Darby's Angel

by Marcy Stewart

  Finally she came to herself, pulled the headphones from her head and gave them to him. Her glance moved upward from his hands, flickered over the words on his chest, and settled at his throat. Breathing in suddenly, she sank to her knees and lowered her head.

  “Forgive me for doubting you,” she said.

  Shame and dismay washed over him. Seizing her arms, he pulled her to her feet.

  “Never do that, Darby. Don’t you know better than to worship an angel?”

  “I’m sorry,” she said humbly, “I meant no offense.”

  He tugged her chin upwards, so she would look at him. “You haven’t offended me. Just promise you’ll heed my warning.”

  “I will, sir.”

  Mission accomplished. He breathed the clear air of relief.

  “That’s all I ask,” he said. “Except, don’t call me sir.”

  “No, I won’t, my lord—my angel—you are my guardian angel, are you not?”

  “Yes, yes,” he said, exasperated. “But call me Simon.”

  “Simon,” she repeated obediently.

  It was his turn to view her with uncertainty. He did not know what to make of this suddenly pious young woman.

  The thing to do now was go back to his time and read the family history, see if he’d been able to change the past. He could hardly wait to find out. Yet still he stood there, hating the way she regarded him with awe. He’d set her straight if he could, but it was best she felt this way, best she feared him, because now surely she wouldn’t go into that house.

  Go on. Go back. You’ve done all you can.

  Still he remained there, watching her watch him with nervous glances that continued to hold questions.

  “I must go back,” he said at last.

  “Back to heaven?” she asked in a shaking voice. “Was that where you were trying to take me moments ago?”

  “Heaven?” Scalding memories sifted through his mind. Reporters pushing microphones in his face. Paparazzi flashing their cameras behind every corner, everywhere he went, feeding off his sorrow like parasites, splattering his grief in their tabloids for all the world to see. “Hardly.”

  “Oh,” she said in some relief. “I thought perhaps that was where you wanted me to go when you offered proof, as John was taken to heaven for awhile in a vision. When the gale prevented me, I feared it meant I was unworthy.”

  He could not resist touching her cheek. This time, she didn’t flinch away. He felt lower than a snake for inspiring such fear in her. If there existed a God to strike him dead, this was His opportunity.

  “You’re as worthy as anyone I know,” he said gently. “No, I’m not returning to heaven. There are other places on earth that need me.”

  “Oh, certainly. Well ... thank you, Simon.”

  “You’re welcome.” He turned to the ash trees, moving slowly, reluctantly. Before going through, he paused again, looking at her once more. “Remember my warning, now. You’ve promised.”

  “I will,” she said solemnly, raising her hand in a wave. “Farewell, Simon. Shall I—shall I see you again?”

  “No, Darby. It’s best that guardian angels remain invisible.”

  He heard the regret in his voice with surprise. A sad kind of spell was weaving itself into the leaves and branches surrounding them. Before he allowed it to sink into his bones, he returned her wave and stepped beneath the trees.

  Chapter Two

  “Oh, darling!” sang Aunt Gacia in her fluttery, high-pitched voice as she descended the hall stairway of Brightings Manor, her gauzy shawl caressing the handrail behind her like a train. “Where is my darling Mr. Lightner?”

  Ensconced within a deep winged chair by the parlor fire, a book of sermons opened on her lap, Darby looked up and met her brother’s agonized gaze. Alexander, who was seated a few feet away on the sofa flanking the fireplace, dropped his newspaper to the floor, pressed his hand to his heart, rolled his eyes, turned sideways on the couch, and fell backward as if dead. His legs rose to plummet the air, then dropped in an ungainly sprawl across the sofa’s arm.

  For the first time in the weeks which had passed since her guardian angel disappeared, Darby laughed unrestrainedly.

  “Where are you, my darling?” Aunt Gacia persisted gaily from the hall, drawing nearer. “Remember, guests are coming this evening, and you must dress for dinner. And though they are only our neighbors, the good souls are none the less important for that, for they cannot help where they live. Where are you, Mr. Lightner?”

