Beyond the Veil of Tears

by Rita Bradshaw

  She had always been frightened of dying. That seemed laughable now. But in the past, life had held so many things she wouldn’t have wanted to give up. And then she had met Oswald. When she looked back she could believe that all her feelings had been worn out since then. First she had loved unreservedly and unconditionally, and then eventually she had hated in equal measure, but in between had been a whole host of emotions. It was ironic that the man who had killed all love for him within her had inadvertently been the means of giving her something that made all other kinds of love weak by comparison. But then finally he’d destroyed that too, her little baby. Since Christmas Eve she’d felt her heart had been torn from her soul with the pain and bitterness consuming her; it was a relief to feel nothing now. She only wanted that: to feel nothing. To slip into the vast void and leave all emotions behind. It was cowardly and wrong, but that’s what she wanted.

  She must have slept because she awoke to the door opening and Oswald striding into the room. He walked over to the bed and stood looking down at her. ‘From this day forth you are going to eat everything you are given,’ he said with no lead-in. ‘I will not have a wife who is an invalid, do you understand me? And in the afternoons you will come downstairs, starting from tomorrow. You may lie on the sofa in the morning room or on one in the drawing room – it makes no odds – but you will dress and leave this room. The weakness you complain of will only increase if you give in to it. It is mostly in the mind, as it is. You need to pull yourself together.’

  Quietly she said, ‘Is this what Dr Owen has said?’

  ‘It is what I have said. I am your husband, and you will do what you are told. Other women go through what you have. You are not a unique case, so stop acting like one.’

  Angeline was trying to hold on to her sense of vacuity, but something was happening inside. The void was being filled by a rage so intense that her voice shook as she said, ‘I presume you are referring to the loss of my baby?’

  ‘Of course. You can have more children; you are young and, after all, it was only a female child.’

  The white flames of anger were truly alight and nothing could douse them. Her springing from the bed surprised them both, but then her hands were clawing at his face, her nails gouging the flesh as she screamed her hatred.

  Her fingers had no real force behind them and she had begun to fall even before he threw her back onto the bed, cursing and shouting as he did so. Vaguely Angeline was aware of other voices joining Oswald’s, but she was feeling faint, the strength that had coursed through her when he had dismissed so contemptuously the death of their baby girl quite gone.

  When the commotion died down, she knew it was Mrs Gibson sitting by the bed holding her hand, although the housekeeper’s voice was uncharacteristically soft. Then everything was quiet for a long time. It was dark, and she didn’t know if it was night or early morning when she became conscious of voices about her. It was Polly who whispered, ‘What did he do to make her go for him like that, and her half-dead as it is.’

  ‘I don’t know, Polly, and if you don’t want to be out on your ear, you won’t speculate on the matter. Suffice to say she’s played right into his hands, the poor dear.’

  ‘What do you mean, Mrs Gibson?’

  ‘Least said, soonest mended. If there’s one thing I’ve learned since being here, it’s to hold my tongue, and I suggest you do the same.’

  ‘I can’t believe Nurse Ramshaw was given the elbow. I’m no doctor, but even I can see the mistress needs looking after by someone who knows what’s what. It wasn’t so long ago she was at death’s door, an’ she’s as weak as a kitten.’

  ‘Not so weak she didn’t mark him, more’s the pity.’

  ‘More’s the pity? I didn’t think you’d got any time for him, the same as the rest of us.’

  A sigh followed. ‘Think, Polly. If he needed evidence she’s gone a bit doolally, then the marks on his face prove it.’

  ‘The mistress?’ Polly was indignant. ‘She’s no more doolally than I am, the poor thing. An’ if Myrtle’s to be believed, an’ I think she is, that bairn ought to be on the master’s conscience.’

  ‘That’s enough!’ It was razor-sharp. ‘You hear me?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Gibson.’

  ‘That sort of talk leads to trouble, m’girl, so just you think on. The mistress is of the gentry, she don’t need you to be in her corner, because she certainly wouldn’t be in yours. They’re a different breed, Polly.’

  ‘The mistress isn’t like that.’

