Glorious Angel by Johanna Lindsey
“But your brother joined the Confederacy,” Angela reminded him.
“Zachary is a hypocrite,” Bradford replied, his voice suddenly cold. “He joined the Confederacy for God only knows what reason, but it has nothing to do with loyalty.”
“How long have you been back? I mean—”
Bradford chuckled. “You’re determined to know why I’m here, aren’t you?” he said, his tone more congenial. “Well, it’s no big military secret. I came in on one of the blockade runners today, all aboveboard, mind you. At present, I am no longer in the army. I was wounded during the Seven Days’ Battle in Virginia and discharged because of it.”
“But you’re all right now?” she asked anxiously.
“Yes. I took a chest wound and it was assumed I wouldn’t recover. But as you can see, I made fools of those army doctors.”
Angela giggled. “I’m glad to hear it.”
“But,” he added as an afterthought, “I will be joining up again, just as soon as my old commander is replaced. We never saw eye to eye. In fact, he caused me more frustration than the enemy. In the meantime, you could say I’m on furlough. Hell, I’m telling you more than I should. You have a way of drawing me out, Angel.”
She was in love with Bradford Maitland all over again. This was the happiest day of her life.
“I’ve talked enough about myself,” Bradford said now. “What about your family?”
“My family? It’s just me and my pa.”
“Who is?”
“William Sherrington.”
Angela couldn’t see the frown that crossed Bradford’s brow. “Then your mother was Charissa Stewart?”
“That was her name before she married my pa,” Angela answered with surprise. “But how’d you know that?”
“So you are Charissa Stewart’s daughter,” he remarked coldly, ignoring her question.
“Did you know my mother?”
“No, fortunately I never met the—woman,” Bradford returned and then fell silent.
Angela stared at his tall frame silhouetted in the dark beside her. What did he mean, “fortunately”? Had she really heard anger in his tone? No, surely it was her imagination.
Angela closed her eyes, swaying with the bounce of the carriage, and reflected on the first time she ever set eyes on Bradford Maitland. It was three years ago. She was just eleven, and Bradford was twenty then, home from school for the summer. She had gone to the city with her father to sell the corn crop, but she got tired of waiting around the marketplace and decided to go on home. It had rained heavily the night before, and as she ran along the river road, she made a game of dodging mud puddles.
And then he charged by on a swift black stallion, on the way to the city. He looked like some avenging angel, dressed all in white, riding tall on that giant black beast. When he passed her, his horse splashed red mud all over the front of her yellow dress. Bradford pulled up his horse and trotted back to her. He tossed her a gold coin, apologized, and told her to buy a new dress, then galloped away.
From the moment she stared up into his handsome face, she was in love. She told herself many times that it was silly to think she was in love, for she knew nothing about that. Maybe she just worshiped him. But whatever it was, it was easier to call it love.
She still had that gold coin. She had worked a small hole in it and begged her father to buy her a long chain so she could wear it as a necklace. It was around her neck now, as it had been for three years, resting between the two small hills of her breasts. She had continued to wear it even after she decided she hated Bradford Maitland for joining the Union. But she didn’t hate him anymore. She could never hate him again.
They reached her home all too soon. After she watched Bradford drive away, she stood on the porch for a long time, remembering his parting words.
“Take care of yourself, Angel. You’re getting too old to traipse about by yourself.” Flicking the reins, he drove off.
“Is that you, gal?”
Angela frowned when William Sherrington came to the front door.
“It’s me, Pa.”
“Where you been?”
“Out lookin‘ for you!” she snapped angrily, though she was more than relieved to find him home. “And if you’d come home last night, then I wouldn’t have had to.”
“I’m right sorry ‘bout that, Angie,” he replied in a voice that sounded a bit frightened. “It won’t happen again. Was that Billy Anderson who brung you home?”
“Lord, no!” she exclaimed. “It was Bradford Maitland.”
“Well, that was kind of him. And I promise, Angie, I won’t never leave you alone again. If I go to the city, then you’re comin‘ with me. I know I ain’t been a good pa to you lately, but I will be from now on. I promise.”
He was close to tears, and all the anger left her. “Get on with you, Pa. You know I wouldn’t want no other pa but you.” She came over to him and hugged him soundly. “Now get yourself to sleep. We got a field to plow come mornin‘.”
Chapter 6
INSTEAD of going to Golden Oaks, Bradford drove farther up the river road to The Shadows plantation and his fiancée, Crystal Lonsdale.
Crystal was blissfully unaware of his activities during the last year and a half—or so he assumed. After his conversation with Angela Sherrington, he wasn’t sure of his secret any longer.
Well, if Crystal didn’t know, then she soon would, for besides wanting to see his father, his reason for coming home was to make a clean breast of it with Crystal. Better now than after the war. It would give Crystal time to get used to his stand. Then, when he returned to her after the war, there would be nothing to prevent their immediate marriage.
