Beyond the Veil of Tears (15 page)

Nicholas Gray was generous with his guests and this generosity was reflected in the excellent food and drink he had served to them in huge quantities. However, there was a subtle difference
between the excellent vintage port that had lain in his cellars for some twenty years and the good-quality port of a later vintage. The opening of the vintage port on the last day of the annual
shoot in Scotland involved some ceremony, not least for the servants below stairs. It formed a crusty sediment over the years it was laid down in the massive cellars and, to avoid disturbing this,
and to make sure that none of the cork crumbled into the port, the necks of the bottles were gripped tightly using iron tongs, heated red-hot in the coal fire of the range, and a feather dipped in
icy-cold water was then passed over the neck of the bottles. Only the butler had the authority to open the vintage port and, being a difficult operation, the procedure was a nail-biting affair from
beginning to end. Once the neck had snapped off in the required fashion, the port was then poured through a silver funnel into a linen-covered sieve, to further avoid contamination of the fine,
rich liquid as it dropped into a crystal decanter.

Nicholas Gray, like his father before him, was well aware of the finesse entailed and of the agonies his butler suffered until the job was done. He himself had attempted the process once and it
had been an unmitigated disaster. He smiled his gentle smile. ‘Now would be a good time, I think, McKenzie. You have the ladies’ glasses ready?’

The ladies were served an inferior, although still excellent, claret, as it was accepted that their less discerning tastebuds would not appreciate the delicate difference.

McKenzie nodded. ‘Yes, m’Lord.’

As the butler bustled off, Nicholas glanced across the room to where Oswald was standing. He looked somewhat bored. Clearly the choir was not to his taste, Nicholas thought wryly, and certainly
the man was not concerned about his wife’s departure from the company.

Nicholas frowned. He could have sworn in the early days that the Golding marriage was one made for love and not for convenience, but now it had all the hallmarks of the latter. Had he been
mistaken all along, or had something happened to drive a wedge between the couple? He had spoken of his misgivings to Gwendoline and she had pointed out that, with Angeline not being of their
class, she was perhaps finding it difficult to fit into the life that was expected of her as Oswald’s wife. And of course that was possible. Angeline did seem on edge.

Nicholas sighed, flexing his shoulders and wishing the evening would soon be over. He was looking forward to getting out on the river with his ghillie, once his guests had departed, for a few
days’ uninterrupted fishing. Besides his private stretch of river, the estate boasted a large lake in the grounds, which was well stocked with prime brown trout. There he could forget any
problems and concerns, especially ones he could do nothing about, like the Golding question. And probably he was imagining something that wasn’t there anyway. He nodded mentally at the
thought. When he had tentatively broached the possibility of Gwendoline having a little word with Angeline, his wife had flatly refused, saying that if the couple were experiencing any problems, it
was their business and theirs alone. And of course Gwendoline was right. It was just that Oswald’s young wife seemed so very alone . . .

It was nearing the end of an icy-cold, wet November, and the change in the weather of the last day or two heralded that December was around the corner. Rain and sleet had
changed to hard frost in the mornings and snow was forecast.

Since returning from Scotland, Angeline had used the fact of her ever-increasing girth to remain in seclusion on the estate, and Oswald had not objected to this. He had continued with life as
normal; accepting invitations to one or two weekend shoots in the Durham area, travelling down to London in the middle of October for a few days and, when he was at home, staying out till all hours
drinking and gambling with his cronies. There were periods when Angeline did not see him for days at a time and she was thankful for this. She busied herself organizing the redecoration of the
nursery wing, which comprised a day-nursery, a night-nursery, the nursery maid’s bedroom and a washroom and closet. Within the next week or so she was due to interview a number of nursery
maids, as she was now just seven months pregnant, with a view to the successful applicant taking up employment after Christmas ready for the birth at the end of January.

The last weeks had been ones of mixed emotions. Every time she entered the newly decorated nursery wing a part of her was saddened that her child would not grow up in such comfortable and
luxurious surroundings, because she was still determined to leave Oswald when she could. She would wait until she was sure the baby was thriving and healthy and the first few months were over, and
then she would take her child and Myrtle and would escape.

