On Gentle Wings

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

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.

Heaven’s Gate

T
empest 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, right, 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

I
sobel 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.