Jane Austen & the Archangel Read online

  She spent the rest of the day at her writing desk, staring at blank pages. Maybe she didn’t have it in her anymore to write about love. Or anything else, for that matter. But writing was the best part of her world. What would she be without it? What if, as it had for so many others, the creative well had run dry?

  Frustrated, she abandoned the attempt and went up to bed. In the quiet darkness, her thoughts turned to Serena. Serena was a creature of the heart. For her to be forced to marry without love would spawn life-deadening heartbreak. Jane wished she could work some feat of magic and miraculously help her friend.

  Tugging at the coverlet, she tucked it up under her chin, seeking a bit more warmth against the chill of the night. The song of a nightingale in the nearby hawthorn serenaded her but sleep would not come. Her thoughts circled again and again to the moment in the doorway with Mr. Grace. She could almost remember the blissful song. As the memory sharpened her heart picked up its beat and unfamiliar feelings teased her body. A hunger she’d never imagined, hadn’t known existed, spread in and claimed territory of its own. She lay in the dark tossing restlessly and tried to calm her body and quiet her mind. Then a question pierced into her—what had happened to the feather?

  She threw back the covers and snatched up her dressing gown, shrugging into it as she descended the stairs. After taking up the candle from the dining table, she lit it and walked into the foyer. As she approached the door, the candlelight cast her shadow along it, to dance there like a creature in a puppet theatre. She knelt and ran her palm along the wooden floor. Pain instantly seared her other hand. Gasping, she pulled it back as more hot wax dripped from the candle onto her fingers and across the floor. She raised her fingers to her lips. Then the absurdity struck her and she laughed. What was she doing puttering around in the dark, in the middle of the night, searching for a feather?

  ***

  In the morning, after downing a quick cup of tea and some cold toast, Jane sat at her desk, paper arranged just so. Though she had a vague sense of a story forming in her mind, the words still resisted her. Disturbed, she gave up and began a letter to Serena. Fighting the impulse to tell her about the strange encounter with Mr. Grace, she was considering an alternative when a loud knock resounded at her door. Perhaps the bakery delivery. That would be a pleasant surprise.

  “Good day to you, Miss Austen.”

  It wasn’t the baker.

  Mr. Grace beamed at her as if he had no need of sunlight to illuminate his face. He stepped closer. The man obviously had little sense of decorum. But his smile was irresistible.

  “And to you, Mr. Grace,” she said, feeling awkward. He acted as though she should be inviting him in, as though she were violating some unknown rule of hospitality in not doing so.

  He handed her another letter from Serena.

  Lord Baringdon, Serena’s father, had franked it. Jane was relieved—her funds were precious and every penny counted. Being able to economize on postage was a welcome reprieve.

  Mr. Grace stood in the doorway, waiting for she knew not what. Flustered, she tried to ignore the raw, manly beauty of him. He was an unnerving combination of height and muscles and a pulsing physical presence, yet his face shone with a gentleness that tugged at her. She recalled the feeling she’d had the day before. Bliss. There was no other word for the emotion. But the tantalizing hunger lurking beneath it set her on edge. Coming to her senses, she slid the letter into her pocket and began to close the door.

  He didn’t move, but she imagined he’d leapt toward her. Or maybe it was her body—not her imagination—that felt the nearness of his. In truth, he simply stood there as a powerful smile curved across his face and lit his eyes.

  “Yes, well, thank you, um ... Mr. Grace.” She was stammering!

  He stepped back. She smiled—what did it matter that it was a wavering one—and pulled her gaze from his. Inhaling deeply, she pressed the door closed and listened to his receding footsteps as he walked to the lane.

  Then she raced to her desk and made frenzied notes, trying to capture his smile, to put words to the sensations that had passed through her, trying to hold the experience long enough to get it on paper. When she’d finished, she read over the sheaf of pages. Though she’d portrayed the actions and the details, she hadn’t rendered the inexplicable and elusive joy that the encounter had sparked. And she hadn’t written about the haunting feeling of having been summoned—but to what, she didn’t know. Her inner universe had been disturbed and something within her, some part of her that she’d long ago shut away, clamored to be heard. That evening when she nestled into her bed, the mystery of it kept her tossing, sleepless, late into the night.

