Beyond the Veil of Tears

by Rita Bradshaw

  Much as she would have liked Albert to accompany her, she knew he was desperately needed at the farm and that an overnight stay in London would take him away for too long. Therefore she staunchly insisted that she would travel alone, and Albert just as vehemently said she would not. A compromise was reached when it was agreed that Frederick would take some days off school and accompany her. Two months away from his thirteenth birthday, Frederick was long and lanky and looked older than his actual age. Furthermore, the last years of having an ailing father and the family living from hand to mouth had toughened him up and, as Albert said with some approval, he had an old head on young shoulders.

  So it was that, one morning towards the end of May, Myrtle and Frederick waved goodbye to the rest of the family and made the train journey south. Myrtle had not tried to make an appointment to see Marmaduke Jefferson, fearing she would be refused outright if she did so, so she left on the understanding that she had no real idea how soon she and Frederick would return, but hopefully they would stay in London only for one night.

  Frederick was as excited as a bairn on Christmas Eve as the train journey unfolded, but was trying hard to maintain the adult pose expected of him as Myrtle’s protector. Myrtle, on the other hand, was in a state of quiet trepidation at what she might face at the journey’s end.

  By the time the train puffed into King’s Cross station in London it was three o’clock in the afternoon. As Myrtle and Frederick alighted – Frederick carrying the carpet bag with their overnight things, and the remainder of the sandwiches and cake they had brought with them and were saving for their tea – they looked about them in some confusion. The noise, the people, the general hustle and bustle were more than they had encountered before and it was all overwhelming. Myrtle settled her straw bonnet more firmly on her head, smoothed her summer coat free of the creases of the journey and slipped her arm through that of her brother. Albert had told her to find a taxi driver when she arrived at the station. ‘Smile prettily,’ he’d said with a grin, ‘and tell him you can’t afford his cab, but need to know how to get to a certain street. Then you can get a tram there.’

  Her brain whirling, she said to Frederick, ‘I think we both need a cup of tea before we do anything else, Fred. There’s a station cafe over there. Let’s go and have a sit down and get our bearings, and then we’ll see about finding Lower Berkeley Street. We know it’s off Portman Square in the West End, so that’s a help.’

  An hour and a half later they were standing outside the Jeffersons’ grand terraced establishment, and Myrtle’s heart was in her mouth. The stateliness of Lower Berkeley Street and all its neighbours proclaimed that the wealthy citizens and aristocrats of England monopolized the western half of the West End, as did the extraordinary ring of wide and pleasant parks that dotted the area. Myrtle had listened to Angeline talk about Oswald’s London house and the shops and entertainment, the palaces, gentlemen’s clubs, art establishments and museums in the capital, but she had never accompanied her mistress on her visits. Oswald had insisted that Ellen Harper and her daughters were on hand to see to Angeline’s needs, and that had been that. Now, as the grandeur of the nobility’s and gentry’s summer residences were in plain sight, she wondered how she’d had the temerity to think Marmaduke Jefferson would grant her an audience. But she had to try.

  She glanced over her shoulder to where Frederick was waiting on the other side of the road. She had thought it better that she saw this last stage of the undertaking through on her own, but now she wondered whether to call him over. She felt very small and insignificant standing on the bottom of the four immaculate steps leading up to the gleaming front door, and glanced to her right, where a set of steps led down to what she assumed was the kitchen and the servants’ entrance below ground level. Should she make enquiries there first? But probably they would just send her away with a flea in her ear.

  She hesitated for a moment more and then took a deep breath and walked up the steps, yanking firmly on the bell pull. Her heart was now thudding so hard she didn’t know if she would be able to speak when the door opened. It took a few moments and then the door swung open and an individual whom she took to be the butler was peering down his nose at her. He looked her up and down. ‘Yes?’

  No ‘Miss’ or ‘Madam’ or ‘What can I do for you?’ Strangely, his attitude put iron in Myrtle’s backbone. She had decided to plead her cause to whoever opened the door. Now she straightened her shoulders and said coolly, ‘I’m here to see Mr Jefferson.’

  ‘Are you indeed. Do you have an appointment?’

