The Whisper Of Wings (2 page)

She lifted her head the instant she heard the rattle of the lock turning. She was so eager that she was already putting a foot forward to gain admittance even before the door had opened. But when it finally swung inward and an unfamiliar face haloed by a mass of white, fluffy curls appeared in the opening, she hesitated, staring in shock. This wasn't at all the face she had expected to see.

The elderly woman stared back at her in obvious alarm, her round, pleasant face registering horrified concern.

She instantly backed away, glancing nervously at the facade of the house. Perhaps in her weakened state she had wandered to the wrong address. But that was impossible. She was certain this was the house. She remembered it so well. Everything. Right down to the chinks in the steps leading up to the porch.

"Mrs. Smythe...." she stammered, then shook her head, tears of frustration now replacing the tears of relief. She lifted a hand and scrubbed the back of it across the wet tracks on one cheek, then pressed it trembling to her mouth. She didn't know what to do, what to think. She was confused now, so confused. She felt as if she were trapped in a dreadful nightmare that she could not awaken from. Nothing was familiar anymore. Nothing was the same.

A man, she judged him to be somewhere in his mid-twenties, suddenly appeared in the doorway behind the woman. He had been smiling, a jovial, welcoming sort of smile, but when he saw her, his good spirits faltered. She watched his gaze take in her appearance, the torn dress, the scratch on her shoulder, and her bare feet. His perusal was intimidating enough to make her take another step away.

"I'm s-sorry. I m-must have the wrong house." She forced the words through a throat constricted with uncertainty and shame.

The white-haired woman stepped out onto the porch, her sparkling blue eyes full of compassion. "Perhaps I can help you find the person you're looking for."

She wanted so desperately to trust the woman—needed so desperately to trust someone. She had such a kind face. Would it be safe to confide in her all her torment?

She hesitated there on the middle step of the porch, torn between fear and need. The older woman slowly lifted a hand, palm up, her fingers motioning her to come closer. She stared at that hand for what seemed like an eternity of uncertainty. She turned her head and met the eyes of the young man who stood motionless beside the older woman. He seemed to be silently willing her to obey. She put a foot on the next step but didn't quite take it, still unsure of herself, of their motives. It had been so long since anyone was kind to her.

"It's all right," the woman whispered.

She was on the verge of begging for their mercy, had almost decided that these people really did want to help her, when a third figure appeared in the doorway, this one a much more imposing man.

"Were you expecting someone, Geral—" He broke off to stare at her, obviously shocked by what he saw.

She instantly squelched the desire to confide in the woman and took several more steps backwards, almost falling off the porch in her haste to get away. She was so embarrassed, mortified actually. What must they think? How had she come to be here? Why did the house look so familiar when it held no familiar faces? Where were all those people she had known so well?

She felt disoriented, unsure of where she was, or even who she was. Perhaps she had finally slipped into madness. Perhaps she'd never known anyone here at all. Perhaps it had all been concocted by a mind that had suddenly snapped and gone insane. Did they think she was insane? Did she look insane to them?

It was all so confusing and so frightening.

The newcomer stepped past the housekeeper and reached out a hand as if to steady her, keep her from falling. It was a gesture made with a confident, almost commanding air, as if there was no doubt in his mind that she would comply. She stared at his hand for a moment, on the verge of taking it, her eyes riveted to his. They were so blue, so intensely blue. They cradled her gaze in a blanket of concern and empathy, and for a long moment, she couldn't look away.

"Father, I think she's starving," she heard the younger man say.

The sound of his voice shattered any illusions she might have of trusting them, trusting herself, and she heard a sob tear from her own throat before she spun on her heel and fled back up the driveway. She didn't know why she was running. It was really quite useless considering there was nowhere left to go, no safe haven left to her. She might as well just go somewhere to die alone. Surely, death couldn't be far off, anyway. It seemed her only alternative now. Why not embrace it.

At the enormous iron gate, she paused. They were closed, locked against the curiosity of the tourists that flocked to New Orleans with their prying eyes and rude intrusions. For a moment, she forgot how she had gotten in to begin with. She panicked, hurling herself at the gate and wrapping both hands around the iron bars, rattling them with what little strength remained in her body, trying to force her way out.

