Darby's Angel

by Marcy Stewart

  Lenora’s tiny fingers flew to her face. “Oh, dear,” she said, and burst into apologetic giggles. “I have just heard myself. You must both think me the veriest cat. Forgive me, Darby. Naturally, you are not large, only larger than I am, but then, who is not?”

  “You are a most petite creature,” Alexander said fondly, then, catching his sister’s expression from the corner of his eye, sent her a look that said, What’s wrong now?

  Lenora looked from one to the other of them, then said in confidential tones, “I suppose I am small, but it’s horrid to be so. One can never reach anything and must forever be asking for help.” She leaned toward Darby, her expression beseeching. “But say you are not angry, please? I meant no offense.”

  Looking into her sincere eyes, Darby felt doubts warring with her irritation. Lenora often inspired such inner battles. The woman’s charm was undeniable, and Darby frequently received generous doses of it. Yet Lenora’s tongue possessed two edges; one dripped honey, the other poison, leading Darby to a fundamental distrust. It did not help that Alexander seemed blind to her venomous side.

  “You haven’t offended me,” she lied.

  They began to talk of other things until the remaining three long-term residents of Brightings joined them. Aunt Gacia entered on the arm of her husband, who had been found in time to don his newest dark evening clothes. Claude Heathershaw, friend to Lenora’s late husband, followed a moment later. Wearing his usual Brummel-blue frock coat, black pantaloons, white shirt and cravat, he eyed the inhabitants of the room lazily before pulling an armchair beside Darby.

  “Stunning,” he said in a private voice, casting her a lingering look that would have been offensive had it not been so comically overdrawn. “I can scarce bear to look at you, Miss Brightings. Your countenance does more than justice to your name.”

  “You are full of nonsense as usual,” Darby said.

  While he assured her of his sincerity, the sounds of a carriage drifted to their ears.

  “The Wallaces,” Uncle Richard announced, tweaking the front draperies back into place with his chubby fingers. “Where is Simbar when he’s needed to answer the door? The servants in this house spend more time hiding than they do aught else. Gacia, my dear, you should do something about it.”

  “Oh, I have tried, Mr. Lightner,” said his wife in a long-suffering voice. “But Darby would have it that she is mistress here, and the servants only listen to her anyway. Excepting my dear Persimone, of course.”

  “I shall answer the door myself,” Darby said, rising.

  “It is not seemly, dear child,” said Uncle Richard, his soft brown eyes sorrowful within folds of puffy flesh. “And please don’t think anyone was criticizing you just now.”

  “No, indeed not,” agreed Aunt Gacia. “Your energy is a constant source of amazement to us all, though why one as tender in age as yourself would want to shoulder so many responsibilities when assistance is unselfishly offered on every side, I cannot fathom.”

  “Nevertheless, I will answer the door, since our guests are knocking,” Darby said, one eyebrow raising ironically. “I’m certain neither Edward nor Evelyn will be shocked.”

  Thus called to his senses, Alexander sprang to his feet, declaring he would join her.

  The siblings walked several paces in silence across the pink-swirled marble floor of the hall, then Darby whispered, more to herself than her twin, “Only one more month.”

  “Yes,” Alexander returned, “but I fear they will be harder than paint to remove from these walls.”

  “Be honest, brother. There is one you don’t wish to leave.”

  He gave her a telling look beneath his lashes but did not answer, only moved past her to open the door, which he flung wide. Jovial greetings were exchanged on either side as their life-long friends, Edward and Evelyn Wallace and their mother, were admitted.

  As Darby stood aside to permit their entry, a flash of blue caught the corner of her eye. She looked away from her friends, past their carriage, and to the field which bordered the wood. A tall, fair-haired gentleman was walking toward the forest with the air of one who meant to visit but, having seen the visitors, had changed his mind, there being a certain downward slant to his shoulders and a pensive look to his face when he glanced back.

  Upon seeing that face, Darby’s fears were confirmed. She felt her knees go weak and groaned softly.

  It was her angel.

