Beyond the Veil of Tears (29 page)

And so the list went on for more than half a page, before the article finished by saying:

‘She’s not listed among the injured.’ Myrtle took the cup of tea her mother passed her with a nod of thanks, as she added to Albert, ‘That’s good, isn’t
it?’

‘Course it is.’

‘I must write and tell Mrs Jefferson. She’ll be able to find out what’s what. They won’t tell me anything, that’s for sure. Oh, Albert’ – Myrtle’s
voice caught in her throat – ‘she has to be all right. Mrs Jefferson will get her out of that place, I know she will. It would be too cruel if Miss Angeline’s died now.’

‘Lass, you’ve done all you can, and more besides, and it’s no good worrying. Now drink your tea and tell me how you got on. Young Fred look after you properly?’ Albert
grinned at his brother-in-law, who smiled back. ‘And did you find the house all right?’

Myrtle filled him in on all that had happened, and later in the evening, when the rest of the family gathered in the kitchen, she told her story again. To a man they insisted that Miss Angeline
would be fine and she mustn’t worry, but Myrtle couldn’t respond as she knew they wanted her to. She had the strangest feeling on her . . .

Oswald sat in the superintendent’s parlour listening to the doctor rattle on about all that had been done to save each and every patient, and how the tragedy could not be
laid at the door of the staff. ‘When dealing with the insane, every safeguard is taken,’ Dr Craggs said earnestly, ‘but one cannot predict every eventuality. It seems one of the
female patients, Lady Lindsay – who had run amok earlier in the day and had been taken to one of the seclusion rooms – overpowered the nurse who had been assigned to take care of her,
sometime after midnight.’ The superintendent didn’t mention here that he had suspended Lady Lindsay’s usual nurse, who was accustomed to the patient’s ways, as punishment
for the incident in the morning, in spite of the nurse begging him to reconsider due to the patient already being in a highly volatile state and needing the reassurance of familiar faces around
her.

‘Exactly what happened after that, we cannot be sure yet,’ the superintendent went on, ‘but in the past the lady’s condition has led her to do strange and dangerous
things, if not restrained.’ At Oswald’s raised eyebrows, the doctor added, ‘She hears voices instructing her what to do.’

‘I see.’ Oswald didn’t really care. The fact that he was now free of the burden of Angeline was enough. ‘Besides my wife, how many people died in the fire?’

‘Due to the sterling actions of my staff, a lot less than it could have been.’

‘How many, Superintendent?’

‘Along with Nurse Clark and several others, seven people died at the scene, but twenty-four are unaccounted for and believed to be buried in the debris. I’m deeply sorry for your
loss, Mr Golding.’

‘Thank you. And I am sure you and your staff did all you could, in the circumstances.’

‘That is very gracious of you, Mr Golding.’ The superintendent was clearly relieved. He had been receiving anxious relatives all day, and one or two had proved to be difficult,
especially as it would be impossible to identify who was who for the burials. ‘We are all quite devastated, of course.’

‘Naturally.’ Oswald stood up. After shaking the superintendent’s hand, he allowed the man to see him out. He paused on the doorstep, turning to say, ‘I will expect the
payment I made this month for my wife’s care to be refunded.’

‘Of course, Mr Golding. And may I offer my condolences once again.’

Oswald walked across to the waiting carriage, his step lighter than it had been when he had arrived, to find out what was what. He’d hardly dared to hope that Angeline was one of the
deceased. It had seemed too good to be true. But the fire having been started at that end of the asylum, it seemed she was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or the right place at the right
time, as far as he was concerned. He smiled to himself, pleased with his little joke, before pausing and breathing in deeply, expanding his chest and sighing with satisfaction. Then he climbed into
the carriage and sat back in the leather seat, lighting one of his favourite cigars.

