The Whisper Of Wings (18 page)

Michaela just stood there staring at her. Although Sadie had apologized, Michaela was still too upset to be forgiving.

Outside the door, Christopher frowned. What a curious statement. What did Sadie mean when she said it was really quite good? What had she read?

When he heard a rustling sound coming from within the room, he quickly moved back into the shadows of the next room, straining to hear the rest, his curiosity piqued.

"I am sorry, mademoiselle," Sadie pleaded in her soft French accent. "Please, I beg you, do not say anything to Mr. Standeven about this. Please. I meant no harm. It will not happen again. I swear it."

Too numb to respond, Michaela just stood there and allowed Sadie to brush past her. She was too concerned about her own plight to worry about what might happen to Sadie were Mr. Standeven to find out. The maid had no idea how safe her indiscretion was, didn't realize that she needn't even bother to ask. Michaela couldn't possibly tell Mr. Standeven what had transpired. She was too worried about her own position in his household.

Appalled by the fact that an employee of his had breached the privacy of a guest in his home, Christopher watched the maid sweep past. His initial reaction was to go after her and dismiss her. He was so angry that he was about to do just that when Michaela stepped out of her room and started down the hall after Sadie, only to pause just in front of the door of the room where he was hiding, so close that he could have reached out and touched her. He stood perfectly still, holding his breath and hoping beyond hope that she didn't by some terrible twist of fate turn her head and see him standing there. If she discovered him, it would shred the last vestiges of her trust in him. Were she to realize that he was eavesdropping on her, she would never confide in him.

She stood in profile to him, and he could see every nuance in her expression, in every line of her body. She was almost leaning forward, her eyes shining with something he'd longed to see for weeks now. Hope. She actually looked hopeful.

"Sadie?" she called after the maid.

He heard the shuffling sound of shoes against the floor and knew Sadie had turned back to look at her.

"Did you really like it?" Michaela asked.

"Oui, mademoiselle."

"I'm sorry I snapped at you."

"No, mademoiselle. You must not apologize," Sadie insisted. "It is I who am at fault."

When Michaela didn't respond, the maid turned away and would have continued on down the hall if Michaela hadn't once again stopped her.

"Sadie?"

Sadie paused and turned back to face her again.

"You may read it any time you like. If...." She hesitated, a bit uncertain. "If you want to."

Sadie smiled. "Oui, mademoiselle. That would give me great pleasure. I am anxious to know what happens in the end."

Michaela nodded, pleased.

Sadie took a step back in her direction. "If I may be so bold, mademoiselle. You should not hide such talent."

Michaela couldn't tell her that she had indeed tried to hide her talent for writing. For so long, in fact, that she didn't know any other way. No one had ever had a kind word to say about her desire to put her imagination on paper. Instead, they had only castigated her, made her feel as though her pursuit was foolish.

"Don't be ridiculous, Michaela,"
her mother had always chided her.
"You'll never be able to do anything with that nonsense. If you really want a career, why don't you do something practical, like teach."

"She's stupid enough to think someone would actually want to read that drivel she writes,"
her sister added, too many times to count.

And then her father's hateful tone, rising above it all,
"It's a man's place to earn wages, to put food on the table. Women should be married, having children to carry on the name, not looking for an impossible career that was never meant for women to begin with. You're not normal. You're a little touched. I've suspected it for some time. It's a wonder any man would offer for you, considering all those silly notions rattling around in that head of yours. You should count your blessings, Michaela, be a little more grateful."

She hadn't bothered to argue with her father, to insist that there were plenty of female authors who were doing quite well by those "silly notions." She knew it would do her no good. He cared nothing for her dreams, her choices. He barely seemed to care anything for her as a person. He was only interested in how best she could serve him.

With a small sigh, Michaela returned to the present. "Thank you for saying so, Sadie, but...." She gave a little shake of her head and half turned away, then glanced back at the maid in earnest. "Sadie, please don't say anything to anyone about this."

"Oui, mademoiselle. It will be our little secret, no."

"Thank you."

Sadie dipped her chin a fraction, then smiled and proceeded down the stairs, leaving Michaela to go back to her room.

Still hidden in the shadows, Christopher heard the sound of the latch clicking into place and knew that Michaela had once again locked herself away from the rest of the world. He stayed in the shadows until he was certain that no one remained in the hall, and then he left his hiding place and went to Michaela's door on silent feet. His hand half raised to knock, he hesitated. Perhaps he shouldn't disturb her just now. She'd been through so much in one short afternoon that he felt it only right to allow her a little time to recover. She was probably still upset about the psychologist, and he didn't want to push her any further than he already had. His meddling had already caused enough damage, and he didn't want to add to the problem.

He dropped his hand back down to his side and moved away. He would find another time to apologize to her, a more convenient time.

Later that evening, aware that Michaela hadn't left her room all afternoon, Christopher found Mrs. Avery and insisted that she retrieve Michaela and convince her to share dinner with them. And he made it quite clear that he would not buckle to any argument she might invent.

Michaela, agitated by the request, only obeyed for fear of seeming ungracious. But it was not an easy thing she did when she stepped into the dining room and faced the family again. She had hoped that Mr. Standeven would allow Mrs. Avery to join them, but the housekeeper was disappointingly absent from the table. Only Gerald and his imposing father awaited her.

Gerald was quiet over dinner, sulking most of the time, barely picking at his meal as he apologized to her with his eyes. She tried to smile and reassure him. She knew the psychologist hadn't been his decision.

To please them both, she forced herself to eat a meal that had no taste as far as she was concerned, her insides shaking the whole time. She was still in fear of being found out, still in fear of being sent back to a place she'd never wanted to call home, back to the fate she had only just recently managed to escape.

