Beyond the Veil of Tears

by Rita Bradshaw

  ‘To the house.’ Hector didn’t have to say which house; they both knew there was only one in question.

  As Mrs Upton led Myrtle – who was crying even more loudly, if anything, at this unexpected turn of events – away, Hector shut the study door and stood with his eyes closed for a moment. If only half of what the maid alleged was true, he was likely to get short shrift from Golding, and in spite of himself his stomach churned at the thought of facing him again. He hadn’t been back to the club since the ignominy of that last meeting, when Oswald had held him in such contempt, and their paths had not crossed in the last two years. His shame had prevented him seeing Angeline when she had called at the house shortly after his altercation with her new husband, and as the weeks and months had gone by, it had seemed impossible to bridge the chasm.

  No, he must be honest here, he thought, opening his eyes and straightening his shoulders. He hadn’t wanted to see his niece. He would not have known what to say to her because he couldn’t have voiced the real reason he had quarrelled with Oswald. He had taken the easy way out, even knowing that Angeline would have been distressed and deeply hurt by his rejection of her. He had delivered her into Golding’s clutches and walked away, that was what it boiled down to, although in his own defence he hadn’t imagined for a moment that the man would ill-treat her.

  When he walked out onto the drive, Albert was waiting, standing by the open door of the carriage.

  ‘Bad business this, sir,’ said Albert soberly.

  ‘Yes, indeed, but let us not jump to conclusions until we have established the facts.’

  Albert said nothing as he shut the carriage door after his employer and climbed up into his seat, lifting the horses’ reins, but inside he was shouting, ‘Jump to conclusions! Jump to conclusions?’ Myrtle had told the master the facts in plain English. What more did he want? And why did he think Myrtle would put herself in the position of losing her job – a job her family relied on to keep them out of the workhouse – if every word wasn’t the truth? But then again, there was none so blind as them that didn’t want to see. If blame was to be apportioned regarding this whole sorry affair, the master should be standing right there at the front of the line.

  The sky had clouded over in the last hour and a few desultory snowflakes floated lazily in the morning air. Albert looked up at the thick grey clouds and clicked his tongue for the horses to go faster. They were in for a packet; he could smell the coming snow and he didn’t fancy making the journey back from the big house in the middle of a blizzard. He wanted to get back to Myrtle, too. She was in a right old state about Miss Angeline and the baby, and worrying about how she was going to tell her mam that she’d got the push. He could understand that. The first time he’d gone home with her to the four-roomed cottage in Monkwearmouth, he’d had to hide his shock at the way the family lived. Not that the place wasn’t clean – he’d been amazed at how spotless it was, considering her mam had her hands full with the bairns and the washing she took in – but it was tiny. The front room, into which you stepped from a square of hall that allowed only for the opening of the door, held a double brass bed and a rickety wooden cot. Here Myrtle’s parents slept with the latest baby. From what Albert could gather, Myrtle’s mother seemed to give birth every eighteen months like clockwork. Upstairs, the two small bedrooms had straw mattresses lying on the floorboards for the rest of the children – girls in one room, and boys in the other – with a line of nails driven into the wall for their clothes.

  The family lived in the kitchen, which had a fireplace with an open black range, a kitchen table with an assortment of old chairs round it, a rickety dresser and a number of shelves down one wall. On either side of the fireplace in the two alcoves were more shelves with a cupboard beneath. The tap for water was at the bottom of a communal yard, which served a number of houses, along with a privy and wash house. Their existence was hand-to-mouth and the rent man was a constant spectre.

  Since Myrtle’s father had fallen ill, another son had left school and started work at the Wearmouth Colliery, but that was still only two wages coming into the house to support a family of twelve, counting the new baby who was only a few months old; and the few bob Myrtle’s mother earned from taking in washing went nowhere. They needed Myrtle’s money. Albert bit his lip. And Golding had dismissed her without a reference, which would mean she’d have to take any menial work she could find. For two years now, since she’d become Miss Angeline’s personal maid, Myrtle had been earning double what she could expect anywhere else – Miss Angeline had seen to that. And every Sunday afternoon when he met her at the bottom of the drive of the Golding estate to walk her home to see her parents, Miss Angeline always made sure that Myrtle had a bag of food to give to her mam. And not bread or tatties, either. A cooked ham and other bits one week; a side of best beef and a bag of sugar another – in all the time Myrtle had been at the big house, Miss Angeline had never forgotten. And now the poor lass was at death’s door.

