Angels Legacy

Angels Legacy

Warning: This story contains descriptions of death and abuse

Prologue

"Come closer, Emma, Aggie!" Mamas voice quivered, the rise and fall of her chest her only movements. Leaning down to her ear, she whispered to us, "Look inside the dresser. Those women needed my help. I was their Angel." Taking a shaky breath, Mama lay still.

The attending nurse entered then and motioned my sister and me away.

"What did she mean?" Agatha was just as confused as I. What dresser? Angel?" Shaking my head, we waited outside the sickroom.

"She's sleeping peacefully. You may see her." Kissing our mother goodnight, we promised to see her tomorrow.

"Sorry, dears. Your mother passed away in her sleep. When the coroner's finished, you may say goodbye." The nurse's words were kindly meant, but they didn't soften our grief. Clutching each other, we sank down on mother's sofa. Words weren't necessary as we sobbed.

The following weeks passed in a blur—calling friends, arranging, then attending Mama's funeral. At home, surrounded by friends, we shared memories. "Remember when we turned in each other's homework? Mama was so mad when our teachers told her." Being twins, we could be mischivious to people that way. "Aggie, remember that time we changed our clothes in the cloakroom? When we got home, Mama wanted to know why you were wearing my clothes!" I laughed.

"I always preferred your clothes, Emma. Mama always sewed pretty flowers on your dresses." She'd always called us her Special Angels.

"You kids had fun." Sally, our neighbor smiled sadly, "What will you do with her house?" We supposed we'd sell but weren't sure.

Afterward, we remembered her dying words. Rummaging through the dresser, we found all sorts of rubbish—ribbons, photos of her and Papa on their wedding day, and the box. It contained several diaries carefully wrapped in paper as if to preserve their secrets. We were about to discover how secretive they were.

Opening the first one, with its cracked spine, Agatha and I read the first entry in Mama’s familiar handwriting.

****** January 1, 1880 *******

The wind was roaring today; leaving my snug house, I was instantly clutched in winter's icy fingers. Bundled against the chill, I was doing the marketing, when I had a strange encounter. Passing the baker's, I met a beggar with an unusual request. "Please ma'am, do you want this child?" A voice asked, tugging my sleeve. Turning, I spied a thin slip of a woman with rather long, straggly hair, bare feet, dressed in rags. Carrying a bundle, she looked about eighteen, with the saddest eyes I've ever seen. The bundle was motionless, black eyes peeped out above the tatters the child was wrapped in. They looked about frozen, with fresh snow falling around us.

"What?" I asked, staring at her. Shuffling aside to avoid a passing carriage, she reached a not so crowded doorway, me close behind. As she explained it, she was unmarried, and unable to provide for the child. "Would you know of someone? She's three weeks old. No name yet." She looked desperate, like she wouldn't take no for an answer.

I assured her that yes, I knew of a couple who wanted a child. A lie, but the helpless miserable creature didn't know that. Getting rid of her brat was this woman's only concern. Immensely relieved, she thrust the bundle into my arms, snatched the money I offered her, and melted into the crowd, pushed along by the forceful wind.

Walking through the bustling streets with my unexpected possession, I wondered what my husband Henry, and I should do. I'm a seamstress, Henry's a chemist in town.

Now here we are, with an infant asleep in a drawer lined with rags. What an idea! "You were buying food, not a baby." He joked, glancing at it. We never wanted a child. The woman didn't even give us its (or her) name.

January 6,

Henry and I spoke to our neighbor who knows of a childless couple willing to take our orphan. For a small fee, of course.

February 1,

Have been housebound for weeks! Have another orphan in our care, a boy this time. Winter must be a good birthing season. All those hapless mothers, desperate for a solution to their mistakes.

Finding homes is easier than I realized, what with advertisements in newspapers and word of mouth. Couples are willing to pay anything for a child, never mind the circumstances of its birth. Not long after it's gone, another one quickly takes its place. Who knew you could make a living selling other people's whining brats? Nice to have extra income.

One thing I despise about children is their stench! Diapers aren't easy to sew or keep supplied. Lucky they never fuss, Henry sees to that with his special medicine. Which makes it an uncomplicated job.

March 2,

Warmer weather, at last! Flowers are blooming, sun is shining, what can be better? With so many children, Henry and I are housing them in our smaller outbuilding. Fitted with shelf-like beds, they're cozy enough. It's also my sewing area, so is perfectly explained if inquiries are made. We take it in turns, someone's always on hand to tend to their needs. Some are poorly, so separation from us is best for the present. Must be last winter's chill.

