Fortunately, Carolly thought with a smile, she was up to the task. Or so she hoped.
"Thank you, Margaret. But you have not yet heard what I'm apologizing for. For all you know, I could be confessing to murdering your parents."
Margaret gasped, and James shifted angrily in his seat. Carolly suddenly understood the magnitude of her blunder. She'd forgotten the girl's parents were dead. Margaret was an orphan.
"Oh, no! I'm so sorry, Margaret. That was completely tactless of me. I didn't . . . I wouldn't . . . " She grimaced as she accidentally bit down hard on her lip. "I'm not very good at talking to children, you know. Adults simply ignore me, but children—well, they often take what I say too seriously or not seriously enough." She paused a moment. "Well, that's pretty much the way the whole world treats me, so I guess children aren't very different, are they?"
Margaret looked completely at a loss, so Carolly simply continued babbling, silently praying God would put the right words in her mouth.
"Let me try again. I wanted to apologize for that scene in the nursery. I fought with your uncle over you without asking what you wanted. I practically ordered you downstairs, and that wasn't very nice of me. I'm sorry.''
Carolly waited for a response, but the girl simply pressed her lips together. Glancing at James, Carolly was struck by the resemblance between the two. Physically, of course, they were almost complete opposites. James was powerful, handsome, and very male. Margaret was young, a shrinking violet, and too aware of her place. And yet both had wills of steel.
Well, it was time to make Margaret feel important.
"From now on, Margaret, there will be new rules. They are very simple, really. First, if you don't want to be with me, you may leave. But," Carolly hastily added, "I hope you will stay."
For one heart-stopping moment, Carolly thought the girl would get up and leave just to be difficult. Fortunately, Margaret's only other alternative was probably the nursery.
"Good," Carolly said, once it became clear Margaret was staying. "Second, you are free to say anything you like, ask anything you like." She leaned over and lowered her voice. "You can even swear if you want to, and it won't bother me."
"It will bother me," James said, his rich voice descending on them like a pronouncement from the Greek gods overhead.
Carolly turned with a grin. "Then you needn't join us."
"Carolly—"
She turned back to Margaret, ignoring him. "And third, we may do anything you like when we're together." She caught James's angry glare and decided to amend her statement. "Within reason, of course. It can't be dangerous or take us too far away from your uncle's lands." James continued to glower, but Carolly ignored him. She would deal with him later. "So," she said brightly to Margaret. "How does that sound to you?"
"It is fine, madame," came Margaret's cool response.
Carolly squelched her disappointment. Obviously, given the girl's expression, Margaret didn't believe a word of it.
Well, thought Carolly with renewed determination, she would just have to prove she spoke the truth. "All right, Margaret. Now that we've established the ground rules, we should go on to introductions. My name's Carolly, but you can call me Caro." She felt James's disapproval, and squared her shoulders in defiance. "Now, shall I call you Margaret? Maggie? Peggy? What?"
In her first show of collusion Margaret turned to her uncle and spoke, her words as much a challenge to him as if she'd thrown down a gauntlet. "You may call me Mags."
Carolly felt her eyebrows rise at the odd nickname, but her surprise was nothing compared to James's reaction. His face became a thundercloud, and he boomed, "Your name is Margaret Amanda Northram—"
"But I shall call her Mags," Carolly interjected.
"Carolly," he thundered, "you do not understand—"
"I don't need to understand, James. She wants to be called Mags."
"But that was her mother's name!"
"Oh." Carolly understood. She smiled sadly at Mar—no, Mags. "My mother's name was—" She closed her eyes. What was her mother's name ? Oh, yes. "—Gloria, but my father used to call her Gold." She looked at the still-defiant girl. "You can call me Gold, if you like. Or Caro."
She didn't get the reaction she anticipated. She'd hoped to win a smile from Margaret, or at least a slight softening in the girl's demeanor. Instead she got a sneer of derision. "What a stupid name."
"Margaret! You will apologize immediately," barked her uncle, startling them both. But before Margaret could respond, Carolly rounded on him.