Where to go? Where could she go? Nothing seemed familiar to her anymore. Nothing seemed real.

When she realized her efforts were useless, she turned back, her eyes frantically sweeping the yard for another way out. The big house loomed toward her, reeling and slanting, reaching out. She felt suffocated, trapped, and she could hear the ragged wheeze of her own breathing as her lungs forced air in and out of her body. Too fast. It was all too fast.

Her eyes latched onto the three people standing on the steps that led up to the porch. The woman with one hand clasped to her bosom. The younger man still staring at her in bewilderment, his eyes filled with sympathy. And the one who stood head and shoulders above them, a deep frown on his face. Everything was slowly but surely fading into gray, everything except for them. For some reason, they seemed almost glaringly vivid, clearer than anything else. But only for a moment. Then they too began to fade, and before she realized what was happening, she hit the brick driveway with a shocking impact. She felt a moment of intense panic, a spark of pain in her head, and then everything went black. Blessedly black.

CHAPTER TWO

The moment the young woman's body slipped to the ground, Christopher Standeven catapulted into action, shouting orders as he raced down the driveway.

"Gerald, help me get her into the house. Mrs. Avery, call a doctor immediately."

Gerald was right behind him, pressed into action by the urgency of the situation. At the gate, the figure lay in a tattered heap. He automatically reached out to help, but there wasn't much he could do. He wasn't familiar with medical procedures. He only knew what instinct led him to do. He glanced from the face of the girl, half hidden by a mass of matted hair, to his father, who was frowning down at her. Christopher Standeven seemed at once perturbed, yet as self-controlled as ever, though he couldn't hide the fact that he was touched by the odd circumstances. That was clear by the way he reached down and gently pushed the hair away from the girl's face.

"She's bleeding. Her forehead," Gerald whispered, his eyes riveted on the bloody area near her hairline. It seemed like so much blood.

Christopher said nothing, just frowned all the more as he lifted the frail body from the ground and carried the girl back to the house. Gerald hurried ahead to push the door wider for him, for the first time in his life wishing he were as commanding as his father, as self-assured, as quick to take control. He felt impotent, helpless, and it rankled him. It was not a feeling he often experienced, and he didn't particularly like it. It was not a noble emotion.

The moment they came through the door, Mrs. Avery appeared in the hall, carrying with her a deep bowl of steaming water and a fresh towel.

"The study," Christopher instructed, already bearing the girl down the hall and into the airy room.

Gerald hung back and watched as his father gently lowered his burden to the leather couch. Mrs. Avery relieved herself of the bowl and the towels to place a pillow under the girl's head. As usual, Gerald didn't seem to be needed. Nor did anyone ask for his assistance. The situation was already under control.

"The doctor?" Christopher queried in his quiet, controlled manner, his eyes on the girl.

"On his way, sir," Mrs. Avery answered.

"There's a gash on her forehead from the fall." He glanced back over his shoulder at his son, to include him. "Gerald was kind enough to point that out."

"Quite a nasty one I see," Mrs. Avery murmured, bending forward to briefly study the wound. "Though it's hard to say just how bad it is until it's been cleaned."

She automatically reached for the bowl of hot water, dipping a small towel into it and ringing it until it had just the right amount of dampness left to it. She would have bathed the wound herself, but she stopped when the head of the household silently lifted his hand, palm up. She stared at it for a moment, uncertain as to his intent. Then she realized what he wanted and slowly relinquished the cloth into his hands, too startled by his unspoken request to hide her surprise.

He held her gaze for a moment longer, his eyes glittering something like a challenge, then turned away to sit in the chair Gerald had pulled close to the couch, and began bathing the young woman's forehead, his mouth pressed into a tight line, his expression closed.

Christopher knew precisely what was going through his housekeeper's head. But he'd never in his life felt the need to explain his actions, and he'd be damned if he would start explaining himself now.

Agnes Avery was astounded by Mr. Standeven's decision, but she was careful to keep it to herself as she hovered close, watching as he carefully bathed the girl's face. It was not her place to ask questions. She'd been with this household long enough to know that he would not tolerate them.

