ANGELINA’S
SECRET
JEWELED DAGGER PUBLISHING COMPANY
www.jeweleddaggerpublishing.com
© Copyright 2014 and 2017 by Diane Merrill Wigginton
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, electronically or otherwise, or by use of a technology or retrieval system now known or to be invented, without the prior written permission of the author and publisher.
Designed by Fine Design
First edition June 28, 2014
Second Edition April 4, 2017
978-1-946146-02-1—Angelina’s Secret eBook
978-1-946146-04-5—Angelina’s Secret Paperback
978-1-946146-00-7—Angelina’s Secret Hardback
To my husband David who believed in me and
reminded me that it was my turn to pursue my dreams.
To my mother who taught me, when I was younger, that I
could do anything I set my mind to.
Prologue
SPRING 1744;
LONDON, ENGLAND
HAD BEEN BORN THREE WEEKS earlier to a loving home with a mother and father who loved and cherished the arrival of another child into their home and hearts. I was blessed to have twin brothers, Charlie and Jonathan, who had come into this world five years earlier and were as close as two brothers born of the same womb could be. They did everything together and were normal, rambunctious, five-year-old boys unaware of matters and circumstances beyond their little world.
Mother was a beautiful woman in her own right, and in a time when women were revered for their beauty and little else, my mother was a phenomenon. She was a smart, intelligent woman prone to show her witty nature. But Mother had a secret, a sixth sense about things that happened or were about to happen, and she was never wrong.
She told me once that certain gifts ran in our family and that I should always trust my instincts. At the time I was too young to understand what she was trying to say to me. It wasn’t until many years later her words to me made sense.
But I seem to be getting ahead of myself in the telling of my story.
Something happened shortly after my birth that changed our family dynamics forever.
Some say that a tragedy changes things for the worse, ripping the very foundation of a family. But I attest to you that tragedy only makes the strong things stronger and can bind a family together forever—eternally linking everyone concerned like stitches of a tapestry tightly woven together for the betterment of all concerned.
And so I tell you my tale of tragedy and adventure that leads to a great love so intricately woven through time that the bonds will never be broken.
1
SPRING 1763;
LONDON, ENGLAND COUNTRYSIDE
HERE I SAT IN MY family’s sunroom, smiling, politely sipping tea with London’s aristocrats—women of the utmost caliber—and all I could think about was, when will the torture end?
The only thing they were able to discuss with a minutia of knowledge was the upcoming season, and who had created scandal during the holidays. And who could forget the season’s sought-after eligible males.
I could have bloody well choked on one of those finger sandwiches, and they wouldn’t have noticed me lying dead on the floor. Honestly, the way they all carry on was as if they all shared one brain.
Let’s be clear. I like fashionable clothes and shoes as much as the next girl. But really, the whole lot of them cared for nothing more than making a good match and bringing more children into this world. One might think that a woman is good for nothing more than sitting around looking pretty, waiting for the man of the manor to come home to tell her how lovely she looks. The thought of such uselessness makes me want to gag on my own tongue.
Why is everyone in such a hurry to marry anyway? I don’t see much cause for excitement. I, for one, don’t intend on being anyone’s property, that’s for sure.
As I looked about the room, I spotted Mary Wheatly, the bane of my existence. We went to school together. I thought her mean-spirited then and even more so now. Her father, George, and mother, Prudence, owned two dress shops in the high-rent districts of London along with a millinery factory and two millinery shops: one for men’s hat needs, the other for fashionably well-paying ladies. They’d made their money by catering to the wealthy.
Mary was pleasant enough to look at, with her stylish blond curls fashioned high upon her head, and powdered. Personally, I prefer natural hair without all the goopy grease to make the powder stick. But then again, most people refuse to bathe, opting instead to douse themselves in perfumes, finding this a satisfactory option to washing. That’s when fans and scented hankies come in handy.
As I was saying, Mary was pleasant enough to look at if it wasn’t for her ghastly smile, and voice. Her voice was like two alley cats fighting it out in the middle of the night. It was so unexpected that it grated on the ears. Bad teeth and grating voice aside, my biggest objection of her was her attitude toward the so-called unwashed masses. Those Mary had deemed unworthy of her compassion and of little consequence to society.
The one person I do love beyond all else in this world is Sarah Burgess, my best friend. We grew up together as neighbors in London. Her father, Lord Burgess, was a member of the House of Lords at Parliament. He made his money the old-fashioned way. He married it.
Sarah was presently seated right next to Mary Wheatly, attempting to look interested in something the old girl was saying.
Sarah’s delicate blue eyes caught mine from across the room as she pleaded with me to save her.
Feigning as if I were going to leave her in her present circumstance, I broke out the fan and began to fan myself until I noticed the daggers reflected in her eyes shooting my way. Deciding Sarah had endured enough torture for one afternoon, I smiled and nodded to her, giving our well-practiced signal that help was on the way.
