Almost an Angel (6 page)

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.

"Men can be so singled-minded at times." Carolly didn't dare look at James. He was probably on the verge of a stroke.

"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.

"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.

As carefully as she could, Carolly tried to open the window. No go. "Come on, you stupid piece of eighteenth century architecture. Open up!" Carolly tugged and pulled, pushed and rattled, nearly losing her balance half a dozen times, but the window refused to budge.

"Margaret . . . I mean Mags, wake up. I'm freezing out here."

"Crrook!"
added the frog.

Carolly rapped on the window. "Please, please, wake up."

Nothing. And to her total frustration, the breeze increased, rattling panes up and down the house. If Margaret did hear something, she'd assume it was the weather.

Carolly knocked harder. "Come on, Mags. Any louder, and I'll have Miss Hornswooper on me. Or worse yet, your uncle—"

"Have you lost your mind!" James's stentorian tones rang out above the mournful sound of the wind.

Carolly spun around, flattening herself against the window as she tried to become invisible. She couldn't, of course—and even if she could, James wasn't the type to forget what he'd seen.

"Get back inside this instant!" he bellowed at her from below.

Carolly looked down to see James standing on the stone walkway, hands on his hips. He glared up at her. What a disaster! Not only had she failed to wake up Margaret, but she'd been caught, too. Carolly leaned forward, letting her frustration seep into her words. "Can't I do anything without you constantly interfering? Why don't you just go to bed like a normal person?"

"Good God, woman, get back against that window. Do you want to die?"

"I'm already dead!"

"Then be so good as to lie down in a grave and stop confusing the rest of us!"

Carolly was so startled by his unexpected humor that her bad mood evaporated. Or perhaps it had something to do with how handsome he looked. For the first time ever, she was seeing James in something less than formal attire. He'd pulled off his cravat, and his shirt front was slightly unbuttoned. Even his dark hair had been tossed by the wind until it curled in reckless disarray about his face. Add to that the loving touches of moonlight, and he looked something like a pirate from a romance novel.

It softened her heart to look at him, and she couldn't help but smile.

"Carolly, please."

She heard anguish in his voice, and she bit her lip in consternation. "Please what?"

"Get inside!"

"Oh." She glanced back at the window. "I can't," she told him. "The window's locked and Mags won't wake up. I've got to slide back to my room."

"You shall do no such thing! Do not move. I will open the window."

"No! You can't just barge into Mags's room. She'll never forgive me. Ten-year-olds are very sensitive about their privacy."

"Privacy? Do you mean to tell me you really crawled around to visit Margaret?" He took a deep breath. "Did you find the hallway impassable?”

Carolly chuckled. "Of course not. But I did promise to walk along the ledge to her window. She won't wake up, though. I had no idea she was such a deep sleeper."

"She is not. She sleeps across the hall."

Carolly stared at him, momentarily dumbfounded. "Oh," she said softly, glancing back inside at the dark room. "That's probably why this room looks so neat."

"It is also why the window's locked," he said dryly.

Carolly nodded. "Makes sense."

"I am glad something does. Now stay put. I shall be there directly."

"Wouldn't you rather just catch me as I fell into your arms?" she called. The romantic image had definite appeal.

"If you try, I shall let you plummet to your death."

"Hmmm." She eased down until she sat on the edge, her legs dangling over the precipice as if she were preparing to jump. "An interesting thought. Would you, the most honorable, chivalrous person I know, actually let me fall?"

"Without a doubt." And with that, he started toward the house.

Carolly felt something wriggling in her dress. "Wait!"

He stopped dead, then moved back to see her better. "Is there something wrong? I mean, other than the obvious."

"Uh." She paused. "Catch."

"What?"

She didn't give him time to object. "Just don't drop it, okay?" She hauled the hapless frog out of her pocket and as gently as possible let it drop.

"Croooak!"

"What the—?” He nabbed it neatly out of the air.

"Don't squeeze!"

"Ugh! This is a toad!"

Carolly leaned further out over the edge. "Really? I thought it was a frog. How can you tell the difference?"

"This type of toad gives off a noxious smelling poison when frightened." He glared up at her. "Like when it is dropped two stories."

