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—’
‘Good grief, Hector! We’re not talking about a widow here, you know. The girl is young, she needs to be taken out of herself at such a time. Diverted, occupied by happier things. No one would expect anything less of a fond uncle.’
Still not wholly convinced, Hector nodded uncertainly. ‘If you think so . . . ’
‘That’s settled then.’ Oswald smiled widely, revealing a set of strong, white, even teeth. ‘I’ll see to it you’re sent an invitation, old chap, for the pair of you. Now, where’s that damned steward? More coffee and liqueurs, I think, before we venture out into this filthy weather. Did I tell you about the new hunter I bought last week? Magnificent brute, but headstrong. Took a bite out of the stable lad on the first day and . . . ’
Hector let Oswald ramble on, as his mind attempted to assimilate what had just occurred. He didn’t fool himself that Oswald’s invitation was prompted by altruism, but for the life of him he couldn’t see what other motive there could be.
The coffee and liqueurs came; Oswald continued to wax lyrical about the horses that were his pride and joy, and the heat from the glowing embers in the room’s fireplace bathed Hector in a soothing sense of well-being. All of a sudden he decided to accept Oswald’s benevolence at face value. It was just an invitation to a social gathering, he told himself – and what a social gathering! He could wait a lifetime before such an invitation came his way again. His money worries, the aggravation of having Angeline take up residence in his home with all the irksome irritations that would ensue, the fact that his brother had left him nothing but a paltry few pounds a week – all faded into insignificance. He stretched out his legs, settled himself more comfortably in his chair and shut his eyes, and within a moment or two was snoring.
Chapter Three
Angeline stared at her reflection in the bedroom mirror. Myrtle had arranged her hair in glossy little curls and waves on the top of her head, with several white silk flowers set in the midst of them, and her new dress was the most exquisite thing she had ever seen, but still, she felt . . . odd. She nodded mentally at the word. She barely recognized the young woman in the looking glass, that was the trouble. But she couldn’t voice her misgivings to Myrtle, not after the hours the maid had spent getting her ready for this dinner party – a dinner party, Angeline reflected, that she had no wish to attend.
‘Oh, Miss Angeline.’ Myrtle had tears in her eyes. ‘You look beautiful.’
Angeline forced a smile. ‘If I do, then it’s all your work, Myrtle.’ From the moment Myrtle had drawn her bath, liberally perfuming the water with rose oil, the maid had been on a mission to transform her young mistress into an elegant, sophisticated and fashionable lady. She’d mentioned several times during her ministrations the fact that Angeline had had her sixteenth birthday the week before, as though this had immediately turned her into Methuselah. After her bath, Angeline had been made to stand still while Myrtle dressed her from head to toe.
First, Myrtle had knelt before her, carefully drawing the fine silk stockings onto her feet and smoothing them carefully up her legs. With her silk chemise in place, Angeline had had to endure the maid fitting the long stays of white coutil, heavily boned, around her hips and slender figure. They exerted great pressure on her waist and diaphragm, forcing her small bust forward and her derriere out, in what Angeline considered a most unnatural way, and were twice as uncomfortable as her normal day-corsets. How she was going to sit down and eat when she could barely breathe, Angeline didn’t know. Myrtle said that didn’t matter.
Once the busk had been fastened down the front, after many adjustments, Myrtle had clipped the top of the stockings to the stay’s suspenders, then the lacing had followed, beginning at the waist and travelling gradually up and down, until the necessary proportions had been achieved. The silk laces and their tags had flown in and out under Myrtle’s deft fingers, accompanied by little gasps from Angeline and the odd protestation, which the maid had ignored.
Next came the petticoat, trimmed with Honiton lace, and then the pièce de résistance, the fine white and powder-blue chiffon and lace dress. Myrtle had selected an emerald necklace with matching earrings from the casket on Angeline’s dressing table, but Angeline had baulked at wearing them. They had been a Christmas present from her father to her mother the year before, and it seemed wrong to put them on so soon. The whole idea of this dinner party seemed wrong. It was only when her uncle had become visibly upset at her refusal to attend that she had capitulated, and then with great reluctance. But she wouldn’t wear the emeralds. Instead she had chosen a simple row of pearls from her own small jewellery box, and nothing Myrtle had said had been able to make her change her mind.