This morning Angeline awoke early in the room in which she now slept alone, Oswald having moved to his own quarters since they returned from Scotland. He claimed he didn’t want to disturb
her when he returned late to the house after she had gone to bed, and she had hardly been able to believe her good fortune when he had first declared his intentions. She suspected it was more that
he found every aspect of pregnancy repellent, because as her shape had begun to change he couldn’t hide his distaste, but that mattered not a jot. The fact of the matter was that she
didn’t have to endure the trial of his close proximity to her any more, and it was wonderful. He was due back from an overnight stay with some friend or other – she didn’t know
who and she didn’t care – that afternoon, so as she sat at her window watching the winter dawn break in a pearly-grey sky streaked with dusky pink, she was surprised to see him
galloping up the drive on his hunter.

Feeling apprehensive, but without knowing why, she continued to sit at the window until she heard his footsteps on the landing outside. He opened the door without knocking and stared at her as
she stood with her hand resting on the easy chair, still in her nightdress and rose-pink dressing gown. Closing the door behind him, he walked to within a few inches of her, so close that she could
smell the stale alcohol and cigar smoke emanating from his person. His words, when they came, were all the more sinister for being spoken softly. ‘I could kill you for the trouble
you’ve caused me.’

Angeline swallowed deeply and gripped the top of the chair tighter. ‘I don’t know what you are talking about.’

‘No, I dare say you don’t, Little Miss Holier Than Thou. So pure, so righteous, so touch-me-not. Spouting about matters you know nothing about and disgracing me into the bargain, but
that’s not all. Because of you and your babbling, Marmaduke Jefferson has been turned against me – and he’s got influence. Two thousand I lost last night.
Two
thousand.
’

Unable to follow the reasoning, Angeline stared at him. ‘You were gambling?’

‘Of course I was gambling, but I was played for a fool. They cheated me, and not for the first time. I’ve lost too much over the last weeks, and I see it all now.’ He swayed
slightly. ‘Damn cheats, the lot of ’em.’

Unable to keep the distaste out of her voice, Angeline said, ‘You are still drunk. How much did you drink?’

‘What’s that to you?’

‘You probably lost the money because you were too inebriated to think straight.’

‘Don’t tell me why I lost. I know full well, dammit. Jefferson and his hangers-on are out to fleece me, and all because you couldn’t keep your mouth shut.’

‘You’re mad.’ She genuinely couldn’t follow him. ‘I’ve never even held a conversation with Marmaduke Jefferson.’

‘You didn’t have to. All you had to do was spout that drivel your father harped on about.’

Suddenly she understood. The morning in September when she’d disagreed with Gwendoline Gray and made her own views plain. That was what all this was about. But it was weeks ago. Why was he
bringing it up now, and what did Mirabelle’s husband have to do with it? Suddenly she felt furiously angry. ‘You’re seriously saying I’m to blame for you losing at cards? If
Marmaduke really is annoyed with you, as you claim, it’s surely over your affair with his wife? Everyone knows he worships the ground she walks on.’

‘He does that all right.’ His voice had risen and he seemed beside himself. ‘But he’s never objected to Mirabelle’s dalliances as long as she’s happy. But you
put an end to that, didn’t you! You made me lose my temper and—’ He stopped, breathing hard, his face suffused with rage. ‘She’ll never forgive me, I see that now. Do
you know what you’ve done? Do you? Marmaduke is a good friend, but a bad enemy, and who knows what she’s told him.’

He was making no sense. Her face tight, she said, ‘Well, either don’t sit down at cards with Marmaduke again, or grovel to Mirabelle and put right what you’ve done.’

When Oswald’s fist caught her straight between the eyes Angeline actually heard her nose crack. She went spinning backwards, to fall heavily across the chair she had been sitting on by the
window. The wooden arm thudded into her back with such force that the pain rendered her unconscious, the echo of her piercing scream fading. She wasn’t aware of the bedroom door being flung
open and Myrtle running in, or of Oswald stumbling out of the way of the girl as he muttered, ‘She fell. Dizzy spell. She fell.’

When Angeline came to again she was in bed, but the pain in her face was nothing compared to the agony in her belly, which was trying to tear her apart. Myrtle was kneeling beside the bed. The
housekeeper and one of the housemaids were in the room, and it was Mrs Gibson who said, ‘The doctor’s on his way, ma’am.’

