On Gentle Wings

by Patricia McAllister

  On Gentle Wings

  By Patricia McAllister

  Copyright 2012 Patricia McAllister

  Kindle Edition

  Table of Contents

  The Letter

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  From the Author

  About the Author

  The Letter

  December 5, 1578

  St. Nicholas’s Eve

  Dear Saint (Sir) Nicholas,

  I hope my letter reaches you first before Anne’s and Maggie’s because I think it is the most important of the three. Anne is being very selfish and asking for a pony all to herself, and Maggie’s still a baby so she only asks for baby things.

  But Mama — oh, goodness, I mean Isobel, because my real mother is dead, but I am certain you know that already — Isobel said I might stay up only a few moments longer to finish this letter

  So I must hurry. I don’t want anything for myself, sir — not even a new Sunday gown this year, although some of Cook’s marchpane would be nice, if I didn’t have to share. Anyway, I am really writing to you about my Papa. He is Sir Christopher Tanner now, because the queen just knighted him at Whitehall and we are all very proud of that. But Papa has lost something and can’t find it anywhere. I want you to help find it for him, if you could, sir, please.

  I don’t know what’s wrong exactly, but Papa has been ever so unhappy and he hardly ever visits us here at Ambergate anymore. And Isobel is sad, too, and so are we three girls. So our Papa must have lost something because he isn’t at all the same as before.

  Will you please help him find it soon? Thank you, thank you, thank you!

  Your obedient servant, (Elizabeth) Grace Tanner

  p.s. If you help, I’m going to say extra prayers every day and night for the rest of my life, I promise.

  Prologue

  Heaven’s Gate

  Tempest stooped and plucked up a parchment from the misty haze swirling around his ankles. Smoothing it out with plump fingers, he squinted down at the childish writing. He was immediately alarmed by the date at the top of the letter.

  “By the rood, how long has this been lying here?”

  “Probably as long as you’ve been standing there, awaiting admittance,” Saint Peter said sternly from the other side, though not without a twinkle in his glowing eyes.

  “But it looks like one of those Children’s Letters. You remember, the ones we used to write on Saint Nicholas’s Eve and leave upon the windowsill for him to find.”

  “I fear that quaint earthly custom is a bit after my time. Does it look like a wish-list of presents to you?”

  Tempest frowned, absorbing the plaintive tone in the letter. “Nay, not at all. ’Tis far more like an entreaty to Saint Anthony of Padua. T’would appear something’s been lost.”

  “Misplaced,” Saint Peter interrupted, absently stroking his glorious golden beard. At the other’s surprised glance, he added, “The letter, not the object. That must be why Nicholas left it here on his way through. Not his responsibility, it would seem.”

  “God’s teeth, you can’t just let a child’s plea go unanswered,” Tempest protested. Even in the afterlife, a trace of his aristocratic accent remained, and thickened now in indignation.

  He saw Saint Peter wince at the oath and he adopted a contrite expression. Too late. The saint’s level gaze was disarming.

  “Since when did you ever care about anyone but yourself, Tempest?”

  “Well, I — ” Percival Tempest blustered, finding sudden interest in his ill-fitting robes, but a second later he rallied at the challenge and shook the letter at Saint Peter in a fresh burst of outrage.

  “Listen here, no child deserves to be ignored like this Why, somewhere down below, a little girl’s crying her heart out, while you callous bas — ”

  The saint shook a warning finger at him. “Ah-ah-ah, Tempest. That’s just one of the reasons your Petition for Admittance is still pending after all this time.”

  “You must have the slowest angels around,” Tempest groused, but the majority of his concern was for the wee one who had written the letter. He couldn’t say why this carefully scrawled letter touched his heart, if indeed a heart had ever existed in his great, ethereal chest.

  “Little Grace’s father has apparently lost something very dear,” he mused. “I wonder what it is.”

  “Faith, Tempest. Christopher Tanner has lost faith not only in us, but perhaps more tragically, in the entire human race.”

  “Why?”