Unlike his father, Gerald wasn't one to hide his feelings, and he observed his father now with open interest. He was unaccustomed to seeing the man perform a duty he usually relegated to a member of his household staff, and it was especially surprising to see him behaving with such concern and tenderness toward a perfect stranger. But then, they all seemed touched by this young woman's sudden presence among them. It was difficult not to be. She was just so pathetic, in such obvious need. Her eyes, her face. Who could resist offering assistance to one with such a sweet countenance? Why should his father be immune? He wasn't so infallible as all that, much as the rest of the household might like to think he was.

Gerald stood at the foot of the couch and watched his father's hands as he gently blotted the blood from the girl's forehead. He was a bit in awe. He so rarely ever saw this side to his father, if ever. The gesture was such a tender one, so unusual coming from a man who was more likely to be seen handing down orders with a quiet determination that brooked no argument. A man who seemed always to hold himself rigidly aloof from everyone around him, impassive, contained, with an almost military air of discipline about him. Not that he wasn't compassionate, nor was he necessarily the dictatorial type. He was kind enough to the household staff, especially to Mrs. Avery who had been with them for so many years, even before Gerald had been born. But Christopher Standeven had never been one for open displays of emotion. Bathing this waif's wound wasn't exactly a display of emotion, but it was certainly akin to one, and something this household hadn't seen since Gerald himself had been a child.

Gerald remembered quite well the regard he'd received as a boy. While it hadn't exactly been affection, it had been a sort of nurturing and love that had allowed him the security every child needed. Even now, his father gave him the respect and consideration due a son well appreciated. Not to mention an approval he certainly hadn't earned, nor did he quite deserve, considering how aimless he was. He didn't even have a career planned out for himself yet, and he was all of twenty-four, certainly old enough to have decided on a course of education, at the very least. Even the semesters spent away at college were as sporadic and purposeless as the rest of his life seemed to be. Fortunately, his father didn't judge him harshly for it, just seemed to accept it in his strong, solemn way. He accepted it as a fact that he would never try to change. That was something Gerald had learned at a very early age. His father would never force him to do something he didn't want to do. Such a contrast to the way he ran his own life, always pushing and striving and working to improve his state of being, a state of being that never quite seemed perfect enough. Still, he never tried to mold his son to fit into that way of life, and it was not a way of life his son would ever choose for himself. In fact, Gerald abhorred it. The world and all the wonders it held was to be explored, enjoyed. How could one truly appreciate everything life had to offer when one spent the full of it in toil?

"It all happened so fast," Mrs. Avery was saying. "She just appeared at the door, and then...." She gave a sad shake of her head. "She seemed to think she knew someone here."

"She asked for a Mrs. Smythe," Gerald offered, still watching his father bathe the girl's wound.

His father appeared thoughtful for a moment. "I don't know of any Smythes in the area. Perhaps I'll make some inquiries."

Mrs. Avery hid a smile. An offer of an inquiry implied he had already taken the girl in under his wing. She was pleased indeed, for she hated to see the poor dear turned out.

"How old do you suppose she is?" Gerald asked, regarding the girl with somewhat more interest.

"Hard to say, she's so disheveled." Christopher stopped bathing the girl's face and stared down at her. "Perhaps your age."

So tender. So young. Where had she come from? What plight had brought her to his door? Poor thing. She had looked terrified, stricken, as if her world was crumbling. He'd never seen anyone look so forlorn. What had she hoped to find here? What had she needed so desperately that had not been given her?

If she opened her eyes now, at that very moment, would the fear still be there? Would she still have that haunted, ravaged look?

Suddenly aware of the open regard of his son and housekeeper, Christopher abruptly stood up, balling the towel into a wad and firmly placing it in Mrs. Avery's hands. Determined not to let the knowing sparkle in her gaze get under his skin, he met her eyes with an uncharacteristically fierce scowl. He had stared at the girl too long, had bathed her face too long, perhaps too tenderly. No one was made more curious by that fact than he himself, curious, and appalled. It was so unlike him.

"I'm sure you can do a much better job," he muttered to his housekeeper, then turned away, his fingers automatically straightening an already perfectly pressed shirt. He glanced back at Mrs. Avery, who was still watching him with interest. She looked away when she saw the glitter of warning in his eyes.

