Beyond the Veil of Tears (12 page)

Angeline hadn’t been one of them. In truth, she preferred listening to talk about
something
, rather than the inevitable spiteful gossip and inane chatter that prevailed most of
the time. Unbeknown to Oswald, she often read the periodicals and journals he had lying about at home for show, and had been slowly forming her own opinions on a number of subjects. Over the last
two years, since being married to Oswald, she’d come to understand the real meaning of what her father had grumbled about: that for hundreds of years Britain had been ruled by a tiny elite
who owned most of the wealth, made all the important decisions and exercised exclusive class power. And it was unfair. She supposed it was only to be expected that this privileged position would
not be surrendered easily, and despite the Industrial Revolution and the widening of the franchise, the gentry – of which she was now part, courtesy of her marriage – continued to
dominate political and social life. Everything, in fact.

Angeline sighed heavily. She doubted if a single one of Lord Gray’s other guests had the same thoughts as she did, but then outsiders like her were different. Different, but still expected
to maintain values and codes of behaviour relating to taste, manners and refined living. The basis of the aristocracy’s power was land; her husband’s estate and those of most of his
circle were large, not only giving employment to working-class individuals of both sexes, but wielding power and influence. And didn’t they know it! She sighed again. The masters of all they
surveyed.

She realized now that she had understood little of this when she married Oswald – in fact it hadn’t even crossed her mind. She had been very young and naive, and trusting, and she
had paid for her gullibility in a hundred different ways. She didn’t fit into her new life, although outwardly she made a pretence of doing so, but she hated the endless round of what some
would term pleasure – the London Season with its social whirlwind, the autumn of country-house parties providing opportunities for blood sports and all sorts of goings-on, the winter with
more parties, balls and social functions. Most of all, she hated her husband.

‘I think you’re ready, ma’am.’

Myrtle’s gentle intrusion into her thoughts reminded Angeline that she was daydreaming. Stifling a sigh, she nodded. This day would be no different from the ones before it. The assembled
guests began the morning by breakfasting at ten o’clock. The meal would consist of many courses in silver dishes on the side-tables in Lord Gray’s sumptuous dining room. Angeline knew
there would be enough food to last a group of well-regulated digestions for a week, let alone a day. After they had all eaten, the men would go off shooting and then the emptiness of a long morning
would follow. Groups of women would sit tittle-tattling about this and that, prattling on in order to hear the sound of their own voices, or would write letters at the host of small ornamental
tables scattered about. Then would come yet another of the endless change of clothes, this time into sporty tweeds for the luncheon rendezvous with the men outside.

Angeline hid a shudder. Trophies of bloodied birds would be carelessly piled up, and she loathed this time of the day.

After the impossibly large luncheon, finishing with coffee and liqueurs, the ladies would return to the house for an afternoon nap, before changing into beautiful tea-gowns, most of which were
far more lovely than their dinner gowns. Once downstairs and around the tea table, where Angeline felt they all looked like enormous dolls, the conversation would be spasmodic and even slumberous,
but every gown would be noted by each woman present and its cost mentally calculated. Competition was fierce, but covert.

Dinner would be the occasion of the day and would last for hours, the men discussing their prowess against the defenceless birds, and the women expected to be decorative and admiring in their
fragile concoctions of delicate chiffon, silk, lace and net, some of which might only be wearable on a couple of occasions before they began to wilt like hothouse flowers. Angeline had listened to
several conversations over the last nights between women comparing the most fashionable London
modistes
with the Parisian couture houses. If she heard another such discussion she would
scream, she told herself, as she left the bedroom. She had said as much to Oswald and it had caused another of their bitter quarrels, although now that she was expecting a baby he hadn’t
subjected her to what he called his ‘reformation’. These bouts of verbal abuse, when he criticized everything about her – beginning with her parentage and finishing with her lack
of refinement – always ended with him asserting his marital rights, no matter how she fought him. And she did fight.

