by Pamela Aares
He dipped his head and closed his lips to hers.
His gentle kiss washed through her body like a prayer. Reverent. Holy. Delicious.
Chapter Seventeen
The gentle but insistent song of a lark woke Jane. Sunlight streamed across the bed. She was alone. She parted the linen bed hangings and looked over at the other small bed in the room. Cassandra’s. It was empty too. At first she wanted to call out for Michael, rush through the cottage to look for him. But as she sat up, she knew such actions would do no good. And yet, she realized she hadn’t completely believed he’d be gone.
She pressed her hands to her face and then ran them along her body. She felt different, almost luscious. She was amazed at her own strangeness, and yet a lifting, buoying energy streamed through her and she knew she’d never be the same, already wasn’t. Life was richer than she’d dreamed, and love, love had depths and mysteries and splendor beyond imagination.
She caught herself humming the tune she’d heard that first afternoon Michael had knocked at her door. He’d told her it was his favorite, a song of the troubadours. She liked it, even its melancholy undertone. Glancing at the pillow beside her, she found it was uniformly fluffed, as if no head had ever rested there. Her bed was equally undisturbed. She stared at her clothes, carefully folded over the back of the chair. Evidence to the contrary, the night had been real. Michael had come to her.
She stood, eyes closed, lost to the memories, and then gathered her robe from the peg and hurried down to the kitchen. In the sunny quiet, she was glad to discover the maid hadn’t yet returned.
Her empty teacup sat next to the one she’d served Michael, his full to the brim, untouched, as was his plate of cold meat and bread. Surely he’d eaten? She fought flooding thoughts whispering that it had been only a lovely dream. Sanity, she realized, had a diffuse edge, and never before had she traversed those feathery, mysterious edges.
A knock at the front door roused her from her trance, and she hurried to open it.
“Letter for you, ma’am.” A handsome man stood before her, nonchalant, although his eyes took in her less than proper attire.
“Where’s Mr. Grace, our previous letter carrier?” she asked, blinking into the bright sunshine. She’d considered asking him during the previous weeks, but until now hadn’t wanted to hear his answer.
“That’s what he’d be calling himself, is it?” The man tilted his cap back and stared down at her. “He weren’t no letter carrier, ma’am. Got caught tampering with the mails, he did. He’s been carted off to Bedlam, locked up, the baker told me. Should’ve been thrown in Newgate, if you ask me.”
He held a letter out to her.
“Your letter, ma’am.”
It was from Serena and franked by Darcy, now the Earl of Darrington. Jane pictured Serena, happy in her new life as Lady Darrington.
But Michael was foremost in her mind.
She regarded the letter carrier as he shuffled his feet. He seemed real, not like the others. To be sure, she touched his ungloved hand as she took the letter from him. All that met her fingers was the skin of the letter carrier, nothing unusual. She nodded her thanks and stared after him as he pivoted and walked down the lane.
Bedlam. It made no sense. Michael had been here, last night. Perhaps it was simply a village rumor, they sprung up like weeds. As she clicked the door shut, she remembered what Michael had said about Alithea working in the hospital, vaguely remembered it had something to do with their mission. Alithea might know something more. The driving desire to find him, to see him, if only once again, argued with her voice of caution. But visiting Bedlam? It was nearly unthinkable. And though she knew little of madness, she hoped that hers was a madness not of the head but of the heart. Madness or not, she was going to Bedlam. If Michael was in trouble, she was going to help him. She didn’t care what anyone had to say about it.
Chapter Eighteen
The journey to London exhausted Jane. She’d had to travel by mail coach, crowded into the carriage with four other passengers. A hired hackney drove her through Moorfields, home to the infamous Bedlam. Built on a drained swamp that bordered the moorland, the streets Jane passed through as they approached clattered with commerce and gaiety. Not so for Bedlam. As the hackney stooped near the gate, the muffled cries of the inmates rose above the clattering of hooves and hawking of wares. The old building loomed before them, shrouded in the dim light of the humid, sooty day.
