Darby's Angel

by Marcy Stewart

  Darby gave him a dispassionate look. “Lenora will stay as well. Alex did not ask her to marry him after all; one can hardly propose to a woman while her father is being arrested. But I’m certain he will. She told him everything, and he understands why she behaved as she did. My brother is more forgiving, or more in love, than I thought.’’

  “And what about you, Darby?”

  She ignored the question behind his words. “I don’t know what will become of Uncle Richard, but I never want to see him again. I can tolerate many things, but not the kind of rage I saw in him last night. He frightened me. I never dreamed he could be dangerous.”

  “You don’t know how dangerous, Darby. What if he had struck you, and hurt you worse than he meant? What do you think would have happened then?”

  She stared. “I have no notion. That is not the kind of question I ask myself.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you what I think. He would’ve dragged you to the lake and made it look like a drowning.”

  “How absurd you are. Uncle Richard murder me? Unthinkable.” She moved toward the door. “I’ve told you all I know; and now that I’ve seen you’re all right, I’m going to bed.”

  He moved his legs desperately. “Remember the fire I warned you about? I guess it could’ve been an accident, but Richard may have been behind that, too. I believe he planned to kill both of you then, because that was before Alexander and Lenora were a couple. Who inherits if both of you die?”

  She stared at him with disdain. “Does it make you feel better to know that my aunt and uncle do? But perhaps you will understand when I tell you I find it easier to believe you set the fire yourself.”

  “Why on earth would I do that?”

  She turned the knob. “To convince an imbecile you were an angel.”

  “Wait. If you cared enough to stay until you found out I was going to be okay, surely you can spare a few more minutes to let me tell you everything.”

  She frowned. “Tell me everything? What, do you mean the truth? How could I judge the truthfulness of anything you say?”

  “I deserve that, but when you learn—”

  “I won’t listen to you, Simon, or whatever your name is,” she interrupted, covering her ears and walking into the hall. “I have lost all interest.”

  He squeezed his eyes shut and groaned pitifully. Her footsteps paused. He moaned a little louder. When he smelled the sweet scent of rosebuds nearby, he opened his eyes, saw her concerned face only inches from his, and grinned hopefully.

  “I see you haven’t lost all interest,” he said.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed furiously. “You are maddening!”

  “You’re not the first to say so. Listen to me, Darby. Remember what I said last night? I love you. I’ve told some lies here, but that’s not one of them. Almost everything I’ve done has been to protect you from being killed on your birthday.”

  “How you make me laugh!” she exclaimed scornfully. “Are you pretending to be an angel again, an angel who can foretell the future?”

  “No, I’m going to tell you who I really am. But before I do, I want you to recall that it was you who suggested I was an angel in the first place. Remember when you saw me disappear through the trees? Remember how it felt when you tried to go through?”

  She paused. “I recall your saying it was a trick of the light, and now I must believe that was all it was. As for when I followed you, it must have been the wind that threw me backward. How you can blame me for your unholy impersonation, I know not!”

  “Well, you only gave me two choices that day—angel or demon—and I decided to go with the good guys. I thought it would be easier for you to believe I was an angel than what I really am.”

  “And what is that, Simon? An oracle?”

  He sighed. She was not going to make this simple. “Sit down, Darby. You don’t want to be standing when I tell you this.”

  * * *

  On the following Saturday afternoon, Darby looked up from her account books when she heard the conservatory door slam shut. Alex and Lenora had gone for a drive, and Aunt Gacia usually slept all afternoon. The servants would not allow the door to slam, so it could be only one person.

  She tossed her quill on the ledger, rushed from the parlour into the conservatory, and peered out the windows.

  As she guessed, it was Simon, wearing the jacket and pantaloons that Beckett had first made for him. And he was entering the woods. With a soundless cry, she rushed out the door without bothering to close it.

  He was leaving her, and who could blame him? She had greeted his fantastic story with disbelief and a thousand scathing questions. Yet who could blame her? One lie was more outrageous than the last. But if he hadn’t lied this time, she might never see him again. She ran faster.

