Beyond the Veil of Tears (11 page)

Angeline hadn’t demurred until they were in the privacy of the carriage, and he had swept her objections to one side with his boyish smile. ‘The maids will wait on you, my dear, and
I want you all to myself,’ he’d murmured, taking her hand in his. ‘The girl is forever popping up and getting in the way. I fear she hasn’t yet learned the art of a good
lady’s maid, which is to be invisible when necessary, which is most of the time. If she doesn’t improve, we really will have to think about getting you someone more suited to the
position, my dear.’

‘No, I wouldn’t do that.’

His tone and manner altered and, letting go of her hand, he said, ‘You would do just that, if I decided on it.’

She stared at him. He had never used that tone of voice with her before. Taken aback, she stiffened, her body drawing away from his. There was absolutely no way she would dismiss Myrtle.

Immediately, his voice now low and appealing, he said, ‘Oh, my sweet, I can’t help it if I want us to enjoy our first days as man and wife alone together, can I? I thought you wanted
that, too.’

Confused and feeling she had failed him in some way, she murmured, ‘I do want that, of course I do.’

‘Then it is settled. Your maid will apply herself to preparing for your return. Oh, you are going to adore London, my dear. I find it hard to believe you’ve never been to town
before. There’s so much to see and do, and – situated as we are, overlooking Grosvenor Square – we’re at the hub of it all. Of course we’ve missed the Season, but no
matter. If it was the height of summer we’d be riding in the Park. Hyde Park,’ he added, seeing her look of enquiry, ‘every afternoon. Everyone who is anyone meets for what is
practically a daily Society garden party in the late afternoon, between tea and dinner, at a spot between Albert and Grosvenor Gates under the trees. As for the shops, every woman of my
acquaintance loses herself for hours in sheer bliss.’

She had never seen him so animated. Feeling perturbed, but not knowing why, she listened to him talking about the theatres, opera houses, balls, garden parties, croquet and lawn-tennis
afternoons, dinners and banquets he’d attended in the past in his life of gentlemanly leisure, all the way to the train station.

Once on the journey to London, he waxed lyrical on the subject of the Prince of Wales’s pursuit of pleasure. Luxury and conspicuous consumption of all things fleshly were apparently to the
taste of the heir to the throne, and Oswald seemed to approve, as far as Angeline could ascertain. He spoke contemptuously of the Prince’s mother, Queen Victoria, whose court was a model of
respectable bourgeois morality. As Angeline’s father had held the Queen in some esteem, and Oswald had never hinted at such views before, she felt overwhelmed by bewilderment. Where was the
suitor who had so ardently declared they were made for each other? And who had spoken of marriage as something mysterious and fine?

She had eaten little at the wedding breakfast; she had been too excited for one thing, and her corset had been so tight it had left no room for food. Now the rocking and bumping of the train
were making her nauseous and her head muzzy.

After a while Oswald noticed her pallor and suggested she shut her eyes, which Angeline was thankful to do. She must have fallen asleep, because it seemed only the next minute that Oswald was
rousing her to say they had arrived.

She glanced at him now as the carriage stopped outside a large three-storey terraced property, with black iron railings separating the yard or two of front garden from the wide pavement. Her
sleep had refreshed her, but the churning in her stomach and the feeling of apprehension that had grown since the wedding breakfast were even stronger. One disturbing thought hovered constantly at
the back of her mind: this Oswald seemed so different from the man who had declared his endless devotion to her only yesterday. But she countered it by saying to herself that she had to remember
this was a big day for him, too. Nevertheless his attitude gave her no confidence for the moment when they would be alone together in the bedroom. Suddenly she felt afraid.

They were warmly welcomed by Ellen Harper and her daughters, one of whom took Angeline upstairs to the master suite, in order that she could freshen up after the journey. The room was
beautifully furnished, and leading off it was a dressing room and a large bathroom with an indoor closet. Oswald had told her there were three more bedrooms on this floor, all with en suites. The
top floor of the house was given over to the servants and was therefore more utilitarian.

When she came downstairs to the drawing room, it was to find Oswald on his second glass of wine, sitting sprawled on a chair in front of the fire. He stood up, saying, ‘A glass of wine or
sherry before dinner, my dear?’

