When Angels Fall

by Meagan Mckinney

  This bit of news greatly lightened her heart, and she walked toward the castle much more briskly. The weather was fine and clear. The snow was all gone and only a crystalline layer of frost clung to the grass now. She breathed in the morning air and, for some odd reason, was actually looking forward to her day.

  The first thing she did was meet Mrs. Myers. The new housekeeper was as motherly as Mrs. Lofts was cold and forbidding. When the woman walked there was a bounce to her step almost like Mrs. Bishop’s, and her white, frilly cap was a pleasing sight, especially in contrast to the severe gray bun Mrs. Lofts had worn. Lissa liked Mrs. Myers immediately, and the new housekeeper seemed to be fond of her too. Yet Lissa experienced a moment of discomfort when she realized that Mrs. Myers seemed taken aback by her appearance.

  Lissa didn’t know that Mrs. Myers, being a gem of a housekeeper, knew of everything that went on in her house from basement to attic. The woman was all too familiar with Elizabeth Victorine Alcester, at least all too familiar with her face.

  The uncomfortable moment passed quickly, however, and soon Mrs. Myers and she were getting along famously. In fact, Lissa was hard-pressed to leave the butler’s pantry when the marquis rang the bells over the stair at ten o’clock.

  Lissa found the library in the maze of corridors in the East Tower. Ivan was adding more coal to the fire in the hearth when she entered, and she thought he looked a little annoyed that she had caught him performing a servant’s task. The Marquis of Powerscourt certainly had enough servants to perform any task, no matter how trivial. Yet for some reason, the fact that he didn’t bother a servant to climb the cold back staircases just to place more coal at his hearth endeared him to her. Despite the rancor that had gone on last night, she couldn’t help but smile, which seemed to take him aback.

  Uneasy, he brushed the coal dust from his hands. She appraised his appearance this morning and was pleased by his attire. He wore only a batiste shirt and gray trousers with black braid running down the side seams. His clothes suited him well; simple and masculine. She watched him go to the huge leather-topped partners desk and hand her a stack of papers. She looked down at them. They contained only names.

  “May I ask what these are, my lord?”

  He seemed to prickle at the use of his title. “A list of the guests I am inviting to the Powerscourt ball.”

  This surprised her. In her entire lifetime, she had never heard of a ball at Powerscourt. The former marquis was a man haunted by the fact that his first wife had died without issue. He hated people and lowered himself to follow only a few rules of polite society. He had teas but never dinners. He discreetly shed his lusts upon the wandering gypsies, never upon the more proper ladies of Nodding Knoll. Though he should have supported Powerscourt’s town much more than he did, most people were glad he was a recluse.

  Now Powerscourt, made magnificent again, was to have a ball. Perhaps it was time.

  “You’ll do the invitations. Of course, I expect it won’t take you more than a week.”

  She looked at him. “A week?”

  “There are over eight hundred invitations to be sent.”

  Lissa scanned the list. The ball would be an enormous affair. But the marquis never did anything halfway. Not even when he’d been a stableboy.

  “I’ll have them done in a week,” she promised.

  “Fine. You’ll stay in here. I’ve sent for everything you’ll need.” He went back to the partners desk and held the chair for her. She sat by a stack of cards engraved with the Powerscourt crest. With ink and pen in hand, she began. Ivan settled in a chair to read. Every now and then she looked up because she thought he was watching her, but his head was always bent toward his tome. Strangely disappointed, she would go back to her task.

  Saturday was the day she’d planned to go to Cullenbury to sell her gown, but instead she spent it continuing to write out the invitations. She worked every day in peaceful seclusion in the library with Ivan. Though they hardly spoke a word to each other, she looked forward to her work more and more as the days progressed. Mrs. Myers would bring them luncheon at noon and tea at precisely four-thirty. In many ways the week was idyllic. And like all sweet times, it ended much too soon.