  The forest closed around her, eerie yet comforting. Feeling like a desecrator in this cool, silent world, she shouted his name and heard her own voice resonating back. She hurried onward, panting, praying that she would find him in time. If she could not remember where those trees were ...

  Finally, he responded to her call. Energized with relief, Darby rushed toward the sound and found him at that strange clearing near the heart of the forest. She was so happy she nearly fell into his arms. But at the last instant she collected herself and tried to greet him with dignity.

  “What are you doing, Simon?” she asked, then winced at the frantic quality of her voice.

  “What do you think?” His eyes were remote, as if he had already disassociated himself from her.

  “Are you going home?”

  “Home? Why ask that? I’m just taking a walk in the woods.”

  “But ... you were planning to go between those ash trees, weren’t you?”

  “As a matter of fact, I was, but what do you care? According to you, nothing will happen if I do. So, here I go.” He turned back to the trees.

  “No!” she screamed.

  Simon stopped and slowly faced her. A little smile lifted his lips. “No? Are you forbidding me to take a simple walk? Why?”

  “Because—because ...” Oh, he was making her angry. He was going to force her to say it, wasn’t he?

  “Because ...?” he prompted.

  “Because I believe you!” she blurted, knotting her fists. “I mean, sometimes I do and sometimes I don’t. But you did stop Uncle Richard from harming me, and I cannot think how you did so unless there is some truth to your story.”

  “Only some truth?”

  “Don’t press, Simon; you can’t expect me to swallow everything at one gulp—flying carriages and moving portraits and all of those unbelievable things.”

  “But you believe enough of it to think I might disappear if I walk between those trees.”

  “I’ve seen you do it before.” She prodded a hollow log with the toe of her slipper. “You didn’t give me enough time to become accustomed to these strange ideas. You were going to leave me without saying a word or trying very hard.”

  His eyes softened. “I wasn’t leaving for good, Darby. I only meant to find something—the family history, maybe—that would convince you I was telling the truth.”

  “Oh. I hope you won’t do that. I don’t want to know when Alex is going to die, or when I’m going to, either.”

  “Okay, I understand. Something else, then. Maybe my earphones.”

  “Your what?”

  “The heavenly music.”

  “No, much as I liked it, I don’t want you to go back to prove anything. Something might happen to prevent your coming back.”

  “Nothing can stop me.” He grinned. “So ... you don’t want me to go?”

  She shook her head, then began to smile despite herself.

  “Why not?” When she didn’t answer, he stepped to her and lifted her chin. “Could it be that you love me as I love you?”

  Her eyes melted into his. “That’s the only sensible thing you have ever said to me.”

  He wrapped his arms around her, flinching a little at the painful stiff
ness in his shoulder. And then he kissed her, a long, searching kiss that made her helpless with longing. He pulled away, smiling into her eyes while stroking her cheek. “I’ll be back soon,” he said, and returned to the ash trees.

  She felt as if she had fallen from a cliff. “You’re not still going? Haven’t I said I believe you, Simon?”

  “Yes, but if I’m to live with you here, I need to transfer my cash to gold or something. I don’t want to live off my wife like a parasite. It’ll be hard enough as it is convincing Alexander I’ll make a suitable husband for you.”

  She thrilled to hear him speak of marriage so casually, but a horrible premonition dampened her feelings. “You won’t be living idly off our income. You’ve promised to run the school, remember? Unless ... will you miss acting? I suppose”—she swallowed with difficulty—“we could move to London.”

  “Would you do that, Darby? Leave the pottery for me?”

  Her heart clunked like an iron weight in her chest. “Well ... you have come all this way and time for me. I can. I will leave it.”

  He stepped back and kissed her joyfully. “I’m not going to ask you to do that, sweetheart. I like teaching. But apart from money, there’s another reason I want to return. I can’t rest, not knowing.”

