Beyond the Veil of Tears (19 page)

It was an hour later when Polly, one of the housemaids, brought Angeline her afternoon tea. Angeline had gone back to bed. She felt more exhausted than she would have thought possible, when all
she’d done was to move from the bed to the chaise-longue. She felt like an old, old woman.

She glanced at the tray Polly was holding. It held a pot of tea, milk and sugar, a plate of daintily cut sandwiches and a small cake stand with assorted iced cakes and pastries. Lying back
against the pillows, Angeline sighed wearily before she murmured, ‘Just pour me a cup of tea, Polly, and then you can take the tray away.’

‘Yes, ma’am, but Cook made the iced fancies specially to tempt you. Won’t you try just one and perhaps an almond pastry? Cook’s pastries melt in the mouth.’

‘Very well, just one of the cakes then.’ She took from Polly the cup of tea and the plate holding the cake and then said, ‘Thank you’ as she smiled at the girl. Polly
seemed a good-natured, caring little soul and she reminded Angeline of Myrtle.

Polly stood hovering for a few moments and then all of a sudden burst out, ‘We’re all very sorry, ma’am, about . . . about the baby an’ all. I’m not supposed to
say, ma’am, but Myrtle came back just before Christmas to see you, but the master had left orders with Mr Wood that she was to be turned away. But Cook said she could have who she liked in
her kitchen, and so Myrtle came in for a bit. She was ever so upset about you, ma’am, and’ – Polly paused to take a breath – ‘angry with the master. But like I said,
I’m not supposed to say, cos Cook could lose her job an’ all, if the master found out.’

‘Rest assured I won’t say anything, Polly, but thank you for telling me. I’ve been very worried about Myrtle.’

‘Oh, she’s all right, ma’am, and her young man’s been ever so good. He asked your uncle to give Myrtle a reference so she can get another job – make out she’s
been working for him for the last couple of years like.’

‘That’s a good idea. And did my uncle agree?’

‘Myrtle said her young man had to twist his arm a bit, but the housekeeper – her young man’s sister – put in her two penn’orth and between them they managed it,
ma’am.’

Angeline was feeling so tired it was an effort to smile and nod, and as the maid bustled out she placed the cup of tea on her bedside cabinet and shut her eyes. This lack of strength would have
been alarming in other circumstances; as it was, with the knowledge of what she was going to do, it was merely an inconvenience. It was strange, but over the last hour or two all feeling seemed to
have gone from her. There was an emptiness in her, a cold emptiness, and though she was pleased to have been able to send the money to Myrtle and to know that Albert was clearly looking after her,
it didn’t seem important. Perhaps because she had accomplished what she had wanted to do, courtesy of Nurse Ramshaw? It had been the desire to do something to help Myrtle that had focused
what little energy she possessed. She felt now as though she were existing in a vacuum, a nothingness. And she welcomed it.

She had always been frightened of dying. That seemed laughable now. But in the past, life had held so many things she wouldn’t have wanted to give up. And then she had met Oswald. When she
looked back she could believe that all her feelings had been worn out since then. First she had loved unreservedly and unconditionally, and then eventually she had hated in equal measure, but in
between had been a whole host of emotions. It was ironic that the man who had killed all love for him within her had inadvertently been the means of giving her something that made all other kinds
of love weak by comparison. But then finally he’d destroyed that too, her little baby. Since Christmas Eve she’d felt her heart had been torn from her soul with the pain and bitterness
consuming her; it was a relief to feel nothing now. She only wanted that: to feel nothing. To slip into the vast void and leave all emotions behind. It was cowardly and wrong, but that’s what
she wanted.

She must have slept because she awoke to the door opening and Oswald striding into the room. He walked over to the bed and stood looking down at her. ‘From this day forth
you are going to eat everything you are given,’ he said with no lead-in. ‘I will not have a wife who is an invalid, do you understand me? And in the afternoons you will come downstairs,
starting from tomorrow. You may lie on the sofa in the morning room or on one in the drawing room – it makes no odds – but you
will
dress and leave this room. The weakness you
complain of will only increase if you give in to it. It is mostly in the mind, as it is. You need to pull yourself together.’

Quietly she said, ‘Is this what Dr Owen has said?’

‘It is what I have said. I am your husband, and you will do what you are told. Other women go through what you have. You are not a unique case, so stop acting like one.’

