was saying.

  "This man is ruthless enough to be purchasing tax certificates from poor farmers, taking advantage of their Depression plight. It's an appalling practice. There are other ways to make money, other markets."

  "Oh, Christopher. Always the gentleman," Portia chimed at the appropriate moment. "So politically minded. I find it all rather dull and dreary."

  "I think it's interesting," Michaela said before she realized that she had. It seemed a bold thing to do considering.

  Portia turned and fixed her with a lethal glare that Christopher couldn't see. Michaela all but hid her face behind her wineglass, trying to smile through the awkwardness of it all.

  Mason, obviously ignorant of his daughter's embarrassing attitude toward Michaela, turned to acknowledge her remark. "And rightly so. Women should learn politics. You have a gem here, Christopher. She seems very intelligent."

  Portia set her wineglass down a little too hard. Christopher saw it as just another ploy to get his attention, and deliberately ignored her. His eyes were trained on Michaela. He knew the dinner was awkward for her, but he was proud of the way she was handling it. She was a true lady.

  Gerald smothered a strained laugh with a fake cough, exchanged a quick glance of sympathy with Michaela, and reached for another dinner roll.

  Mason was still focused on Michaela, his eyes gleaming with delight as he explained, "You might find it interesting to know that your Mr. Standeven has been rumored to have the ear of Roosevelt himself on occasion."

  Michaela was duly impressed and didn't mind showing it.

  "And rumor it is," Christopher murmured.

  "Poppy-cock!" Telford responded. He leaned closer to Michaela and gave her hand a conspiratorial pat. "Enjoy it while you can, my dear. It's the only modesty I've ever heard come out of the man."

  Michaela laughed. Before now, it had seemed impossible that Christopher Standeven could be the subject of a good-natured tease, and it was a pleasure to experience. Somehow, it made her feel more intimate with him.

  After dinner, the group retired to the sitting room to cap off the evening. Mason insisted on escorting her down the hall, insisted that she sit next to him. He seemed intrigued by her, quite taken with the intelligent conversation she offered him. Michaela could easily understand his interest, considering that his own daughter exhibited only boredom with anything outside her realm of desire.

  "Quite the departure, wouldn't you say, old man?" he kept saying to Christopher, especially after she'd finished a particularly keen observation.

  Michaela was delighted to have a captive of Mason Telford's caliber. Rather than be offended or annoyed, he seemed amused by the questions she plied him with, all too eager to oblige her with explanations of business and politics and diamonds.

  Christopher sat just opposite them, his eyes glittering with some unfathomable emotion, the corners of his mouth lifted just slightly, as if he were pleased that Mason was so enamored with Michaela. Michaela was glad to be surrounded by the men who offered such substantial support, glad to be so occupied. With a sullen James Telford watching her and an angry Portia eyeing her with jealous regard, she needed the attention of the other men to keep her nerves steady. The evening proved a long one, but with Gerald's help and Mason's wit, Michaela managed to get through it. Still, she was relieved when it finally ended and she was allowed to retire to her room. It had been quite exhausting.

  Long after his travel-weary guests had begged off, Christopher sat alone in his darkened office, sipping a brandy, his mind on Michaela. She'd done quite well for herself this evening. He was pleased. She was getting stronger. He took it as a good sign.

  He was startled when the phone on his desk began to ring. He automatically checked his pocket watch. It was after ten, far too late for any polite human being to be ringing. Nonetheless, he picked up the handset and identified himself.

  It was the private investigator he'd hired, the very phone call he'd been waiting for.

  The man was very detailed and meticulous with his news. Even after Christopher had ended the call, he remained at his desk, brooding darkly. His conversation with the investigator had been enlightening, if not downright disturbing. It would seem that Michaela's father had contracted an arranged marriage with a man named Geoffrey Yelvington, a positively archaic notion in Christopher's estimation. With Michaela having disappeared, the man was claiming breach of contract. He intended to sue the family and take over at least a portion of the cotton business he'd been promised by the patriarch of the family, a promise that would only stand if Michaela married him. When two greedy men put their minds together, it was rare that innocent people didn't suffer. This time it was Michaela who would suffer.

