Beyond the Veil of Tears (39 page)

She wasn’t expected back at work until after lunch; she had called in first thing that morning and explained the situation to her boss, who had nearly fallen off his chair in shock that
his reliable, reserved secretary was someone else entirely, but he had told her to take as much time as she needed to sort out her affairs and that her job was safe, however things turned out. She
had appreciated that.

As she walked along Northumberland Street, where Havelock & Son had their offices, she realized she was trembling, the threat of tears paramount again. Reliving the tawdry details of her
marriage for Mr Havelock, the death of her baby, and not least the nightmare of the asylum had brought emotions to the surface that she normally kept buried. It had stopped snowing, but the sky was
heavy with the promise of more, the wind cutting through her like a knife and the faces of passers-by as they hurried about their business preoccupied and scrunched up against the cold. Suddenly
she felt very alone again and frightened; frightened of the enormity of what she was doing, of the scandal that would result, of seeing Oswald again and facing his venom. She wanted Jack, she
thought desperately. She couldn’t do this on her own. She needed his strength and reassurance.

She turned so swiftly on the packed snow beneath her feet that she almost went headlong, but for a pair of strong arms catching her. And then she looked up and Jack was there, pulling her
against him, careless of the shoppers and the folk around them. ‘Hey, I’ve got you,’ he said softly. ‘You looked upset when you left, and I thought you could do with a warm
drink and a sticky bun, and most of all this.’ He kissed her long and hard, as though they weren’t in a busy street in full view of the world and his wife. It was the height of
impropriety, but she didn’t care.

When she could get her breath she said weakly, ‘What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be at work. And Mr Havelock said—’

‘I know what Mr Havelock said, and it’s good advice. I would say the same to a client in his place, but if you think I can stay away from you for a few days, let alone weeks and
months, you’ve got another think coming. Golding hasn’t even got Mr Havelock’s letter yet, and after he has we’ll be discreet – I’ll make sure of that –
but we’re seeing this through together. All right?’

She nodded mistily.

‘And don’t worry about Golding. He’s already beaten, he just doesn’t know it yet. Come on, you need a cup of tea.’

He drew her arm through his and they started walking, but if Jack had thought to reassure her, it had the opposite effect. She wanted to tell him that he had no idea what Oswald was like –
just the jaunty way Jack had spoken proved that. Oswald was vicious and immoral and devious, and he had no conscience, and this last made him more dangerous than anything. He believed that, as one
of the ruling elite, he was untouchable, and because he believed it without a shadow of a doubt, he made it so. He was capable of anything, and how could a good, decent man like Jack – or Mr
Havelock for that matter – get into the mind of someone like that and fight them on an equal footing? They couldn’t, and she realized that was what had frightened her so much this
morning. She was frightened for Jack, for the new life they were planning together; and yes, for herself, for who knew what revenge Oswald would take if he was thwarted? She was going to shatter
his plans to marry again and was going to ruin his reputation, and even he wouldn’t be able to survive such scandal unscathed.

So, a little voice in her head said quietly, what are you going to do? Back down, disappear, hide away again? Let him win?

She glanced up at Jack as they walked and he caught her eye, smiling down at her as he moved her closer into the protection of his body.

No, she answered, even as her being quivered at the thought. She was going to fight.

Oswald Golding had grown distinctly heavier in the last seven years, but it suited him. Now forty-six years of age, he had a presence that caused heads to turn wherever he
went. The slight touch of silver in his fair hair was unnoticeable; his complexion was good, despite his many indulgences; and his handsomeness had a maturity that was very attractive. It was only
his eyes which revealed the true nature of the man, and these were gimlet-hard, the grey having taken on the consistency of polished steel.