  Albert sighed heavily and then geed up the horses, which were apt to dawdle, given half a chance.

  He felt sick to his stomach about what had happened to Miss Angeline, but he had to admit another part of his mind – perhaps the greater part – had been chewing over what this new state of affairs would mean for him and Myrtle. He couldn’t see her family reduced to going to the workhouse, and without the generous wage she’d been earning that’s what this could mean. The money he put aside each month towards the smallholding that was his own and Myrtle’s future was now a tidy sum, but he couldn’t in all conscience hold onto it and see Myrtle’s heart broken. He was going to have to subsidize whatever Myrtle could earn, and put the dream on hold. By, he could swing for Golding – he could straight.

  By the time the carriage clip-clopped along the drive leading to the house the snow was coming down thicker. Albert pulled up on the forecourt at the bottom of the steps leading to the front door and alighted, opening the carriage door. Then he stood watching his employer as he mounted the steps and rang the bell. He found himself praying that for once Mr Hector would show some backbone and be a man. Damn it, he and Olive had never understood why Mr Hector had married his niece off to Golding, but surely now a blind man could see it had been a huge mistake.

  The door was opened and Hector stepped inside, and then there were just the horses snorting softly and the snow falling in big starry flakes, and Albert was left to his sombre, anxious thoughts in a quiet white world.

  It had been Wood, the butler, who had answered the door, and only years of practice kept his face from showing any emotion when he had recognized the man standing on the doorstep. Every servant in the house knew why Myrtle had been dismissed – Myrtle had made sure she hadn’t gone quietly – and each one knew better than to express an opinion about what had befallen Mrs Golding, or to speak of the situation to anyone but each other. Now the butler led the way across the hall, the floor of which was polished until it resembled a mirror each morning, saying, ‘If you will come this way, sir, I will tell the master you are here’, before opening the drawing-room door.

  Once alone, Hector made his way to the massive fireplace and stood staring down into the great wooden logs ablaze there. From somewhere deep inside him strength had come in the last few moments. He had left Oswald like a whipped puppy that night at the club two years ago, but he was damned if he would let the man intimidate him again.

  When the door opened he swung round. Oswald stood there, as perfectly groomed and suave as always. ‘Hector, my dear fellow. You’ve heard? So good of you to come.’

  It took him aback. Whatever he had expected, it wasn’t to be greeted with open arms. Stammering slightly, he said, ‘Th-the maid. She came to my h-house this morning.’

  ‘Ah, the maid.’ Oswald shook his head. ‘I confess I didn’t know what to do with the girl; she’s been here on borrowed time for a while. I found her pilfering the odd trinket or two months ago, but when I tried to dismiss her Angeline was so upset I allowed her to st
ay. I can only surmise that once she saw her mistress so ill, she thought I might take advantage of the situation and get rid of her, so she made up the preposterous story that I had attacked my own wife, in the hope of blackmailing me. Of course, even for Angeline, I could not allow her to stay after that, and frankly the girl is fortunate not to be in the hands of the law today. If it wasn’t for my beloved wife and the anguish such an action would cause her, after the grief of losing our child, I would not have restrained myself. The baggage wasn’t even in the room when Angeline fell. Did she tell you that? But come, sit down. I’ve arranged for coffee and brandy to warm you; it’s a filthy day and, with the shock, I’m sure you need it.’

  ‘I want to see my niece.’

  ‘The doctor’s with her at present. It’s touch and go, I’m afraid.’ Oswald drew a hand across his eyes as though overcome. ‘I don’t understand, Hector. One moment we were so happy, expecting our first child, and now . . . ’ His voice cracked. ‘I can’t go on without her, I shall go mad.’

