Beyond the Veil of Tears (6 page)

‘Welcome to my home.’

He drew her eyes to his as he spoke. Aware that as yet she hadn’t said a word, and fearing he would think she was a simpleton, Angeline pulled herself together. ‘Thank you, Mr
Golding. It was very kind of you to invite us,’ she said sedately, aware that the fire in her cheeks belied her voice.

‘Oswald, please.’ He smiled, revealing a set of perfectly even, white teeth. ‘And may I take this opportunity to offer my condolences on your recent loss. It was very brave of
you to come tonight, and I’m sure it would be what your parents would have wanted. They would not wish you to hide away from life, but rather to take comfort from friends and family. Your
father and I were members of the same club, along with your uncle here. He was a fine man.’

Eagerly Angeline said, ‘You knew my father?’ Her uncle hadn’t mentioned that.

‘But of course,’ Oswald nodded, his voice smooth. ‘And your uncle is a good friend of mine. I know he has been very concerned about you. Let us hope the evening brings a
measure of enjoyment.’ The footman had taken her cloak and now, as a maid in a black alpaca dress with a white lacy apron at the waist hovered to one side of them, he added, ‘Peggy will
show you to the ladies’ room, where you can freshen up, and then bring you to the drawing room.’

‘Oh yes, thank you.’ Angeline’s head was spinning as she followed the maid across the hall and down a corridor, and as they reached an alcove, the maid opened a door and stood
aside for Angeline to go before her.

‘I’ll be waiting outside when you’re ready, Miss,’ the girl said brightly, before closing the door after her.

Angeline’s heart was racing as she stood looking about her. Three small dressing tables with a dainty velvet-backed chair in front of each of them stood along one wall on the right, and on
the left was a row of doors leading to separate enclosed cubicles. At the far end of the room was a large table holding several beautifully painted pitchers and basins, and at the back of these sat
a pile of neatly folded towels. As far as she could ascertain, she was alone.

There were long mirrors on the walls on either side of the table, and now, her stomach fluttering with nerves, Angeline made her way towards them and stood surveying herself. She didn’t
want to wash her hands or use one of the closets, and there was nothing else to do. She put her hand to her hair and fiddled with a curl, wondering if she had been in the cloakroom long enough. She
was a fish out of water here, and suddenly the desire to be safely back in her room at her uncle’s house was strong. She felt very young and insignificant, and the longing for her mother was
overwhelming.

Don’t cry. Don’t cry.
She squeezed her eyes tightly shut for a moment.
It’s just a dinner party, that’s all – one evening that will soon be
over.

A knock at the door brought her swinging round, and the little maid stood there. ‘If you’re ready, Miss, I’ll take you through.’

‘Thank you.’ She took a deep breath, keeping her head up and her shoulders back as she left the room, her sparkling vanity bag clutched tightly in one hand, so that her knuckles
shone white through her flesh.

As she entered the drawing room it seemed full of people, and the buzz of conversation was loud. Her uncle was standing talking to a tall man and a beautifully dressed young
woman some yards away and, as she hesitated, her arm was taken and Oswald Golding said, ‘There you are, I was waiting for you. Come and meet Lord Gray and his wife. They’re
newly-weds,’ he added, lowering his voice, ‘just back from their honeymoon in Europe, and I do believe Gwendoline is only a year or so older than you. I’m sure you’ll get on
famously.’

He drew her with him, to where her uncle and the couple were standing, and said, ‘Nick, Gwendoline, this is Miss Angeline Stewart; Angeline, Lord and Lady Gray.’

‘How do you do?’ Angeline inclined her head as she dipped her knee, hoping she was doing the right thing.

‘Angeline, what a charming name!’ Gwendoline Gray’s voice was polite, but without warmth, and there was an edge of condescension as she added, ‘Your uncle has been
telling us of your misfortune, Miss Stewart. Please accept our condolences on your sad loss.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I thought you might be a branch of the Kirkmichael Stewarts. I came out with Lady Victoria’s daughter two seasons ago.
Such
a dear girl. But your uncle assures us you are
not acquainted with them.’

