Dark angel of selma, p.1
Dark Angel of Selma, page 1
DARK ANGEL OF SELMA
Seven Sisters Series Book Eleven
By M. L. Bullock
Text copyright © 2024 M.L Bullock
All Rights Reserved
Contents
Prologue—Hetty Millstead
Chapter One–Carrie Jo
Chapter Two–Rachel
Chapter Three–Carrie Jo
Chapter Four–Carrie Jo
Chapter Five–Venita
Chapter Six–Carrie Jo
Chapter Seven–Ashland
Chapter Eight–Rachel
Chapter Nine–Carrie Jo
Chapter Ten–Carrie Jo
Chapter Eleven–Carrie Jo
Chapter Twelve–Rachel
Chapter Thirteen–Carrie Jo
Chapter Fourteen--Ashland
Epilogue–Ashland
M. L. Bullock’s Book List
Prologue—Hetty Millstead
1847
I thought I knew what loneliness was. I thought I’d felt it before, in those quiet evenings back in Savannah, after Trent died. How many times did I study the sky while the sun dipped behind the river and leave me sitting in the stillness of my empty parlor. But that was nothing compared to the silence of this horrible place. No, this was a far cry from that. I had taken a risk, made the gamble—and that had been a mistake.
Here at Ivy House, the quiet wasn't peaceful—it was heavy, suffocating. It pressed down on me, wrapping around me like a shroud. A death shroud wrapped around me and Agatha and all who are unfortunate enough to call this place home.
I rested my hand on my belly, feeling the small kicks beneath my fingers. My son. Or so my husband believed and hoped for. I was sure I would disappoint him. I always did. Yes, he wanted a boy to carry on his name. He’d never give my daughter his last name, nor did I want him to. If I could arrange it, I would send her to a reputable boarding school to keep her away from Charles’s volatile behavior.
The one thing keeping me tethered to this miserable life was my children. If it weren’t for them, I might have already found a way out. But where would I go? Back to Savannah, where everything familiar had faded away?
No. There was no going back, not for me. Not now. I was trapped like a mouse in a trap. I had invested all my money in my new husband’s–I mean our--home. Charles had spent my money like water and there was no stopping him.
The looking glass in front of me, mounted above a mahogany vanity that Charles had insisted was an “antique,” showed a woman I hardly recognized anymore. My reflection stared back at me—pale skin, drawn tight over a face once full of joy. Now, it was tired, worn by the weight of too many regrets.
My once dark and luxurious hair, once carefully pinned with jeweled combs, hung loosely about my shoulders. I had given up trying to tame it into the intricate styles I had once loved, my beauty now just another casualty of this godforsaken house.
My high-waisted gown, made of pale blue silk with a bodice that once fit perfectly, now strained over my swollen belly, the lace collar at my neck no longer giving me comfort but suffocating me as much as this place did. I did indeed look quite pregnant, so much so that I was forbidden, by my husband, to leave the house. Apparently shopping in town while heavily pregnant would make us, the Millsteads, appear vulgar to our high society friends.
I looked away from the mirror, unable to bear the sight any longer.
When Charles Millstead swept me off my feet, I thought my prayers had been answered.
Handsome, charming... he was everything a woman like me could hope for. A second chance at love, at happiness. But I was a fool to believe in such things. Now I saw him for what he truly was—a man who hid his cruelty behind a charismatic smile, a man who saw me as nothing more than a means to an end.
What a fool I’ve been!
I had money, and he needed it. That’s all it was. Yes, I had been the catch of the season with my sad windfall.
How I missed Trent! Who would have imagined that he’d die so suddenly and leave us all alone?
The windows were open, letting in the warm Alabama air, but even the fresh breeze couldn’t clear the stifling feeling in the room. The drapes, made of heavy damask fabric, hung lifelessly beside the open panes. I glanced through the window, my eyes following the curve of the dirt path that led away from the mansion, snaking through the fields where the enslaved people worked under the relentless heat.