  Hector felt totally nonplussed. Slowly he sat down. Oswald turned away, as though struggling to compose himself, and after a few moments said thickly, ‘Excuse me a moment, I won’t be long’ and left the room.

  Once in the hall Oswald stood for a moment with his back to the door, his head lifting and his eyes narrowing. This needn’t be the disaster he’d feared it would be, during the long night hours before the child was stillborn. It looked as though the mother would soon follow the child, and with the maid out of the way and the doctor backing him, nothing would be said. He could manage Hector Stewart. The man was nothing short of a simpleton.

  Oswald straightened his shoulders. Come the funeral for both mother and child, he would play the grieving husband and father to the hilt. After that he would be free to resume his old life once more. And after all, he’d barely touched Angeline; it had been her stumbling backwards and falling across the chair that had caused the damage. She was a scrawny, weakly little thing at the best of times; it was highly likely she would never have gone full-term anyway. She clearly wasn’t meant to bear children.

  As he stood there, the doctor came walking down the stairs, a housemaid trailing after him. From the look on the physician’s face Oswald thought Angeline had gone already, and he aimed to keep the deep relief out of his voice as he said, ‘How is she?’

  The doctor shook his head. ‘Prepare yourself, Mr Golding. It could be any time. The loss of blood was severe – the worst I’ve seen where a patient is still breathing. I fear,’ he shook his head again, ‘there is little hope. Your housekeeper is sitting with her at present, but with your permission I will arrange for a nurse to attend Mrs Golding while it remains necessary.’

  Oswald inclined his head. Any time. Any time and he would be free of this marriage that had become like a lead weight around his neck. All he had to do was keep his head, placate that old fool Hector, and make sure the man passed on his threat to send the maid down the line if she didn’t keep her mouth shut. What was the word of a common servant compared to his? And the way the chit had spoken to him, he could have wrung her neck. But he must be careful to do everything by the book till Angeline died. With that in mind he said quietly, ‘My wife’s uncle is in the drawing room and naturally he is very upset. Would you care to have a word with the poor fellow, and explain that you believe my wife fell and this brought on the miscarriage of the child?’

  The doctor looked full into the handsome face. He was aware of what he was being asked to do, in collaborating Golding’s version of events, but in truth there was no reason not to. The maid admitted herself that she had not been present when the fall had taken place, the wife was not long for this world and, as physician to the Golding estate, he earned a considerable amount of money each year, which would almost certainly cease if he fell foul of Oswald Golding. Whatever the truth of the matter, nothing could now be proved one way or the other. Nodding briskly he said, ‘Of course’ and walked across the hall and through the door that Oswald opened.

  Hector listened to the doctor, and after the man had left he continued to listen to Oswald for some minutes more. Then he followed Angeline’s husband out of the drawing room and up the stairs to his niece’s quarters.

  When he walked into the room with Oswald, the housekeeper who had been sitting by the bed rose to her feet, but Oswald motioned for her to sit again, saying, ‘We are only going to be a moment, Mrs Gibson. Dr Owen is sending a nurse to take over shortly, when you will resume your duties as normal. Can you see to it that a single bed is brought in here when she arrives, and anything else she asks for?’

  Hector walked over to the bed. Angeline appeared deeply unconscious, her swollen, discoloured face made all the more shocking by the bloodless white of her hands, which were folded across her chest on top of the counterpane. She wasn’t recognizable as the eager young girl who had left his house that morning two years ago to marry the man of her dreams. Could this amount of damage to her face be the result of a simple fall over a chair? Reason said no. And yet the doctor had appeared quite satisfied that it was so. But then again, Dr Owen was Oswald’s physician and was unlikely to cause waves in the absence of concrete proof. But her face, her poor little face.

  Hector gently lowered his head and kissed Angeline’s forehead. It was icy cold. Straightening, he said to the housekeeper, ‘Tuck her arms under the covers and bring a thick eiderdown, she is freezing.’

  ‘There are hot-water bottles at her feet and sides, sir.’

  ‘I don’t care, it’s not enough.’