"I'll go see what's keeping the doctor." His voice fairly cracked across the room, stronger than usual, with a bite of anger in it. It was little wonder. How could he allow himself to be taken in, to feel sympathy toward a total stranger without even knowing her circumstances, without knowing who she was, or where she had come from? It wasn't like him. He was getting soft as he approached middle age. It had crept up on him without him even being aware of it. Such betrayal from his own senses!

And why the devil were they staring at him as if they didn't know him anymore? They made him feel like a schoolboy who'd been caught passing notes in class to a pretty girl. What was so wrong with helping a fellow human being in distress? Why were they so intent on making something more out of it?

"You'd better see to that wound, Mrs. Avery," he managed in as normal a tone as he could muster, though there was still a bit of an underlying growl, an edge that he couldn't quite hide, a damnably telling edge. Did they notice it, too?

She ducked her head in acknowledgement and resumed where he had left off, Gerald still staring at the girl with unveiled intrigue. Christopher paused in the doorway to glance at his son. Such open interest. He could barely remember a time when he'd been so unaffected by the suffocating strictures of society. Or was it his own fetters that bound him, kept him from seeing the world through a young man's eyes? He'd forgotten. It had been so long that there was probably no way of ever knowing now.

Once again, he allowed his eyes to slide to the girl still lying unconscious on the leather couch. She looked so pale, so fragile, almost like....

He frowned and turned away. He didn't want to think of death. Besides which, that had been so long ago. It was well in the past. So far past that he didn't even mourn anymore, a fact that sometimes frightened him. Had he forgotten her completely? Were it not for the painting that hung in the library of his mansion, he wouldn't even be able to remember her face. On the other hand, was that really so terrible? Why should he mourn? Let her rest in peace now. After twenty years, it was time to allow her that, time to allow himself that.

Yes. Perhaps he should allow himself some peace. Finally. Twenty years he had remained a widower. Twenty years he had carried on as if there was no other woman in the world worthy of replacing his dead wife. He just hadn't been able to bring himself to try. There'd been a few mistresses, all of them eventually coming to the conclusion that he would never re-marry, all of them eventually moving on with their own lives, leaving him behind. Not that he minded. He hadn't been in love with any of them. Or at least not the same sort of love he'd had for his wife. And he'd never tried to hide the fact that he had no intention of ever marrying again, so there was no guilt. They had all known. He hadn't tried to deceive any one of them.

Halfway down the hall, he paused when he realized the image of his wife he'd been struggling to conjure had blurred and transformed into an image of the young woman lying in the study. Such haunted eyes. When he'd stepped out into the hall to see what was keeping Mrs. Avery at the door, he'd been just as shocked as they to behold the pitiful creature hovering there. He couldn't seem to dispel the memory of the way she had looked backing away from him. It was hauntingly vivid, as if it was burned into his mind forever. Her dress hanging in tatters from a thin, underfed body, leaving her all but naked, her feet bare and dirty, though amazingly free of calluses. Her feet didn't appear to be accustomed to their plight in any way. In fact, they seemed painfully unaccustomed to it. By all appearances, she was a beggar. Yet...was she?

Possessing the keen, observant mind of the tireless businessman he was, he hadn't failed to notice that her hands were not those of the poor. They'd clearly never known even a single day of labor. And something else. Her dress. What little of it remained, though torn and dirty, was not that of a street woman. The cut was far too expensive, the fabric the same. And despite the fact that her hair could use a vigorous wash and a good brush, she was quite beautiful. Even a bit poised. Yes, poised. Though obviously frightened, it was with great strength that she had valiantly fought to maintain a certain amount of composure about her, even in the face of uncertainty.

He shook his head as if to dispel the vision, but it clung tenaciously, disturbingly. The woman intrigued him. He couldn't deny that, much as he might want to.

Strange, how life was a continuous mystery. Just when everything was galloping along at a steady pace, admittedly a rather unexciting pace, then fate paid a call.

"Father?"

Christopher came back to the present with a jolt. Appalled to have been caught standing in the hallway aware of little else save for his own thoughts, he quickly tried to void his face of any expression as he turned to acknowledge his son, though he kept the glance brief. Gerald seemed far too intent on reading his expression. He was decidedly curious at finding his father in an unusually pensive frame of mind.