  “Not here!” cried Alex, stirred from his funereal pose. “He is not in the parlor, so look somewhere else, I beg you!’’

  With the unerring direction of an arrow, Aunt Gacia turned into the room, her head swiveling right and left. “He is not here?” she asked woefully, clasping her hands beneath her thin bosom.

  “No, he isn’t,” Alexander said peevishly. “Did I not tell you?”

  “Well, you are always so busy with your painting, dear; I thought you might have overlooked him.”

  “Not possible,” Darby commented quietly, having recovered her composure. She turned the page of her book.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” the older lady said. “He can be most unassuming at times; one hardly notices him.”

  Darby stared at her aunt, wondering how anyone could delude herself so. But her mother’s sister had ever held to her own opinions, opinions formed of logic unknown to the world in general.

  If Aunt Gacia was trying in her speech and thoughts, at least she was not embarrassing to behold. Her thin, sharp-boned face still held traces of her former beauty; the beauty Rosemary, Darby and Alexander’s mother, had shared, for the sisters had also been twins. Although the skin sagged now at Aunt Gacia’s neck and beneath her blue eyes, Darby often envisioned her mother’s youthful face overlaying her aunt’s.

  All the more reason to view her relative with pain, especially when the woman spouted nonsense as she was wont to do. How Gacia could be twin to the sensible Rosemary, Darby could not understand. She and Alexander were of different sexes, yet their minds were never so far apart.

  “Perhaps Mr. Lightner is in the stables,” Aunt Gacia said thoughtfully.

  “Wherever he is, he’s asleep,” Alexander said. “And why must you persist in calling him by his surname? It is ridiculously formal and drives me mad every time you do it.”

  “Oh, Alexander,” Aunt Gacia said, laughing piercingly. “I have always done so, for such little formalities preserve the romance in a marriage. I did the same for my first beloved husband. Even while he lay on his deathbed, I addressed him as my dear Mr. Fothswalling. It was, in fact, the last thing he heard on this plane before he took a final rattling gasp, and his dear eyes closed in death. Oh, how early comes mortus coilus to the good. But you could not have known, and how you delight in teasing me! Everything drives you to madness, but that is because of your gift, your delightful artistic soul.”

  To his obvious dismay, she tapped his shoulder with her fan, forcing him to move aside to allow her room to sit. After settling her flowing yellow skirts across the sofa cushions, she folded her hands on her lap and gave a delicate shiver.

  “You remind me, in fact, of Lord Byron with your stormy ways and dark good looks—though it is a pity your hair is not black as the night, then you would truly be dashing as that poor, exiled hero.” She appeared to ponder for a moment, then added, “Although not so scandalous as he, of course. Rosemary would haunt me had I raised you so shoddily.”

  “You haven’t raised me,” he said, annoyed.

  Her brow creased in hurt. “I’m certain you don’t mean to disregard the past five years when my dear Mr. Lightner dropped his promising career in banking to flee to your aid, and without a backward look or complaint, I might add. And though my hand in your upbringing can surely be dismissed as unimportant—for Rosemary would have raised Mr. Lightner’s Lenora, I’m sure of it, should I have snuffed my candle carelessly early as she did—you cannot deny his unselfish sacrifice.”

>   “Sacrifice!” Alexander sputtered. “Better to say he bled every farthing his guardianship allowed him to—”

  “Alex,” Darby interjected, stopping him with a cool look.

  “Never mind, dear,” Aunt Gacia said, patting his knee. “I understand how you miss your own parents. We never thought to replace them in your heart, you know that. And just imagine! Soon you will reach your majority, and my dear husband will be able to hand the heavy burden of the—the plateries—”

  “Potteries,” supplied Alexander, grinding his teeth.

  “Er, yes, though I cannot fathom why they are called that, because you do not make pots, do you? Or at least, not many. But nevertheless, you will soon have to shoulder the business yourself, and then you will appreciate his goodness to you and Darby, his priceless guidance in the financial aspects of all of it.”