Angeline paused before entering the dining room, taking a deep breath. Oswald had left their suite of rooms some twenty minutes ago, but she didn’t doubt he would have saved her a seat and
would play the doting husband, for Lord Gray’s benefit. Nicholas Gray had made it clear from their first meeting that he liked her, in spite of his wife’s condescending attitude –
or maybe because of it, she thought ruefully. He was a kind man, generous and amiable with a natural gallantry. How he had come to be married to Gwendoline, she didn’t know, but it was clear
to everyone that he absolutely adored his wife. Nicholas would make a wonderful father. She touched the slight mound of her stomach, which was as yet unnoticeable. But Oswald . . .

She had been about to put plans to leave him into play when she had discovered a little while ago that she was expecting a baby. She’d had it all worked out. She would sell her jewellery,
which would be enough to buy a little house somewhere; down south preferably, where she could disappear. Then she could perhaps give private lessons, as Miss Robson had. She’d thought about
throwing herself on the mercy of her uncle – he and Oswald had had some kind of falling-out directly after the wedding, although she didn’t know why, and since then the two men
hadn’t spoken. When she had defied Oswald’s orders not to associate with Hector, and had gone to see her uncle, hoping to find out what had caused the quarrel so that she could pour oil
on troubled waters, her uncle had refused her admittance to the house. It had distressed her greatly, for he was the last link with her parents.

Nevertheless, it hadn’t been this that had made her decide not to involve her uncle when she fled the marital home; more the fact that she knew Hector’s house would be the first
place Oswald would look for her. Anonymity somewhere in a big city would be the safest thing, although the thought was frightening. It had been a desperate plan, but she
had
been
desperate. She still was, perhaps more so, but in a different way, because now she was concerned about the innocent little person growing inside her, who had a monster for a father. A monster who
had the Establishment behind him, in any fight for custody.

A footman came through the open doors of the dining room carrying some empty dishes and glanced at her. Pulling herself together, she lifted her chin and walked briskly into the low hum of
well-mannered conversation. She was now approaching her fifth month of pregnancy and was thankful that the morning nausea, which had been severe at first, was now almost gone.

‘There you are.’ Oswald appeared at her side immediately. ‘I was beginning to think you were indisposed.’

She stared into the handsome face, which had once thrilled and fascinated her. How foolish she had been. How stupid and witless. And because of her gullibility, her baby would be born into a
loveless marriage, with a father who could be physically violent – and not just with her. Before they’d left for Scotland, Myrtle had told her that Oswald had laid about a groom the day
before, for not saddling his hunter correctly, lashing the lad with his whip about the head and shoulders. Myrtle had confided that it was almost certain the groom would lose an eye. Horrified,
Angeline had called the doctor to the house to treat the boy, paying him out of her own funds. Oswald had been furious, but she had stood her ground, and because they were leaving for Scotland his
temper had soon cooled.

Turning away from the perfect features that now repelled her, she said coldly, ‘As you can see, I am not.’

Oswald’s mouth tightened before he forced a smile, for anyone who might be watching them. It hadn’t been long into his marriage before he’d realized that he had underestimated
Angeline. He’d expected her to be pliant and subservient, as she’d been so docile when he had been courting her and he had thought she would be easy to manipulate. Admittedly the
wedding night hadn’t helped. He couldn’t remember much of it, for he’d been too drunk, but he’d obviously been a little rough and she had taken umbrage. But she was his wife
– his property to do with as he wished. That’s what she didn’t seem to understand. Even after he had apologized she had still been stiff with him.

His eyes narrowed. She should be down on bended knees, thanking God that someone in his position in society had seen fit to marry her. He had wanted to tell her that at the time, but there had
still been a few legal niceties to finalize, so he had promised himself he’d take her to task later. And he had. He’d taken it out of her hide all right. But still she defied him now
and again, as in the matter of the groom. The lad was nothing – scum.

He watched Angeline now as she stood talking to Lord Gray and his wife, Gwendoline wearing the superior expression she always adopted with Angeline. This irritated him beyond measure, reminding
Oswald that he had married beneath him.

