An Encounter at the Museum

by Claudia Dain

  "Miss Elmwood?"

  "Yes?" She blinked up at his face.

  "Will you—" He swallowed hard and mouthed something inaudible. "Will you b-be needing anything else? I think we may have a volume on Teutonic elves."

  "No, thank you, Mr. Hastings. It really has been a most trying day. I must be going."

  His shoulders sagged. "Of course. Good-bye, then." He turned and walked slowly back toward the shelf.

  Reticule in hand, she spun around—and collided full-on with Mal-Luck. He reached down and clamped his large hands around her wrists.

  "Repeat after me. Bookshelf."

  She tried pulling her hands away, but it was like her wrists were encased in stone.

  "Let me go!"

  "After you say it."

  "Bookshelf!" She tugged at his grasp, and he released her.

  And then it hit her, what he'd made her do. Her eyes became wide as saucers when she saw his dimples deepen in a mischievous smile. She followed his gaze to a spot over her shoulder.

  She turned and froze in horror. A bookshelf on the second floor of the Reading Room began to tilt forward slowly, as if being pushed from behind by an invisible hand. Directly beneath the railing on the first floor, completely oblivious, stood Mr. Hastings.

  "Mr. Hastings!" she called out. The young man turned around and stared at her in puzzlement.

  There was no time to explain. Just as the books began to slide out of the massive bookshelf, Isha ran at him and slammed her body against his.

  They landed safely, if painfully, under the walkway. Mr. Hastings struggled to regain his balance. "Wh—"

  A woman screamed just as books cascaded over the railing and crashed onto the floor. Mr. Hastings wrapped his arms around Isha and turned her away from the falling books. A split-second later, the tall bookshelf flipped over the low balustrade and crashed onto the floor below with a sickening sound of exploding wood. Inches from their feet.

  They stood there in that clinch, panting at the horrifying sight. Mr. Hastings looked down at her. "Are you all right?"

  She nodded dumbly, her mind reeling from the sensation of his tight embrace.

  "Good Lord, Miss Elmwood. You saved my life!"

  And very nearly took it from him. Her own words caused the accident, however inadvertently.

  "I'm sorry, but—"

  Nothing could have prepared her for what happened next. He took her mouth in a bold kiss.

  Isha's gasp of surprise was smothered by his mouth. He pulled away, leaving Isha staring up at him in awe.

  "You've no idea how long I've been waiting to do that."

  "Mr. Hastings!" she panted, her mind racing against her pulse. Heat poured into her face.

  His expression changed, as if something was being born in him. The shy, self-deprecating veneer crumbled, replaced by an electrified confidence.

  "Dash it all, I can't die before I get to do this." His mouth descended once more, this time in a soft, velvety kiss.

  Isha became a kaleidoscope of emotions. It seemed unreal, like something out of a dream. The fantastical being, the near death, the handsome man, the powerful kiss. And yet, the more passionately his mouth smoothed over hers, the more it began to sink in that this might not be her dream coming true, but his.

  His arms moved up her back, folding her against his tall body. Her breasts flattened against his chest as her arms snaked up around his neck. Oh, this was so much better than she had ever imagined. Whether or not she was beautiful, Mr. Hastings was certainly making her feel that way.

  The commotion in the Reading Room had grown. People began to surround the wreckage. Voices called out Mr. Hastings' name. He ignored them.

  "I used to wish that you would fall into my arms, Miss Elmwood. I never dreamed that you'd run into my arms."

  She blushed. All this was too much to contemplate. "Me? But…w-why did you never say?"

  Regrets amassed in his expression. "How could I? You are…there is no other I would rather…if you had rejected me, I…" He shook his head, unable to convey his tortured thoughts. "How can I thank you?"

  That kiss was certainly an admirable start, she thought.

  Mr. Beauchamp, the Principal Librarian, found them. "Are you hurt?"

  "No, sir," said Mr. Hastings. "Neither of us is. Miss Elmwood here saved me from certain death."