Angeline stared at the pretty, doll-like face. She had often heard her father talk with Mr Appleby about the mechanism through which elite society was controlled, and her father had been
scathing on occasions. The ruling class was landed, hereditary, wealthy and leisured, and also interrelated and exclusive, he’d maintained, but the aristocracy and gentry were by no means
adverse to new wealth acquired through certain channels. Banking, business or industry – provided it was transmuted in an approved fashion – could be the means by which dwindling
coffers were restored, but this didn’t mean that ordinary individuals who made their fortune in trade would be accepted. Slights, both real and imagined, had been discussed by the two men,
with her father insisting that he’d rather walk barefoot on hot coals than associate with some of the upper-class personages he rubbed shoulders with, at his club or in business. ‘And
the women are the worst,’ he’d said one evening, when particularly irate. ‘They control access to membership of their supposed elite circle like a bunch of sharp-clawed, superior
cats, whilst having the morals of their alley counterparts. Do you know what I heard today?’

Her mother and Mrs Appleby had shushed the men at this point, with a pointed glance towards herself, Angeline recalled, but the conversation had made an impact on her, not least because she had
been incensed that anyone would upset or snub her father. But Lord Gray’s wife was one of those ladies who her father had spoken about to his old friend. She didn’t know about Lady
Gray’s morals of course, but the woman definitely thought both her uncle and Angeline herself were beneath her socially.

Unsmilingly she said, ‘My grandfather changed the family name, for reasons of his own, before my father and uncle were even born, so I think it is highly unlikely we are related to any
Stewarts you might know, Lady Gray.’

‘Oh.’ It was a surprised sound, and a trace of colour came into Gwendoline’s pale cheeks.

Lord Gray cast his wife a glance that could have meant anything as he leaned forward, offering his hand as he said, ‘It is very nice to meet you, Miss Stewart.’ As Angeline placed
her fingers in his, he raised her hand briefly to his lips, a twinkle in his eye as he murmured, ‘Whichever Stewarts you are related to.’

They smiled at each other as his wife rustled indignantly in her taffeta and lace dress, and then, as a gong sounded in the hall, Oswald smoothly intervened, ‘Ah, dinner, I think. Shall
we?’, his hand again at Angeline’s elbow.

There were thirty seated at the vast dining table, which was beautifully laid with a fine white damask cloth, a battery of crystal glasses and regimented silver cutlery, placed just so, in order
that plates and bowls could be put directly in front of each diner without having to rearrange the cutlery between courses. A snowy napkin, folded into an elaborate mitre shape, stood by each
place, and silver condiment sets for salt, pepper and mustard were placed at regular intervals along the table. Heavy silver candelabra burned softly at either end of the table, wound around with
ivy and small flowers; and a magnificent flower display took centre stage. Two footmen wearing an elaborate livery and patent buckled shoes stepped silently forward to pull out the chairs and seat
the guests at table. The splendour took Angeline’s breath away and, when she glanced at her uncle, she saw that he was equally wide-eyed.

Oswald, as host, sat at the head of the table with his back to the huge fireplace, in which a hearty fire was burning, and Angeline was surprised to find herself seated to his left, with Lord
Gray on her other side. Her uncle sat on the opposite side of the table next to a stiff-faced Lady Gray.

Dinner was styled
à la russe
, which meant that each course was prepared on bowls or plates on the vast sideboard that stretched down one wall and was then handed to the guests by
the footmen. A menu sat by each napkin, and Angeline was horrified to see that the dinner consisted of twelve courses. Her eyes took in the soup, fish, cutlets, fricassees, boudins, sweetbreads and
pâtés that she was apparently expected to eat before the main roast, and she gave a little sigh.

A slight cough from Lord Gray brought her gaze to him and he said very quietly, ‘Most of the ladies take a bite or two at most from each course; and some they wave away
altogether.’

She smiled her thanks. He was nice, she thought. Not like his wife. She wondered how such a nice man had come to marry someone like Lady Gray.

Oswald made a point of drawing her into every conversation that he conducted during the meal, and by the time they came to the puddings she felt more herself, although a little hot and
flustered. Whether this was from her first taste of wine – there were four glasses before her place at the table, and she had noticed that even the ladies drank all the different wines that
were served with the various courses, although she only sipped the odd mouthful – or from the attention Oswald Golding was bestowing on her, she didn’t know.

