The Death of Angelique Vitry

By John Stark

William Johnson was one of the central figures in the war between the French Canadians and the British (1756 1761) for the possession of Canada. He was an Irishman of tremendous tenacity and charm, who managed to galvanize the native American Indians into a powerful fighting force, aligning them with the British, and finally defeating the French Canadians in the battle on the Plains of Abraham in Quebec.
Although Johnson is a powerful political figure and wealthy landowner (he offers a five pound bounty for any French scalp the Iroquois turn in), he has some serious character flaws, one of which is a nagging doubt about his sexual prowess. In order to compensate for this neurotic trait, he attempts to seduce every female in sight, regardless of age or ethnic origin, and eventually contacts syphilis. One female he fails to seduce, however, is a young French Canadian redheaded girl named Angelique Vitry, who reminds him of Kathleen, the red-haired Irish lass he left behind in County Cork, Ireland.
Angelique is only eleven years old, but she looks sixteen. She was an orphan whose mother died on a boat bringing Irish immigrants to Canada. Raised by nuns in a Catholic orphanage in Montreal, shes a repressed youngster, totally ignorant of sex. When she is befriended by Johnson, she becomes obsessed with him, and develops a hysterical pregnancy. Johnson is torn between fatherly devotion to the youngster and an attraction that is deeply rooted in the girls close resemblance to Kathleen.
Johnsons housekeeper, Mary, whose father is Chief Hendricks of the Iroquois tribe, has lived with him for many years and given him a son called Light As A Feather. She is jealous of Angelique, and convinces her father that the girl is possessed, and must be destroyed before she spreads a pestilence on all the Iroquois Nation. This puts Johnson in a dilemma: if he clings to Angelique, he risks losing the support of the Iroquois in a decisive upcoming battle with the French; if he lets her go, he wins their support. He lets her gobut the Iroquois fail to keep their end of the bargain, and decide to burn Angelique at stake, convinced that shes a witch. Johnson saves Angeliques life by having one of his soldiers escort her back to her home in Quebec, knowing full well that by so doing he will have to fight the French on his own.
Later, Johnson is wounded in battle. During a retreat, he takes shelter in a cabin that his soldiers have found in the woods. Ironically, it turns out to be the home of Angeliques stepfather and stepmother, who have now betrothed her to a French Sergeant she hates. While Johnson is recuperating from his battle wounds, with Angelique nursing him, he discovers a gold cross in Angeliques possession; the same one that he had given to Kathleen, back in Ireland. Johnson is devastated by the realization that he was sexually attracted to his own daughter, and steals away from her once he is well enough to travel.
An amnesty in the war is declared and a celebration takes place on the grounds of Johnsons estate. He has now become deathly ill with the venereal disease. While he is giving a speech before his troops, Light As A Feather delivers the scalp of his daughter Angelique to him, claiming the reward of five pounds. Johnson angrily draws his sword, and is about to slay his son when he is distracted by a vision he has of Kathleen approaching him through the woods. Light As A Feather sees his chance and drives a knife into his fathers back.
Eric Till will direct this film, and Kevin Spacey has been submitted the script for consideration.
Agent: BK Nelson, Inc. (760) 778 8800
Copyright (2005) John Stark Productions
23663 Park Capri #129, Calabasas, Ca. 91302
Ph./fax [phone]
Email: [e-mail]
www.johnstarkproductions.com

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 22, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483686936

John Stark

Author John Stark is a writer and editor who has been on the mastheads of People magazine, Martha Stewart's Body + Soul, Reader's Digest Walking magazine, and Cook's Illustrated. His work has appeared in the New York Times' "Sunday Arts & Leisure," Newsday, and the San Francisco Chronicle, among other publications. He is copywriter and founder of Three Way Designs, a greeting card company that sells nationally. He lives in Boston.

Book preview

Chapter one

COUNTY CORK, IRELAND—1736

Kathleen Sheridan opened her bedroom door with trepidation. After a sleepless night spent tossing and turning in excitement over her eighteenth birthday celebration, now it was all about to begin. She heard the faint clip-clop of the approaching carriages and ran to the ornate gilt mirror hanging in the second floor hallway, checking anxiously for any telltale signs of fatigue. Reassured by the clear, shining eyes that gazed back at her, she pinched some color into her lightly freckled cheeks, tucked a stray lock of hair under the bonnet that topped the russet curls cascading down her back and, smiling, joined her father and mother who now came to meet her. She linked arms with them and together they descended the wide staircase that dominated the entry hall.

On her left, Arthur Sheridan gazed fondly down at his only daughter, whose eyes were fixed expectantly on the broad front doors now being drawn open to admit the first guests. As the guests entered, Kathleen lowered her eyes modestly and performed a graceful curtsey. Over her bowed head, Arthur and his still-lovely wife Mary exchanged a loving look.

Dusk descended over the lush Irish countryside as the manor filled with activity. In the dining room, guests gathered around the punchbowl, conversing animatedly. The ballroom was filled with people waltzing to lilting melodies played by the small orchestra at one end of the room—women in elaborate multilayered swirling dresses and men in satin waistcoats with buttoned vests and velvet breeches—while unobtrusive servants stood by. Kathleen was the center of attention, graciously acknowledging well-wishers of her parents’ generation, chatting and giggling with friends, dancing with each of the handsome young men who vied for her hand.

Arthur kept an approving but watchful eye over his pretty, vivacious daughter. His attention was caught by a burly man standing by himself in an alcove, and he went over to him and spoke some brief words. In response, the man gave a curt nod and made his way through the throng of revelers. Arthur’s eyes followed the man’s exit; then returned to Kathleen on the dance floor.