  She frowned and waved the fringe of her shawl against her face. “I do not doubt you will miss his advice. We shall remain as long as you need us, be it months or years. Nothing is more important to us than family.”

  Alexander barely restrained a shudder. “Darby will continue to direct the business side of things as she always has, since she has the head for figures. Father began training us when we were barely out of childhood, you will recall.”

  Aunt Gacia laughed indulgently and tried to pinch Alexander’s cheek, but he dodged her fingers with the expertise of long practice.

  “I shall tell you what I recall, precious boy,” she said. “Mr. Lightner has tolerated her interference all these years with the patience of a saint.”

  Perceiving two pairs of grey eyes regarding her unkindly, she added, “Not that you are unbrilliant, Darby. It is only that your ideas are so—how is it Mr. Lightner puts it?—slip pocket, I think he says. It is all very well to be forward-thinking, but when profits are endlessly thrown back into the business, it leaves very little for your family’s comfort.”

  “Hadn’t you best continue your search for uncle?” Darby asked sweetly. “The guests will be arriving soon.”

  “What an excellent notion!” Aunt Gacia said with a start, and rose rapidly. “I had almost forgotten with all this talk of business.” She paused at the doorway. “Anytime you desire further advice, my dears, you have only to say.”

  Rustling her skirts importantly, she swept into the hall.

  “Damnation,” Alexander breathed when the sound of her footsteps faded.

  “Alex,” chided Darby gently.

  “Well, the woman is an idiot.”

  “That goes without saying. But I wish you would not ... you know.”

  “Are you scolding me for my language again? I’ve known you to say much worse. You have become too nice of late, my sister.”

  Darby worriedly scanned the corners of the room. Was her angel watching her at this moment?

  “I’m only trying to be better,” she said.

  “You are becoming deuced stuffy,” Alexander refuted.

  She threw another glance toward the ceiling, then looked sadly down at her book. She turned another page.

  “I don’t know what is happening to you, Darby.” Her brother’s voice betrayed his perplexity and concern. “Why do you read those dry old sermons day after day? I’m certain you don’t comprehend one word in five.”

  “I try,” she said. Loudly, she added, “I try very hard to understand what learned men have gleaned from their spiritual studies.”

  “Balderdash. And why do you shout? You are not on the stage, I tell you.”

  “I only mean to improve myself. I desire to be as good as I can.”

  “What a load of cabbages. You are good enough already. Too good, in fact. I liked you better before you started trying so much.”

  Darby sighed dispiritedly. She, too, had liked herself better before her angelic encounter, or at any rate had enjoyed herself more. But it seemed to her that a certain responsibility came with being singled out for a heavenly visitation, even if she could not speak about it. Surely there was a reason for Simon’s interference in her destiny. To be spared a fiery fate must mean she should accomplish something worthy with her life, and she was determined to find out what. Hence her endless studies.

  She had no doubts now that Simon had prevented her death.

  Not five hours after she returned, pale and shaking, from her meeting with the angel, Alexander had proposed his latest plan to torture their uncle.

  “You know the Holley estate has been on the market this age,” he said after dinner while they strolled along the grounds.

  She murmured some little sound of assent, though truly she hardly heard her brother, so lost was she in the stunning memory of her angel. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Simon again: hair so fair it was almost white, and unfashionably long, hanging to his shoulders; strangely dark brows and lashes, and eyes of such a pale blue they appeared almost silver; his astonishing height and powerful shoulders and chest, the taut waist and long, muscular legs.

  How could she have doubted he was an angel? No mere mortal could look so. Yet his expression had been achingly sad ...

  “Are you listening?” Alexander had asked irritably.

  “Yes, the Holley estate,” she mumbled.

  He smacked a fist against his open palm. “I’ve had the most excellent idea. We can tell Uncle Richard we’re considering buying it after our birthday.”

  “But that old place is terribly ramshackle,” she protested, suddenly attentive now that their finances were in question.