  Lying through her back teeth, she said, ‘Of course.’

  ‘And the name is?’

  ‘I’m Mrs Golding’s personal maid.’

  ‘Well, Mrs Golding’s personal maid,’ he said with deep sarcasm, ‘if you had had an appointment with Mr Jefferson, I would have known about it.’

  Looking him straight in the eye she said coldly, ‘Mr Jefferson must have forgotten to mention it, but I suggest you inform him that I am here.’ She was banking on curiosity, if nothing else, prompting Mirabelle’s husband to see her.

  ‘Now look here—’

  ‘No, you look! I have an appointment, and I don’t appreciate being kept waiting.’

  ‘I don’t know what your game is, m’girl, but I do know you don’t have an appointment with the master. Do you want to know how I can be so sure? Because he’s—’

  ‘Myrtle?’ A voice behind the butler caused him to swing round, and Myrtle saw Alice, Mirabelle’s personal maid, standing there. ‘I was just crossing the hall and I thought I knew that voice. What on earth are you doing here?’

  Myrtle gazed at Alice, her brain working furiously. They had met at various times over the last two years during the house parties in the autumn and winter, but it could hardly be said that they were bosom pals. Alice was a personal maid in every sense of the word and had made it clear she considered Myrtle far beneath her. A well-educated young woman in her own right, her qualifications and range of skills were excellent, as were her manners and deportment. It was well known that she was devoted to her mistress, and also that Mirabelle thought very highly of Alice and conferred privileges on her that made her like one of the family. All the other personal maids had been envious of her, and more than a little in awe of this paragon of virtue. Alice would know if Mr Golding had upset her mistress in some way and, if he had, Alice would be furious.

  Throwing caution to the wind, Myrtle said urgently, ‘Alice, I have to see Mr Jefferson about something Mr Golding’s done. He’s a devil, Mr Golding, and I think if Mr Jefferson knows—’

  She stopped as Alice held up her hand, then said to the butler, ‘I’ll deal with this.’

  He said not a word as Alice beckoned for Myrtle to follow her, and Myrtle reflected that all the stories about Alice’s power within the household seemed to be true.

  For her part, Alice was agog behind her calm, neat facade. She had put two and two together at the time of the attack on her mistress and knew full well Oswald was behind it, although nothing had been said between mistress and maid about that terrible incident from that day to this. The fact that her mistress’s long-standing affair with Mr Golding had finished at that time, and the hate and loathing with which she had spoken of him since, were proof enough. And Alice knew that her mistress was aware that she knew; it was one of the many unspoken confidences they shared.

  Alice led Myrtle into the morning room and shut the door behind them. It was a beautiful room and spoke volumes about the Jeffersons’ wealth and power, but all Myrtle was conscious of was the strong scent of hothouse lilies from the huge bowl of the flowers on an occasional table nearby. Thereafter she could never smell lilies without her stomach churning.

  Without preamble Alice said, ‘Well? What’s happened?’

  Myrtle didn’t think about not telling Alice. There was only one way she would get to speak to Mr Jefferson and that was through this plain, reserved woman in front of her, who had always seeme
d more aristocratic than some of the high-born ladies. Again she repeated, ‘Mr Golding, he’s a devil, Alice. There’s another side to him that’s plain wicked. He hit Miss Angeline and caused her to fall and lose the baby before Christmas, and now he’s got her locked up in one of them lunatic asylums and won’t let anyone see her. Her uncle tried and he’s dead – no one knows if it was an accident or what – and because I said what Mr Golding had done, he dismissed me.’

  Alice was looking at her in amazement. Weakly, she said, ‘You . . . you need a job?’

  ‘No, no, it’s not that. I’m married, see,’ she held out her left hand, ‘and we’re nicely settled with our own farm, thanks in part to Miss Angeline – I mean, Mrs Golding. No, it’s that he’ll keep her in there, Alice. I know it. He won’t let them release her, not ever. And she’s as sane as you and me, so can you imagine what it must be like? Miss Angeline, of all people.’ Her voice broke and her lip trembled, and she bit down hard on it with her top teeth, telling herself she mustn’t cry. Not now. She mustn’t appear hysterical or neurotic, or they wouldn’t believe her.

