Beyond the Veil of Tears (17 page)

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 stay. 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.

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 liquid 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.’

‘How long
have
you been here? How long have I been ill?’

‘It’s Christmas Eve, Mrs Golding.’

‘Christmas Eve?’

‘Yes, my dear. Now, now, don’t get agitated. You have been very poorly, very poorly indeed, but you’ll soon be strong and well. Take this medicine. No, don’t shake your
head. Open wide now, that’s it. Go to sleep and you’ll feel better each time you wake.’

It was late evening before Oswald came again, and after her evening meal of soup and a roll Angeline had made herself stay awake. She was sitting propped up against the pillows
with her eyes closed when he came into the room, and he was looking at Nurse Ramshaw as she opened them, asking about the day. He seemed to glow with health and vitality, his blond hair shining in
the light of the oil lamp and the flickering flames of the fire, and his clothes as impeccable as always. She remembered Reverend Turner preaching one Sunday about Lucifer, the fallen angel, saying
how everyone always depicted the devil as a type of gargoyle with horns and a hideous face, but the Reverend had put the case that the Bible spoke of Lucifer being beautiful – the most
beautiful and enchanting of all the angels, even in his fallen state. She believed that now. She was looking at him.

She had imagined she would be frightened when she saw Oswald again, and all day her dozing had been punctured by moments of real terror. Now, as she looked at him, she knew she was not. Her baby
was gone. The worst had happened. Nothing else could hurt as much.