  His palms covered his ample cheeks, flanking a too-thick moustache. "Thank heavens you're both unharmed. What an alarming accident! I can't imagine how such a thing could have happened."

  Mr. Hastings stepped over the massive pile of mangled books that had fallen around them. "Take my hand, Miss Elmwood." Gingerly, she followed him over the wreckage.

  "Dear me! Miss Elmwood, shall I send for a doctor? Completely at the Museum's expense, I assure you."

  "No, thank you," she replied, unable to hide her fluster. "I'm quite all right, Mr. Beauchamp, really. Just a little shaken, that's all." More from Mr. Hastings's declaration than from the falling bookshelf.

  Her hand was still wrapped in Mr. Hastings' tightening fingers. Suddenly, he turned to her. "Miss Elmwood, would you do me the honor of allowing me to see you home? There are one or two things I've been meaning to tell you for quite some time, and I can see now that there is no time like the present."

  The light streamed in from the window of her father's study, casting square panes of light on the dark green carpet. Tiny dust motes sparkled in the air, whirling in a dervish of unconstrained movement, appearing and vanishing at will.

  Isha sat behind her father's desk, gazing at them. It was here she sought refuge at times of great confusion, when she felt most flagellated by unfamiliar emotions. It was here she felt comforted, surrounded by books about history and science—among the things that were known and understood.

  Mr. Hastings had upended her whole identity. That one kiss completely derailed the safe, predictable groove her life marched in. She didn't know what to make of it. She'd heard of secret admirers. But silent ones?

  He told her so in the carriage ride home. All these years, all this time she'd spent in the library. He'd become sweet on her through the cold winter nights when he smuggled her a cup of tea from the staff office; during the long discussions when she passionately proclaimed that animals should be accorded rights under the law; when she kept him dashing around for obscure books to help her contribute material to her father's lectures. The times he made her laugh when she would ask what time it was, and he'd answer something like, "It’s the square root of twenty-five o'clock." Never did she imagine that he was inclined to feel anything warmer toward her than friendship. And never did she think she was even capable of capturing a man's interest the way she did Mr. Hastings's.

  Mal-Luck's words swam in her head, pounding her with their portentous meaning. He practically predicted Mr. Hastings's profession of love. How could he know? And how was he capable of orchestrating the events that brought about this revelation?

  Isha shuddered. Everything about him was a mystery, and there was nothing she hated more than mysteries. If there was anyone who was capable of dispelling the haze surrounding a mystery, it was her father.

  Sir Rupert Elmwood had been a historian and professor of biblical literature. He was renowned for his contributions to the understanding of early civilizations. Sir Rupert's greatest gift, however, was in make people understand not just the when's and where's of historical events, but the why's. He could make his students not simply know the events of the past, but to smell and feel them too. His ability to make the past come alive was one of the reasons he could hold Isha in thrall for hours. His publications were on the shelf of every member of the clergy in the whole of the British Commonwealth, and on the syllabus of every university student of ancient history.

  But of all her father's many volumes, Isha's favorite was his private journal. It was in that worn, leather-bound book that he recorded his thoughts and speculations, his personal observations, and his life's most important events. Several pages wer
e dedicated to his knighthood by the monarch, and how undeserving he felt of such an honor. But the thing he was most proud of, the person most extolled in the pages of his journal, was Isha.

  Their relationship transcended mere parent and offspring. Sir Rupert delighted in Isha. Their conversations would sometimes last several hours. He simply enjoyed her company. Her father was the only man ever to celebrate Isha's intelligence and curiosity, and encouraged her to retain those special qualities even if other men thought less of her. He was the only one to ever call her beautiful.

  Until the man in the red cravat.

  Isha opened the desk drawer. The smell of aged wood, mixed with notes of pipe tobacco, wafted up from the drawer. She pulled out her father's journal and placed it reverently upon the table.

  The wrinkled leather cover folded over easily, revealing the first pages containing her father's scholarly scrawl. His was not the easiest script to read. His ideas came to him at a lightning pace, and it was all he could do to get them committed to paper. But there, in his own hand, he lived still.