Angeline was trying to hold on to her sense of vacuity, but something was happening inside. The void was being filled by a rage so intense that her voice shook as she said, ‘I presume you
are referring to the loss of my baby?’

‘Of course. You can have more children; you are young and, after all, it was only a female child.’

The white flames of anger were truly alight and nothing could douse them. Her springing from the bed surprised them both, but then her hands were clawing at his face, her nails gouging the flesh
as she screamed her hatred.

Her fingers had no real force behind them and she had begun to fall even before he threw her back onto the bed, cursing and shouting as he did so. Vaguely Angeline was aware of other voices
joining Oswald’s, but she was feeling faint, the strength that had coursed through her when he had dismissed so contemptuously the death of their baby girl quite gone.

When the commotion died down, she knew it was Mrs Gibson sitting by the bed holding her hand, although the housekeeper’s voice was uncharacteristically soft. Then everything was quiet for
a long time. It was dark, and she didn’t know if it was night or early morning when she became conscious of voices about her. It was Polly who whispered, ‘What did he do to make her go
for him like that, and her half-dead as it is.’

‘I don’t know, Polly, and if you don’t want to be out on your ear, you won’t speculate on the matter. Suffice to say she’s played right into his hands, the poor
dear.’

‘What do you mean, Mrs Gibson?’

‘Least said, soonest mended. If there’s one thing I’ve learned since being here, it’s to hold my tongue, and I suggest you do the same.’

‘I can’t believe Nurse Ramshaw was given the elbow. I’m no doctor, but even I can see the mistress needs looking after by someone who knows what’s what. It wasn’t
so long ago she was at death’s door, an’ she’s as weak as a kitten.’

‘Not so weak she didn’t mark him, more’s the pity.’

‘More’s the pity? I didn’t think you’d got any time for him, the same as the rest of us.’

A sigh followed. ‘Think, Polly. If he needed evidence she’s gone a bit doolally, then the marks on his face prove it.’

‘The mistress?’ Polly was indignant. ‘She’s no more doolally than I am, the poor thing. An’ if Myrtle’s to be believed, an’ I think she is, that bairn
ought to be on the master’s conscience.’

‘That’s enough!’ It was razor-sharp. ‘You hear me?’

‘Yes, Mrs Gibson.’

‘That sort of talk leads to trouble, m’girl, so just you think on. The mistress is of the gentry, she don’t need you to be in her corner, because she certainly wouldn’t
be in yours. They’re a different breed, Polly.’

‘The mistress isn’t like that.’

‘They’re all like that, and don’t you forget it. You think the mistress knows about a poor widow woman bringing up her bairns on four shillings a week from the parish; and
lighting in her grate, from time to time, a piece of brown paper, in order that she and the bairns might warm their hands for three or four fleeting seconds, when the paper flames and roars in the
draught of the crooked chimney? Well, that was me mam, an’ out of the seven of us bairns, it was only me and me brother who come through the winter of ’62. So don’t talk to me
about the gentry, Polly. Our Timmy used to walk nine miles every morning with his tool-bag on his back to the carpenter’s shop where he was employed, and nine miles back of an evening, and
him nought but a bairn at eleven years old. And you know what? Old Mr Ferry, the landowner who owned the carpenter’s business and everything else an’ all, used to pass our Timmy
trudging home after knocking-off time and not once would it occur to him to let him sit alongside the driver of his carriage. Some of the landed gentry might think of their villagers or servants as
“their” people, but only in the same way they think of their horses and hounds. In fact, not as highly as their horses and hounds, truth be known. So don’t you go sticking your
neck out for the mistress, nice as she is.’

‘No, Mrs Gibson.’

‘Now you get yourself off to bed, once you’ve helped me give the mistress her medicine.’

‘What about you, Mrs Gibson?’

‘I’ll stay here for a bit. I don’t sleep none too well as it is, so it’s no odds to me.’

Angeline was half-lifted from the pillows and when Mrs Gibson murmured, ‘It’s your nightcap, ma’am, the one Nurse Ramshaw said to give you’, she opened her lips
obediently and swallowed the familiar bitter liquid.

Instead of the deep sleep that the draught normally induced, her rest was fitful, punctuated by nightmarish dreams and ghoulish, insubstantial images. At one point she thought she heard
Oswald’s voice saying, ‘Mrs Gibson? What are you still doing here? It’s two in the morning. I was just checking on Mrs Golding after her seizure earlier.’

‘I thought I’d sit up with the mistress tonight, sir. She being so poorly an’ all.’