It wasn't enough time!
her mind screamed. No matter how hard she tried to convince herself, her short stint of freedom hadn't been nearly long enough, not after a lifetime of squelched hopes and suppressed dreams.

Christopher didn't bother to pretend to eat. Mrs. Avery may as well have set rocks before him for all his interest in food. All he could think about was the stricken look he'd seen on Michaela's face the moment he had opened the library door. Perhaps he should have interrupted Sadie's indiscretion, handled it personally, then apologized to Michaela for his own blunder. At the very least, it would have made his evening somewhat more bearable than it was. He was unfortunately torn between needing desperately to apologize and fearing a reprisal, the only certainty being that he needed to exercise extreme caution. He didn't want to disrespect Michaela's privacy. On the other hand, he needed to make her understand that he had only been looking after her welfare.

Unable to stand the tension and indecision a moment longer, he stood up, his jaw clenched so tightly it felt like his teeth would crack. He'd never been at such an impasse in all his life. And over what? A mere slip of a girl!

With an air of annoyance, he tossed his napkin onto the table, and, without a word, turned and left the dining room.

Michaela was stunned by his sudden exit, and she watched him leave with open curiosity.

Gerald seemed relieved. The moment his father was gone, he set his fork down and got up to come around the end of the table. He dropped down onto one knee before her and took both her hands in his to apologize profusely for the torture she'd been put through. But Michaela couldn't keep her mind on his efforts. She was too busy worrying about his father, wondering what was eating at him, afraid it involved her.

Intent on retiring early, shutting himself away from all the accusing eyes, Christopher slowly climbed the stairs, feeling rather weary and older than his forty-three years. Passing Michaela's room, he paused and stared at the closed door, the memory of the afternoon's encounter whispering through his mind. He didn't want to intrude, but his curiosity had been eating at him all afternoon. What precisely had Sadie stumbled into?

Feeling like a thief, he glanced around to make sure he was alone in the hall. Satisfied that no one was watching, he turned back to the door, lifted a hand and touched its panels. As he contemplated going inside, his heart hammered in his chest with the anxiety of being caught. It seemed ridiculous that a grown man could feel nervous about something so minimal as spying on his guest. And it conjured all sorts of bad memories of his years spent in the mines, the anxiety that gripped him every second of every day as he'd worked beside those men, sweating and laboring under the torturous conditions deep inside the earth. The choking dust, the lack of oxygen, and always the danger. Danger of cave-ins, accidents, and crazed men looking to fill their pockets with instant wealth.

Despite the twinge of conscience, he opened the door and stepped inside. He swept the room with a searching gaze. It was clean and neat, everything in order, almost barrenly so. The interior was so pristinely kept that it almost seemed devoid of an occupant. All except for one thing. The desk that sat by the window seat. It was the only furniture in the room that bore any signs of an inhabitant.

He felt a stab of guilt. He shouldn't intrude, shouldn't disrespect Michaela's privacy. He was as blameworthy as the maid. Bloody hell, he had to get out of here before someone came along and saw him. The last thing he wanted was for Michaela to discover what an unrepentant fool he'd become. Or anyone else, for that matter.

Still, he couldn't leave just yet. He took a step closer to the desk, examining the sheaf of blank paper that was neatly stacked on the right hand side, the pencil he'd given Michaela sitting next to it, carefully butted up against the stack so as not to roll off. And in the middle, another, smaller stack of papers, someone's neat scrawl easily visible even from where he stood, presumably Michaela's handwriting.

He went to the desk and leaned forward to read what was on the topmost page. In moments, he became lost in the writing. He reached down and picked up the stack, quickly reading through the first several pages. When he finally returned the papers to the desk, he made sure they were exactly as he had found them, then hurried to the door. Once outside, he breathed a bit easier, his anxiety slowly dissipating with every step that took him away from Michaela's room.

By the time he reached his own room, he was shaking his head and smiling in dazed disbelief. It was a story. He had been reading the beginning of a very intricately devised, and rather dazzlingly told, story. Not one that involved Michaela's plight at all, but one of pure fiction.

She was writing a novel. That's why she'd been in his office looking for paper. But why on earth would she want to hide something like that, as though it were wrong for her to be doing it?

He frowned as he closed his bedroom door behind him. Why indeed.

For the umpteenth time that evening, Christopher glanced at the shelf clock that resided on the mantel above the fireplace. He'd been sitting there in the antique Turkish Victorian chair, fully dressed, his mind a jumble of thoughts. It had been more than an hour since his odd discovery, and with every minute that passed, he became more restless and contemplative, staring at the phone number he'd scribbled on a piece of notepaper. A phone number he'd gotten from the private investigator he'd hired to find out who Michaela was.

For this long while now, he'd held back from making the call, almost afraid to find out the truth. He was reluctant to let Michaela go, wasn't at all sure he even wanted to know who she really was anymore. He was afraid that knowledge might take her away from him. But he couldn't put the call off any longer. Like it or not, it was something that had to be done. He must know, once and for all.

More resigned than convicted, he pushed himself out of the chair and went to the door. It was still early enough. He could make the call from his office.

In the hallway, he paused outside Michaela's door. Was she in there now, perhaps asleep already? Or was she still awake, as restless as he was? Was she in there despising him, blaming him still?

Something made him take a step toward her door, his hand half outstretched, as if to touch her. He could almost sense her in there, could almost feel the warmth of her reaching out to embrace him even through the polished oak that separated them. If only he could go to her, make her understand. But to do so now, to visit an unmarried woman's bedroom in the middle of the night would be unseemly, ungentlemanly. What if she wasn't properly dressed?