From the Archive: A Little Angel: I: In From the Cold
This is a bit random, I know, as I had originally planned for another chapter of Silvaria today; but wanting to avoid posting it twice in a row, and with The Sun Kingdom and Sirius scheduled for the 15th and 20th, I’ve instead pulled this from my old archives.
This is the first chapter of an abandoned story I started probably in 2016, began rewriting in 2021, and which is now serving as a slight inspiration for the character of Reid Hope. This is the first chapter; it’s not quite the quality or style I have now, but perhaps you’ll enjoy it regardless.
Setting: vaguely Great Britain, 1880’s.
Michael Martin stood in front of the fireplace in his living room, leaning against the mantelpiece as he stared into the flames; their glow seemed to turn his golden hair to a fiery red as the reflection danced in his bitter indigo eyes. He was a young, wealthy lawyer, one of the wealthiest men in the town of Heáhengel-Force.
Brilliant, accomplished, and generous, Martin was beloved for his success in winning case after case.
Outside of that, he was proud, arrogant, and unpopular.
He tried to hide the fact that he was lonely; his parents had died of tuberculosis, his brothers had been killed in a war, and his baby sister had died in a horse-and-buggy accident when she was only five. On top of that, his pride – although he would not admit it – had caused his fiancée, Lily Radcliffe, to return his ring.
The daughter of the town's magistrate, Lily had a doe-like personality, dark curls, and blue eyes. She had been Martin's friend since their childhood. To understand her rejection of Martin, one must first understand that, in his grief, Martin had nurtured his pride in the belief that it would somehow protect him from the pains of life.
Accordingly, he wound up ignoring the Church; his duties to God were scarcely fulfilled, and his prayer life was almost non-existent. It was this matter of pride and the lack of devotion which had caused the rift between him and Lily. Her gentle encouragement had touched a nerve, and Martin’s retaliation had forced her to give up – and to give up his ring.
Martin responded by shutting himself up in his home for three weeks, and coming out once again to brilliantly win a case for a friend, before returning to his normal way of life – excluding Lily, of course. Day trips, business meetings, and hours in his library comprised his schedule, and no one realized that he was lonely. Even Martin himself did not understand it, yet he would not yield an inch to bring any more pleasure into his life.
Why Lily couldn’t have accepted him for what he was, he couldn’t understand. He would have done anything for her – except the one thing she had asked, the one thing he didn’t want to remember.
As Martin was dwelling on his bitter thoughts, a servant entered the room, and cleared his throat to draw Martin’s attention.
“Go away!” Martin snapped. John would have to pick the worst time to bother him.
“Sir –”
“Leave me alone!”
“But sir, it's important –”
“GO!”
John left with a frown. A minute later, however, he returned and cleared his throat again.
“I told you not to – !” Martin whirled and broke off abruptly. The servant held the hand of a shivering child, a little girl dressed in a ragged frock, her hands raw and red. She seemed so cold and miserable that Martin's heart could not help but soften.
“Well, hello!” He crouched and gently took one of her cold hands. “You poor child! Your hands are like ice; come with me. Don’t just stand there, John, get her something to drink!”
He led the child to the fire, wrapping her in the afghan from the couch. At least his pride didn’t always touch his sense of compassion.
The girl hugged herself and leaned close to the flames.
“You must have been in the snow for some time . . .” Martin theorized.
The child continued to shiver as John returned with a mug of steaming hot chocolate. Martin took it from him without thanks.
“Careful! It's very hot,” he cautioned, holding the cup to the girl’s lips. She drank it eagerly.
Martin looked on, wondering how the child had come to be alone. Some tragedy? Was she an orphan and lost? Perhaps a runaway! As these thoughts ran through the lawyer’s overly excited mind, he began to have a strange sense of déjà vu. His eyes felt drawn to the child, huddled before the fire in the shadowy room. A memory of his sister flashed before him, crouched in the snow, the burning carriage in the background –
“What’s your name?”
Martin shook himself at the question and looked at the girl who was watching him closely.
“Mm, it’s Michael,” he replied. “And yours, little one?”
“Angela.”
“Ah – well, Angela, you need a new dress and something for those raw hands of yours. Blanche!” he called. A young maid entered the room, John’s fiancée.
“Blanche, please take the child to Esmerelda’s room; get her a dress and see to her hands,” he directed her. Blanche nodded and took Angela with her. Martin waited a few minutes, still pacing, and found that he could not keep himself from being drawn to follow.
Down the corridor and up the stairs, he found the little white door cracked open, and heard Blanche’s murmuring voice. He looked in and found the room just as he had remembered it on all those long playdates with little Esmerelda. The cozy bedroom was painted pale yellow; the wooden floor was covered with a thick, soft carpet of white. There were two large windows facing east, through which the winter sun shone. There was twin bed, which had a white coverlet edged with lace and pink ribbons, over which hung an olive-wood crucifix. All the furniture was white; there was a little table with a child-sized chair, a mirror, a wardrobe, and a bookcase filled with fairytales and poetry.