Angeline detected a note of intense irritation in Oswald’s voice, which he seemed to be trying to mask. ‘That is not necessary. You need your sleep.’

‘Nevertheless, I’d like to stay, sir. Just for tonight.’

‘Very well.’ And, as an afterthought, ‘Thank you, Mrs Gibson. Goodnight.’

‘Goodnight, sir.’

And then Angeline knew she must be dreaming when, after a minute or two, she heard the housekeeper mutter to herself, ‘Aye, an’ I’ve got your measure, Mr High-an’-Mighty.
A pillow over her face would sort all the problems, wouldn’t it?’

She must finally have gone deeply asleep because when she next awoke the white light of morning was pouring into the room and Mrs Gibson had gone. Polly was drawing back the
drapes from the window and, when the maid saw she was awake, she said brightly, ‘Good morning, ma’am. It’s late so I thought I’d better wake you.’

‘What time is it, Polly?’ Angeline sat up, the events of the previous evening flooding back. Part of her was horrified that she could so far have forgotten herself as to attack
Oswald. Another section of her mind, which was becoming stronger over the last days, told her he deserved far worse.

Polly handed her a cup of tea as she said, ‘Gone eleven, ma’am, but Mrs Gibson said you were tossing and turning nearly all night, so we thought you could do with the rest.’
The maid hesitated for a moment. ‘The master left the house early this morning, ma’am.’

‘Did he? Did he say where he was going?’

‘I think’ – again Polly paused – ‘Raymond, the footman, heard the master tell Mr Wood he was going to bring Dr Owen back with him. They should be here
soon.’

Angeline nodded, still sleepy and light-headed from the effects of the sleeping draught, which usually took most of the day to clear completely. Through the drug-induced fog in her mind she
wondered vaguely why Oswald had gone to fetch the doctor himself, for he had never done that before, always sending a message with one of the footmen if he needed Dr Owen. After Polly had left the
room she’d done no more than raise the cup to her lips before she heard footsteps outside the door. Oswald entered, with Dr Owen at his heels. Her eyes widened when she saw her
husband’s face. It was covered with scratches and, although they didn’t look deep, some appeared quite red.

She hadn’t done all that. She stared at Oswald. She knew she hadn’t. The marks on his cheeks certainly, but his forehead, his nose, his throat? What was going on?

‘Mrs Golding.’ Dr Owen’s voice was soothing. ‘I hear you were a little disturbed after Nurse Ramshaw left yesterday evening. How are you feeling this morning?’

Angeline sat up straighter. ‘I was
disturbed
, as you put it, by my husband saying the death of my baby was unimportant as she was a girl. Reason enough, wouldn’t you say, Dr
Owen?’

‘That’s not true,’ Oswald said softly. ‘As I said, I came in to spend a little time with her, and for no reason at all she suddenly attacked me, screaming and shouting. I
had to fend her off as best I could, but as you can see’ – he raised a hand to his face and then stretched both hands out, palms down, to reveal further welts on the backs of them
– ‘not without cost. She seemed to possess what I can only describe as superhuman strength.’

‘Do you remember attacking Mr Golding?’

Angeline stared at the doctor. ‘Yes, of course I remember, but that’s not to say it happened as he says it did. It was his fault.’

‘You see?’ Oswald shrugged his shoulders. ‘I have tried, believe me I’ve tried, but she needs help that I can’t provide.’

‘I didn’t do that amount of damage to his face, Dr Owen. How could I?’

‘So you don’t really remember?’ the doctor said gently.

Angeline tried to clear her mind. ‘I’ve told you I remember what happened last night and I do, but all that’ – she gestured towards Oswald – ‘is not of my
doing.’

‘Mrs Golding, do you remember suffering from bouts of rage in the past when the focus of your anger was Mr Golding?’

‘What? No. No, of course not.’ Frightened now, she glanced at Oswald, who stared back impassively. ‘I don’t know what my husband has told you, but none of it is true.
He’s the one who can be violent, and because of him hitting me the baby died. He struck me and—’

‘Always the same,’ Oswald interrupted sadly. ‘I confess I hoped having a child would calm her, so in that sense I am partly to blame. However, what one might once have
described as childish tantrums have become more . . . serious. I hold the parents responsible to some extent. They must have detected some mental weakness in the past, but as far as I know spoke of
it to no one. But then, a beloved only child – it is understandable.’