  ***

  The next morning Jane dismissed the maid and savored having the cottage to herself. Her mother and Cassandra were visiting her brother, Edward, and she’d have two peaceful, solitary days.

  Yet, though she sat diligently at her desk, her characters and story simply teased at the edge of her awareness, and no attempt on her part would call them forth. Reading through the sheaf of pages she’d hastily penned about Mr. Grace confounded her all the more.

  Perturbed, she donned her sturdy boots and set out for a walk to the neighboring village. Fresh air would clear her mind; it always did.

  After visiting her favorite shops, feeling cheered by their bright displays and quirky shopkeepers, she headed back to Chawton. The storm that had lurked in the distance during the morning was now muting the afternoon’s light. The sky darkened rapidly, and she quickened her steps. Large raindrops pelted the road and her skirts were soon lined with mud. An unseasonable chill pervaded the air, making her glad for her sturdy pelisse.

  She laughed to herself. A cold soaking was a mighty price to pay for ribbons, but the paper had been a necessity. At least she hoped she’d need it. After Mr. Grace’s unsettling visit yesterday, she’d used up most of her supply, even if the pages hadn’t been what she’d hoped for. Certainly the words on those pages hadn’t led to any coherent account.

  Words. They’d been her life. They could serve and elude, could be wielded to help beings flourish or just as easily cause harm and unhappiness. Words broke hearts, broke rules, soothed and healed. And right now, the inability to wield them to her liking—no, her inability to wield them at all—was torturing her.

  As she hurried along, the song of a thrush trilled in the hedge along the lane. She didn’t lift her head to search for the defiant bird that sang despite the rain, but she did smile at his daring. Birds had no need of words. They communicated their timeless messages without fussing over nuances and hidden meanings as men and women did.

  She shook out her skirts and dashed into the cottage, closing the door quickly to keep out the now pelting rain.

  She hadn’t even removed her gloves before she heard the knock behind her. She whirled to face the door. Without looking, she knew Mr. Grace stood on the other side.

  By the time she opened the door, he’d already dripped a spreading puddle onto the flagstones. He was soaked through. Wet and smiling, he looked like some lost hero washed ashore on her doorstep.

  “Would you care for a cup of tea to warm you?” The words tumbled out before she could stop them. The frisson of embarrassment that rose in her was instantly nipped by his radiant smile.

  ***

  “It’s certainly the most welcome invitation I’ve had all day,” he said with a grin. “Wouldn’t mind, thank you.”

  Wouldn’t mind? If it had been in his power to affect her will, he would’ve conjured an angelic spell and made her ask him in. But angels were forbidden to counter human free will. Pleased that she’d invited him in without prompting, he stepped across the threshold.

  Jane appeared to be considering his reply as she guided him to the parlor. Not the smoothest of replies on his part. He glanced at her desk when she hurried over to cover her papers. He hid his smile and wondered how unsettling she’d find it if she discovered that he knew the content of every page she’d ever writte
n. Sometimes angelic powers actually turned out to be useful, but in this case perhaps it was a blessing that the rules also required that he keep the knowledge to himself.

  “Would you excuse me,” she said as color rose in her cheeks. “I’ve given the maid the day off and, well ... I’ll just be a moment.” She waved her hand toward a small chair. “Please hang your coat near the fire to dry. Never mind the carpet; it’s old.” Her rapid words and erratic movements told Michael she was either uncomfortable or uncertain. And he’d had no intention of making her feel either emotion.

  “I could help you,” he offered as he shrugged out of his coat.

  “Oh no. Heavens, no. I mean, I can make tea, Mr. Grace.” She offered a hesitant smile. “Do sit down, Mr. Grace. I can only imagine how tiring a day like this must be.”

  You have no idea, he thought as she left the room.

