Beyond the Veil of Tears

by Rita Bradshaw

  After all, she told herself guiltily, as question after anxious question was put to Elias, few of which he had an answer for, if she’d been told that she’d lost her job, she’d be feeling sick with worry, too. The eldest of ten children (the youngest of which was just three months old, and the brother next to her having just turned fifteen), Myrtle gave every penny she earned to her mother each month on her half-day off, when she went home to the two-up, two-down miner’s cottage in Monkwearmouth. Even though her brother had got taken on at the mine with her father, Myrtle knew the family barely had enough to eat, and her mother was always weeks behind with the rent. She had been thirteen years old when she’d come to work for the Stewarts, nearly five years ago, and from the first day she had known that she’d landed on her feet, when she’d sat down to eat with the other servants. The food was good and plentiful, and she had gone to bed feeling that she had landed in heaven.

  At last Mr Fairley picked up his knife and fork and began to eat. This was the signal that the other servants might do the same. It was a sombre meal. Even Mrs Davidson’s baked jam roll, golden and oozing with strawberry jam made from fruit from McArthur’s walled fruit and vegetable garden near the small orchard, didn’t bring forth the usual appreciative comments.

  They’d almost finished their pudding when one of the row of bells fixed to the kitchen wall near the door rang. Elias glanced at it, before saying flatly, ‘That’ll be His Nibs wanting something or other.’ Angeline and Miss Robson had retired to their rooms directly dinner was finished, but Hector had gone through to the drawing room, taking his coffee and brandy with him. Now Elias didn’t get to his feet and answer the summons, as he would normally have done, knowing it was only the temporary master of the house calling them. Instead he looked at Myrtle. ‘Go and see what he wants. Likely it’s another bottle of the master’s good brandy. He’s been drinking his way steadily through the cellar for the last week.’

  It was unheard of for the butler to criticize the family, and this more than anything brought home to the rest of the staff how drastically things had changed. They exchanged glances, but said nothing, as Myrtle did as she was told after a quick, ‘Yes, Mr Fairley.’ In the space of a week their calm, orderly world had been turned upside down. Suddenly life was precarious.

  Myrtle was thinking the same thing as she hurried along to the drawing room, once again thanking her lucky stars that she wasn’t in the same boat. If she was truthful, she wasn’t looking forward to working for the master’s brother, though. None of the staff liked him, mainly because he treated you as though you were less than the muck under his boots.

  She paused outside the drawing-room door. Hopefully, if she was to be Miss Angeline’s personal maid, she wouldn’t see much of Mr Stewart.

  After knocking once, she opened the door. ‘You rang, sir?’

  Hector didn’t bother to look up from where he reclined in an armchair in front of the fire. ‘I’m going into town shortly. See to it that the trap is brought round to the front door in five minutes.’

  Myrtle hesitated. Since the master’s fine big carriage had been smashed, and the two beautiful chestnuts that had pulled it had been put down, there was only the mistress’s light, two-wheeled dog cart left, and the mistress’s pretty little mare, Gertie. It was a bitter night, and Myrtle knew her late mistress would never have countenanced the pony standing waiting for hours in town, which no doubt was what Mr Stewart intended. Likely he was off to the Gentlemen’s Club, or some other such establishment. Unbeknown to Mr Fairley and Mrs Lee, she’d overheard them talking about the master’s brother’s jaunts, and how Mr Stewart had been out nearly every night since he had been here. Furthermore, McArthur and his lads had gone home an hour ago and, the mood Mr Fairley was in, he wouldn’t appreciate being informed that he had to get the trap ready himself. It was menial work.

  ‘Well?’ Hector’s voice expressed his irritation. ‘Don’t stand there looking gormless, girl.’

  Myrtle bobbed her head and hastily left the room. Mr Fairley would have to lump it, she told herself as she scurried across the hall. She knew which side her bread was buttered, and she wasn’t about to rub Mr Stewart up the wrong way. She did feel sorry for poor little Gertie, though, and she’d tell Mr Fairley that the master’s brother had said to put the pony’s thick stable blanket in the trap, even though he hadn’t.

