Beyond the Veil of Tears (37 page)

Another innocent to the slaughter? But even if this girl wasn’t as young and naive as she had been, she didn’t deserve Oswald. And he was married. She would be condemning this girl
to a marriage that wasn’t legal.

‘I’m sorry, Miss Angeline.’ Myrtle looked as though she was about to cry again. ‘But I thought I should tell you.’

‘Of course, Myrtle. You did the right thing. It’s just’ – Angeline glanced about her home, which had become even more precious – ‘I thought I could remain
Grace Cunningham forever, I suppose.’

‘Miss, you don’t have to say anything. What I mean is, me an’ Albert would rather be hanged, drawn and quartered than give you away.’

Angeline smiled at the dramatic statement. Dear Myrtle! ‘Thank you for that,’ she said softly, ‘but I think we all know I don’t have a choice. My conscience would give me
no rest if I let it happen, Myrtle. And perhaps it’s time to face my demons. I’ve hidden away long enough.’ She took a deep breath, feeling light-headed with the suddenness with
which her life had taken yet another turn.

‘What will you do, Miss?’

‘Whatever I have to do, to stop the marriage happening. I have a little money put by, enough to see a solicitor and ask for advice.’

‘But Mr Golding? I mean, once he finds out you’re alive . . . ’

Angeline stared at Myrtle. She knew exactly what she meant. Oswald would be beside himself. Nevertheless, she couldn’t put another woman in the position of being involved in a bigamous
marriage. ‘I’ll see a solicitor,’ she repeated, ‘and go from there. Mr Golding can’t accuse me of being mentally impaired, not after the life I have made for
myself.’

Myrtle’s face expressed her doubt. ‘Begging your pardon, Miss, but I wouldn’t put anything past him. And what about your job and your reputation and all? What are folk going to
say, when they find out you’re not who you’ve said you are?’

‘A wise man once said that reputation is what others think of you, and character is what God is interested in, and I concur with that. I shall make it clear what Mr Golding’s
character is, and if in doing so my reputation is tarnished, so be it. My character is what matters, Myrtle. That and being right with myself and God.’

Myrtle didn’t look at all convinced, but after a moment she said, ‘There’s something else, Miss. It . . . it’s a bit awkward. When they wouldn’t let me see you in
the asylum, I remembered what you’d said about Mr Golding saying Mr Jefferson was trying to ruin him because of . . . ’

Angeline nodded. ‘Go on.’

‘I thought if he had it in for Mr Golding, so to speak, he might help you get out of that place, just to spite him, you know? So . . . so I went to London to see him.’

‘You went to
London
?’

‘Aye, I know, Miss. I surprised meself, to be honest, but our Fred came with me, so it wasn’t too bad. Anyway Mr Jefferson was abroad, but I saw her, Mrs Jefferson, and – well,
she was ever so nice, Miss. She promised to speak to her husband and said they’d get you out of the asylum and . . . ’

‘Yes? What is it?’

‘I could tell that whatever had gone on between her and Mr Golding in the past, she hated him now. She didn’t say so in as many words, but the air fairly crackled with it, and Alice,
her maid, was the same. Mrs Jefferson would have got you out of Earlswood, I saw it in her face, and I think if you needed anyone to speak up for you against Mr Golding – someone with
influence, I mean – she’d do it.’

Angeline stared at Myrtle. It was her turn to be surprised. After a moment she said softly, ‘Thank you for what you did, Myrtle. It means more to me than you’ll ever know. It was so
terrible to be kept in that awful place, feeling everyone in the outside world had forgotten you.’

‘Never, Miss. Not for a minute.’

‘And I’ll think about what you said regarding Mrs Jefferson.’ Even as she said it, Angeline knew she would never ask Mirabelle to help her. She felt no grudge towards her, but
she had been Oswald’s mistress even during the time they’d been married. Mirabelle belonged to that different life anyway – a life that was so at odds with her own that there was
no way to cross the chasm. No, Mirabelle Jefferson would be the last person she would expect to help her, and seven years was a long time. Whatever had transpired between Mirabelle and Oswald to
make her turn against him might well have been put right by now, for all she knew.

The three of them talked a little more, but it was getting late and Myrtle and Albert needed to get back to their family. They made their goodbyes, Angeline promising she would visit the farm
very soon, now that she knew where it was.

