Heaven Sent

by Duncan, Alice

  And now here she lay unable to sleep, tossing and turning, pondering the nature of love and loss. Every now and then she had to wipe a tear from her cheek.

  She felt stupid. She also felt as if she’d done something inexcusably wrong.

  But when Becky had told her that reading from the letters made her feel better, Callie couldn’t have resisted if she’d tried. Actually, she had tried. A little. But not much.

  Lines from the first letter echoed in her head: “Knowing that our love has created another life gives me a sense of awe, darling Annie. A child of ours. It is a blessing and a miracle.”

  Another letter left her in awe:

  My Darling Annie,

  When I hold you, the world falls away. Suddenly, miraculously, everything vanishes—my fears, my worries, my sorrows—and I know only you. Your lips. Your eyes. Your tender, trusting love. I hope that you will never leave my arms. I know that you will never leave my heart.

  He’d called his wife darling. Darling Annie. Aubrey Lockhart, who appeared to be as cold and distant as the moon and the stars, had once cherished a woman and called her darling.

  Callie had never been as emotionally moved as she had been when she’d read those letters. She’d been unable to read more than the first two, because she didn’t want to cry in front of Becky. If she’d continued reading them, she’d have been running like the Mississippi River in flood.

  It amazed her that two people could adore each other as Aubrey and Anne Lockhart had. They’d seemed in perfect harmony, a sublime match made in heaven. Callie didn’t imagine that such genuine, deep, and abiding love, complete with passion, respect, honor, admiration, and happiness occurred very often in the world. She wondered if her brother, George, and his wife, Marie, shared that same kind of love. She supposed they did; the way they looked at each other when they believed no one else was watching was definitely a clue.

  My darling Callie. She rolled the words around on her tongue, but they didn’t feel right, and the not-right feeling depressed her. She couldn’t imagine a man cherishing her or ever calling her his darling Callie. And it wasn’t only because she thought Anne a name with more harmonious potential than Callie, either. The fact of the matter was that she’d believed for some time now that she wasn’t the sort of woman a man could cherish, as she was far too independent and opinionated.

  Anne Lockhart had been a dear, gentle creature without spine or a single thought to call her own.

  “Stop it this instant, Callie Prophet! Anne Lockhart was a wonderful person, and everyone who knew her thought so, too.”

  Appalled by her own mean-spirited critique—an unjust and completely erroneous one, which made it even worse—Callie turned over and slammed a fist into her pillow. It was ridiculous to allow herself to be made melancholy by a couple of letters. It was stupid. Foolish beyond reason.

  Oh, but when she recalled the passage Aubrey had written in the second letter, she wanted to swoon:

  My darling Annie,

  I can’t find words to express the wonder I feel every time I see our beautiful daughter. And when I walked into the nursery this morning to find you and Rebecca together—well, I knew my life was complete in that instant. Thank you, my wonderful darling, for our Rebecca. She is the completion of our family. She is the perfect and magnificent affirmation of our love.

  Callie had long been under the impression, in spite of her experience with her own father and brother, that most men craved sons. It pained her to admit that she’d always assumed her own father’s evident pleasure in his daughters had sprung primarily from the knowledge that he already had a son; therefore, he was free to appreciate his daughters.

  Yet Aubrey Lockhart, in his letters, hadn’t even hinted at being less than thrilled or at all unsatisfied with his daughter. He hadn’t once mentioned wanting a son next time, should there be a next time.

  Imagine that, Aubrey Lockhart happy. And about the birth of a daughter, of all things. It didn’t seem possible to Callie. Yet she’d held in her own hand solid proof that he had, once, been a happy man.

  And then the joy of his life had withered and died, and there hadn’t been a single thing he could do to prevent it. It was common knowledge in Santa Angelica that Aubrey had taken Anne to innumerable doctors. He’d been to San Francisco in search of specialists. He’d even sent to New York for a fellow credited with miracle cures of wasting illnesses.

  Gossip had buzzed like a hive of honey bees when a specialist came all the way from Europe see Anne. But it had all been to no avail.