She paid the driver and stepped toward the entrance, clutching the basket of food she’d prepared. She’d thought to slip a pen and some paper into the bottom; she’d heard that such articles were nonexistent inside.
She reached the top of the stairs. Two sculptures of bald, half-naked men loomed above the arched doorway. That their chains were carved from stone didn’t make them any less formidable. She took in their defeated and empty stares, their faces full of distress and vacant of hope. What was she doing in such a place? It was too much, too outrageous—what had she been thinking? She started to turn back but found she couldn’t. Michael’s promise of protection steeled her courage and pulled her forward.
As she stepped across the threshold, the cries of the inmates, no longer muffled by the high walls, pierced the murky, acrid air. She presented her card to one of the keepers and asked to see Sister Alithea. He shrugged and shuffled off. After waiting some time in the echoing entrance vestibule, she was met by a warden who led her into the hospital. Though he wore an official uniform, it was rumpled, and the man hadn’t bathed in months.
From the outside, the place had the structure and bones of a fine building, but as she followed the warden through the hall, Jane saw that inside nothing was true or plumb. The floorboards didn’t meet the walls and all the surfaces had a sloping slant that would make even a sane person doubt their senses. It was no wonder that the city had decided to build a new and larger asylum near Bishopsgate. But for now, the poor unfortunates were forced to exist in a structure that was vastly overcrowded and coming apart at the seams.
Calling such a place a hospital was certainly a stretch of the term. When they passed the entrance to one dark hallway, the clank of chains and an intermittent wailing became louder. Jane’s fingers tightened on her basket, and she clutched it tight to her body.
“Wait here,” the warden grumbled. “Sister’ll be along in a while.”
Sister Alithea’s office was not far from the entrance. Jane was thankful that she didn’t have to venture deeper into the gaping corridors lined with cells. She sat on a wooden bench and examined the small, stark room. A whisper of air from the tiny, eastern-facing window high up the wall stirred the room’s stale atmosphere. A desk, a chair and the bench were the only furnishings. After several minutes, the door scraped open.
“They shouldn’t have allowed you in here, Miss Austen,” the woman said as she breezed into the room. ”This is no place for you.” She inclined her head. “I am Sister Alithea.”
St. Mary’s of Bethlehem was no place for any living being, but Jane kept that thought to herself. The warden hung back but stood barring the door to the room.
The Sister was petite, well below Jane’s height, and fine-boned. Her simple habit didn’t hide her radiant beauty or the fiery light in her eyes. She certainly wasn’t what Jane expected.
“I’ve come to enquire about Mr. Grace,” Jane said without ceremony.
“I’m afraid he’s ... not here. He ... ” She looked over her shoulder, nodding at the warden. He simply crossed his arms over his chest. “He disappeared two days ago.”
“Escaped is what he did,” the warden growled from his post near the door. “No puttin’ roses on it. And I’m of a mind that our Sister here had a hand in it. Lucky for her no one listens to me.” The man obviously liked having a captive audience. “One less mouth, that’s what I say.”
“That’s sufficient.” Sister Alithea glared. The warden shrugged and shuffled to the door, then stopped and hovered in the hallway just beyond it.
“Perhaps we could discuss this in private?” Jane whispered.
Sister Alithea shook her head. “There’s no privacy here.”
“Then perhaps you could join me for tea—at my brother’s house?” Jane implored. She pulled a sheet of paper from the basket and hurriedly scratched her brother’s Henrietta Street address on it. She crossed the room and reached to put it in Sister Alithea’s hand. The woman recoiled and pointed to the desk.
“Visit’s over,” the warden hollered without warning as he jangled the heavy ring of keys to relock the door. “There’s work to be done.” He herded Jane from the room and Sister Alithea followed close behind. When they reached the main gate, the warden left them and Sister Alithea broke her silence.
“Tea would be most welcome, Miss Austen. But it will have to be this afternoon. I have ... other duties tomorrow.”