  Alice was still staring at her and it was clear she was completely taken aback. After a moment she said, ‘We heard Mrs Golding had lost the baby, of course, and that she was dreadfully ill, but as far as I’m aware, everyone thinks she is being kept quietly at home until she regains her strength.’

  ‘Aye, and I know why they think that,’ Myrtle said bitterly. ‘I suppose he put it about she don’t want no visitors, either? The next thing’ll be she’s had a relapse or a breakdown, and then after that it’ll be she’s in a nursing home or abroad, or something; and by the time someone might find out where she really is, years will have gone by. She’s got no one to speak up for her, Alice. No one to challenge Mr Golding. And he’s got the doctors in his pocket.’ Lowering her voice she said, ‘She wasn’t going to stay with him, you know, once the bairn was born. She hinted at it more than once.’

  ‘A separation, you mean?’

  Myrtle shrugged. ‘Perhaps, or she might have just escaped somewhere, I don’t know. Maybe he found out, or maybe he just wanted her locked away so he could carry on with his life regardless. He never loved her, but then you’d know that.’

  Alice ignored the reference to her mistress’s affair with Oswald, but the expression on her face warned Myrtle not to say any more on that matter.

  ‘I thought Mr Jefferson might speak up for Miss Angeline, Alice. I know there’s no love lost between him and Mr Golding since they had a falling-out.’

  ‘What do you know about that?’

  Alice’s voice had been sharp, but Myrtle warned herself not to reply in like vein. Quietly she said, ‘Not much, except that it seems to have been the cause of Mr Golding’s attack on Miss Angeline. He blamed her for it, by all accounts.’

  They had been standing and now Alice waved to one of the chairs that the room held. ‘Sit down and wait, and I’ll see what I can do. I’m not promising anything, but I’ll see.’

  Myrtle wanted to throw herself on the other girl’s neck and cry with relief. Instead she said softly, ‘Thank you, Alice. Thank you very much.’

  Myrtle sat in the morning room, which was tastefully and exquisitely furnished, for more than ten minutes, but when Alice returned, Myrtle couldn’t for the life of her have described one item in it. Her whole being was willing Alice’s mission to be successful. If Mr Jefferson refused to see her, she didn’t know what else to do. And as Albert had put it, gentry turning against gentry and backing the likes of her was highly unlikely. But it wasn’t her, she told herself, as though in the telling she could convince Mr Jefferson. It was Miss Angeline’s well-being that was at stake here. If she could just see Mirabelle’s husband and tell him that – explain how things were – he’d surely see that he had to do something? But then the upper classes were a different breed. Who knew how he would react?

  She jumped to her feet when Alice came into the room.

  ‘Come along.’ Alice’s voice was neutral.

  ‘He’ll see me?’

  ‘Follow me and be quiet.’

  Myrtle did as she was told. She had little option to do anything else.

  Alice led the way across the hall and paused outside a door halfway down its vast expanse. After knocking once, she opened it and ushered Myrtle in, following her and then shutting it quietly.

  Mirabelle Jefferson was sitting on a sofa going through the menu for a dinner party she was holding the next day, with her cook at her side. She glanced at Myrtle, then said to the cook, ‘That’s settled then, Cook. A selection of desserts including orange soufflé, compote of pears, sweet omelettes, and sweet and savoury jellies; and don’t forget the ices with praline and sugared violets. Lady March is enamoured of your ices. Oh, and a selection of nougat and chocolate creams – strawberry, mint and coffee, I think. Is everything clear? Good. That’s all for now. Just remember to cook Mr Riches’s quail to a cinder, the way he likes it. Revolting, I know, but the man’s a philistine when it comes to food.’

  The cook bustled out, already looking harassed. Myrtle could imagine that by the time the meal was over the kitchen maids would be in tears and the cook would be tearing her hair out.

  She had no time to reflect on the misfortune of those below stairs, however, not when faced with her own. It had been bad enough when she thought she was going to be confronted by Mr Jefferson, but Mr Golding’s ex-mistress was ten times worse.

