Mrs. Potherby lifted her chin. "I do not know milord. But she is a young woman, apparently alone in the world. And those bruises . . . Who's to know what kind of cares she has been forced to endure." Her tone held some reproof.
James found himself suspicious, given the girl's earlier good humor. "Are you sure they were real tears? Did you see them?"
Mrs. Potherby sniffed in disdain. "Of course they were real tears. I have raised three children, milord, and taken care of more than one young girl in distress. If I cannot spot false tears then I do not belong here as your housekeeper!"
James was startled by her vehemence, and he quickly reassured her. "Of course, Mrs. Potherby. I did not mean to suggest that you . . . or rather, that she . . ." He took a deep
breath, then drew himself up to his full height. "Thank you, Mrs. Potherby. I appreciate the information."
He returned to his desk, barely aware of the housekeeper's stiff curtsy before departing the room.
He frowned. Carolly was crying. His gut clenched at the thought, and he stared unseeing at the papers in front of him.
Why? What had happened to make the vivacious if bruised young woman bury her face in a pillow and sob? All the women of his acquaintance, with the possible exception of Mrs. Potherby, seemed to enjoy crying in full view of the world. They relished the drama of it. James would have guessed that if anyone fit that mold, it would be Carolly, with her outrageous behavior and complete lack of decorum. Oh yes, she would sob loud and long, completely heedless of who was about.
But she had not. She had been lively with him; then, when he left, she had buried her face in a pillow and silently sobbed.
James pushed away from his desk, intending to see for himself, to see her tears. Then he stopped. What would he say to her? Should he extend comfort, perhaps pat her shoulder?
No. James shook his head. He did not wish to be presumptuous. She had obviously not wished him to know of her unhappiness. He returned to his desk. Perhaps he could visit her after she felt better. Maybe she would have eaten by then, and they could discuss what had brought on the tears. Perhaps he could help.
He nodded to himself. He would wait.
James leaned back in his chair and watched the ormolu clock tick until precisely one hour had passed.
***
Carolly felt much better. Why indulge in tears when food sat within arm's reach? She began to smile as she licked sauce off her fingers. Who knew an angel could be guided by her stomach?
Her amusement was interrupted by a knock at the door.
Quickly wiping her hands on the linen napkin, she called a loud, "C'mon in!" before composing herself in her bed. Strangely, no one entered.
She was about to call again when the door opened. It revealed James, standing iron-bar erect. "May I enter?" he asked stiffly.
Carolly felt her smile expand. She found his awkwardness charming, even while she silently devised ways to tease him out of it. "Of course. Pull up a chair," she agreed.
He stepped inside the room and turned to her. She had the distinct impression he was steeling himself for battle, but then he stopped, and stared at her face.
"What?” she asked. Her hands went immediately to her cheeks. "Do I have sauce on my—?” She reached for her napkin.
His voice stopped her. "No, no. Your face is fine. Quite lovely, in fact."
To her horror, Carolly felt herself blush. She'd been complimented before—mostly in her real life or original life or first life or whatever she was supposed to call it—but something about James's delivery made her insides quiver. He truly thought she was lovely. Even if he said so in his strange, flat way. "Uh, thank you," she stammered. "Please sit down."
She had meant on the corner of the bed, but he went to the chair tucked against the wall across the room.
Seeing the distance between them, Carolly shook her head. "If you're going to sit all the way over there, I'm going to have to join you. We can't talk if I feel like we're shouting across the Continental Divide."
"The what?"
"What what?" Carolly carefully set her tray of food down and started to get out of bed.
"Madame, I suggest you remain under the covers."
Carolly froze, one semi-exposed leg pushed out toward the floor. She turned to James, making sure her expression was completely innocent. "Don't worry, I'm just going to join you over there."
"There's no other chair," he protested.
She shrugged. "I'll stand. I'm feeling fine, and I refuse to talk to you if I have to yell to be heard."
"You don't have to yell." He sighed, clearly exasperated. "Perhaps I could bring the chair closer."
