Your obedient servant,
Oswald
Myrtle’s bright eyes were wide, and in answer to the unspoken question, Angeline murmured, ‘They’re from Mr Golding. Would you take them and put them in water, Myrtle, and we’ll have them in here, I think. Perhaps on the small table by the window, away from the heat of the fire.’
For the rest of the morning her gaze strayed constantly to the flowers, which had required dividing into three vases, so many were there. When her uncle arrived home for lunch, she realized she hadn’t read a page of her book.
Hector’s eyes went straight to the table set between the two wide bay windows. ‘Well, well, well.’ He smiled at her. ‘What do we have here?’
Knowing she was blushing, Angeline smiled back. ‘They’re from Oswald, from his own hothouses on the estate.’
‘Indeed. I could see he was somewhat smitten last night.’
‘Oh, Uncle, he was being kind, that’s all.’
‘And the flowers? Is that just being kind, too?’
‘He . . . he knows about Mama and Father; he’s being sympathetic.’
‘Perhaps.’ Hector’s voice was hearty, expressing his delight. ‘Well, let us go through for lunch, m’dear. With the weather so inclement I shall stay at home this afternoon, for the roads are getting treacherous. An afternoon keeping you company by the fire will be most agreeable.’
Angeline tried to look pleased. She would much have preferred to be alone with her thoughts.
The next few weeks were ones of savage snowstorms, bitterly cold winds, ice and unrelenting short days and long nights, but this bothered Angeline not a jot. Some days after the flowers had arrived, a carriage carrying a Golding footman called again, this time with a box of crystallized fruit. The accompanying note was along the same lines as the first. Then Oswald himself took to calling two or three times a week, ostensibly to see Hector, but always with a small gift for Angeline. A first edition of Longfellow’s Song of Hiawatha, after Angeline said she thought it the most beautiful of books; a box of delicious sweetmeats; a carton of big, black, sweet grapes from the Golding outhouses; and so it went on.
During this time Hector and Angeline were invited twice to the estate, first to a small soirée in the evening, when the guests listened to music after an excellent dinner, and then to an informal lunch, when it was just the two of them and Oswald showed them around the house.
This evening the carriage was calling for them at seven o’clock, when her uncle and Angeline were to accompany Oswald and an elderly aunt – who was paying him a visit from Scotland – to a play at the Avenue Theatre and Opera House. For once, Angeline was not anticipating the evening with excitement. It had been on leaving this very theatre three months earlier that her parents had met their deaths.
Myrtle, sensitive to her mistress’s mood, said very little as she helped Angeline dress. She knew how her mistress felt about Oswald Golding – it was as plain as the nose on your face – but she didn’t like him. Not that her feelings were of any account, she knew that, but there was something about him . . . He was wildly handsome, she’d give him that, and wealthy and influential to boot, if the talk that went on in the kitchen between the housekeeper and her brother was anything to go by, but why was he pressing his suit so ardently? It wasn’t right, not so soon after the master and mistress had died. He wouldn’t have behaved in such a fashion if the master was alive, and she didn’t care what anyone said to the contrary.
She followed Angeline downstairs, holding her fur-lined cloak as Oswald stood talking to Hector in the hall, his aunt waiting in the carriage outside. Immediately he saw Angeline, Oswald smiled, holding out his hands as he said, ‘You look beautiful, my dear.’ He took the cloak from Myrtle, without looking at her, and she stepped back a pace, watching him as he slid it around Angeline’s shoulders and then pulled the wide hood up over her hair, saying, ‘It’s cold outside.’
Angeline smiled up at him, her face alight, and Myrtle experienced the unease that she felt when seeing them together. Something wasn’t right, but she was blowed if she could put her finger on it. Then, as Oswald ushered Angeline out of the front door, he turned for just an instant, the grey eyes raking down Myrtle’s person from the top of her head to the soles of her feet. Mrs Upton shut the door behind him in the next moment, but still Myrtle stood where she was, shocked and shaken.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ said Mrs Upton sharply.