  Alexander caught her immediately, “What is it?” he cried, then, following the line of her vision, looked from her ashen face to the figure of the stranger, who had stopped now in evident confusion. “Are you afraid of that man?”

  Darby’s fluttering eyelashes opened wide, and she felt strength returning to her legs. “Do you mean to say that you can see him?” she asked hopefully, and slipped from her brother’s arms to stand alone.

  “What? Of course I can see him, silly. What’s the matter with you? Do you think I need spectacles?”

  At this, the Wallaces also began to stare at the stranger. Seeing four accusing faces and one beatific one regarding him steadily, Simon began to retreat once more.

  “Hullo there!” Alexander called, none too friendly. “Who are you, and what are you doing here?”

  “I’m sorry,” Simon shouted across the distance. “I didn’t realize you had company. I’ll come back another time.”

  “You’ll come here now or I’ll send the dogs after you!” Alexander declared.

  Simon stood very still for a moment, then turned his steps toward them.

  “Alex!” Darby shrieked. “How could you? Mind your tongue! He is an—an—”

  Four pairs of eyes watched her expectantly.

  “What?” Alexander asked, finally. “He is an what?”

  “An—a—a friend of mine,” Darby said despairingly.

  “A friend of yours?” Alexander inquired in tones of disbelief. “When could you have made such a friend and I not know him?”

  “Yes, nor I,” Edward said, somewhat belligerently. “I haven’t seen this fellow in my life, and him I’d remember.”

  “Only look at how he is dressed,” Mrs. Wallace whispered faintly. “Oh, my.”

  “You didn’t tell us to costume ourselves tonight, Darby,” Evelyn commented dryly. “I could have worn Great-Aunt Astrid’s wig.”

  Darby watched Simon’s approach with growing dismay. He wore a brilliant blue satin jacket with matching knee-pants. A froth of white lace bubbled at his neck and at the end of his sleeves, and white stockings stretched into a pair of high-heeled slippers with bows. His hair was caught into a ribbon at the nape of his neck.

  He looked as if he had stepped from the last century, or had adorned himself in a servant’s fancy livery. Why had he done such a thing? There must be a good reason for an angel to behave so.

  Yet something was making Simon become more uncomfortable-looking as he drew nearer, and Darby could not miss the way his eyes scanned Alexander and Edward from head to toe. A look of comprehension entered his expression, and his crystalline eyes sparked resentfully even as a slow flush spread up his neck. Had she not been positive angels were above such things, she could almost imagine he was embarrassed.

  But there was no apology in his stance when he came to a halt at the bottom of the steps and looked at them. He stood without awkwardness, his head tilted proudly, his powerful body betraying only grace.

  Darby thought her heart might fly away, it was fluttering so. He had said she’d never see him again. What possible reason could there be for her angel to change his mind?

  “Forgive me if I sounded rude earlier,” Alexander said in a voice too strident for apology. “Darby tells me you’re a friend of hers.”

  “Who is it?” called Aunt Gacia before Simon could answer. She, along with Uncle Richard and Lenora, had come to see what was taking them so long. She squeezed a passage among the press of bodies gathered at the door to get a better look at the stranger. “Goodness gracious, what a big fellow it is!” she
added. “Who is that, Alexander?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out,” Alexander answered. “Who are you, sir, and why have you come to us dressed as Gainsborough’s Blue Boy?”

  Chapter Three

  Gainesborough’s Blue Boy! Simon thought furiously. I told that puppy-eyed salesgirl in the costume shop early nineteenth-century, but this is obviously not it.

  To be fair, though, he had asked for the kneepants, since he’d seen the slop-boy wearing them on his previous visit; but apparently the servants dressed differently from the gentlemen. These men were wearing tight pants long enough to enter their boots, and the jackets didn’t match the pants and were made of stiff cotton or something; whatever it was, it wasn’t satin. Well, it was his own fault for not researching the period.

  He should have taken more time, should have at least brought some old-fashioned English money, even though he was convinced he wouldn’t need any. Now he saw he’d require new clothes, and who would pay for that?

