Beyond the Veil of Tears (4 page)

‘Well?’ Hector’s voice expressed his irritation. ‘Don’t stand there looking gormless, girl.’

Myrtle bobbed her head and hastily left the room. Mr Fairley would have to lump it, she told herself as she scurried across the hall. She knew which side her bread was buttered, and she
wasn’t about to rub Mr Stewart up the wrong way. She did feel sorry for poor little Gertie, though, and she’d tell Mr Fairley that the master’s brother had said to put the
pony’s thick stable blanket in the trap, even though he hadn’t.

It was half an hour later when Hector walked through the doors of the Gentlemen’s Club. After the attentive doorman had fussed around him, taking his hat and coat,
enquiring how the funeral had gone and generally ingratiating himself, Hector made his way to the lounge. He was greeted warmly by a number of the patrons, one or two of whom were important and
influential names in the town, and by the time he had ordered his first brandy from the liveried steward, who was equally ingratiating, the feathers that George Appleby had ruffled so badly were
smoothing out. The upper-class ambience of the exclusive establishment was soothing, and Hector drank it in, leaning back in the leather armchair and picking up the evening paper that the steward
had placed at his elbow.

He would read for a while, have a couple more brandies and then go through to the club’s smaller lounge. This was universally recognized as the card room. Hector rarely differed from this
routine. And he knew exactly with whom he would be playing, and where he would be seated. Regulars in the card room, like Hector, had their particular chair at a particular table. It was an
unspoken rule, and one that no member would have dreamed of breaking. It engendered a feeling of belonging in Hector, a comforting sense of affiliation and kinship, something he had craved all his
life, but never acknowledged.

On the dot of ten o’clock he joined the other three men who were settling themselves in the comfortable chairs around a table close to the blazing fire. Paul Duckworth, a wealthy
landowner, was seated to his right, and on his left sat Robert Taylor. The small, heavy-jowled man’s family was distantly connected to royalty, and Robert had never done a day’s work in
his life. The youngest son, and something of an embarrassment to his long-suffering parents, he drank and gambled away his allowance each month and regularly got into all kinds of trouble. But it
was Oswald Golding, sitting opposite Hector, who was the undisputed leader of the quartet.

Since Oswald had inherited his large country estate and town house a decade before, at the age of twenty-six, gambling and riotous living had taken their toll on his fortune. Aristocratic to the
hilt, Oswald’s cold and callous nature was hidden behind charming good looks and a charisma that was very attractive to the fair sex. Unfortunately for him, these attributes were of little
use in influencing his success at gambling, and he was rarely lucky. He had recently been forced to sell a farm at the edge of his estate and 300 acres, to pay his most pressing debts. This had
sent him into a black rage for days. He believed absolutely that he was a superior being, and that God had seen fit to place him in a position of wealth and power, courtesy of the Golding lineage.
To be taken to task by his creditors like any common man had been the height of humiliation.

Oswald glanced across at Hector as he lit a cigar. ‘Didn’t expect to see you tonight,’ he drawled, before drawing the smoke deep into his lungs. ‘It was your
brother’s funeral today, wasn’t it?’

Hector nodded. He didn’t want to discuss it.

Oswald’s eyes narrowed slightly. He was aware that Hector was barely keeping his head above water. Oswald made it his business to know a lot of things. Hector must have been hoping that he
would be remembered in the will, but it didn’t look as though Philip Stewart had been overly generous to his brother. Of course Hector’s reticence might be down to the fact that he was
upset after the funeral. Oswald took another puff of his cigar. But he rather thought it was more than that.

His opportunity to find out more came later that night. Robert Taylor had consumed a bottle of brandy before he had even sat down to play cards, and by midnight he was too drunk to see what was
in his hand, let alone talk coherently. Paul Duckworth, who had been on a winning streak all night and was worried his luck might change if he continued to play, offered to make sure Robert got
home safely, and the two men left the lounge, Paul practically carrying the inebriated Robert.

Hector had stood up to leave at the same time, but when Oswald had taken his arm, saying, ‘Fancy a nightcap, old chap?’, Hector had been flattered into staying. Now he watched Oswald
ordering coffee and a special liqueur that he favoured for the two of them, from the ever-attentive steward. Inwardly glowing that the influential and popular Oswald Golding had detained him,
Hector smiled into the handsome face opposite. ‘Paul was on form tonight,’ he said, his tone light, but a thread of resentment that he couldn’t quite hide colouring his words.