She grinned. "What a lovely idea." Then she settled back under her covers, demurely folding her hands in front of her.
She watched as James casually lifted the heavy chair. He wasn't an especially large man. Like a gymnast, he was lean and wiry, his movements fluid and graceful without the clumsiness of a body builder. "So," she began once he'd gotten settled. "Have you come to cheer me up, or was there something on your mind?"
He seemed taken aback by her admission of previous sorrow. "Oh, er . . . yes. I came to see how you fared. I see you discovered Cook's tray."
"Oh yes, James—and I do feel much better now that I've eaten. Thank you. And thank Cook for me."
He nodded and stared intently at her face, then abruptly relaxed into his chair. "Splendid. A good meal always lifts my spirits as well." Carolly nodded, not knowing what to reply. She wasn't given time to ponder, because James suddenly leaned forward, pressing his elbows into his knees and regarding her intently. "If you feel better, perhaps I could trouble you with a few questions."
Inwardly, Carolly cringed. She doubted he was ready to hear her answers. Still, looking across at his angular face, she saw James wasn't the kind of man to shy away from anything, even answers he didn't like.
She smiled bravely. "Ask away. I'll do my best to answer you."
"Very well. First, forgive me if I touch on delicate matters, but have you remembered your surname?"
Carolly looked down at her hands. "No." The one word was all she could say without tears welling up in her eyes.
"I understand." Though his face hadn't gentled, his tone had, and she knew he was sympathetic to her pain.
She lifted her chin and tried to smile. "Anything else?"
"Yes, actually. Everything else. Do you remember where you are from? Do you have any relatives? You are unmarried, you said?"
Carolly nodded.
"Please forgive the impertinence, but I searched your clothing. You carried nothing at all. No papers or money even. Can you tell me anything that will give me a clue as to your identity?”
Carolly sighed. This was always the hardest part—knowing how much to say. She pleated and repleated the coverlet while she considered her options.
"My lord—"
"Please, I thought we agreed on James."
Carolly looked up, pleased that he insisted on the less formal name. She saw it as a good sign that he'd become more comfortable around her. She took a deep breath. Time to begin.
"Actually, James, I know exactly who I am and why I'm here."
The earl raised an eyebrow, and Carolly suddenly felt the full intensity of his gaze.
"First, let me tell you that I never lie. It's the one part of me I've been able to hold on to over the years, and I've found it makes things much easier. If I can't answer a question truthfully, I'll just tell you that. Do you understand?"
He nodded, his expression carefully blank.
"Yes, I can see that you think you do. But in my experience . . ." She stopped, seeing his jaw muscles clench. She swore silently to herself. She'd insulted him. Damn. Nobles were always so touchy, and male nobles even more so. She took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to suggest anything rude. Just try to remember that I don't lie, I'm not insane, and what I'm about to tell you is absolutely true."
James remained silent a moment, then finall
y said, "Go ahead."
She watched his face carefully. She often learned quite a lot about a person from his or her reaction to her news. She stared straight at James, keeping eye contact as she steeled herself to say the words: "I'm an angel, James. And I'm here to help you find love."
***
"Did you hear me, James?”
His guest's voice sounded uncertain, hesitant, as though she were the one who had just been told something astounding. "Yes," James said, working hard to keep his voice level. "You said you never, ever lie. Then you told me you are an angel here to help me find love."
Carolly nodded, though the movement seemed jerky. She stared at his face. James knew she was trying to read his expression so he took extra care to keep it blank.
"James, you're not reacting. I know what I've just said is a little, um, surprising."
"To say the least."
"Usually people argue or laugh. Actually, most just go pale and glassy-eyed, then start talking to me like I'm a two-year- old. You seem to have jumped straight to some heavy-duty denial."
He raised an eyebrow. Her strange way of talking, along with everything else about her, deepened his determination to get to the bottom of the mystery she embodied. "You are an angel," he repeated, needing to say the words aloud one more time. "And you intend to help me find love."
