Christmas Fireside Stories

by Diane Allen, Rita Bradshaw, Margaret Dickinson, Annie Murray, Pam Weaver

  ‘You needn’t bother coming down today. Your father doesn’t want to see you. I’ve to lock you in your room, because he’ll not be responsible for his actions.’ Martha Fraser stood in the doorway. She was quiet – too quiet for her nature.

  Daisy hid her head in her hands, before raising her tear-filled eyes to look at her mother. ‘What’s he like, Mam? He’s not going to cause bother for our Kitty, is he?’

  ‘Nay, he’ll not be bothering them. I didn’t tell him who’d fathered your bastard bairn, and it’s enough that we’ve one daughter in disgrace, without having two in bother. You’ll not say a word to him about Clifford either, else by God I’ll kill you and the baby myself.’ Martha looked dark and forbidding. ‘I’ll fetch you something to eat later, when I’ve time. I’m doing two folks’ work this morning, thanks to you.’

  With that she slammed the bedroom door shut, turning the heavy iron key in the lock and leaving a heartbroken Daisy sobbing on her bed.

  Rita Bradshaw

  Rita Bradshaw was born in Northamptonshire, where she lives today. At the age of sixteen she met her husband – whom she considers her soulmate – and they have two daughters and a son, and several grandchildren. To her delight, Rita’s first novel was accepted for publication and she has gone on to write many more successful novels since then.

  As a committed Christian and passionate animal lover her life is full, but she loves walking her dogs, reading, eating out and visiting the cinema and theatre, as well as being involved in her church and animal welfare.

  More Books by Rita Bradshaw

  Alone Beneath the Heaven

  Reach for Tomorrow

  Ragamuffin Angel

  The Stony Path

  The Urchin’s Song

  Candles in the Storm

  The Most Precious Thing

  Always I’ll Remember

  The Rainbow Years

  Skylarks at Sunset

  Above the Harvest Moon

  Eve and Her Sisters

  Gilding the Lily

  Born to Trouble

  Forever Yours

  Break of Dawn

  Dancing in the Moonlight

  Beyond the Veil of Tears

  BEYOND THE VEIL OF TEARS

  by Rita Bradshaw

  Fifteen-year-old Angeline Stewart is heartbroken when her beloved parents are killed in a coaching accident, leaving her an only child in the care of her uncle.

  Naive and innocent, Angeline is easy prey for the handsome and ruthless Oswald Golding. He is looking for a rich heiress to solve the money troubles his gambling and womanizing have caused.

  On her wedding night, Angeline enters a nightmare from which there is no awakening. Oswald proves to be more sadistic and violent than she could ever have imagined. When she finds out she is expecting a child, Angeline makes plans to run away and decides to take her chances fending for herself and her baby. But then tragedy strikes again . . .

  Read on for an extract from

  Beyond the Veil of Tears by Rita Bradshaw

  Preface

  It was the smell that brought her to herself, a nauseating odour that the stronger stench of bleach and disinfectant couldn’t quite mask. She began to struggle again as they half-walked, half-carried her along the green-tiled, stone-floored corridor, desperately trying to rise above the deadening stupor that had resulted from the injection administered some time before in the carriage, when she wouldn’t stop fighting.

  How could this be happening to her? How could she have been manhandled out of her own home in broad daylight?

  She was still weak from the complications that had followed in the wake of the miscarriage, but fear poured strength into her limbs. She kicked out wildly, and one of the men dragging her growled a curse as her shoe made sharp contact with his shinbone. They came to a brown-painted door and the same man knocked twice. Although her body was aching and bruised from the fight she had put up when they had come for her, and she felt sick and dizzy, she continued to twist and wrestle against the hard hands, and screamed with all her might.

  The door was opened by a stout woman in a grey dress and a starched white apron and cap. For a moment she felt a flood of relief at the sight of one of her own sex. Surely this woman would listen to her? She wasn’t mad – they would see that and understand this was a terrible mistake.