Randall, the coachman, shut the door and took his place in the driving seat, lifting the reins and clicking his tongue for the horses to move off. He was frowning. His guts had
twisted at the look on his master’s face. It was common knowledge among the staff at the house that Golding had had his young wife put away because it suited him, and to a man they were all
heart-sorry for her. The young mistress was no more barmy than he was, Randall thought, and it was plain wicked to have her installed in one of these places. They were worse than the workhouses
– and that was saying something.

He couldn’t work out if the master had heard good news or bad, and he knew better than to enquire. The news would filter down from Wood or Palmer soon enough. But to come out of there
looking as pleased as punch wasn’t natural, however you looked at it. But then the master wasn’t natural. Evil swine, he was.

He guided the horses through the open gates, nodding his thanks to the keeper, who began to shut them immediately they were on the road.

Yes, evil as the day was long, was Golding. Look at what he’d done to their Toby: taking his eye out because Toby hadn’t fastened his horse’s saddle properly, and the lad only
sixteen. Toby would have been scarred worse than he actually was, if it wasn’t for the young mistress sending for the doctor and paying for that expensive ointment, which had cost an arm and
a leg. He’d put his brother forward for the position of groom, too, thinking another steady wage would help at home, but he’d regretted it ever since. And Toby wasn’t the only one
who bore marks of the master’s temper. Now if it was Golding locked away in the asylum, there’d be plenty cheering their heads off; but no, it was the mistress, and her such a kind
lass.

They say the devil looks after his own, Randall thought, squinting his eyes against the bright sunlight, and Golding was living proof of it. Likely he’d live to a ripe old age and die
peacefully in his bed, damn his eyes.

He clicked his tongue for the horses to begin trotting, his face as grim as his thoughts. He, for one, lived in hope that the master got his just desserts this side of hell,
and
suffered plenty in the process. Every time he looked at their Toby’s scarred face and the patch he wore over his empty eye socket, he prayed it would be so. And he wasn’t the only one
who wished it so, either, not by a long chalk. As much as the little mistress had been liked, the master was hated and feared. There wouldn’t be one person who’d grieve Golding’s
passing and that was the truth. He’d lost count of the times he’d dreamed about doing him in, but he’d never get away with it, more’s the pity. Still, a man could dream,
nevertheless.

It was the afternoon of the second day after they had escaped from the asylum. The first day had been spent hiding in woodland not far from Earlswood, not because of
Angeline’s broken wrist, but due to May spraining her ankle badly when they had climbed up one of the trees whose branches overhung the wall and jumped down the other side onto the grass
verge. May had been so intent on helping Angeline, who had found the procedure nigh on impossible with her damaged arm, that she hadn’t taken enough care with her own safety. Within minutes
her ankle had begun to swell and, after they had crossed the road from the boundary wall and found a gate into a farmer’s field, May had had to sit for some time before she could limp on.
They had reached the patch of woodland after an agonizing twenty minutes, and by the time it was light May’s ankle had swollen to twice its normal size and she couldn’t get her boot
on.

A pure little stream gurgled through the heart of the woodland and, after slaking their thirst, both girls had sat on its mossy bank, May with her sprained ankle dangling in the icy-cold water
and Angeline cradling her broken wrist in its sling. In spite of their precarious situation the knowledge that they were free was heady, and for a long time they simply breathed in the warm, earthy
smell and listened to the water splashing over the stones and pebbles. They had dozed the afternoon away before moving under the shelter of a sturdy oak tree, and the night had been relatively warm
and quite dry, so they had both slept as well as their injuries permitted.

They had awoken the next morning with the dawn chorus, stiff and sore and ravenously hungry, but the hours of inactivity the day before – along with the benefit of the icy water on
May’s ankle – meant the swelling had subsided enough for her to force her boot on.

As the sky had lightened they had washed their hands and faces in the stream and had a long drink, before leaving the protection of the woodland and setting off in the direction of Newcastle
over the fields. They didn’t dare take the easier route by road, where they might have been able to get a lift on the back of a cart, for fear that someone might put two and two together and
surmise they were asylum inmates. Consequently the going was slow. May could only hobble a short distance at a time, and the pain in Angeline’s arm was excruciating, especially when she
stumbled or moved awkwardly on the uneven ground. Nevertheless, their spirits were amazingly high. They were together and they were free, and their liberty was everything.