  When all of the invitations were written they were sent by post, mostly to London, for all of Nodding Knoll was to be invited by banner. Lissa had hardly thought of whether or not she and Evvie would attend, partly because she was so busy inviting others, and partly because she knew she would have nothing to wear to such a grand event. In three weeks’ time the rose satin gown would be gone. Yet Evvie would have her blue velvet, and Lissa knew that the Bishops would be happy to chaperone her sister so that Evvie could have her waltz with Holland.

  Ivan didn’t mention the ball in any manner other than to inquire about her progress with the invites. By the end of the week, Lissa had made up her mind that she would not attend, until she got her semi-annual ‘charity’ visit from Arabella Parks.

  Arabella came to visit bearing gifts for her destitute friends. She gave Evvie a huge jar of pickled tongues that her cook had just put up and presented to Lissa her old editions ofThe Ladies’ Cabinet andLes Modes Parisiennes.

  Lissa thanked Arabella, a bit stiffly perhaps, then led her to the parlor. Evvie merely stood by, holding the disgusting jar until Lissa could look at it no more. She took the tongues from Evvie’s hand and put them in the kitchen. She came back bearing a pot of chocolate.

  “It’s so kind of you to call, Arabella. How’s your mother?” Lissa put down the tray and looked at the clock. It was almost noon and she wanted to get to Cullenbury that day. Thankfully Arabella wouldn’t linger, Lissa knew that all too well.

  “Mother is ecstatic, Lissa. You’ve heard of the Powerscourt ball, of course?” Arabella asked, accepting the cup of chocolate Lissa offered her.

  “Well, we’ve heard rumors. . . .” Lissa discreetly pinched Evvie who was seated next to her. Evvie had to cough to keep from giggling.

  “Mother thinks I would be a fine marchioness. I believe I may finally set my cap.”

  Suddenly their fun was over. Evvie sat deathly still, and it was all Lissa could do not to let her jaw drop. It was absurd, but the thought of Ivan taking a wife had never occurred to her. Now, as she looked at pretty, red-headed Arabella, the possibility was all too clear. Arabella looked stunning in her changeable silk dress. The taffeta was all the rage; though the gown was burgundy, it was also woven with luminescent green silk threads and the deep shadows of her skirt were colored spruce. It suited Arabella perfectly. Yet Arabella wasn’t just attractive, she was also kind. Her kindness was a bit superficial, perhaps, but no one could fault her for that, especially not Lissa. Arabella was the girl she might have become had circumstances not changed.

  “So should I set my cap for the marquis, Lissa?”

  Lissa took a sip of her chocolate. She tried to enjoy it for it was the last they had but it tasted bitter. “Of course you should, Arabella. You’ve already waited so long to be married. Does the marquis share your sentiments?”

  Arabella hesitated before answering. “If not now then I am determined that he will.”

  “So you should be,” Lissa answered, relief and dread swelling in her breast. Ivan was not for her, she knew it only too well. So why did this conversation put her in agony?

  “Oh, Lissa, it’s so wonderful to have a dear friend like you to talk to!” Arabella suddenly stood and gave her a kiss on the cheek. Then she took up her magnificent mantle of black curly lamb and walked to the door. “Of course, I shall see you both before Christmastide—at the ball!”

  Lissa was just about to make their excuses when Arabella added as an afterthought, “You know, I have several of last season’s ballgowns I can send down to you girls. Why don’t I do that? I know both of you would just love them!”

  Lissa wasn’t sure whether to be grateful or insulted.

  “Oh, no! You mustn’t bother,” she said. “Evvie and I already have our gowns for the ball.�
�� Lissa could hardly believe what she’d just said.

  Arabella gave her a puzzled look, then shrugged. “Until the ball, then!”

  “Until the ball!” Lissa answered, watching Arabella being helped back into her carriage by the footman.

  After she’d gone, Evvie could hardly contain her excitement. “Lissa, you mean we’re really going? I’ve wanted to, but I was sure you wouldn’t.”