  ‘You’ve got yourselves a right handful with this ’un,’ the man she’d kicked muttered morosely to another woman sitting behind a large polished walnut desk. As she rose to her feet and stared disapprovingly, he added, ‘Carryin’ on somethin’ wicked, she’s been. I’m black an’ blue.’

  The woman ignored him. Looking over his shoulder to the third man who had been following in their wake, she said, ‘What medication have you administered, Dr Owen?’

  ‘She’s been on bromide and ergot for the last weeks, but I had to administer morphia on the way here, such was her agitation. I dare not give more for some hours, Matron.’

  The matron nodded, then inclined her head at the other two burly uniformed females in the room, who stepped forward and relieved the men of their prisoner. Their grip was every bit as powerful as that of their male counterparts.

  Granite-faced, the matron said coldly, ‘Do you understand why you are here? The court has issued a lunacy order, on the grounds that you are of unsound mind following a recent malady. If you do not cooperate, my staff will be forced to use the necessary restraints to prevent injury to yourself or other persons, and that will not be pleasant.’

  They weren’t going to help her. She stared into the gimlet eyes, and a terror that eclipsed her previous fear caused her ears to ring. She may well have lost her reason in the minutes that followed, because she couldn’t remember much of what happened, only that she fought until they thrust her into the padded cell. A number of women held her down and stripped her to her shift and drawers, before pulling a rough linen frock over her head and strapping her into a straitjacket – the white, stained, leather-covered walls and the floor packed with straw deadening any sound.

  And then they left her to the hell that had opened and engulfed her.

  PART ONE

  A Lamb to the Slaughter

  1890

  Chapter One

  Angeline Stewart stood in the swirling snowflakes that the bitter north-east wind was sending into a frenzied dance, but her velvet-brown eyes did not see what they were looking at. The bleak churchyard, the black-clothed figures of the other mourners and Reverend Turner standing at the head of the double grave had faded away. In their place were her beloved mother and father, as they had looked that last evening. It had only been a severe head-cold that had prevented her from accompanying them to the theatre, otherwise she, too, would most likely have been killed in the accident that ensued after they left the Avenue Theatre and Opera House in the midst of one of the worst snow blizzards Sunderland had experienced in years. The overturned coach had been found early the next morning after their housekeeper, Mrs Lee, who was also the coachman’s wife, had instigated a search after they’d failed to return. Her parents and the coachman were dead, pinned beneath the badly smashed coach. It had veered off the road and down an embankment, and the two horses had been so badly injured that they had been shot at the scene.

  Angeline brushed a strand of burnished brown hair from her cheek and took a deep breath against the picture that her mind conjured up. She hadn’t been allowed to see her parents after the accident. Her Uncle Hector, her father’s brother, had forbidden it after he had identified the bodies. He said she must remember them as they had been. He wasn’t to know that her imagination presented her with horrors probably far worse than the reality, images that caused her to lay awake most nights muffling her sobs.

  ‘All right, m’dear?’

  Her uncle squeezing her arm brought her back to the present, the moment before Reverend Turner beckoned them forward so that she could drop the two long-stemmed red roses she was holding on top of the oak coffins that had bee
n lowered into the earth. Red roses had been her dear mama’s favourite flowers, and McArthur – their gardener – had kept the house supplied with fragrant blooms winter and summer, courtesy of the heated greenhouses that were his pride and joy.

  Angeline glanced at him as she passed the group of servants she regarded as family. McArthur’s weather-beaten face was grim and his two lads, Seth and Bernie, who assisted their father in the upkeep of the two acres of land surrounding the house on the edge of Ryhope, had no cheeky smiles today. Myrtle, the housemaid, Lottie, the kitchen maid, and Mrs Davidson, the cook, were openly crying; and even Fairley, her father’s butler-cum-valet, was struggling to keep back the tears. And poor Mrs Lee, who was standing with Angeline’s governess, Miss Robson, looked about to faint.

