Beyond the Veil of Tears (8 page)

The Golding carriage had been waiting outside. Although the month of May was just around the corner, the odd desultory snowflake was wafting in the air and it was bitterly cold. Angeline pulled
her cloak tightly round her and, once in the carriage, snuggled into the fur with the hood low over her face. Hector had invited Oswald and his aunt in for coffee and brandy and, much as Angeline
lived for the moments spent in Oswald’s company, tonight she would have preferred to go straight to bed.

As they entered the house Oswald took Angeline’s elbow, letting the other two go on before them into the drawing room. ‘Is anything wrong? Have
I
done anything wrong?’
he murmured softly. It had been his constant fear over the last weeks that she’d hear something about him – about his past, some remark or insinuation or other comment – that
would cause her to withdraw from him, but he had still felt that he dare not hurry things along any faster than he was doing.

‘No, of course you have done nothing wrong.’ Shocked that such a thought would enter his mind, Angeline was further emboldened to whisper, ‘You . . . you could never do
anything wrong. I have a headache, that is all, and . . . ’ She paused, wondering if it would further spoil the evening if she mentioned her parents.

‘And?’ he prompted gently.

‘I have been thinking of Mama and my father. It was on leaving the Avenue Theatre that the accident occurred on the way home.’

‘Oh, my dear.’ His tone and manner altered, and he caught her hand, pressing her cold fingers to his warm lips, before muttering, ‘I didn’t realize. Your uncle should
have said, and we could have gone elsewhere tonight. I would never willingly do anything to cause you a moment’s unhappiness. Can you forgive me?’

Angeline looked into the handsome face that fascinated her and filled her dreams, her heart in her eyes. ‘There’s nothing to forgive, Oswald. Truly, please don’t distress
yourself.’

This evening had rattled him. He had almost been sure she was turning cold on him. Her fortune would provide the injection of cash that was necessary to turn his finances around; he
couldn’t afford to let Angeline slip through his fingers. Telling himself that he might not get another chance like this for a while, he drew both her hands against his chest and, as she
began to tremble, felt a moment’s thrill of satisfaction. She was his for the taking – and to hell with convention. He had to get her up the aisle without delay. Tonight had been a
warning.

‘I think you have guessed how I feel about you, Angeline. From the first moment we met I haven’t been able to hide my adoration, have I?’ He smiled the boyish smile that he
knew charmed the female of the species, from the cradle to the grave.

Angeline’s blush deepened, but she made no reply.

‘My dear, I want to ask you something. No, I
long
to ask you something. I think of little else, but Hector is your guardian, and propriety dictates that I must put my request to
him first.’ Oswald hesitated, as though unsure of himself. ‘I think what I am trying to say, dearest Angeline, is: would you wish me to speak to your uncle?’

How could Oswald wonder for a moment if she wished for anything else? There was nothing in the world she wanted more. Her head bowed, Angeline nodded, trying to keep the flood of joy and elation
from showing in her voice when she answered as demurely as her mother would have instructed, ‘Yes, Oswald, I would wish it.’

‘I shall return tomorrow morning.’

She kept her eyes on their joined hands. Hers seemed very small in comparison to his, which were long and strong, with thin fingers and meticulously clean nails. She loved his hands, she thought
wonderingly; she loved everything about him. And he cared for her. Even now, after all these weeks, she could scarcely believe it.

‘Come, they will wonder what is keeping us.’ There was a lilt to his voice. ‘I shall make my excuses and leave now’ – and, at her exclamation of protest, his smile
widened – ‘and you must go to bed and rest, and nurse your headache, dearest, but I shall see you tomorrow. Each minute will seem like a day, and each day a lifetime, till
then.’

He said such beautiful things. She accompanied him into the drawing room and stood quietly as he helped his aunt to rise from her chair and they made their leave to Hector. What had she done to
deserve him? Whatever had she done to deserve a man like Oswald Golding?

Hector stared at the man in front of him. He had suspected what Oswald had in mind when he had taken him aside on the doorstep the night before and asked if he could talk
privately with him in the morning, but conjecture was different from hearing plain words.

‘I think you may be aware of the reason for my visit this morning. I wish to ask for Angeline’s hand in marriage.’ This was what Oswald had just said, and now that it was out
in the open, Hector had to admit he wasn’t as pleased as he had thought he would be. The significance of the events of the past weeks hadn’t been lost on him, of course, and he had
actively encouraged Angeline’s association with Oswald, basking in the reflected glory, but this was so soon, so . . . sudden.