I hated seeing them out there, knowing how Charles treated them. I had heard the stories, of course—whispers among the house staff, rumors of his brutality—I saw it for myself. The way he spoke to those pitiful souls, the way he looked at them with that cold indifference in his eyes, like they were nothing. Less than nothing. I knew that look all too well.
One year of marriage and I felt as if I were living in hell.
I hadn’t wanted to believe it at first. I’d told myself he was a good man, a strong provider for me and my daughter, Agatha. My first husband’s wealth would not carry me through my entire life. I had to be mindful for my daughter’s sake. But the truth of the matter crept in, slow and relentless, like the summer sun.
Charles wasn’t the man I thought he was but he had done a marvelous job of pretending during our whirlwind courtship.
Today, I did not think him a man at all—he was a monster. He no longer bothered hiding it anymore. I was glad for these three day jaunts he went on. I hated life here at Ivy House but at least having him away gave me time to think.
And think I did…about escaping!
A soft knock at the door broke my thoughts. Agatha, my sweet girl, peeked her head inside, her pale face framed by the golden ringlets she’d inherited from her father—my first husband, the one I still mourned.
“Mother, can I come in?”
“Of course, darling,” I said, forcing a smile as I beckoned her over. She stepped into the room carefully, her shoes barely making a sound against the wooden floor. She was wearing one of her new dresses, one that Charles had insisted we order from a seamstress in town. The pale green muslin gown was simple, with puffed sleeves and a plunging bodice that complimented her delicate neck.
My daughter had begun budding out. Seeing her bosom fill out shocked me. I hadn’t prepared myself for that. She was only fourteen years old, too young to develop a woman’s body. Too young to wear such a revealing outfit. It was not scandalous, mind, but as her mother, I would not have selected such for her.
A ribbon of matching green tied Agatha’s curls back, and she looked every bit the proper young lady, though I could see the weariness in her eyes—the same weariness that weighed on me.
“Is Mr. Millstead coming home today?” she asked, her voice sad and distant. “He promised to take me to the opera. Have you ever been to the opera, Mother?”
I hesitated, unsure of how to answer her. Charles had been gone for days now, off on one of his “business trips,” though I had no doubt he was finding comfort in the arms of some woman in town. He’d been distant since we arrived here, colder with each passing day.
I didn’t want to tell Agatha about my unhappiness, about what her stepfather really was–an opportunist of the worst kind. How would this child understand any of it? Except the sudden and unexpected death of her father, she had not been exposed to the cruel realities of the world we lived in.
“Yes. I have seen many operas and ballets but Agatha, I would prefer you stay with me, dear. The baby will arrive soon and I shall need your help” I said softly, brushing a curl behind her ear. “It is important for you to understand how babies come into this world. It is time to grow up, Agatha.”
Agatha’s lips pressed into a pout, and I felt a pang of guilt for keeping the truth from her. What was I supposed to say to her? That we were both trapped in this house. We were nothing more than pawns in Charles Millstead’s grand plans? Her young heart was already burdened with too much for her age. The last thing she needed was the weight of my own bitterness.
“Fine, Mother. I do miss Savannah,” she whispered, her eyes downcast, her fingers fiddling with the ribbon at the sleeve of her dress. “I do not have any friends here. I do miss riding in the coach on Sundays. Why don’t they have promenades here? Perhaps we could take the carriage out?”
“I don’t know, honey,” I said softly, though my throat tightened as the words escaped. “Mother needs her rest.”
I forced a smile for her sake, but the ache in my chest wouldn’t go away. I also missed Savannah. My parents had died when I was a young woman but they’d left me quite wealthy in my own right.
Once upon a time, I had the world at my fingertips but then tragedy struck.
I missed the cool breeze coming off the river near our old house, how it would drift lazily through the open windows of our house, carrying with it the scent of salt and jasmine, mixing with the heady perfume of magnolias that bloomed near our doorstep.