‘Careful, darling.’ Mirabelle lightly tapped his arm as she joined him, a faint waft of the delicate perfume she had specially made for her teasing his nostrils. ‘One could
almost suppose you were the jealous husband, staring at your wife like that.’

He brought his eyes to the beautiful feline face, in which her startlingly green eyes surrounded by long lashes laughed at him. ‘We both know that’s not true.’

Mirabelle tapped his arm again. ‘How ungallant, especially when you have such a lovely young wife. You men are never satisfied, are you?’

She was being deliberately provocative, he knew that, but he also detected a thread of disapproval in her soft voice. It amazed him – genuinely astounded him – but he knew Mirabelle
liked Angeline. She had told him so on more than one occasion when they were in bed together. ‘It takes a real woman to satisfy me,’ he murmured, his gaze dropping to her red mouth.
‘You know that.’

Yes, she knew that. Mirabelle looked away from him to where Angeline was now helping herself from one of the silver dishes. And she also knew why Oswald had married the girl; he had been quite
frank with her, possibly, she suspected, because he had harboured the idea she might be jealous if he took himself a wife. She wasn’t. Their affair was purely a thing of the flesh, on both
sides. She loved her husband, but her needs were much greater than his and most of the time he couldn’t satisfy her in bed. Oswald could. If she was being truthful, she didn’t think she
actually liked him as a man, but as a lover he was everything that she had ever desired – and more.

It had surprised her that Angeline was not as besotted with Oswald as he had led her to believe, before the marriage. When she had met the girl for the first time, when the newly-weds had been
in London the week after the marriage, Angeline hadn’t behaved like a young bride who was head over heels in love with her husband. It was some weeks before she was alone with Oswald and
could ask him about it, and he had replied shortly that Angeline didn’t like the intimate side of marriage.

Was he cruel to the girl? Mirabelle’s green eyes turned to the hard, handsome face again. It was possible. She had never seen that side of him, but she had it on good authority that he
could be a devil when something upset him. ‘Go to her side,’ she said very quietly, ‘Nicholas will expect it. Does he know about her condition?’

‘No. No one but you knows, for the moment.’

‘Nevertheless, go and do your duty.’ She softened the words with a smile, knowing Oswald didn’t take kindly to orders. ‘And you can do your duty to me later, in the
summerhouse at the back of the rose garden. Slip away from the shoot for an hour or so after luncheon and I’ll meet you there when the others are resting in their rooms.’

‘I’ll be waiting.’

Across the room, Angeline was aware of the two of them standing together, although she hadn’t looked directly at them. For some time after she had married Oswald she had
wondered about Mirabelle Jefferson and whether, in the past, she had been more to Oswald than a friend. There was nothing she could put her finger on, just a feeling, and if things had been
different between her and Oswald, she might have asked him; but things weren’t different, and such was the chasm between them that she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of thinking it
concerned her. Then had come the night when, in one of his attacks on her when she had tried to fight him off, he’d accused her of being passionless and as cold as ice, not a real woman at
all. ‘Not like Mirabelle,’ he’d growled in her face as he had forced himself upon her. ‘She knows how to please a man all right.’

‘Then go to her,’ she’d cried back, through the pain of one of the many unnatural indignities he delighted in heaping upon her.

‘I do, frequently.’

After that, so many things had fallen into place: the odd glance, a whisper here and there, a knowing smile.

She should hate Mirabelle, Angeline thought for the umpteenth time, as Oswald joined her at the table; but, funnily enough, she didn’t. Maybe her heart was so full of hatred for Oswald
there was no room to hate anyone else?

Across the table Gwendoline was holding court, as she was apt to do, given half a chance. The subject was the radical Joseph Chamberlain, who had recently thundered forth another attack against
the Conservative Party, declaring that they spoke only for a class who were idle from the day they were born until the day they died.

‘I mean,’ Gwendoline trilled, ‘everyone knows the world is quite simply divided into those who lead and those who are fit only to be led.’