Darby's Angel
Page 9
Well, he’d come here to answer them. And maybe he already had. He’d suspected murder as soon as he read the words. What else could he think, when Darby would have burned to death if not for himself? The two tragedies together formed a strong argument against accident.
But to simply warn Darby now was useless. Telling her to avoid the pond on her birthday would accomplish nothing if someone was determined to kill her. Not only would it cloud her days and nights with suspicions and fear, but she might alert the very person she should avoid. Since he had to remain until Alexander’s love life was straightened out anyway—hopefully he could do it by their birthday—he intended to discover who meant to hurt her and why. If he couldn’t, he’d stick to her like glue on the fateful day.
But Lenora as a suspect? It was hard to believe. Still, if she murdered once, she’d hardly balk at doing so again. But why would she? Was Darby going to discover her deep, dark secret?
His head felt like a chestnut about to burst in a fire.
Darby needs to trust Lenora so that Alexander will marry Lenora so that Elena and Tay will be born. But Lenora might be a murderess, might even try to kill Darby. So how could Darby trust Lenora? How could he? Around and around and around and around ...
“Simon?”
Someone was calling his name, but he hardly heard the soft voice. Although his eyes were open, he saw nothing.
Surely Lenora was innocent. According to the record, Alexander hadn’t been harmed; he’d lived a long, long life. Everything could still work, and he’d be able to prevent Darby’s death as well. Just keep your eyes and ears open.
“Simon, can you hear me?”
She mustn’t know his confused suspicions, at least not until something was proven. All could be lost before he began. He made himself focus on her face. “I hear you,” he said in a hoarse voice.
“Please answer my question, then. Do you think I’m right about Lenora? For if I am, perhaps I, or you and I, could discover her secret.”
“No,” he said vehemently. “Don’t even think about it. Absolutely not.”
She knit her fingers together. “Are you disturbed because I may be correct about her, or do you already know the truth?”
“No ...”
“No, you don’t know; or no, you don’t think I’m right?”
He cleared his throat. “No to both. I believe you’re allowing your dislike of Lenora to colour your judgment.”
The words ripped from his mouth painfully, as if his tongue were a scalpel.
She frowned. When she spoke, her voice sounded far away, as if she were thinking out loud. “Why is it that I feel you are lying to me?”
He breathed in sharply. There she went again, worrying about the flaws in her angel’s character. She wanted him to be perfect, didn’t she? Maybe it was a reasonable expectation, but it made him angry. He’d never be perfect, never, and the world’s greatest director couldn’t guide him to act that way.
She kept measuring him by her own standards; that was the problem. How could he, twenty-first century survivor that he was, dream to match the sheltered, moral character she’d formed in these innocent times? She was too pure. Probably a virgin as well. No, undoubtedly a virgin. This century could be paradise if he were not so—no. Stop. That sort of thinking had caused all his problems.
His anger flared irrationally. “You must think I’m sinless as God,” he said, jumping from his perch on the window to walk back and forth beside her bed. He noticed she flinched as he passed. Yes, she’d do well to fear him, for though angel he was not, he held her life in his hands. And she had better trust him totally, or off she’d go sneaking into Lenora’s private life like some foolhardy female detective in a novel and getting herself killed. He could read it on her face, see it in the defiant tilt of her chin.
“Well, I’m not,” he continued, deliberately sounding harsh, though his anger floated away as he looked at her. “You’re so concerned about my lies, as you call them, but let me ask you something. Do you ever read your Bible? If you do, you’ll recall other instances where angels have misdirected people. You remember that passage about entertaining angels unawares? How could that happen if the angel didn’t deceive his hosts in some way—claim to be someone other than what he is?”
He watched the rebellious light in her eyes fade. He’d never been so grateful at his mother’s making him attend Sunday School. Bet Mom would be surprised at how he was putting his memories to use.
“Yes,” Darby said, wonder in her voice. Gladness, too. “Is that what you’re doing, then? This is why you’ve chosen to array yourself in those amusing clothes and claim to be an actor? You want my family to entertain you graciously without knowing you are an angel because it will improve them in some fashion?”
With a pang he saw her struggling to believe him. Every crumb of hope he offered, she grabbed and ran with it; but then he’d do something to destroy her confidence. Clearly, he wasn’t delivering an Oscar-winning performance but, God help him, the requirements of the role went far beyond his range.
“I’ve told you why I came,” he said.
Her face fell. “Oh, yes. Alex must marry Lenora. Forgive me if I don’t embrace that idea. I hope you won’t think I’m being deliberately willful.” Meekly, she added, “I shall pray that my attitude changes to what it should be.”
“Not a bad idea,” he said uncomfortably. “Darby, here’s something else. I don’t know what you felt about the discussion over dinner tonight, or if it changed your mind in any way; but I’m pretty sure of what you think about angels in general; and I must tell you this: no matter what preconceived notions you have, you have to know that I’m not absolutely perfect in this form. Not in the way you expect. These clothes—they were a mistake. I should’ve been better prepared, but I wasn’t. If I’d had more time ... Well, I’m not one of your higher order of angels. If Gabriel is a general, I’m a private—understand? I’m the lowest of the low. I make mistakes and plenty of them. So, you’ll just have to expect that in dealing with me.”
