Almost an Angel (11 page)

"Margaret!"

She scrambled up the embankment and stopped to look, scanning the ground, the trees, everything, dreading the sight of blood. Around her, the woods remained in complete silence. Even the wind had stopped.

That's when she heard it. It was soft and quiet, but heartfelt. A muffled sob—one that could only have come from a terrified ten-year-old girl.

Margaret was alive.

Sending her thanks to heaven, Carolly closed her eyes and focused on the sound. When she located it, she opened her eyes and stepped slowly toward it.

She almost tripped over the child by the time she finally found her. Margaret huddled behind a tree, clutching her knees while huge tears streamed down her face. "Oh, Mags, thank God you're all right."

Carolly dropped to her knees beside the child, searching for any sign of injury. Other than a few scrapes, including a very raw knee, Margaret seemed fine.

"Oh, thank you, thank you God." Then Carolly pulled Margaret into her arms and held her close while they both cried their eyes out.

It was some time later before Carolly regained control of herself. And even longer before she felt strong enough to do more than just hold the whimpering Margaret. But eventually she took a deep breath and spoke, albeit softly and mostly to herself.

"Well, this is a fine sight. Me, a strong modern woman, on her knees sobbing because we're both alive. I'm so sorry, Mags. I never would have allowed this if I thought there would be so much danger. I'm so sorry." Then she buried her face in the child's hair and kissed it, feeling the specter of her many failures rearing up once again.

Yes, Carolly Hansen had failed again because she was just too stupid to think things through.

"At least you're safe. I would have died if anything happened to you." Then she lifted her head, suddenly needing to be extra sure. "Are you sure you're all right? Does anything hurt? Any pain, dizziness, any . . . I don't know, double vision or something?”

She pushed Margaret back, searching her face, but the girl only shook her head, her big brown eyes shimmering with tears.

"You'll tell me if anything hurts, won't you? If you feel weird in any way."

"Weird?" The word was little more than a whisper, but Carolly greeted it as a godsend. Margaret could speak. Carolly didn't know why she was so thrilled by that, just that she was.

"Weird means . . . uh, funny. Uncomfortable. I don't know, just tell me about anything out of the ordinary." Then she glanced at their disheveled clothing. "Or rather, anything
else
out of the ordinary."

That brought a tentative smile from the girl which made Carolly feel immensely better. In the end, the two were grinning together as they slowly pushed to their feet and unsuccessfully tried to brush the mud and leaves off their gowns.

"Thank goodness I left off that ridiculous corset," Carolly announced. "I might have punctured a lung with those whale bones."

Margaret's eyes opened wider. "You aren't wearing a corset?" she asked, her voice filled with awe. "But we are going into town."

Carolly pursed her lips. "I was going to stand up straight so no one would notice."

Margaret looked significantly at the gaping hole torn in the side of Carolly's dress, then at the raw scrape of flesh beneath. "No one will be fooled now."

"Ah, well," Carolly said with a shrug. "What's life without a little scandal?”

Margaret frowned. "Uncle does not like scandal."

"No, I didn't think he did," Carolly said nonchalantly. Her equilibrium was slowly returning. "But then, he isn't here now, is he?”

Then the most amazing thing happened: Margaret giggled. It was a girlish sound that reminded Carolly of Barbie dolls and hot chocolate. It was the giggle of a child who was finally casting off the shackles of nineteenth-century repression in a cold household.

More importantly, it was the sound of a happy child.

It thrilled Carolly so much she couldn't resist hugging Margaret one more time. "Come on, sweetheart. Let's go see what damage we've done to your uncle's gig."

Hand in hand, the two walked the rest of the way down the hill. Carolly was almost afraid to look, but she steeled herself for total disaster.

"Oh, my." That was Margaret. Carolly couldn't draw breath to speak. It was too horrible a sight. The gig was smashed into ragged bits and the horses were nowhere to be seen.

"The traces broke."

Carolly spun around. "What?"

"There." Margaret pointed to the torn leather. "It broke."

"Which means the horses are probably halfway back to the manor by now."

Margaret nodded, her expression suddenly very solemn.

"Well, at least they survived."

"But the gig. . .”