Poor thing. She changed the subject and chatted about a book she’d been reading. I smiled and pretended to be interested because I did not know what else to do.
The air in Savannah was light, always moving. Here in Selma, it was thick, oppressive. Even in the early morning, before the sun reached its cruel height, the humidity clung to my skin, making it hard to breathe. This was the kind of heat that settled in your bones and never let you warm up. Not like the gracious breezes along the coastline that swept away my troubles for just a moment.
I glanced out the window, but there was no solace to be found in this landscape.
The forest had been c leared and there were men working on unearthing stumps and roots. The sprawling fields behind Ivy House seemed to stretch endlessly beneath the hazy, brutal sun, broken only by the swaying Spanish moss that hung from the gnarled oak trees, casting eerie shadows across the earth.
Yes, the land had a wild beauty in its own way, but it felt foreign to me.
I am a stranger in a strange land. The words of that particular bible verse came back to me suddenly. Trent loved quoting scripture and spent many hours studying. He’d been such a kind, gentle man. A man of faith and although he was not as handsome as Charles, I had loved him deeply.
Everything here was built on labor and suffering—on the backs of people that Charles Millstead treated as property, no better than the cattle in the barn. I couldn’t help but wonder if the land itself remembered their pain, if it was haunted by the souls who had suffered here, day in and day out.
Agatha’s gaze followed mine. I had never asked her if she liked it here. Did it matter? Would it help? I know she missed her few friends but as I told her, she could write to them as often as she liked.
“I wish we could go back, Mother,” she said quietly, her voice so soft it barely reached me. “Back to the house with the garden. I miss Father.”
I squeezed her hand, my heart breaking a little more with each passing moment. “So do I, sweet child,” I murmured. I missed our family, our life together.
I missed our garden too, with its high stone walls and the fragrant flowers that spilled over it like a living thing.
I missed the sound of the fountain trickling in the courtyard, where Agatha used to play with her dolls under the shade of the orange trees. I
missed the way the world felt smaller there, kinder.
But that life was gone, replaced by this emptiness. How would I ever be able to pave a way of escape for us?
This house felt like a tomb.
Ivy House, despite its grandeur, was nothing more than a monument to Charles’s greed, a sad reminder of how thoroughly he had deceived me.
The manor was always cold, its walls were devoid of warmth, despite the ornate moldings, high ceilings and finely crafted wooden furniture. The rooms echoed with silence, as if the very air itself was waiting for something terrible to happen.
I was left to wonder what my life might have been if I’d never crossed paths with Charles Millstead.
A sharp kick beneath my ribs pulled me from my thoughts, and I winced, pressing my hand against the tight fabric of my gown.
“Be still, little one,” I whispered, though whether I was speaking to my unborn son or to myself, I couldn’t be sure. The baby would come soon, and when he did, I would be tied to Charles forever. There would be no leaving after that, no escape. “Do you want to feel the baby move, Agatha?”
“Really, Mother?” My daughter’s face was a strange mixture of delight and repulsion. She cautiously put her hand out and I reached for it and carefully guided it to my stomach. Yes, the baby was rolling like a leaf on the wind.
“Mother! That is so…so…strange! Did I do that too?”
“Yes, you did, Agatha Marie. You were a very active baby, even before you were delivered into this world.” As I spoke, my mind and heart warned me that I already waited too long to escape. I was already tethered to this place by my marriage and money, but once the child was born, any lingering hope of freedom would vanish entirely. It was too late for me but Agatha…she could still escape. I would need help to achieve this though.
Ivy House was more than just my home; it was my prison.
My money would build my husband’s empire. My name would elevate his station, and my children would carry on his legacy. But I could see it clearly now—he had never wanted me. He had wanted my money, wanted control, and I had walked into his trap willingly, sadly and stupidly.
I looked at Agatha, her sweet face turned toward the window, and my heart ached for her.
