The Whisper Of Wings by Cassandra Ormand

the meal before her. Mrs. LeFonde had prepared a soup not unlike those she'd been given throughout the week, though this one was much heartier, with big chunks of vegetables and beef that overwhelmed the thick broth. A bread plate sat beside the bowl, a small pat of butter on a tiny plate next to it, and she shyly glanced toward the center of the table where slices of various breads sat arrayed on a small tray. It was an unusual meal for such a wealthy family to have. More like something one would find on a farmer's table. Not that it wasn't perfectly suitable. Just so odd. She had expected fine French cuisine, or the best of Creole. Anything but an ordinary thick stew, a meal designed for the quick nutrition it could deliver rather than presentation or taste.
    Mrs. Avery must have noticed her curiosity because she suddenly offered, "Mr. Standeven thought you might be more comfortable if we all shared the same meal."
    She didn't dare look at Mr. Standeven, though she was almost certain she sensed a sudden stiffness in his demeanor, as if he didn't approve of Mrs. Avery's guileless divulgence.
    She lowered her gaze to her plate again. She didn't quite know how to respond. She knew the housekeeper was only trying to make her feel more comfortable, but she only felt all the more awkward knowing that the head of the household had made such a concession on her behalf.
    "It's quite good," Gerald proclaimed in an effort to ease the tension. "Mrs. LeFonde has really outdone herself. We should have this more often."
    She forced herself to glance up at him and was rewarded with a dazzling smile. He seemed so pleased that she would even acknowledge him that she was glad she had.
    "I can't wait for you to try her gumbo. It's excellent. The best New Orleans has to offer, or anywhere else, I'd wager." Still smiling, he gave her a reassuring nod and indicated her bowl with the barest of glances.
    Odd. His remark seemed to imply that she would be staying on for some time, as if they had all accepted that fact, taken it for granted really.
    "Mm. It's very good," Mrs. Avery chimed in, noisily slurping a spoonful of soup.
    A quick shift of her peripheral vision and she could see that even the head of the household had already begun the meal. Encouraged, she picked up her spoon but was unable to bring a mouthful to her lips. She could feel Mr. Standeven's presence beside her, like a touch. She was too aware of him sitting there at the head of the table, just a chair away, too aware of the way he held his back so rigid, his shoulders so square. She was even aware of the way he ate in a slow, almost methodical way that she found oddly soothing.
    Christopher watched her from the corner of his eye. Poor girl. She still seemed a bit shell-shocked, so lost and in need. Again, he felt that unfamiliar surge inside him. He wanted to be the one who administered to that need, wanted to be the one to help her. He couldn't quite fathom why. He only knew it was there, powerful, unquestionable, something he couldn't ignore.
    She seemed shy in their presence, uncertain. Clearly, she didn't know what to expect. Not that he blamed her. Anyone would feel uncomfortable in the same situation. Odd, though. He didn't like to think of her being uncomfortable in his presence. Perhaps he could bring her out a bit. Maybe she simply needed to know that she was considered a guest in his house rather than an accident.
    With his customary care, he dabbed at the corners of his mouth with his napkin, then allowed it to drop back into his lap, more a preliminary pause to collect his thoughts, to choose his words carefully, than to eradicate any debris that might be on his chin.
    "We're delighted to see you looking so well. For a time, you had us all in a bit of a stir."
    She seemed to tense at the mere sound of his voice, immediately dropping her gaze to the bowl of soup in front of her, the end of the spoon lying inert somewhere at the bottom. She paled considerably, and he