Carolly glanced at Margaret, noting her shimmering eyes and the trembling lip. The girl was on the verge of losing it. Carolly would have to distract her quickly if she didn't want a bawling child on her hands.

"Come on. Let's start walking."

"But Uncle—"

"Don't think about it." She spoke as much to herself as to Margaret. She didn't dare picture James's reaction to this little disaster, or she'd be the one sobbing in the middle of the road.

"It's all my fault," Margaret whispered. "All my fault."

"No," Carolly said quickly. "No, it's our fault. Except that you're a kid. You're supposed to do stupid things. That's part of being a child. I'm an adult. I gave you permission to do a stupid thing, and worse than that, I went along to help." She knelt down to give the girl a hug. "It's not your fault, Margaret. It's mine, and it's past time I started thinking things through instead of just following my impulses." Especially given my current heavenly task, she thought with a swift, mental kick to her rear. Angels were supposed to help people, not smash their gigs, nearly kill their nieces, or generally screw things up even more.

Carolly look up and down the empty road. "So, which way to do we go?"

Margaret blinked and looked confused.

"Is there a farmhouse or something close by? How far is the town? It's a long walk back to the manor."

"Uh," the girl began. "The town is close, I think. The first houses should be around the next bend. Maybe."

"Then that's where we'll go." Carolly started to walk, but Margaret held back.

"No!" the girl said with unusual force and a little bit of horror. "We cannot go there dressed like this. We must go back to the Manor."

Carolly stopped and stared at her young charge. "That'll take forever, and you said there were farmhouses just around the corner."

Margaret folded her arms and looked stubborn.

Carolly tried again. "We've just been in a bad accident. I'm sure they'll forgive a few mud stains."

"But you are not wearing a corset, and we look like . . . like servants. Or beggars." Margaret's whole face quivered with revulsion at the idea.

This from the girl who only a few days earlier had looked like a sullen lump in a shapeless brown dress? "Mags . . ."

The girl drew herself upright, speaking pompously for all her ten years. "I am the ward of an earl. You are his guest. What we do reflects upon him."

Carolly dropped her hands to her hips, thoroughly insulted by the child's attitude. "So we'll have them all over to tea!" she snapped. "But we're not going to walk for hours when a warm fire and dry towels are just around the corner."

"You don't understand! They are already angry at Uncle. If we appear—"

"What I understand, young lady, is that very soon people are going to miss us. They'll worry, especially when the horses get back. Oh, Lord," she moaned, "your uncle is going to be worried sick."

Margaret's face set into a mulish pout. "But we look—"

"We're going. Now."

Margaret shut her mouth, but her outrage remained, plain for all to see. Carolly simply shook her head and began a quick march down the road. For a moment, she thought Mags would refuse to follow, but eventually the girl stomped after her.

Children! Carolly thought with annoyance. Who could figure them? She knew they both looked a fright, but they'd had an accident. Surely the townspeople would stop to help a stranger in need, no matter how disreputable they appeared.

The first person they came across was a large woman with her children in what seemed to be an empty yard. She was stirring something vile in a big cauldron while ragged young children harassed her from all sides.

"Excuse me, ma'am," Carolly began.

The woman merely peered up at them and sneered, "Git on. I cain't 'elp ye."

Carolly stepped closer. "No, you don't understand. We've had an accident—"

"Git on!"

Carolly stopped moving and turned to Margaret to see if the child knew why the woman was acting so strange. But the girl was still in the midst of her preteen sulks, which left Carolly to navigate unfamiliar waters.

She turned back to the peasant woman, who had now stepped out from behind her huge pot while her children clung to her skirts. "Look, we're not beggars," Carolly said. "We're staying with the earl—"

"Wait a moment. I know 'er." The woman stared at Margaret, who simply lifted her chin and tried to look disdainful. "Yer the by-blow. Git out! Go git yer high-and-mighty earl to 'elp."

"I am not a . . . a . . ." Margaret was flushed with anger, her hands bunching into fists.

Carolly stepped forward, coming between the two combatants and trying to redirect things before matters got completely out of hand. "There must be some mistake. Look, we've had an accident and—"

"And you be the new earl's fancy-piece. Git out!" To make her point, the peasant grabbed a large and very sharp ax off a tree stump and started advancing.