Mary saw that some of the ranch hands and servants were peering through the windows at the gaiety inside. She noticed that William Johnson, their handsome black-haired estate manager, was among them and wondered who he might be staring at so fixedly. She followed his gaze to her laughing daughter and became suddenly apprehensive. Quickly she turned back to the window, but he was no longer there. Mary frowned, but just then Arthur joined her, asking her for a dance. He tucked her hand under his arm and led her to the dance floor, and swept up in the waltz, she forgot her concern.

* * *

William Johnson made his way around the side of the manor. Surreptitiously, he began to climb the heavy vine that twined its way up the walls. Concealed in the shadows, the burly man Arthur had spoken to earlier watched his ascent.

Reaching the upper balcony, Johnson swung over the rail. He went in through the partially open door to Kathleen’s bedroom. Once inside, he quietly crossed the room and opened the bedroom door, looking up and down the empty hallway. The droning rise and fall of voices intermingled with clinking glassware and occasional bursts of laughter drifted up to him. Satisfied that he had not been observed, he shut the door and settled in to wait in an overstuffed chair. He pulled a small package from his waistcoat pocket and examined it carefully, looking very pleased with himself.

After awhile, he became restless. He stood up, sighed and stretched. He paced the room; he opened the walnut armoire and his fingers caressed the satin and taffeta gowns. Finally, he went to the bed, moved a white peignoir out of his way and lay down, hands clasped behind his head. His eyes closed and he drifted off.

Downstairs, the party began winding down; guests claimed their coats and said their goodbyes. The Sheridans waved farewell to their guests as they climbed into their carriages and were driven away.

With weary sighs, Arthur, Kathleen, and Mary tromped into the main sitting room, leaving the servants to close and bolt the heavy doors behind them.

Well, I think that went off very well, Mrs. Sheridan.

Indeed it did, my love.

Kathleen sighed happily, adding, Oh, yes, Father. It was splendid. Thank you.

Beaming under the praise, Arthur rose. Shall we take a peppermint cordial before retiring? Good for the digestion, I’m told.

Mary concurred. I should like that, Mr. Sheridan.

Kathleen, rising from the sofa with a yawn, said, Would you excuse me, Father? I danced ’til I dropped. I think I will go up to bed now. May I?

Sheridan looked at her tenderly and stroked her cheek as she bent for a goodnight kiss. Of course, my dear. He turned to a waiting female servant. Brody, take Miss Kathleen up, please.

Yes, Sir. Picking up a heavy candelabra, Brody started climbing the stairs, followed by Kathleen. Impulsively, Kathleen turned back.

Goodnight, Father. Mother. Thank you again for a wonderful evening.

She hurried up the stairs after Brody. As soon as they were out of sight, Mary opened her mouth to speak, but her husband silenced her with a warning finger to his lips.

Brody opened the bedroom door and walked inside, placing the candelabra on a small table. Kathleen followed, her eyes nervously darting around the room.

Shall I help you with your dress, Miss Kathleen?

Kathleen hesitated, then assented. Yes. Yes, do that. Turning around, she gathered her luxurious hair atop her head, giving Brody access to the laces of her bodice. Finally released from the confines of her gown, Kathleen stretched her arms above her head. Brody picked up Kathleen’s hairbrush from the dressing table, but Kathleen put out a hand stop her. That’ll do. Give me my peignoir.

Brody lifted the peignoir from the bed and handed it to Kathleen. Stepping out of her undergarments, Kathleen quickly slipped on the peignoir. Thank you.

Will there be anything else, Miss Kathleen?

No, thank you, Brody. Goodnight.

Goodnight, Miss.

The moment the door closed behind Brody, Kathleen rushed to the window and flung it open. Looking right and left, she whistled the signal. A moment later, she was startled by a loud return whistle right behind her, and spun around to see Johnson on the other side of the bed. Laughing, he approached her.

Happy birthday!

Johnny Boy!

Kathleen flung herself on him, kissing him passionately. After a moment, he extricated himself from her embrace. In a heavy Irish brogue he gently chided, Steady, my little mavoureen, steady. We’ve time enough for that.

I was so nervous. Where were you?

Under the bed!

Kathleen laughed delightedly.

I know, I know. Hardly the most romantic spot, but I wasn’t expecting Brody.

Suddenly he stopped, finger to his lips, listening. He walked to the door and put his ear against it. Will your parents come in to say goodnight?

No, don’t worry. I’ve done that. Father will probably drink too much of his brandy before retiring and Mother will be up and into her bed before you know it. Oh, Johnny, our first whole night together! How clever of you to think of this. All during the party I kept thinking of you up here waiting for me. Giving a mock shiver, she continued, Oooh, I feel so wicked!

They embraced.

What better time than the birthday of my beloved. No more hiding in barns or making love in the fields. And to cap it all… He flourished his small packet at her.

Oh, William, for me? What is it?

Open it and you shall see!

She hurriedly unwrapped the package to find a beautiful gold Irish cross on a golden chain. Clearly moved, she slipped it over her head and fingered it reverently where it rested against her skin.

Oh, it’s so beautiful. Thank you, William. Thank you.

She pulled him to her and, kissing passionately, they eased down onto the bed. Johnson slowly eased her peignoir off and, slipping her camisole down, began kissing her breasts.

Kathleen… my dearest Kathleen.

Their breathing quickened and a moan of pleasure escaped Kathleen’s lips. Suddenly, the door crashed open. There stood Arthur Sheridan, pistol in hand. Next to him was the burly man.

* * *

Hat in hands, Johnson stood morosely before Sheridan, who eyed him menacingly from behind his massive desk. The burly man stood guard near the door. Reaching into his