The Angel of Blythe Hall

by Darci Hannah

  I lay motionless, watching as he undressed me. He had about as little knowledge of women’s clothing as I had of men’s, and I found his ignorance deeply endearing, yet he unraveled the mystery artfully, slowly, and with rapt anticipation. “You are even more exquisite than in my dreams,” he breathed softly when he had finished. He looked upon my naked body with a heated tenderness that left me breathless.

  “You’ve dreamed of me naked?” His response to this was a mildly abashed look. I smiled and reached up to stroke his cheek. “I’m relieved to hear it, because you’re not alone there.”

  “You’ve dreamed of me naked?” he asked; the thought surprised and pleased him.

  “Mostly naked,” I admitted, feeling the blood rise to my cheeks. “But there were places even my extraordinary imagination was afraid to go.”

  “And is your extraordinary imagination afraid to go there now?”

  “My imagination, like my body, is yearning for completion. I want what you want, Gabriel. I want my dream to live,” I implored him, staring into his glistening night-dark eyes. “I want to give it voice and revel in the miracle that you are really here.” I threaded my fingers through his hair, each strand no longer than a few inches. It fell around his head, soft and buoyant, lying in curls at the nape of his neck and enhancing the symmetrical lines of his face. He felt wonderful. He felt perfect. And then I pulled his head to me.

  “God forgive me,” he breathed, struggling to remove the last impediment. With my fervent help his hose came away, revealing the last of his magnificent body. “God forgive me, but it’s going to be quick, love, and I’m hopelessly powerless to do aught about it. But I promise,” he uttered, trailing soft, hungry kisses over my cheek, earlobe, and down the side of my neck, “that before this night is out I will worship you, with every ounce left in me, until you beg me, convincingly, that you can take no more.”

  I awoke once again to the smell of fish, only this time my stomach was growling with anticipation, and the voice, softly calling my name, brought a smile of pure delight to my lips. “It can’t be morning already,” I said, stretching lazily. I opened my eyes and basked, unashamedly, in the radiance of the face looking down on me. “I feel as if I’ve just gone to sleep.”

  “Well, that’s not far from the truth. And I’m mortally sorry about it, but we’ve to keep moving. You really must get up.” I looked closely at him. He did look mortally sorry—highly troubled would be more on the mark, and it gave me a sobering shock, especially after last night. He was already dressed; I saw that his leather hose were the color of freshly ground cinnamon, and his jupon was sky blue, matching the color of his eyes. He had made a fire over which two fish were cooking. They smelled heavenly. I also noted that Bodrum, a beautiful dappled gray, had returned and was now happily munching on whatever treat happened to be in his feed bag. I sat up, holding tightly the thick surcoat that had served as our blanket, and felt the euphoria of my recent memories slowly leaving me.

  “I caught some fish, and I had these in my pack,” he said, and handed me a leather sack. The sight caused a lump to rise in my throat, for the sack contained the delicate pale-orange flesh of dried apricots; the golden egg of the sun, Hendrick had called them. They were an exotic delicacy and my father’s favorite. “It’s not a feast,” he added, misinterpreting my silence. “I wish I could offer you more, but it’ll have to do.”

  I drew my eyes from the apricots and looked again at his face. “You didn’t sleep, did you?” He affected a wan smile and slowly shook his head. “Is it because you’re mortally sorry?” I could not hide the pain in my voice, and he flinched when he heard it.

  “No!” his response shot out, fast and sharp as the crack of a whip. And then his brows drew together, and his face grew pallid with remorse. “Not about that.” He exhaled with force, ran a hand through his sleep-tousled hair, and, when he was done with this mental flagellation, looked me square in the eye. “Yes, about that. God damn it, Isabeau! It’s not what you think! Christ help me, but it’s so horribly complicated.”