  ‘They’re all like that, and don’t you forget it. You think the mistress knows about a poor widow woman bringing up her bairns on four shillings a week from the parish; and lighting in her grate, from time to time, a piece of brown paper, in order that she and the bairns might warm their hands for three or four fleeting seconds, when the paper flames and roars in the draught of the crooked chimney? Well, that was me mam, an’ out of the seven of us bairns, it was only me and me brother who come through the winter of ’62. So don’t talk to me about the gentry, Polly. Our Timmy used to walk nine miles every morning with his tool-bag on his back to the carpenter’s shop where he was employed, and nine miles back of an evening, and him nought but a bairn at eleven years old. And you know what? Old Mr Ferry, the landowner who owned the carpenter’s business and everything else an’ all, used to pass our Timmy trudging home after knocking-off time and not once would it occur to him to let him sit alongside the driver of his carriage. Some of the landed gentry might think of their villagers or servants as “their” people, but only in the same way they think of their horses and hounds. In fact, not as highly as their horses and hounds, truth be known. So don’t you go sticking your neck out for the mistress, nice as she is.’

  ‘No, Mrs Gibson.’

  ‘Now you get yourself off to bed, once you’ve helped me give the mistress her medicine.’

  ‘What about you, Mrs Gibson?’

  ‘I’ll stay here for a bit. I don’t sleep none too well as it is, so it’s no odds to me.’

  Angeline was half-lifted from the pillows and when Mrs Gibson murmured, ‘It’s your nightcap, ma’am, the one Nurse Ramshaw said to give you’, she opened her lips obediently and swallowed the familiar bitter liquid.

  Instead of the deep sleep that the draught normally induced, her rest was fitful, punctuated by nightmarish dreams and ghoulish, insubstantial images. At one point she thought she heard Oswald’s voice saying, ‘Mrs Gibson? What are you still doing here? It’s two in the morning. I was just checking on Mrs Golding after her seizure earlier.’

  ‘I thought I’d sit up with the mistress tonight, sir. She being so poorly an’ all.’

  Angeline detected a note of intense irritation in Oswald’s voice, which he seemed to be trying to mask. ‘That is not necessary. You need your sleep.’

  ‘Nevertheless, I’d like to stay, sir. Just for tonight.’

  ‘Very well.’ And, as an afterthought, ‘Thank you, Mrs Gibson. Goodnight.’

  ‘Goodnight, sir.’

  And then Angeline knew she must be dreaming when, after a minute or two, she heard the housekeeper mutter to herself, ‘Aye, an’ I’ve got your measure, Mr High-an’-Mighty. A pillow over her face would sort all the problems, wouldn’t it?’

  She must finally have gone deeply asleep because when she next awoke the white light of morning was pouring into the room and Mrs Gibson had gone. Polly was drawing back the drapes from the window and, when the maid saw she was awake, she said brightly, ‘Good morning, ma’am. It’s late so I thought I’d better wake you.’

  ‘What time is it, Polly?’ Angeline sat up, the events of the previous evening flooding back. Part of her was horrified that she could so far have forgotten herself as to attack Oswald. Another section of her mind, which was becoming stronger over the last days, told her he deserved far worse.

  Polly handed her a cup of tea as she said, ‘Gone eleven, ma’am, but Mrs Gibson said you were tossing and turning nearly all night, so we t
hought you could do with the rest.’ The maid hesitated for a moment. ‘The master left the house early this morning, ma’am.’

  ‘Did he? Did he say where he was going?’

  ‘I think’ – again Polly paused – ‘Raymond, the footman, heard the master tell Mr Wood he was going to bring Dr Owen back with him. They should be here soon.’

  Angeline nodded, still sleepy and light-headed from the effects of the sleeping draught, which usually took most of the day to clear completely. Through the drug-induced fog in her mind she wondered vaguely why Oswald had gone to fetch the doctor himself, for he had never done that before, always sending a message with one of the footmen if he needed Dr Owen. After Polly had left the room she’d done no more than raise the cup to her lips before she heard footsteps outside the door. Oswald entered, with Dr Owen at his heels. Her eyes widened when she saw her husband’s face. It was covered with scratches and, although they didn’t look deep, some appeared quite red.