It had begun to snow again when Angeline opened the back door – big feathery flakes falling from a laden sky. The thick snow that had been forecast had arrived at last and it looked as
though they were in for a bad spell.

Angeline and Myrtle hugged tightly on the doorstep, Myrtle saying with a break in her voice, ‘Miss Angeline, there’s a home for you with us any time, we want you to know that. For
good, if you want, or just to escape the hoo-ha if things get difficult.’

‘Thank you, Myrtle.’ Angeline knew Myrtle meant well, but she was determined that Oswald wouldn’t make her run and hide a second time, however unpleasant things got.

Nevertheless, after she had waved them goodbye and closed the back door, she plumped down at the kitchen table and rested her head in her hands. In spite of her brave words to Myrtle and Albert,
she felt very small and insignificant. Oswald was wealthy and influential, but more than that, he was cunning and unscrupulous, which gave him the upper hand in a battle with him, however you
looked at it.

She crossed her forearms tightly against her waist, drooping her head until her chin lay on her chest as she struggled not to give in to the flood of tears mounting in her breast. She
didn’t want to cry, she had cried so many tears in her life. Tears for her parents, for her baby, for Verity; countless tears during the time of her marriage and whilst she was imprisoned in
the asylum, and for Jack. For what might have been, if she had been a working-class girl and he had liked her.

Jack. Oh, Jack! She shook her head, the feeling of immense aloneness that had been with her since the death of her parents unbearable right at that moment. He hated her – she had seen it
in his face.

Jack watched the woman who had been Grace’s maid – no, Angeline’s, he corrected himself; he had to think of her as Angeline now – being helped up into
the trap by her husband. He was standing in deep shadow some way along the back lane, hidden from sight, and couldn’t see into Angeline’s back yard from where he was, but he saw the
woman and her husband wave and call goodbye, before the horse and trap trundled off along the snow-covered cobbles and disappeared out into the road beyond.

He had been waiting for more than an hour and was frozen inside and out, but he hadn’t wanted to knock on the door while they were still there. Now that they had gone he still stood in the
falling snow, nerving himself for what he was about to do. If she banged the door in his face it would be no more than he deserved. He groaned softly, bunching his hands into fists in the pockets
of his coat. And nothing she might say to him could make him feel worse than he did right now. Fate had given him a chance tonight to make her notice him as a man – a chance to be strong and
supportive and understanding. It was the first rule of a good solicitor that you didn’t make hasty judgements; you listened and got all the facts and figures and the arguments clear. He
groaned again, the anger and frustration at the way he had handled things feeling like a lead ball in his chest.

He had been so full of rage that he was shaking with it when Angeline had walked away at the fair. And May had looked at him, her face stony as she’d said, ‘Are you proud of
yourself? Are you?’

‘Me?’ For the first time in his life he had wanted to strike the sister he adored.

‘Aye, you. Since when were you judge and jury anyway? You don’t know a thing about it – and you behave like that.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like no better than her swine of a husband, that’s what. He used to knock her about, Jack. Force her to sleep with him; rape her, if you want the full picture. And when she was
pregnant with their first bairn, he hit her so hard he broke her nose and she lost the baby. She nearly died then, but he didn’t care. Not content with that, he had her shipped off to the
asylum within weeks, claiming she was doolally. That’s why she’s like she is, keeping every man at arm’s length. And we weren’t let out of the asylum, as you’ve
probably gathered. There was a fire and we escaped, making out we’d died – or she’d be there still. Me too, probably. But you stand there spitting hellfire and damnation, when she
needs something else from all of us. You make me sick, you really do.’ May had swept round, turning to Howard. ‘Come on, we’re off.’

Howard had stared at Jack, totally at a loss as May had stalked off. ‘Jack . . . ’

‘Go on, go after her, man. It’s all right. I’ll come to the mill in a day or two, when she’s had a chance to cool down.’

‘I didn’t know.’

‘Don’t worry about it. Look after May. Go on, man.’

Howard had patted him awkwardly on his arm and then hurried after May, who was lost to sight in the crowd.

Jack had stood there for some minutes, his head swirling. Why had he gone for Grace like that? But that was it: she wasn’t Grace Cunningham. She was another woman – a woman called
Miss Angeline – and she had a husband. And the lass she’d called Myrtle had clearly been a servant of some sort, her maid most likely.

