Beyond the Veil of Tears (18 page)

He turned his head and was at her side in an instant, his voice breaking as he murmured, ‘Oh Angeline, my sweet, my darling. How I have prayed for this. Oh, my darling.’

In spite of herself she shrank back from him, pressing into the pillows, but her voice was clear as she said, ‘The baby. Was it a boy or a girl?’

He had been about to bend over and kiss her, but something in her voice warned him to be careful. Instead he drew the bedside chair closer and sat down, taking one of her small cold hands in
his. ‘A girl. It was a little girl.’

‘Where is she?’

‘When it became clear you were so unwell we held a small service here, and she is buried next to my mother in the family graveyard.’

‘So she had a proper burial?’ She had been worried that the baby would be disposed of without any ceremony, as was very often the case with stillborn infants.

‘Of course, darling,’ Oswald murmured softly. He was aware of the nurse’s eyes on him and would have liked to ask her to leave the room, but, fearing the woman would refuse, he
held his tongue. Now that Angeline was conscious again he intended to get rid of Nurse Ramshaw at the earliest opportunity, knowing full well she disliked him as much as he disliked her. He wanted
no cosy chats between nurse and patient.

‘Have you asked for God’s forgiveness?’

‘I beg your pardon?’ Oswald kept his voice low, but his fingers tightened, crushing hers. Angeline ignored the warning.

‘I said: have you asked God’s forgiveness for the death of our child, because I want you to know that even if He forgives you, I never will.’

‘What? What are you saying? You’re ill, my love, and—’

‘Where’s Myrtle? Have you had her sent away?’

‘Now, sweetheart.’

‘I think that is enough, Mr Golding.’ Nurse Ramshaw was at Oswald’s shoulder as Angeline began to weep, and to his absolute amazement and fury she manhandled him out of the
chair, positioning herself between him and her patient as she said, ‘It is best you leave now. You are distressing her.’

‘I’m distressing
her
? Did you hear what she accused me of? Dammit’ – he caught hold of himself, gaining control with some effort – ‘I want to comfort
her, to talk to her. She’s clearly been in the grip of hallucinations, you heard her.’

‘That is quite possible, Mr Golding, but no good will be served by upsetting her more tonight.’

‘I don’t want to upset her. I want to
talk
to her.’

‘Not tonight.’

Determined brown eyes held his angry grey ones. Brown won. With a muscle working in his clenched jaw, Oswald ground out, ‘Very well, but I question your judgement and I shall make that
perfectly clear to Dr Owen.’

‘That is your right, of course, Mr Golding. Goodnight.’

‘I want to kiss my wife before I leave.’

Angeline made a strangled sound in her throat and again Nurse Ramshaw said, ‘Good
night
, Mr Golding.’ He had reached the door when she added affably, ‘Oh, and merry
Christmas, sir.’

Once the door had banged shut, Angeline said weakly, ‘Thank you. I hope I haven’t got you into trouble with Dr Owen.’

Nurse Ramshaw smiled. ‘Don’t you worry about that, m’dear. I’m going to ring for a warm drink for you and then we’ll settle you down to sleep, and I shall be here
all the time. All right?’

Angeline knew what the nurse was really saying. Oswald would have to get through Nurse Ramshaw to reach her, and she had already seen that the big-boned, hefty northerner was a match for him.
‘Thank you,’ she said again, and within moments she was asleep.

It was another few days before Angeline was considered well enough to spend an hour or so lying on a chaise-longue at the window of the bedroom in the afternoons. During that
time Oswald stayed away. Then, on New Year’s Eve – the first day Nurse Ramshaw helped her to the chaise-longue and settled her with a book to read – he made an appearance. He
stood staring at her from the doorway and Angeline stared back, refusing to be intimidated or to speak first. It was Nurse Ramshaw who broke the charged silence by saying, ‘Good afternoon, Mr
Golding. Mrs Golding is making good progress, as you can see.’

His gaze moving to the nurse, he said nothing for a moment. Then he smiled, ‘Quite. Which leads me to explain why I am here. Dr Owen is waiting downstairs to drive you back to town. My
wife is quite able to continue her convalescence without medical care. I have a houseful of servants who can attend to her needs. Gather your things together.’