  “Why, indeed? When does a man cease to care? When his wife spurns his affections for twelve long years, when his infant son dies and he must pretend the boy never existed, or when he discovers his life has held precious little love at all?”

  Tempest was shocked. “But he still has his daughters.”

  “And he adores them. But Kit Tanner’s lost faith in himself most of all. He spent most of his nine-and-twenty earth years suffering beneath the yoke of a cruel tyrant called Elspeth, and now that his wife is gone, he’s at a complete loss.”

  Tempest’s eyes widened and he made a gesture toward the gates. “Did she … ?”

  Saint Peter shook his head, and turned his heavenly thumb in a downward gesture. “Downstairs,” he mouthed.

  “Ahh,” Tempest echoed, relieved. He hated to think a virago like the Tanner woman had made it into the most elite club of all when he himself had been pacing these heavenly bricks for what seemed eternity!

  It wasn’t as if he, Percy Tempest, was a bad seed. Nay, he was a wee bit selfish, was all. In his earthly revels he’d indulged in wine, women, and song once or twice too often to ever qualify for wings.

  Another thought occurred to him. “Why’d Tanner ever marry this Elspeth woman in the first place?”

  “Earthly concerns, of course. Money can make such a tiresome mess out of human lives.” Saint Peter sighed, though a tad too virtuously for Tempest’s taste. “Kit was quite deeply in debt when he met Elspeth Weeks, you see, and her generous dowry was necessary to save Ambergate, his beloved home and inheritance.”

  “The poor fellow must’ve felt like a mercenary,” Tempest murmured.

  “Oh, quite. He strove for years to make it up to the woman, to love her despite their differences, but Elspeth Tanner was a wretched creature and never permitted any undue display of affection. A miracle, surely, that they had any children at all.” The saint smiled benignly, his silvery eyes glowing with secrets. Tempest suspected the “miracle” had been helped along a bit.

  “Tell me more about Grace, the one who wrote the letter,” he pressed Saint Peter. These heavenly fellows weren’t so inclined to talk, and Tempest intended to take advantage of the moment.

  In fact, he’d been ignored for most of the time he’d been here, but the gatekeeper’s unusually garrulous nature seemed to coincide with Tempest’s growing interest in the Tanner family.

  “Grace is the middle of three girls. She’s six years old, and she believes.”

  “Believes? In what?”

  “In life, in miracles. In love.” Saint Peter smiled again, looking far more mischievous than any saint had the right to be. “She wants to help her father find the faith he’s lost.”

  “Can she do it?”

  “No, not alone. Pity we’re so busy up here. I fear I literally can’t spare a soul.”

  “Then spare me.” Tempest didn’t know who was more shocked by the offer, he or Saint Peter. “Look,” he blustered on, “I’ve been standing around doing nothing for countless eons — er, centuries, at least. Might as well help out, r
ight, old man?”

  Heaven’s model saint seemed understandably alarmed. “But, my dear Tempest, kindly pardon my bluntness — you were considered by the earthly contemporaries of your day to be a cad, a knave, a rogue of the worst sort. What kind of example is that for an impressionable child?”

  “Well,” Tempest admitted, “not a very good one. But how else can I redeem myself and restore Tanner’s faith? Not to mention answering little Grace’s plea. Why, ’tis a wonder she’s not grown-up by now and fallen away from her own faith due to the fact you never bothered to reply.”

  His gaze on Saint Peter was both severe and censorious. And to his considerable surprise, the other laughed. Tempest heard what sounded like a grate of a key in a lock, and the pearly gates suddenly swung wide. He didn’t move at first, too shocked and inherently suspicious to take a single step toward the blissful paradise that had been firmly denied him all these years.

  “Please, won’t you please come in?” Saint Peter invited Tempest almost as grandly as Wakefield, his former butler back on earth. “His Lordship will see you now.”

  Still, Tempest hung back. “I don’t understand.”

  No mistake now. The saint’s gaze was full of devilish merriment. “Come now, Tempest, you finally passed the Test. All that remains now is the final interview and instruction and the securing of the wings.”