  Tiring didn’t begin to cover it. Exhilarating, intriguing, and entrancing, but not tiring.

  Michael studied the small parlor. Lit by a large window, it had a homey feel. To take advantage of the sunlight, her small writing desk—topped with a mahogany escritoire and covered with two stacks of those hastily concealed papers—was angled near the window. He knew that one pile held Serena’s letters and Jane’s unfinished reply. There was also the beginning of a letter to her sister, Cassandra, and a near-finished letter to her brother Francis, an admiral in the Royal Navy. The other pile held Jane’s scribbled notes from the previous day.

  He considered the contents of that pile. A thrill rushed through him when he understood that he’d made an impression on her. He didn’t know why, but the knowledge made him happy all the same. And he was especially happy that he’d kept to the rules and hadn’t used his powers, not one of them. He hadn’t cast an angelic glamour—that was strictly forbidden—and hadn’t conjured any supernatural effort. She’d responded of her own will. But the episode and the feelings it had released in him had surprised him, and very little surprised Michael after all these years.

  Watch out, a small voice called in warning from some deep recess of his consciousness. But he wasn’t one for heeding warnings. If he had been, he certainly wouldn’t be sitting in Jane’s parlor, enjoying the warmth of the snapping fire and anticipating her return.

  The door creaked open. He leapt to his feet to help her maneuver the large tray and settle it on a table near the fire.

  “Thank you.” She smiled. “It’s heavier when it’s set for two.”

  If he hadn’t been watching closely, he might not have noticed the slight trembling in her hands as she poured the tea. He wished he could put her at ease, but he was a bit nervous himself. The sensation confounded him. He’d sipped tea with queens, guzzled champagne with dukes and shared warm milk straight from the goat with farmers and their wives—why would having tea in a cottage with Jane make him nervous? He gritted his teeth behind his smile. Gabriel had more than once claimed that Michael’s failure to experience human love would some day test him. Michael sure hoped Gabriel was wrong. At least about that. Well, about many issues, actually. But most especially about being tested about love. Michael had seen what love did to men and women; he’d prefer to avoid that kind of trial.

  “I’m afraid we have no sugar,” Jane said as she lifted a cup and saucer from the tray. “I do hope you don’t take sugar.”

  The silvery light from the window bathed her in a gentle radiance. She had lovely eyes, like a doe’s. So wide, so observant. So kind.

  “Mr. Grace?” Her voice startled him from his trance. She held the cup out to him.

  “Sugar? No, thank you,” he said as he took the cup from her hands. “I prefer it purely as you offer it.”

  He hoped she didn’t think it strange that he hadn’t removed his gloves. That was a mistake he wouldn’t repeat. And though his oversight yesterday had been foolish, he wouldn’t wish away the results. He had felt her. Felt Jane. In a deep, mysterious realm within himself, a realm he hadn’t known existed or at least had never acknowledged. Sure, he’d heard the troubadours’ songs, knew all the love poems ever written and had observed countless couples in love—had even helped a few—but he’d never, ever been immersed in feeling as he had been when he’d felt Jane. When he’d touched not her hand, but her essence. When he’d felt the wild ardor of her soul.

  Chapter Two

  Jane sipped her tea. She both wished and didn’t wish that Mr. Grace would say something. Anything. She was usually comfortable with silence, craved it often. But not now. She watched as he set the cup on the small table beside him. His graceful movements only made her thoughts jitter and her heart thump faster. She wondered if he could see her pulse skitter. Tugging discreetly, she pulled the cuff of her dress to cover the telltale throb in her wrist. She caught his smile as she released her cuff. She pulled her gaze away and darted a look at his hands. He was still wearing his gloves. They were exquisite gloves; they fit him like skin.

  What had prompted her to ask him in, she didn’t know. It wasn’t proper, but she didn’t care. It was as though her rational consciousness had been flooded by the pure, physical presence of him. She fidgeted, then searched for some sensible topic of conversation. Conversation was one of her strengths, after all.

  “The mails are moving more quickly these days, I’ve noticed.” She felt the heat rise in her cheeks as soon as she spoke; it was a silly remark. He knew better than she how fast the mails moved.