  It was half an hour later when Hector walked through the doors of the Gentlemen’s Club. After the attentive doorman had fussed around him, taking his hat and coat, enquiring how the funeral had gone and generally ingratiating himself, Hector made his way to the lounge. He was greeted warmly by a number of the patrons, one or two of whom were important and influential names in the town, and by the time he had ordered his first brandy from the liveried steward, who was equally ingratiating, the feathers that George Appleby had ruffled so badly were smoothing out. The upper-class ambience of the exclusive establishment was soothing, and Hector drank it in, leaning back in the leather armchair and picking up the evening paper that the steward had placed at his elbow.

  He would read for a while, have a couple more brandies and then go through to the club’s smaller lounge. This was universally recognized as the card room. Hector rarely differed from this routine. And he knew exactly with whom he would be playing, and where he would be seated. Regulars in the card room, like Hector, had their particular chair at a particular table. It was an unspoken rule, and one that no member would have dreamed of breaking. It engendered a feeling of belonging in Hector, a comforting sense of affiliation and kinship, something he had craved all his life, but never acknowledged.

  On the dot of ten o’clock he joined the other three men who were settling themselves in the comfortable chairs around a table close to the blazing fire. Paul Duckworth, a wealthy landowner, was seated to his right, and on his left sat Robert Taylor. The small, heavy-jowled man’s family was distantly connected to royalty, and Robert had never done a day’s work in his life. The youngest son, and something of an embarrassment to his long-suffering parents, he drank and gambled away his allowance each month and regularly got into all kinds of trouble. But it was Oswald Golding, sitting opposite Hector, who was the undisputed leader of the quartet.

  Since Oswald had inherited his large country estate and town house a decade before, at the age of twenty-six, gambling and riotous living had taken their toll on his fortune. Aristocratic to the hilt, Oswald’s cold and callous nature was hidden behind charming good looks and a charisma that was very attractive to the fair sex. Unfortunately for him, these attributes were of little use in influencing his success at gambling, and he was rarely lucky. He had recently been forced to sell a farm at the edge of his estate and 300 acres, to pay his most pressing debts. This had sent him into a black rage for days. He believed absolutely that he was a superior being, and that God had seen fit to place him in a position of wealth and power, courtesy of the Golding lineage. To be taken to task by his creditors like any common man had been the height of humiliation.

  Oswald glanced across at Hector as he lit a cigar. ‘Didn’t expect to see you tonight,’ he drawled, before drawing the smoke deep into his lungs. ‘It was your brother’s funeral today, wasn’t it?’

  Hector nodded. He didn’t want to discuss it.

  Oswald’s eyes narrowed slightly. He was aware that Hector was barely keeping his head above water. Oswald made it his business to know a lot of things. Hector must have been hoping that he would be remembered in the will, but it didn’t look as though Philip Stewart had been overly generous to his brother. Of course Hector’s reticence might be down to the fact that he was upset after the funeral. Oswald took another puff of his cigar. But he rather thought it was more than that.

  His opportunity to find out more came later that night. Robert Taylor had consumed a bottle of brandy before he had even sat down to play cards, and by midnight he was too drunk to see what was in his hand, let alone talk coherently. Paul Duckworth, who had been on a winning streak al
l night and was worried his luck might change if he continued to play, offered to make sure Robert got home safely, and the two men left the lounge, Paul practically carrying the inebriated Robert.

  Hector had stood up to leave at the same time, but when Oswald had taken his arm, saying, ‘Fancy a nightcap, old chap?’, Hector had been flattered into staying. Now he watched Oswald ordering coffee and a special liqueur that he favoured for the two of them, from the ever-attentive steward. Inwardly glowing that the influential and popular Oswald Golding had detained him, Hector smiled into the handsome face opposite. ‘Paul was on form tonight,’ he said, his tone light, but a thread of resentment that he couldn’t quite hide colouring his words.