Angeline was about to decline, for she rarely drank alcohol, preferring the taste of soft drinks or tea or coffee. Then, feeling that she needed something stronger for the evening ahead, she
nodded. ‘A sherry, please.’

She sat down on a sofa some distance from the fire, for the evening was warm and the fire had made the room quite stifling. Oswald joined her, handing her the glass of sherry as he said,
‘We have been invited to dinner tomorrow night at the Jeffersons.’ He gestured towards an open envelope lying on the coffee table close to where he had been sitting. ‘I think one
or two of my friends who are still in town for a short while would like to meet you before they retire to the country for the shooting.’

Jefferson. Where had she heard that name before? Realizing he was waiting for a response, she said, ‘Do you want to go?’

‘Of course.’ His tone said: why ever not?

She had hoped their week in London would be spent getting to know each other properly, when she had thought about it before today, but now she realized that the idyll of being alone together
every day was perhaps not what Oswald had in mind. Warily she said, ‘I thought everyone had already left for the country?’

‘Obviously a few have not.’

She took a sip of her sherry, feeling it warm a path down into her stomach. What had happened? she asked herself helplessly. This was not what she had expected – none of it. It all felt
strange, disturbing. Did all new brides feel this way?

They sat at either end of the long, polished dining table during dinner and Angeline was relieved to find this room was not as warm as the one they had just left. The meal consisted of four
courses, beginning with a clear soup, which was full of flavour, and ending with a lemon sponge pudding. Ellen Harper was an accomplished cook and, despite her nerves, Angeline ate well and drank a
glass of wine with her food. Oswald seemed to have switched back to the man she had known over the last months, making light and amusing conversation and being as attentive as she could have wished
for, and she found herself relaxing.

She loved him, she told herself, so very much, and because of that and the fact that she was somewhat overwrought after such a momentous day, she had been letting her imagination run away with
her earlier. Nothing was wrong.

After dinner they went through to the drawing room and sat on the sofa together to have their coffee and the handmade chocolates that were Mrs Harper’s speciality. Now the nervous
fluttering in her stomach had returned at the thought of the night ahead, and Angeline found herself wishing she had defied him and insisted that Myrtle came with them. Oswald had picked up the
newspaper from the coffee table once they had sat down, and Mrs Harper had left the room, so Angeline chose a magazine from the pile on the table – not because she had any interest in reading
it, but because she was at a loss to know what to do. The thought crossed her mind that Oswald had been putting on an act throughout dinner for the servants who had been waiting on them, and then
she told herself she was being unfair again. She had to stop analysing everything, or she would drive herself mad. Why was she suddenly doubting him like this?

She had finished her coffee and eaten three of the chocolates when Oswald’s paper lowered and he peered over it at her. ‘You must be tired. Why don’t I ring for one of the
maids to bring you a jug of hot water upstairs and help you undress?’

‘Thank you.’ She stood up as he rose and walked across to the bell pull, and he had barely tugged the long cord before there was a knock at the drawing-room door and Sally opened
it.

‘Mrs Golding is ready to retire. See to it that she has some hot water, and ask Tessa to bring me a bottle of malt brandy.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Sally stood aside for Angeline to pass and, once in the hall, said, ‘I’ll be up directly, ma’am.’

Ma’am.
Angeline swallowed hard, as the girl disappeared in the direction of the kitchen. She was the wife of a wealthy gentleman, the mistress of a large country estate and a town
house, and for a bewildering moment she wondered how it had all come about so quickly. Would she be able to be all that Oswald expected in a wife? She had so much to learn, she knew that, and
tonight she didn’t feel adequate for the task. She felt . . . She bit on her lip as she glanced about the beautiful hall. She felt out of her depth, and it was unnerving.

Realizing it would look odd if she was still standing here when Sally brought the water, she turned and quickly made her way upstairs. When the maid arrived, she asked her to place the water on
the washstand in the bathroom and told her that she could manage her own undressing, once Sally had loosened the ties of her corset.

