Angel's Flight

by Juliet Waldron

  Angelica started, for Major George Armistead, white wig, red coat and sword, had made a sudden and very unwelcome appearance at her back.

  “I told you these colonies are quite astonishing, didn’t I, Carter?” The major drawled, leaning confidingly toward her companion. “The truly odd thing is that some of the wealthiest landowners and merchants are the loudest spouters of treason. The gentleman planters of the South echo the glum and dirty spawn of Cromwell, for they hope a war will relieve them of the debts they owe their London factors. ”

  “Even,” he concluded, making a mocking bow towards Angelica, “their fair young daughters parrot these radical ideas.”

  Angelica gathered herself to give the major a piece of her mind, but, before she could, Mr. Carter intervened.

  “Excuse me, Major Armistead, but while you and I may not agree with Miss TenBroeck, does she not have a right to speak her mind, as does every free born subject of England?”

  There was a pause in which the temperature seemed to plummet. “It is clear, sir,” Armistead replied acidly, “that you are well out of the military.”

  “But I’m certain, major,” Jack swiftly rejoined, “that in twenty years of military service, I never did hear that the army exists to suppress an Englishman—or an Englishwoman’s—right of free speech.”

  Jack took a step closer. Suddenly, he seemed much, much larger. His pale eyes shone with a wild, barely contained gleam—and they were fixed upon the major’s stern, pockmarked face.

  Angelica held her breath. She was country-raised, and thus had observed the displays and mock battles of many species. Knowing Major Armistead for a sour-tempered bully, she experienced a rush of delight as she watched Jack Carter’s unspoken challenge force the detestable major to take an inadvertent—but utterly significant—step back.

  ***

  “Such dull clothes on that extremely good looking Mr. Carter! Like a Boston merchant.” Aunt Laetitia had been the first to bring up the mystery man.

  Swaying in the cold darkness inside her aunt’s coach, Angelica replied, “Minerva Bradford says he has retired from the army, but he carries himself like a military man.”

  “Quite. His Excellency received Mr. Carter with great civility. In conversation, he was most charming, but he does not look like the Dorset Carters at all. I knew that family very well, and they are always brown,” her aunt said with decision. “Quite brown eyes, skin and hair. The Carters all have freckles, too. Carter cannot possibly be his name.”

  “But, Aunt Laetitia, it seems most unlikely the governor would have received Mr. Carter without knowing exactly who he was. He told me he was going to some family land by Kingston.”

  “Yes, so he said when we were with Lady Tryon,” her aunt replied. “‘Tis a bad time for a visit north.”

  “Exactly what Minerva said.”

  “Those dirty rebels will execute him on some trumped-up charge. A terrible pity, for he is obviously a gentleman of breeding.”

  “I have an idea Mr. Carter knows how to take care of himself,” Angelica replied.

  Meanwhile, the coach rocked and rattled, carrying them up the wide dirt track of the Broad Way.

  “Why did you refuse to dance the last minuet with Major Armistead?” Aunt Laetitia suddenly asked. “It looks extremely odd for you to be a wallflower.”

  “I had already danced with the major once.”

  “When he is practically your fiancé?”

  “He is not—and he will never be, Aunt Laetitia.”

  “Angelica, my dear,” her aunt snapped. “May I ask how the poor man has earned such scorn?”

  Angelica didn’t answer, just played with the fringes of her shawl. They had been through this argument many times in the last two months.

  “When I think that you turned him down flat! The second son of a baronet and a friend of his Royal Highness, the Crown Prince! I nightly pray,” her aunt said fervently, “that you will see the error of your ways.”

  “He says my Uncle TenBroeck is a traitor, Aunt Laetitia.” “And so—not to mince words—your Uncle TenBroeck is.” “If Uncle William were alive, he’d not think that,” Angelica replied crossly.

  “As your uncle’s trade was mostly with British merchants, he never could have supported the non-importation resolution of those madmen in that so-called congress,” her aunt replied tartly.

  On the surface, she seemed such a dizzy snob, concerned about little but her children and the accouterments of her house. Beneath Laetitia’s facade, as Uncle Jacob often observed, lurked a store of hardheaded business sense.

