Beyond the Veil of Tears

by Rita Bradshaw

  Justice Cook had his work cut out to call the proceedings to order, such was the buzz of noise and excitement. And Jack, careless of Mr Havelock, leaned across and gripped Angeline’s hand for a moment. ‘Bless Myrtle and Albert,’ he whispered. ‘They took it upon themselves to go and see the Jeffersons, but the husband didn’t want her to come today, worried about what might come out, I think. But she was magnificent, wasn’t she?’

  Yes, Mirabelle was magnificent. Angeline’s gaze met Mirabelle’s for a moment, and the redhead, although white-faced and showing strain for the first time, smiled at her. And so was Myrtle; dear, dear Myrtle. And there had also been Verity, and May, and other strong women whom she had met since escaping the asylum. Mrs Burns, the farmer’s wife – where would she and May be right now, if she hadn’t helped them? She had so many women to thank for making her into the person she was today; women who had touched her life briefly, like Verity, and others who were with her now.

  She smiled back at Mirabelle, silently mouthing, ‘Thank you.’ Somehow Mirabelle had emerged with her reputation intact, and Angeline didn’t begrudge her that, not for a moment. She didn’t know what Oswald had done to make his onetime mistress hate him so fiercely, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that there was now surely enough doubt in Justice Cook’s mind to ensure that she wasn’t dispatched herewith to another asylum.

  Justice Cook waited for absolute silence before he spoke. Then, when you could hear a pin drop, he opened with, ‘This case has deeply saddened me, but I cannot close my eyes to the fact that it is perhaps indicative of a great wrong in society that we have ignored for a long time. Greater and greater numbers of cases concerning marital violence and the maintenance of children are being dealt with each year. And, to our shame, as many as ten thousand maintenance or separation orders were called for last year. These parties could not, of course, remarry, and the women involved are often put in the most difficult situations. Whilst it is necessary to emphasize that matrimony is the most holy and noble of institutions, a case such as this one today begs the argument that a double standard of fidelity exists.’

  He joined his fingers together, his stern gaze sweeping the court and resting for a moment on Oswald, on whom it narrowed and became icy.

  ‘The existing law supposes that a wife may condone her husband’s lapses from strict marital propriety, while it imposes no such exercise of lenity or forbearance upon the husband. The reasons for this distinction abound: adultery by a wife is more serious, because she may conceive a child by her lover; a husband is humiliated if his wife yields to another man what belongs to him, whereas a wife is merely slighted in favour of a rival; and so on. An unfaithful wife’s husband may sue the third party for monetary damages, but no wife can sue her husband’s mistress.’

  He now placed his hands palm-down on the bench, peering at the court. ‘Mrs Golding will be granted a separation order, on the grounds of her husband’s persistent cruelty, because I believe she attempted to report his assaults on her more than once, but this was ignored. Should Mr Golding decide to challenge this ruling, I would advise him to be very careful, in view of what we have heard today. And in view of the character of the man, which has been clearly revealed, I can only applaud Mrs Jefferson for having the courage of her convictions to do the right thing, with no thought for herself. Mr and Mrs Jefferson can leave this court with no stain on their character whatsoever. I fear the same cannot be said for Mr Golding.’

  In spite of herself, Angeline’s eyes were drawn to Oswald as Justice Cook spoke, and his maddened gaze met hers. She saw that Lord Argyle had his arm round his daughter, who was leaning into him and away from Oswald, and that the barrister was holding his bruised face, his back turned to his client.

  Oswald’s eyes sent her a message that made her stiffen, his face contorted and ugly. He didn’t need to voice the threat, for the desire for vengeance was plain to read. She dragged her eyes away from his, shaken to the core.

  This was not over yet.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Oswald had gained control of himself by the time he left the court, but as he watched Lord Argyle bundle the weeping Wilhelmina into a cab, he knew his hopes in that direction had been dealt a death-blow.

  The earlier drizzle of rain had become a steady downpour, but he didn’t move towards Randall and the stationary coach situated a little way down the road. He was waiting. For her. It was clear to him now that from the first time he had met Angeline she had been a blight on his life. He ground his teeth together, his barrister sweeping past him without so much as a by-your-leave.