  Dazed, Tempest was silent for a second. “And then?”

  “Yes, you’re bound for earth and your first angelic mission. Alas, old friend, I must admit, I never dreamed this day would come.”

  Chapter One

  London, August 1579

  Summerleigh Hall

  Isobel Weeks took a deep breath, trying to calm herself amidst the unaccustomed swirl and press of so many bodies. What on earth had ever possessed her to go along with those three little imps’ naughty plan?

  Vanity, that’s all it was. Pure and simple vanity! She could almost bear Cousin Elspeth’s voice sneering dire warnings in her ear, and she shuddered with a mixture of fear and guilt that was all too familiar.

  But she was here now. Too late to slip away from the masque, no matter how gamely she tried. All the exits were sealed off by the crush of scented bodies, and she was effectively trapped in the center of the marbled floor.

  Glancing down, Isobel couldn’t even see her toes. But, to her dismay, she could hardly ignore the cleavage exposed by the gold-embroidered red and black gown she wore. Neither could the cads surrounding her, more than one of whom gave her a long, speculative look or roguish wink.

  Thank goodness for the velvet half-mask! At least it served to hide her flaming cheeks. Oh, why had her costume seemed far less shocking when viewed in a pier glass bank home? Because all three girls had been bouncing on her bed with glee, distracting Isobel while also exhorting her to greater efforts.

  “You must put your hair up, Isobel. ’Tis the latest style at court. No, no, not like that. Here, I’ll show you.” Anne, the eldest Tanner girl at nine, assumed a worldly air as she helped Isobel arrange her ash-brown hair into fashionable elf-locks.

  “You’re lucky it’s so thick,” Anne said admiringly “Mother’s was so thin, one could see her scalp.”

  The mention of Elspeth Tanner briefly sobered them all. The woman was dead. But no matter how many times Isobel reminded herself and the children of that fact, she still couldn’t help glancing over her shoulder every now and again. She half expected her cousin to come storming up the stairs that very moment, furiously berating her or the girls for even entertaining such an evil charade.

  Up until six months ago, life had been torturous at Ambergate. Isobel had always loved the quaint Tudor mansion with its blond limestone pillars and elegant gardens, so it wasn’t the house she feared. Rather, it was the woman who had so recently stalked those elegant halls. And still did, if six year-old Grace were to be believed.

  She didn’t encourage the middle girl’s dark fears. It wasn’t that Isobel didn’t believe in ghosts herself — after all, she was of pure Cornish stock — she simply didn’t have time for them since her hands and days were full enough caring for three high-spirited children.

  Isobel had spent most of her life under the Tanner family’s roof. Indeed, she had been the live-in nursemaid and proxy mother to the girls since their respective births, but she bore no resentment for the loss of her own youth. On the contrary, she counted herself blessed. These were her children, really, since Elspeth had taken little interest in her own offspring. And Cousin Kit had always been kind enough to her.

  But if there were one thing Isobel envied other adults, it was their freedom. Even Elspeth had been to court a few times, though rumor held the queen had taken a dislike to her sour cousin.

  Usually, Kit Tanner danced attendance upon Elizabeth Tudor alone. He was a favored courtier of the Virgin Queen, and Isobel thought he looked especially dashing whenever he wore his green-and-gold surcoat embroidered with the Tudor rose and the queen’s royal initials, ER.

  She’d always longed to sample such courtly revelries herself. Most females her age were long wed and had children of their own. Isobel had been denied such a chance, so it seemed only fair she might at least have one night to call her own.

  When the invitation had arrived at Ambergate three weeks ago, addressed to Sir Christopher and his late wife, Isobel could hardly ignore the temptation. No one need ever know. Kit hardly left court anymore, so it was an obvious oversight that this invitation had arrived at all.

  A Midsummer Night’s Masque. The frivolous notion appealed to Isobel, especially since everyone would be en costume. Even the host, Lord Tempest, if he bothered to quiz her appearance, would probably assume she was Elspeth since he obviously did not know her cousin had died six months ago.