‘Nothing.’ She forced herself to walk past the eagle eyes of the housekeeper and over to the staircase, making her way to Angeline’s room, where a pile of clothes needed to be put away. Once the door was closed behind her, Myrtle sank down on the bed. Mr Golding had virtually undressed her, there on the doorstep. Her cheeks burning, she put her hands to her face. The filthy so-an’-so. And it hadn’t been like when the butcher’s boy gave her the eye, or when the odd lad whistled at her on her day off. She gave as good as she got then. No, this had been different. He’d made her feel dirty and ashamed – sullied.
She brought her hands down from her face, staring at the window. And this was the man Miss Angeline was fair barmy about. He was playing her like a violin, but why would he do that, with all his money and influence? He could have any woman he wanted. She didn’t understand any of this, but one thing she did know: Miss Angeline wouldn’t hear a word against him. Anyway, what could she say? That Mr Golding had looked at her – because in truth he’d done nothing more.
Slowly Myrtle slid off the bed and made herself start tidying the room, but her thoughts were with her young mistress, and they were fearful.
Angeline found the whole evening something of a strain, not because of the company, although the elderly aunt was deaf and consequently everyone had to bellow their conversation, but because the picture of her parents enjoying themselves in this very place – not knowing what was to befall them – was at the forefront of her mind. She endeavoured to hide her feelings, joining in the talk about the play at the interval and smiling and laughing, but by the time the little party of four left the theatre, a headache was throbbing at the back of her skull.
The Golding carriage had been waiting outside. Although the month of May was just around the corner, the odd desultory snowflake was wafting in the air and it was bitterly cold. Angeline pulled her cloak tightly round her and, once in the carriage, snuggled into the fur with the hood low over her face. Hector had invited Oswald and his aunt in for coffee and brandy and, much as Angeline lived for the moments spent in Oswald’s company, tonight she would have preferred to go straight to bed.
As they entered the house Oswald took Angeline’s elbow, letting the other two go on before them into the drawing room. ‘Is anything wrong? Have I done anything wrong?’ he murmured softly. It had been his constant fear over the last weeks that she’d hear something about him – about his past, some remark or insinuation or other comment – that would cause her to withdraw from him, but he had still felt that he dare not hurry things along any faster than he was doing.
‘No, of course you have done nothing wrong.’ Shocked that such a thought would enter his mind, Angeline was further emboldened to whisper, ‘You . . . you could never do anything wrong. I have a headache, that is all, and . . . ’ She paused, wondering if it would further spoil the evening if she mentioned her parents.
‘And?’ he prompted gently.
‘I have been thinking of Mama and my father. It was on leaving the Avenue Theatre that the accident occurred on the way home.’
‘Oh, my dear.’ His tone and manner altered, and he caught her hand, pressing her cold fingers to his warm lips, before muttering, ‘I didn’t realize. Your uncle should have said, and we could have gone elsewhere tonight. I would never willingly do anything to cause you a moment’s unhappiness. Can you forgive me?’
Angeline looked into the handsome face that fascinated her and filled her dreams, her heart in her eyes. ‘There’s nothing to forgive, Oswald. Truly, please don’t distress yourself.’
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This evening had rattled him. He had almost been sure she was turning cold on him. Her fortune would provide the injection of cash that was necessary to turn his finances around; he couldn’t afford to let Angeline slip through his fingers. Telling himself that he might not get another chance like this for a while, he drew both her hands against his chest and, as she began to tremble, felt a moment’s thrill of satisfaction. She was his for the taking – and to hell with convention. He had to get her up the aisle without delay. Tonight had been a warning.
‘I think you have guessed how I feel about you, Angeline. From the first moment we met I haven’t been able to hide my adoration, have I?’ He smiled the boyish smile that he knew charmed the female of the species, from the cradle to the grave.
Angeline’s blush deepened, but she made no reply.
‘My dear, I want to ask you something. No, I long to ask you something. I think of little else, but Hector is your guardian, and propriety dictates that I must put my request to him first.’ Oswald hesitated, as though unsure of himself. ‘I think what I am trying to say, dearest Angeline, is: would you wish me to speak to your uncle?’
How could Oswald wonder for a moment if she wished for anything else? There was nothing in the world she wanted more. Her head bowed, Angeline nodded, trying to keep the flood of joy and elation from showing in her voice when she answered as demurely as her mother would have instructed, ‘Yes, Oswald, I would wish it.’