  ‘So?’ Mirabelle had been more than a little intrigued with the story Alice had discreetly whispered in her ear. ‘Why did you lie to my butler, girl? Mr Jefferson has been in France for the last week and is not expected home until tomorrow afternoon. Even if that were not the case, I doubt my husband would have agreed to see you. Why should I believe the rest of what you related to Alice is true, if you lied about that?’

  ‘I had to lie about the appointment!’ The words came out too loud, and then Myrtle jerked her chin upwards as if in denial of the tone of her voice, before adding quickly, ‘I’m sorry, ma’am. What I mean to say is that, if I hadn’t said I had an appointment with Mr Jefferson, I wouldn’t have got inside the door. I know that, ma’am. And I would have said or done anything to be able to speak to Mr Jefferson about what’s happened to Miss Angeline – I mean, Mrs Golding. And it’s true, it’s all true, as God Himself is my witness.’

  Aware that for all her bravado the girl in front of her was near to tears, Mirabelle’s manner softened. ‘Sit down.’ She pointed to a chair set at an angle to the sofa on which she was sitting. ‘And, Alice, would you tell Routledge we are not to be interrupted and then return here, please.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  Mirabelle said not a word until Alice had reappeared and shut the door behind her. After motioning for her maid to come and join her on the sofa, Mirabelle fixed Myrtle with her vivid green eyes. ‘Tell me from the beginning. Leave nothing out, but exaggerate nothing either, do you understand?’

  Myrtle nodded. The beginning. Where did the beginning start? Long before Miss Angeline had married that fiend; probably that evening in Mr Hector’s house when Mr Golding had assaulted her with his eyes. But she couldn’t mention that here. Probably best to begin with how Miss Angeline had come back a changed girl after her week in London when she’d wed Mr Golding. She drew in a deep breath. ‘On her wedding day Miss Angeline was the happiest bride in all creation. She fair worshipped Mr Golding, and he made sure he did and said all the right things.’

  ‘You don’t think Mr Golding’s feelings were genuine?’

  ‘He played her like a violin, ma’am.’ Myrtle waited a moment, but when Mirabelle made no comment, she went on, ‘When she came back from their week in London something had happened – something bad. She didn’t talk of it, but I know her eyes had been opened to what he was really like. Is like.’ Myrtle hesitated. This woman had been Mr Golding’s mistress for years. What if she still carried a torch for him, despite their falling-out? She must have loved him, and love was a f
unny thing. What if she went to see him and told him all this? She’d be in deep trouble.

  Myrtle caught herself. She had come too far – in distance as well as resolve – to mince words now.

  Gathering her thoughts, she went on, ‘Miss Angeline was terribly unhappy. I don’t know what went on behind closed doors, but it’s my belief he treated her harshly.’

  Mirabelle leaned forward. ‘Do you mean physically?’

  ‘In every way, ma’am. He’s . . . he’s a bully. Like I told Alice, I think she was planning to leave him. She never said that in so many words, but she gave me the impression that was so. And then she found out she was expecting the bairn, the baby. He . . . he left her alone for a time after that. And then one day he comes home in a fury and he attacks her and she loses the baby. Bashed her in the face, he did, and she broke her nose—’

  ‘You were there, in the room?’

  That again. Myrtle tried to stay calm. ‘No, ma’am, I came when she screamed, but it was too late then. He – Mr Golding – said she slipped and fell, but where I grew up there were plenty of women who looked like Miss Angeline did after their men had got paid on a Friday night and been to the pub. He hit her all right. Miss Angeline herself told me he was angry because, begging your pardon, ma’am, your husband had turned against him because you and Mr Golding had had a falling-out and he – Mr Golding, that is – blamed Miss Angeline for it. She didn’t know what he was on about, ma’am.’

  ‘You’re saying Mr Golding assaulted his wife, which resulted in her losing the child, because of me?’

  ‘No, ma’am; no, I’m not saying it’s your fault, ma’am.’ Myrtle was beside herself. Mrs Jefferson was her only hope in helping Miss Angeline, and she’d offended her. ‘Please, ma’am, I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry . . . ’