Beyond the Veil of Tears

by Rita Bradshaw

  Nevertheless, in spite of her desolation, as the carriage swept through the heavy wrought-iron gates and drove up the long drive to where the house sat nestled between two giant oak trees, she felt a moment’s comfort. Her parents had loved Oakfield House, and so did she. She had been born in one of the eight bedrooms and had never known another home. As the family business started by her grandfather had continued to go from strength to strength, her father could have moved to a much grander house, or so her mother had confided, but both their hearts had been firmly at Oakfield. The main building consisted of fourteen rooms over two floors, with a corridor from the kitchen leading to the purpose-built annexe housing the indoor servants. McArthur and his lads lived with his wife and the rest of the family somewhere in Bishopwearmouth. Angeline didn’t know exactly where, but every morning the gardener and his lads were working before she came downstairs, and in the summer they often didn’t leave until twilight.

  It was a happy household. Or it had been, Angeline amended in her mind as the carriage stopped at the foot of the steps leading to the intricately carved front doors. Now nothing could be the same again.

  Somehow she got through the endless reception. Her new black dress with its stiff little raised collar and long buttoned sleeves seemed stifling, and the corset that Myrtle had laced her into that morning was too tight. She had rebelled against going into corsets when she had turned fourteen, but her mother had told her that she was a young lady now and, along with privileges such as joining her parents when they had guests for dinner, there were sacrifices. Her childhood was behind her, and young ladies always had tiny waists. Her mama had brooked no argument on the matter, and that had been that.

  Outside the house the overcast January day was bitterly cold with a keen north-east wind; inside, the huge fires burning in the basket grates of the dining room and drawing room where the hundred or so guests were assembled made the heat suffocating, at least in Angeline’s opinion. All she wanted was some fresh air, or to get into a room that wasn’t full of people. Nevertheless, she did her duty. She chatted here and there, accepted the words of condolence from this person and that, and behaved with the decorum her mother would have expected.

  Finally, as the magnificent grandfather clock in the hall chimed four o’clock, the last of the company made their goodbyes and stepped into the snowy night. All, that is, but Mr Appleby, her father’s solicitor. Before this day Angeline had only known him as a friend and dinner guest of her parents, and on those occasions she had loved to sit and listen when her father and Mr Appleby had engaged in sometimes heated debates about social inequality and the like. These had usually finished with Mr Appleby calling her father a Socialist at heart – something her father hadn’t minded in the least.

  Angeline had always thought Mr Appleby’s name suited him very well. Small and fat, with rosy red cheeks and twinkling brown eyes, she imagined that if an apple could take human form it would be exactly like the solicitor. Now, though, his eyes were full of sympathy when he said, ‘Your uncle wishes me to acquaint you with the details of the will, Angeline’, and he glanced at Hector, who was standing to the side of her.

  ‘Now?’ She asked the question of her uncle. He nodded.

  ‘It is customary on the day of interment,’ he said briefly.

  Angeline didn’t care if it was customary or not. She didn’t want to think about the will – not today. All she wanted was to curl up by herself in front of the fire in her bedroom and cry. ‘Can’t it wait, Uncle Hector? I’d like to rest before dinner.’

  If her uncle noticed the break in her voice, he ignored it. ‘You have to understand the situation in which you find yourself, Angeline, and hear your father’s instructions. It will pave the way for the arrangements that need to be made.’

  She stared at him. Something told her that she wouldn’t like these arrangements. ‘Do you know what the will says?’

  ‘Partly. Your father made me your guardian, in the event of something happening to him and your mother. This was a long time ago, just after you were born. Now, please, come along to the study, where Mr Appleby has the papers ready.’

  It was a moment before she followed her uncle, Mr Appleby making up the rear. Angeline’s head was whirling. It was stupid, but she hadn’t thought about anyone being her guardian. She’d imagined that, once the funeral was over and her uncle and Miss Robson returned to their own homes, things would get back to normal.

  Well, not normal, she corrected herself in the next moment. Things would never be normal again. How could they be? But if she had thought about the future at all – which she had to admit she hadn’t really, not with her mother and father filling every waking second – she’d assumed that Miss Robson would resume coming to the house in the mornings, and Mrs Lee and the other servants would run Oakfield as they always had done.

