Beyond the Veil of Tears

by Rita Bradshaw

  Mirabelle tapped his arm again. ‘How ungallant, especially when you have such a lovely young wife. You men are never satisfied, are you?’

  She was being deliberately provocative, he knew that, but he also detected a thread of disapproval in her soft voice. It amazed him – genuinely astounded him – but he knew Mirabelle liked Angeline. She had told him so on more than one occasion when they were in bed together. ‘It takes a real woman to satisfy me,’ he murmured, his gaze dropping to her red mouth. ‘You know that.’

  Yes, she knew that. Mirabelle looked away from him to where Angeline was now helping herself from one of the silver dishes. And she also knew why Oswald had married the girl; he had been quite frank with her, possibly, she suspected, because he had harboured the idea she might be jealous if he took himself a wife. She wasn’t. Their affair was purely a thing of the flesh, on both sides. She loved her husband, but her needs were much greater than his and most of the time he couldn’t satisfy her in bed. Oswald could. If she was being truthful, she didn’t think she actually liked him as a man, but as a lover he was everything that she had ever desired – and more.

  It had surprised her that Angeline was not as besotted with Oswald as he had led her to believe, before the marriage. When she had met the girl for the first time, when the newly-weds had been in London the week after the marriage, Angeline hadn’t behaved like a young bride who was head over heels in love with her husband. It was some weeks before she was alone with Oswald and could ask him about it, and he had replied shortly that Angeline didn’t like the intimate side of marriage.

  Was he cruel to the girl? Mirabelle’s green eyes turned to the hard, handsome face again. It was possible. She had never seen that side of him, but she had it on good authority that he could be a devil when something upset him. ‘Go to her side,’ she said very quietly, ‘Nicholas will expect it. Does he know about her condition?’

  ‘No. No one but you knows, for the moment.’

  ‘Nevertheless, go and do your duty.’ She softened the words with a smile, knowing Oswald didn’t take kindly to orders. ‘And you can do your duty to me later, in the summerhouse at the back of the rose garden. Slip away from the shoot for an hour or so after luncheon and I’ll meet you there when the others are resting in their rooms.’

  ‘I’ll be waiting.’

  Across the room, Angeline was aware of the two of them standing together, although she hadn’t looked directly at them. For some time after she had married Oswald she had wondered about Mirabelle Jefferson and whether, in the past, she had been more to Oswald than a friend. There was nothing she could put her finger on, just a feeling, and if things had been different between her and Oswald, she might have asked him; but things weren’t different, and such was the chasm between them that she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of thinking it concerned her. Then had come the night when, in one of his attacks on her when she had tried to fight him off, he’d accused her of being passionless and as cold as ice, not a real woman at all. ‘Not like Mirabelle,’ he’d growled in her face as he had forced himself upon her. ‘She knows how to please a man all right.’

  ‘Then go to her,’ she’d cried back, through the pain of one of the many unnatural indignities he delighted in heaping upon her.

  ‘I do, frequently.’

  After that, so many things had fallen into place: the odd glance, a whisper here and there, a knowing smile.

  She should hate Mirabelle, Angeline thought for the umpteenth time, as Oswald joined her at the table; but, funnily enough, she didn’t. Maybe her heart was so full of hatred for Oswald there was no room to hate anyone else?

  Across the table Gwendoline was holding court, as she was apt to do, given half a chance. The subject was the radical Joseph Chamberlain, who had recently thundered forth another attack against the Conservative Party, declaring that they spoke only for a class who were idle from the day they were born until the day they died.

  ‘I mean,’ Gwendoline trilled, ‘everyone knows the world is quite simply divided into those who lead and those who are fit only to be led.’

  ‘Or those who are born booted and spurred to ride, and a large dim mass born saddled and bridled to be ridden,’ someone else put in. ‘Intelligence is a direct result of breeding every time.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Gwendoline beamed. ‘It would be a case of throwing pearls before swine to expect anything else. The country would flounder within months, if given over to the masses.’

  ‘How do you know? How can you possibly know?’ The words were ringing in Angeline’s head, but she didn’t realize she had said them aloud until the moment of utter silence that followed.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Gwendoline’s face was almost comical in its amazement.

  ‘My father used to say that it is characteristic of elites that they seek to preserve and justify their position through certain styles of living and codes of behaviour, at the same time inflicting an expected subservience on those who belong to the lower orders, especially on dependents in the village or servants in the house or estate, without any idea of who those people are or what they really think.’ Angeline didn’t know where the words were coming from; they must have been buried in her subconscious for years, courtesy of the debates between her father and Mr Appleby during dinner. ‘We label them “the poor” and assume that, because they live in cramped, damp dwellings and work all hours of the day and night just to survive, they are unintelligent and have no calling on their lives. It might be that in the main these people could rise as high as any of us, given a decent education and a chance to think, rather than work, every waking moment.’