‘I’m sorry, but I don’t think your wife
is
at a stage where she doesn’t need medical care, Mr Golding.’

‘Would it surprise you to learn that I am not interested in what you think?’

‘Dr Owen—’

‘Dr Owen agrees with me. When he examined Mrs Golding yesterday and was satisfied she could begin having an hour or two’s change from the bed, I put it to him that it was time you
left. Be downstairs in the hall in five minutes with your bag.’

He stepped back onto the landing and then paused in the act of closing the door. ‘Oh, and as you will not be here tomorrow, happy New Year, Nurse Ramshaw.’ He smiled again, his gaze
moving to Angeline’s white face for a moment before he withdrew.

Angeline and the nurse stared at each other. ‘This is ridiculous,’ Nurse Ramshaw said angrily. ‘You’re not well enough, in my opinion, and I can’t believe Dr Owen
would say otherwise. I shall go and have a word with him right now.’

Angeline watched the nurse march out, but she knew there was no point. Dr Owen would do and say as he was told.

Within minutes a distinctly ruffled Nurse Ramshaw was back. Angeline didn’t ask what had been said, for it was obvious, and neither did she criticize the doctor, as Nurse Ramshaw
worshipped the ground he walked on. Instead she reached out and took the nurse’s hand. ‘Nurse Ramshaw, now you are leaving, would you do me a great service? My maid – the one my
husband dismissed, and no doubt without a reference – is walking out with a young man who is employed by my uncle. Myrtle was utterly loyal to me, and I am sure that’s why my husband
sent her away when I was too ill to know about it. Would you take something to her young man, if I give you my uncle’s address, and make sure you put it into his hands, and his hands only? I
. . . I owe her a great deal, for her support and kindness after my marriage, and she’s been treated shamefully; in fact, I don’t know what I would have done without Myrtle.’

‘Oh, my dear, has it really been that bad?’

For a moment Angeline was tempted to tell the nurse the truth about the day she lost the baby, but she knew Dr Owen would not support her. Oswald had the doctor in his pocket. He held all the
cards. The day after Christmas, when Dr Owen had come to see her, she had heard Nurse Ramshaw talking to him on the landing as he had left, relating the scene with Oswald when Angeline had accused
him of being responsible for the death of her baby. They hadn’t known she could hear them, but her hearing had always been particularly acute.

Dr Owen had clucked for a moment and then said, ‘Mrs Golding has been through a distressing time and it is natural she is over-emotional. It is not uncommon for women to shift the guilt
that follows a miscarriage to another source, and in this case I fear it is her husband. She is very young, childlike even, and it is well known that the female reproduction role tends to dominate
the thinking of some women. Mr Golding has told me his wife was looking forward to their first baby almost as though the child would be a live doll to play with; a little girl looking forward to
Christmas morning and the special present she would receive. When that present was taken away – and, I understand from Mr Golding, through his wife tripping over a sewing bag she had left on
the floor – like a child, she wanted to blame someone else.’

Nurse Ramshaw had murmured something she couldn’t catch, to which the doctor had replied, ‘I’m sorry my dear, and I know you have Mrs Golding’s best interests at heart,
but I think you have to accept that she is not herself at the moment. The loss she has suffered affects the mind every bit as much as the body. Mr Golding is prepared to be patient with her and has
shown great restraint thus far; I have no doubt he is a caring, loving husband. Time is the best healer in cases like this. To come so close to death and not succumb has taken a great toll on body,
soul and spirit, but come the summer I am sure this distressing episode will be behind them both.’

Remembering this now, Angeline chose her words carefully. ‘My husband is not what he seems, Nurse Ramshaw. I think you have seen evidence of this while you have been nursing me? But with
regard to my maid, could you fetch me pen and paper, so I may write to her? And I would greatly appreciate this staying between the two of us. Please help me, there is no one else.’

Nurse Ramshaw appeared to be having an inward tussle with her conscience. ‘This is most irregular. I don’t know what Dr Owen would say if he knew, Mrs Golding.’

Angeline thought the nurse knew only too well and there was no point in pretending. ‘What do
you
say, Nurse Ramshaw?’

