Beyond the Veil of Tears (3 page)

Angeline stared at the solicitor. ‘Leave Oakfield? No, they would never have said that.’

‘I’m sorry.’ George had been dreading this meeting, and it was being every bit as bad as he’d feared. The girl looked even more bereft than before, if that were
possible.

‘But why? Why would they want me to leave our home?’

‘Angeline, you are fifteen years old.’ Hector spoke firmly, but not unkindly. ‘You cannot run a home on your own – the very idea is ridiculous. There are bills to pay,
daily decisions to make, servants to keep in order, and umpteen other things.’

‘The house runs itself under Mrs Lee, my mama always said so, and the servants don’t need keeping in order. They . . . they’re like family.’

Hector looked askance.

Realizing she’d said the wrong thing, Angeline swallowed hard. ‘Miss Robson could take up permanent residence,’ she said desperately. ‘That way I’m not alone here,
am I? She would keep everything and everyone as it should be, and she could report directly to you. And I could still live here.’ Turning to the solicitor, she added, ‘There’s
enough money for that, isn’t there, Mr Appleby?’

Without giving the solicitor a chance to respond, and with a thread of impatience in his voice, Hector said, ‘It’s not a question of money, Angeline. Your father stated his wishes
very clearly, and what you are suggesting is quite ludicrous. You will come to live with me within the week. That is the end of the matter. My final word. You may bring anything you wish, of
course, and Miss Robson has agreed to continue to give you your lessons each morning. This house will be sold forthwith, and the proceeds added to the trust.’

‘But Mrs Lee and Cook, and everyone?’

‘The servants will be given excellent references and three months’ wages in lieu of notice. The senior staff – the housekeeper, cook and butler – will receive six
months’ wages. This is very generous, believe me.’ Her uncle’s tone made it clear that if this stipulation hadn’t been in the will, his treatment of the servants would have
been very different. ‘Now, Mr Appleby has pointed out that you will need a personal maid, m’dear. Which is not necessary at present, in my bachelor abode.’

Hector smiled his thin smile, but Angeline was too distraught by the turn of events to respond. Oakfield sold? And the staff dismissed? Just like that? This was their home, too –
couldn’t he see that?

‘Mr Appleby suggested you might wish to bring your current housemaid with you in that capacity.’ Hector’s sniff of disapproval indicated that he couldn’t for the life of
him see why. A servant was a servant, after all. Now, if it had been a pet dog or cat . . . ‘But I thought a maid already trained in that respect would be more suitable.’

Feeling as though she was drowning, Angeline caught at the lifeline that the kindly solicitor had provided. ‘Myrtle attended to Mama when she had need of it,’ she said quickly,
‘and I would prefer her to a stranger.’

‘So be it. Now, Mr Appleby, perhaps you would be so good as to read the will?’

When the solicitor eventually finished speaking, only two things had really registered through Angeline’s turmoil. First, that she wouldn’t come into her inheritance until she was
twenty-one or married – whichever came first. Second, that she was a very rich young woman. This Mr Appleby had impressed upon her, adding that it was why her father had wanted to see to it
that she was under her uncle’s protection until she was mature enough to cope with such a responsibility.

‘Your father has tied the trust up in such a way that no monies – other than your allowance and the stipend paid to your uncle for as long as you reside with him – can be
extracted. By you or anyone else.’ George Appleby’s gaze flicked to Hector for a moment. He wasn’t fooled by his blank countenance. Philip’s brother had expected a bequest
of some kind, although George couldn’t see why. Philip had been amazingly generous to Hector when their father had died, setting him up in his own business and buying him a fine house and
all. A different man would have been set up for life, but he rather suspected Hector was in trouble, despite his outward facade. Still, he’d make sure Hector didn’t get his hands on one
penny more than the amount Philip had settled on him each month for Angeline’s keep.

Hector stared back at the solicitor. He was aware of George’s dislike of him – a feeling he fully reciprocated – and had always resented the high regard in which Philip had
held the little man, and the influence the solicitor had had upon his brother. Take this will, for instance. Hector’s teeth clenched. He had no doubt Philip had left the mechanics of it to
George Appleby, and the solicitor had been instrumental in determining that, even as Angeline’s guardian, he couldn’t use the trust money.
Cocksure little runt.

George’s eyes returned to Angeline’s white face. ‘Your father’s main concern was to protect you, should the unthinkable happen. You do understand that, don’t
you?’

