Beyond the Veil of Tears

by Rita Bradshaw

  ‘How do you do?’ Angeline inclined her head as she dipped her knee, hoping she was doing the right thing.

  ‘Angeline, what a charming name!’ Gwendoline Gray’s voice was polite, but without warmth, and there was an edge of condescension as she added, ‘Your uncle has been telling us of your misfortune, Miss Stewart. Please accept our condolences on your sad loss.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I thought you might be a branch of the Kirkmichael Stewarts. I came out with Lady Victoria’s daughter two seasons ago. Such a dear girl. But your uncle assures us you are not acquainted with them.’

  Angeline stared at the pretty, doll-like face. She had often heard her father talk with Mr Appleby about the mechanism through which elite society was controlled, and her father had been scathing on occasions. The ruling class was landed, hereditary, wealthy and leisured, and also interrelated and exclusive, he’d maintained, but the aristocracy and gentry were by no means adverse to new wealth acquired through certain channels. Banking, business or industry – provided it was transmuted in an approved fashion – could be the means by which dwindling coffers were restored, but this didn’t mean that ordinary individuals who made their fortune in trade would be accepted. Slights, both real and imagined, had been discussed by the two men, with her father insisting that he’d rather walk barefoot on hot coals than associate with some of the upper-class personages he rubbed shoulders with, at his club or in business. ‘And the women are the worst,’ he’d said one evening, when particularly irate. ‘They control access to membership of their supposed elite circle like a bunch of sharp-clawed, superior cats, whilst having the morals of their alley counterparts. Do you know what I heard today?’

  Her mother and Mrs Appleby had shushed the men at this point, with a pointed glance towards herself, Angeline recalled, but the conversation had made an impact on her, not least because she had been incensed that anyone would upset or snub her father. But Lord Gray’s wife was one of those ladies who her father had spoken about to his old friend. She didn’t know about Lady Gray’s morals of course, but the woman definitely thought both her uncle and Angeline herself were beneath her socially.

  Unsmilingly she said, ‘My grandfather changed the family name, for reasons of his own, before my father and uncle were even born, so I think it is highly unlikely we are related to any Stewarts you might know, Lady Gray.’

  ‘Oh.’ It was a surprised sound, and a trace of colour came into Gwendoline’s pale cheeks.

  Lord Gray cast his wife a glance that could have meant anything as he leaned forward, offering his hand as he said, ‘It is very nice to meet you, Miss Stewart.’ As Angeline placed her fingers in his, he raised her hand briefly to his lips, a twinkle in his eye as he murmured, ‘Whichever Stewarts you are related to.’

  They smiled at each other as his wife rustled indignantly in her taffeta and lace dress, and then, as a gong sounded in the hall, Oswald smoothly intervened, ‘Ah, dinner, I think. Shall we?’, his hand again at Angeline’s elbow.

  There were thirty seated at the vast dining table, which was beautifully laid with a fine white damask cloth, a battery of crystal glasses and regimented silver cutlery, placed just so, in order that plates and bowls could be put directly in front of each diner without having to rearrange the cutlery between courses. A snowy napkin, folded into an elaborate mitre shape, stood by each place, and silver condiment sets for salt, pepper and mustard were placed at regular intervals along the table. Heavy silver candelabra burned softly at either end of the table, wound around with ivy and small flowers; and a magnificent flower display took centre stage. Two footmen wearing an elaborate livery and patent buckled shoes stepped silently forward to pull out the chairs and seat the guests at table. The splendour took Angeline’s breath away and, when she glanced at her uncle, she saw that he was equally wide-eyed.

  Oswald, as host, sat at the head of the table with his back to the huge fireplace, in which a hearty fire was burning, and Angeline was surprised to find herself seated to his left, with Lord Gray on her other side. Her uncle sat on the opposite side of the table next to a stiff-faced Lady Gray.

  Dinner was styled à la russe, which meant that each course was prepared on bowls or plates on the vast sideboard that stretched down one wall and was then handed to the guests by the footmen. A menu sat by each napkin, and Angeline was horrified to see that the dinner consisted of twelve courses. Her eyes took in the soup, fish, cutlets, fricassees, boudins, sweetbreads and pâtés that she was apparently expected to eat before the main roast, and she gave a little sigh.