  Darby’s gaze dropped. “You wonder if Elena will be born.”

  “Yes, and Tay. I must know. Can you understand that?”

  She began to tremble. “Yes. I don’t want to, but I do.” She threw her arms around him, causing him to shout in pain. “Oh, I’m sorry; I forgot about your shoulder.” Her voice wavered, and tears made her eyes shine like crystals. “You won’t come back.”

  “I told you; nothing can prevent me from returning to you.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “It might take me a day or two, so don’t wait here. And don’t look like that! The sooner I go, the faster I’ll return.”

  He tore himself away and, with a final wink, stepped beneath the trees.

  Darby’s hand flew to her mouth.

  The space between the trees immediately darkened. Simon’s hair began to ripple backward, as if a fierce gale blew from the other side. Lightning flickered across his body. He bent forward, pushing against the invisible force, walking and walking but going no farther within. She heard a terrible crack of thunder and screamed. For an instant she could not see Simon at all. And then he tumbled through the air and landed at her feet.

  “Simon!” Darby knelt beside him, rubbing his hands and patting his cheek. “Can you hear me?”

  His eyes opened. “What happened?”

  “You couldn’t go through. It was like that other time when I tried to accompany you.”

  “I ... see.” With her help, he struggled to his feet and dusted his breeches. She looked away from him, not liking the disappointment she saw on his face. “I guess I’ll never know what happens.”

  She took his hand. “Then you’ll be like everyone else on earth.”

  A gentle light began to gleam in his eyes. “That’s right; set me straight, Darby. I’m depending on you to do that from now on, since it’s your fault I couldn’t go back. You have to be desolate in heart, you know. I’d forgotten, but it came back to me in that wind tunnel. You’ve taken the sadness right out of me, and now you’re stuck with a castaway in time.”

  She lifted her fingers to his tumbled hair and began smoothing it. “There’s a part of me that believes you’ve deluded yourself, Simon. Sometimes I still think you’re an angel.”

  “Oh, no,” he said, sweeping her into his arms and staring hungrily at her lips. “An angel would never do this, would he?”

  When she could draw breath to speak, she said dreamily, “No, Simon, I don’t believe an angel would.”

  Epilogue—Present Day

  On the second day of his search through Witchwood, Simon Garrett found the ash trees and felt a chill that had little to do with the quiet wind ruffling the treetops. He pulled the thick letter from his back jeans pocket and recalled the awed face of Elena’s solicitor as the official gave it to him four months before. The letter had been handed down through the firm from father to son, father to son, for almost two centuries. The lawyer’s hand had shaken as he gave Simon the sealed packet, which was addressed and dated in the same familiar handwriting that crossed the yellowed pages within: To Simon Garrett; Los Angeles, California; January, 2018.

  At first he’d thought it a great practical joke; something Dell would do. When his agent denied it forcefully, Simon had hired a private eye to investigate it. Turned out the firm of Goodehouse, Hage and Harrow of London was as respectable as they came. And now Simon’s fingers trembled as he sat on a rock within spitting distance of the ash trees—the gateway to the past?—and read the letter again.

  He skimmed through most of the pages; he’d read it so many times he’d practically memorized each word. The writer knew him inside and out and revealed everything—Simon’s desire to be an actor; his climb up from near-poverty; the help Elena had given him with her Brightings fortune and his resentment of it; his weakness for beautiful women; even the name of the fan, Sheila Wells, whom he never would have suspected to be so deranged—as if he was determined to convince Simon he could be only one person—Simon himself. And now, in the light of all that had happened, with the ash trees only yards away, he couldn’t deny it. Somehow another Simon Garret had fled into the past and found happiness there with a woman called Darby. But how could it be possible? Even the old Simon hadn’t known:

  Though I scarcely think about my former life anymore, sometimes I awake in the middle of the night and wonder: How could I have risked the integrity of the future for my own selfish desires? I must have changed innumerable things that should never have been changed, though I’ve tried to be careful. But what is the future supposed to be? If I’ve made it different, who is to say it will not be better—for yourself, for all the lives you’ll touch?