  “I’ll tell you what,” I said gently, evenly, all the while silently fighting the gut-wrenching fear that I was about to lose him too. I didn’t even know who or what Gabriel was—man or divine being—but I knew that I could not lose him. Not now. Not after last night. Not after a lifetime of looking for him. I kept my eyes steady, focusing on his implacable troubled stare. “I’m going to get up. I’m going to wash in the lake. I’m going to put on my clothes, and then we’re going to eat those fish of yours. And while we’re eating, Gabriel, you and I are going to have a little discussion, because the look in your eyes is positively killing me.”

  I left the shelter of the little bower, naked but for the great surcoat pulled around me, and silently shaking. The scent of our lovemaking clung to the heavy coat as it clung to me, thick, sleepy, evoking feelings and images too powerful to suppress. Draping my dirty gown over my arm I began grabbing at the heads of delicate wildflowers that sprouted from the tall weeds as I walked past. To these I added some fresh evergreen needles and crushed the whole of it between a handful of gravelly sand. On the rocky bank of the lake I threw off Gabriel’s coat, knelt, and added a few drops of water to make a pungent, earthy paste. And then I proceeded to rub it all over my body and through my hair, scouring my skin until I was nearly raw—until the scent of our lovemaking was gone.

  The small lake was still as glass under the foggy grayness of dawn. But for a few waterfowl, there was not a soul around. It was a quiet and lonely little lake hidden in a verdant glen. And there was a beauty to it, a solemn beauty. I felt as alone as the lake then; we were maudlin kindred spirits. I walked into the frigid water, welcoming the sting of it, welcoming the shock of the icy liquid against my warm skin. My shivering became more pronounced, for it now had a physical purpose. I fought the urge to turn from the tormenting element and plunged ahead, until I finally dove in.

  I knew he was watching me, and I didn’t care. The water, coaxing my body to numbness, felt alive and invigorating, and I delighted in it, because it was so contrary to the fading warmth of Gabriel. Not until I was chilled to the bone did I leave the sanctuary of the lake. I stood on the rocky bank, dripping in the cool morning air and feeling remarkably clearheaded. And with a deep, cleansing inhalation I turned my eyes to the screen of evergreens.

  The sight of Gabriel took the breath from me. He was just visible in the clearing, kneeling before his mighty sword with both hands tightly grasping the hilt. Before this makeshift cross his effulgent head was bent, and there was a violent desperation in his posture that melted my shivering heart. There was something visible in Gabriel that I had never before seen. It was the golden aura that seemed to surround him, dispelling the gray fog—the gossamer wisps of a halo near his head, the shimmering traces of evanescent wings. They were not physical, these things, and they were not unfamiliar to me. I had seen these before, when I was a child all alone in the tower room. They were the trappings of the white lady, the ghostly entity I knew to be my mother. And Gabriel had them too. I could hear his prayer then, not so much in words but in feelings. It hit me with a force so explosive, so powerful, that I could not stop the tears from coming to my eyes. I could not understand the conflict in his heart, because I had no reference for it. But I did understand that this was a cause worth fighting for; here was a ray of hope in a dark and desolate world. I breathed then, quick and deep, as if a weight had lifted from my chest, and with that sensation came the familiar and comforting scent of wild roses. Although I had never really met her, I knew it was her scent. Maybe it was his too. Imbued with a fighting spirit, I pulled on my dirty clothes and walked back up the hill.

  “The whole puzzling crux of the matter is, Isabeau, that I have made a vow before God. To him I have pledged my life, and I have broken it.” Gabriel, sitting close to me on the bedroll, cross-legged, knees touching as we faced each other, thoughtlessly picked at the tender white flesh of his fish. He took a paltry nibble. “I came
here to help you, to protect you, and what do I do? I not only defiled you, a beautiful, helpless young virgin, but I fear that in doing so I have damned my eternal soul to hell.”