Angeline took a deep breath. Her uncle was waiting downstairs; she couldn’t delay another moment.
‘It’ll be fine, Miss. You’ll have a lovely time.’
Myrtle touched her arm and Angeline turned to face her. Myrtle’s pretty little face was glowing, and Angeline knew that the maid was as excited as if she had been invited to the Golding estate. Inclining her head, she said, ‘Don’t wait up, Myrtle. I should imagine we’ll be late back.’
‘Oh no, Miss.’ Myrtle looked shocked. ‘Of course I’ll wait up. Your uncle would expect it, and I need to help you to undress – you’d never manage otherwise.’
Stifling a sigh, Angeline smiled instead. Myrtle would expect chapter and verse on the evening, that was for sure, but how could she work up any enthusiasm? She didn’t care that Oswald Golding was one of the most influential men in the north of England with connections in very high places, as her uncle had stated; or that an invitation to his home was a huge honour. And she certainly didn’t see why she’d had to come out of mourning and abandon the black she’d worn since her parents’ death for this night. When her uncle had said that to do otherwise would cast a pall over the evening, she’d retorted that in that case it was far better she stayed at home and he went alone. The argument that followed had been so upsetting that she’d cried till the early hours, once she was alone in her room. But she wished now she had stuck to her guns and refused to go. Oh, she did.
Leaving the room, she walked slowly down the wide staircase in the house that was now her home. She didn’t like it. It had none of the warmth and feeling that Oakfield had had, and her uncle’s housekeeper, Mrs Upton, and his ‘man’, Albert (who was also Mrs Upton’s brother), were like their name: uppity. She had sensed their unfriendliness to Myrtle, but when she’d asked Myrtle about it, the maid had cheerfully assured her that she could give as good as she got, and with knobs on, too. Angeline thanked God every day for Myrtle. Life would have been unbearable without her bright face and chatter, and she knew, too, that the little maid was hers, which was infinitely comforting.
Hector was sitting on one of the two hard-backed chairs in the hall that had a small table between them, and his fingers were drumming impatiently on its polished surface. He rose to his feet at the sight of her, his face losing its look of irritation as he said with genuine sincerity, ‘Why, Angeline, my dear, you look lovely. Quite the young lady.’
‘Thank you, Uncle.’
He was holding a marabou-trimmed white cape, which he now placed over her shoulders, saying, ‘A small present from me, to celebrate your first dinner party as a young woman. Shall we?’ He bent his arm and she slipped her hand through it as they walked out of the front door, which Mrs Upton had opened for them. The cape was lined with fur and reached to her ankles, and Angeline was glad of this, as the icy air hit her, causing her to take a breath.
Albert was standing by her uncle’s carriage holding a lantern, and at their approach he held it higher while keeping the door of the conveyance open. Her uncle helped her up the steps and followed her in. Albert closed the door and then clim
bed up into the driver’s seat and, after he had clicked his tongue at the two horses, they were off.
Angeline caught a last sight of Myrtle, standing just inside the front door, beaming all over her face, but Mrs Upton was nowhere to be seen. Not that she had expected the housekeeper to see her off, she thought wryly. From the moment she and Myrtle had entered her uncle’s house, Mrs Upton had made it plain she considered them usurpers. Once the woman’s veiled resentment would have bothered her, but since her parents’ death it was as though the worst had happened, and minor irritants like an unfriendly housekeeper didn’t matter.
She bit hard on her bottom lip to quell the sudden surge of hot moisture at the back of her eyes. She couldn’t cry. Not now.
Hector’s five-bedroomed house was set in its own grounds on the outskirts of Bishopwearmouth, not far from Barnes Park, and as the Golding estate was to the west of Sunderland, not far from the village of Washington, they were soon on country roads and the wheels of the carriage were hitting large potholes. Angeline had heard of the village – some decades before, thirty-five men and boys had been killed in an explosion at the colliery, and her father had known one of the present owners, who had discussed the matter one afternoon when her parents had thrown a garden party – but had never ventured this way before. As it was, she could see nothing of the countryside they were travelling through, for it was pitch-black outside the coach windows.