Fortune had not smiled on him in recent years, and he could trace the rapid decline back to the incident with Mirabelle at Lord Gray’s Scottish estate. Before that his gambling had never
been lucrative, but since that time his lack of success had become legendary. Of course, he should have stopped when he knew Jefferson was out to ruin him, but the gambling was a fever in his blood
and he always told himself that things would level out. A few good wins, that was all he needed. But they had never come, and two years ago he’d had to face the fact that he was in danger of
losing everything. And then a friend had tipped him off that, when he sat down with certain acquaintances, his drinks were more potent than they should be. He’d heard of that on the
continent, of course – drinks being doped so that one would gamble wildly – but he had never dreamed it could happen to him. Not in England. Not among gentlemen.

He had been to see his accountant and then his bank manager, and with the latter he had used his charm, his name and an introduction to the higher echelons of society to hold back the wolves
from the door. He had gained time. He knew exactly what he was going to do; he had done it once before and got himself out of trouble. This time with his marriage would come not only money, but
influence and power. Angeline had been a nobody and of little account, which had suited his purposes at the time, but now he would marry a girl whose family could open avenues to unlimited wealth.
And so he searched out his prey very carefully and decided on Lady Wilhelmina Argyle, whose father was a lord and whose mother numbered the Prince and Princess of Wales among her close friends.

It was unfortunate that the mother was a beauty and the daughter was not. Wilhelmina had buck-teeth the size of headstones, and a nose that was large and bony and that dominated her thin face;
both of these traits she had inherited from her father. A father who, incidentally, adored his only offspring, and did not consider Oswald Golding a suitable husband for his precious baby. And so
had begun a steady, tenacious wooing of Lady Wilhelmina, who had fallen head over heels for Oswald from the start. He rather suspected the mother liked him, too, and when Lord Argyle was being
particularly difficult, Oswald had comforted himself with the fact that in the future, once Wilhelmina was his wife, he would have the mother, too. It would be a most satisfactory revenge for the
way he had been made to jump through hoops.

From the moment he had begun his advances to Lady Wilhelmina, Oswald had stopped his gambling and his escapades with the more notorious of his friends. In effect, he became a reformed character,
so much so that Lord Argyle could no longer hold out against the combined pressure of his wife and his lovelorn daughter, and reluctantly – very reluctantly – agreed to the match.

So it was that, one morning in the middle of an icy and snowy January, Oswald came down to breakfast feeling very satisfied with himself. The engagement ball before Christmas had been a
resounding success, and although Lord Argyle had tried to persuade his precious ewe-lamb to wait a full year before the nuptials, Wilhelmina and her mother had had their way and the wedding was to
take place in May.

‘Such a beautiful month,’ Wilhelmina’s mother had cooed when they had discussed it a few days before, ‘with the promise of hot days and long, warm evenings to
enjoy.’

He had smiled at the still-lovely woman who was only two years older than himself. ‘And sultry nights,’ he had said softly, his eyes sending a message that was just for her. She had
given her tinkling laugh, her cheeks flushing slightly, and Wilhelmina had chattered on, oblivious of his courting of her mother.

Now Oswald seated himself at the dining table, thinking of the day ahead. He had indulged himself and bought a new hunter after the engagement ball, a handsome beast that had
yet to be fully tamed. He would do battle with the stallion today; he always enjoyed mastering a horse until it came at his whistle, although he never used force. That was the way to break a
horse’s spirit, and it was never such a noble beast afterwards. He used persuasion and intuition and patience, and it never failed. He stretched his long legs, encased in their leather riding
boots, and glanced at the silver tray holding the morning’s post, which the butler had placed to one side of his cutlery. When he was dining alone he didn’t bother with a selection of
covered dishes, but ordered his requirements the night before. Now, as Wood placed a plate of devilled kidneys and scrambled eggs in front of him, Oswald slit open the first letter with a silver
paper knife.

For a moment the neat typewritten words didn’t register. What they said was so bizarre, so preposterous, as to be unbelievable. Oswald made a sound deep in his throat, which caused the
butler and housemaid who stood waiting at one side of the room to glance nervously at each other.

She was alive? Angeline was alive? And asking for a separation order? It was here, in black-and-white, but it was impossible.

He pushed his plate away, sending the contents scattering over the table, and jumped to his feet. Yelling at Wood to get the coach brought round, he strode out of the room.