  This was a surprise. I had not been defiled, and I certainly wasn’t helpless, but I didn’t immediately contradict him, as was my nature, because the pain on his face as he voiced this fear—defiling helpless virgins or not—was heartbreaking. He truly believed that because of his one moment of weakness, which I had encouraged, he had damned his soul. And yet, odd as it sounded, it brought to mind a story Seraphina had once told me. Dear Seraphina had delighted in angelic lore, and was a veritable font of knowledge on the subject. There was one tale in particular she had told me quite often. It was like a fairy tale, really, one used to lure an unwilling child to bed. And it was the one story in her impressive arsenal that always worked. Of course Seraphina spun it with great detail whenever she told it, to evoke powerful emotions. But the heart of it was very simple. An angel, of a celestial division referred to as a watcher, became enamored with a beautiful human woman he had been watching. Over time he became so enthralled with this enchanting creature that he left his place in the heavens, forsaking his duty and his supreme commander, God, to come to earth, assume the form of a mortal, and become the husband of the woman he had fallen for. The angel, by forsaking God and his own divine nature in order to love a human woman, had been shunned from the kingdom of heaven and was forever damned to walk the earth. I looked at Gabriel, a sinking feeling in my heart, and yet, selfishly, I still wanted to be the woman he had fallen for—the woman he would spend the rest of his days with. I offered a soft smile. “If it’s any comfort to you, I was not defiled. Something as beautiful and as spiritual as we have shared cannot possibly fit that term.”

  This caused a reluctant curl of his taut lips. “You misunderstand me. The pain I feel is in no way because of you. I would not trade what we shared last night for all the riches on earth and heaven. But … my point is,” he said, looking sternly at the tin plate in his lap, “it should never have happened.”

  I had been eating my fish, and quite ravenously too, for I was starving. Yet his words suddenly quelled my appetite. “Why?” I said, and swallowed forcefully. My mouth had gone suddenly dry. “Is it because you feel that in loving me you have lost the promise of heaven?”

  He raised a brow at this, and then it fell as his forehead creased with troubled thought. “Something like that, I suppose,” he replied.

  I set my plate down and gently touched his hand. “Gabriel, I think I know what’s going on here; I think I understand your torment. It’s a very unusual one, isn’t it?” His face, recently pinched with emotion, transformed into an expression that might be interpreted as curiously skeptical. Encouraged, I continued. “I know that you love me, deeply. You can attempt to deny it, but your efforts would be in vain. I wouldn’t believe you.”

  “I have no wish to deny it!” he said with fervor. “It’s true.” His eyes, an impossibly vibrant blue, were wide and searching, and utterly heart-melting.

  “Good,” I said, and felt a modicum of relief. Emboldened, I straightened up and squared to him, ready to plunge ahead. “I understood that ours was not a common attraction from the very first moment I saw you. And when you admitted to having visions of me—and quite personal ones at that—it all made sense. I have been seeing you as well, in wonderful visions that I understood were too perfect to be real. I almost gave up any hope of ever finding you. But I did find you. And that’s what makes it so extraordinary.”

  “It is extraordinary,” he agreed, yet he was far from happy about it. “And you have always been far too perfect for me. That’s why my dreams were pure fantasy. Fantasy because I knew this”—he motioned to me and himself—“could never really happen.”

  “But it did happen!” I said, slightly confused. “It happened quite a few times, if you’ll remember. And I think, unless I heard wrong, that it was, um … nothing like in your dreams. But the visions, well, I’ve never experienced anything like them before. I have to admit that over the years, Gabriel, going through everything that I have, I had begun to lose faith. And I certainly didn’t believe in angels. But when I saw you in my father’s chapel, kneeling before the altar, appearing at my very darkest hour, something quite marvelous happened. And it happened again, just a moment ago when I came back from the lake. I believe again,” I offered softly. “Because of you my faith has been restored. And while I admit that things have not turned out the way I wished they would have, God has at least given us this gift. He has thrust us together for a purpose. Don’t you see? So why then must you feel that our love is a sin?”

  “Maybe, in part, because it isn’t God who has thrust us together, Isabeau. It is your brother.”

  “What?” I uttered in disbelief. “Julius?”