  “I may as well tell you I have written to your Uncle Jacob, enclosing a letter from the major regarding his offer and your refusal, Angelica.”

  “You have taken that odious man’s side against me?”

  “It was common courtesy to inform your guardian. When this foolish escapade in which your uncle is so recklessly engaging has been put down, it could prove his salvation—you having an influential husband.”

  “Uncle Jacob would never ask me to marry a man like Major Armistead.”

  “Are you so certain?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Angelica couldn’t explain the aversion she felt, but she despised Armistead. She detested his smugness, his pride of place, and the tone he took with his underlings. Angelica loathed everything about him, right down to the wiry black hair that grew on the back of his otherwise elegant hands.

  “Well, what do you want, miss? I’m sure Mr. Cruger don’t suit you neither,” Aunt Laetitia cried, exasperation letting loose the dialect of her Devonshire birthplace.

  “You are quite right.”

  “Didn’t you tell me when you first came to stay that you were fleeing that farmer lout of a cousin? Good heavens, girl! You’ll be twenty-four soon. It’s high time you were married.”

  “My dear friend, Miss Schuyler, isn’t married either, and she is one of the best tempered women alive.”

  “Well, as dark-complexioned as that poor girl is, it’s little wonder. It’s shocking—the Indian look in that family. You wouldn’t remember her uncle, Colonel Cortlandt Schuyler, who went to Ireland. His nickname was The Savage. Thank heaven your family wasn’t given to bringing bastards home from the forest, dear. When Major Armistead raises his glass at the officer’s mess, it is to “the fair Angel of the Hudson.”

  Angelica said no more. Six months ago, there had only been one unwanted suitor, and now here she was with two—caught, it seemed, between the monster and the whirlpool.

  In retrospect, Arent TenBroeck, her first cousin and the other claimant for her hand, didn’t seem so bad. A widower with three children, he was a hard-working, decent man, twelve years her senior.

  It would be a prudent match. Joining the properties Grandfather TenBroeck had divided between his sons (her father Hendrik and her Uncle Jacob) would be good for the family.

  Nevertheless, she’d come to visit Aunt Laetitia in order to avoid Arent’s increasingly warm courtship. Almost as soon as she’d arrived, General Washington lost the city. Along with the conquering British army came Major Armistead. Angelica had gone from the frying pan into the fire.

  Hunted by Armistead, almost from the moment the city had changed hands, Angelica had come to see far more good in her burly cousin. Arent was a plain Dutch farmer, occasionally too blunt in his attempts to win her heart, but if it was to be one man or the other— Arent was the more acceptable candidate.

  How much she had wanted to go home, but it was no longer safe for women to travel so far. The roads were full of soldiers, deserters, and bandits. By letter, Uncle Jacob and her Aunt Livingston agreed it would be prudent for Angelica to wait for things to calm down. Perhaps, Governor Tryon would grant her a safe conduct home to Kingston.

  “Are you still planning to go to Beekmans’, dear?”

  “Yes. Caroline has written to say that they’ll be glad to drive me back to you on Sunday. That is, if the weather settles—and if my cousins will indulge me.”


  “Indulge themselves you mean, my dear,” her aunt replied dryly. “With this early spring, Mr. Roberts has been hard pressed to keep them at their books. They are both simply wild to spend a day on the river. I pray that a single day of sailing will suffice to tranquilize them.”

  “Minerva gave me a marvelous center patch of printed calico for our quilt progressive—bluebirds guarding their nest. The colors and the rendering are so fine, I’m certain we shall all be inspired.”

  “Blue? I certainly have plenty of that. Every shade, I’d guess.” “Yes. You do favor it.”

  “Well, dear, we shall have to look at the remnants right after breakfast.”

  “Lovely! Perhaps I can have the first row pieced before I visit Caroline.”

  ***

  Angelica slowly awakened by swimming upward through swirling dreams of indistinct forms and figures, tantalizingly familiar, yet just out of reach of consciousness.