  He smiled at her over the rim of his cup. ‘Yes, but the content has little changed. The rails may have increased the pace, but that simply means that gossip and speculation travel that much faster.”

  His insight surprised her, and she laughed. “I suppose,” she said, regaining her composure, “we had best talk about the weather. Something unexceptional.”

  He pointed toward the window behind her. “There’s a rainbow.”

  She turned to look and unbalanced the tray. It teetered toward the floor. He leapt to it in a flash, righting it.

  She stared at him, speechless.

  “The weather,” he chided as he slipped back to his seat, “appears to take exception to being considered unexceptional.”

  No one moves that fast. At least no one she’d ever encountered. Did he hear her breathing? The ragged draw of her breath as it strove to keep pace with the pulsing of her heart was all she could hear. That and the gentle patter of the slackening rain as it dripped off the roof of the cottage. What had she been thinking, inviting the letter carrier in for tea? She hadn’t. Thought. And though she’d hoped she’d outlived the age of blushing, she realized she hadn’t done that either. She slid her gaze from his and stared into her cup.

  “The storm has passed, it seems.” Her voice began to do her bidding and came out stronger, close to her normal assured tone.

  A gentle smile lit his eyes. “I hardly think that inviting me in for tea is a revolutionary act, Miss Austen. You needn’t be nervous.”

  He was direct. She thought she actually liked such an attitude, given how often she had to parse conversations for the truth hidden in them. It was refreshing to hear a man speak his mind rather than rattle off insipid pleasantries that revealed nothing of his true nature. Of course, that didn’t mean she was free to be as equally frank; conventions were not so easily shattered.

  She studied him.

  He had a pleasing accent, but she couldn’t place it. His voice had the resonance of a man who traveled widely and called many places home, an intriguing sound. She smiled to herself and let out a soft breath. Perhaps it was best to simply surrender—he was here now, so she might as well enjoy the diversion. Besides, something out of the ordinary might provide inspiration for her writing, if yesterday was any indication.

  “We English,” she explained, “have become so afraid of breaching propriety that we live in a constricted web of our own making. Good manners and exceptional behavior have been our most trusted responses to the French revolution and the rapid changes that confound us.” She met his gaze. “Th
ough I think everyone secretly frets that the cart might be tilted at any moment.” She smiled in spite of her nerves. “Given the unscrupulous values of some of our leaders of late, well they should.” She sipped her tea, her hands steadier now. “Even I begin to doubt that order in the ballroom or the dining parlor will see us through, although I once was firmly convinced that it could.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps, Miss Austen, revolution is closer to your heart than you think.”

  She shifted in her chair. She didn’t know anything about this man, and she certainly knew better than to speak in such a frank manner with a stranger. But an unusual daring kept her from rising and sending him away.

  ***

  Michael pointed to the stack of letters from Serena. “Your friend is a great correspondent.”

  He couldn’t simply blurt out his plan; he’d have to patiently play out his strategy if he wasn’t going to alarm her. After all, women of this time, if allowed any voice at all, were normally confined to the discussion of inconsequential matters. Why had he been reassigned to the nineteenth century? Life in this time was all too scripted for his taste. And yet, though he’d liked his recent stint in the twenty-first century, had felt fueled by the pace of it and had preferred the more straightforward speech and manners, the concrete and noise of the place had made him yearn for the open green spaces of earlier times. But not the long boring days of waiting; that he hadn’t bargained for. Be careful what you wish for—hadn’t he cautioned enough souls to know he should heed his own advice?

  With an inward sigh, he conceded he’d have to make peace with the conventions of this time and place and proceed slowly. Patience, however, was not one of his virtues.

  “My friend,” Jane replied, acknowledging the stack of letters, “has been unlucky in love.”

  “Then she’s lucky in having you—your books are exquisite guides to love.” His words weren’t meant as flattery, but he watched wariness roil in her eyes. She sipped from her cup and held him with an assessing gaze.