“Oh!” he heard Angela gasp. “This one’s awful pretty.”
“Yes, dear,” Blanche replied. “Do you want to wear that one?”
“Mm, yes.” There was a rustle of silk, and then out bounced the girl from the dressing room.
“Wait, wait!” Blanche laughed. “The lotion on your hands will get everywhere if you’re not careful.” She caught Angela and helped her put on a pair of white gloves. Angela pulled experimentally at the tail of the rocking horse, then looked up and saw the lawyer standing in the doorway. She bounced up to him and gave him her hands.
“See, almost all better,” she told him.
“I hardly think so yet,” Martin said, amused.
“See my dress?” asked Angela, doing a quick pirouette.
“Yes, very nice. It was my sister’s.” Angela stopped and looked at him gravely upon hearing the bitterness in his voice.
“You must have loved her very much,” she observed. Martin started and wondered how she had known that Esmerelda had died.
“Yes. . . you look just like her now. She was about your age when it happened.” He looked down into Angela’s wide hazel eyes and felt his heart melting again.
“Oh, come along! Dinner’s probably ready, and you’ll need to get to bed.” He took her hand. John and Blanche served them a hearty soup, bread, potatoes, and a cranberry pie that made Angela’s eyes grow even wider and bigger than before. Martin found himself laughing at her expression.
“Never mind, we can start with dessert – for once!” Angela was enthusiastic at the idea, but looked confused when Martin began to eat. Leaning over, she gently tugged his sleeve.
“Um. . .” she said, and blessing herself, waited patiently for him to pray. Martin spluttered for a minute and then hastily muttered a prayer, the words of which he had to mumble because they slipped his memory. Nevertheless, it seemed to please his guest, who set to with an energy he hadn’t seen in a young girl before.
“You really are starving!” She nodded. “How long has it been since you ate?” Pausing mid-swallow, Angela considered the question.
“A whole day.” She then stuffed some cheese and candied fruits into a piece of bread, rolled it into a ball, and ate it. At last, after polishing off her food, she sat still and looked contentedly at the empty tray.
“Look, just why were you out in the snow by yourself, Angela?”
She dropped her eyes and studied her hands.
“I was running away.”
Martin straightened in surprise.
“Running away? Your family will worry!”
She shook her curls.
“My family died,” she mumbled. “And the people who took care of me won’t care too much.”
So she, too, knew that feeling of loss - Martin recalled that day nine years ago when he was twelve, when he attended his parents' funeral; they had died shortly after his brothers and sister. How bleak everything had seemed! There was only little Lily to comfort him, which had led to his proposal less than a year ago. Martin hastily gathered his attention again.
“I was only a baby,” Angela was saying. “The nuns at the convent in my village took me in, until a peasant couple adopted me. They only wanted me to work for them, and they took away all of my nice things.” Martin frowned.
“What, exactly, did they do that made you run away?”
“Well. . . they took all the money and things that my family left me, because the farm wasn’t doing well. And I didn’t have much to eat because of that, and there was an awful lot of work, too.”
“Anything else?”
“We-ell . . .” Angela paused and put a finger to her lips while she thought. “They also told me that they would take me to Mass on Sundays, but they never did. And the Farmer would hurt me, too, if I made him angry.”
Martin slammed his hand on the table, spilling his glass of wine.
“I’ll have you taken away from them!”
“Truly?” Angela gasped, her eyes lighting. “Oh, but will somebody nice take care of me, do you think?” Martin nodded.
“As a lawyer, I know what needs to be done. For now, you may stay here until the case is over. . .” his voice trailed off and he watched the flames thoughtfully. She reminded him too much of Esmerelda for him to let her go – but there was the thought of what would be said by those in town and at the church, who would laugh at the change, and worry that he would be a bad influence – but of course he wouldn’t be!
“Angela – Angela, I’ll adopt you.”
Angela let out a squeal of joy and almost threw him out of his seat.
“Whoa!” he laughed, catching her and rubbing his elbow where it had struck the table. “I guess I’ll take that as a yes. Though, I have no idea what I’m doing. Oh well, I’ll figure it out in the morning. Let’s get you to bed.”
Before he could direct her, Angela jumped down and zipped upstairs, dressed, and flung herself onto Esmerelda’s bed. Martin rushed after her, breathless. Angela giggled.
“You’re slow!” she teased. Sitting up, she pulled him over. “Let’s say our prayers now.” She folded her hands and waited. Martin didn’t move, so she went ahead and prayed alone.
“I’ll get you to pray,” she prophesied as she climbed back into bed.
“Hm, that would be a feat,” Martin smiled slightly. “You’d have to be a veritable little angel.”
He turned out the light and softly shut the door behind him.
“Hmmm,” Angela murmured to herself. “Maybe.”
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