  But he couldn’t blame himself too harshly; he’d been frantic with the need to hurry. The past weeks had been spent sorting out the tangled mess he’d made of his life. He’d even been to America and back, each moment bringing one unwelcome discovery after another. How naive he’d been, thinking he could change the past without affecting the future. During his last time excursion, he had done more than prevent Darby’s death; he’d put into motion an impossible number of changes that had resulted in his not owning Brightings anymore. The house was no longer even called Brightings. How surprised the present owners had been to see him, sweating and dusted with burrs and pine needles, burst through their back door after his visit with Darby. He’d only been able to reread the family history by forcing his way into the library while the owners dialed the police.

  And that was the least of it.

  Who would have dreamed a simple word of warning could cause such havoc? But seeing Darby now, he knew he’d done the only thing possible. He would rescue her again. In fact, he planned to do so, and this time he’d put everything right. He must.

  Darby was looking at him with a face broadcasting wonder, fear, and curiosity in turns. At least she didn’t look hostile as did the crowd surrounding her. What luck, to arrive when she was entertaining. Surely time was passing at equal rates on either side of the ash trees, and it wasn’t the twins’ birthday already.

  An acting coach had once told him, “When in doubt, bluff.” His mistake would only require the slightest modification in his planned story. He displayed his most disarming smile.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, bowing slightly. “I didn’t mean to bother you when you have guests, but my car—carriage!—was robbed, and all I have left are the clothes on my back. And the reason I’m wearing this instead of—of my regular things, is because I was playing the part of Blue Boy on stage, just before I was robbed.”

  “Save me,” Uncle Richard exploded. “Is that an American accent I hear?”

  “Yes, but what did he say?” Aunt Gacia asked in an annoyed voice. “What is he talking about?”

  “It is no use asking me,” Alexander replied. More loudly, he demanded, “Who the devil are you?”

  “Alex, really!” Darby exclaimed, almost giggling in her nervousness. She clasped her hands together in a prayer-like gesture, then released them. “How rude you are being to our guest.”

  As Alexander murmured, “Our guest?” in scalding tones, she descended the stairs, extended her hand toward Simon’s elbow, then dropped her fingers suddenly as if fearing to touch him. Simon felt a stab of guilt as fear deepened the colour of her eyes.

  With her back turned to the others, she whispered, “Shall I tell them your name, and that you are an angel?”

  He started. “God—goodness, no. I mean, my name’s okay, but don’t ever tell them that other thing.”

  “Yes, sir—Simon.” She swallowed, struggled to smooth her features into a placid expression, then faced her guests. “I should like to introduce Mr. Simon Garrett.” Swiftly she pivoted back to him, saying under her breath, “Is mister suitable, or do angels have titles?”

  “Mister is fine,” he whispered back.

  Her hands spasmed together again. He noted her fingers were long and graceful-looking, but he was making her awkward. It was too bad, because she’d seemed an elegant creature in the little time he’d known her.

  “Do you wish to come inside?” she asked quietly.

  “What are you whispering about down there?” Alexander called.

  Simon gave him an irritated look, then smiled at Darby. “Yes, thank you.”

  She nodded and gestured for him to follow. As they ascended the few steps to the door, Simon saw no softening in the suspicious faces regarding him. Speaking more to them than Darby, he said jovially, “I’m glad you recognized me from my advertisement, Miss Brightings, and that you recalled inviting me. I was afraid you might have forgotten, since it’s been awhile since you wrote.”

  They had reached the top step, and though several of the guests backed into the hall to allow him entrance, Alexander placed himself firmly in the doorway.

  “What is this, Darby?” he asked, keeping his eyes on the stranger. “What invitation?”

  “What invitation?” Darby echoed weakly, throwing a helpless look toward Simon.

  “You remember,” Simon prodded. “After seeing my advertisement and picture in a magazine, you wrote and asked me to entertain your guests at your birthday ball.”