  Oswald nodded. Paul, along with Robert, had been one of his friends for a long time, but it was a private source of annoyance that Paul – the only member of the quartet who could afford to lose and barely notice it – seemed to court Lady Luck far better than the rest of them. ‘The blighter’s cleaned me out,’ he drawled, stretching his long legs in front of him and lighting his umpteenth cigar of the night. ‘How about you?’

  ‘The same.’ And he had needed to win tonight; there were a couple of individuals in Newcastle to whom he owed money, and who had big mouths. There was no disgrace in owing money to a bank or some other establishment, but there was deep disgrace in being unable to settle your gambling debts. Hector was in over his head, and had been for some time, but for the life of him he could see no way out of his predicament. If only Philip had seen fit to leave him something – anything. He had thought for donkey’s years that he’d be Philip’s heir. Then Margery had surprised everyone by announcing that she was expecting a baby, when she was practically in her dotage. He’d comforted himself with the fact that a miscarriage was always possible; or that the child, if born, might be sickly or even an idiot – at Margery’s age it wasn’t unlikely. But no, she had gone full-term and had produced a bouncing baby girl. And Angeline was sweet enough, he had nothing against her as such; it was just that her arrival had meant he was cheated for the second time – first by his father, and then by Philip.

  ‘So, how did the funeral go?’

  ‘What?’ It was a moment before Oswald’s voice penetrated Hector’s black thoughts. ‘Oh, the funeral. It went all right on the whole, I suppose.’

  ‘You don’t seem overly sure, old chap.’ The steward arrived with their coffee and liqueurs, and Oswald waited until the man had moved away before pressing the point by saying, ‘Come on, Hector. You can tell me. We’re friends, aren’t we? What’s wrong?’

  The sympathetic tone, coming on top of George Appleby’s treatment of him, and not least the amount of brandy he had swallowed during the course of the evening, loosened Hector’s tongue. Shrugging, he muttered, ‘As Philip’s only brother, I was expecting to be remembered in the will, I suppose. Not in a big way, you understand,’ he added quickly. ‘A keepsake would have done.’

  A keepsake, be damned! He’d been expecting a darned sight more than that, from the look on his face. Oswald took a sip of coffee. ‘And there was nothing?’

  ‘A trifling sum each month, for as long as my niece is under my roof.’

  Oswald’s thick golden lashes swept down, hiding the contempt in his grey eyes. There had been a definite whine to Hector’s voice. The man really was a bore. But then, he reasoned, what could you expect? The Stewarts were ‘new’ money and only a generation or so removed from the gutter. ‘You’re the child’s guardian?’ he asked, without any real interest.

  ‘Angeline is hardly a child – more a young woman, at fifteen years old, which carries its own problems of course. I have little insight into the female mind, nor wish to have.’

  Oswald hid a smile. Hector’s disinterest in the ladies had led one or two members of the club to speculate whether he was disposed in another direction, but there was nothing effeminate about the man. Rather, Oswald reflected, Hector was that rare freak of nature: a truly passionless individual, at least sexually. ‘I take it that Philip left the lot to her?’

  Hector nodded. ‘The business, the house, stocks and shares – you name it. I had no idea Philip was worth so much, but then he always did have the Midas touch, like our father.’ Now the bitterness was palpable. ‘My niece is likely to be the wealthiest young woman this side of Durham, when everything’s settled.’

  Oswald sat up straighter. ‘By wealthy, you mean . . . ’

  Hector shrugged. ‘According to Appleby, the worth of the stocks and shares alone runs into six figures. He was quite a gambler in his own way, my dear brother. Then there’s the business, of course; the house, bank accounts. He was canny, sure enough.’

  Oswald stared at Hector. He had known Philip Stewart by sight. Hector’s brother had been a member of the club longer than both of them, but Oswald hadn’t spoken to Philip more than once or twice. The man hadn’t gambled or had any known vices, and his circle had been men of the same ilk – pillars of the community, the lot of them. Consequently Oswald had considered Philip dull and uninteresting, with a provincial small-mindedness that reflected his origins. Now he could hardly believe what he was hearing.