Jane wished it could be now, but surely she could wait until the afternoon. “I’d like to send a hackney for you.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Sister Alithea said with an odd twinkle. She turned and disappeared into the dark halls of Bedlam, leaving Jane to stare after her.
***
Jane couldn’t settle as she waited for Sister Alithea to arrive at her brother’s townhouse. She straightened the small figurines on the mantel, first the miniature lion, then the girl carrying a colorful harvest basket. She stopped when she reached the chubby cherub at the mantel’s end. She stared at it, shaking her head. It in no way depicted what she now knew of angels. But the porcelain figures had belonged to Henry’s wife, who had died that spring. It seemed like more than a few passing months since her death; Jane worried he might never recover from the grief. Where, she wondered, do those we love go? How is it that they can be felt and yet aren’t here? She stood in the waning light and realized that no matter what Sister Alithea had to tell her, her heart had a mind of its own. She could feel Michael’s presence, as if he’d become a part of her. And though she knew it was foolish, she harbored hope that she’d see him again.
When she heard the quiet knock on the door, Jane pressed her hands along her skirts, smoothing them. But even as she made the familiar gesture, she knew that her former idea of order was forever changed.
“Forgive me,” Sister Alithea said as Jane welcomed her. “I’m much later than I’d hoped.” She slid her gaze from Jane’s. “I was ... detained.”
“You must be tired,” Jane said, trying to find a steady voice. “Come in. I have tea and cakes.”
They settled in Henry’s cozy parlor. Though only one floor above the busyness of the Henrietta Street markets, the heavy draperies muffled the sounds from below.
“Thank you for coming,” Jane said as she poured steaming tea into their cups.
“You may not thank me when you hear what news I bear,” the Sister said, her voice flat.
Jane handed her a cup and noticed she didn’t drink from it, but placed it gracefully on the table beside her. In the soft light of the parlor, she appeared even smaller than she had at Bedlam. And prettier. No, she was beautiful, Jane decided. The woman radiated a timeless beauty Jane had never encountered.
“Please, Sister,” Jane said, her voice edged with the strange nervousness that had plagued her all day. “Tell me. You can tell me the truth—Michael prepared me for the truth.”
“There are many truths, Miss Austen.” She tilted her head to study Jane. “You might as well call me Alithea; I think we both know I’m no Sister.” As the clock on the mantel ticked out the seconds, Alithea held Jane in a potent gaze, assessing, perhaps judging.
“Michael has been called away,” she said flatly.
“I already know,” Jane said as she pulled herself up to her full height and took a mustering breath. She was in no mood to be patronized. “The truth, Alithea.”
“He’s been called back. He accomplished what he was sent here to do and now he’s been called to other duties.”
Jane recoiled at the word duty.
“No,” Alithea said, fluttering her hand between them. “You misunderstand me. You, my dear, were not a duty. In fact, you were a surprise—to all of us. But who knows? You may have been the entire reason he was held here.”
She watched Jane’s face as she spoke, watched with eyes the color of honeyed amber, eyes very much like Michael’s. Jane started to ask about her relationship to Michael, but Alithea cut her off with another wave of her hand.
“These are mysteries, Miss Austen,” she said firmly. “And I need not tell you that Michael broke many rules, some of great significance—rules I am not at liberty to disregard. But he is fortunate.” She laughed, a light, whispering sound. “Always has been.” She leaned forward, tapped a finger against the table. “Those who are guided by love are always forgiven.”
She darted a glance at the clock.
“You’ll appreciate the irony,” she added, “that after years of wishing himself back, he was called home right at the point when he might rather have stayed. But we need Michael. I imagine you might understand.”
She rose abruptly and nodded toward the desk where some of Jane’s papers protruded from under a book. Then she turned to Jane.
“I do hope you’ll be writing once again,” Alithea encouraged.
There it was, that countenance. That smile. Like Michael, Alithea radiated a bliss that thwarted Jane’s ability to describe it.
