Beyond the Veil of Tears (7 page)

His smile widened and his voice was soft as he said, ‘I don’t know if I will allow you to dance with anyone else, or is that rude, too?’

Angeline didn’t know how to answer this and so she didn’t try, but as he led her down the hall and through an anteroom into the ballroom, her heart was singing and the conversation
she had overheard felt suddenly unimportant.

He liked her. She didn’t know how it had come about, and she felt giddy at the thought, but Oswald Golding liked her. For his part, Oswald was telling himself this could have been much
worse than it was. True, she was painfully naive and unsophisticated – two qualities that he abhorred in his women, finding such attributes irritating and inevitably boring – but, in
this case, it suited his purposes. And she was much prettier than he had expected; one could say beautiful even, although her slender build was not to his liking. He preferred his women well
rounded and voluptuous, with fire in their bellies. But she was clearly docile and biddable, which in the circumstances was a relief, if he was to get this business over with quickly. And a
dutiful, meek wife was no bad thing. It would leave him free to conduct his life as he wished – and with whom. No, this chit of a girl would pose no problem. Even now he had her eating out of
his hand.

And Hector? As Angeline’s uncle came hurrying across to them, Oswald’s shrewd gaze took in the other man’s flushed face and bright eyes, and the way he was almost drooling with
gratification at the quality of the company he was enjoying. Hector Stewart would offer no resistance to his advances towards Angeline, particularly when he offered the carrot of making it worth
Hector’s while. He would be tactful, of course. Hector was the girl’s uncle after all, and it wouldn’t do to offend him. Not until she had signed her name on the wedding
certificate. After that . . .

‘Oh, Miss, it sounds lovely.’

Angeline had just finished relating the details of the evening to an eager Myrtle. The maid had been waiting for her young mistress when the carriage arrived home after one o’clock.
Angeline had described the house, every course at dinner, the ladies’ sumptuous dresses and jewels and the wonderful ballroom, but she hadn’t mentioned Oswald Golding.

Her heart fluttered madly at the thought of him. She’d had one or two dances with other partners, one of whom had been Lord Gray, but then Oswald had been at her side again, making it
clear that he had eyes only for her. And, in truth, she had only wanted to dance with him. Her feet had hardly seemed to touch the floor when she was in his arms; he danced divinely, and she had
felt she was floating around the ballroom.

Myrtle’s fingers were busy releasing Angeline from the tight constraints of the corset and, when it fell away, Angeline stretched, rubbing her ribs. ‘That’s so much better
– I hate those things.’

‘But you looked beautiful tonight, Miss,’ Myrtle said reprovingly, as though only the corset had had anything to do with her mistress’s appearance. Fetching Angeline’s
nightgown, she helped her on with it. ‘What was he like, Miss? Mr Golding?’

Angeline didn’t look at Myrtle. ‘He . . . he’s a fine gentleman.’ Sinking down on the dressing-table stool, she added, ‘I can manage now, Myrtle. You get off to
bed, you must be tired.’

‘Not as tired as you, Miss, I’ll be bound,’ said Myrtle cheerfully as she finished putting away the discarded items of clothing. ‘I’ll bring your tea later in the
morning, shall I? Let you sleep in for a bit.’ Bustling over to the door, she turned with her hand on the doorknob, ‘Sleep well, Miss. Goodnight.’

‘Goodnight, Myrtle.’

Once she was alone, Angeline breathed a sigh of relief. Myrtle had said she must be tired, but she had never felt less like sleep in her life. The blood was singing through her veins, and every
pulse was throbbing with wild, exuberant life. Her eyes were starry as she gazed at her reflection in the dressing-table mirror, and she jumped up, twirling around the room until she collapsed on
the bed, giddy and out of breath.

A sudden thought brought her sitting bolt upright, even as her head still whirled. Was it wrong to feel this way, with her darling mama and father so recently gone? She had left this house
earlier feeling full of hidden resentment at her uncle’s insistence that she come out of her black mourning clothes for the evening and accompany him to a dinner she had no wish to attend.
Her new evening dress, exquisite though it was, had brought her no pleasure – not until she had seen Oswald’s gaze on her, that was. Then she had been glad she was looking her best. Was
that the height of superficiality?