He found he had to sit down suddenly on the grass, his legs turning weak. That’s why she spoke like a toff: she
was
one. Damn it, she’d made a fool of him for years with
this story of being a working-class lass. How could he have been so blind? But a
husband
!

He sat there for some time, ignoring the odd glance from passers-by who clearly thought he’d had too much to drink. He wished he had. He wished he was blind-stinking-drunk and could just
lie back and shut his eyes and be out of it.

As his anger had cooled, the full import of what May had flung at him hit home and he hunched his shoulders against it. Two lassies walked by, one turning and giving him the eye as she said,
‘You should take more water with it, lad. Want a hand up? You’ll catch your death sitting there.’

He shook his head, turning away and getting to his feet and walking off without a word. He heard her say something about ‘uppity so-an’-so’ to her pal, but he didn’t look
back. He knew where he was going.

Before he was halfway to Garden Street it had started to snow in earnest, the streets emptying as the snow got thicker. He walked on in the sparkling whiteness, which deadened all sound and made
him feel like he was the only man alive. The smoke-blackened houses, filthy roads and pavements and the ever-present stench of the town was gone, lost under the gleaming virginal spotlessness. The
house roofs were white, their windowsills and their doorsteps, and the air was icy-cold and clean. It brought the blood surging through his veins and sharpened his instincts, bringing an awareness
of the moment, of the vital force that beat in his breast – of life.

He had to tell her how he felt about her: that he had loved her for years. It probably wasn’t the right time – hell, he knew it wasn’t the right time. Something like that
should be done with flowers and when he was dressed in his Sunday best. But he had to tell her now, tonight, that it had been jealousy that had made him act the way he had. Jealousy that
she’d had another life she wouldn’t share with him; jealousy because she had shut him out and didn’t need him, and he needed her so much; jealousy that another man had made her
his. Most of all, that. A husband! Dear God – he raised his eyes to the white sky and called out silently, with every fibre of his being; he’d go mad thinking about it. Stark staring
barmy.

By the time he was within a stone’s throw of Garden Street he had changed his mind for the umpteenth time in as many minutes. He wouldn’t tell her how he felt; there was no point. It
would merely mean more embarrassment. She didn’t give a fig for him and, by the sound of it, this husband of hers had put her off men for life. He would merely apologize for the way he had
behaved, blame it on shock and say that he was always there for her as a friend.

He was suddenly aware of someone shuffling down the back lane, and saw it was an old man with a scruffy little dog at his heels. As he came level with Jack, the man eyed him over the top of his
pipe. ‘How do.’

Jack nodded, hoping the man would walk on.

‘Cold night for standin’ an’ takin’ the air, ain’t it, lad?’

‘I’m waiting for someone.’

‘Oh aye? Well, I doubt if she’ll come out the night, lad. Courting’s best done in the warm, if you get my drift.’

‘It isn’t like that. I mean, I’m not courting a lass.’

‘No? Surprising. Wouldn’t have thought anything but getting your oats would keep you waiting in this.’ He gave a chesty chuckle. ‘What say you, Buster?’ he added to
the little dog, which stared up at its master, clearly wishing it was home curled up in front of the fire rather than having its private parts dangling in this nasty, cold, white stuff.

On impulse Jack said, ‘I’ve let someone down, and I need to put it right, that’s all.’

‘A lass.’

It was a statement rather than a question, but Jack answered it anyway. ‘Aye, a lass, but we’re not courting.’

‘But you’d like to be.’ The wheezy chuckle sounded again. ‘I was young once, lad, believe it or not. Want my advice?’

Jack felt he was going to get it, whether he wanted it or not. He nodded.

‘Faint heart never won fair lady. Is she fair, this lass? A looker?’

‘She’s perfect.’

‘Oh aye, like that, is it? Look, lad, you don’t get to be as long in the tooth as me without learnin’ a bit as you go along, all right? An’ one thing I’ve learned
is that women like to know where they stand. If you mean business with this lass, say so. If you want a bit of slap an’ tickle, an’ then it’ll be goodnight, Josephine, don’t
promise the other. Never does in the long run. But there’s not many lassies who can resist a man wooing her when he’s got marriage on his mind. Makes ’em weak at the knees, that
does.’