  Finishing his cup of coffee, Oswald searched his mind, trying to remember if he’d ever caught sight of the daughter, but to no avail. Not that it was likely. He spent a great deal of time at his London house, and when he was up at the estate his days were spent shooting or fishing, and his nights gambling and with other less-than-salubrious activities. He was well aware that his name had been linked with so many demi-mondaines, actresses and aristocratic women who’d been his companions and mistresses that it denoted scandal, but this had never concerned him. He and his circle of friends lived for pleasure: gambling, horse racing, shooting, womanizing, visits to the music halls and theatres, and trips to Europe. The balls, dinners, banquets and garden parties in London, along with the Henley Regatta, Ascot and Lords, made up his days and nights, and he wouldn’t have had it any other way in the past.

  But . . . Oswald’s eyes narrowed as his mind ticked on. Having to sell the farm and land had come as something of a wake-up call, and he still had a mountain of debt. He accepted now that he had to marry into money – and fast. The problem was that although many a simpering young woman from good stock would have welcomed his attentions, their virtuous mothers would certainly be inclined to have a fit of the vapours at the thought of him as a son-in-law. And their fathers would want to know how he stood financially.

  Carefully Oswald said, ‘I would have imagined the inordinate responsibility of taking your niece under your protection was worth far more than a small allowance each month, old chap. Bit on the mean side that, if you don’t mind me saying.’

  Gratified that Oswald saw it as he did, Hector nodded. ‘I’ll do my duty, of course, but nevertheless . . . ’

  ‘Quite.’ Oswald allowed a moment or two to pass. ‘And young ladies of your niece’s age are inclined to be somewhat . . . demanding, in my experience. I suppose it’s only natural that, on the brink of entering society, as they are, their heads are full of the latest fashions, dinner parties and dances, and not least a dashing beau or two.’

  Hector looked alarmed. ‘Angeline isn’t like that.’

  Oswald smiled. ‘My dear fellow, they’re all like that – take it from me. You’ll see. Once the shock of her parents’ accident has worn off, you’ll have your work cut out to keep her entertained.’ Casually he added, ‘Is she a beauty?’

  ‘A beauty? I don’t know. I’ve never thought . . . Well, yes, I dare say Angeline is pleasing to the eye.’

  ‘There you are, then. Recipe for trouble.’

  ‘You really think so?’ Thoroughly agitated now, Hector lifted his cup of coffee to his lips, missed his mouth and sloshed half of it down his shirt and waistcoat. He knew Oswald’s reputation with the ladies, and didn’t doubt for one moment that the man was fully conversant with the workings of the female mind.

  ‘When they’re that age, the trick is stopping them from g
etting bored and into mischief,’ said Oswald with studied idleness. ‘Give it a couple of years and she’ll be easier to handle.’

  ‘A couple of years?’ Hector’s voice rose on the last word.

  ‘Look.’ Oswald’s voice was soothing. ‘I’m planning a little get-together with a few select friends next month – nothing too formal, a dinner and perhaps a spot of dancing. Why don’t you and your niece come along? It will give Angeline something to look forward to.’

  Hector stared at Oswald in amazement. The only time they ever socialized was at the club, and then specifically in the card room. Oswald was gentry, and everything about him proclaimed that he was from a class that considered itself infinitely special. Until today, Hector wouldn’t have been surprised if Oswald had looked the other way, should their paths have crossed outside the club’s confines. But it wasn’t only this that caused him to hesitate. He’d heard rumours about the high jinks Oswald and his set got up to, and if only half of them were true, then an evening hosted by this man was not the sort of occasion to take an innocent young girl to.

  As though he knew what Hector was thinking, Oswald continued, ‘When I say select, I mean mostly married couples like the Hendersons and Parkers, and I think Lord Gray is back from honeymoon with his new wife. Have you met Nicholas Gray? No? Oh, he’s a fine fellow. Eton and Oxford followed by the Guards, and his estate in Scotland breeds the best grouse for hundreds of miles. Made a damn good speech in the House of Lords last year.’