There was a moment’s silence. ‘I’ll get the writing material.’

‘Thank you, thank you so much.’

Angeline kept the letter short. In truth, she was so tired it was an effort to form the words and think straight. She wrote:

She hesitated for a moment as to how to sign it, then followed her heart: ‘Love Angeline’.

Folding the letter into an envelope, she said to Nurse Ramshaw, who’d been gathering her things together, ‘Would you pass me the musical box on the dressing table, please?’

As the nurse watched, Angeline lifted the beautifully engraved wooden and tortoiseshell lid, so that the tiny ballerina began to whirl and dance, and then pressed a hidden spring so that a
secret compartment in the bottom of the box opened. Looking at Nurse Ramshaw, she said, ‘My father bought me this for my tenth birthday and told me the secret was between him and me only, and
I have never revealed it to anyone else.’ She took out the wad of notes that the hidey-hole contained, putting them in the envelope and sealing it.

‘Mrs Golding, that’s a great deal of money. Shouldn’t you think about this? You are still unwell.’

‘I know my own mind, Nurse, truly.’ She hesitated and then said, ‘My monthly dress allowance is more than Myrtle’s family can earn in a year. I say this not to boast, but
to my shame. Something is very wrong in our society, don’t you think? But I digress. Myrtle was dismissed unfairly and it will have hit her family hard. This is hers by right, because if ever
anyone earned thanks, it is Myrtle. Will you help me, Nurse Ramshaw?’

The nurse nodded, taking the envelope on which Angeline had written Myrtle’s name, care of Albert (she had no idea of his surname) and her uncle’s address. ‘I’ll give it
to’ – she consulted the envelope – ‘Albert myself, Mrs Golding. You have my word. I wish I could do more to help you.’

‘That is far and away the best thing you could do for me.’ Angeline smiled at the nurse, whose soft centre was hidden behind her strong, rather masculine features and forbidding
countenance. ‘And I’m very grateful.’

Once they had said their goodbyes and Nurse Ramshaw had left, Angeline sat looking out of the window. The snow was thick and a pearly-grey sky promised more, but it could have been a bright and
beautiful summer’s day for all the scene outside registered on her senses.

She had given Myrtle every penny she had saved over the last months, and she knew it would seem like a king’s ransom to the maid and her family. On the last count there had been more than
500 pounds salted away in the musical box; there would have been more, but for the fact she made sure she bought a certain amount of new clothes now and again to avoid Oswald becoming suspicious.
It might seem the height of foolishness to give all the money away, but it wasn’t. Her dream of making a new life for herself and her child had died. It was over. She had nothing to live for
now. Her only desire was to join her baby, her precious little baby girl. It was the beginning of a new year tomorrow. Well, she wanted none of it. Nurse Ramshaw had tried to explain the darkness
of spirit that had overtaken her by saying it was natural in the circumstances. She had suffered a great loss, the nurse had said gently, on top of which she had nearly died. Body and soul needed
time to heal. But she was young and healthy, and there was no reason why she shouldn’t have more babies when the time was right. And the nurse had patted her hand comfortingly.

Angeline had listened quietly, eaten and drunk what she had been given, taken the sleeping draught the nurse had measured out each night and indulged in the relief of tears only when she was
sure Nurse Ramshaw was asleep, but from the moment she had woken and felt her empty, flat stomach life had become pointless. She didn’t want to stay in a world where good people like her mama
and father died, and Oswald Golding prospered and thrived; where money and power and influence dictated might over right, and the capricious spitefulness of someone like her husband meant an
honest, decent family could find themselves forced into the workhouse. Most of all, she didn’t want to stay in a world that didn’t hold her child.

Angeline glanced over at the ornate chest of drawers where she had hidden the new unopened bottle of sleeping draught that she’d taken from Nurse Ramshaw’s bag when the nurse had
gone downstairs to speak to Dr Owen. As she had expected, the nurse had not left the partly used bottle with her, saying that she would pass it to the housekeeper with instructions that Angeline be
given a dose each evening for as long as she required it. Angeline hoped the stolen bottle would not be missed among the many pills and potions piled into the nurse’s cavernous leather
bag.