Oswald nodded. Paul, along with Robert, had been one of his friends for a long time, but it was a private source of annoyance that Paul – the only member of the quartet who could afford to
lose and barely notice it – seemed to court Lady Luck far better than the rest of them. ‘The blighter’s cleaned me out,’ he drawled, stretching his long legs in front of him
and lighting his umpteenth cigar of the night. ‘How about you?’

‘The same.’ And he had needed to win tonight; there were a couple of individuals in Newcastle to whom he owed money, and who had big mouths. There was no disgrace in owing money to a
bank or some other establishment, but there was deep disgrace in being unable to settle your gambling debts. Hector was in over his head, and had been for some time, but for the life of him he
could see no way out of his predicament. If only Philip had seen fit to leave him something –
anything.
He had thought for donkey’s years that he’d be Philip’s
heir. Then Margery had surprised everyone by announcing that she was expecting a baby, when she was practically in her dotage. He’d comforted himself with the fact that a miscarriage was
always possible; or that the child, if born, might be sickly or even an idiot – at Margery’s age it wasn’t unlikely. But no, she had gone full-term and had produced a bouncing
baby girl. And Angeline was sweet enough, he had nothing against her as such; it was just that her arrival had meant he was cheated for the second time – first by his father, and then by
Philip.

‘So, how did the funeral go?’

‘What?’ It was a moment before Oswald’s voice penetrated Hector’s black thoughts. ‘Oh, the funeral. It went all right on the whole, I suppose.’

‘You don’t seem overly sure, old chap.’ The steward arrived with their coffee and liqueurs, and Oswald waited until the man had moved away before pressing the point by saying,
‘Come on, Hector. You can tell me. We’re friends, aren’t we? What’s wrong?’

The sympathetic tone, coming on top of George Appleby’s treatment of him, and not least the amount of brandy he had swallowed during the course of the evening, loosened Hector’s
tongue. Shrugging, he muttered, ‘As Philip’s only brother, I was expecting to be remembered in the will, I suppose. Not in a big way, you understand,’ he added quickly. ‘A
keepsake would have done.’

A keepsake, be damned! He’d been expecting a darned sight more than that, from the look on his face. Oswald took a sip of coffee. ‘And there was nothing?’

‘A trifling sum each month, for as long as my niece is under my roof.’

Oswald’s thick golden lashes swept down, hiding the contempt in his grey eyes. There had been a definite whine to Hector’s voice. The man really was a bore. But then, he reasoned,
what could you expect? The Stewarts were ‘new’ money and only a generation or so removed from the gutter. ‘You’re the child’s guardian?’ he asked, without any
real interest.

‘Angeline is hardly a child – more a young woman, at fifteen years old, which carries its own problems of course. I have little insight into the female mind, nor wish to
have.’

Oswald hid a smile. Hector’s disinterest in the ladies had led one or two members of the club to speculate whether he was disposed in another direction, but there was nothing effeminate
about the man. Rather, Oswald reflected, Hector was that rare freak of nature: a truly passionless individual, at least sexually. ‘I take it that Philip left the lot to her?’

Hector nodded. ‘The business, the house, stocks and shares – you name it. I had no idea Philip was worth so much, but then he always did have the Midas touch, like our father.’
Now the bitterness was palpable. ‘My niece is likely to be the wealthiest young woman this side of Durham, when everything’s settled.’

Oswald sat up straighter. ‘By wealthy, you mean . . . ’

Hector shrugged. ‘According to Appleby, the worth of the stocks and shares alone runs into six figures. He was quite a gambler in his own way, my dear brother. Then there’s the
business, of course; the house, bank accounts. He was canny, sure enough.’

Oswald stared at Hector. He had known Philip Stewart by sight. Hector’s brother had been a member of the club longer than both of them, but Oswald hadn’t spoken to Philip more than
once or twice. The man hadn’t gambled or had any known vices, and his circle had been men of the same ilk – pillars of the community, the lot of them. Consequently Oswald had considered
Philip dull and uninteresting, with a provincial small-mindedness that reflected his origins. Now he could hardly believe what he was hearing.

