‘What will you do, Miss?’
‘Whatever I have to do, to stop the marriage happening. I have a little money put by, enough to see a solicitor and ask for advice.’
‘But Mr Golding? I mean, once he finds out you’re alive . . . ’
Angeline stared at Myrtle. She knew exactly what she meant. Oswald would be beside himself. Nevertheless, she couldn’t put another woman in the position of being involved in a bigamous marriage. ‘I’ll see a solicitor,’ she repeated, ‘and go from there. Mr Golding can’t accuse me of being mentally impaired, not after the life I have made for myself.’
Myrtle’s face expressed her doubt. ‘Begging your pardon, Miss, but I wouldn’t put anything past him. And what about your job and your reputation and all? What are folk going to say, when they find out you’re not who you’ve said you are?’
‘A wise man once said that reputation is what others think of you, and character is what God is interested in, and I concur with that. I shall make it clear what Mr Golding’s character is, and if in doing so my reputation is tarnished, so be it. My character is what matters, Myrtle. That and being right with myself and God.’
Myrtle didn’t look at all convinced, but after a moment she said, ‘There’s something else, Miss. It . . . it’s a bit awkward. When they wouldn’t let me see you in the asylum, I remembered what you’d said about Mr Golding saying Mr Jefferson was trying to ruin him because of . . . ’
Angeline nodded. ‘Go on.’
‘I thought if he had it in for Mr Golding, so to speak, he might help you get out of that place, just to spite him, you know? So . . . so I went to London to see him.’
‘You went to London?’
‘Aye, I know, Miss. I surprised meself, to be honest, but our Fred came with me, so it wasn’t too bad. Anyway Mr Jefferson was abroad, but I saw her, Mrs Jefferson, and – well, she was ever so nice, Miss. She promised to speak to her husband and said they’d get you out of the asylum and . . . ’
‘Yes? What is it?’
‘I could tell that whatever had gone on between her and Mr Golding in the past, she hated him now. She didn’t say so in as many words, but the air fairly crackled with it, and Alice, her maid, was the same. Mrs Jefferson would have got you out of Earlswood, I saw it in her face, and I think if you needed anyone to speak up for you against Mr Golding – someone with influence, I mean – she’d do it.’
Angeline stared at Myrtle. It was her turn to be surprised. After a moment she said softly, ‘Thank you for what you did, Myrtle. It means more to me than you’ll ever know. It was so terrible to be kept in that awful place, feeling everyone in the outside world had forgotten you.’
‘Never, Miss. Not for a minute.’
‘And I’ll think about what you said regarding Mrs Jefferson.’ Even as she said it, Angeline knew she would never ask Mirabelle to help her. She felt no grudge towards her, but she had been Oswald’s mistress even during the time they’d been married. Mirabelle belonged to that different life anyway – a life that was so at odds with her own that there was no way to cross the chasm. No, Mirabelle Jefferson would be the last person she would expect to help her, and seven years was a long time. Whatever had transpired between Mirabelle and Oswald to make her turn against him might well have been put right by now, for all she knew.
The three of them talked a little more, but it was getting late and Myrtle and Albert needed to get back to their family. They made their goodbyes, Angeline promising she would visit the farm very soon, now that she knew where it was.
It had begun to snow again when Angeline opened the back door – big feathery flakes falling from a laden sky. The thick snow that had been forecast had arrived at last and it looked as though they were in for a bad spell.
Angeline and Myrtle hugged tightly on the doorstep, Myrtle saying with a break in her voice, ‘Miss Angeline, there’s a home for you with us any time, we want you to know that. For good, if you want, or just to escape the hoo-ha if things get difficult.’
‘Thank you, Myrtle.’ Angeline knew Myrtle meant well, but she was determined that Oswald wouldn’t make her run and hide a second time, however unpleasant things got.
Nevertheless, after she had waved them goodbye and closed the back door, she plumped down at the kitchen table and rested her head in her hands. In spite of her brave words to Myrtle and Albert, she felt very small and insignificant. Oswald was wealthy and influential, but more than that, he was cunning and unscrupulous, which gave him the upper hand in a battle with him, however you looked at it.