Falling on her knees beside the bed, she put her hands together. Her voice choked with tears, she prayed, ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I love you, Mama. I love you both, so much.
Forgive me.’

She continued to berate herself for some little while, until the tiredness she had denied brought a kind of calm. Climbing into bed – a bed that was much too soft, due to a thick
feather-filled mattress that made her feel she was being smothered each night – she told herself she wouldn’t sleep. Within moments she had proved herself wrong.

It seemed as if she had only just shut her eyes when Myrtle’s voice woke her, saying, ‘Good morning, Miss. You’re in the best place – it’s snowing
a blizzard out there.’

Blinking, she sat up, taking the cup of tea that Myrtle handed her, with a murmur of thanks. ‘What time is it?’

‘Gone ten, Miss.’ Myrtle set about persuading the glowing embers of the fire in the bedroom’s small fireplace into life. With Angeline’s permission, she had told Mrs
Upton that she needn’t concern herself about any aspect of the young mistress’s care and that she would see both to Angeline’s room and to her person. She herself slept in one of
the two rooms in the attics, the other one being the housekeeper’s. Albert had his own quarters above the stables, but ate all his meals in the kitchen.

‘Ten o’clock?’ Angeline couldn’t remember a time when she hadn’t been up and about before eight in the morning, although her mother had occasionally risen late,
normally after a dinner party or some other social gathering. This thought brought Oswald to the forefront of her mind, and her heart began to thump.

‘Your uncle has already gone out, Miss. I thought you might like a breakfast tray up here, rather than sit by yourself in the dining room?’

‘That would be nice, Myrtle. Thank you.’

‘I’ll bring it shortly.’ Myrtle pulled back the heavy drapes at the window as she spoke, revealing a cold white world, the wind howling as it drove the thick whirling
snowflakes in a demented dance of its own making. ‘You snuggle down again, Miss. The fire’ll soon take hold and warm things up.’

As Myrtle bustled out, Angeline smiled to herself. Since they had come to live with her uncle, Myrtle’s manner had verged on motherly at times, and yet she was only a couple of years older
than herself. Still, it was nice.

She ate everything on the tray Myrtle brought, finding that she was ravenously hungry, and then had a long hot bath and washed and dried her hair. Feeling refreshed and rested, she was dressed
and sitting close to the roaring fire in the drawing room, reading, when Myrtle came in, her face beaming. ‘These have just arrived for you, Miss.’ She was almost hidden behind the most
enormous bouquet of flowers Angeline had ever seen. ‘And a
footman
delivered them.’

Angeline looked at the pink-and-white rosebuds, baby’s breath, carnations and a whole host of other perfect blooms, and her heart began to race.

‘Here, Miss.’ Myrtle reached out a hand and gave her a small, embossed envelope with the Golding crest in one corner.

Opening it, Angeline read:

Myrtle’s bright eyes were wide, and in answer to the unspoken question, Angeline murmured, ‘They’re from Mr Golding. Would you take them and put them in water, Myrtle, and
we’ll have them in here, I think. Perhaps on the small table by the window, away from the heat of the fire.’

For the rest of the morning her gaze strayed constantly to the flowers, which had required dividing into three vases, so many were there. When her uncle arrived home for lunch, she realized she
hadn’t read a page of her book.

Hector’s eyes went straight to the table set between the two wide bay windows. ‘Well, well, well.’ He smiled at her. ‘What do we have here?’

Knowing she was blushing, Angeline smiled back. ‘They’re from Oswald, from his own hothouses on the estate.’

‘Indeed. I could see he was somewhat smitten last night.’

‘Oh, Uncle, he was being kind, that’s all.’

‘And the flowers? Is that just being kind, too?’

‘He . . . he knows about Mama and Father; he’s being sympathetic.’

‘Perhaps.’ Hector’s voice was hearty, expressing his delight. ‘Well, let us go through for lunch, m’dear. With the weather so inclement I shall stay at home this
afternoon, for the roads are getting treacherous. An afternoon keeping you company by the fire will be most agreeable.’

Angeline tried to look pleased. She would much have preferred to be alone with her thoughts.