Finishing his cup of coffee, Oswald searched his mind, trying to remember if he’d ever caught sight of the daughter, but to no avail. Not that it was likely. He spent a great deal of time
at his London house, and when he was up at the estate his days were spent shooting or fishing, and his nights gambling and with other less-than-salubrious activities. He was well aware that his
name had been linked with so many
demi-mondaines
, actresses and aristocratic women who’d been his companions and mistresses that it denoted scandal, but this had never concerned him.
He and his circle of friends lived for pleasure: gambling, horse racing, shooting, womanizing, visits to the music halls and theatres, and trips to Europe. The balls, dinners, banquets and garden
parties in London, along with the Henley Regatta, Ascot and Lords, made up his days and nights, and he wouldn’t have had it any other way in the past.

But . . . Oswald’s eyes narrowed as his mind ticked on. Having to sell the farm and land had come as something of a wake-up call, and he still had a mountain of debt. He accepted now that
he had to marry into money – and fast. The problem was that although many a simpering young woman from good stock would have welcomed his attentions, their virtuous mothers would certainly be
inclined to have a fit of the vapours at the thought of him as a son-in-law. And their fathers would want to know how he stood financially.

Carefully Oswald said, ‘I would have imagined the inordinate responsibility of taking your niece under your protection was worth far more than a small allowance each month, old chap. Bit
on the mean side that, if you don’t mind me saying.’

Gratified that Oswald saw it as he did, Hector nodded. ‘I’ll do my duty, of course, but nevertheless . . . ’

‘Quite.’ Oswald allowed a moment or two to pass. ‘And young ladies of your niece’s age are inclined to be somewhat . . . demanding, in my experience. I suppose it’s
only natural that, on the brink of entering society, as they are, their heads are full of the latest fashions, dinner parties and dances, and not least a dashing beau or two.’

Hector looked alarmed. ‘Angeline isn’t like that.’

Oswald smiled. ‘My dear fellow, they’re
all
like that – take it from me. You’ll see. Once the shock of her parents’ accident has worn off, you’ll
have your work cut out to keep her entertained.’ Casually he added, ‘Is she a beauty?’

‘A beauty? I don’t know. I’ve never thought . . . Well, yes, I dare say Angeline is pleasing to the eye.’

‘There you are, then. Recipe for trouble.’

‘You really think so?’ Thoroughly agitated now, Hector lifted his cup of coffee to his lips, missed his mouth and sloshed half of it down his shirt and waistcoat. He knew
Oswald’s reputation with the ladies, and didn’t doubt for one moment that the man was fully conversant with the workings of the female mind.

‘When they’re that age, the trick is stopping them from getting bored and into mischief,’ said Oswald with studied idleness. ‘Give it a couple of years and she’ll
be easier to handle.’

‘A couple of
years
?’ Hector’s voice rose on the last word.

‘Look.’ Oswald’s voice was soothing. ‘I’m planning a little get-together with a few select friends next month – nothing too formal, a dinner and perhaps a
spot of dancing. Why don’t you and your niece come along? It will give Angeline something to look forward to.’

Hector stared at Oswald in amazement. The only time they ever socialized was at the club, and then specifically in the card room. Oswald was gentry, and everything about him proclaimed that he
was from a class that considered itself infinitely special. Until today, Hector wouldn’t have been surprised if Oswald had looked the other way, should their paths have crossed outside the
club’s confines. But it wasn’t only this that caused him to hesitate. He’d heard rumours about the high jinks Oswald and his set got up to, and if only half of them were true,
then an evening hosted by this man was not the sort of occasion to take an innocent young girl to.

As though he knew what Hector was thinking, Oswald continued, ‘When I say select, I mean mostly married couples like the Hendersons and Parkers, and I think Lord Gray is back from
honeymoon with his new wife. Have you met Nicholas Gray? No? Oh, he’s a fine fellow. Eton and Oxford followed by the Guards, and his estate in Scotland breeds the best grouse for hundreds of
miles. Made a damn good speech in the House of Lords last year.’

Reassured by the mention of some of the most respectable names thereabouts, Hector breathed more easily. ‘Wouldn’t it seem a trifle soon for Angeline to be seen at something like
that? Not that I’m not grateful, of course, but—’