"Wait!" Carolly cried, appalled that the word came out more like a squeak than a command. "I'm not a—"

"Wot's cracking up 'ere?"

Carolly turned, thankful for any interruption, even in the guise of a grizzled old man stomping out of the hut.

"They's from uphill. Come to steal more from us."

"What?" Carolly took a deep breath, trying to take control of both the situation and her fraying temper. Why wouldn't these people listen? "Look. We've had an accident—"

"Git on. Ain't we suffered enough from the earl?"

"But—"

"Git!"

Carolly wanted to argue, but the woman was still brandishing her ax. Clearly, neither she nor the man had any interest in helping them, let alone listening to anything Carolly could say about economics, lung disease, or child labor laws. So, with a frustrated glare in the woman's direction, Carolly grabbed Margaret and beat a hasty retreat.

It wasn't until they'd reached the road again that Carolly trusted herself to speak. "Some time very soon, Mags, we're going to talk about what just happened here. But not right now. Right now, I'm much too angry."

Typically, Margaret said nothing. She just sulked.

Great.

Fortunately, the next place they came to was a small coaching inn. "Wonderful." Carolly breathed in relief. At least they could freshen up somehow, and with any luck the innkeeper and his wife would be of a higher, more educated, less judgmental caliber.

"Come on, Mags. They're sure to help us here." She practically had to pull the increasingly reluctant child along with her. But once they reached the relatively empty courtyard, she released the girl's arm, stepping over to one of the younger boys there, presumably a stable boy, who lounged against a barrel of some sort.

"I'd like to speak with the innkeeper, please," she said, trying to make her voice sound aristocratic.

Her answer was a loud hoot of derision from another boy and a small, squat man. "We ain't got nothin' for ye."

Carolly tried again through clenched teeth. "We're not looking for a handout. We've had a carriage accident along the road."

"An' I be the queen o' England."

"Then, your highness, be so good as to fetch the innkeeper so that I may send a message to the earl."

That got their attention. The man stood up and squinted at them. “The earl?"

The small boy gasped. "It's the fancy-piece and the by-blow!"

"I am not his mistress!" Carolly snapped.

"Don't matter." The grizzled man spit contemptuously into the dirt by her feet. "We ain't got nothin' to say."

Carolly ground her teeth in frustration. What was the matter with these people? She could understand anger at beggars, but they knew Margaret. Shouldn't they be falling over themselves to help? Did they hate James so very much?

"What's going on here?"

Carolly heaved a sigh of relief as the innkeeper bustled out of the inn, wiping his hands on his apron. He was quickly followed by a large, red-faced woman carrying a broom, and a couple of early customers, all very old, still holding their ale.

"Finally," whispered Carolly as she stepped forward. "Excuse me, sir, but my carriage has met with an accident—"

"From the manor, Durbin," interrupted the old man.

The innkeeper subjected Carolly to a thorough and insulting inspection, taking in everything from her muddy clothes to her missing corset. Then, with a snort of disgust, he turned his back. "So theys can go on back there."

"Wait!" Carolly was becoming desperate. Humiliation rarely bothered her much. In fact, it had become almost routine in her last few lives. But that was her. Mags, on the other hand, seemed to be shrinking into herself more as each second went by. The girl wouldn't stand up to much more of this. Thus, Carolly took recourse in the only thing left. "I'll pay you," she cried.

At last she was rewarded. The innkeeper stopped and turned, silencing the hooting crowd with a wave of his fist. "Show me," was all he said.

Carolly flushed. "Or at least I'm sure the earl will pay you when he learns of our predicament."

She had barely gotten the words out when the crowd renewed its laughter. Carolly ignored them, reaching instead for the oldest line in the book. She turned to the only woman in the group and let herself look as desperate as she felt.

"Please. In the name of Christian charity . . ."

The effect was immediate. The woman puffed herself up with righteous indignation and stepped forward, brandishing her broom. "Charity? Christian charity, you say? An' why should we 'elp the likes of you when it's because of you and 'er"—she made a vicious stab at Margaret with her broom— "that our babes are starving at our breasts? Our children are crying for milk, an' we ain't got a roof over our heads."