  It didn’t seem fair. As little as she liked the man Aubrey Lockhart was now, Callie did like the one who’d written letters to the wife he’d loved. Hang it, Callie knew as well as anyone that life was very rarely fair, but she still couldn’t understand why Anne had been taken. So young. So infernally young. And so well loved. And now so horribly missed.

  By the time she finally fell into a fitful sleep, Callie had stopped straining to hold her tears back. They ran onto her pillow even as she tried to figure out why she was crying. Was she envious of the love Aubrey and Anne had shared? Was she sorry she wasn’t more like Anne Lockhart? Was she merely sad for Becky? Or for Aubrey?

  And why did she feel such a strong emotional tug toward the man who’d written those letters? Callie didn’t even like the Aubrey Lockhart she worked for. It didn’t make sense to her that she should harbor such tender feelings for the Aubrey Lockhart he used to be. Her confusion hadn’t abated by the time she fell asleep.

  *****

  Callie felt heavy-lidded and sleepy the following day. Her dreams had been sappy and soupy, and she was mortified with herself that she’d allowed her emotions to dip so deeply into the realm of sentimentality. Sentimentality was all very well in its place, but this wasn’t it.

  As she stood behind Becky, who sat patiently on a tall stool in front of her dressing table mirror, Callie thought about how irrational she was being. “Pooh,” she muttered as she wielded the hairbrush, trying to be careful so as not to pull.

  “Pooh?” Becky giggled. “Why’d you say that? It’s funny.”

  Grinning at the little girl in the mirror, Callie said, “I’ve been behaving foolishly, is all.”

  “You have?” Becky looked almost shocked. “I don’t think you’re foolish, Miss Prophet.”

  Callie stooped and deposited a quick kiss on Becky’s golden head. “Thank you, dear, but I fear everyone’s foolish every now and then.

  “Although,” Callie amended, “it is difficult for me to imagine your papa being foolish.” Her illogical brain seemed determined to dwell on Aubrey this morning, as if it didn’t have enough to do just keeping her awake.

  Becky sighed. “Yes. He’s not foolish.”

  Callie kicked herself mentally—Becky sounded so melancholy, and it was all her fault. Hoping to cast Aubrey Lockhart in a better tight, Callie said, “He’s a very dignified gentleman.” She reached for the two neatly ironed pink ribbons she’d laid out, to tie onto the tails of Becky’s braids.

  “He used to laugh a lot.” The little girl sounded wistful.”

  “Maybe we can think of some good jokes that might make him laugh,” Callie suggested.

  “Do you know any jokes, Miss Prophet?”

  “A few. My brother, George, likes to tell—”

  Callie’s sentence was cut short by a hideous screech, followed almost instantly by a sharply bellowed, “Damnation!”

  Becky and Callie stared at each other in the mirror for approximately three seconds before they whispered, in a horrified duet, “Monster!”

  Callie had already opened the bedroom door by the time Becky hopped down from her dressing stool and rushed to join her. They held hands and ran to the staircase, from whence the noises had issued. They skidded to a halt at the top of the stairs, their heels folding up the lovely Chinese hall runner like a concertina.

  Aubrey Lockhart, enraged, glared up at them. Rather, he glared at Callie. Callie could tell, if Becky couldn’t,
that his anger was directed exclusively at her.

  “Did you bring that fiend into this house?” he roared at Callie.

  She opened her mouth to speak, but Becky beat her to it. “That’s not a fiend, Papa. It’s Monster.”

  Aubrey sucked in about a bushel and a half of air, Callie presumed to prevent him saying something to his daughter that he’d later regret. Although she believed it was cowardly of her, she was grateful Becky had come with her. She wouldn’t want to face Aubrey Lockhart in the grip of a temper tantrum all by herself.

  Mrs. Granger and Delilah appeared at the door leading to the kitchen. Both women were wide-eyed. They’d evidently been startled by the noise, too. Callie didn’t dare speak to them.

  “You may call the thing a monster if you want to, Becky. A monster and a fiend are pretty nearly equivalent in my mind. However, whatever one chooses to call it doesn’t answer my original question. Miss Prophet?” And with that, Aubrey turned and fixed such a dark stare on Callie that she had to bite her lip to keep it from trembling. For someone who could write such beautiful love letters, Aubrey could sound awfully menacing when he chose to.