She crossed her forearms tightly against her waist, drooping her head until her chin lay on her chest as she struggled not to give in to the flood of tears mounting in her breast. She didn’t want to cry, she had cried so many tears in her life. Tears for her parents, for her baby, for Verity; countless tears during the time of her marriage and whilst she was imprisoned in the asylum, and for Jack. For what might have been, if she had been a working-class girl and he had liked her.
Jack. Oh, Jack! She shook her head, the feeling of immense aloneness that had been with her since the death of her parents unbearable right at that moment. He hated her – she had seen it in his face.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Jack watched the woman who had been Grace’s maid – no, Angeline’s, he corrected himself; he had to think of her as Angeline now – being helped up into the trap by her husband. He was standing in deep shadow some way along the back lane, hidden from sight, and couldn’t see into Angeline’s back yard from where he was, but he saw the woman and her husband wave and call goodbye, before the horse and trap trundled off along the snow-covered cobbles and disappeared out into the road beyond.
He had been waiting for more than an hour and was frozen inside and out, but he hadn’t wanted to knock on the door while they were still there. Now that they had gone he still stood in the falling snow, nerving himself for what he was about to do. If she banged the door in his face it would be no more than he deserved. He groaned softly, bunching his hands into fists in the pockets of his coat. And nothing she might say to him could make him feel worse than he did right now. Fate had given him a chance tonight to make her notice him as a man – a chance to be strong and supportive and understanding. It was the first rule of a good solicitor that you didn’t make hasty judgements; you listened and got all the facts and figures and the arguments clear. He groaned again, the anger and frustration at the way he had handled things feeling like a lead ball in his chest.
He had been so full of rage that he was shaking with it when Angeline had walked away at the fair. And May had looked at him, her face stony as she’d said, ‘Are you proud of yourself? Are you?’
‘Me?’ For the first time in his life he had wanted to strike the sister he adored.
‘Aye, you. Since when were you judge and jury anyway? You don’t know a thing about it – and you behave like that.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like no better than her swine of a husband, that’s what. He used to knock her about, Jack. Force her to sleep with him; rape her, if you want the full picture. And when she was pregnant with their first bairn, he hit her so hard he broke her nose and she lost the baby. She nearly died then, but he didn’t care. Not content with that, he had her shipped off to the asylum within weeks, claiming she was doolally. That’s why she’s like she is, keeping every man at arm’s length. And we weren’t let out of the asylum, as you’ve probably gathered. There was a fire and we escaped, making out we’d died – or she’d be there still. Me too, probably. But you stand there spitting hellfire and damnation, when she needs something else from all of us. You make me sick, you really do.’ May had swept round, turning to Howard. ‘Come on, we’re off.’
Howard had stared at Jack, totally at a loss as May had stalked off. ‘Jack . . . ’
‘Go on, go after her, man. It’s all right. I’ll come to the mill in a day or two, when she’s had a chance to cool down.’
‘I didn’t know.’
Howard had patted him awkwardly on his arm and then hurried after May, who was lost to sight in the crowd.
Jack had stood there for some minutes, his head swirling. Why had he gone for Grace like that? But that was it: she wasn’t Grace Cunningham. She was another woman – a woman called Miss Angeline – and she had a husband. And the lass she’d called Myrtle had clearly been a servant of some sort, her maid most likely.
He found he had to sit down suddenly on the grass, his legs turning weak. That’s why she spoke like a toff: she was one. Damn it, she’d made a fool of him for years with this story of being a working-class lass. How could he have been so blind? But a husband!
He sat there for some time, ignoring the odd glance from passers-by who clearly thought he’d had too much to drink. He wished he had. He wished he was blind-stinking-drunk and could just lie back and shut his eyes and be out of it.
As his anger had cooled, the full import of what May had flung at him hit home and he hunched his shoulders against it. Two lassies walked by, one turning and giving him the eye as she said, ‘You should take more water with it, lad. Want a hand up? You’ll catch your death sitting there.’