Yes, she did, of course she did, but losing Oakfield was almost as bad as the loss of her parents. Her voice unsteady, she whispered, ‘Is there no way I can keep the house?’

‘I’m sorry, Angeline.’

They looked at each other, and although she felt very small and lost, Angeline held herself straight, her chin lifting. Strangely her mind wasn’t in a whirl any longer. Her mama had always
said one had to have the grace to accept what couldn’t be changed, and the sense to recognize what could. This was the former. Whatever her private feelings on the matter, it was kind of
Uncle Hector to take her into his home and offer her protection. Her gaze now going to her uncle, she said quietly, ‘I’ll try and not be a bother, Uncle.’

‘Of course you won’t be. We’ll get along just fine, m’dear.’ It was too hearty, and Hector moderated his tone as he added, ‘Your rooms are being prepared and
will be ready shortly, so spend the next day or two deciding what you want to bring with you.’

Everything.
She wanted to bring everything, because every single stick of furniture, every ornament, every picture, was part of her mother and father. But of course that was impossible.
Inclining her head, she said flatly, ‘Yes, Uncle.’

It was settled.

It took every ounce of Hector’s self-control to remain civil in the time before George Appleby took his leave. Angeline had long since retired to her room when the two
men walked out of the study into the hall, after discussing the finite details of the will. George had insisted in dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s with Angeline’s guardian,
determined that Hector would have no excuse in the future to try and wheedle money out of the estate by saying he hadn’t understood how things stood. Hector was fully aware of the
solicitor’s motives. He would have liked to punch him on the nose and boot him out of the house. As this was impossible, he had played the devoted uncle and urbane host, albeit with gritted
teeth.

Fairley appeared to help George on with his greatcoat and hand him his hat. He told him that one of McArthur’s lads was bringing the solicitor’s pony and trap from the stables.
George thanked him, before pausing and saying, ‘Bad business this, Fairley.’

‘Indeed, sir.’

‘Terrible shock for Miss Angeline, for us all.’

‘Yes, sir. Knocked everyone below stairs for six.’

‘I can imagine. Well, goodnight, Fairley.’

‘Goodnight, sir.’

As George stepped out into the snowy night and walked over to where Seth McArthur was holding the pony’s reins, he was thinking, ‘Poor devils! They might think they’ve been
knocked for six now, but once Hector breaks the news they’re all out of a job, it’ll be even worse.’ Comforting himself with the fact that he’d at least been able to secure
Myrtle for Angeline, he climbed up into the trap and, pulling the vehicle’s thick horsehair blanket over his legs, clicked his tongue at the pony.

Hector didn’t wait to see George depart. Turning on his heel on the doorstep, he swung round and barked at the butler, ‘I want a word with you in the drawing
room.’

Five minutes later Fairley emerged, white-faced and shaken – as much, he said later to the rest of the staff, after dinner had been served to Angeline and her uncle and Miss Robson in the
dining room, by the master’s brother’s high-handed manner as anything else. ‘He wants us out by the end of the month.’ And, to the chorus of shocked gasps that followed this
bombshell, he added, ‘All, that is, except Myrtle, who’s going to accompany Miss Angeline to Mr Stewart’s residence. Myself, Cook and Mrs Lee receive six months’ wages in
lieu of notice. The rest of you, three months’.’

‘And references, Mr Fairley?’ Molly Davidson, the cook, was clutching the collar of her frock as though she was attempting to strangle herself, her round, fat face stricken.

‘Oh, we’ll all get a good reference, Mrs Davidson. The master left instructions on that score, apparently.’

Hilda Lee wiped her eyes with a trembling hand. She’d been weeping on and off since the accident that had taken her husband, as well as her employers. ‘I shan’t need mine. My
sister’s offered me a home with her – the one that was widowed last year. Her Ike left her comfortably off and, with the nest egg I’ll take with me, the pair of us will want for
nothing. I said no to her when she asked me last week, after Simon’ – she gulped audibly – ‘after she heard the news. I thought I was set up here. But I’ll have a word
with her tomorrow, when she comes for Simon’s funeral, and tell her I’ve changed my mind.’

The other staff looked envious. None of them were in such a fortunate position that they could choose not to work, and this blow was alarming. Each of them knew they’d be hard pressed to
find another establishment like this one, where the mistress had been kind and the master fair and generous.