Bradford turned onto the gravel drive leading to The Shadows. It was not a proper hour of night to call, but he had chosen this time in hopes of avoiding Crystal’s father, and Robert too. It was one thing to tell Crystal where his loyalties lay. She was the woman who loved him and would never betray him. But to face the rest of the family might be suicide. He could even find himself shot as a spy, as the Sherrington girl had suggested he might be.
He was not a spy, nor could he ever be. Bradford was too honest for that.
Lights were still burning in the lower half of the house, and as Bradford approached the entrance, he could hear the soft notes of a piano. He frowned slightly, wondering if Crystal were entertaining guests.
Old Rueben, the Lonsdales’ Negro butler, answered Bradford’s knock, stepping back in surprise.
“Is that really you, Mr. Brad? Lord, Miss Crystal will sure be glad to see you!”
“I hope so, Rueben.” Bradford grinned. “Is she in the drawing room?”
“Yessuh. An‘ you can go right on in. I don’t reckon you’ll be wantin’ a chaperon for this reunion.” Rueben grinned. “Nor will she.”
“She’s alone then?”
“She is.”
Bradford crossed the center hall and paused only for a moment before he opened the double doors to the drawing room. Crystal was seated at the piano, dressed in pink and white silk.
She was playing a haunting piece that he didn’t recognize. Everything about the room transported him into the past, including Crystal. She hadn’t changed at all. She was still the most beautiful woman he had ever known.
She was so completely absorbed in her music that she was unaware of his presence. And when she finished, a long sigh escaped her.
“I hope that sigh is for me,” he said softly.
Crystal stood up. It was a few moments before she cried his name and ran into his arms.
Bradford kissed her lingeringly. She returned his kiss, but not for nearly as long as he would have liked. She never would let him hold her for very long. Yet she was remarkably contradictory in that she would have taken him to her bed had he even insinuated as much. He had been the one to hold back.
He was quite the proper gentleman before the war, much to his regret now. Had he taken her before, she would be more pliant now, and more li
“Oh, Brad.” She pushed away from him and looked up reproachfully. “Why didn’t you answer any of my letters? I wrote so many I lost count long ago.”
“I haven’t received any letters.”
“Your father said you probably didn’t, what with the blockade and all, but I was still hopin‘ you had,” she replied. Then her eyes narrowed and her hands went to her slim hips and she said sternly, “So where were you, Bradford Maitland, when I came to England on my tour? I waited and waited for you to show up, but you never did. Two years, Brad—I haven’t seen you for two years!”
“The business takes me all over, Crystal. And there is a war going on,” Bradford reminded her gently.
“You think I don’t know that? Robby went an‘ joined up with all the other youngbloods from around here. He stayed here to guard Fort Morgan, but I still hardly ever see him anymore. An’ your brother joined too. But did you? No, your business is more important to you.” He started to speak, but she went on. “It has been such an embarrassment, not bein‘ able to tell my friends that my fiancé is fightin’ for our cause along with the rest of our brave men.”
Bradford took her shoulders and set her away from him. “Is that so important to you, Crystal, what your friends think?” he asked sharply.
“Well, of course it’s important. I can’t have my husband known as a coward, can I?”
Bradford felt his temper rising. “What about a husband who is a Union sympathizer? Is that worse than a coward in your opinion?”
“A Yankee!” She gasped in horror. “Don’t be silly, Brad. You’re a Southerner, same as I. It’s not funny when you make jokes like that.”
“And if I’m not joking?”
“Stop it, Bradford. You’re frightenin‘ me.”
He grabbed her arm to stop her from backing away from him. He had had it all so well planned, what he was going to say to her, something about a divided nation, something sensible that Lincoln had said, but Bradford couldn’t remember any of it now.
“I’m not a Southerner, Crystal. I never was and I think you know that.”
“No!” she cried, throwing her hands up over her ears. “I’m not goin‘ to listen! I’m not!”
“Yes, you will, damnit!” He took her hands down and then locked his arms around her so she couldn’t move. “Did you really expect me to fight for something I don’t believe in, to fight to uphold something I’m completely against? If my beliefs led me to take sides, Crystal, I would not choose the South. You should respect that.”
Bradford sighed. There was no way he could tell her the complete truth now, that he had already fought with the Union and would again. She might sound the alarm and he would never leave Mobile alive. He wanted desperately to make her understand.
“Crystal, if I didn’t stand by my convictions, then I would be less than a man. Can’t you see that?”
“No!” she retorted hotly, trying to move away from him. “All I see is that I’ve gone and wasted the best years of my life on—a Yankee sympathizer! You let go of me this minute, before I scream!”
He released her instantly and she stumbled back, then glared at him. “Our engagement is over. I would never— ever marry a man with such—such—oh! You may not be fightin‘ with the North, but you’re still a Yankee. And I despise all Yankees!”
“Crystal, you’re upset, but once you have time to think—”
“Get out of here!” she cut him off, her voice rising hysterically. “I hate you, Bradford! I never want to see you again. Never!”
He turned to leave, but stopped at the door. “It’s not over between us, Crystal. You’re still going to be my wife, and I’ll return after the war to prove that.”