Satisfied, he nodded his head once, firmly, and folded his arms. Through a strong force of will, he held her gaze without looking aside more than two or three times.
To his deep surprise, her expression lightened.
“Then ... if you are not perfect, if you can make mistakes, perhaps you’re wrong about Alex and Lenora!”
“No, Darby,” he groaned, wondering why he hadn’t seen this coming. “I mess up a lot, but not about that. No, no, and no.” Please God—if you’re there—don’t let me be wrong about this.
“Perhaps time will prove differently,” she said persuasively. “How long do you remain with us, if I may ask? Naturally, you are welcome forever. Do not let it be said the Brightings are not happy to entertain visitors, heavenly or otherwise!”
She was practically giddy with relief. He’d have to watch her every minute or she might end up drowning sooner than he thought.
“I’m staying until your birthday,” he said sullenly.
“Well, that is a goodly, long visit! I will help you in every way I can. I wouldn’t have presumed to offer such before, but now that I understand how it is with you, I believe you can use every aid at your disposal, even that of a poor human female.”
Laughing lightly, she rocked to her feet and approached him. “Your clothing, for example. Uncle Richard’s valet is a former tailor and sews all of his garments. I shall order him to stitch you up a few things, for no one else in this house is large enough to loan you his clothes. Beckett owes us a little labor, I should think, for his wages have been paid by the estate all these years.”
She moved closer and touched his hair. When he stepped backward, surprised, she looked disconcerted for a second, then chuckled. “Your hair needs cutting, too, if you are to stay so long. Although it’s beautiful—gracious, it feels like silk; do you wash it in rainwater? No, how silly of me; you probably don’t have to wash it at all—anyway, the style is sadly outmoded and will cause co
mment, I fear. You won’t mind having it clipped in one of the windblown styles, will you?”
“Cut my hair?” he replied in a hollow voice.
His long hair was his trademark; at least it had been in the world where Elena lived. “A Face for the New Millennium,” one of the scores of magazines he’d covered had headlined. “On Achieving Masculine Sensitivity: Simon Garrett,” said another.
It hadn’t been like that in the new world. His face no longer commanded the attention of the press; he was not adored by millions across the earth; he could not demand top figures at the box office.
He wasn’t less talented in that world; he still acted in off-Broadway productions and had done a couple of small films, according to the biographical sketch he’d read about himself on the back of a program that he’d found crumpled inside a drawer in the Loma Linda bungalow he’d discovered was his after reading his address in an actor’s directory.
Had it not been for all he’d lost in his family, he would’ve adjusted to that new lifestyle. It fit him more comfortably than the old one had; he wasn’t penniless, and it was a relief to be able to buy a loaf of bread without being mobbed.
But he couldn’t leave it at that, of course. He’d flown back to England to make things right, knowing it was worth any sacrifice.
But ... his hair!
“Pray don’t look so sad; it will grow back.” She paused. “Won’t it?”
“Hm? Oh, sure ...”
She stared at him worriedly, “It won’t—you won’t be hurt if it’s cut, will you? Lose your strength, I mean?”
“Lose my—” He began to laugh. “Darby, I told you I was an angel, not Samson.”
She clasped her hands together. “Excellent; it’s settled then. Simbar can cut it; he trims all the men’s hair at Brightings.”
“Simbar ... he’s the butler?”
“Yes, you saw him at dinner tonight.”
“But he’s bald as a bowling—bald as a—a turtle!”
Her laughter was throaty, abandoned, and deep, exactly the way he liked to hear a woman laugh—as if she were lost in her enjoyment.
“Don’t worry. He only shaves his head because he spent a few years in India. Our butler believes his foreign sojourn distinguishes him from other mortals and is determined no one forgets it. He sometimes wears a turban, too, but pay no attention; we do not.”
Her words did little to encourage him about Simbar’s credentials, but he couldn’t resist smiling when delight sent her spinning about the room.
“Oh, I shall help you in every way I can. Feel free to ask me anything, and if I know the answer, I’ll tell you. Yes, we shall get on famously! And who knows what you and I might discover about Lenora.”
He’d known she would get back to that. “You remember what I told you,” he warned, easing toward the door.
“I will,” she said. “I always heed your warnings. Are you leaving, then? Can you not—I don’t suppose you’re able to disappear to your bedroom in this form, are you?”
“No,” he said, and coughed. “Not in this body, I can’t.”
“Then let me check the corridor first,” she said, moving past him to open the door. “Oh, I have only just thought,” she whispered. “May I listen to your heavenly music before you leave?”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t bring it with me this time.” He shrugged and patted the back of his satin breeches. “No pockets.”
“I see,” she said sadly. “Well, then.” After looking in both directions, she slipped her fingers around his wrist and guided him past. “Good night, my angel.”
He stood outside her door as if turned to stone. Her fingers had sent a shock quivering through his body. He didn’t want to think about what that meant.