Caring for ten children is exhausting, especially this pair of twin girls! Why that mother came to us, I don't know. She paid twice my usual fee and seemed glad to be rid of them. Pretty tykes, with a dimple on each cheek, and black hair. Placing them won't be easy, Emma and I stared at one another. Us? Are we the placed-out babies? Why weren't we sold?

April 9

One of the boys died last night. I must remind Henry not to overdose their medicine. Oh well, more will come.

I've discovered girls are easier to place than boys, anyway. Except that pair of twins, must be twice the trouble and responsibility. I've taken a fancy to them myself. They're growing so fast, one is rolling over.

Because of our need for secrecy, we're careful our location isn't revealed to anyone. Babies are handed to us on street corners, in their mother's pitiful homes, or anywhere else the mother thinks is suitable. When adoptive parents are selected, we clean the children, and take them to a prearranged spot where they can be viewed. We have no control about who takes them or where they'll end up; I'm just glad when each one is off my hands.

Agatha and I head to our rooms in shocked silence. That explained a lot, I thought. The way Mama and Papa weren't always together, sometimes sneaking out at night when they thought we were asleep. How could we not have known? How many babies were sold at our house? What about our birth mother? Was she aware we weren't sold? Is she alive?

The next day, we comb through Mama's other diaries, hoping to find some record of our or any other birth parents. Instead, we stumble across something truly shocking:

August 20

Stuffy in the sewing building all day. Tending to be screaming infants was about to do my head in. Pouring the last drop of sleeping draught into their milk, I stirred vigorously, waiting for peace. As they drank, I breathed a sigh of relief.

After ironing our Sunday clothes, I checked on my angels. I've decided to separate them from the unwanted ones; they sleep with us now. They were babbling, as they should be. So pretty, with their curly hair and sweet smiles. I'd just removed some freshly baked bread out of the oven, when a cry sounded.

"No. What's going on?" Racing across the yard, I entered the babies' house. Lying on his bunk is the worst boy imaginable—Albert. Red in the face, he was wailing with all his might. No one wants a crippled child, anyway. Grabbing the nearest thing, I pressed firmly down, until his screams were smothered by the pillow. I put him out of his misery.

Night

"How's the brats?" Henry asked at supper.

"Fine." I answered, "Resting peacefully as usual." I was surprised how casual I appeared.

"And Emma and Agatha?" He asked, a twinkle in his eyes.

"Adorable. Nearly crawling."

"Precious!" He murmured fondly.

Numb, we remain on Mama's sofa, horrific diary closed. Tears in our eyes, we can't process Mama's actions. Murder? Why? Aggie spoke the unthinkable aloud, "Could there be more?"

Reporting the truth was risky in many respects. Would anyone believe us? All we had for evidence was diaries written years ago, not exactly credible. Aggie suggested we give the police her diaries, then wait to see how they handle it.

"Ladies, these diaries are intriguing. If what you say is true, then your mother indeed murdered that child. Do you know the exact location of the body?" Detective Smith looked at us from where he sat behind his desk. At least, he was listening. Shaking our heads, we prepared ourselves for a quick dismissal. "Just beneath a tree!" I replied.

"Well, I'll get back to you. We may have to dig up your yard."

So it was that on a cool morning in May, before the sun rose, uniformed men arrived with their tools to begin the horrible process. We explained where we assumed the first child was buried, but it was anyone's guess as to the others.

All through the hot morning into midday they toiled, digging, then meticulously sifting through the piles again, not wanting to miss anything. They had some success. The first child was discovered beneath a tree, the second in a flower bed, among the roses.

It was disheartening to watch their little bodies recovered out of the ground, not even wrapped up against the elements. Only bones remained. What kind of mother would do this to a child? Detective Smith fumed, dusting dirt off his hands. How is it her daughters weren't involved?

Over the weeks that followed, Detective Smith interviewed us repeatedly. "How were you kept in the dark?" He asked. We explained how growing up, Mama had said her sewing building was off-limits; it was used for business. She'd been a seamstress, or so we'd assumed judging by all the beautiful quilts she'd sold.

"We were curious why our parents sneaked out whenever we were sleeping. We'd spied on them one night." I added.

"When we'd asked, Papa said something about wild animals." Which was mostly true. We'd spotted fox and deer in some nearby woods, but nothing too threatening.

 "So, you never saw the babies? Growing up, they just disappeared." Detective Smith scribbled something as Emma shook her head emphatically.

"We never even heard a cry. With them drugged, it makes sense." She lowered her pensive gaze.