  Jumped-up little upstart! Oswald’s lip curled. Eager enough to take his money, but as useless as the rest of them. And to accuse him of not revealing the full facts – whose side was he on, anyway? One thing was for sure, this so-called learned gentleman would wait till hell froze over before he got his fee. As for Angeline, his dear, dear wife . . .

  He adjusted his top hat more securely on his head, drips of rain running down his neck. She wouldn’t win, not while he had breath in his body. He wouldn’t rest until she was six feet under, and this time he would make sure there was no chance of her resurrecting herself. He’d see his day with her, and this time she would stay dead.

  More folk left the building, and Oswald saw Randall jig the reins and bring the coach towards him. As it came closer, Angeline emerged from the courthouse in the middle of a throng of people. The Jeffersons weren’t there, for they had been among the first to leave and had disappeared before Oswald had come outside, but he recognized Angeline’s onetime maid, along with the nurse – Ramthorne or Ramshaw, or some such name – and Angeline’s old governess. A man he took to be the maid’s husband was holding the woman’s arm, and the solicitor and his clerk were talking animatedly with Angeline. Everyone appeared elated. Oswald’s teeth ground together again. He’d wipe the smiles off their faces. Scum, the lot of them.

  He saw Angeline hesitate as she caught sight of him, but then the solicitor’s clerk with whom Oswald had had the run-in, when he had gone to the offices in Newcastle, urged her on.

  Oswald stepped forward, deliberately blocking their path, and as he did so Angeline stopped again, and this time so did everyone else. ‘Think you’ve got the better of me, don’t you?’ He glared at Angeline, his fists bunched at his side. ‘I’ll make sure you rue this day, if it’s the last thing I do.’

  It was Jack who said, ‘Get out of our way.’

  ‘Listen, boy, I could buy and sell you a hundred times over, so don’t try and tell me what to do.’

  ‘Jack, please, leave him. Albert, go and get a court official.’ Angeline caught hold of Jack’s arm, seeing the fury in his face. ‘Jack, he’s not worth it.’

  Oswald’s eyes narrowed. ‘Jack, is it? So that’s it? Reverting to type, are you? They say water finds its own level, and scum settles with scum.’

  ‘I’m warning you—’ Jack never had time to finish what he was going to say, because with a roar Oswald sprang at him, taking him by surprise. It was pure instinct – and Jack’s nimbleness – that saved him from being felled to the floor, because if the blow Oswald had launched had reached its target, it was doubtful Jack could have withstood it. Certainly his jaw would have been broken. But Jack was lighter and slimmer, added to which he had been brought up in a district where most disputes were settled with the fists from an early age. Ducking so that the blow merely glanced off his shoulder, he came back at the heavier man with a punch worthy of the boxers at the Michaelmas Fair.

  Oswald staggered backwards, his feet sliding out from under him on the wet, slippery pavement, and ended up in an undignified heap sprawled in the gutter. For a moment he appeared stunned, but then, as Randall came to his aid, helping him to his feet, he let loose a tirade that would have caused a sailor to blush, shaking off his coachman’s hand as he did so.

  Albert and the court official came running, along with a constable who had been attracted by the commotion and the screams of
the ladies. Mr Havelock was restraining Jack, and the other three were holding onto Oswald when he suddenly became quiet, muttering, ‘All right, all right, take your hands off me. I was provoked, damn it! Can’t you see that? Let me go, I say.’

  The constable had caught the gist of what had gone on from Mr Havelock, and it was he who now said, ‘I suggest you go home, Mr Golding. Straight home. Do you understand me? Otherwise I shall be forced to escort you to the station. And we don’t want that, do we, sir?’

  The constable and the court official escorted Oswald to his carriage, standing in front of the group on the pavement as the coach trundled off in the pouring rain. Angeline was as white as a sheet at the ugliness of the scene, and Miss Robson had needed smelling salts from Nurse Ramshaw when the fighting was over. Among the women, it was only Myrtle who appeared relatively unperturbed, and she summed up what the men were thinking when she said, ‘Well, he’s had that coming for a long, long time, and he couldn’t have landed in a more suitable place than the gutter.’