They were sitting in Hector’s study, with a cup of coffee and a plate of Mrs Upton’s delicious shortbread biscuits in front of each of them, and now Hector took a sip from his cup to
give himself a moment of time. He knew of Oswald’s way of life – at least the way of life he had pursued up until a short while ago. Some would term it scandalous, others would say he
was merely a man of his time and class. And Hector knew which way his brother would have thought. Philip wouldn’t have let this man within ten miles of his daughter.

Awkwardly – for this was Oswald Golding, after all, and the last thing he wanted to do was offend him – Hector said, ‘Can I speak frankly, as one friend to another?’ And
at Oswald’s nod, he continued, ‘I have to say I don’t quite understand why a man of your standing and influence would want to marry a young girl like Angeline. I am very fond of
her of course, and she is a young lady in every sense of the word, but brought up as she was by my brother and his wife in what amounted to virtual seclusion, she is unworldly and naive. I would
have expected you to choose a wife’ – he hesitated, having been about to say ‘of your own class’, but that would reflect on him, so he changed it to – ‘who is
well acquainted with society and perhaps a little older?’

Unsmilingly Oswald said, ‘I
am
old enough to be her father, if that is what you are suggesting, but still in my prime at thirty-six, Hector. As for what you term Angeline’s
unworldliness . . . time will rectify that.’

‘Of course, of course.’

Oswald’s eyes narrowed. He hadn’t expected this. He had imagined that Hector would be congratulating himself on being lifted into the upper strata of society, courtesy of his niece;
not that he would develop a conscience towards the girl at this late stage. Or was he playing some game of his own? Perhaps attempting to find out what was in it for him? Oswald could understand
this way of thinking, and it tempered his irritation. ‘I have a great affection for Angeline, and my regard would certainly extend to her nearest and dearest, upon our marriage. Now, if I can
be the one who speaks frankly, I thought it a great injustice that your brother did not see fit to behave honourably towards you in his will. As Angeline’s husband, I would see that this is
rectified.’

Red colour stained Hector’s pale cheeks, a mixture of chagrin and outrage, but his mortification at the veiled suggestion that he could be bought was tempered by the weight of his debts.
He licked his lips, seeing a way out of his money problems, which had spiralled out of control. Stiffly he said, ‘My prime concern is Angeline’s happiness.’

‘Of course.’ Oswald’s voice was honeyed. ‘As is mine. But, in our happiness, I would not wish to see someone she cares for deeply suffering an injustice of any
kind.’

In a moment of piercing clarity, Hector knew that all the misgivings he had tried to bury over the last months about the character of Oswald Golding had just been confirmed. Who was it who had
said that a leopard cannot change its spots? Whoever it had been, they were right.

He reached for his coffee, gulping at it.

But however suspect the man was, he clearly cared for Angeline, for why else would he be so set on marrying her? And Angeline was in love with Oswald, of that he was sure. It would be cruel to
stand in her way. She had lost Philip and Margery; could he be the obstacle to her finding happiness again? The fact that he would benefit from the marriage was a side-issue, that was all, and
hadn’t he taken Angeline into his home and looked after her as though she was his own daughter?

And so he quietened his conscience as Oswald stared at him with cold grey eyes, fully aware of what Hector was thinking, and hiding his distaste for the man who was Angeline’s uncle behind
a blank countenance.

Eventually Hector looked up, saying in a falsely jolly tone of voice, ‘Of course the decision is Angeline’s, and hers alone. I know nothing about young girls and their feelings, so I
will leave the answer to her. If you would like to wait in the drawing room, I’ll send her in to you shortly.’

Oswald smiled, finishing his coffee before he stood up and then, without saying a word, walked out of the study.

Angeline was pacing her bedroom in a fever of impatience. She had watched Oswald arrive from her window, and it seemed like hours ago that he’d disappeared with her uncle
into Hector’s study, even though her dainty little bedside clock told her it was only twenty minutes or so since his knock at the front door.

‘Are you all right, Miss?’ Myrtle had entered the room, her arms full of fresh linen to change the bed, and had stopped dead at the sight of her young mistress’s agitation.

‘Oh, Myrtle, I shall burst if I don’t tell someone.’ To Myrtle’s surprise, Angeline grasped her hands. ‘Mr Golding is here, and he’s going to tell my uncle he
wants to marry me. He . . . he asked me last night if he could.’