What should I tell her? I needed someone’s help but who would be willing to help me?
Agatha deserved so much more than this. I had brought her into this world with hope in my heart, believing I could give her a life of comfort and joy. But now I had dragged her into a nightmare, and there was no way out. Not for me at least. Hopefully for her, I could make that happen.
I closed my eyes, wishing for the thousandth time that I could leave. There was no wishing this situation away.
I was trapped by my own wrong choices, by the life I had built for myself and for my children. All I could do now was endure.
Endure for Agatha. Endure for my son—or daughter.
But in my heart, I knew the truth.
I should have never come to Selma.
Chapter One–Carrie Jo
Selma’s Archaeology Park didn’t feel right. From the moment Ashland and I stepped out of the car, I felt a strangely thick, yet invisible oppression. Yuck. I wanted to barf. The air felt like it was carrying the weight of something dark and long forgotten. I paused, taking in the sight of the half-rebuilt mansion in the distance.
We’d been here before, but just as tourists on a close-to-Halloween night. The park always opened the place up for ghost hunts that time of year and Ashland thought it would be cool to take our niece and adopted daughter, Lily, to the investigation.
Of course she loved it but as I warned him, he’d created a monster. My niece was obsessed with those paranormal investigation shows. Now Lily was thinking about putting together her own teenage team.
Ashland stood beside me, his hand resting on the roof of the car as he surveyed the grounds. “You sense that too, don’t you?” His voice was low, measured. It always was when he was on alert, the calm before the storm.
I didn’t answer right away. It wasn’t only the half-rebuilt mansion that made me feel uneasy. The slave house, partially-hidden in the shadows at the edge of the property, drew my attention. Oof. Such darkness there. The renovations had begun in there too, and I could sense that whatever was waiting for us, it was rooted in both places.
The mansion and the slave quarters—it was connected somehow. Well duh. That would make sense.
“Yeah,” I said finally, forcing myself to move. “I do feel it. Where to first?”
We walked in silence together, our footsteps crunching over the gravel path. The closer we got to the main house, the more oppressive the energy became. It wasn’t just our imagination, and it wasn’t just the old stories people told about the place. There was something here, waiting for us to dig too deep, to stir up things better left alone.
Ashland stopped in front of the mansion, his hand brushing mine, a small gesture of reassurance. “I don’t like the energy here,” he said quietly, eyes narrowed as he scanned the area. “Feels… off.”
“Agreed. Everything about this place feels off. I didn’t pick up on that during our last visit here.” I glanced over my shoulder at the slave house again. “Where are we supposed to meet Jack? Did we miss him at the Visitor’s Center?” I kissed his cheek but he was intent on tuning into the spirits here.
“I don’t think he said,” Ashland’s attention was drawn to the partially reconstructed mansion. “Yikes. The spiritual activity is off the charts. I wouldn’t be surprised if we encountered many spirits here.”
I didn’t disagree. “Yeah. It’s a different vibe here,” I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper. “We’re being watched. Hey, who’s this?”
As if on cue, a man appeared from around the side of the house—tall, broad-shouldered, with a weary look in his eyes. He wiped his hands on his jeans as he approached us. “You must be Carrie Jo and Ashland Stuart,” he said, his voice carrying just a hint of relief. “I’m the project architect. Glad you could make it.”
“That’s right,” Ashland said, his tone even but wary. He glanced at me, a silent question in his eyes. I nodded. “You must be Jack Ingalls. I am a fan of your work. This place will be beautiful when you finish it. Is that oak?” Ashland pointed at a stack of lumber nearby.
“Yes. Good eye. I think you’ll find we have a unique situation here. This park, it’s a special place but with the remodel and the reconstruction of the main house...well, I don’t want to consider myself a believer in spooks and ghosts but something is happening here that prevents me from completing this project. It feels…dangerous. I can’t keep construction workers. I need to be able to tell these guys that this has been taken care of.”