  Callie swallowed. Then, telling herself to buck up and that there was no reason for this unpleasantness, she lifted her chin. “I believe you just met my cat, Mr. Lockhart. I had thought him to be in my bedroom.”

  “That . . . thing . . . was a cat?”

  “It’s a big cat, Papa.” Becky tried out a smile on her father, but it didn’t last long. She tightened her grip on Callie’s hand.

  Again, Aubrey took a deep breath. Callie feared he’d done so because otherwise he would have bellowed obscenities or something equally horrid, and he didn’t want to do so in front of his daughter. “You brought a cat into my house, Miss Lockhart?”

  The way the measured words came out of his mouth gave Callie the impression that he was speaking through clenched teeth. She nodded her head. Then, considering a silent response too spineless, she added, “Yes.” She deliberately omitted a “sir” after her “yes,” because she didn’t want him to get the impression she was afraid of him. Even though she was.

  “You mean to tell me that this animal has resided within my home for three weeks now?”

  “Yes.”

  “And did you obtain permission before you brought it here?”

  She wished he wouldn’t refer to Monster as it, but didn’t press the issue. “Urn, well . . . no.” She thought about adding the reason she’d done so was because Becky had expressed a desire for a pet and Callie’d been afraid Aubrey wouldn’t permit it, but decided she’d best not do too much explaining until he was in a better frame of mind—if that ever happened.

  “I see.” He closed his mouth and seemed to be undergoing some kind of internal struggle. When he opened it again, Callie feared for the worst, but was pleasantly surprised when he merely said, “And what is this cat’s name?”

  Callie licked her lips and wished she hadn’t. She didn’t want him to see how nervous she was. “Urn, his name is Monster.”

  “Ah.” Aubrey glanced at his daughter and then back at Callie. “I see. His name is Monster. Monster isn’t a definition or a description.”

  Becky chirped, “Mister Monster, to you, Papa. Until he gets to know you.”

  “Mister Monster?” Aubrey’s eyes glittered. Callie took this as a bad omen.

  But Becky nodded, looking remarkably cheerful under the circumstances. She was a plucky girl, Becky. Unless she didn’t know enough to be afraid of her father. “Yes. He has to get to know people before he likes them, but once he likes you, he’s a real nice cat, Papa. He likes to play, too. He’s funny when he plays.”

  The child was babbling the way Callie had feared she’d do if she succumbed to her panic. She gave Becky’s hand a little squeeze, hoping in that way to stop her chattering.

  “He likes to play?” Aubrey smiled at Callie.

  Callie wished he hadn’t; it wasn’t one of the warmest smiles she’d ever received. However, since it seemed he desired her to explain the cat, she guessed she’d better. After clearing her throat, she plunged into an explanation she tried to keep as coherent and unadorned as possible. Considering the dual facts that her heart was battering at her ribs like a congregation of maddened woodpeckers and her knees were knocking together like Spanish castanets, it wasn’t an easy job.

  “You see, Mr. Lockhart, since my employment began the day after I applied for this position, I didn’t have time to secure another home for Monster. It is also true that cats often take some time to adjust themselves to new surroundings. I could have left him at the home I was vacating, which is my family home, but then my brother or one of my sisters would have had to visit the house daily to take care of him. It was easier to bring him with me.” She stopped talking because she’d run out of breath.

  “I see.”

  She hadn’t been counting or anything, but Callie didn’t think he’d blinked more than once or twice since she’d started explaining Monster. Again she cleared her throat. She wished she could have got through this without exhibiting such obvious signs of nervousness, but she couldn’t. After giving him a nod, she continued. “He’s a lovely cat, Mr. Lockhart. A sweetheart of a cat, really.”

  “He bit my foot.” Aubrey said nothing more than that, but the words precipitated a definite palpitation in Callie’s chest.

  “He’ll get to know you after a while, Papa, and he won’t bite you anymore.” Becky smiled sweetly at her father.