  Isha turned the pages slowly, remembering each one from the many times during the past two years that she'd read them. Passages jumped out at her, ones she could recite in her head. Barely legible notes in the margins highlighted his afterthoughts. Isha smiled wanly. His mind, his will, and his personality existed in the haphazard scrawl.

  The light from the window dimmed as a parade of thunderclouds marched across the sky. And now, Isha arrived at the saddest place in the journal…the blank pages at the end. They reminded her of those endless days filled with loneliness after Sir Rupert passed away, when the pneumonia finally triumphed over his frail body. Absently, she kept turning the blank pages, recalling the day of the funeral…the burial…the endless stream of letters and visits of condolence…the long silent months without her beloved father.

  Then something jumped out at her, drawing her faraway gaze back to the journal. Nestled among the white, unwritten pages she found a few scribbled lines. It was her father's penmanship, she'd swear to it. How could she have overlooked this entry? She straightened in her chair and breathed in deeply, reading each word as if it were a map pointing to buried treasure.

  Of the greatest tragedies to befall mankind is the shortness of a man's life. His years are gone in a breath, his days are but a sigh. Yet it is not the length of his life which makes it tragic, but his incurable itch for all-encompassing understanding. Even if a man were to dedicate each day of his life to the study of Scripture, the days he is given are not enough.

  As I lie here on what is surely to become my deathbed, my greatest regret is not how much I failed to study and teach, but how little time I spent with my family. My adoring wife, my lovely Isha, my little Maryan. They—not the books or the honors or the achievements—are my best and most lasting legacy.

  Oh, that man could possess the wisdom of the aged in his youth! He would surely understand as I do now—that Creator God is far too complex and intricate for one man alone to comprehend, and that his infinite and variegated nature is reflected in a small way in each of His creations. One man may possess God's love for animals, another His gift for art, yet another His desire to minister, and so on ad infinitum. To know God is to appreciate His facets in each of His people around us.

  My body grows weaker with each day that passes, and I can sense that these labored breaths of mine will grow harder and harder to draw. Although I will soon fulfill my lifelong ambition to meet my Maker, how I detest the thought of being separated from my beloved girls! I only wish that God would grant me a malak who will come and assure me that they shall be well taken care of.

  Isha bolted upright, unaware of how heavily she was breathing. She was swimming with emotion, her father's final words giving her both elation and melancholy. And in the center of it all was that enigmatic word, malak.

  The word rapped on her brain like a familiar memory, but its meaning eluded her. Malak, malak, malak. Blood pounded in her ears as she went to her father's shelves. Was it Greek? No…Hebrew. She pulled the well-thumbed Hebrew textbook from its place on the shelf. She thumbed through the pages, looking for the word.

  And there it was: Malak.

  Angel.

  Isha's feet barely touched the steps as she flew down the back door toward the stable. The fat rain fell fast, darkening the last of the daylight. She was oblivious to the cold rainwater seeping into her black leather boots and dampening her violet-colored dress.

  She ran as fast as her legs could carry her past the stables and into the meadow. Drops slid continuously across the glass of her spectacles, rendering them useless. She slipped them from her face and into her pocket, relying on what poor vision she had. Across the emerald grass, not another soul could be found…except for a few scattered sheep.

  "Malak!" she cried, her voice drowned out in the growling thunder. "Malak, where are you?"

  Rain pelted her face as she whirled around looking for him. Could it be true? Had she been in the company of an angel all this time? The supernatural powers and the unearthly knowledge would have been a giveaway, but his behavior and his looks were anything but angelic.

  "Malak, please. Appear to me!" What a switch. Ever since she'd met him, she's ordered him to disappear from her life for good. What if he chose this precise moment to obey her?

  "Malak!" she shouted with a stomp of her foot in slushy earth. A few sheep lifted their heads, watching her with almost tongue-clucking disapproval. Her ears were filled with the rush of the rain and the distant thunder—but no Malak.