  Lissa sighed. Why had she been so impetuous? She should have simply made her excuses to Arabella and trotted off to Cullenbury. But her temper had gotten the best of her again. Last season’s ballgowns indeed! Suddenly the picture of Ivan waltzing with Arabella was almost more than she could stand. Ivan was going to see her in that rose satin ballgown if it killed her.

  Unfortunately, it probably would.

  She turned to Evvie and said, “We’re going to Ivan’s wretched ball, all right. Just let anyone try to stop us.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Though the ball was still a week away, Powerscourt practically shook from all the activity within its stone walls. Housemaids prepared guest apartments; two additional cooks were summoned from Paris; and lads hopeful of playing footman for even just one night came and were measured for livery.

  As the preparations and confusion built to a crescendo, Lord Powerscourt was not to be found. Mrs. Myers mentioned that he had taken off for London, and while Lissa didn’t want to seem at all interested in the marquis’s comings and goings, it seemed the housekeeper could read her thoughts. She assured Lissa he would be back in plenty of time for his ball.

  Apparently the marquis so desired to be back at his castle, he rode all through the night, and showed up at Powerscourt late the next morning. When Lissa arrived, Mrs. Myers told her that the cook had the marquis’s breakfast waiting in the hot closet. With some trepidation in her voice, she added that Lissa was to bring it up to his apartments.

  The request, though made in the innocent light of morning, seemed to make both women anxious. Mrs. Myers fluttered about the servants’ hall like a bird guarding its nest while Lissa warily listened to her explanation of the route to the marquis’s suite. She was then handed his breakfast tray, which was made of heavy coin silver. Her arms ached with the weight and she was anxious to have the task over with. Mrs. Myers seemed to be equally concerned, for just as Lissa was ready to leave she added ominously, “If you are delayed, love, I shall come find you.”

  The first bad omen occurred when Mrs. Myers’s instructions on how to find the marquis’s apartments went askew. Powerscourt was a huge castle, and Lissa knew she should have listened more attentively to the directions. More than once she found herself in a corridor that seemed to lead only to dark oblivion.

  Finally she did find the massive double doors with the Powerscourt coat of arms emblazoned on it. She set the tray on the floor and tentatively knocked on the door.

  The second omen occurred when there was no answer. She stood there for several moments contemplating what she should do next. She couldn’t leave the tray where it was for he would never know it was there. Yet to enter Ivan’s chambers unannounced most certainly gave her pause. He could be napping—or worse, bathing. He could be doing any number of private things.

  She frowned. In indecision, she fingered the ancient splintering oak of the doors. When she could procrastinate no longer, she knocked loudly, then cracked open the door. She fetched the tray and pushed against the door to pass through, yet suddenly it flew open and she nearly dropped the tray at Ivan’s feet.

  “What are you doing out in the passage?”

  Lissa barely heard the question for she was too busy trying to steady her tray. When the milk pitcher was no longer wobbling, she looked up at him and was again startled, this time by his appearance. He wore nothing but black trousers.

  His feet were bare upon the huge Turkish Kelim rug. His upper half was bare also, and though she’d seen him shirtless many times when he’d worked in the stables, now her eyes seemed to find every supple muscle, every crisp hair, that covered his chest. When she finally dragged her gaze from the play of muscle at his torso, she looked up and saw he was still wiping the soap from his partially shaven jaw. She almost smiled. Of course, Ivan the Terrible, with his distrust of mankind, wouldn’t have his valet shave him. God save the poor soul who dared take a razor to that throat, no matter how innocent the circumstances.

  “Have you nothing better to do than gawk?” he demanded.

  Taken completely aback, she stuttered, “I—I am not gawking, I assure you.”

  He laughed the moment her cheeks flamed. Then he rubbed his chest, taunting her to look further. His brazen attitude about his nakedness shocked her even more, and she wished only to make her excuses and be gone. She saw a Nonsuch chest against one wall so she quickly put the tray down on it.

  “I’ve brought you your breakfast,” she said.

  “Why didn’t you take the servants’ stair?”

  “Mrs. Myers suggested that I not use it for fear I might end up in the wrong room.” She met his eye and could only surmise by his expression that he wouldn’t have minded her ending up in the wrong room, especially if that room was his bedroom.