  Jack chuckled, putting his arm round Angeline’s waist, careless of those present. He wasn’t prepared to hide how he felt about this glorious woman at his side for one minute more. ‘He’s beaten, and he knows it. He did his worst in court, and it backfired beautifully. He won’t dare show his face around these parts again.’

  Angeline said nothing. It wasn’t the moment. But she knew, as surely as night follows day, that Oswald was more dangerous now than he had ever been. And now that he had an inkling about Jack and her, it wasn’t only her own safety she was concerned about. From this day forth she would never know a moment’s peace. Jack and Mr Havelock could count today as a victory, but she knew she hadn’t won. She shivered, the memory of Oswald’s enraged eyes clear in her mind. The war would go on until one of them ceased to draw breath, or until he accomplished what he had tried to do when he had her locked away – and really sent her mad this time. Because how could she live, looking over her shoulder every moment of every day for the rest of her life, without losing her mind?

  ‘All right, my love?’ Jack had noticed her silence and now he drew her round to face him, his gaze on her face. ‘What is it? You’re not still worried about Golding, are you? We have the separation, and I tell you now I shall not rest until you are legally divorced from that fiend. You are not alone. You have me. Forever and ever.’ He kissed her and then tucked her arm in his, and as a group they walked away from the courthouse, with the others talking amongst themselves.

  Yes, she had Jack. She hugged the thought to her. And her dear friends, her job, her little home. And she wasn’t the young, silly girl she had been when she met Oswald Golding. She was a woman now – a woman who had carved a new life for herself against all the odds, a good life.

  A coach drove past them and immediately her eyes flashed to the window before she realized it wasn’t the Golding crest on the side of the door. She sighed, the sound inaudible, at the realization that she could talk to herself till the cows came home, but the fact was that Oswald would forever be the shadow at her elbow from now on, an evil presence that would haunt her day and night. She just had to learn to live with it. She had no other choice.

  Oswald found it difficult to sit in the coach, so great was his rage. The humiliation he had endured in court had been compounded by his ignominious defeat at the hands of the man he now believed to be Angeline’s lover. She had dared to sit there, acting as pure as the driven snow and looking as tragic as any wronged heroine in a novel, when all the time she had been sporting with a damned clerk. At least Mirabelle had class, much as he would like to get his hands round her pretty little neck and squeeze till her eyes popped.

  They were passing an inn, and now he yelled at Randall to stop the coach. Leaving the coachman outside in the pouring rain, he entered the public house and found a seat near the roaring fire, ordering a bottle of whisky from the buxom barmaid. When he left the premises over an hour later the bottle was empty and he staggered slightly as he climbed into the coach, swearing and cursing at Randall as the coachman helped him into his seat.

  The rain had eased, and as they left the town the sun came out, touching the newly washed countryside with the mellow golden light that precedes the onset of dusk. They passed meadows gilded with the yellow blooms of buttercups, horse-chestnuts displaying their spiky blossom amid great fan-like leaves and creating a vivid patchwork of green and white. Overhead the skylarks soared joyously in the heavens. Inside the coach Oswald sat in drunken moroseness, muttering foul obscenities and occasionally rousing himself to shout and swear at Randall when the coach bumped over a pothole or two.

  The massive gates into the estate were open when they reached it, and as the carriage bowled along the gravelled drive, Oswald sat up straighter. His anger had not abated one jot; rather it had been fuelled by the amount of alcohol he’d poured down his throat. The desire to hurt something, or someone, was so strong he could taste it. On reaching the forecourt, he flung open the carriage door and descended, glaring at Randall as the coachman made to drive off. ‘Where the hell are you going?’

  ‘To the stables, sir.’ Randall recognized the signs and kept his voice even, knowing that in this mood the master would pick on the slightest inflexion to accuse him of being insubordinate.

  ‘Get someone else to see to the horses. I’m going shooting, and you’re accompanying me.’