  He nodded. His look was convincing, and I thought on this, my eyes moving to the distant lake as I recalled my brother’s attempts to push me to the edge of madness.

  “Sure, he may have planted the suggestion in my mind,” I said, looking back at him. “He did, after all, practically demand that I look for an angel. But he certainly couldn’t have known about my visions. They were entirely personal … and very private.” And then I stopped. I looked hard at him. “But you knew Julius, didn’t you? And you said that you knew my father? I remember.”

  He gave a weary nod.

  “But how can that be? My father’s dead, and my brother was missing for years. Tell me, Gabriel, what are you? Are you an angel, or are you—”

  “Angel?” he said, aghast. “Dear God, Isabeau, I am no angel! Is that what you believe I am?”

  I was stunned. My jaw hung slack as I looked at him, utterly stricken with disbelief. It wasn’t possible. I knew what I saw. “But,” I tried to argue, “you didn’t deny it. In the chapel, you didn’t deny it!”

  “Because I thought you were speaking in metaphor,” he said warily, his eyes betraying the slightest glimmer of fear.

  “Metaphor? Why would I speak in metaphor?”

  “I don’t know.” He shrugged. “People do it. For instance, your brother does it all the time. I thought it was just your mannerism. I found it charming. And slightly amusing. Besides, if you’ll remember, I was thoroughly disarmed by your beauty. But I swear I really had no idea you believed me to be something God knows I’m not.”

  It didn’t make sense. And yet, at the heart of it, it made entirely too much sense. How could he really be an angel? I was such a fool! “But …,” I said levelly, attempting to rationalize my mistake, “you are Gabriel, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. That is my name.”

  “Can you not see the confusion there? I was told, by Julius no less, that if I prayed for an angel, then you’d appear. I did. I prayed for an angel. I prayed for Michael because I was just that desperate, and when I came back you were there, standing in my chapel—looking like a warrior-angel! Don’t look at me like that! It’s perfectly logical to believe, if you’re taught to believe, that angels appear when you summon them.”

  “Heaven help me! But you’re a Blythe through and through, aren’t you, my dear.” A bubble of subdued laughter, tempered further by derision, escaped his lips. “And Julius was just that wicked to force you into looking for me, making you believe I was what you needed most—knowing that when you found me, I’d be helpless against you. He knows my weakness, and he obviously knows yours. And by God if he didn’t exploit us both for his own twisted and sadistic pleasure! I didn’t want to believe it, but he really is the devil’s spawn!” Although he looked a little peaked before, his sanguine coloring had come back with a vengeance.

  “Well, you obviously do know Julius, and rather well, I see,” I offered, angered and defenseless, and utterly mind-boggled. I had just witnessed my pride being stripped from me—as a result of my own admissions—and had learned that my most recent debacle was just another elaborate scheme concocted in the mind of my brother, who, as fate would have it, had been sh
ot in the back before he could fully enjoy the fruit of his labors. There was a sweet and bitter irony there, yet my mind was too overwhelmed to fully acknowledge it. “Of course you are no angel,” I said at last. “How could I be so foolish to even think that you were something divine, when you’re so clearly governed by transparent male emotions? Angels do not exist,” I stated flatly, angrily—as much for myself as for him. I felt anew the pain of having let myself believe it, and cursed my fragile and gullible soul. “So who are you then, Gabriel?” I demanded curtly. “You said you knew me. You are familiar with my family. How?”

  “You don’t remember, do you?” His eyes were bright yet hooded with caution, and, perhaps sorrow. “I thought that you did. You said you did.”

  “When I thought you were an angel I imagined that you were one of the little boys …” Catching myself, knowing I was looking the fool, I dropped the thought. His eyes never left my face as I spoke, and I watched as his beautiful head tilted gently to the side. It was utterly disarming. Something Julius might do. I had resolved to be adult about this, placing personal emotions far from my thoughts, yet I found it nearly impossible. “The truth of it,” I said at last, exhaling softly, “is that you were very familiar to me. I knew you the moment I saw you—but only because of my dreams.”