"Really, James. Can't you stop being domineering for five minutes and let me talk with the girl like a civilized person?"
"I will not allow her to insult a guest in my house!"
"I wasn't insulted. And even if I was, James, I'm perfectly capable of standing up for myself. If Margaret insults me, I'll tell her so. And if she keeps insulting me, then I won't be her friend."
James's eyes bored into her. They glittered like coal in the sunlight, and Carolly quailed under the force of his anger. She swallowed nervously, knowing James didn't like being contradicted, especially not in front of his ward. But it was too late now. She couldn't back down. And kindness, she was sure, was the way to the little girl's heart.
She lowered her voice, but didn't soften her tone. "I'm sorry I snapped at you, James, but I truly would like to get to know your niece. And I can't do that if you keep yelling at her. Even if she does something unkind. Now, do you think you can stay out of this for five minutes? Or should I find some other time to speak with her?" Her threat was clear. She would do whatever it took, including sneaking around the outside of the building at night, if it meant she could talk to Margaret unhindered.
James glowered. His eyes narrowed, his jaw clenched, and Carolly waited, expecting him to lash out angrily. But he didn't. To her immense relief, he glanced at Margaret then settled back in his chair.
Carolly exhaled, slowly releasing her pent-up fear. She wasn't fooled into thinking he'd given up. They both knew he was merely biding his time until they could speak in private. But in the meantime he was letting her proceed.
With a shaky smile, she turned back to Margaret. "Now, Mags, is there anything you'd like to do or ask?"
The girl thought for a moment, her blue-green eyes narrowed. Carolly held her breath, her stomach knotting tighter as the seconds ticked by. The girl was clearly trying to think of the most outrageous thing she could, something she hoped would unsettle the adults.
Carolly was determined to remain sanguine no matter what.
"Are you an angel or a tart?" the girl finally asked.
Carolly nearly choked. James exploded out of his chair. "Margaret—"
"Five minutes, James. Can't you be silent for five minutes?" Carolly asked.
He rounded on her. "Madame—"
"Your niece's question is reasonable, and you've no doubt been wrestling with it."
"Hardly," he responded in dry tones.
"Uncle thinks you are an escaped Bedlamite. He has already sent inquiries."
"Really?” Carolly responded, raising an eyebrow. James suddenly became sphinx-like. He settled into his chair, his features carefully blanked of all expression.
"Oh, yes," continued Margaret, clearly imparting as much outrageous gossip as possible. "Henry, the footman, overheard you telling Uncle you were an angel, but Miss Hornswallow says you are just a cheap tart. Cook thinks you are a tart, too. One who has been beaten many times about the head."
"Oh, my!" Carolly was stunned. Obviously Margaret knew all the household gossip. But what was even more fascinating was how the girl became much more lively, much less of a stifled lump, as she spoke. Her eyes sparkled in quite a lovely fashion, plus she began to bob up and down on the couch as she spoke, shifting her shoulders left and right even though she was still too repressed to move her hands.
"Don't stop," urged Carolly. "What else do they say?"
"Well, the footmen just talk about . . . about your legs." Margaret grimaced.
"And the stablehands all want to meet you."
"They're probably hoping I'm a tart."
Margaret appeared to consider this, then nodded. "Probably," she said sagely.
There came a choking sound from James.
"What about you, Mags? What do you think?" Carolly asked.
The young girl silently considered, tilting her head as she inspected Carolly from head to toe. It was hard sitting still for such a thorough examination, but Carolly did her best, all the while trying to remember what genteel nineteenth-century women looked like.
"I think," began Margaret, "that I agree with Mrs. Potherby."
"The housekeeper?"
Margaret nodded. "She thinks you are just a lonely lady who is pretending to be an angel so you can poke your nose into other people's business."
"Oh." What could she say to that? She could tell that the little girl felt sorry for her, that deep down Margaret didn't want her to be lonely.
"So which are you?" the little girl pressed. "An angel or a tart?"