"Oh." She watched in silence as he lowered the poor thing into a nearby bush; then she called: "He'll be all right there, won't he? I mean, I'd hate to have to tell Margaret that I'd killed her fr—her toad."

James carefully wiped his hands on a handkerchief. "I would think you might be more worried about whether I'm about to die from the poison."

She looked at him in surprise. "You're not serious, are you?  You're not really poisoned." The idea of that made Carolly ill.

"No, I am hagridden by a woman determined to take me back to Bedlam with her."

She decided to ignore his rude comment, even though it hurt. He was surely just frustrated by her whimsical nature. But he needed to be loosened up. "Maybe you should go wash your hands just to be sure."

He sighed and looked back up at her. "I shall be there in a moment. Do not under any circumstance move from that location."

She smiled at his softened tone. "Take all the time you need."

He paused, mid-step. "I am quite serious, Carolly. Not an inch."

"I'm a stone statue."

"If only that were true. Then I could put you out in the garden with the toads and be done with it." Then he disappeared. A moment later, she heard him enter the house.

Carolly smiled and leaned back against the window pane behind her. She felt totally at ease now that she wouldn't have to cross the ivy back to her bedroom, not to mention sweetly reassured at the thought of James coming for her. Despite his gruff words, she knew he would do whatever he could to get her safely inside.

She sighed happily and let her eyes travel over the scenery. There was something ethereal about an English garden bathed in moonlight. She took a deep breath, drawing it all in: the smells, the sights, even the taste of the breeze. Then she closed her eyes and imagined herself with a lover, a handsome man with dark tousled hair who stole kisses from her beneath a silver-tipped bough.

It was enough to set even a dead woman's heart fluttering.

Then James was there, behind her, softly rapping on the glass to get her attention.

She turned and smiled. For a moment she believed her fantasy. For a desperate second, she looked at James with all the longing and secret passion she'd thought she'd buried long ago. What would it be like to love?

***

Inside, James stood transfixed. Never in his life had he seen anything so beautiful as the woman poised just outside the window. Her hair was a golden brown, but in the moonlight it became a halo of liquid honey and light. Her gown was gray, but the wind molded it to her curves, outlining her delicate frame, her sweet breasts.

Looking at her face, he gasped. Why had he not noticed her eyes before? They were a very dark blue with tiny gold flecks like fine grains of sand stirred up from the bottom of a deep pool.

He touched the thin pane separating them, and she mirrored his movement. Their fingers were separated by the cool glass, but a part of him knew he touched her, just as a part of her touched him.

"Hold tight," he warned, his voice thick with desire. "I shall open the window."

He waited until she had grabbed two fistfuls of ivy to anchor herself, then carefully, slowly, he pushed open the window. She arched backward to let it swing wide, and he forgot to breathe as he watched her hang out over the stone below.

"Give me your hand." Much to his surprise, she obeyed immediately, flattening up to the window as she peered through.

The sill came to just below her breasts, and, as she leaned in, the fabric pulled taut over her body. Her nipples were puckered from the cold, and he could feel his body respond to the sight.

"You'll have to help me," she breathed. "I'm afraid I'll slip if I try to jump on this ivy." She looked up at him, and his whole body throbbed with protective instinct.

"At least you have some sense," he commented. Making a swift decision, he stepped forward and grasped her ribcage just below her arms. Then he braced himself as best he could and pulled her in.

She felt so soft in his hands, so delicate. But there were muscles beneath her curves, muscles that held him while together they maneuvered her inside. She pressed against him, her breasts flush with his chest. He could smell the fresh scent of the heather outside mixed with the heady scent of her.

She had almost cleared the window, so he stepped backward to drag her across the opening. Then it happened. His bad knee gave out, and he stumbled as he tried to shift their weight completely to his other leg. The strain was too much, their balance too precarious.

He went down, and she tumbled on top of him.

She might have banged her head, but he held her solidly against his chest. She might have braced herself with her hands, stopping their rolling tumble, but he pinned her against him and allowed their movement to carry him over on top of her. They ended with his hips and most of his weight to one side, with his bad leg and his arms resting firmly atop her.