  Dancing? Yes—I was at a wonderful ball, dancing with—with—yes!—that utterly magnificent Jack Carter . —

  She opened her eyes to gray light filtering through the heavy damask draperies her Aunt Laetitia favored. Thinking it was early, she lingered in the last glowing remnants in the dream, now slowly slipping away in a warm wave.

  She came fully awake when her fingers, crushing the soft cotton batiste of her nightdress, brushed lightly against her rosy, erect nipples outlined in the petit-pointe of her bodice. Startled, she sat up at once, throwing the heavy comforter off. Swinging her legs off the bed, she slipped down and padded to the window.

  Pushing aside the draperies, she saw that the grayness she’d believed pre-daylight was, in fact, full day—dim and threatening rain. Full sails of cumulus tumbled across the sky. Angelica felt as heavy as the clouds looked—and, at the same time, light. She was still tied to tendrils of the dream—the endless mirror world where she had blissfully danced—the potent masculinity of her partner—the remembered glitter of admiration in those sun-on-ice gray eyes.

  Stretching, she wrapped her dressing gown around herself and rang for the maid. The Swiss clock on the mantel chose that moment to strike the hour—nine o’clock!

  And—I’m still abed! Shameless hussy, she thought, to dream away the best light of a rainy day about a man I barely know. To dream about a stranger, when I should be remembering—’Bram!

  At once, her heart contracted with an old, dull ache. She imagined this was how an arrowhead, buried too deep in living flesh for the surgeon’s knife, must feel.

  A knock on the bedroom door brought her back to the present. “Enter,” she called.

  “Miss?” The door opened and the tiny, pinched face of her aunt’s upstairs girl peeked around the massive walnut frame.

  This newest of her aunt’s charges, fresh to service, looked for all the world like a tiny mouse, all pink and white and tremors, bright eyes darting everywhere at once, seemingly searching for whatever large cat might be lurking nearby.

  If I meow, she’ll run for her life, Angelica thought, smiling at the girl.

  “Ah, Maysie! There’s a good girl. Quickly now, help me make myself presentable. I’ve a lot to do and little time in which to accomplish it.” Angelica turned to her wardrobe. “The gray silk, I think. It suits the day.”

  And, my mood, she thought. Cloudy, insubstantial, the unbroken rule of past sorrows was interrupted by a narrow, here-and-gone ray!

  Dressing, the maid’s fingers stumbling at her back stays, Angelica felt suddenly oppressed, pursued by some unknown force which hovered on the horizon, a storm pushing through a darkening sky.

  As she sat to arrange her hair, she examined herself in the dressing room mirror.

  She must stop this before it got started. Brooding on things lost and gone forever, she reminded herself, is no virtue!

  Carrying her sewing reticule, Angelica entered the morning room where her Aunt Laetitia was seated before the double window facing the garden. On a table beside the opposing chair was a silver service, its contents wafting the rich aroma of that glorious and rare breakfast drink—coffee.

  ***

  Laetitia had ordered coffee rather than the usual tea because this was the last breakfast she would be sharing with her treasured niece for some time, and she wanted it to be special. She had personally overseen its brewing, as well as the baking of Cook’s famous raisin and cinnamon scones.

  Hearing her niece enter the room, she turned. “Ah, how lovely you look this morning, dear! Such color in those cheeks! Come sit with me and brighten this dreary day.”

  Laetitia motioned towards the empty chair. “Would you pour, dear? We can attempt to bring the sun of the islands into a dismal day with this heavenly blend Cook procured at Mr. Cruger’s shop.”

  Angelica dropped a kiss upon her aunt’s cheek and squeezed her plump shoulder. “It smells divine! How does Cook always know when Mr. Cruger has something special?”

  “She has yet to fail in thirty years of service.” Laetitia smiled. “And I dread the day she will leave us. We have been together since I was a bride in this house and together have watched our springtime fade. And, sons! Lord! Sons!” her aunt exclaimed.

  “I was a perfect wife, I’m sure, raising five boys, but would just one daughter grown to womanhood have been so much to ask of the Almighty? Which is why we love having you here, my darling!”

  “Auntie! Enough.” Angelica knew better than to allow her aunt to dwell on those adored, lost daughters, all buried before they were ten. It would make a gray day even grayer—for both of them. “You are nowhere near the crone you make yourself out to be, and Cook is...just Cook! Forever here and faithful.”