  Angeline paused at the woman’s side and touched her arm. She’d wanted the interment of the housekeeper’s husband to be incorporated in the service for her parents, but her uncle wouldn’t hear of the idea, saying it wouldn’t be seemly for a mere servant to be given such regard. She had tried to argue with him, but when Reverend Turner had agreed with her uncle, she had been forced to admit defeat. Simon Lee would be buried tomorrow, and his widow would have to endure a second funeral.

  Her uncle’s hand in the small of Angeline’s back urged her forward. The subtle pressure had the effect of making her want to resist. Her father would have seen nothing wrong in publicly expressing empathy towards their housekeeper, who had been with her parents even before she was born. He’d always maintained that it was their duty to care for and protect their servants, and that each should be treated as a valued human being. She had grown up knowing that her father’s father had been born in the slums of Sunderland’s notorious, disease-ridden East End. Her grandfather had escaped by running away to sea at an early age, returning a rich man at the age of forty. After setting up as a wine and spirit merchant, he’d married the daughter of a local jeweller. Exactly how he had acquired his wealth was never discussed, and she had been forbidden to ask any questions on the subject by her mother, but she did know that when her grandmother had died giving birth to her Uncle Hector, ten years after her father had been born, her grandfather had wanted nothing to do with his younger son. She’d thought that very unfair.

  ‘Come along, my child.’

  Reverend Turner was holding out his hand to her and she stepped forward. She didn’t like the Reverend. She had once heard her mother describe him to her father as a cold fish, when they hadn’t thought she was listening, and she’d thought this a very apt description. The minister always had cold, clammy hands even on the hottest day, and his pale-blue bulbous eyes and fat lips reminded her of the rows of gaping faces in the fishmonger’s window. She had said this once to her mama, and although her mother had reprimanded her, her eyes had been twinkling.

  She bit harder on her lip as her heart and soul cried out, ‘Mama, oh, Mama’, but not a sound emerged. Her uncle had warned her that, out of respect for her parents, she had to conduct herself with dignity and propriety today, as befitted a young lady of fifteen years. Shows of emotion were vulgar and were only indulged in by the common people who knew no better. She had wanted to say that they were only a step removed from the common people, and that if her grandfather hadn’t made his fortune, her father and uncle would most likely have been born in the East End instead of a grand house; but, of course, she hadn’t. Mainly because she always felt sorry for her Uncle Hector. It must have been awful growing up knowing that your own father didn’t like you and, furthermore, blamed you for your mother’s death. Her grandfather had died long before she was born – her parents had been married for more than twenty years before she’d made an appearance, and her mama had often told her they’d given up hope of having a child – and in his will he had left everything to her father. Uncle Hector hadn’t even been mentioned. It was as though he’d never existed.

  Angeline’s thoughts caused her to reach out and take her uncle’s arm as they stood together, and she gave him one of the roses to throw on her father’s coffin. Knowing what she did, it had always surprised her that her father and uncle got on so well, but then that was mainly due to her father. He had loved and protected his sibling all his life, and when their father had died, he’d set Uncle Hector up in his own business so that he could be independent and not beholden to anyone. Her father had been so kind, so good. Everyone said so.

  When the first clods of earth were dropped on the coffins, Angeline felt as though the sound jarred her very bones. She had the mad impulse to jump into the hole, lie down and tell the grave-diggers to cover her, too. The shudder that she gave caused her uncle to murmur, ‘Remember what I said, Angeline. People are looking at how you conduct yourself today.’ Then he added, in a gentler tone, ‘It’s nearly over now. Hold on a little longer.’