  “I’ve no real intention of purchasing it, silly. But it will give us an excuse to have uncle view it. Before he does, however, we shall prepare the place beforehand. You’ve heard the gossip about it being haunted. Well,’’ he became loud in his amusement, “with a few wires and sheets, we can rig up a jolly ghost—”

  She had begun to scream then, babbling that they would be burned if they tried, she would die, no jest was worth the risk, had he not thought what a firebox was that horrible old house, and similar protestations until he, eyes wild and fearful at her outburst, had covered her mouth with his hand and promised never to mention the notion again.

  When the house burned down three days later, she was not in the least surprised.

  From that time onward, she had tried to be worthy. Each day was more difficult than the last. Especially when her favorite companion sat across from her as he now did, eyeing her with disapproval and a degree of alarm.

  “Are we gathering already?” inquired a sweet voice from the doorway. “I feared I might be too early.”

  Darby’s confusion faded to scorn as she watched her brother, his cheeks blazing crimson, jump to his feet and rush toward their visitor, banging his knee against the sofa as he passed. If he felt any pain, he gave no sign of it.

  “Of course, you aren’t too early, Lenora,” he assured her, bringing her hand to his lips. “You look lovely, as always.”

  That is the truth, more’s the pity, Darby thought, her glance passing lightly over the diminutive form of her aunt’s stepdaughter. Lenora wore a satin gown with puffed sleeves trimmed in rows of Alencon lace; similar rows decorated the seam beneath her bust and at the hem. The neckline plunged toward the lace as if looking for it, and a diamond pendant rested smugly upon her plump cleavage. Her long curls, wound intricately around a modest diamond tiara, gleamed red-gold in the candlelight.

  The gown, as always, was pink. Lenora seldom wore any other color. Darby wondered if she imagined the shade brought a needed blush to her cheeks. In the five months Lenora had lived with them since her husband’s demise, Darby had not seen her lose composure once.

  Perhaps marriage stole the blushes from one’s face, Darby thought uncharitably, then lowered her eyes and shook her head to rattle the bad thoughts from her brain.

  “How kind you are,” Lenora piped. “You make me feel a girl again.”

  “You are a girl, or hardly more than that,” Alexander protested, leading her to the sofa with the care of one handling glass.
/>
  “And you are gallant,” Lenora said, smiling when he pulled a footstool to her feet, then sat beside her attentively. “I’m fully a year or two older than you and Darby, as you well know.”

  “I believe it is four years,” Darby corrected, laying her sermons on the floor beside her chair, raising her eyes in time to meet her brother’s fierce stare.

  “Is it? I vow I can never keep the numbers straight, but how thoughtful of you to remind me.” Lenora’s limpid brown eyes glanced over Darby. “Oh, cousin, had you not best hurry and dress for dinner? Our guests will be arriving shortly.”

  “I am dressed for dinner,” Darby said with a tight smile.

  “Oh,” Lenora said in apologetic tones, tapping her chin with her closed fan. “Forgive me, I had not meant to imply anything was lacking in your toilette. You look charming as usual in your blue gown.” She bent forward to finger the fabric at Darby’s knee, the diamond pendant at her bust swinging perilously in mid-air, then returning home as she scooted back; Darby noted cynically that Alexander observed the jewel’s journey with fascination. “Now what is this fabric called again?”

  “Lawn. You yourself have a dozen dresses made of the material.”

  “Oh, yes. I had only thought since it is evening you might want to put on something more ... formal. In truth, I hoped you’d wear the ivory silk Rena and I stitched for you.”

  There was a brief silence before Alexander, his voice rising with incredulity, cried, “Darby, has Lenora made a dress for you, and you haven’t worn it?”

  “It’s too short, Alex,” Darby said, her eyes remaining on Lenora’s. And so tight I cannot breathe without popping seams. “Quite strangely so, since Rena measured me several times.”

  “I’m to blame for that,” Lenora said. “As she laid it on the form, I kept disputing her, saying the measurements could not be right. You do not give the impression of being a large girl, and I insisted she cut it more closely.”

  Even Alexander could not fail to note the message behind this, and he met his sister’s glare with amusement. “Perhaps—perhaps Rena can add a flounce to the bottom,” he choked.