‘I shall return tomorrow morning.’
She kept her eyes on their joined hands. Hers seemed very small in comparison to his, which were long and strong, with thin fingers and meticulously clean nails. She loved his hands, she thought wonderingly; she loved everything about him. And he cared for her. Even now, after all these weeks, she could scarcely believe it.
‘Come, they will wonder what is keeping us.’ There was a lilt to his voice. ‘I shall make my excuses and leave now’ – and, at her exclamation of protest, his smile widened – ‘and you must go to bed and rest, and nurse your headache, dearest, but I shall see you tomorrow. Each minute will seem like a day, and each day a lifetime, till then.’
He said such beautiful things. She accompanied him into the drawing room and stood quietly as he helped his aunt to rise from her chair and they made their leave to Hector. What had she done to deserve him? Whatever had she done to deserve a man like Oswald Golding?
Chapter Five
Hector stared at the man in front of him. He had suspected what Oswald had in mind when he had taken him aside on the doorstep the night before and asked if he could talk privately with him in the morning, but conjecture was different from hearing plain words.
‘I think you may be aware of the reason for my visit this morning. I wish to ask for Angeline’s hand in marriage.’ This was what Oswald had just said, and now that it was out in the open, Hector had to admit he wasn’t as pleased as he had thought he would be. The significance of the events of the past weeks hadn’t been lost on him, of course, and he had actively encouraged Angeline’s association with Oswald, basking in the reflected glory, but this was so soon, so . . . sudden.
They were sitting in Hector’s study, with a cup of coffee and a plate of Mrs Upton’s delicious shortbread biscuits in front of each of them, and now Hector took a sip from his cup to give himself a moment of time. He knew of Oswald’s way of life – at least the way of life he had pursued up until a short while ago. Some would term it scandalous, others would say he was merely a man of his time and class. And Hector knew which way his brother would have thought. Philip wouldn’t have let this man within ten miles of his daughter.
Awkwardly – for this was Oswald Golding, after all, and the last thing he wanted to do was offend him – Hector said, ‘Can I speak frankly, as one friend to another?’ And at Oswald’s nod, he continued, ‘I have to say I don’t quite understand why a man of your standing and influence would want to marry a young girl like Angeline. I am very fond of her of course, and she is a young lady in every sense of the word, but brought up as she was by my brother and his wife in what amounted to virtual seclusion, she is unworldly and naive. I would have expected you to choose a wife’ – he hesitated, having been about to say ‘of your own class’, but that would reflect on him, so he changed it to – ‘who is well acquainted with society and perhaps a little older?’
Unsmilingly Oswald said, ‘I am old enough to be her father, if that is what you are suggesting, but still in my prime at thirty-six, Hector. As for what you term Angeline’s unworldliness . . . time will rectify that.’
‘Of course, of course.’
Oswald’s eyes narrowed. He hadn’t expected this. He had imagined that Hector would be congratulating himself on being lifted into the upper strata of society, courtesy of his niece; not that he would develop a conscience towards the girl at this late stage. Or was he playing some game of his own? Perhaps attempting to find out what was in it for him? Oswald could understand this way of thinking, and it tempered his irritation. ‘I have a great affection for Angeline, and my regard would certainly extend to her nearest and dearest, upon our marriage. Now, if I can be the one who speaks frankly, I thought it a great injustice that your brother did not see fit to behave honourably towards you in his will. As Angeline’s husband, I would see that this is rectified.’
Red colour stained Hector’s pale cheeks, a mixture of chagrin and outrage, but his mortification at the veiled suggestion that he could be bought was tempered by the weight of his debts. He licked his lips, seeing a way out of his money problems, which had spiralled out of control. Stiffly he said, ‘My prime concern is Angeline’s happiness.’
‘Of course.’ Oswald’s voice was honeyed. ‘As is mine. But, in our happiness, I would not wish to see someone she cares for deeply suffering an injustice of any kind.’
In a moment of piercing clarity, Hector knew that all the misgivings he had tried to bury over the last months about the character of Oswald Golding had just been confirmed. Who was it who had said that a leopard cannot change its spots? Whoever it had been, they were right.