  She hadn’t done all that. She stared at Oswald. She knew she hadn’t. The marks on his cheeks certainly, but his forehead, his nose, his throat? What was going on?

  ‘Mrs Golding.’ Dr Owen’s voice was soothing. ‘I hear you were a little disturbed after Nurse Ramshaw left yesterday evening. How are you feeling this morning?’

  Angeline sat up straighter. ‘I was disturbed, as you put it, by my husband saying the death of my baby was unimportant as she was a girl. Reason enough, wouldn’t you say, Dr Owen?’

  ‘That’s not true,’ Oswald said softly. ‘As I said, I came in to spend a little time with her, and for no reason at all she suddenly attacked me, screaming and shouting. I had to fend her off as best I could, but as you can see’ – he raised a hand to his face and then stretched both hands out, palms down, to reveal further welts on the backs of them – ‘not without cost. She seemed to possess what I can only describe as superhuman strength.’

  ‘Do you remember attacking Mr Golding?’

  Angeline stared at the doctor. ‘Yes, of course I remember, but that’s not to say it happened as he says it did. It was his fault.’

  ‘You see?’ Oswald shrugged his shoulders. ‘I have tried, believe me I’ve tried, but she needs help that I can’t provide.’

  ‘I didn’t do that amount of damage to his face, Dr Owen. How could I?’

  ‘So you don’t really remember?’ the doctor said gently.

  Angeline tried to clear her mind. ‘I’ve told you I remember what happened last night and I do, but all that’ – she gestured towards Oswald – ‘is not of my doing.’

  ‘Mrs Golding, do you remember suffering from bouts of rage in the past when the focus of your anger was Mr Golding?’

  ‘What? No. No, of course not.’ Frightened now, she glanced at Oswald, who stared back impassively. ‘I don’t know what my husband has told you, but none of it is true. He’s the one who can be violent, and because of him hitting me the baby died. He struck me and—’

  ‘Always the same,’ Oswald interrupted sadly. ‘I confess I hoped having a child would calm her, so in that sense I am partly to blame. However, what one might once have described as childish tantrums have become more . . . serious. I hold the parents responsible to some extent. They must have detected some mental weakness in the past, but as far as I know spoke of it to no one. But then, a beloved only child – it is understandable.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ Angeline stared into the cold, calculating eyes. ‘Stop it, you’re lying.’ Appealing to the doctor, she said, ‘Please, Dr Owen, you must help me.’

  ‘I am going to help you, my dear. We all want to help you. There are places where such maladies can be treated very successfully. Now, why don’t we get you dressed and then we’ll go for a little ride.’

  He was talking as though she were a simpleton. Trying to keep her voice from trembling, Angeline said, ‘Places? What places? What are you suggesting?’

  ‘Now, now, do not agitate yourself, Mrs Golding. All will be well, you’ll see.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere.’ She was pressing back against the pillows, and then her terror mounted as Dr Owen called out, ‘Blackett, Hopkins’ and two bulky figures appeared behind the slight person of the doctor.

  ‘Now come along, Mrs Golding. This is helping no one.’

  As she scrambled out of the far side of the bed, the doctor motioned for one of the men to walk round to her. It was then that she began screaming.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Betty Ramshaw had never felt such a conflict of loyalties. She admired Dr Owen greatly and was more than a little bit secretly in love with him, but when she had arrived at work earlier that morning and one of the staff had told her what had befallen Mrs Golding, she’d been horrified. Now it was lunchtime, and she stood outside Hector Stewart’s residence in a fever of indecision, one hand fingering the envelope in her pocket.

  If, as Dr Owen seemed to think, Mrs Golding wasn’t in possession of her faculties, then she wasn’t in a position to endow this maid with such a large sum of money. On the other hand – Nurse Ramshaw’s brow wrinkled worriedly – Mrs Golding had seemed perfectly lucid to her. Frail and depressed and upset certainly, but in the circumstances was that surprising? As for the husband, he was a nasty piece of work. She wouldn’t put much past that man, and if his wife had become an inconvenience, what better place to ship her off to than Earlswood Asylum north of Newcastle? Out of sight, out of mind. The poor dear. Dr Owen had been hoodwinked by Mrs Golding’s husband, she’d bet her last farthing on it.