  The familiar smell of wood smoke from the fire and the lingering aroma of the cigars her father had favoured made her bite her lip as she entered the book-lined study. It was perhaps her favourite room of the house. From a little girl, she had stretched out on the thick rug in front of the fire and played quietly with her dollies, or had drawn or read books while her father worked at his desk, and as she’d grown she’d brought her needlework or crocheting and had sat in one of the armchairs at an angle to the fireplace. Her father was away so much in the town dealing with the business, and when he was home she liked to be with him, if she could. She had known that he liked having her there, albeit as a silent presence. Why had she never realized just how wonderful life was, before the accident? She’d taken it for granted, and now she couldn’t tell them they’d been the best parents in the world and she loved them so much.

  George Appleby walked over to her father’s desk and sat down, as she and her uncle seated themselves in the two chairs that had been drawn close to it. He said nothing for a moment, his gaze on Angeline’s face. He felt he knew what she was thinking, for her tear-filled eyes spoke for her, and his shock and sorrow at his dear friend’s untimely death were compounded by his anxiety and concern for this young girl. Philip and Margery had been devoted to her of course, but in that devotion had come a desire to keep Angeline wrapped in cotton wool.

  It was understandable – oh, indeed. He mentally nodded at the thought. They had been over the moon when they’d discovered Margery was expecting a baby, and when Angeline had been born, and her such a bonny and happy child, you’d have thought she was the most gifted and perfect being in all creation. And any parent wants to protect their child, if they’re worth their salt. But George and Margery’s decision to keep the girl in what amounted to a state of seclusion didn’t bode well now – or for the future. She was the most innocent of lambs.

  Hector Stewart cleared his throat, and George’s gaze turned to him. As much as he had liked and respected Philip, he disliked his brother. The man was weak and ineffectual and uppish into the bargain, but he had always held his tongue about Hector, because Philip wouldn’t hear a word against him. Which was commendable, he supposed, but sometimes not seeing the flaws in someone you loved could have far-reaching consequences. There were constant rumours at the Gentlemen’s Club about Hector’s drinking and gambling, and if even half of them were true, the man was on the road to perdition. Eustace Preston had told him only last week that it was common knowledge Hector took himself off to Newcastle these days to certain gambling dens where fortunes were regularly won and lost. Mostly lost, he’d be bound. And this was the individual to whom Philip and Margery had entrusted their beloved daughter.

  Hector cleared his throat again even more pointedly, and George put his thoughts behind him and picked up the document in front of him on the desk. Addressing himself to Angeline, he said gently, ‘This is the last will and testament of your parents, child. Do you understand what that means?’ When she nodded, he continued, ‘I will read it word for word in a moment, but essentially your parents left everything to you, which makes it simple. They appointed your uncle as your guardia
n, should they die before you reached the age of twenty-one and were unmarried. You will reside with him and have a personal monthly allowance, and your uncle will also have a sum of money each month for as long as you are in his care.’

  Angeline stared at the solicitor. ‘Leave Oakfield? No, they would never have said that.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ George had been dreading this meeting, and it was being every bit as bad as he’d feared. The girl looked even more bereft than before, if that were possible.

  ‘But why? Why would they want me to leave our home?’

  ‘Angeline, you are fifteen years old.’ Hector spoke firmly, but not unkindly. ‘You cannot run a home on your own – the very idea is ridiculous. There are bills to pay, daily decisions to make, servants to keep in order, and umpteen other things.’

  ‘The house runs itself under Mrs Lee, my mama always said so, and the servants don’t need keeping in order. They . . . they’re like family.’

  Hector looked askance.

  Realizing she’d said the wrong thing, Angeline swallowed hard. ‘Miss Robson could take up permanent residence,’ she said desperately. ‘That way I’m not alone here, am I? She would keep everything and everyone as it should be, and she could report directly to you. And I could still live here.’ Turning to the solicitor, she added, ‘There’s enough money for that, isn’t there, Mr Appleby?’