  Soothingly Oswald murmured, ‘It’s the loss of blood, Hector. There’s little we can do,’ before adding to Mrs Gibson, ‘Ring for an eiderdown, Mrs Gibson, and the housemaid can make up the fire while she’s here. Keep it blazing day and night for the time being.’

  Hector glanced towards the fireplace where a good fire was glowing in the grate, small flames leaping up the chimney. The room wasn’t cold; in fact it was stuffy, if anything. Suddenly he felt a deep heaviness in his spirit. All the eiderdowns and fires in the world wouldn’t save her. She was dying.

  Chapter Thirteen

  But Angeline did not die.

  For a full month she remained oblivious of where she was or what had happened, cared for by the nurse Dr Owen had sent to the house. Fortunately for Angeline, Nurse Ramshaw was a strong and forthright northern woman who took no nonsense from anyone and was dedicated to her chosen profession. The patient was the only person who mattered to Nurse Ramshaw, and she rubbed Oswald up the wrong way from the first day. Consequently he stayed out of the sick room, confining his visits to a few minutes in the evening for the sake of appearances.

  After three weeks all that remained of the injuries to Angeline’s face was a small bump on the bridge of her nose, where the bone had become distorted, and the faintest of bruises. By the end of four weeks, when she began to show signs of returning to full consciousness, even those shadows had disappeared.

  It was on the morning of Christmas Eve, when the snow was thick on the ground and a bitter north-east wind had created great drifts that could swallow a man whole, that Nurse Ramshaw awoke to find her patient struggling to sit up. Before the nurse could speak, Angeline whispered, ‘My baby?’

  Nurse Ramshaw was not one for prevaricating. Gently she said, ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Golding.’

  She had known. Even in the strange deep sleep that had overtaken her, Angeline had known. This morning, when she had come to, her hands had moved to her flat stomach, and now she wanted to join her baby. There was nothing left for her in this world. With tears streaming down her face, she shut her eyes and slipped back into the darkness, but within the hour she was awoken by gentle but firm hands, the same hands she had been dimly conscious of in her dreamlike state. Nurse Ramshaw smoothed the eiderdown as she said, ‘I’ve a nice warm drink for you here, Mrs Golding. Do you think you could manage it yourself?’

  Through the fog in her head she could remember this voice and the taste of li
quid on her tongue. Weakly she murmured, ‘I don’t want a drink.’

  ‘Oh aye, you do.’ The nurse bent over her, stroking a strand of hair from Angeline’s forehead. ‘We’re going to get you well again.’

  She couldn’t argue. She was too tired to argue. She allowed the ministrations of the nurse without protesting unduly, including the washing of her body and the changing of her nightdress, and then she slept again. At one point she heard the nurse saying, ‘I’ve told you, Mr Golding, she will probably sleep twenty-three hours out of twenty-four for the next weeks, and it’s the best thing for her. She has turned the corner, and that’s the main thing,’ and realized it must have been Oswald’s voice that penetrated the layers of sleep moments before. She made no effort to open her eyes or to move, but when he said something to the nurse and then the door opened and closed, a hatred so intense it caught her breath balled in her throat.

  He had struck out at her and she had fallen – she remembered it all now – and then the baby had started coming. Slowly she moved her head and looked to where Nurse Ramshaw was sitting at the end of the bed. ‘Where’s Myrtle?’

  ‘What’s that, Mrs Golding?’ the nurse asked as she came to stand by her.

  ‘Myrtle, my maid. Where is she?’ Dimly she remembered Myrtle shouting that Oswald must keep away, and it had been Myrtle’s hand she had held through those terrible hours. She wanted Myrtle; Myrtle understood what had happened.

  Nurse Ramshaw’s brow wrinkled. She seemed to remember Dr Owen saying something about a maid who had been dismissed, but he had warned her not to get involved in the affairs of the house, not that she would have dreamed of doing so. Her patient was her only concern, besides which the staff here treated her with suspicion and wariness. She was an outsider and not one of them. Quietly she said, ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Golding. I don’t know a Myrtle. There has been no one here of that name since I have been taking care of you.’