She shifted uneasily. "Actually, I don't think I'm an angel yet. I'm more of a pre-angel."
"A pre-angel. And you said you never lie."
She frowned and bit her lip. "I'm not lying. Although . . . about the pre-angel thing, I don't truly understand it myself."
That, at least, was quite clear. In fact, James realized with a deep sense of sadness, he now knew she was quite mad. Still, he recognized her madness, and for the first time he understood why the Divine Maker had sent her to his door. It was odd, but this bizarre, misguided creature was the answer to his prayer, the very redemption he had longed for but never expected. She was his chance to atone for Danny.
"Perhaps," he began, "if you gave me the facts I could help you ascertain the truth."
She stared at him, hard, but when he kept his face impassive she shrugged and launched into her story. "I was rather selfish in my first life—my real life." She sighed. "Actually, I was so selfish, I managed to kill myself and maybe my sister as well."
"I see," James said. But he did not see. Not at all.
She went on, "And now, I've come back, and I think I have to learn how to be selfless. I have to help people, and when I finally learn how to be selfless, I'll go to Heaven."
"As an angel?"
"I hope so."
"And if not?"
She looked down at her hands where they clenched the coverlet, and suddenly her veneer of good humor evaporated. A terribly frightened young woman was left behind. "I continue working at it until I earn the right."
James studied her bowed head, reading the tension in every line of Carolly's body. He wanted to comfort her, to soothe the torment of her unbalanced mind. But, he did not know how. He only knew that arguing had not helped before, with Danny.
But there was more time now. He would simply encourage her to talk. Eventually some truth would emerge, or he would think of a better approach. James settled back into his chair, feeling an unaccustomed hope for the future spark within him.
"Tell me," he began, "do you make a habit of telling everyone you are an angel?”
She smiled, briefly. "No. Actually, after the first time I stopped altogether. You're a rare exception."
He tilted his head in a slight bow. "I am honored. May I ask why you have favored me with such distinction?"
"Because I get the feeling you wouldn't be content with the usual I'm-just-passing-through bit."
He frowned, a little thrown by her language. "I do try to investigate unusual situations—especially when they occur on my lands."
"And I suppose I'm as unusual as they come," she quipped. James felt himself almost begin to smile at her humor, but then silence descended and Carolly evidently became uncomfortable with the quiet. "Help me out, James," she said. "I need some sort of reaction from you. Some way to know what you're thinking."
"Why?" He had not intended to speak, but once he did, he did not regret it. The trick was to keep her talking, to quietly guide her toward reality.
"Why?" she echoed, frowning. "Because I need to know how to proceed with helping you."
"Helping me find love,” James clarified. He tried not to wince at the statement. Danny, in his madness, had decided simply to bring peace to all of Spain. That had been an unreasonable goal, but this woman's focused intent on him and him alone, made James far more uncomfortable. But, he could not choose her delusions, so he supposed he would simply have to make do.
"No, James, I'll help you find your socks. Of course, how t—" She cut her sarcasm off mid-sentence. Her mouth snapped shut with an audible click. She took a deep breath. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't be yelling at you. I had just hoped that my last assignment would be . . .well, just that: my last. I tried so hard." She shrugged, but the movement seemed forced. "Oh, well. I guess I'll just have to learn to be more angelic, more holy." She quirked an eyebrow at him. "How am I doing?"
He paused, wondering what to say. He decided on honesty. "I am afraid you do not, as yet, meet my notion of an angelic messenger."
She paled slightly and began chewing on her lower lip. "Okay . . . I mean, all right, what would convince you that I'm an angel?”
He leaned back in his chair and contemplated the ceiling. "Perhaps a heavenly choir. A miracle of some sort."
She shook her head. "Sorry. No can do. No choirs. No miracles. I'm just an ordinary Joe. Or rather Jane."
"I see," he said, wondering just how far this incredible conversation would go. "Then I have to take you on faith?”