  God bless the child, Callie thought dismally. Yet Becky’s words were the truth. Therefore, she nodded her agreement. “Yes, that’s so. He only attacks when he feels threatened.”

  “I see.” Aubrey’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “And I, while descending my own staircase in my own home, presented

  a threat to him? Is that the explanation?”

  “Well . . . I suppose so. But it wasn’t really his fault,” Callie hurried to say. “After all, one can’t expect a cat to understand the particulars of home ownership.”

  “I see.”

  Silence fell like an axed tree between Aubrey and Callie and Becky. To Callie’s overstrained nerves, the silence seemed to stretch on for centuries. She felt prickles of tension in the air, and would have sworn she saw them, too.

  “Please let Monster stay here, Papa,” Becky implored at last. “He’s such a sweetheart, and he loves me. I love him, too.”

  As she watched Aubrey’s gaze move from her own face— thank God—to his daughter’s, Callie saw the change in his expression. The hard lines appeared to soften as she looked at him. The anger went out of his eyes, his mouth relaxed, and he unclenched his jaw. “You really like that animal, Becky?”

  “Oh, yes, Papa. I love him lots.”

  “And you believe he will no longer attack me once he gets to know me?”

  “Oh, yes, Papa! I mean no, he won’t. Definitely not after he gets to know you.”

  Aubrey cast a scathing glance at Callie before returning his attention to Becky. “Would you be willing to introduce us, Becky? The cat and me, I mean.”

  “Oh, yes, Papa!” Becky released Callie’s hand and dashed down the stairs, straight into her father’s arms.

  Callie knew she was probably evil to resent the ease and happiness with which Becky had abandoned her and run to her father. After all, one of Callie’s main reasons for taking the position as Becky’s nanny was that she had wanted to get father and daughter back on speaking terms. Yet she did resent it. She turned to walk back to Becky’s room—she had assumed the responsibility of tidying up after the little girl’s morning toilette—when Aubrey’s voice stopped her cold.

  “Miss Prophet.”

  It sounded like the voice of doom, so dark and deep it was. Callie turned slowly, fearing what he might say next. He didn’t look as if he’d taken a sudden liking to her, that was certain. In fact, he looked as if he totally disapproved of her. “Yes, Mr. Lockhart?” She wouldn’t call him sir, no matter what.

&nbs
p; “Won’t you please come with us, Miss Prophet? Becky assures me that, while this cat of yours is now her friend, he’s more comfortable when you’re in the vicinity.”

  After shooting a glance at Becky, who was smiling up a storm and looked as if she were happy as a clam, Callie decided she was glad Aubrey had called her back. “I’d be happy to,” she said. It almost wasn’t a lie.

  They discovered Monster in the drawing room, under a chair. Any other cat might have been said to be cowering. Monster, however, didn’t look frightened. If one were to ascribe an emotion to his overall attitude, Callie feared it might be annoyance. Anger, perhaps. Disgust, too, maybe, a little bit.

  “Good God.” Aubrey, who had preceded the ladies into the room, stopped still when he’d barely cleared the doorway.

  That’s when Callie spotted Monster.

  “H-lo, Monster!” Becky said cheerily, although she didn’t leave her father’s side.

  Monster didn’t respond. He huddled under a straight-backed chair, his fur bristling, and his greenish-yellow eyes gleaming. Callie guessed that, while it might have been unkind of Aubrey to have said it aloud, he might be forgiven for equating Monster with a fiend. Those eyes alone were enough to cause alarm in a sensitive breast. Callie was so accustomed to Monster, she didn’t give a thought to the cat’s glittering greenish-yellow eyes. Well, except at night, when she came upon him unexpectedly. Then, even Callie’s innards might execute a leap or two of apprehension.

  She wasn’t sure what she should say under these circumstances, although she thought she ought to say something—anything—to diffuse the tension. “Urn, I do believe he’s relaxing after a trying morning, Mr. Lockhart. I think you frightened him.”

  “I frightened him?”

  Callie wasn’t sure, but she thought he’d sounded sarcastic on purpose. She tried to get mad at him for it, but her honest nature wouldn’t let her.