Beyond the Veil of Tears

by Rita Bradshaw

  When the still, small voice became too insistent to ignore – often in the middle of the night when sleep eluded him – he silenced it by telling himself that, whatever the rights and wrongs of the matter, Angeline loved Oswald and would be heartbroken if their nuptials didn’t take place. It would be cruel, he reasoned, to stand in their way. This argument worked – mostly. Today, as he took in the sight of his brother’s only child in the first blush of womanhood and with a smile on her face that tore at his heart, it didn’t work. And when her expression changed and she fairly flew across the hall, careless of her finery, saying, ‘What is it, Uncle? Are you unwell?’, Hector felt as though burning coals were being heaped upon his head.

  Recovering himself, he took her small hands in his. ‘No, no, child, don’t fret. You look so lovely, that’s all, and your mother and father would have been so proud of you. Come, we must be away.’

  Out of respect for Angeline’s parents, the wedding ceremony and reception were to be a quiet affair. After a simple service at the parish church, a small handful of guests had been invited back to a wedding breakfast at the house before the happy couple left for Oswald’s London establishment. Oswald had suggested – and Angeline had been happy to comply – that their honeymoon proper could take place early in the New Year, but a week in London when he could show her the sights, and they could visit the theatre and art galleries and perhaps meet friends for dinner once or twice, would be a brief precursor to two or three months’ travelling around Europe in the spring. He had implied that it was out of regard for her parents’ memory that they should delay their holiday a while, and Angeline had loved him all the more for his thoughtfulness. Also, he had added gently – clearly as an afterthought – it would enable certain financial legalities to be taken care of. Such matters were tiresome, but best dealt with swiftly and then forgotten.

  Mrs Upton opened the front door for them, and her voice and manner were kind when she said, ‘May I wish you every happiness, Miss Angeline. Every happiness, I’m sure.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Upton.’ Angeline smiled at the housekeeper, and then at Albert, as she walked down the steps with her uncle to where Albert was standing by the carriage, resplendent in the new livery her uncle had bought him for the occasion. Myrtle followed, still carrying the train, to avoid it brushing the dusty ground. August had been an unusually hot month and the earth was baked, and even now, in the second week of September, the hot spell showed no sign of abating. The sky was high and a clear vivid blue, without even the smallest cloud marring its expanse. It was a beautiful day. Angeline breathed in the warm air scented with shrubs and flowers. Life was beautiful. If her mama and father could have been here, everything would have been perfect.

  Once Angeline and her uncle were settled in the carriage, Myrtle climbed up beside Albert and they were off. Mrs Upton forgot herself so far as to wave her handkerchief as the carriage trundled down the short drive and out onto the road. Angeline smiled to herself. If her uncle’s housekeeper had been as nice when she had first come to live with him as she had been for the last little while, her early weeks in the house would have been different altogether. She had said the same to Myrtle a little while ago, and Myrtle had made her laugh when she’d said wryly, ‘Perhaps it’s because she knows she’s getting rid of the pair of us shortly, Miss.’ Dear Myrtle. She was so glad she would have someone of her own in Oswald’s house; his staff were much more formal than she had been used to, but then that was the way Oswald liked it. And she supposed, with the house and grounds being so vast, it was necessary. As she’d said that morning, she was beginning a new life – one with different rules – but at least she could be the same with Myrtle as she’d always been. They’d both need that, because things would change for Myrtle, too.

  Albert was saying much the same thing to Myrtle as the horses clip-clopped along the road towards the church. ‘Going to be lady’s maid to Mrs Golding, from this day forth then. Going up in the world, aren’t you, living in the big house an’ all?’

  Myrtle glanced at him. His tone hadn’t been nasty, but there had been some sort of edge to it that she couldn’t place. ‘Miss Angeline will still be the same, and so shall I, big house or no.’

  ‘You say that now, but you won’t want to know the likes of me when you’re in with that lot up there.’

  Myrtle twisted in her seat and studied his profile properly. ‘What’s the matter?’ She had thought she was getting on all right with Albert and his sister for the last little while, since their chat in the kitchen. Particularly with Albert. Once he had unbent towards her, she’d discovered he had a wicked sense of humour that he kept under wraps most of the time, because his sister didn’t approve of too much jollity.