James pushed away from his desk. "I think we have had enough of this for now."
Carolly sighed, sensing James had reached his limit. The man obviously didn't want her confessing to being a pre-angel to his impressionable niece. But she planned to do it. Children tended to be much more accepting of miracles than adults. She couldn't do it now, though. James would only confound her explanation and muddle the whole thing up.
She reached out and touched Margaret's hand. "I'll answer your question, Mags. But not right now." She glanced significantly at James. "Don't worry," she said, looking back to the child and investing her voice with the strength of a vow, "I won't fail you."
Then she smiled, deciding to arrange another visit while James was still tolerant. "So when shall we meet next? Perhaps tomorrow afternoon? We can do anything you like." She folded her hands in her lap, imagining a long giggling chat about boys and clothing. It was one of the things she missed most now that she was dead—curling up with her sister and talking ad infinitum about the male gender.
Margaret hesitated, glancing nervously at her uncle. "I can really pick whatever I want?"
Carolly grinned, already envisioning wonderful times. "Absolutely."
"Providing it is not too dangerous," declared James.
Carolly made a face at him, then turned back to Margaret with an encouraging smile. "Come on, Mags. What is it you want to do?”
Clearly screwing up her courage, the young girl took a deep breath. "Insects."
"What?”
"I want to go collecting insects."
Carolly felt as if she'd been kicked right in the stomach. "You're kidding, right? Don't you want to talk about boys and dresses and make-up?”
Margaret shook her head, her eyes shining. "No. I want to collect insects and put them on pins in a box, like I saw at Baron Lansford's estate."
"Bugs," Carolly repeated. "You want to go collecting bugs?"
Margaret lifted her chin, clearly daring Carolly to prove she was just as unreliable as every other grown up. "You said I could pick whatever I wished," she accused.
Carolly sighed. "Yes, I did. And if bug hunting is what you truly want, then I suppose that's what we'll do." She paused, glancing hopefully at the girl. "You're just teasing me, though, aren't you? Wouldn't you much rather sit and sip cocoa by a fire and talk about . . . " She waved her arms. Her favorite topics had always been rock stars or movie idols. What was the equivalent of a television hero in the 1800s? She couldn't think of anything.
"I want to collect insects."
Carolly felt her last fantasy of girl-talk die. "All right, Mags. Bugs it is."
James released the first true laugh she'd heard from him. She couldn't help but glare.
***
"So, will you do it?"
"What?" Carolly looked up from where she sat, staring into the cold library grate. James had just sent his niece back to the nursery, then returned to the library to finish grilling her. He closed the door behind him.
"Will you insect-hunt with Margaret?"
"Well, of course, I will. I said I would, didn't I?"
"Yes, you did."
"But you thought I'd think up some excuse not to."
James shrugged, and Carolly couldn't help but notice how incredibly handsome he looked as his broad shoulders shifted within his coat. She laughed nervously. "You're testing me, James. You both are. You want to know if I'll welch on my promise." She looked up at him, challenging him without moving from the couch. "I do confess to hoping it will rain tomorrow. But short of an act of God—" She glanced toward the heavens, wondering just how much pull she had with the Lord. She sighed. Despite her firm belief that she was a pre-angel, or something like that, heavenly miracles even in the guise of a thunderstorm seemed as elusive as ever. "—I'm going bug hunting with Mags," she said firmly. "Because I never welch on my promises."
"Perhaps I'll join you."
A cloud seemed to pass from her heart. Suddenly Carolly didn't remember her less than spectacular performance with Margaret. She didn't think about being dead or having lost her memory. All she could think of was wandering around the English countryside with James and Margaret.
Perhaps bug hunting wouldn't be so bad.
Chapter Five
"Dumb. Dumb. Dumb. This is really dumb." Carolly sucked in her stomach, leaned against the cold stone wall and peered through the darkness. She didn't dare glance down, knowing she'd see a two-story drop to a very hard stone walkway. Sure, she was almost an angel, but that didn't mean she could fly. At least she'd taken off her corset, which would have made traversing this ledge downright suicidal.