He left before she could reply again. Oddly, he was thinking about the Sherrington girl. She had understood. She didn’t condemn him. Yet the woman who had professed to love him did not understand.
But he was not yet through with Crystal Lonsdale. Someday he would return and make her understand.
Chapter 7
ANGELA Sherrington sat in one of the two old wicker chairs on the narrow porch, staring pensively at the bare field in front of her house. In her mind’s eye she could see the field full of corn as it had been only a week ago. Would she ever see it that way again? Would anything ever be the same again?
Bradford Maitland’s gold coin was pressed hard in her palm. It somehow gave her comfort when she most needed it. And Angela needed it now more than ever.
She was still wearing the dark brown cotton dress that she had worn to the funeral that morning. She had wanted to wear black, but she didn’t own a black dress.
This last week was like a bad dream come and gone. They were fortunate to have a fair corn crop this year, and it had taken three trips to the city to sell it all. Angela had gone with her father each time, for he had kept his promise of three years ago and never left her alone. Three long years ago. The time had passed so quickly, tragically for most, but uneventfully for Angela. The boys who used to tease and fight with her didn’t bother her anymore, and Bobo had taken her warning to heart, never coming near her again. Her father even allowed her to go off by herself once more like she used to, instead of staying constantly within his sight. Yes, the years had been uneventful, until this year of 1865.
A year ago the Union had won an important victory in the Battle of Mobile Bay. The fighting had finally reached Alabama. Fort Games surrendered only a few days after the disastrous battle. And on Mobile Point, directly opposite, Fort Morgan surrendered after withstanding an eighteen-day siege. The Yankees finally had their foothold in Alabama.
Six months later, Fort Blakely and Spanish Fort were sieged. And then in April of this year, eight months after the Battle of Mobile Bay, the Union Army, commanded by General E. R. S. Canby, had defeated the Confederate land forces and occupied Mobile.
Miraculously, the Sherringtons’ little farm had been passed by. During that terrifying time, her father boarded up their house and they waited, wondering whether they would be burned out. Would they lose their crop? Or their lives? But the danger passed and Reconstruction began.
To Angela, losing the war held no major personal consequences. She had never owned a slave. She didn’t own land, and so was not facing taxes she couldn’t pay. Nor would the land they sharecropped be sold out from under them, for their landlord was financially stable.
And Angela was not shocked by poverty as many fine southern ladies were, for poverty was all she knew. She and her pa had always gotten by.
It was Frank Colman, an old friend and drinking buddy of her father’s, who found her that day as she waited in the wagon for her pa. She had guessed right away that something terrible was wrong, for Frank wouldn’t look her straight in the face. He told her about the fight her father had gotten into. Some barroom argument with a Yankee over the war, Frank said. A ruckus started—more men joined in—everybody fighting—her father fell—hit his head on a table—died right then.
She had run all the way to the bar and found William Sherrington lying on a sawdust floor, dirty and bloodied from the fight, dead.
As she fell down beside him in utter disbelief, all the times they had fought and argued over his drinking went through her mind, all the harsh words she had thrown at him over the years because of it.
She had burst into tears on the floor and the men around her had moved back, shamefaced, as she poured out her grief and fury.
Her father had been buried this morning. She was alone in the world now, completely alone. What was she going to do? She had asked herself that question so many times already, but she had no answers.
She could always marry Clinton Pratt, she supposed. He had asked her many times this last year and she was sure he would ask her again. Clinton was a nice young man who worked a small farm farther up the river. He came often to visit and talk with her. She enjoyed his company, but she didn’t want to marry him. She didn’t love him.
A new flood of tear
She really wanted to stay right where she was. This was her home. She had old Sarah. She could work the farm by herself, she was sure she could. But of course, that wasn’t up to her, it was up to Jacob Maitland. He might not let her stay on the farm, thinking she couldn’t work it by herself.
But she would probably know today one way or the other, for Jacob Maitland had been at the funeral this morning to pay his respects, and he told her he would be out to see her later. She would have to convince him that she could make a go of it on her own. She would have to!
* * *
Jacob Maitland drew up in the handsomest carriage Angela had ever seen. It was new, with rich green velvet seats and shiny new black paint.
It was said that Jacob Maitland was so rich that the war hadn’t even dented his fortune. He had never needed to depend on his plantation to support him. In fact, his land was hardly worked at all during the war. It made people wonder why he came to the South in the first place, and why he stayed at Golden Oaks during the war, instead of going to Europe, where most of his business interests were.
He had frequently come to their farm when she was a child, always bringing her candy, sometimes a little toy. Angela imagined the reason he came was to look after his interests. Then eight years ago, her father and Jacob had had heated words. Angela thought surely they would be evicted after that, but they weren’t. But Jacob Maitland stopped coming to the farm then. She never discovered what they had argued about. And she missed his visits.
He was a good landlord, there was no denying that. Even when their crop wasn’t a good one, he never complained. And during the war, he insisted on taking a lesser share. It had made Angela feel twice as guilty about taking the food Hannah stole from him.