  Angelica placed her reticule on her lap, opened its drawstrings, and removed the square of blue calico along with stork’s head scissors, silver thimble and a wooden spool of finely spun cotton thread. A packet of needles completed the array.

  “And so, dear aunt, what do you think of Minerva’s Philadelphia calico?” Angelica spread the smallish square, printed with bluebirds hovering around a nest—traditional symbols of love and marriage.

  “It is perfectly lovely. And perfect for the center, as well. Did you have a plan, or...?”

  “No, although perhaps you can help me. When I get to Caroline’s, she and I will start a round robin together, and then I’ll carry what Caroline and I make on to Lucy’s. But I love these dear little bluebirds, and wonder if I should give them up to the round robin!”

  Laetitia placed her white hands atop Angelica’s. “Look at me, dear.” As Angelica’s gaze met hers, she said, “I sense something is not well with you today. What is it, my dear? Can I help?”

  Angelica gazed upon her aunt’s hands, so elegant, which had stilled hers. She knows, she thought. She always knows.

  “Dear auntie,” she said and sighed. “Perhaps it is the war. Perhaps it is the weather. And perhaps I’m just a spoiled brat who does not know her own mind. At any rate,” she said, laughing ruefully, “this will not get the quilt underway. So—how to proceed?”

  Laetitia gazed steadily at her niece’s face, at the periwinkle blue eyes that always held a hint of sadness, of loss. She thinks she suffers, Laetitia thought, but she knows nothing of it—not yet.

  She shrugged slightly to dislodge the sudden feeling of oppression that had settled on her. “All right, dear. As you will. And for your quilt, well—I’ve already been thinking.”

  Laetitia reached for a small willow basket resting at her feet. “I think this will do nicely.” She offered a folded package, wrapped in rough muslin.

  Angelica unwrapped the package and then exclaimed, “Oh! How beautiful!” Her hands fluttered among scraps and squares of blue and white cotton sateen that was somehow familiar to her. “But this blue— this cannot possibly be from the chairs. It is so bright.”

  Smiling, her aunt unfolded several of the pieces. “Which only proves my point, darling.”

  “Pardon me, auntie, but I’m lost.”

  “The ch
airs, Angelica...” Laetitia was enjoying herself completely now. “They are as old as you are, darling. But, unlike you, they have faded with time, and are now the pale blue you know, not the brilliant blue they once were...like these scraps.”

  Her expression sobered slightly. “You must remember, above all else. No matter what a thing becomes, what it was will always be part of it. Everything changes, yet, everything remains the same.”

  ***

  Angelica felt tears prick. She loved this woman, even as shallow and conventional as she could sometimes be, for there was a depth here that defied the exterior.

  Chapter Two

  The day had cleared, and Angelica and her young boy cousins, George and Charles, had gone for that promised sail. They’d only gone around the second point when a long boat, sailed by marines, had flown out from behind a snag. They’d aimed to intercept, and Angelica felt a thrill of foreboding.

  They’d called for a halt in the king’s name, and the boys, having nothing to hide, hove to. A moment later, the marines had hooked the little boat, pulling theirs alongside. Men scrambled over like a pack of rats and, suddenly drawing pistols, seized Angelica. She’d screamed and hit one in the face. The boys attempted to fight, too, but they were laughingly pushed into the river.

  At first, shock and her fear of falling into the deep water—for, of course, she could not swim—were strong. She screamed and clung to the side of the boat, although she knew they were too far out for anyone to hear cries for help. Once she had a close look at those ugly, pocked faces, she resolved it would be best to simply throw herself into the river and die a clean death.

  However, they were all around, and she was brutally forced into the wet bottom of the boat. One used his weight to hold her down while another one expertly bound her, hand and foot. All the time they were binding and gagging her, they’d shouted at her, but their accents were so strong of the London gutter she couldn’t understand half of it.

  The current carried them. Overhead, she could hear someone yelling, “Swim for shore, you little bastards! Swim or I’ll shoot, damn you!”