He shook his head, turning away and getting to his feet and walking off without a word. He heard her say something about ‘uppity so-an’-so’ to her pal, but he didn’t look back. He knew where he was going.
Before he was halfway to Garden Street it had started to snow in earnest, the streets emptying as the snow got thicker. He walked on in the sparkling whiteness, which deadened all sound and made him feel like he was the only man alive. The smoke-blackened houses, filthy roads and pavements and the ever-present stench of the town was gone, lost under the gleaming virginal spotlessness. The house roofs were white, their windowsills and their doorsteps, and the air was icy-cold and clean. It brought the blood surging through his veins and sharpened his instincts, bringing an awareness of the moment, of the vital force that beat in his breast – of life.
He had to tell her how he felt about her: that he had loved her for years. It probably wasn’t the right time – hell, he knew it wasn’t the right time. Something like that should be done with flowers and when he was dressed in his Sunday best. But he had to tell her now, tonight, that it had been jealousy that had made him act the way he had. Jealousy that she’d had another life she wouldn’t share with him; jealousy because she had shut him out and didn’t need him, and he needed her so much; jealousy that another man had made her his. Most of all, that. A husband! Dear God – he raised his eyes to the white sky and called out silently, with every fibre of his being; he’d go mad thinking about it. Stark staring barmy.
By the time he was within a stone’s throw of Garden Street he had changed his mind for the umpteenth time in as many minutes. He wouldn’t tell her how he felt; there was no point. It would merely mean more embarrassment. She didn’t give a fig for him and, by the sound of it, this husband of hers had put her off men for life. He would merely apologize for the way he had behaved, blame it on shock and say that he was always there for her as a friend.
He was suddenly aware of someone shuffling down the back lane, and saw it was an old man with a scruffy little dog at his heels. As he came level with Jack, the man eyed him over the top of his pipe. ‘How do.’
Jack nodded, hoping the man would walk on.
‘Cold night for standin’ an’ takin’ the air, ain’t it, lad?’
‘I’m waiting for someone.’
‘Oh aye? Well, I doubt if she’ll come out the night, lad. Courting’s best done in the warm, if you get my drift.’
‘It isn’t like that. I mean, I’m not courting a lass.’
‘No? Surprising. Wouldn’t have thought anything but getting your oats would keep you waiting in this.’ He gave a chesty chuckle. ‘What say you, Buster?’ he added to the little dog, which stared up at its master, clearly wishing it was home curled up in front of the fire rather than having its private parts dangling in this nasty, cold, white stuff.
On impulse Jack said, ‘I’ve let someone down, and I need to put it right, that’s all.’
‘A lass.’
It was a statement rather than a question, but Jack answered it anyway. ‘Aye, a lass, but we’re not courting.’
‘But you’d like to be.’ The wheezy chuckle sounded again. ‘I was young once, lad, believe it or not. Want my advice?’
Jack felt he was going to get it, whether he wanted it or not. He nodded.
‘Faint heart never won fair lady. Is she fair, this lass? A looker?’
‘She’s perfect.’
‘Oh aye, like that, is it? Look, lad, you don’t get to be as long in the tooth as me without learnin’ a bit as you go along, all right? An’ one thing I’ve learned is that women like to know where they stand. If you mean business with this lass, say so. If you want a bit of slap an’ tickle, an’ then it’ll be goodnight, Josephine, don’t promise the other. Never does in the long run. But there’s not many lassies who can resist a man wooing her when he’s got marriage on his mind. Makes ’em weak at the knees, that does.’
‘She’s not like that.’
‘No? Everyone wants to be loved, lad. And love breeds love. My Ava was fair gone on me brother when we were youngsters and living next door, and when he upped and married another lass, she took me as second best. She didn’t say that, mind, but I knew. But I loved her enough for both of us, you know?’
Jack nodded. He knew all right.
‘But I tell you, lad, and this is no lie, before we’d even had our first bairn she told me she loved me. And I knew she did – same as I’d known when she didn’t. We had fifty happy years together before she passed on last Christmas. We raised seven bairns and they’ve got umpteen bairns of their own. I couldn’t tell you how many; Ava knew all that. And now it’s just Buster an’ me, but that’s all right. I had me time of loving.’