  A slight cough from Lord Gray brought her gaze to him and he said very quietly, ‘Most of the ladies take a bite or two at most from each course; and some they wave away altogether.’

  She smiled her thanks. He was nice, she thought. Not like his wife. She wondered how such a nice man had come to marry someone like Lady Gray.

  Oswald made a point of drawing her into every conversation that he conducted during the meal, and by the time they came to the puddings she felt more herself, although a little hot and flustered. Whether this was from her first taste of wine – there were four glasses before her place at the table, and she had noticed that even the ladies drank all the different wines that were served with the various courses, although she only sipped the odd mouthful – or from the attention Oswald Golding was bestowing on her, she didn’t know.

  He was one of the most handsome men she had ever seen, that was for sure. His grey eyes rested constantly on her flushed face, sending a little thrill down her spine, and his silky blond hair gleamed in the candlelight. Of course he was only being kind, knowing that her parents had recently died, she told herself, but still . . .

  The meal went on and on, the jewels of the ladies glittering as they talked and moved, the snowy shirt-fronts of the men glistening, and the silent servants coming and going as they handed out dishes and poured wine in the light of the many candles. The food was delicious and spectacular to look at, and the conversation ranged widely, laughter punctuating the talk of social events, sport and politics, most of which was above Angeline’s head. She found it best to smile when others smiled and to look interested without venturing an opinion; her mama had always said silence was the best option, if one wasn’t fully conversant with the facts. She avoided catching Lady Gray’s eye; she had the impression that Lord Gray’s wife didn’t appreciate the attention he was giving to a little nobody, if her stony expression was anything to go by.

  At the conclusion of the meal Angeline rose with the other ladies as they adjourned to the drawing room. She had been dreading this moment, knowing it would have to come to enable the men to enjoy their port, brandy and cigars, but not wanting to be alone in the midst of so many women who all seemed to know each other very well. Admittedly several of the ladies had smiled kindly at her during the meal, but the feeling of being a fish out of water was back – and much stronger this time.

  She didn’t follow the main body of ladies into the drawing room, but instead made her way to the powder room again. This time she entered one of the cubicles and shut the door behind her with a thudding heart, as though she had escaped some peril. She stood with her back to the door and took several deep steadying breaths, all the while telling herself not to be so silly.

  A large oil lamp hung on the wall at the back of the closet, over a wide shelf containing a row of glass bowls holding dried flowers that scented the air. The toilet itself was a wooden box structure, with a round porcelain seat surrounding the hole. Angeline continued to stand perfectly still, one hand resting on the pearl necklace at her throat and the other clutching her vanity bag. Slowly her breathing returned to normal, and she was just about to exit the closet and make her way back to the drawing room when the door to the powder room opened and what sounded like several women entered.

  ‘But who is she exactly? I don’t know of any Stewarts in his circle, do you?’

  Angeline’s hand was on the doorknob, but she paused for a
moment at the mention of her surname, uncertain whether it would be more embarrassing to make herself known if these ladies were discussing her or remain out of sight.

  There was a tinkling laugh. ‘Who knows, where Oswald’s concerned?’

  ‘But to seat her where he did! He’s certainly made his intentions plain enough.’

  ‘Maybe, but as I said: who knows with Oswald?’

  ‘I think it’s more significant who isn’t here tonight,’ a new voice put in.

  ‘You mean the Jeffersons?’

  ‘Who else?’

  ‘So you think . . . ’

  ‘What I think, Camilla, is that the next little while is going to be very interesting.’

  This brought more laughter, and Angeline’s brow wrinkled. Those ladies were clearly talking about her, but she didn’t understand what had been said.

  There followed some rustling of dresses, and murmuring voices and laughter, then the door opened and closed and all was quiet once more.

  She waited a couple of minutes more and then opened the cubicle door. Suddenly she felt utterly bereft. She wanted to go home. Whatever those ladies had been saying, it was spiteful, she was sure of it. There wasn’t one person here that she liked.

  No, that wasn’t true, she corrected herself in the next instant, blinking back hot tears. Lord Gray wasn’t like the rest of them; he had been kind to her. And Oswald? Her heart beat faster. He was . . . well, he was . . . She gave up trying to find words for what Oswald was.

  He was sitting on one of the chairs in the hall when she left the powder room and immediately came towards her, saying, ‘There you are, I’ve been waiting for you. We’re finishing the evening with a spot of dancing, and I insist you dance the first dance with me. Oh, that’s very rude of me’ – he grinned at her, a boyish grin – ‘for I should have said: would you do me the honour of the first dance?’

  It was as she looked up into his face that a thought came to her, an impossible thought that caused a warm blush to spread through her body. Repudiating it – for why would a rich, handsome man of the world like him be bothering with someone like her, except out of a wish to be kind – she said, ‘Thank you, I’d like that.’

  His smile widened and his voice was soft as he said, ‘I don’t know if I will allow you to dance with anyone else, or is that rude, too?’

  Angeline didn’t know how to answer this and so she didn’t try, but as he led her down the hall and through an anteroom into the ballroom, her heart was singing and the conversation she had overheard felt suddenly unimportant.

  He liked her. She didn’t know how it had come about, and she felt giddy at the thought, but Oswald Golding liked her. For his part, Oswald was telling himself this could have been much worse than it was. True, she was painfully naive and unsophisticated – two qualities that he abhorred in his women, finding such attributes irritating and inevitably boring – but, in this case, it suited his purposes. And she was much prettier than he had expected; one could say beautiful even, although her slender build was not to his liking. He preferred his women well rounded and voluptuous, with fire in their bellies. But she was clearly docile and biddable, which in the circumstances was a relief, if he was to get this business over with quickly. And a dutiful, meek wife was no bad thing. It would leave him free to conduct his life as he wished – and with whom. No, this chit of a girl would pose no problem. Even now he had her eating out of his hand.

  And Hector? As Angeline’s uncle came hurrying across to them, Oswald’s shrewd gaze took in the other man’s flushed face and bright eyes, and the way he was almost drooling with gratification at the quality of the company he was enjoying. Hector Stewart would offer no resistance to his advances towards Angeline, particularly when he offered the carrot of making it worth Hector’s while. He would be tactful, of course. Hector was the girl’s uncle after all, and it wouldn’t do to offend him. Not until she had signed her name on the wedding certificate. After that . . .

  Chapter Four

  ‘Oh, Miss, it sounds lovely.’

  Angeline had just finished relating the details of the evening to an eager Myrtle. The maid had been waiting for her young mistress when the carriage arrived home after one o’clock. Angeline had described the house, every course at dinner, the ladies’ sumptuous dresses and jewels and the wonderful ballroom, but she hadn’t mentioned Oswald Golding.

  Her heart fluttered madly at the thought of him. She’d had one or two dances with other partners, one of whom had been Lord Gray, but then Oswald had been at her side again, making it clear that he had eyes only for her. And, in truth, she had only wanted to dance with him. Her feet had hardly seemed to touch the floor when she was in his arms; he danced divinely, and she had felt she was floating around the ballroom.

  Myrtle’s fingers were busy releasing Angeline from the tight constraints of the corset and, when it fell away, Angeline stretched, rubbing her ribs. ‘That’s so much better – I hate those things.’

  ‘But you looked beautiful tonight, Miss,’ Myrtle said reprovingly, as though only the corset had had anything to do with her mistress’s appearance. Fetching Angeline’s nightgown, she helped her on with it. ‘What was he like, Miss? Mr Golding?’

  Angeline didn’t look at Myrtle. ‘He . . . he’s a fine gentleman.’ Sinking down on the dressing-table stool, she added, ‘I can manage now, Myrtle. You get off to bed, you must be tired.’

  ‘Not as tired as you, Miss, I’ll be bound,’ said Myrtle cheerfully as she finished putting away the discarded items of clothing. ‘I’ll bring your tea later in the morning, shall I? Let you sleep in for a bit.’ Bustling over to the door, she turned with her hand on the doorknob, ‘Sleep well, Miss. Goodnight.’

  ‘Goodnight, Myrtle.’

  Once she was alone, Angeline breathed a sigh of relief. Myrtle had said she must be tired, but she had never felt less like sleep in her life. The blood was singing through her veins, and every pulse was throbbing with wild, exuberant life. Her eyes were starry as she gazed at her reflection in the dressing-table mirror, and she jumped up, twirling around the room until she collapsed on the bed, giddy and out of breath.

  A sudden thought brought her sitting bolt upright, even as her head still whirled. Was it wrong to feel this way, with her darling mama and father so recently gone? She had left this house earlier feeling full of hidden resentment at her uncle’s insistence that she come out of her black mourning clothes for the evening and accompany him to a dinner she had no wish to attend. Her new evening dress, exquisite though it was, had brought her no pleasure – not until she had seen Oswald’s gaze on her, that was. Then she had been glad she was looking her best. Was that the height of superficiality?

  Falling on her knees beside the bed, she put her hands together. Her voice choked with tears, she prayed, ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I love you, Mama. I love you both, so much. Forgive me.’

  She continued to berate herself for some little while, until the tiredness she had denied brought a kind of calm. Climbing into bed – a bed that was much too soft, due to a thick feather-filled mattress that made her feel she was being smothered each night – she told herself she wouldn’t sleep. Within moments she had proved herself wrong.

  It seemed as if she had only just shut her eyes when Myrtle’s voice woke her, saying, ‘Good morning, Miss. You’re in the best place – it’s snowing a blizzard out there.’

  Blinking, she sat up, taking the cup of tea that Myrtle handed her, with a murmur of thanks. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Gone ten, Miss.’ Myrtle set about persuading the glowing embers of the fire in the bedroom’s small fireplace into life. With Angeline’s permission, she had told Mrs Upton that she needn’t concern herself about any aspect of the young mistress’s care and that she would see both to Angeline’s room and to her person. She herself slept in one of the two rooms in the attics, the other one being the housekeeper’s. Albert had his own quarters above the stables, but ate all his meals in the kitchen.

 
‘Ten o’clock?’ Angeline couldn’t remember a time when she hadn’t been up and about before eight in the morning, although her mother had occasionally risen late, normally after a dinner party or some other social gathering. This thought brought Oswald to the forefront of her mind, and her heart began to thump.

  ‘Your uncle has already gone out, Miss. I thought you might like a breakfast tray up here, rather than sit by yourself in the dining room?’

  ‘That would be nice, Myrtle. Thank you.’

  ‘I’ll bring it shortly.’ Myrtle pulled back the heavy drapes at the window as she spoke, revealing a cold white world, the wind howling as it drove the thick whirling snowflakes in a demented dance of its own making. ‘You snuggle down again, Miss. The fire’ll soon take hold and warm things up.’

  As Myrtle bustled out, Angeline smiled to herself. Since they had come to live with her uncle, Myrtle’s manner had verged on motherly at times, and yet she was only a couple of years older than herself. Still, it was nice.

  She ate everything on the tray Myrtle brought, finding that she was ravenously hungry, and then had a long hot bath and washed and dried her hair. Feeling refreshed and rested, she was dressed and sitting close to the roaring fire in the drawing room, reading, when Myrtle came in, her face beaming. ‘These have just arrived for you, Miss.’ She was almost hidden behind the most enormous bouquet of flowers Angeline had ever seen. ‘And a footman delivered them.’

  Angeline looked at the pink-and-white rosebuds, baby’s breath, carnations and a whole host of other perfect blooms, and her heart began to race.

  ‘Here, Miss.’ Myrtle reached out a hand and gave her a small, embossed envelope with the Golding crest in one corner.

  Opening it, Angeline read:

  Dear Angeline,

  Thank you for an enchanting evening. I have selected these from my own hothouses to bring a touch of summer’s beauty to a cold winter’s day, but may I say – and please do not think me too forward – that their beauty can in no way compare to your loveliness.