“Good night, Darby,” he whispered, and hurried away.
Chapter Six
Early the next morning, Darby saw something from her window that caused her to flee from the room, down the stairs and to the front door. In her panic, she could not make the lock turn and so began to pound the wood in frustration. Not only was she unable to open the door, but her hair, which she had not yet had time to put up, caught itself painfully in the buttons at the back of her dress. In despair, she ripped the long strands forward into two wild bunches across her shoulders, kicked the door resoundingly and began to cry.
“What’s wrong?” exclaimed Alexander from the doorway of the dining room, a piece of toast in his hand.
She ran to him as though he were water on the desert. “Oh, Alex, thank God!”
When she seized him, the toast flew from his fingers and skittered across the floor. Alexander patted her back comfortingly while grimacing at the trail of orange marmalade behind her.
“What in blazes can be the matter to put you in such a fit?” he asked. “Did the king die?”
“No! It’s my—it’s Simon—Mr. Garrett! Someone is after him!”
“Good,” said Alexander.
“No, you don’t understand! Hurry and open the door for I cannot. Someone is chasing him through the park; I saw him racing behind the hedge from my window! Call Caesar and Augustus, do!”
“Very well, only calm yourself. Let me open the door first.”
She released him and dashed the tears from her eyes while he opened the door. When he walked out, she followed closely, scanning in the direction where she had seen Simon last, then looking in the other two directions visible to them.
“It promises to be a beautiful Sunday,” Alexander said, breathing deeply. “Look, the mist is already burning from the ground and lifting through the trees. Should be a smashing day for afternoon tea outdoors, do the Wallaces ask us after worship.”
“Hush, Alex. You are being heartless and don’t know anything.” She pushed her way past him and rushed down the steps. Looking back and forth, she held her skirts high as she crossed the drive and the grass.
“Well, where is the fellow, then?” Alexander called, beginning to follow. “I wish you would stop; you look like a goose with its head on loose. There, I’ve made a rhyme; are you not proud of me?”
“No, I am not!” she shouted back. “And how can I know where he is? I told you to call the dogs! While you were dawdling, his pursuers may have caught him already!’’
“I did not dawdle,” he responded indignantly. “What did these fellows look like?”
A brief pause ensued. “I don’t know; I didn’t see them.”
“You didn’t see! Well, how did you know anyone was chasing him?”
“Because he was running, Alex,” she said slowly, as to an idiot child. “Did you not listen when I spoke?”
He was within a few yards of her now, and a slow smile crossed his face. “Garrett was running, but you didn’t see anyone chasing him?”
“Yes, that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” she said, pausing to catch her breath. “But from the way he ran, and the pain on his face, it was obvious something—I mean, someone—pursued him.”
“Was it?” he said, joining her, his grin growing wider. “Well, I begin to think you’re in the right of it, then. I should call the dogs.” And so saying, he gave a piercing whistle, then shouted, “Caesar! Augustus! Cleopatra!”
Almost immediately, three setters bounded toward them from the direction of the stables, one of them barking loudly, the other two panting and appearing to smile as they loped along.
“There he is!” Darby cried, pointing toward Simon, whose head could now be seen in rhythmic, progressive intervals behind the hedge some distance away. “He appears to have run in a great circle for some reason. I still cannot see his assailants, but they may be hidden behind the greenery. Wait until we spot them before sending the dogs.”
“What’s that you say?” Alex asked. “Can’t hear you. Caesar, fetch!”
While Darby loudened her protests, the animals looked up at him adoringly, questions in their eyes. Seeing their master point toward the hedge, they leapt off in that direction, baying and barking importantly.
“Alexander!” screamed Darby. “Call them off at once!”
She began to run forward again. “Come here, Caesar! Come back, Cleopatra!”
The female dog halted in her tracks, looked back at Darby sadly, and howled. With her tail tucked between her legs, the setter gazed longingly toward her fleeing companions. She began to follow.
“Don’t you dare defy me, Cleopatra; you are my dog, not Alexander’s!”
The setter immediately lowered herself to the ground and crawled on, whining.
“Bitch!” shrieked Darby.
“Such language, my sister,” Alexander panted behind her. “And on Sunday, too. I thought you were reformed.”
Still running, she whipped her head back and said viciously, “Call off the dogs or I’ll show you how reformed I am.”
“How you frighten me! But no one can stop them now, they are too excited.”
“If Simon is harmed, I will never forgive you. Never!”
Alexander stopped running. “That’s the second time this morning you’ve called him by his first name. What means this heavy concern for a stranger, Darby?”
“I am not speaking to you.”
She stopped and pressed her hand to her side, breathing hard. They were almost to the hedge, but she would die if she ran any farther. How could Simon run so long without collapsing? Angels must have great stamina.
The dogs had long since disappeared behind the hedge and were ominously silent. She squeezed her eyes shut, visualizing Simon’s torn, bleeding body.
A window slammed open in the house far behind them. “What goes on out there? Sounds like war!” called Uncle Richard from his second-floor bedroom.