Angeline groaned, and as the pain in her stomach intensified and worked up to a crescendo before abating somewhat, she became aware that she was holding onto Myrtle’s hand and that Myrtle
had tears streaming down her face. ‘Myrtle.’ Through the pain, she forced the words out. ‘He said . . . he said Marmaduke Jefferson has turned against him because he lost his
temper with Mirabelle. Ch-cheated him. Gambling. Mirabelle Jefferson, his wife . . . ’

‘I know, ma’am, I know.’ Myrtle knew full well who Mirabelle Jefferson was, and you’d need to be blind or barmy not to know what she was to Mr Oswald, an’ all. Or
had been, by the sound of it.

‘He said it’s my fault, Myrtle. Where . . . where is he?’

‘Sleeping it off, ma’am. Don’t worry, he’ll not come in here again.’ And as Myrtle caught the housekeeper and housemaid exchange a glance, she said fiercely,
‘You hear me? He’s not to come in here. He’s done enough, the evil swine.’

‘Myrtle, the baby. I think the baby’s coming.’

‘Don’t worry, ma’am, it’ll be all right. The doctor will be here soon.’ Myrtle rubbed at her wet face with her free hand. ‘You just try and lie still,
ma’am.’

‘Too . . . too early.’

‘Oh, ma’am, don’t cry. Try and sleep, and the pains’ll stop.’

But another contraction was coming, and sleep was the last thing she could do. By the time the spasm had ended, each one of them knew the baby was coming and nothing this side of heaven could
stop it.

The doctor arrived and he was grim-faced as he examined his patient. Angeline heard him say, ‘And her face?’

‘The master.’ Myrtle’s voice was equally grim.

‘You’re sure? Mr Golding has told me he was with his wife when she had a dizzy spell and fell, cracking her face against the chair and floor.’

‘Mr Golding can say what he wants, sir, but I know what I know. Look at her, for crying out loud. Look at her poor face!’

‘You were in the room when it happened?’

‘No.’

‘Ah, in that case . . . ’

And then the pain took over again and Angeline didn’t know much about the hours that followed, except that the doctor didn’t leave her side and neither did Myrtle. At one point she
thought she heard Oswald’s voice, and Myrtle – sounding quite unlike herself – screaming, ‘Get him out of here! Get him out!’ but she told herself that couldn’t
be, because for Myrtle to speak like that would mean instant dismissal, and Myrtle had her family to think of. Her wage meant the difference between surviving, and the workhouse for her parents and
siblings.

The pain was raging out of control and the only thing in the world besides the agony was Myrtle’s hand holding hers. She knew she was going to die. No one could survive such torment and
live. And she didn’t care about herself. But her baby . . .

By midnight she was so tired she couldn’t tell what was real and what was not. The brutal pain, the ache in her head and eyes from her broken nose, and the bruises from the fall that were
already making dark stains on her body combined to produce a state of collapse. The excruciating pains were practically continuous, and still the baby showed no signs of emerging from its place of
safety into a world where its underdeveloped lungs meant that each breath would be a fight for survival.

As dawn broke, the doctor decided he would have to operate if he didn’t want to lose the mother as well as the child. But no sooner had the decision been made than Angeline began to push.
Twenty minutes later a tiny but perfect baby girl came into the world. Myrtle saw the doctor cut the cord, she saw the baby’s head move as though searching for her mother, but there was no
cry, no taking of breath. The doctor simply held her in his arms as he glanced at Myrtle and, long in the tooth as he was, he had tears in his eyes when a few moments later he shook his head.

And then Angeline began to haemorrhage. She hadn’t really been conscious at the birth, not fully, but as Myrtle watched, the figure on the bed became as white as the bleached linen sheets,
the crimson flow coming from beneath her the only colour in an ever-widening sea of red.

The doctor thrust the tiny body into Myrtle’s arms, saying, ‘Wrap her up’, before he sprang to attend to the mother. Unable to comprehend the extent of the tragedy, Myrtle
gazed down at the child in her arms. The minute face was so sweet, so pure, so delicate, devoid of eyelashes or eyebrows, for all the world like a porcelain doll. Numbly she walked into the
bathroom and reached for a towel, wrapping the baby in it, before holding her close to her chest. ‘It’s all right,’ she whispered. ‘Really, it’s all right. I’ve
got you.’