The next few weeks were ones of savage snowstorms, bitterly cold winds, ice and unrelenting short days and long nights, but this bothered Angeline not a jot. Some days after
the flowers had arrived, a carriage carrying a Golding footman called again, this time with a box of crystallized fruit. The accompanying note was along the same lines as the first. Then Oswald
himself took to calling two or three times a week, ostensibly to see Hector, but always with a small gift for Angeline. A first edition of Longfellow’s
Song of Hiawatha
, after
Angeline said she thought it the most beautiful of books; a box of delicious sweetmeats; a carton of big, black, sweet grapes from the Golding outhouses; and so it went on.

During this time Hector and Angeline were invited twice to the estate, first to a small soirée in the evening, when the guests listened to music after an excellent dinner, and then to an
informal lunch, when it was just the two of them and Oswald showed them around the house.

This evening the carriage was calling for them at seven o’clock, when her uncle and Angeline were to accompany Oswald and an elderly aunt – who was paying him a visit from Scotland
– to a play at the Avenue Theatre and Opera House. For once, Angeline was not anticipating the evening with excitement. It had been on leaving this very theatre three months earlier that her
parents had met their deaths.

Myrtle, sensitive to her mistress’s mood, said very little as she helped Angeline dress. She knew how her mistress felt about Oswald Golding – it was as plain as the nose on your
face – but she didn’t like him. Not that her feelings were of any account, she knew that, but there was something about him . . . He was wildly handsome, she’d give him that, and
wealthy and influential to boot, if the talk that went on in the kitchen between the housekeeper and her brother was anything to go by, but why was he pressing his suit so ardently? It wasn’t
right, not so soon after the master and mistress had died. He wouldn’t have behaved in such a fashion if the master was alive, and she didn’t care what anyone said to the contrary.

She followed Angeline downstairs, holding her fur-lined cloak as Oswald stood talking to Hector in the hall, his aunt waiting in the carriage outside. Immediately he saw Angeline, Oswald smiled,
holding out his hands as he said, ‘You look beautiful, my dear.’ He took the cloak from Myrtle, without looking at her, and she stepped back a pace, watching him as he slid it around
Angeline’s shoulders and then pulled the wide hood up over her hair, saying, ‘It’s cold outside.’

Angeline smiled up at him, her face alight, and Myrtle experienced the unease that she felt when seeing them together. Something wasn’t right, but she was blowed if she could put her
finger on it. Then, as Oswald ushered Angeline out of the front door, he turned for just an instant, the grey eyes raking down Myrtle’s person from the top of her head to the soles of her
feet. Mrs Upton shut the door behind him in the next moment, but still Myrtle stood where she was, shocked and shaken.

‘What’s the matter with you?’ said Mrs Upton sharply.

‘Nothing.’ She forced herself to walk past the eagle eyes of the housekeeper and over to the staircase, making her way to Angeline’s room, where a pile of clothes needed to be
put away. Once the door was closed behind her, Myrtle sank down on the bed. Mr Golding had virtually undressed her, there on the doorstep. Her cheeks burning, she put her hands to her face. The
filthy so-an’-so. And it hadn’t been like when the butcher’s boy gave her the eye, or when the odd lad whistled at her on her day off. She gave as good as she got then. No, this
had been different. He’d made her feel dirty and ashamed – sullied.

She brought her hands down from her face, staring at the window. And this was the man Miss Angeline was fair barmy about. He was playing her like a violin, but why would he do that, with all his
money and influence? He could have any woman he wanted. She didn’t understand any of this, but one thing she did know: Miss Angeline wouldn’t hear a word against him. Anyway, what could
she say? That Mr Golding had looked at her – because in truth he’d done nothing more.

Slowly Myrtle slid off the bed and made herself start tidying the room, but her thoughts were with her young mistress, and they were fearful.

Angeline found the whole evening something of a strain, not because of the company, although the elderly aunt was deaf and consequently everyone had to bellow their
conversation, but because the picture of her parents enjoying themselves in this very place – not knowing what was to befall them – was at the forefront of her mind. She endeavoured to
hide her feelings, joining in the talk about the play at the interval and smiling and laughing, but by the time the little party of four left the theatre, a headache was throbbing at the back of
her skull.