  He began walking to a chamber beyond, and she was relieved that this encounter seemed to be over so soon. She was premature in her thinking, however, when he commanded, “Set up my meal on the table. I shall be back in a moment.Do not leave. ”

  She watched him go, suddenly feeling every bit like a lamb being led to the slaughter.

  The only table in the anteroom was a huge marble tripod that appeared as if it had been taken from the ruins of Pompeii. Just out of spite, she found the most uncomfortable chair—one with a triangular seat and a back made entirely of spindles that looked like the quintessential medieval torture device—and dragged it to the table. She set out his linen and the prerequisite twelve pieces of silver flatware he would need in order to eat. When her tray was empty, she took it up like a shield and surveyed her surroundings.

  In all the castle, these chambers seemed to be the only ones in their original condition. None of the furnishings looked to be newer than the sixteenth century. There were several trestle-form stools with Romayne medallions; a great oak settle with linen-fold panels; and a huge ambry that, no doubt, used to store the castle’s weapons. Every coffer and desk was decorated with turnings, and Gothic tracery was carved into all the stone ceilings and walls. The place was like a museum, only more magnificent for its provenance. The passions of Ivan’s ancestors lay buried there, and Lissa could well understand a reluctance to disturb them. But somehow, she doubted Ivan had left the rooms alone because of a reverence for his ancestors. He hated them. Most likely, he had kept the chambers intact for fear that change might rid them of their ghosts. And he wanted them there, so he could shake them up and make them wail. After all, the ghosts were all that was left of his family to torture.

  Lissa clutched the tray in her delicate hands. Her eyes surveyed the dank, dark chamber once more. She wasn’t looking for ghosts—ghosts didn’t frighten her—but she was looking for reassurance. She soon found something familiar resting on an upholstered Farthingale chair. It was an ancient balalaika.

  She put down the tray and went to it, her mind flooding with memories. As if it were yesterday, she could hear it being played in the night, softly from the stables. It seemed she had always fallen asleep in the summertime with “Meadowland” or some other Russian folk tune floating into her open window. The notes were the saddest sound in the world, doubly so because the ancient balalaika was the only remembrance Ivan had of his mother.

  Drawn to the instrument, she picked it up and ran her hands over the Cyrillic script that covered the triangular body. She easily recalled what Ivan had told her it said:

  Tears of sorrow touch these strings

  Tears of joy shall I then bring

  It was signed by someone named only Ivanovich, St. Petersburg 1702. The original owner had long since departed when Ivan’s moth
er had come upon it, yet it had obviously been the gypsy girl’s most prized possession, for she had named her only son Ivan and, as rumor had it, died with it in her arms.

  In a moment of sadness, Lissa strummed the three strings. She wondered if she let a tear fall upon it, would her dreams really come true? She wished that Evvie would marry soon, and she wished Great-aunt Sophie’s solicitor would suddenly discover some misplaced funds so that she could pay for George’s education. But more than that, she wished she could return to the past—not forever, but just for one night. As she had for years, she again wished for the opportunity to do things differently. She wanted desperately to right all the wrongs—as desperately as she wanted to reverse those tragedies that kept her in spinsterhood.

  She put the balalaika down. It was hard to admit to herself how brutally she had once wanted Ivan’s love. When she’d been sixteen Ivan had been all she had daydreamed about. She had been so lonely back then; his gruff, insolent attention was all she had. But because it was all she had she craved it like a drug. For Ivan she would have lived over her own stables, defied her own father, or run from the only home she’d ever known. For Ivan she would have done anything.

  But now that seemed a lifetime ago. She was still lonely, but she was no longer a child and she knew only too well how cruel people could be. She had once thought she had wanted his love, but now she wondered how she had ever dared to desire such a thing. Ivan was no longer her stableboy, but a dark, forbidding man who possessed a great deal of power, more than enough with which to be cruel. And he was a man who for all ostensible reasons had every right to exact revenge.