Her uncle was not a great conversationalist, and often a whole meal could pass as they sat at opposite ends of the dining table and he said not a word, but now he kept up a commentary about the state of the roads, the cold weather and umpteen other tedious subjects. Angeline answered politely when it was expected, and wished he would stop talking so that she could concentrate on preparing herself for the evening ahead.
Then out of the blue, and apropos of nothing that had gone before, he said something that brought her full attention to him. ‘It is extremely kind of Oswald to invite us to dine tonight, and I shall expect your manner towards him to reflect this. Do you understand, Angeline?’
His face was a dim blur in the darkness and she couldn’t read his expression. She blinked. ‘Of course.’
Hector shifted in his seat. ‘It’s just that you haven’t seemed to grasp the honour that has been extended to us. True, he is a man of his time and, due to his wealth and influence, leads a very different life from most folk we know, but that doesn’t mean . . . ’
Angeline waited. When her uncle didn’t speak, she said perplexedly, ‘Doesn’t mean what, Uncle?’
‘Did your father ever speak of him?’
‘Of Mr Golding? No, I don’t think so.’
There was a shred of relief in Hector’s voice as he said, ‘I thought that might be the reason why . . . No matter, no matter. Well, he’s a fine gentleman, Angeline, a very fine gentleman. There’s a member of his distant family who’s in the inner circle of the Prince of Wales, so I believe. What do you think about that?’
She didn’t know what she thought about it, but it seemed important to her uncle that she thought well of his friend, so she said, ‘That’s wonderful.’
‘Quite so. Quite so.’
This signified the end of the conversation, and the rest of the journey was conducted in silence, but Angeline sat mulling over what had been said. Clearly her uncle thought there was something wrong with Mr Golding, if he had to bolster him up to her like that. Was he ugly, was that it? Or grossly fat? Or disfigured? Perhaps he was foul-smelling. One of her father’s friends had been like that, and her mother had had to open all the windows and sprinkle lavender posies about when he’d been for a visit, such was the smell. Her mother had said the gentleman in question couldn’t help it, and that he had visited the top doctors in London to no avail. Maybe Mr Golding was afflicted with a similar complaint?
Her stomach quivered. She was possessed of a keen sense of smell.
Oh well. She sat up straighter, lifting her chin. It was one evening. She could get through one evening. She’d got through the last weeks, hadn’t she?
It was another fifteen minutes before the coach bowled through two huge, ornately worked iron gates, which had a family crest picked out in gold and black. Large lanterns hung on either side of the gates and, as the carriage travelled along the gravelled drive, its way was lit by more of the same.
Angeline’s breath caught in her throat at her first sight of the house. It seemed to stretch forever. The enormous forecourt, where several carriages were already standing, was brilliantly lit by lights streaming from all of the windows and, as they approached, the massive door at the top of the steps was opened by a liveried footman.
By the time the carriage stopped, the footman was there to open the door. Her uncle descended first, then gave Angeline his hand to help her down. She stood for a moment, overawed, and as she glanced at her uncle, she saw his face mirrored the same emotion. He recovered almost immediately, his voice brisk as he said, ‘Come along, m’dear.’ And then, unable to hide his gratification, he added, ‘I do believe that’s Oswald coming to greet us.’
Angeline stared at the tall, fair man bounding down the steps and, to her dazzled eyes, he appeared like a young god. He reached them, shaking her uncle’s hand and then turning to her, both his hands outstretched as he grasped hers. ‘This must be Angeline. I’m so glad you could come. I may call you Angeline? But I mustn’t keep you out here, in the night air. How very remiss of me. Come in, do.’
Oswald was walking by her side now, after having tucked one of her small hands through his arm, with her uncle following a step or two behind them. When she stepped into the house, it was all Angeline could do not to stand and gape. The hall flowed away in front of her, with a grand, sweeping staircase curving upwards for two floors in the middle of the expanse, and glittering glass chandeliers overhead. And then she became painfully conscious of the man at her side again, and of the faint but delicious smell emanating from his person as he turned to her.
‘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 coul
d 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.’
Beyond the Veil of Tears Page 4