He was one of the most handsome men she had ever seen, that was for sure. His grey eyes rested constantly on her flushed face, sending a little thrill down her spine, and his silky blond hair
gleamed in the candlelight. Of course he was only being kind, knowing that her parents had recently died, she told herself, but still . . .

The meal went on and on, the jewels of the ladies glittering as they talked and moved, the snowy shirt-fronts of the men glistening, and the silent servants coming and going as they handed out
dishes and poured wine in the light of the many candles. The food was delicious and spectacular to look at, and the conversation ranged widely, laughter punctuating the talk of social events, sport
and politics, most of which was above Angeline’s head. She found it best to smile when others smiled and to look interested without venturing an opinion; her mama had always said silence was
the best option, if one wasn’t fully conversant with the facts. She avoided catching Lady Gray’s eye; she had the impression that Lord Gray’s wife didn’t appreciate the
attention he was giving to a little nobody, if her stony expression was anything to go by.

At the conclusion of the meal Angeline rose with the other ladies as they adjourned to the drawing room. She had been dreading this moment, knowing it would have to come to enable the men to
enjoy their port, brandy and cigars, but not wanting to be alone in the midst of so many women who all seemed to know each other very well. Admittedly several of the ladies had smiled kindly at her
during the meal, but the feeling of being a fish out of water was back – and much stronger this time.

She didn’t follow the main body of ladies into the drawing room, but instead made her way to the powder room again. This time she entered one of the cubicles and shut the door behind her
with a thudding heart, as though she had escaped some peril. She stood with her back to the door and took several deep steadying breaths, all the while telling herself not to be so silly.

A large oil lamp hung on the wall at the back of the closet, over a wide shelf containing a row of glass bowls holding dried flowers that scented the air. The toilet itself was a wooden box
structure, with a round porcelain seat surrounding the hole. Angeline continued to stand perfectly still, one hand resting on the pearl necklace at her throat and the other clutching her vanity
bag. Slowly her breathing returned to normal, and she was just about to exit the closet and make her way back to the drawing room when the door to the powder room opened and what sounded like
several women entered.

‘But who
is
she exactly? I don’t know of any Stewarts in his circle, do you?’

Angeline’s hand was on the doorknob, but she paused for a moment at the mention of her surname, uncertain whether it would be more embarrassing to make herself known if these ladies were
discussing her or remain out of sight.

There was a tinkling laugh. ‘Who knows, where Oswald’s concerned?’

‘But to seat her where he did! He’s certainly made his intentions plain enough.’

‘Maybe, but as I said: who knows with Oswald?’

‘I think it’s more significant who
isn’t
here tonight,’ a new voice put in.

‘You mean the Jeffersons?’

‘Who else?’

‘So you think . . . ’

‘What I think, Camilla, is that the next little while is going to be very interesting.’

This brought more laughter, and Angeline’s brow wrinkled. Those ladies were clearly talking about her, but she didn’t understand what had been said.

There followed some rustling of dresses, and murmuring voices and laughter, then the door opened and closed and all was quiet once more.

She waited a couple of minutes more and then opened the cubicle door. Suddenly she felt utterly bereft. She wanted to go home. Whatever those ladies had been saying, it was spiteful, she was
sure of it. There wasn’t one person here that she liked.

No, that wasn’t true, she corrected herself in the next instant, blinking back hot tears. Lord Gray wasn’t like the rest of them; he had been kind to her. And Oswald? Her heart beat
faster. He was . . . well, he was . . . She gave up trying to find words for what Oswald was.

He was sitting on one of the chairs in the hall when she left the powder room and immediately came towards her, saying, ‘There you are, I’ve been waiting for you.
We’re finishing the evening with a spot of dancing, and I insist you dance the first dance with me. Oh, that’s very rude of me’ – he grinned at her, a boyish grin –
‘for I should have said: would you do me the honour of the first dance?’

It was as she looked up into his face that a thought came to her, an impossible thought that caused a warm blush to spread through her body. Repudiating it – for why would a rich, handsome
man of the world like him be bothering with someone like her, except out of a wish to be kind – she said, ‘Thank you, I’d like that.’