  Well, she couldn’t stand here all day. It was now or never. Taking a deep breath, Betty marched up the drive and round to the back of the house, where she hoped to find the kitchen door. She intended to have a word with Mrs Golding’s uncle before she left, but wanted to see the maid’s young man first and any other staff employed here. She wouldn’t mention the envelope in her pocket initially, but would get a feel for what was what. She prided herself on being a good judge of character, and if she felt in any way bothered by what she discovered here, she would leave without handing the envelope over. She could say she had come to tell them about Mrs Golding’s admittance to the asylum, which was true in a way.

  It was Olive Upton who answered the knock at the back door and she stared in surprise at the uniformed nurse standing on the doorstep. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘I hope so. I’ve been nursing Mrs Golding, at the Golding estate, for the last weeks and she asked me to pass on her best wishes to Myrtle via her young man. She – Mrs Golding – was most insistent.’

  ‘Oh, come in, come in.’ Olive’s austere face broke into a smile. ‘How is Miss Angeline – I mean, Mrs Golding?’

  Betty Ramshaw followed the housekeeper through a scullery and then into a large warm kitchen where a young couple were sitting at a table, cups of tea and half a large fruitcake in front of them. Olive turned, saying, ‘You can speak to Myrtle yourself, she’s popped in to see Albert. Myrtle, this is the nurse who’s been looking after Miss Angeline.’

  Myrtle had jumped up and now she came round the table and clasped Betty’s hand eagerly as she said, ‘How is she? The mistress? Oh, I’ve been that worried. Is she feeling better?’

  Betty looked into the bright young face and liked what she saw. Her voice gentle, she said, ‘I think you’d better sit down, lass.’

  ‘She’s not . . . ’

  ‘No, no, nothing like that. But it’s not good news.’

  Albert had stood up and now took Myrtle’s arm, making her sit down, before he said, ‘You look like you could do with a cup of tea, Nurse. Take the weight off, and tell us why you’ve come.’

  Betty plumped herself down, gratefully accepting the cup of tea from Olive before she said, ‘Well, I’ve been nursing Mrs Golding, like I said, and she rallied at Christmas, came to herself so to speak, but of course she’s very weak and poorly still. She was beginning to pull round when he – Mr Golding – suddenly announced yesterday that I’m to leave and she doesn’t need a nurse any
more. Which is nonsense, in my opinion. Anyway, when Mrs Golding knew I was going, she wrote a letter and enclosed some money and asked me to deliver it to your young man, as she didn’t know where you were. But then this morning . . . ’

  ‘What?’ Myrtle leaned forward. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Well, I can only repeat what I’ve been told, lass. It seems Mrs Golding attacked her husband last night, and this morning he saw Dr Owen and they’ve got the magistrate to issue a lunacy order. They’ve taken her to an asylum, I understand.’

  Myrtle blanched. ‘No, not the mistress. Not in one of them places. That can’t be true. There’s been some mistake.’

  ‘Apparently her husband insisted on it.’

  ‘But Miss Angeline isn’t mad.’ Myrtle appealed to Albert and Olive, ‘She isn’t, is she? Tell her.’

  ‘I don’t think Mrs Golding is mad, dear, or else I wouldn’t be here. But folk are admitted for all sorts of reasons, and some of them . . . ’ The nurse shrugged, indicating she didn’t agree with the system, but was powerless to do anything about it.

  ‘I have to do something.’ Myrtle stared at Albert. ‘It’s him – that devil.’ Turning back to Nurse Ramshaw, she said, ‘She was swept off her feet from the moment she met him, but he never loved her, I know it. He caused her to lose the baby, Nurse. I can’t prove it, but it’s true. From the day she married him she’s been a different person, and not in a good way. And now this. An asylum. And her the gentlest of creatures. Whatever he said she did, he’s lying.’

  ‘Well, my dear, that might well be true, but I’m afraid there is little you can do. Here’ – Betty reached into her pocket and drew out the envelope – ‘Mrs Golding wanted you to have this, for your kindness to her. She was very upset you had been dismissed. She thinks a great deal of you, you know, lass.’