  ‘I’m just saying, that’s all.’

  ‘What are you saying, Albert?’

  ‘That it’s different looking after Miss Angeline, like you’ve been doing so far, from how it’s going to be from now on. You’ll be up there in the hierarchy with the butler and the valet, and you won’t be wearing a uniform any more. You’ll get your room cleaned for you by the housemaids, and all sorts of perks.’

  Myrtle knew where all this had come from. His sister. Although Mrs Upton had been nicer in recent weeks, she hadn’t been able to resist remarking that a lady’s maid should be properly qualified for the post, and with an education superior to that of the ordinary class of female servants. Could Myrtle do fine needlework? Was she familiar with the useful and ornamental branches of female acquirements that Miss Angeline would need when she became Mrs Golding? Could she dress the new Mrs Golding’s hair for grand occasions? And so it had gone on. Myrtle had let most of it go over her head and had tried not to get rattled, but now she was upset to think that Albert thought she would turn into an upstart. She wasn’t like that.

  ‘Albert, even if it’s like you say, you’ll still be my friend. How could you think otherwise?’ she said, the hurt sounding in her voice.

  Albert seemed to concentrate very hard on the road ahead for a minute or two. Then he said quietly, ‘What if I want us to be more than friends?’

  For a moment she thought she must have misheard him, but a glance at his tense profile told her otherwise. ‘You . . . you mean . . . ’ She didn’t dare voice it, in case she had made a mistake.

  ‘I like you, Myrtle. More than like.’

  She didn’t know what to say, and so she said the truth. ‘I didn’t know. I’ve never thought of you in that way, I suppose, not with how things were when Miss Angeline and I first came to the house. Your sister and you – well, you weren’t very friendly.’

  ‘I can understand that, and I regret it deeply. But now, would you consider thinking of me in that way?’

  She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. Albert was nice-looking, in an earthy sort of way, tall and broad, and he had lovely curly hair. She knew Mrs Upton was fifteen years older than him – Mrs Upton had been the eldest in the family, and he’d been the last baby – because Albert had told her that one night, when they’d sat in the kitchen drinking tea after his sister had gone to bed to nurse a headache. He had confided that when Mrs Upton had taken the post of housekeeper to Mr Stewart, after her husband had died, she had got him this job. But Myrtle still didn’t know exactly how old he was. Bluntly she said, ‘How old are you, Albert?’ He was one of those people about whom it was difficult to guess their age.

  ‘Twenty-eight; and you were eighteen at Christmas, weren’t you? Do you think I’m too old for you, Myrtle?’

  There was ten years between her mam and da. Suddenly she knew she didn’t want Albert to go out of her life. Softly she said, ‘No, I don’t think that. Miss Angeline has told me I’ll get every Sunday afternoon off, unless we’re at Mr Golding’s London house or away somewhere. I . . . I could meet you then, if you want, and we’ll see how it goes.’

  ‘I do want.’ He glanced at her – a swift warm glance – and Myrtle felt a tingle snake down her spine.

  ‘All right then.’<
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  ‘The first Sunday you’re back from London?’

  She nodded.

  ‘You won’t regret giving me a chance, lass, I promise you that.’ And then he smiled. ‘And if you can agree to walking out with me when I’m dressed up like a dog’s dinner in these ridiculous clothes, it bodes well.’

  Myrtle giggled. The livery was similar to that worn by the footmen at the big house, when they delivered bits and pieces for Miss Angeline from Mr Golding, but although it looked befitting on them, she had to admit it was out of keeping on Albert. He was too manly, that was the thing. To tease him she said, ‘You wouldn’t want to wear this sort of thing all the time then?’

  ‘Heaven forbid!’ He grinned at her, and then, his voice becoming serious, he said, ‘I’ve been saving up for years to get a little smallholding, lass. That’s me dream. Somewhere where I’m me own boss, and I don’t have to bow the knee to anyone. A cow and a couple of pigs, a few hens and a nice allotment, and me own fireside of an evening.’