Jane looked at the desk, uneasy. “Though I think I would die if I couldn’t write, after what I saw today, what I heard and what I imagine those poor souls must suffer, my stories seem a trifle in comparison.”
Alithea leaned down and picked something up from the floor, then straightened and walked toward the door, signaling the end of her visit. Jane followed her into the hall. As Alithea reached the door, she opened it herself before turning back to Jane.
“What Michael said to you is true.” Alithea’s tone was not stern, but it was solemn. “Your books help people find their way—making it less likely that they will end up in such states. You must give your gift, Miss Austen—it’s what you are here to do.”
She opened her hand over Jane’s and a snowy white feather floated into Jane’s palm. “I’m sure you understand that I can’t stay any longer.”
Jane closed her fingers over the feather.
“I wish you happy. And remember, angels are always among us.”
Then she walked out the door.
Jane dashed to the window but she never saw Alithea reach the street. She hadn’t expected her to.
Dazed, Jane moved to the desk and sat. The trembling she’d felt when Michael came to her at Chawton had returned. It was gentler this time and not unwelcome. She stared at her still fisted hand. Slowly, she uncurled her fingers. The feather was still there.
What was it he had said? That she simply had to close her eyes and call him to her, and he would be there in spirit? Though part of her wanted to, the feeling of being held in his arms, the memory of his kiss told her she wasn’t quite ready, not for that. Not yet.
She sat in the quiet. She had the fire, the massive desk and the entire house to herself. The hushed sounds of Henrietta Street faded into the distant realms of her consciousness as she took up her pen and dipped it into the crystal inkwell. Though she was alone, she felt that some mysterious circle had been cast about her. She was fed by the solitude and no longer lonely.
She knew she’d never attempt to describe her experience to anyone, just as she knew she’d always carry the memories within her. And though sadness played at the edges of her mind, a new joy roamed there as well, a joy that buoyed her and dissolved her fears about the future. What had Michael said about eternity? That people had it all wrong—that it was present in every moment if only one made the effort to know it.
Though Michael had come and gone, leaving no trace but what remained in her heart and a single white feather, he had shown her the truth of love, a love beyond words—a love nearly beyond comprehension. She had crossed over a mysterious bridge to a
love that surpassed anything she had ever expected.
Her heart had finally found its home.
And she could dwell in it, happy.
She swirled her pen in the ink and watched as the ripples reach the side of the inkwell, then drew it out and wrote the single word Emma in large characters at the top of the sheet. She smiled to herself as love, and a good dose of irony, began to flow across the pages. If angels could meddle in the service of love, so could her heroines.
She sat back and stared at her words, and a heavenly music filled her—the music she’d heard the day Michael delivered Serena’s letter at Chawton, the same song he’d murmured that night as he’d led her into sleep.
The song of angels.
Epilogue
The warm sea breeze stirred across Jane’s shoulders, making her tug her woven shawl closer to her body. Though there were days she suffered what she hoped were just odd aches and pains of growing older, at other times she felt the radiant bliss that her experience with Michael had awakened. And sometimes, the bittersweet pangs of passion.
“Jane!” Serena called from their beach hut further up the slope. “Do come and join us! You’ll walk a track in the shore if you keep on like that.”
The roomy hut that sheltered Serena and Darcy was close to the Brighton Pavilion and the house they’d taken for a fortnight, but far enough away to give them distance from the bustle of the crowds.
Shading her eyes, Jane looked back at the spot where Serena sat with Darcy. With a wave, she started up the pebbled slope toward them. A carriage rumbled to a stop on the road just behind the hut and a very short man dressed in an ill-fitting suit jumped out and headed toward her. She looked down the beach, wondering who he could possibly be looking for, but the shore was empty beyond her.
Without a word, the man marched to her and handed her a letter. Then he stood, staring, mutely assessing her. The letter was sealed with a golden wafer. Turning it over, she found there was no address written on it. She looked into the little man’s eyes. He grinned at her.