Oswald read and reread the letter, and the enclosed papers that the envelope had held, as the coach made its way into Bishopwearmouth, where his solicitors had their offices. The letter heading
showed Havelock & Son, Solicitors, followed by a Newcastle address. Swearing and cursing, he stared out of the window into the whirling snow. From his initial feeling of incredulity, now he
didn’t doubt it was true. Angeline was alive. The little scut was alive. Not only that, but she had the damn effrontery – the gall – to inform him of the fact through a
solicitor’s letter and ask for a separation, of all things. Where the hell had she been hiding for the last seven years?

As the carriage jolted him almost out of his seat, when it passed over a large pothole in the road concealed by the snow, he let loose a tirade of foul language at his coachman, before settling
back in his seat again. Angeline! Hell and damnation:
Angeline.
And Wilhelmina . . . He groaned, grinding his teeth in fury. How could you be dead for seven years and then resurrect
yourself, returning from the grave to wreak havoc? Well, he’d make sure she was dead again, and this time six feet under, with a body with her face on it to prove it; rather than a black,
charred lump of meat that could be anyone.

What was he going to do? He stared blindly out of the window. If Argyle caught a whiff of this, it would be the death-knell for any hopes in that direction. Damn and blast her – Angeline
had picked her moment well. How long had she been planning this?

By the time he reached Fawcett Street, the town’s commercial centre, dignified by such buildings as the Liberal Club and the Town Hall, Oswald was barely able to contain his rage. There
followed a shouting match with his solicitor, when Oswald wouldn’t listen to reason and stamped about the office, his language so offensive it gave the solicitor’s secretary a fit of
the vapours. After this, Oswald told the man that he was dispensing with his services, in language colourful enough for a sailor, and returned to his carriage, telling the coachman to drive to
Newcastle.

It was noon when he arrived at the offices of Havelock & Son, but far from cooling him down, the journey had given him time to stoke up his anger to boiling point.

Jack was sitting in the outer office, with the solicitor’s secretary and the office girl, when Oswald flung open the door, startling them all. And even before Oswald opened his mouth, some
sixth sense told Jack who it was.

‘I’ve had a letter.’ Oswald held the crumpled envelope in his fist, temper causing the veins to bulge in his forehead. ‘Where’s Havelock?’

‘Have you an appointment, sir?’ the secretary asked, knowing full well he had not, at the same time as Jack rose to his feet.

‘Appointment be damned! Where is he?’ Oswald looked at the two offices leading from the outer office, one of which was Mr Havelock senior’s and the other his son’s.
‘Tell him I want a word with him.’

Jack motioned with his hand to the secretary, coming to stand in front of Oswald as he said, ‘And you are?’ with not a shred of the politeness he would normally show to someone
walking through the door.

Murderous grey eyes met clear, cold, green ones.

‘The hell who I am,’ Oswald ground out through gritted teeth. ‘I want to see Havelock, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll tell him so.’

‘I asked you your na—’

‘Get out of my way.’

The two men were equal in height, but Oswald was a good two or three stone heavier than Jack. However, as he made to thrust the younger man aside, he suddenly found himself whirled round, with
his arm bent painfully behind his back.

‘For the third time, sir, what is your name?’ Jack hissed softly, twisting Oswald’s arm until it was on the verge of breaking.

Oswald groaned, but Jack didn’t release the pressure, and it was only the secretary saying, ‘Mr Connor,
please’
as she pointed to Jinny, the little office girl, who
looked as though she was about to swoon, that persuaded Jack to relax his grip slightly.

It was at this point that Jim Havelock opened the door to his office, having heard something of the commotion outside. He, too, had no doubt about who Oswald was, but this was due more to the
fact that his clerk had murder on his face than it was to intuition. Walking over to the two men and putting his hand on Jack’s arm in a silent warning, he said quietly to Oswald, ‘Do I
take it you wish to see me, sir?’ And when Jack still didn’t release him, he added, ‘Thank you, Mr Connor. I think the gentleman will behave now.’