On Gentle Wings by Patricia McAllister Page B

considered Isobel across the wooden plank
table. “Or, mayhap cherry to complement the bride-to-be’s cheeks.”
    At his whimsical comments, she blushed and murmured, “I
imagine you should choose, Cousin Kit. After all, they’re very like you in
manner and taste.”
    He seemed pleased by her remark, though he added somewhat
sternly, “Methinks you’ve called me ‘cousin’ for too many years, Isobel. Ours
is a relationship based on friendship rather than blood. Please call me Kit.”
    “Kit.” For some reason, those three simple letters were as
difficult, and forbidden, as her misbegotten affection for him. Isobel steeled
herself against further emotion, hoping he mistook the catch in her voice for a
choking crumb of tart instead.
    “Charming chit. You’ve a bit of jam by your lips,” Kit said,
reaching out to whisk it away with an index finger before Isobel could react.
That fleeting, velvety contact was almost more she could bear.
    “’Tis late,” she said, rising so swiftly the bench she occupied
nearly tumbled on its side. “I must see the girls abed. I fear Grace doesn’t
sleep well without me near.”
    “T’would appear childish fears rule the day — and night, too,”
Kit said, frowning with obvious disappointment. But his grin was as winsome as
ever when he rose to join her a second later. He jauntily plopped his feathered
hat back on his head and took her arm to escort her from the inn.
    At Ambergate , Kit retired to the parlor to enjoy his
nightly port while Isobel went upstairs to say good night to the girls. She’d
not, however, counted on the chaos that had ensued during her short absence.
Apparently Grace had tried to her older sister into believing some fairy tale
about an angel whose specialty was finding little girls’ lost dolls.
    “I’ll speak with Grace alone, please,” Isobel told the complaining
Anne, who finally removed herself from the nursery after a wounded sniff and a
final glare at her younger sister.
    “Now, Grace,” she began, addressing the six-year-old as
sternly as she could manage, which wasn’t very stern at all, “you know it isn’t
proper to tell falsehoods, even when it seems so tempting and fun.”
    The huge green eyes at Isobel’s waist-level widened further.
“But I didn’t make it up! Honest, Isobel. A nice man glided right through the
roses, thorns an’ all. He glowed like the sun. An’ he told me he was sent
instead ’cause he’s ’specially good at finding lost things.”
    Isobel decided to play along for a moment. “I see. And what sorts
of ‘lost things’ does he specialize in? Just dolls?”
    Grace looked thoughtful — or, rather, inventive. She added
excitedly, “Dolls and — and I ’member now. He said he looks for other things,
too, like lost hearts.”
    “Hearts.”
     “’An faith.”
    “Faith? Are you certain? Don’t you mean flowers?” Isobel
teased the child, amused now despite her initial irritation.
    Suddenly serious, Grace shook her head. “No, he said faith .
The same thing Papa’s lost.”
    Such oddly mature words coming from a young child gave
Isobel pause. “Did he say why your father’s lost faith?” she inquired, trying
to sound light and unconcerned.
    “’Cause he’s been so unhappy for so long. He smiles all the
time, but he doesn’t really mean it.”
    This simple yet startling observation sent a flaring stab of
pain through Isobel’s chest. “I see,” was all she could murmur.
    “You still don’t believe me. Well, I don’t care! The lord
found Judith for me, and that’s all that matters.” For such a young child,
Grace sounded surprisingly dignified.
    “Lord?”
    Grace looked reluctant to expound on her story. “That’s what
he said his name was. The lord.”
    The Lord. Oh, dear. It was worse than Isobel had thought.
The downstairs maid had obviously been influencing the girls with her
catechism, and now Grace was seeing “glowing angels” in the garden! Though
she’d planned to give