She didn’t linger over her toilette, wanting to be sitting up in bed when Oswald came in. Her new nightdress was a lovely thing of chiffon and lace, and she brushed her hair so that it
hung in long, burnished ringlets down her back, the red in it gleaming in the lamplight as she looked at herself in the mirror. Once in the big bed, she pulled the covers up to her chin, before
forcing herself to lower them to her waist and settling back against the mound of pillows. She found she was trembling. Not with cold, for the room was over-warm, if anything, from the coal fire
burning in the fireplace, but from the panic of the unknown that was coursing through her. Taking some long deep breaths, as her mother had taught her to do when she was nervous, she waited.

And waited . . .

Outside the window the occasional carriage or two trundled past, but the select residential street was quiet on the whole, as befitted this upper-class address. In the distance she could hear
more noise, but it was muted and sufficiently far enough away not to intrude. After an hour had passed she slid down further into the bed, and after another hour had ticked by the exhaustion of the
day fought her nerves and won. She slept.

At what time of the night she became aware of Oswald sliding into bed beside her, she didn’t know. He had pulled most of the bedclothes off her as he lifted them to get
into bed, and as she moved drowsily she realized it was pitch dark, there was an overwhelming smell of alcohol on his breath and he was pulling her nightdress up over her thighs. As her mouth was
claimed by his, his knee nudged her legs apart and, without further ado, and without the slightest endearment or caress, he drove into her.

Angeline screamed, she couldn’t help it, for the pain and shock of what was happening to her were terrifying, but he took her face between his hands as his body continued to rent her in
two, and muffled her cries with his mouth. And then, mercifully soon, it was over and he was mumbling drunkenly as he rolled to one side, his words incoherent in the main.

Shaking from head to foot and with a smarting pain between her legs that felt like fire, Angeline lay quite still for a minute or two, unable to move, drained of life. Oswald began to snore,
turning towards her in his sleep, and it was this that enabled her to scramble out of the bed away from him, her crying soundless as she sat trembling on the very edge of the mattress.

Shock was making her teeth chatter as she felt her way in the dark to the bathroom, bumping into a chair as she stumbled about and nearly falling headlong. But then the handle of the door was
under her fingers. Once inside the bathroom, she sat for a long time on the edge of the roll-top bath, her eyes gradually becoming adjusted to the darkness so that she was able to pick out the
shadows of various items.

The pain between her legs had settled into a throbbing ache, but she felt damp and sticky down there. Pouring some water into the bowl from the jug on the washstand, she dabbed at herself with a
wet flannel for a while. It helped a little.

The floor of the bathroom was tiled, but a big fluffy mat stood next to the bath, and after she had dried herself she curled up on it, pulling one of the huge bath towels over herself. She
couldn’t go back into the bedroom and to the proximity of Oswald’s body; he might wake up and reach for her again. Just the thought of it made her shake and feel sick. And he was her
husband.
Oh God
. . .
God, he’s my husband!

With her two hands cupping her face, and her knees under her chin, she made herself as small as she could, all the time whispering to herself, ‘Oh, Mama, Mama, what have I done? What have
I done?’

‘I do believe the weather is brightening, ma’am, and not before time.’ Myrtle stood back from arranging Angeline’s hair, surveying her handiwork
critically for a moment or two before putting the last touch – a jewelled comb – in place.

Angeline smiled. ‘Does the bad weather make Albert’s absence seem worse? Believe me, Myrtle, I’ve no wish to be here, either.’

It was late September and they were staying at Lord Gray’s country estate. A fine Scottish rain had fallen for days, but now the clouds had cleared and a watery sun had broken through.

Myrtle grinned. She knew her mistress disliked as much as she did the annual withdrawal to Scotland when hundreds of game birds – grouse, pheasant, partridge, snipe – would be
slaughtered every day for weeks in an orgy of shooting. Gargantuan meals with many courses and types of wine, elaborate wardrobes and frequent changes of costume, and hours of boredom for the
ladies when the men were out sating their bloodlust was the order of the day. With the Tories having just fallen from power and the succeeding Liberal government led by Mr Gladstone in place,
politics had dominated the dinner table for some nights, until several of the ladies had objected in no uncertain terms.