  She liked the sound of that. Oh, she did. They were nearing the church and they didn’t have time to say anything else, but as Myrtle climbed down from beside him she had a warm glow inside. Albert! Who’d have thought it? But he was a nice man. She just hoped Mr Golding was as nice, but she wouldn’t put money on it.

  Oswald sat waiting in the church, dusty golden shafts of sunlight slanting through the stained-glass windows and bathing the altar in a warm glow. Nicholas Gray was sitting beside him as his best man. He had cultivated his friendship with Nicholas since pursuing Angeline, not because he particularly liked the man – Nicholas was too strait-laced for his taste – but because Lord Gray and his wife added the stamp of respectability to any social occasion, unlike most of his former friends. It had been fortunate that he could use the ploy of Angeline’s parents having so recently died to limit the guest list, too. Along with the Grays and two other reputable couples, and a couple of elderly great-aunts on his side, Angeline’s uncle made up the sum total of invitees. He had promised his set a rip-roaring party in due course. Mirabelle had once referred to such beanos as being little more than orgies, and she was right of course.

  Mirabelle . . . He lingered on the memory of their last meeting just a week ago. He had told Angeline he had urgent business in London, and had escaped from the North into Mirabelle’s arms. Hell, he’d put her through her paces all right. They’d spent the whole day in bed and got through three bottles of champagne.

  The sound of the organ signalled the bride’s arrival, and as Oswald glanced round he was annoyed to see that George Appleby and his wife had slipped into the back of the church. He had been to visit the solicitor in his offices a few weeks ago, ostensibly to thank the man for handling Angeline’s finances so well to date, but Appleby had given him short shrift and Oswald was still smarting from his treatment. It had taken some tactful questioning of Hector to make sure nothing could stand in the way of Angeline’s fortune coming into the Golding coffers once they were man and wife.

  ‘She looks exquisite, old fellow. You’re a lucky man.’

  Nicholas’s whisper reminded Oswald to play the doting groom as his eyes focused on the ethereal figure walking up the aisle on Hector’s arm, and he schooled his features accordingly. Not much longer, and then this farce would be over, he comforted himself. Angeline would be content to play house in the country, and he could get back to his old life. For the sake of appearances he’d take her to town once or twice, and she would have to be part of the exodus to the grouse moors in the autumn for the shooting next year – it was expected of the wives – but he didn’t see her impinging on his liberty as such. She would do what she was told.

  She reached his side. Oswald lifted the veil back from her face to reveal the trusting brown eyes looking at him adoringly.

  Yes, he’d have no trouble with Angeline.

  Chapter Seven

  It was dark when they arrived at Oswald’s large, elegant town house. They’d been met at the station by Harper, Oswald’s man when he was residing in the city. Harper’s wife, Ellen, was housekeeper and cook, and their daughters, Sally and Tessa, were maids. At the last moment, literally as they were leaving for the station, Oswald had told Myrtle that her mistress would not be requiring her to travel to London with them after all.

  Angeline hadn’t demurred until they were in the privacy of the carriage, and he had swept her objections to one side with his boyish smile. ‘The maids will wait on you, my dear, and I want you all to myself,’ he’d murmured, taking her hand in his. ‘The girl is forever popping up and getting in the way. I fear she hasn’t yet learned the art of a good lady’s maid, which is to be invisible when necessary, which is most of the time. If she doesn’t improve, we really will have to think about getting you someone more suited to the position, my dear.’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t do that.’

  His tone and manner altered and, letting go of her hand, he said, ‘You would do just that, if I decided on it.’

  She stared at him. He had never used that tone of voice with her before. Taken aback, she stiffened, her body drawing away from his. There was absolutely no way she would dismiss Myrtle.

  Immediately, his voice now low and appealing, he said, ‘Oh, my sweet, I can’t help it if I want us to enjoy our first days as man and wife alone together, can I? I thought you wanted that, too.’

  Confused and feeling she had failed him in some way, she murmured, ‘I do want that, of course I do.’