  In frustration, she fell to her knees. She had it coming. She was stubborn and rude and she hadn't believed him, even when he spoke the truth. Her value wasn't measured by a wedding ring on her finger, and her beauty wasn't measured in the number of suitors clamoring for her. It was inside her, emanating from her, and it didn't matter if others noticed it. It was part of her, because she was already beloved. Malak had said she wore a veil, but the veil wasn't keeping others from seeing her beauty. It was keeping her from seeing her own.

  A voice came from above her. "Here I am."

  She looked up. And beheld an angel.

  As if by magic, her vision came into perfect focus when she gazed upon him. His skin was luminous, like a living candle flame, dispelling the encroaching darkness and giving him the most beautiful aspect. The rain had no effect on his clothes, his red cravat perfectly dry. The sheen on his hair had brightened to a shimmer, sparkling like diamonds on black velvet. And his eyes…

  He extended his hand, lifting her from her kneeling position. "Hope you didn't land in a cowpat."

  In spite of her bewilderment and awe, she chuckled. "Who are you?"

  "You're a clever girl," he said. "Ask me something you don't know."

  There was one question she simply had to know the answer to. It was a question that certainly anyone who had lost a loved one had asked themselves. But now that she had the opportunity to ask it aloud, the words formed a painful knot in her throat.

  "My father," she began, unsure how to ask what she wanted to know. "Is he…" Her heart turned to water. What if she got the answer she was deathly afraid of? "Where my father is now…is he…is he happy?"

  Malak smiled with his whole face. "Oh, yes."

  Isha dissolved into tears, her sobs weakening her at the knees.

  Malak bore her up in his strong arms. She curled her head into his chest.

  "Go on and cry," he said. "Happy tears are heaven's best rain."

  Two long years of anguish poured out of her in a long torrent of tears. "I miss him so much."

  Malak tightened his embrace on her, his silence offering sympathy.

  "I was a fool," she said, clinging to his lapels.

  "So you are."

  She chuckled wetly, and pulled away. Her tears stained his otherwise dry waistcoat. It was the only blemish upon his pristine clothes. "Oh, dear. Sorry for that."

  "I don't mind. Looks better now."

  She scr
aped a sopping wet sleeve against her cheek. "I thought angels wore flowing robes."

  He cocked his head. "When robes were in fashion, we did. Quite frankly, I much prefer these garments. They really accentuate my beauty."

  His mock vanity always drew out her laughter. "You are the wickedest angel I've ever met."

  "Met many of us, have you?"

  "Not really." She wiped the water from her face. "But if they're anything like you, I'll recognize them immediately by how naughty they are."

  He shrugged. "There is only One who is perfect. The rest of us must learn to see our imperfections and correct them."

  "Is that why you've been hounding me? To show me my imperfections?"

  He shook his head. "I think you are all too aware of your imperfections. I came to show you that they didn't have to blind you to the glorious creation that you are. The one that your father could see. The one that Alex Hastings can see too."

  His voice became hushed, and still she heard it through the pouring rain. "It is easy to think that things are falling apart when actually they are falling into place. Andrew Harkness is a man of weak and compromising character. If your sister had married him, he would have made her life a misery. I was sent to protect your sister from him. But it was in answer to Alex Hastings's prayers that I was sent to you."

  His words fell upon her like a boulder on a butterfly. "He prayed…for me?"

  "He's a good man, Isha. He cares very much about you. Apart from those living under your roof, he's the only other person who wept when he heard of your father's passing. He would make you a fine husband…if you'll give him the chance."

  "I never thought about him. He seemed so painfully shy. I just couldn't understand why women should make him feel so ill-at-ease."

  "Women don't make him ill-at-ease. Just you."

  "Me? But why? Who am I that I should make him feel so uncomfortable?"

  He sighed profoundly. "Because, Eveline Isha Elmwood, he sees in you what you have refused to see in yourself. That you are a bright and beautiful woman. If he wants so desperately to appeal to you, why can you not appeal to yourself?"