Myrtle didn’t know what to say, but her face must have spoken for itself because, her whole manner changing, Angeline let go of her hands and drew back, her voice expressing her hurt as
she said, ‘What’s the matter? Aren’t you pleased for me?’

Recovering herself, Myrtle stammered, ‘I . . . I’m so-sorry, Miss. I never expected . . . What I mean is, you . . . you haven’t known Mr Golding long.’

‘Just over three months.’ Angeline’s voice was cool, signifying her pique. ‘But sometimes these things happen in an instant.’

Aye, and give rise to a lifetime of regret. ‘It’s just so soon, Miss, after . . . ’

‘Yes, I know.’ Her voice changing yet again, Angeline reached out and patted Myrtle’s arm. ‘Don’t look like that, Myrtle. I think of Mama and Father often, and miss
them, too. We were a happy household, weren’t we?’

‘Oh, don’t cry, Miss.’ Horrified that she had caused tears, Myrtle was beside herself. ‘It’s just that you are young and, if you’ll pardon the imposition,
Miss, you don’t know anything about lads – men, I mean.’

Angeline wiped her eyes on her lace handkerchief and gave a wan smile. ‘I know what my heart is telling me, Myrtle. Doesn’t that count for anything? And—’

Whatever she had been about to say next was interrupted by a knock at the bedroom door and the housekeeper’s clipped voice calling, ‘Miss Angeline? You are wanted in the drawing
room.’

‘Oh.’ As Myrtle watched, her mistress’s face was transformed. ‘He’s got permission to ask me.’

Myrtle hoped not. Oh, she did so hope Mr Stewart had sent Mr Golding packing and it was Miss Angeline’s uncle who was waiting in the drawing room. The poor lass might cry and wail for a
bit, but it would be for the best, Myrtle knew it in her waters.

Angeline whirled out of the room, leaving Myrtle staring after her, biting her lip. She tiptoed onto the landing and peered down into the hall, staring at the closed drawing-room door. When it
didn’t open again and no raised voices or protest were heard, Myrtle’s heart sank into her boots. This was all wrong, she told herself for the umpteenth time. She might not know all
there was to know about etiquette and codes of behaviour, but she knew enough to know this proposal was flouting every rule – happening so quickly after the lass’s parents had been
killed, and her being so young an’ all. And him, Mr Golding, for all his wealth and looks, he was as shallow as a worm’s grave and not the right one for Miss Angeline.

In the drawing room Oswald had taken Angeline’s hand and drawn her to a couch set at an angle to the fireplace. Once she had sat down, and without letting go of her fingers, he went down
on one knee in front of her. ‘Angeline, dearest Angeline, will you marry me,’ he said softly, ‘and make me the happiest man in the world?’

She was too honest to play the coquette and her shining eyes were answer enough, even before she whispered, ‘Yes, Oswald.’

‘May I?’ He had drawn a small velvet box out of his pocket, opening it to reveal an exquisite engagement ring. Angeline looked down at the gold band set with a half-hoop of diamonds
and rubies, her heart racing.

Oswald took the ring from the box and slipped it on the third finger of her left hand. ‘It was my mother’s, and her grandmother’s before her,’ he murmured. ‘Story
has it that my great-great – I forget how many greats – grandfather acquired it, and other treasure, when he fought the Spanish whilst protecting England’s shores. This ring was
the prize of his booty and, on arriving safely home, he presented it to the lady of his choice and they became betrothed. I think he would be pleased to see it on your finger now.’

Entranced, Angeline lifted her hand and the ring sparkled brilliantly. It fitted perfectly.

Oswald stood up, drawing her with him and into his arms. She shut her eyes as he kissed her on the lips. It was a gentle kiss and only lasted a moment, but the feel of his mouth on hers brought
the blood surging through her veins and hot colour to her cheeks. Unbidden, the thought of Queen Victoria’s Golden Jubilee, three years ago, came to her mind and something her mother had said
about the elderly Queen. They’d had a wonderful day joining in the celebrations in the town and a carnival-like atmosphere had prevailed everywhere: street parties, processions of school
children in fancy dress, banners and Union Jacks flying from every house and shop, and a huge fair in Mowbray Park. Walking home in the evening between her parents, she had smiled up at her mother.
‘It must be wonderful to be Queen Victoria and know you’re so loved, not just here in England but all over her empire.’