Myrtle was sitting very quietly, counting her blessings, as she glanced round the unhappy faces at the long, scrubbed kitchen table. The servants had just sat down to their own dinner when Elias
Fairley made his announcement, and now plates of hot, steaming panackelty – made with meat left over from the funeral luncheon earlier in the day – sat untouched. Panackelty was one of
Mrs Davidson’s specialities, cooked long and slow so that the sliced potatoes absorbed every bit of flavour from the beef or bacon or corned beef and stock, and the onions almost caramelized,
and the whole lot went deliciously crusty at the edges. Tonight, though, the plates could have been piled with cardboard, for all the interest the others were displaying in their meal. Feeling
somewhat ashamed that her mouth was watering, Myrtle listened to the ongoing conversation as patiently as her growling stomach would allow.

After all, she told herself guiltily, as question after anxious question was put to Elias, few of which he had an answer for, if she’d been told that she’d lost her job, she’d
be feeling sick with worry, too. The eldest of ten children (the youngest of which was just three months old, and the brother next to her having just turned fifteen), Myrtle gave every penny she
earned to her mother each month on her half-day off, when she went home to the two-up, two-down miner’s cottage in Monkwearmouth. Even though her brother had got taken on at the mine with her
father, Myrtle knew the family barely had enough to eat, and her mother was always weeks behind with the rent. She had been thirteen years old when she’d come to work for the Stewarts, nearly
five years ago, and from the first day she had known that she’d landed on her feet, when she’d sat down to eat with the other servants. The food was good and plentiful, and she had gone
to bed feeling that she had landed in heaven.

At last Mr Fairley picked up his knife and fork and began to eat. This was the signal that the other servants might do the same. It was a sombre meal. Even Mrs Davidson’s baked jam roll,
golden and oozing with strawberry jam made from fruit from McArthur’s walled fruit and vegetable garden near the small orchard, didn’t bring forth the usual appreciative comments.

They’d almost finished their pudding when one of the row of bells fixed to the kitchen wall near the door rang. Elias glanced at it, before saying flatly, ‘That’ll be His Nibs
wanting something or other.’ Angeline and Miss Robson had retired to their rooms directly dinner was finished, but Hector had gone through to the drawing room, taking his coffee and brandy
with him. Now Elias didn’t get to his feet and answer the summons, as he would normally have done, knowing it was only the temporary master of the house calling them. Instead he looked at
Myrtle. ‘Go and see what he wants. Likely it’s another bottle of the master’s good brandy. He’s been drinking his way steadily through the cellar for the last
week.’

It was unheard of for the butler to criticize the family, and this more than anything brought home to the rest of the staff how drastically things had changed. They exchanged glances, but said
nothing, as Myrtle did as she was told after a quick, ‘Yes, Mr Fairley.’ In the space of a week their calm, orderly world had been turned upside down. Suddenly life was precarious.

Myrtle was thinking the same thing as she hurried along to the drawing room, once again thanking her lucky stars that she wasn’t in the same boat. If she was truthful, she wasn’t
looking forward to working for the master’s brother, though. None of the staff liked him, mainly because he treated you as though you were less than the muck under his boots.

She paused outside the drawing-room door. Hopefully, if she was to be Miss Angeline’s personal maid, she wouldn’t see much of Mr Stewart.

After knocking once, she opened the door. ‘You rang, sir?’

Hector didn’t bother to look up from where he reclined in an armchair in front of the fire. ‘I’m going into town shortly. See to it that the trap is brought round to the front
door in five minutes.’

Myrtle hesitated. Since the master’s fine big carriage had been smashed, and the two beautiful chestnuts that had pulled it had been put down, there was only the mistress’s light,
two-wheeled dog cart left, and the mistress’s pretty little mare, Gertie. It was a bitter night, and Myrtle knew her late mistress would never have countenanced the pony standing waiting for
hours in town, which no doubt was what Mr Stewart intended. Likely he was off to the Gentlemen’s Club, or some other such establishment. Unbeknown to Mr Fairley and Mrs Lee, she’d
overheard them talking about the master’s brother’s jaunts, and how Mr Stewart had been out nearly every night since he had been here. Furthermore, McArthur and his lads had gone home
an hour ago and, the mood Mr Fairley was in, he wouldn’t appreciate being informed that he had to get the trap ready himself. It was menial work.