  “Oh, yes!” Darby exclaimed. Beaming at her brother, she said, “I saw his advertisement and asked him to entertain on our birthday!’’ Immediately upon saying the words, her smile dissolved, and a look of confusion passed over her face.

  “Did you now?” Alexander asked coldly. “And you never said a word to me.”

  Darby’s questioning gaze flew to Simon’s, whose face immediately became woeful. “Have I spoiled the surprise by arriving too early?”

  “Yes,” she answered slowly. Turning to Alexander, she said, as if reciting, “It was to be a surprise, but he has come too early.”

  Standing beyond the threshold, Edward proclaimed, “Early? I should think so. Alexander and Darby don’t reach twenty-one until next month.”

  “So long as that?” Simon inquired, genuinely dismayed.

  “I’m surprised my sister failed to mention the date,” Alexander said grimly. “Now you’ll have to go back to wherever you came from.”

  Simon shuddered. Only the most careful planning had allowed him to steal his way onto the property again. He might not have another opportunity.

  “No, I can’t,” he said.

  Blood rushed to Alexander’s cheeks as he straightened in outrage. After exchanging an indignant look with Edward, he said, “You can’t? What does that mean, you can’t?”

  Thinking rapidly, Simon looked from one face to another, then lowered his eyes. In a soft voice he said, “Everything I owned was in that carriage. All my clothes. My money that I’d saved to—to buy my mother a house. I’d promised her a beautiful little cottage.”

  He lifted his lashes, and there were feminine murmurs of sympathy as he blinked the wetness from them. “She’s had a hard life, scrubbing floors and doing laundry from daylight to dusk, and all for me. The house was to be her reward, but now the money’s gone, all of it. And I don’t have any other acting engagements between now and next month. I must depend on your kindness, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh, dear,” said Mrs. Wallace, whose expression had changed from doubt to heavy sympathy. “Your poor mother. Will she starve? Do you seek lodging for her as well, or is she still in America?”

  “Um, no,” Simon replied quickly. “She does laundry at—at a count’s house in London. She’s okay for now.”

  “What a sad, sad tale,” sighed Aunt Gacia, dabbing at her eyes with her handkerchief while darting a comradely look at Mrs. Wallace. “Mr. Lightner, can we not do something?”

  “Well, I don’t know. That is—” blustered Uncl
e Richard, then fell silent.

  “Don’t you realize he’s making this up?” Alexander demanded. “Has he not said he’s an actor? Be off with you, fellow, I find your performance lacking in conviction.”

  There’s always a critic, Simon thought angrily, then appealed silently to Darby, whose face, he saw with shock, was pale with some inner turmoil. What could be wrong? She looked more disturbed now than she had at the first sight of him. Nevertheless, she returned his glance with comprehension and stepped boldly to her brother, pushing her hand against his chest, forcing him either to give ground or look foolishly defiant.

  “He is my guest, Alex,” she said firmly. “I have invited him, and he shall stay as long as he needs.”

  Alexander glared into his sister’s eyes. Darby met his gaze steadily and almost without expression. Certainly there was no appeal on her face, only steadfast will and resolution. After a moment of silent battle, Alexander shifted his smoldering glance to Simon. With a gesture of exaggerated politeness, he beckoned him inside.

  “Welcome to Brightings,” he said hatefully, as Simon passed by.

  “Now here, here,” rumbled Uncle Richard. “Should I not have some say in this matter?”

  “Don’t be unkind, Father,” Lenora said, looking very far up into Simon’s eyes and taking his arm. Pulling him down the hall, she added, “So you are an actor, are you? How delightfully scandalous. You must tell me all about it.”

  Simon glanced over his shoulder as they walked. Finding Darby at the end of what seemed a long line of people in various stages of fury and confusion, he smiled appealingly. Her lips moved in response, but fell short of true good humour, her large eyes remaining glassy and serious.

  Feeling a growing disquiet despite his relief in having charmed his way into the house, Simon reluctantly turned his attention to the tiny beauty at his side and allowed her to lead him into the parlour.

  * * *