"Doesn't the man know to keep his ledges clear?" she asked the stars. Her gentle and relatively safe stroll along the ledge that separated her window and Margaret's had suddenly become frightening when she came upon a good seven-foot stretch of tangled ivy. But she wasn't willing to give up yet.
Sighing, she reached out and grabbed a fistful of greenery. "Please, don't let me touch some creepy crawly thing." She could probably keep her balance, even with the thick vines, but not if some disgusting insect started crawling up her arms.
"Crrroak!" That came from the frog she carried, protesting his location wedged into the pocket of her dress. She didn't blame him. She wasn't too happy either. She'd found the hapless creature in her bedsheets just ten minutes ago. He'd probably been put there by a certain ten-year-old.
"More tests," Carolly muttered, worming the toe of her now very wet slipper into a gap in the foliage.
She'd seen the poor frog and couldn't help but laugh. She appreciated all the signs that Margaret's spirit wasn't totally squelched. A child needed to be mischievous. She planned to find some way of nurturing that bit of Margaret's personality. And what better way than to return the frog at a midnight rendezvous?
Well, it had seemed logical at the time. In one brilliant move, she'd not only prove herself trustworthy, a person who kept her promises—even ones no one expected her to keep—but she would also show she was daring and not the least bit prissy about slimy creatures. That had been the plan five minutes ago, before she had discovered this huge expanse of ivy clogging the ledge.
Carolly grabbed another vine only to have it pull loose from the wall. "Aiee!" She scrambled for another handhold, found one, then stood still while her heart pounded like a kettle drum. She felt lightheaded from the adrenaline, but she hadn't split her skull open yet, so she supposed she ought to be grateful.
Did God protect fools? She certainly hoped so.
She took another cautious step and had to jerk her head away from an annoying leaf that flapped her in the face. It tickled her nose, and she had the strong urge to sneeze—which would certainly pitch her over the edge.
It was at that moment she realized she might possibly be in over her head.
&
nbsp; "Oh, Lord," she prayed. "This was really dumb, wasn't it? I'm sorry. Please don't kill me yet, I'm not done here."
She pushed further along and was grateful to see the window and its recessed alcove looming just ahead. She was almost there. Another step, another handhold.
Then she stopped. This was Margaret's window, wasn't it? She recalled the hallway in her mind's eye, carefully recounted the doorways down to the bedroom just off the nursery. Sure enough, she'd passed the right number of windows. But doors and windows didn't always coincide.
Carolly sighed. This had to be Margaret's bedroom—she'd die of mortification if she suddenly dropped in, frog and all, on that prissy governess Miss Homswizzle . . . or Hornswatter, or whatever her name was. She bit her lip. No going back now, not with six feet of tangled vines behind her. She took another careful step.
As a breeze picked up, Carolly couldn't stifle a small moan. Sure it was spring, but the night air cut through her already damp dress, chilling her. Her fingers, cramping from the strain of clenching the ivy, grew clumsy as she slowly turned into an icicle.
"Once again, almost-angel Carolly, ten-year veteran of the afterlife, astounds Heaven with her stupidity. Photo, page seven." Carolly didn't know if Heaven had a newspaper, but if it did, she was sure this stunt would become a feature article, probably in the humor section.
Just a few more feet. One more foot. Inch along, she told herself.
Hallelujah! She'd made it.
Carolly took a deep breath, appreciating the safety of the recessed alcove. She had enough room to turn around. If absolutely necessary, she could probably even sit down.
Sliding up to the window, she peered inside. Unfortunately, she couldn't see a blessed thing. The full moon bathed everything outside in a delicate bluish white, but only a few stray beams found their way into the bedroom.
Flattening her face against the glass, Carolly did her best to peer in.
She saw Margaret's bedroom all right. It had to be. Lace furbelows abounded everywhere she looked, including the bed curtains. But no sound or movement came from within. The girl was probably asleep.
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