14th of May 1824
Sir Douglas Michaels The Third strode around his party, greeting guests and dipping into conversations of friends and relatives. He puffed out his chest like a cat who got the cream. This was becoming a great success. He could see from across the room his twin daughters Olivia and Elizabeth making conversation with a few boys from the Brotham household. They were doing well.
He'd have them off and married before their sixteenth birthday at this rate.
Connections were important, and who better for his daughters to be wed to than to sons of the Brotham household? They were rich and prosperous - even more so than his house family - and fine men too. They were riders and were very handsome.
Smiling, he looked around for his wife, who (fortunately for her) was not flirting herself but rearranging some of the food at their buffet. He made his way to her, eyeing the rest of his family to see if they were keeping up the standards.
All was well.
Jonathan, the eldest son, was parading around showing off the wife on his arm and son she had carried for eight and a half months. The baby had been born early but luckily survived. For the first heir to not even reach one day of life would be a great tragedy.
Sir Douglas Michaels The Third was content now he had a direct bloodline right through into his grandson, nearing six months. Jonathan was seventeen years old, and his lovely doe-eyed wife was fifteen years old. She had made herself up for night with her wavy red hair piled into an up-do and her green eyes matching the green stone on her necklace. The chain was silver and rested peacefully on her chest, where her flowing golden gown began to show off it's laced lining.
His own wife looked dismal compared to this dazzling young girl.
Angelica Michaels was miserable, and no amount of jewels or posh garments could cheer her up. Her grey eyes had once been blue and glittering were now dull stones set inside her leathery skin. She was nearing thirty one while her husband had already reached his fifty fifth birthday in August.
Angelica was his second wife.
Sir Douglas Michaels had been widowed by his first wife sixteen years ago. She was only four years younger than him, and understood him completely. He had loved her so much there was barely anything left for Angelica. Angelica was just another wife. She had given birth to nothing but girls. Not a single son.
Not a single heir.
Thank goodness Freya, his first and only love, had left him with several sons and just one daughter.
And that daughter was currently married off to a nice Englishman somewhere several miles away, too far for him to see her every day. He saw her as often as he could though, and so far she had three children. Two sons and a single daughter. All were just as talented and gifted with music as their mother, who had inherited from her own mother.
God knows Sir Douglas Michaels could not play a single tune.
Sighing, he turned away from his miserable wife, her greasy black hair beginning to fall in front of her eyes. He looked towards to the stairs, contemplating going up to change his white shirt that a friend had spilt a drop of wine on.
And there stood a small, horribly familiar small child, rocking on her heels while sitting on her haunches, gazing at the party with awe.
YOU ARE READING
The Runt of the Litter
Historical Fiction"The Runt of the Litter" is a historical fiction novel about the mentally retarded in 1800s England. The large manor owned by controlling Sir Douglas Michaels is at breaking point, and all due to the shaming secret their attic holds. The one no one...