She tilted her head, studying him with such lively intelligence that he found it hard to accept she believed her own fabrication. But then, Danny had appeared sane as well. "You sound like you don't much believe in it," she said. "You don't think miracles happen every day.”
He shrugged. "Let's just say I prefer the comfort of solid fact." He leaned forward in his chair, watching her expression closely. "What makes you think you are an angel—or rather a pre-angel? You do not possess wings, you cannot do miracles. What leads you to the conclusion that you are a heavenly creature?”
She didn't answer right away, and he knew she was searching for an answer.
"You need not be frightened, Carolly. I simply want to examine your conclusion. Perhaps, together, we can find a more logical one."
"You think I'm crazy." He did not respond, but from the expression on her face, Carolly clearly understood his thoughts. Finally she started speaking, her words reluctant but still clear. "I think I'm an angel—or rather a pre-angel—because I keep dying and appearing somewhere else."
James kept his eyes focused on her face. "I beg your pardon?”
"I was born in 1978 A.D., died in 2000, but I didn't go to Heaven. I was suddenly in 1902 in New York. I mucked about there for a while feeling really confused, eventually died of TB, then showed up in 1585, in England."
"Here?"
"Well, not in Staffordshire, but in England."
"And did you die then as well?"
She nodded, her face taking on a gray cast. "Yes." Apparently she did not wish to elaborate. She shrugged, as though pushing off unwanted thoughts. "Anyway, I've died four times." She frowned. "Or was this five?” She started counting silently on her fingers, only reaching the number three. "Maybe it's been less. I tend to forget . . ." Her voice trailed off.
"How extraordinary." There seemed to be no end to this woman's imagination, and James was hard put to decide whether to be impressed or appalled. "You are a pre-angel because you die, then appear again in another place and time," he repeated.
"It's that or I'm a ghost. Or someone with a really messed-up reincarnation schedule. Overall, I prefer thinking I'm trying to earn my win
gs."
"By helping people find love." He wanted to say it out loud just to make sure he had her twisted logic correct.
"That's my guess. Like I said, I really messed up my first life. I figure I have a lot of good deeds to do to make up for that. Why else would I be hopping through time, except to help the people I meet? I think of this as my job," she continued, blithely unaware of his thoughts. "That sort of takes away from the depressing being-dead part."
"Yes, that would be depressing."
She sighed, no doubt recognizing the cynicism in his voice. "You know, when I first decided I was here to help people, I imagined myself as this glorious figure hopping through time, setting everything to rights. I imagined songs written to me, a place in holy texts, followers hounding me left and right for a touch of my hand—that type of stuff."
James caught the strains of loneliness in her voice, and he wondered if perhaps he'd already divined the root of her problem. Isolation tended to prey on a person's mind. "But people have not been following you around?" he asked. "You do not have a packet of devoted followers?"
She snorted. "Oh, yeah. I do. Most carrying stones.
She abruptly pushed herself out of bed and paced to the window. Fortunately for James, she brought the coverlet with her, wrapping it around her. She looked like a lonely Greek goddess staring forlornly out at his estate. "Those people are why you're the rare exception," she continued. "At the beginning I used to tell everyone, but now . . ." Her voice trailed into a sigh. "Nothing dies faster than innocence. Or in my case, naivete. I've worked damn hard to help some of these people, and no one has ever appreciated it."
He stood up and crossed behind her, wanting to touch her but uncertain whether she would welcome the intrusion. "How did you get the bruises, Carolly?” he asked as gently as he could. "Did they throw those stones at you?”
She shrugged, the gesture rigid and painful despite her nonchalance. "Stones, torches, rotting fruit. What does it matter?"
"It matters to me." And he meant it.
She turned, her gaze rising to his. They were so close. James could smell the faint scent of meadow grass, fresh and clean, as it clung to her skin. He heard her gasp at his nearness, and he felt the heat of her body seep into his, invading his senses and clouding his judgment.
Almost an Angel Page 3