  She’d overheard several other guests whispering about Tempest’s own sudden arrival in England from the Continent. Perhaps he had been abroad when Elspeth died.

  She reassured herself again there was no possibility she would be recognized, especially in this wig. In the end, she had not been brave enough to sport her own plain locks, after all. As Elspeth constantly pointed out, Isobel had inherited the dreaded, mouse-brown Weeks hair.

  Thus, a black-silk wig had been hastily procured from the attic for the occasion. Although its style was dated and its color too harsh for Isobel’s taste, it offered the reassurance of anonymity. Anne even wove a red ribbon into the coronet of raven braids, foiling Isobel’s stunning gown.

  “There,” Anne declared with triumph. “Now you are well and truly ‘Madame Mysterie’.”

  If Isobel’s face was too plain for most men’s tastes, at least her half-mask hid it well; and she knew her slender, yet curvaceous, figure did not escape admiration. Isobel blushed again when she sensed yet another man’s sweeping appraisal, but this time their gazes accidentally met and locked across Summerleigh’s great hall.

  Nay! Isobel mentally gasped, shocked. It can’t be! But there was no mistaking that gleaming auburn hair, the exact hue of his daughters’. Nor those intense green eyes flecked with gold, as warm and steady upon her as a burning flame. He wore no mask, so there was no mistake about it. Kit Tanner was here!

  Had he recognized her? Isobel’s fluttering heart nearly stopped in that second when it became obvious Kit was fast approaching. He would surely demand to know what she was doing here, how she dared leave his precious daughters alone, even for a moment.

  Dear heavens, what would she say? To assure him his girls were in competent hands for a few hours with Susan, the downstairs maid at Ambergate, might offer him some peace of mind, but he would doubtless be shocked and furious at Isobel’s deception.

  With ample reason. She glimpsed her daring décolletage again, and felt suddenly faint. She had not realized just how much a whalebone busk labored to push up a lady’s bosom, nor had she noticed before how dangerously close hers was now to spilling over its embroidered confines.

  Sweet Jesu. One more deep breath, and she was undone!
r />   ~*~

  Kit Tanner’s first thought upon glimpsing the stunning, raven-haired beauty across Summerleigh’s great hall was rather unchivalrous. But there was simply no ignoring that lovely bosom, especially as it heaved with visible emotion against her low-cut bodice as he approached.

  It was rare for him to be distracted by a likely wench. Indeed, with all he’d been through in the past, Kit knew it was a right wonder he could bear to glance at any woman. But something about this ebony-haired temptress snagged his interest, aside from her daring costume.

  Her stance seemed almost furtive, defensive. Her fate was sealed when she avoided his gaze. Ever the curious courtier, Kit was determined to learn why. At his approach, he saw she tried to bolt and slip away into the crowd.

  Kit’s hand closed around her wrist, and he was momentarily startled. It was absurdly petite. Fragile, even. The realization clashed with his initial impression of a coy vixen.

  “M’lady.” He bowed from the waist in courtly fashion though made no wove to release her wrist. When he rose again, he sought her gaze, but found it maddeningly elusive behind her red velvet half-mask. He caught a brief flash of light-colored eyes — were they blue? — before she glanced away. It seemed she preferred to look anywhere but at him.

  “Sir Christopher Tanner, madam. I must confess you’ve piqued my curiosity. You seem familiar to me. Perhaps we’ve met at Nonsuch recently?”

  “Nay.” Her voice was a low, throaty whisper that again contrasted with her delicate wrist and hinted he should leave well-enough alone. Frowning, yet not intending to be so easily dismissed, Kit persisted:

  “I’m certain I should not forget such an honor. Alas, I fear I’m also accounted a very keen eye for detail.”

  Isobel’s heart thundered at his deliberate words while her mind frantically sought for escape. Why did Kit persist in bedeviling her, of all women? A furtive glance into his sparkling green eyes revealed a hint of laughter, which made her realize his pursuit was more playful than predatory.