  Without giving the solicitor a chance to respond, and with a thread of impatience in his voice, Hector said, ‘It’s not a question of money, Angeline. Your father stated his wishes very clearly, and what you are suggesting is quite ludicrous. You will come to live with me within the week. That is the end of the matter. My final word. You may bring anything you wish, of course, and Miss Robson has agreed to continue to give you your lessons each morning. This house will be sold forthwith, and the proceeds added to the trust.’

  ‘But Mrs Lee and Cook, and everyone?’

  ‘The servants will be given excellent references and three months’ wages in lieu of notice. The senior staff – the housekeeper, cook and butler – will receive six months’ wages. This is very generous, believe me.’ Her uncle’s tone made it clear that if this stipulation hadn’t been in the will, his treatment of the servants would have been very different. ‘Now, Mr Appleby has pointed out that you will need a personal maid, m’dear. Which is not necessary at present, in my bachelor abode.’

  Hector smiled his thin smile, but Angeline was too distraught by the turn of events to respond. Oakfield sold? And the staff dismissed? Just like that? This was their home, too – couldn’t he see that?

  ‘Mr Appleby suggested you might wish to bring your current housemaid with you in that capacity.’ Hector’s sniff of disapproval indicated that he couldn’t for the life of him see why. A servant was a servant, after all. Now, if it had been a pet dog or cat . . . ‘But I thought a maid already trained in that respect would be more suitable.’

  Feeling as though she was drowning, Angeline caught at the lifeline that the kindly solicitor had provided. ‘Myrtle attended to Mama when she had need of it,’ she said quickly, ‘and I would prefer her to a stranger.’

  ‘So be it. Now, Mr Appleby, perhaps you would be so good as to read the will?’

  When the solicitor eventually finished speaking, only two things had really registered through Angeline’s turmoil. First, that she wouldn’t come into her inheritance until she was twenty-one or married – whichever came first. Second, that she was a very rich young woman. This Mr Appleby had impressed upon her, adding that it was why her father had wanted to see to it that she was under her uncle’s protection until she was mature enough to cope with such a responsibility.

  ‘Your father has tied the trust up in such a way that no monies – other than your allowance and the stipend paid to your uncle for as long as you reside with him – can be extracted. By you or anyone else.’ George Appleby’s gaze flicked to Hector for a moment. He wasn’t fooled by his blank countenance. Philip’s brother had expected a bequest of some kind, although George couldn’t see why. Philip had been amazingly generous to Hector when their father had died, setting him up in his own business and buying him a fine house and all. A different man would have been set up for life, but he rather suspected Hector was in trouble, despite his outward facade. Still, he’d make sure Hector didn’t get his hands on one penny more than the amount Philip had settled on him each month for Angeline’s keep.

  Hector stared back at the solicitor. He was aware of George’s dislike of him – a feeling he fully reciprocated – and had always resented the high regard in which Philip had held the little man, and the influence the solicitor had had upon his brother. Take this will, for instance. Hector’s teeth clenched. He had no doubt Philip had left the mechanics of it to George Appleby, and the solicitor had been instrumental in determining that, even as Angeline’s guardian, he couldn’t use the trust money. Cocksure little runt.

  George’s eyes returned to Angeline’s white face. ‘Your father’s main concern was to protect you, should the unthinkable happen. You do understand that, don’t you?’

  Yes, she did, of course she did, but losing Oakfield was almost as bad as the loss of her parents. Her voice unsteady, she whispered, ‘Is there no way I can keep the house?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Angeline.’

  They looked at each other, and although she felt very small and lost, Angeline held herself straight, her chin lifting. Strangely her mind wasn’t in a whirl any longer. Her mama had always said one had to have the grace to accept what couldn’t be changed, and the sense to recognize what could. This was the former. Whatever her private feelings on the matter, it was kind of Uncle Hector to take her into his home and offer her protection. Her gaze now going to her uncle, she said quietly, ‘I’ll try and not be a bother, Uncle.’

  ‘Of course you won’t be. We’ll get along just fine, m’dear.’ It was too hearty, and Hector moderated his tone as he added, ‘Your rooms are being prepared and will be ready shortly, so spend the next day or two deciding what you want to bring with you.’