  Besides, I don’t think I could have stopped myself; I’m convinced something impelled me to come. Yes, I know; you’re skeptical of any hints of destiny and—dare I say it?—God; but after all these years, let me only affirm that as one grows older, one becomes more full of wonder and belief. Perhaps that’s why the elderly are often called childlike. But you’ll have to discover that in your own way.

  I’m sixty-three years old as of this writing, and my wife is ten years younger; she’s still as beautiful and full of herself as always. We have grown to cherish everything about one another—faults included. I’ve even learned to tolerate Darby’s insistence that it’s easier to believe I’m an imperfect angel than a refugee from the future; she only does it to stir me up, anyway, the minx. And though every day has not been blissful, I’ve known happiness, Simon, loving one woman. Our only sorrow is that we’ve had no children, but Alexander and Lenora’s three fill our lives with joy; and now there are the grandchildren. I tell you, even the foremost desire that brought me here—the wish to assure Elena and Tay’s births— fades in importance when I turn over in bed and gaze at my beloved.

  In fact, sometimes I wonder if my former existence was not some grand delusion, a dream. Perhaps I was a traveling actor of the old Empire who lost his memory along the way. If so, this letter will provide a good joke for Clemmy’s descendants. (How proud I am that he’s established his own legal firm. In many ways he’s become like a son to me.)

  Now I’m beginning to ramble, when my sole purpose in writing is to help you. Selfish to the last, I guess; but only I know the pain you might be going through. If the future has reverted to what it should be—meaning, if Elena’s birth was accomplished by the wedding of Alexander and Lenora, and I have no reason to doubt it, seeing their progeny—and if my warnings about Sheila Wells don’t prevent your family’s death, then you’re probably thinking about ending your own pain. Before you do that, if your heart is desolate and abandoned, walk between the trees, Simon. Walk between them. And when you see a vibrant, grey-eyed girl, do whatever you can to protect and love her. You won�
��t regret it.

  I’m laughing at myself as I write; of course I’ve no idea what will happen if you follow my suggestion. Will time loop itself into knots, over and over again? Is it possible you’ll be dumped into another century this time, with equally happy results? Will alternate universes be born? Will they unravel? Somehow, I’m convinced all will be as it should no matter what you do. Therefore, listen to the dictates of your mind and heart.

  With this final thought I leave you (You knew there would be a word of advice, right? It’s one of the few privileges the aging enjoy. But I can’t stop myself; I feel like a parent to you; no, closer than a parent, and perhaps you’ll listen to me more than you ever did Mom or Dad—by the way, go see them, won’t you?): I don’t care how many magazines paint your face on them; fulfillment only comes in abandoning yourself to one love. Okay, you’ve heard it a thousand times, but truth is often found in clichés. And it is true. Try it, Simon, and find out.

  Simon folded the worn pages into a rectangle and replaced them in his pocket. He shook his head, still not able to believe it. And then he stood and walked slowly toward the trees.

  He knew desolation. He tasted emptiness daily. He’d tried to find solace in the fresh young bodies who offered themselves to him, but what pleasure he found was temporary at best. And now he felt an overwhelming curiosity, and hope.

  He touched the sides of the trees and paused. Unless everything had been a hoax after all, he was on the verge of a very great decision and mustn’t hurry himself. He swallowed and started forward, then hesitated again. Something was disturbing the silent forest, crashing through the undergrowth.

  “Daddy!” called a high voice behind him. “Daddy, where are you?”

  Simon looked toward the voice, then at the trees longingly. It would only take a second, and then he’d come right back. But what if something happened and he couldn’t? Ropes of anxiety tightened around his chest.

  “Daddy! I’m losted!”

  He turned instantly, feeling the bonds unwinding. What had he been thinking? “I’m here, son!” he called, breaking into a run. “Over here, Tay!”