  ‘Then it is settled. Your maid will apply herself to preparing for your return. Oh, you are going to adore London, my dear. I find it hard to believe you’ve never been to town before. There’s so much to see and do, and – situated as we are, overlooking Grosvenor Square – we’re at the hub of it all. Of course we’ve missed the Season, but no matter. If it was the height of summer we’d be riding in the Park. Hyde Park,’ he added, seeing her look of enquiry, ‘every afternoon. Everyone who is anyone meets for what is practically a daily Society garden party in the late afternoon, between tea and dinner, at a spot between Albert and Grosvenor Gates under the trees. As for the shops, every woman of my acquaintance loses herself for hours in sheer bliss.’

  She had never seen him so animated. Feeling perturbed, but not knowing why, she listened to him talking about the theatres, opera houses, balls, garden parties, croquet and lawn-tennis afternoons, dinners and banquets he’d attended in the past in his life of gentlemanly leisure, all the way to the train station.

  Once on the journey to London, he waxed lyrical on the subject of the Prince of Wales’s pursuit of pleasure. Luxury and conspicuous consumption of all things fleshly were apparently to the taste of the heir to the throne, and Oswald seemed to approve, as far as Angeline could ascertain. He spoke contemptuously of the Prince’s mother, Queen Victoria, whose court was a model of respectable bourgeois morality. As Angeline’s father had held the Queen in some esteem, and Oswald had never hinted at such views before, she felt overwhelmed by bewilderment. Where was the suitor who had so ardently declared they were made for each other? And who had spoken of marriage as something mysterious and fine?

  She had eaten little at the wedding breakfast; she had been too excited for one thing, and her corset had been so tight it had left no room for food. Now the rocking and bumping of the train were making her nauseous and her head muzzy.

  After a while Oswald noticed her pallor and suggested she shut her eyes, which Angeline was thankful to do. She must have fallen asleep, because it seemed only the next minute that Oswald was rousing her to say they had arrived.

  She glanced at him now as the carriage stopped outside a large three-storey terraced property, with black iron railings separating the yard or two of front garden from the wide pavement. Her sleep had refreshed her, but the churning in her stomach and the feeling of apprehension that had grown since the wedding breakfast were even stronger. One disturbing thought hovered constantly at the back of her mind: this Oswald seemed so different from the man who h
ad declared his endless devotion to her only yesterday. But she countered it by saying to herself that she had to remember this was a big day for him, too. Nevertheless his attitude gave her no confidence for the moment when they would be alone together in the bedroom. Suddenly she felt afraid.

  They were warmly welcomed by Ellen Harper and her daughters, one of whom took Angeline upstairs to the master suite, in order that she could freshen up after the journey. The room was beautifully furnished, and leading off it was a dressing room and a large bathroom with an indoor closet. Oswald had told her there were three more bedrooms on this floor, all with en suites. The top floor of the house was given over to the servants and was therefore more utilitarian.

  When she came downstairs to the drawing room, it was to find Oswald on his second glass of wine, sitting sprawled on a chair in front of the fire. He stood up, saying, ‘A glass of wine or sherry before dinner, my dear?’

  Angeline was about to decline, for she rarely drank alcohol, preferring the taste of soft drinks or tea or coffee. Then, feeling that she needed something stronger for the evening ahead, she nodded. ‘A sherry, please.’

  She sat down on a sofa some distance from the fire, for the evening was warm and the fire had made the room quite stifling. Oswald joined her, handing her the glass of sherry as he said, ‘We have been invited to dinner tomorrow night at the Jeffersons.’ He gestured towards an open envelope lying on the coffee table close to where he had been sitting. ‘I think one or two of my friends who are still in town for a short while would like to meet you before they retire to the country for the shooting.’

  Jefferson. Where had she heard that name before? Realizing he was waiting for a response, she said, ‘Do you want to go?’

  ‘Of course.’ His tone said: why ever not?

  She had hoped their week in London would be spent getting to know each other properly, when she had thought about it before today, but now she realized that the idyll of being alone together every day was perhaps not what Oswald had in mind. Warily she said, ‘I thought everyone had already left for the country?’