I took a turn around the pastry table, picking out a lovely dish with the most scrumptious-looking piece of confectionery delight. With barely a misstep, I picked up the plate, fork, and napkin in one fell swoop and continued on my journey. I was on a mission of mercy and would not be diverted.
“Good day to you, Mary, have you tasted the scrumptious lemon cake yet? It is simply the best I have ever tried. Could I borrow Lady Burgess for a moment? I am in dire need of her opinion on something very important. Thank you so much.” Ambushing Mary quickly, and before she had the opportunity to gather her wits about her, I deposited the plate in her hand without even waiting for an answer, while pulling Sarah from the settee with my other hand.
“Of course, a piece of lemon cake would be lovely, thank you, Lady Stewart,” Mary replied, with a rather puzzled look on her face.
“Please excuse us,” I sweetly offered as I turned my back to her.
Sarah and I locked arms as she gave me a squeeze of gratitude, and a knowing sideways glance that required no words. We headed for the terrace doors that had been left open, allowing the spring air to flood in. We didn’t even glance back.
“Fresh, glorious air!” Sarah remarked, throwing her arms skyward and filling her lungs with as much air as one could while wearing a corset.
Sarah was petite, almost childlike in stature with a beautiful heart-shaped face, and long eyelashes framing incredibly blue eyes. She wore her blond hair, that reminded me of corn silk glistening in the sun, without powder. The curls piled high upon her head, tied with satin ribbons to match her elegant, pale blue, satin gown.
Standing next to Sarah always made me feel awkward. Where she was petite and elegant, I was tall and ro
bust and at least a full head taller than her. Sarah’s body was so thin and slender that gowns tended to dwarf her with all those layers of material and large hoops underneath.
In comparison, I was voluptuous and well developed like my mother. I never liked the tradition of wearing corsets all the time. I found them too restrictive, not allowing for an active lifestyle, or even the ability to eat or breathe. No, I did not enjoy wearing corsets at all, but would conform when necessary.
My vibrant auburn locks could be unruly at times, slipping from the confines of their pins and tumbling down at all the wrong times. My mouth and lips were too large, like the permanent pout of a petulant child. My eyes were my one feature I did like—large almond-shaped emerald green, fringed with long dark lashes.
“I was ready to open a vein with a dull knife,” I proclaimed as I walked to the edge of the upper terrace that looked out upon the manicured garden of the estate. “If I have to listen to one more simpering girl carry on about how she simply can’t wait to marry and start a family, I will surely have to throw myself from the nearest tall balcony.”
“And leave me to drudge on with the new season and no one to align myself with when things get ugly? You wouldn’t be so cruel to me, your dearest friend in the world, I know you and you are not that thoughtless,” she stated with derision and mockery in her voice.
“Of course, you are right as always. It would have caused such a scene right there in the middle of tea. Mother would be mortified, and that wouldn’t be good for me,” I said with my hand over my heart very dramatically. “I am positive Lady Ashton is sorry to have missed such a dramatic public display,” I said.
“Whatever will she talk about with the ladies at tea tomorrow?” Sarah asked.
I rolled my eyes, feigning dramatic exasperation as I crumbled in a heap against the railing with my hand over my eyes.
“So how shall we celebrate your impending nineteenth birthday this year?” Sarah questioned, then continued as if I weren’t there. “Shall we have a large soiree or, better yet, a garden party when we open up the houses in London? Oh yes, that is perfect,” Sarah said with such glee and excitement.
“Why do I feel you don’t really need an excuse for a party or a need to celebrate my birthday? Any reason will do, let’s have a party for the sake of having a party. I really don’t want to draw attention to the numbers adding up. Someone might start throwing words around like old maid, then tongues will wag and somehow, it will get back to Father that I need to be married or something crazy like that,” I stated.
“But don’t you want to ever get married?” Sarah asked.
“Honestly, Sarah, how long have we been friends? I don’t wish to be owned like a piece of land, at some man’s beck and call. No, thank you! Life is good right now. I have freedoms that I wouldn’t have if I were someone’s wife. For me to agree to marry, the man needs to be of superior make, and I need to be in love. And seeing how I have never been in love, or even close to swooning over some sad excuse for a man, I answer your query with a resounding no! I don’t wish to wed, ever!” Turning to face her, I continued my rant. “I don’t think that it is in my nature, Sarah. Some young ladies fawn all over the opposite gender, going all dewy eyed and stupid at the sight of a man. I can’t see myself doing anything like that.”
“All right, I will never bring it up again. In fact, I will erase the entire idea of you being happily wed with thirteen children to keep you company in your old age from my mind completely.”
“Well, if that isn’t a ghastly thought. Me, all soft in the middle and in the head over some man and, to add insult to injury, the very thought of me subjecting myself to thirteen children. Have you completely lost your mind? If all men were like my father or brother Jonathan, I might be in love with the male species as a whole. But in my dealings with them, they are arrogant, boorish creatures, completely in love with themselves. There is no way I am going to saddle myself with that.”
“Someday you might change your mind,” Sarah said while lifting her delicate little eyebrows and smiling at me.
“Not in this lifetime!”