That’s what he wanted. His time of loving. He stared at the old man who was fiddling with his pipe, which had gone out. As the dog whined plaintively, Jack bent down and patted it, getting a growl for his efforts.
‘Don’t mind him. He’s an awkward little cuss, but we rub along well together, probably because I’m the same. See you, lad.’
‘Aye, an’ thanks. Thanks.’
As the old man shuffled on up the lane, Jack turned and walked straight into Angeline’s back yard, not giving himself time to think. He thought he caught a glimpse of her through the window, sitting at the table, but he knocked on the back door – or hammered on it to be more accurate.
When she called out, ‘Who’s there?’ he realized he’d probably frightened her, and his voice was soft as he answered, ‘It’s me, lass. Jack. I need to talk to you.’
‘I . . . I’m just going to go to bed.’
‘It won’t take long. I want to apologize, face-to-face.’ It cut him to the quick that her voice held a note of fear even though she knew it was him, but then what did he expect? She probably thought he wasn’t through with ranting and raving. When the door opened she was holding herself straight and her chin was up, but again he saw fear in her eyes. ‘Can I come in, lass?’
For answer she turned and walked into the kitchen, leaving the door open, and he followed her, his heart pounding. She didn’t sit down, but faced him saying, ‘You don’t need to apologize – there’s nothing to apologize for. It’s me who should—’
‘Grace.’ He stopped. ‘Angeline,’ he went on, ‘I need to make something clear to you and, when I do, I want you to know that I expect nothing, hope for nothing, because I know how you feel, but I have to say it. It’s not the right time and everything is all wrong, but . . . ’ He stopped again, drawing in a deep breath. She was standing as stiff as a board, and the guarded expression on her taut face wasn’t encouraging. But for the old man and his Ava, Jack wouldn’t have gone on. ‘I love you, lass,’ he said simply, ‘be you Grace or Angeline, or whoever. I’ve
loved you for a long time.’
She still didn’t make a sound, and not a muscle of her face moved.
‘May’s told me a bit of what’s gone on in the past, and I just want you to know’ – he searched for the right words – ‘that you’re not alone. What I mean is, you can count on me as a friend. No strings attached. And whatever you decide to do about,’ he swallowed hard, ‘your husband, I’ll support you. I . . . I was jealous, lass. When I sounded off, I mean, but I don’t want you to think I meant it, when I said I didn’t know you. I know all I need to know—’
‘Please stop.’
‘What?’ Her whisper had been so faint that he stepped forward a pace, bending towards her.
‘I . . . I’m everything you despise.’
‘You’re everything that I love.’
‘Jack, don’t—’
‘I have to say it, lass. I should have said it years ago.’ An idea had come to him. An idea so preposterous, so impossible, it couldn’t be true, but it gave him the courage to reach out and pull her into his arms. For a moment she remained stiff and unyielding, and he thought he’d made a terrible mistake. And then she melted against him, her face turning up to his, and he was kissing her with all the passion and all the longing he’d kept hidden for seven years; kissing her until they were breathless and gasping as they swayed together in an agony of need.
It was a long time later – a time spent in murmurings and wondering words of love and more kisses mixed with tears – that Jack whispered, ‘You love me? This isn’t a dream?’
Her arms tightened around him. ‘For a long time.’
‘Oh, my love.’
‘But I thought you’d hate me, if you knew the truth.’
‘How could I hate you?’
‘But there’s so much you don’t know.’
‘Then tell me.’ He lifted her chin, kissing her full on the mouth, with such love in his eyes that she couldn’t doubt it. ‘Tell me all of it. I want to know everything about you; every tiny thing from when you were born till now. But let me say one thing: I promise you that whatever I hear, it won’t affect what I feel for you. And I love your name . . . Angeline. My Angel. That’s what I shall call you from now on: Angel. Has anyone else ever called you that?’
Beyond the Veil of Tears Page 29