He reached for his coffee, gulping at it.
But however suspect the man was, he clearly cared for Angeline, for why else would he be so set on marrying her? And Angeline was in love with Oswald, of that he was sure. It would be cruel to stand in her way. She had lost Philip and Margery; could he be the obstacle to her finding happiness again? The fact that he would benefit from the marriage was a side-issue, that was all, and hadn’t he taken Angeline into his home and looked after her as though she was his own daughter?
And so he quietened his conscience as Oswald stared at him with cold grey eyes, fully aware of what Hector was thinking, and hiding his distaste for the man who was Angeline’s uncle behind a blank countenance.
Eventually Hector looked up, saying in a falsely jolly tone of voice, ‘Of course the decision is Angeline’s, and hers alone. I know nothing about young girls and their feelings, so I will leave the answer to her. If you would like to wait in the drawing room, I’ll send her in to you shortly.’
Oswald smiled, finishing his coffee before he stood up and then, without saying a word, walked out of the study.
Angeline was pacing her bedroom in a fever of impatience. She had watched Oswald arrive from her window, and it seemed like hours ago that he’d disappeared with her uncle into Hector’s study, even though her dainty little bedside clock told her it was only twenty minutes or so since his knock at the front door.
‘Are you all right, Miss?’ Myrtle had entered the room, her arms full of fresh linen to change the bed, and had stopped dead at the sight of her young mistress’s agitation.
‘Oh, Myrtle, I shall burst if I don’t tell someone.’ To Myrtle’s surprise, Angeline grasped her hands. ‘Mr Golding is here, and he’s going to tell my uncle he wants to marry me. He . . . he asked me last night if he could.’
Myrtle didn’t know what to say, but her face must have spoken for itself because, her whole manner c
hanging, Angeline let go of her hands and drew back, her voice expressing her hurt as she said, ‘What’s the matter? Aren’t you pleased for me?’
Recovering herself, Myrtle stammered, ‘I . . . I’m so-sorry, Miss. I never expected . . . What I mean is, you . . . you haven’t known Mr Golding long.’
‘Just over three months.’ Angeline’s voice was cool, signifying her pique. ‘But sometimes these things happen in an instant.’
Aye, and give rise to a lifetime of regret. ‘It’s just so soon, Miss, after . . . ’
‘Yes, I know.’ Her voice changing yet again, Angeline reached out and patted Myrtle’s arm. ‘Don’t look like that, Myrtle. I think of Mama and Father often, and miss them, too. We were a happy household, weren’t we?’
‘Oh, don’t cry, Miss.’ Horrified that she had caused tears, Myrtle was beside herself. ‘It’s just that you are young and, if you’ll pardon the imposition, Miss, you don’t know anything about lads – men, I mean.’
Angeline wiped her eyes on her lace handkerchief and gave a wan smile. ‘I know what my heart is telling me, Myrtle. Doesn’t that count for anything? And—’
Whatever she had been about to say next was interrupted by a knock at the bedroom door and the housekeeper’s clipped voice calling, ‘Miss Angeline? You are wanted in the drawing room.’
‘Oh.’ As Myrtle watched, her mistress’s face was transformed. ‘He’s got permission to ask me.’
Myrtle hoped not. Oh, she did so hope Mr Stewart had sent Mr Golding packing and it was Miss Angeline’s uncle who was waiting in the drawing room. The poor lass might cry and wail for a bit, but it would be for the best, Myrtle knew it in her waters.
Angeline whirled out of the room, leaving Myrtle staring after her, biting her lip. She tiptoed onto the landing and peered down into the hall, staring at the closed drawing-room door. When it didn’t open again and no raised voices or protest were heard, Myrtle’s heart sank into her boots. This was all wrong, she told herself for the umpteenth time. She might not know all there was to know about etiquette and codes of behaviour, but she knew enough to know this proposal was flouting every rule – happening so quickly after the lass’s parents had been killed, and her being so young an’ all. And him, Mr Golding, for all his wealth and looks, he was as shallow as a worm’s grave and not the right one for Miss Angeline.
Beyond the Veil of Tears Page 6