We described our idyllic childhood—picnics, school (Mama and Papa attended every spelling bee and end-of-year ceremony.) Ironically, there was church, baptisms, youth group parties. Mama often referred to us as "My sweet angels sent by God. Our little miracles." How unfair and cruel it seems, our parents poking fun at other people's expense.

"Is there a way to track down their parents?" I inquired. "Not exactly. Without initials or names, it might be impossible. Many babies were born to unwed mothers, then placed out. Your parents aren't the first to run a Baby Farm."

Seeing our bewildered faces, Smith grimly clarified the unfamiliar term. There were many such operations around the country. "People assure parents homes will be provided for their children, then they sell, or in your instance, murder them."

"Like property." Emma said, disgusted, "To think, we were part of it."

"If your mother were alive today, she would most certainly go to prison." Smith declared stone-faced. Dismayed, we read newspaper-splashed headlines such as "Murderous parents." and "Children raised by Baby Farmer." Neighbors weren't speaking to us, shopkeepers refused to serve us.

We decided to turn our horrible discovery into something positive. We tried to track down some mothers, including our own. Like Detective Smith predicted, the task proved nearly impossible. "Sorry, can't help without a name." The hospital nurse said briskly. She verified there had been twins born in 1880, not with our names. "Without a name, I can't find baptism or marriage records." The priest informed us sympathetically.

Placing an advertisement of our own in our paper, we waited. It simply asked for anyone who'd given a baby up to our mother to contact us. "Would you? After reading that?" Emma asked, jabbing a finger at yet another headline. Indeed, many letters arrived after those children's bodies were discovered. One read: "Your mother is where she belongs. How couldn't you have known what your parents were doing? They profited off other people's misery! Innocent blood is on your hands."

Upset but unsurprised, we tried ignoring those letters; instead focusing on the positive. Many people praised us for revealing the truth, and for attempting to track down lost families.

"We need to talk." Detective Smith had arrived shortly after breakfast a few days after we'd placed our advertisement. "Have you seen this diary entry?" Opening one, he turned to a marked page:

September 8,

What a riduculous affair! Agatha and Emma's wretch of a mother's just turned up, demanding to have her children back. I put her in her place quickly, sending her packing with some money for her trouble. She believes her children are dead. That ought to shut her up.

"Come here, angels." They crawled to Henry and I, smiling. Picking them up, we fussed over them, playing a clapping game. "That woman won't bother us any more, pets. I promise. You're safe with us."

Hot with anger, we digested this latest revelation. How dare she? How could she stoop so low? Then again, she and Papa did commit murder! Beside me, Emma's face was white, eyes round. A range of emotions flickered across her face—sadness, revulsion, horror.

"Any luck locating your mother?" Detective Smith must be familiar with our search.

"No, no one's come forward." Emma answered.

"Aggie, look. An answer!" Emma's excited voice broke into my thoughts a couple days later. "Read this."

Dear Aggie and Emma,

My name is Doris, I was one of your mother's orphans. I was fortunate to have been placed with loving parents, and received an education. While I appreciate your pain in not knowing your birth mother, it's best to let the past rest. It'll lead to disappointment if you search further. Also, do not contact me again. Your mother (if you can call her that), did more harm than good.

Many such letters followed, with people expressing sympathy, but discouraging us from pursuing the matter. We were now being called "Farmer's Children."

Undaunted, we wrote to as many hospitals as possible, requesting any records of twins born in 1880. Nothing materialized, until an anonymous letter arrived with this message:

Dear Farmer's children,

I read your advertisement and have unpleasant news. Your mother died shortly after giving you away to that woman. She believed suicide was her only option. I don't know the circumstances, only she confided to me she couldn't live in this dark, cruel world any longer. The police discovered her in the river.

Through our tears, Emma and I sat motionless. Suicide? Had Mother kept that from us as well?

"Aggie, we must do something." Emma paused halfway through mopping the floor, "We can't allow our parents' actions to ruin those people's lives? I know an apology won't bring their babies back, but we can at least help."

"How? Something for the families?" She nodded, determined. I'd been pondering our dilemma, too. "Would anybody help us?"

"There's only one way to find out. We can advertise again." She said.

Epilogue

On a bright September afternoon, a group of mourners gathered in the cemetery. Emma and I, together with some of the families of the murdered children, stood at a small memorial. No grave, just a stone bearing the inscription: "Rest In Peace. You were much loved." One by one, gifts were placed at the base of the marker—flowers, or a letter. After a prayer, the gathering broke up, everyone going their separate ways. Emma and I remained, gazing at the memorial, hoping these precious children were at peace at last.

The End