They hadn’t covered half of the distance they had hoped for when, at four o’clock in the afternoon, May finally admitted she couldn’t walk any further that day. They were in
open pastureland, and Angeline pointed to what looked like an old barn in the corner of a field. ‘Can you make it to there? It’s shelter of some sort and, once you’re settled,
I’ll see if I can find something to eat.’ They were both faint with hunger.

May snorted. ‘It’s spring, lass, not autumn.’

But as they made their way towards the barn she stopped abruptly. ‘Look there.’ She pointed down at their feet. Hidden from predatory eyes was a stone curlew’s nest, ripe with
eggs.

If anyone had told Angeline she would not only eat raw eggs but enjoy them, she wouldn’t have believed them, but before they reached the barn they found two more nests containing eggs. She
felt sorry for the parent birds, which swooped down close to their heads once or twice, calling their displeasure at the ransacking of their nests, but as May said: needs must. The eggs would
barely have made a satisfactory meal for a hungry crow, but it was something in their stomachs after two days without sustenance.

On entering the barn, they found it wasn’t as dilapidated as it looked and was clearly used for the storage of hay, a heap of which was stacked in one corner. May’s ankle was like a
balloon again, and when she finally managed to extricate her foot from her boot it was black and blue.

They made a rough bed with some of the hay and sank down on it, May falling asleep almost immediately despite her hunger. Angeline’s wrist felt worse, if anything, and after a while she
gave up trying to sleep and went to sit at the entrance to the barn in the evening sunshine.

The old barn adjoined a line of hedgerow dividing one field from the next, and sweet vernal grass and the scent of stitchwort, white dead-nettle, speedwell and other wild flowers hung in the
warm, still air. The only sound was the hum of bees searching for nectar in the May blossom of the hedgerow trees, and the twittering of birds. Angeline rested her head against the warm wood of the
barn and shut her eyes, drinking in the peace and serenity after the incessant noise and strain of the asylum.

She would rather die than go back.
She held her wrist against her chest, her head bowed. She couldn’t be shut up again and caged like an animal. Nor could she return to being
Oswald’s wife. From this day forth she had to forget her old life. Not her parents, she added quickly, as though they had heard her thoughts and were hurt by them. Never that. But she had to
stand on her own two feet now, for better or worse. She had nothing; even the clothes on her back weren’t hers. She was the poorest of the poor.

A little snore from the bed of hay behind her brought her head turning, and she smiled to herself. She
did
have something. She had May. And strangely that took away the fear she might
have felt, and brought a sense of – if not excitement, then hopefulness. There was something curiously liberating about having reached rock bottom, which she couldn’t have explained,
even to herself. She was hungry and tired and in pain, but right at this moment there was nowhere else she would rather be than sitting here in the sunshine in an old barn in the middle of nowhere.
She wasn’t silly enough to expect this feeling of euphoria to last, but right at this moment it was welcome.

She looked out over the field again, her eyes drawn to the edge of it, where the hundreds of tiny, individual five-petalled flowering clusters of cow parsley whitened the hedgerow in a delicate
lace-like mist.

She had told May that if they escaped the asylum, Angeline Golding was dead, but that hadn’t happened the night of the fire. It had been happening for a long time – probably since
the day of her marriage, but culminating the night her baby had died. The old Angeline had been an innocent, gullible girl, foolish and ridiculously romantic, with her head in the clouds. Her mouth
tightened, a hard look coming over her face. She was glad
that
Angeline was dead. She had been weak, and because of her weakness she had only bitter memories to take with her into this new
life.

She shut her eyes, letting the sunbeams dance over her face as she slowly relaxed and her breathing became deeper. Within a few minutes she, too, was asleep.