  Everything. She wanted to bring everything, because every single stick of furniture, every ornament, every picture, was part of her mother and father. But of course that was impossible. Inclining her head, she said flatly, ‘Yes, Uncle.’

  It was settled.

  Chapter Two

  It took every ounce of Hector’s self-control to remain civil in the time before George Appleby took his leave. Angeline had long since retired to her room when the two men walked out of the study into the hall, after discussing the finite details of the will. George had insisted in dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s with Angeline’s guardian, determined that Hector would have no excuse in the future to try and wheedle money out of the estate by saying he hadn’t understood how things stood. Hector was fully aware of the solicitor’s motives. He would have liked to punch him on the nose and boot him out of the house. As this was impossible, he had played the devoted uncle and urbane host, albeit with gritted teeth.

  Fairley appeared to help George on with his greatcoat and hand him his hat. He told him that one of McArthur’s lads was bringing the solicitor’s pony and trap from the stables. George thanked him, before pausing and saying, ‘Bad business this, Fairley.’

  ‘Indeed, sir.’

  ‘Terrible shock for Miss Angeline, for us all.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Knocked everyone below stairs for six.’

  ‘I can imagine. Well, goodnight, Fairley.’

  ‘Goodnight, sir.’

  As George stepped out into the snowy night and walked over to where Seth McArthur was holding the pony’s reins, he was thinking, ‘Poor devils! They might think they’ve been knocked for six now, but once Hector breaks the news they’re all out of a job, it’ll be even worse.’ Comforting himself with the fact that he’d at least been able to secure Myrtle for Angeline, he climbed up into the trap and, pulling the vehicle’s thick horsehair blanket over his legs, clicked his tongue at the pony.


  Hector didn’t wait to see George depart. Turning on his heel on the doorstep, he swung round and barked at the butler, ‘I want a word with you in the drawing room.’

  Five minutes later Fairley emerged, white-faced and shaken – as much, he said later to the rest of the staff, after dinner had been served to Angeline and her uncle and Miss Robson in the dining room, by the master’s brother’s high-handed manner as anything else. ‘He wants us out by the end of the month.’ And, to the chorus of shocked gasps that followed this bombshell, he added, ‘All, that is, except Myrtle, who’s going to accompany Miss Angeline to Mr Stewart’s residence. Myself, Cook and Mrs Lee receive six months’ wages in lieu of notice. The rest of you, three months’.’

  ‘And references, Mr Fairley?’ Molly Davidson, the cook, was clutching the collar of her frock as though she was attempting to strangle herself, her round, fat face stricken.

  ‘Oh, we’ll all get a good reference, Mrs Davidson. The master left instructions on that score, apparently.’

  Hilda Lee wiped her eyes with a trembling hand. She’d been weeping on and off since the accident that had taken her husband, as well as her employers. ‘I shan’t need mine. My sister’s offered me a home with her – the one that was widowed last year. Her Ike left her comfortably off and, with the nest egg I’ll take with me, the pair of us will want for nothing. I said no to her when she asked me last week, after Simon’ – she gulped audibly – ‘after she heard the news. I thought I was set up here. But I’ll have a word with her tomorrow, when she comes for Simon’s funeral, and tell her I’ve changed my mind.’

  The other staff looked envious. None of them were in such a fortunate position that they could choose not to work, and this blow was alarming. Each of them knew they’d be hard pressed to find another establishment like this one, where the mistress had been kind and the master fair and generous.

  Myrtle was sitting very quietly, counting her blessings, as she glanced round the unhappy faces at the long, scrubbed kitchen table. The servants had just sat down to their own dinner when Elias Fairley made his announcement, and now plates of hot, steaming panackelty – made with meat left over from the funeral luncheon earlier in the day – sat untouched. Panackelty was one of Mrs Davidson’s specialities, cooked long and slow so that the sliced potatoes absorbed every bit of flavour from the beef or bacon or corned beef and stock, and the onions almost caramelized, and the whole lot went deliciously crusty at the edges. Tonight, though, the plates could have been piled with cardboard, for all the interest the others were displaying in their meal. Feeling somewhat ashamed that her mouth was watering, Myrtle listened to the ongoing conversation as patiently as her growling stomach would allow.