  ‘Me, sir?’ It wasn’t unusual for the master to go and kill a few birds and rabbits, and maybe the odd deer, when he was in a temper, but normally the gamekeeper had to put up with his curses and snarling when he missed a target. ‘You don’t want me to inform Brodie that you need him?’

  ‘If I wanted that, wouldn’t I have said so, you fool? I’m not waiting for Brodie – it’ll be dark soon, dammit. Now do as you’re damned well told.’

  ‘Shall I change, sir?’ Randall glanced down at his livery.

  ‘Not unless you want my boot up your backside.’ Oswald strode into the house, shouting for Palmer to fetch his guns from the gun cabinet. Within minutes the two men were tramping the grounds of the estate, Randall in his coachman’s regalia and Oswald equally unsuitably attired in the formal clothes and shoes he had worn for the court appearance.

  Randall was carrying the guns and heavy canvas bags for the kill, skidding and sliding in places where the sticky mud made the ground slippery in their inappropriate footwear. Ahead of him, Oswald continued to turn the air blue with descriptions of what he would do to Angeline when he got the chance. Randall, who wasn’t easily shocked, having been coachman to Oswald for years, felt defiled just listening to it. He had watched the young mistress – as he still thought of Angeline – outside the court as she had faced the master, and had seen the fear and dread in her face. And she had good reason to fear him, Randall told himself. The master was quite capable of buying the services of ne’er-do-wells to do his dirty work for him; he wouldn’t think twice about having the mistress and this clerk fella done in.

  Oswald lurched and then fell heavily, striking Randall’s hand away when the coachman tried to assist him, and breathing fire and damnation as he hauled himself unsteadily to his feet once more. They were now some way from the back of the house, but had not made for the usual, more straightforward route to the fields and woodland where the shooting would take place. Randall had known better than to query this, however, and had simply followed his drunken master, inwardly swearing as his livery had become more and more dirty. It would take his wife hours to get the stains out, he was thinking, when suddenly the sound of breaking wood, followed by a shriek and the master disappearing from view, brought him up short.

  He didn’t need to think about what had happened, for the stench that hit him was answer enough. The master had fallen into one of the cesspits that this part of the grounds, at the back of the building, contained. The cesspits were specially dug holes to accept the human excreta from the house via channels that dropped away some twenty feet deep, with an access point covered with a l
id of wood. A well-built cesspit, as these were, could last for more than two or three years without having to be emptied, being well lined with stone and brick. Clearly the cover of this one, however, had perished and become rotten, without anyone noticing.

  Randall walked gingerly to the edge of the pit, the smell nearly choking him as he peered down into the foul depths. Oswald must have gone right under the mass of rotting, gassy excrement and urine, because his hair and face were black as he floundered and trod the obnoxious mass in an effort not to sink again, coughing and spitting as he called out, ‘Get me out of here, damn you. I’m suffocating.’

  Randall looked behind him and saw, buried in the grass and mud, the long wooden ladder that the scavengers used when they came to empty the cesspits – one man going down into the depths and filling a tub by immersing it in the excrement, which two of his comrades would then haul up and carry, suspended on a pole, to their cart. It was a dangerous and unpopular job. Scavengers were reported to suffer from suffocation from the gases, a wide range of illnesses and sometimes temporary blindness. Smelling the full force of the cesspit now, Randall could understand why.

  He had actually bent down to pick up the ladder when he froze, a picture of his brother’s mutilated face searing the screen of his mind, followed by a hundred and one other degrading, shaming incidents that he had been forced to watch, or endure himself, over the years. And he thought of this latest incident with the mistress – as kind and as bonny a lass as you could wish to meet.

  Straightening slowly, he walked back to the edge of the cesspit, where the smell and gases made his eyes begin to water. Oswald was clawing at the sides of the pit, which were slimy and foul, in a vain effort to get a handhold, and Randall watched him for a moment before he said, his voice deep and throaty, ‘Don’t like it much down there, do you, sir?’

  ‘What?’ Oswald was choking and gasping, his voice rasping. ‘Get a ladder down here, man.’