“Crazier things have happened,” Sarah said, with an impish gleam in her eye.
“Yes, me being struck by lightning. Now that might actually happen. As for me falling in love, I want to state for the record once again that it will not happen in this lifetime!”
With a shrug of Sarah’s slender shoulders, “Never say never,” she added before heading back to the tea party through the elegant french doors without looking back at me.
Smiling to myself, I decided to stroll through our garden. I was definitely not feeling up to anymore conversation with ignorant young ladies.
I walked down the steps to the garden below and wandered in and out of the perfectly shaped hedges toward the richly-colored roses. Brilliant red and white buds popping out to greet the warm rays of light, raining down on their lovely heads, I wandered past the fountain spouting streams of water in the freshly stocked water lily and koi pond and made my way to my favorite spot in the garden—a beautiful quiet place with a bench and trellis completely covered with fragrant purple wisteria.
In years past, Jonathan and I came out here to run, play and hideout in our secret spot, far from the prying eyes of the grownups. We sat on the bench or lay in the grass and talked and laughed as innocent children do. We could find so much to occupy us for hours.
Some might not understand the close bond between Jonathan and I, but those closest to the family did.
As I sat on my secret bench, my thoughts were drawn back to that fateful night so long ago. Mother recounted the story so often that I could see every scene in my mind’s eye.
Jonathan Edward Allen Stewart II and Charles Albert Harry Stewart were twins. Jonathan came first with a head of raven-black hair like our father. His lungs were so strong; cook said she could hear his first cries of life all the way down the backstairs and into the kitchen.
Charles came into this world ten minutes later with a shock of red hair like Mother’s. But he made his way into the world with less pomp and circumstance. My mother said that he opened his eyes and looked straight into her soul and greeted her with a proper christening of his own when he proceeded to wet on her.
Jonathan and Charlie were inseparable. Their nannies wanted to put them in separate cradles, but all they did was cry and fuss until they were placed together. Either side by side or snuggled like two spoons in a drawer always touching, never apart, two halves of the same coin.
I came into their world five years later in the spring. Mother had had two miscarriages and was grateful when I was born robust and healthy. I was born with a head full of auburn hair. It wasn’t red or black but somewhere in the middle. Mother was so happy to have a daughter after two beautiful sons. I was christened Angelina Marguerite Amelia Stewart. But Mother just called me Angel.
That year, winter had lasted through the spring with the relentless rain and biting winds. Many of the young children and a few of the elderly had come down with a mysterious fever. Our house was not spared, and both Jonathan and Charlie were very ill with it.
Mother, in desperation, sent for a physician and Father, who had left on business, was not due back for a week and a half.
My brothers had been ill for two weeks by then, and Mother was beside herself with fear. Many had died, and her fear of losing another child was unfathomable. Facing such a dire situation with a new baby and no husband at home was nearly too much for her to bear.
Three days after sending for Father, Charlie passed in the night, much the same way he came into the world, without pomp or circumstance. Mother softly wept at his bedside, while Jonathan simply closed his eyes and went to sleep, refusing to open them again, as if he was willing himself to let go and pass to the next world with Charlie.
Mother tried reading to him from his favorite storybooks to no avail. Jonathan refused to open his eyes and take the broth Mother had prepared for him.
Her des
pair became palpable, and she was at her wit’s end.
Finally, by early evening, Mother had come to a decision. Lady Clarissa Emerson Stewart had never given up before, and quitting now was not an option. She sent the nannies and nurses away. Taking me in her loving arms, she carried me down the long hallway to the boy’s room.
As she quietly closed the door behind us, Jonathan’s small emaciated body was bathed in the warm glow of the firelight as he lay in his now-enormous bed.
Mother opened his little arms and snuggled me next to his chest, folding his arm around me ever so gently. Then she climbed into bed on the other side, folding herself around us both. Speaking soft words to Jonathan and saying a prayer, pleading to the heavens above for a small miracle, she lay there waiting.
As if on cue, I began to stir from my slumber and, making small noises that babies will, a miracle happened. Jonathan opened his eyes. His small frail arms tightened around my small form, drawing me nearer as if his very life depended on it.
First, one tear fell and then another from those enormous hollowed eyes. As if a dam had broken loose, his hurt and anger came flooding out from his small anguished soul. And once the floodgates were opened, they didn’t stop for over an hour.
When Jonathan had cried all the tears he could, it left him exhausted. With his last remaining strength, he clung to me as if I were air. Then he fell into a deep dreamless sleep, and Mother took her first deep breath in days, instinctively knowing that Jonathan would live. He had been given a reason to live, and Mother slept for the first time in a week, clinging to us both.
Mother awoke in the early hour just before dawn’s light broke the morning sky to find her husband asleep in a chair, his head rested on the bed, and his hand holding tightly to hers.
Mother said that it was at that moment she knew that she couldn’t love anyone more than she did Father. He begged her forgiveness for not being there and leaving her alone. His anguish over the loss of Charlie was evident in his eyes, only second to the thought of losing her.
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