  Though her father had died just months prior, she was still obligated to Yelvington. She had made the decision to flee that obligation just a few days after her father's funeral, presumably when she realized that Yelvington still intended to make good on the arrangement. In her absence, he was causing problems, threatening litigation if Michaela was not found and the deal was not upheld.

  Now he knew why her mother had been so insistent about Michaela's return.

  The whole thing angered Christopher. Michaela was nothing more than a pawn in a game of greed. It incensed him to think that her father had seen her as nothing more than a bargaining chip to be used to patch a business that had begun to falter from his poor judgment, to consign her to marrying a man she didn't love, couldn't possibly live with. Were she to do so, the arrangement would destroy her soul, her aspirations, all that she was. Everything that was bundled together to make her Michaela would be taken from her, until she was empty. Empty of all that she had ever dreamed possible for herself. Her spirit would be broken. She knew it, and that's why she had run. She simply couldn't bear to live a lie. Christopher didn't blame her. He too would have run, at any cost, if only to salvage his soul.

  His questions had been answered. He knew all that he need know about her now. She was no threat to his family. She was an innocent, a victim. And he'd be damned if he would allow this to happen to her. No one was going to hurt Michaela. Ever.

  Michaela paused on the landing to listen. She thought she'd heard voices, but she must have been mistaken because it was quiet now. The hall was dark, and she found her way only by familiarity. She'd traveled this path so many times before that she could find her way to Mr. Standeven's office with a blindfold over her eyes.

  After all the activities of the day, she'd been too excited to sleep. The great, hulking typewriter had sat there on her desk, beckoning, drawing her in, and she was not able to silence the characters in her mind, characters that begged to be brought to life. There was nothing for it but to give in, go downstairs and get more paper so she could work on the story she'd been creating, a story that would not let her rest until it was told in its entirety.

  She had been like this ever since she was a little girl. She would lie awake in her room at night, her mind crowded with wondrous tales, dashing heroes, beautiful heroines. She'd be bursting to tell their story, to put it down on paper, but too often she wasn't allowed to do so. Her family would always find something else for her to do. But she had no fear of reprisa
l now. No dread of recriminations and cruel words carelessly flung about. Tonight was hers. All hers. She could do as she pleased. And the need to write was just too tempting to ignore. She had to have more paper.

  In the hall, she paused again when she realized she was not alone. A slice of lamplight shone from under the half-closed door of the study, arching out into the hall and illuminating her feet. She hesitated, considering the best course of action. She didn't want to be seen. Should she return to her room? Or should she think nothing of it and continue on to Christopher's office where the paper waited? What harm could it cause? She'd always been free to roam wherever she chose, but with guests in the house, her late-night quest might prove awkward. She didn't want to cause Christopher—Mr. Standeven any embarrassment.

  She hadn't yet decided what to do when she suddenly heard Portia's voice through the door, rising a little, as if in agitation.

  "He can't possibly be serious about her. She's not even in his social class. It's just a diversion. It can't be anything else."

  Michaela drew in a sharp gasp of hurt. Was Portia talking about her? Was she really the cause of all that venom?

  "I'll marry him yet. If he wants Daddy's...."

  Suddenly, a hand snaked out of the darkness and pulled Michaela into the dark recesses of the adjoining library. She started to squeal in alarm, but Christopher put a warning finger to her lips to stop her. She stared up at him in surprise. Even in the shadows, he looked handsome. She would know him anywhere, even in the pitch darkness of blindness, just by touch alone.

  A rustling noise had drawn Christopher out into the hall, and he hadn't been surprised to see Portia and her brother entering the library. Portia was given to late parties, late nights, and even later nightcaps. She had probably come downstairs to partake of his fine brandy. The accompaniment of her brother was no surprise, either. He hadn't failed to note that young James had been rather too intent on that same brandy all evening. Portia was probably delighted to have an excuse to wander the house after dark. Perhaps she'd even hoped to run into Christopher by some odd fluke. Perish the thought.