  The drive back to the house in Ryhope was conducted in silence. Angeline sat with her uncle and her governess in the first carriage, drawn by four black-plumed horses, followed by a procession of other carriages and conveyances. Drenched with misery, she stared unseeing out of the window of the coach. She’d always liked snow before this last week. It was so pretty, and she’d enjoyed taking walks in the winter with her mother, snug in her fur coat and matching bonnet. When they returned home they always thawed out in front of the blazing fire in the drawing room, with Mrs Davidson’s hot buttered muffins and cocoa.

  She hated the snow now, though. It had taken her parents, and she didn’t know how she would bear the pain of their passing. It seemed impossible that she’d never see them again. Never feel her mother’s arms around her or the touch of her soft lips. Never hear her father’s cheerful call when he came home in the evening.

  She choked back a sob, mindful of her uncle’s words.

  It was going to take every bit of her remaining strength to get through the next stage of the day, and she couldn’t break down now. That luxury would have to wait until she was alone in her bed. Her uncle had invited friends and family back to the house for a reception following the church service, and she was dreading it. Not that there would be many family members; it would be mostly friends of her parents and business associates of her father. When her grandfather had returned to the town after being at sea, he had severed all connections with his siblings and other family members, going so far as to change his surname. Her mother had been an only child and, apart from two ancient spinster great-aunts on her side, there was no one else. No one but Uncle Hector.

  She glanced at him, but he, too, was staring out of the window and seemed lost in thought. She wondered if he would go back to his own house tonight, now that the funeral was over. He had been staying with her since her parents’ accident, and had seen to the arrangements for the service and other matters. This had included organizing for Miss Robson – who had previously come to the house every morning for a few hours, to take her through her lessons – to take up temporary residence and sleep in the room next to hers. This had been an added trial. She liked Miss Robson, but found her very stiff and proper, which was probably why her uncle had considered the governess an ideal companion and chaperone.

  Angeline’s bow-shaped mouth pulled uncharacteristically tight. She wasn’t a baby. She was fifteen years old, and her father had always said she possessed an old head on young shoulders. She knew some girls of her age were flibbertigibbets and given to fancies, but she wasn’t like that, possibly because her parents had had her so late in life that all their friends’ children were grown-up, and so she had mixed almost entirely with adults. It would have been different if she had been allowed to go to the local school, but her father had been against it, and her mama had been equally against sending her away to boarding school. Hence Miss Robson. Not that she had minded. She loved her home and being with her mother; her mama had been her best friend and confidante and companion. Some afternoons on their walks they had laughed and laughed until their sides ached.

  This time a sob did escape, and Angeline turned it into a cough. If she co
uld just get through this day she would be able to take stock. She felt as though she had been in a daze since the accident.

  Nevertheless, in spite of her desolation, as the carriage swept through the heavy wrought-iron gates and drove up the long drive to where the house sat nestled between two giant oak trees, she felt a moment’s comfort. Her parents had loved Oakfield House, and so did she. She had been born in one of the eight bedrooms and had never known another home. As the family business started by her grandfather had continued to go from strength to strength, her father could have moved to a much grander house, or so her mother had confided, but both their hearts had been firmly at Oakfield. The main building consisted of fourteen rooms over two floors, with a corridor from the kitchen leading to the purpose-built annexe housing the indoor servants. McArthur and his lads lived with his wife and the rest of the family somewhere in Bishopwearmouth. Angeline didn’t know exactly where, but every morning the gardener and his lads were working before she came downstairs, and in the summer they often didn’t leave until twilight.

  It was a happy household. Or it had been, Angeline amended in her mind as the carriage stopped at the foot of the steps leading to the intricately carved front doors. Now nothing could be the same again.

  Somehow she got through the endless reception. Her new black dress with its stiff little raised collar and long buttoned sleeves seemed stifling, and the corset that Myrtle had laced her into that morning was too tight. She had rebelled against going into corsets when she had turned fourteen, but her mother had told her that she was a young lady now and, along with privileges such as joining her parents when they had guests for dinner, there were sacrifices. Her childhood was behind her, and young ladies always had tiny waists. Her mama had brooked no argument on the matter, and that had been that.