  The silence continued to be absolute. It was a full ten seconds before back-up came from the last source Angeline would have expected, as Mirabelle drawled, ‘Was it Sir Lawrence Jones who said the aristocracy don’t think of class, because class is something that is here, like the rest of the phenomenal world, and we expect it to be so? The poor just happen to be poor, and consequently couldn’t be expected to dine off the best in the land, unlike the nobility; and the deference of servants provides a daily reinforcement of our self-assurance, superiority and self-perception as God-ordained leaders. He has a point, don’t you think? And, speaking of God ordained, wasn’t His Son born in a humble stable to poor peasant folk, and didn’t He work as a carpenter for years, getting His hands dirty?’

  Nicholas Gray recovered first, and his voice wasn’t patronizing, but rather full of hidden amusement as he said, ‘Well said, ladies, well said. I don’t pretend to agree with all the sentiments you’ve expressed, but by golly, you’d give some of those in government a run for their money. I’m not even going to broach the subject of the woman question and the suffrage movement. I fear we’ve been shaken up enough for one morning, but the pair of you might like to read John Stuart Mill’s The Subjection of Women some time. If I remember his words correctly, he said human beings are no longer born to their place in life and chained down by an inexorable bond to the place they are born to, but are free to employ their faculties and such favourable chances on offer, to achieve the lot that may appear to them most desirable. I fear this is not altogether true, but it is interesting, don’t you think? And now, gentlemen, to the shoot; and let us leave the ladies to their own devices . . . ’

  Angeline sat where she was as the company began to disperse, pretending to finish the food on her plate. Oswald was furious with her; his face had been as tight as a drum as he left the room, and she knew what he was thinking. She had behaved in accordance with her heritage and upbringing and had shown her roots. The steely set of his mouth had told her that he would make her pay for her rebellion.

  ‘That set the cat amongst the pigeons.’ Mirabelle plumped down beside her and she was smiling. ‘For once Gwendoline didn’t know what to say.’

  ‘Oswald’s angry.’ Angeline looked at the woman who by rights she should consider her rival, but for what? Her husband’s affection? Mirabelle was welcome to it. ‘Is Marmaduke annoyed
with you?’

  ‘Marmaduke?’ Mirabelle laughed lightly. ‘Good grief, no. He doesn’t enjoy these shooting parties any more than I do, and he simply abhors Gwendoline and her endless prattle. From the wink he gave me when he left, I rather think he enjoyed the break from the endless monotony as much as I did.’

  Angeline was taken aback. ‘Do you mean that? About the endless monotony?’

  ‘Absolutely, but one has to pretend. It’s expected.’ Mirabelle rose gracefully to her feet. ‘And don’t worry about Oswald. He’ll have forgotten all about it after a day’s shooting.’

  No, he wouldn’t. Angeline’s face must have spoken for itself, because Mirabelle surprised her for the second time that morning. Bending down, she said softly, ‘Don’t look like that, child.’ For a moment she seemed to consider something, and then she murmured, ‘Humour him, Angeline. That’s all you have to do, and you could learn how to manage him.’

  ‘I don’t want to manage him.’ It was a flat statement.

  ‘It would be better in the long run. He’s that sort of man.’

  ‘I know what sort of man he is.’ This time no one could doubt her bitterness, and the two women stared at each other for some moments.

  ‘Does he ill-treat you?’ Mirabelle asked, even more softly.

  Angeline didn’t answer this. This woman was Oswald’s mistress after all, and she had no idea whether she could trust Mirabelle or not, in spite of her coming to her aid that morning. Standing up, she said quietly, ‘Thank you for what you said. No one else would have spoken for me. I know that.’

  Mirabelle smiled. ‘Maybe we’re two of a kind.’

  Angeline inclined her head, but said nothing before walking away. Two of a kind? They were poles apart, and Mirabelle knew that as well as she did. Mirabelle’s family had royal connections and everyone wanted to be associated with her, whereas she – she had been unimportant before today, and now she would be considered something of a pariah to boot, although Mirabelle’s championing of her against Gwendoline would not go unnoticed. Why had Mirabelle done it? Was it a little game of her own that Oswald’s mistress was playing?

  But it didn’t really matter. Angeline’s hand went protectively to her belly. Nothing mattered now but her child. Once the baby was safely born, they’d escape Oswald’s clutches. Perhaps she should start thinking more laterally – why not France or Italy rather than simply the south of England? She could speak a smattering of both languages, thanks to Miss Robson. She could pretend to be a widow. She could do it, she knew she could.

  Oswald wouldn’t have her baby. Her mouth tightened. Not while she had breath in her body.

  Chapter Nine

  The rose garden was devoid of the heavy perfume of summer, having been manicured to within an inch of its life by the estate’s gardeners in preparation for the Scottish winter, but the earlier rain followed by the September sunshine had brought a fresh fragrance to the air as Mirabelle strolled towards the summerhouse that afternoon. She and Oswald had discovered the pretty little wooden building modelled in the fashion of a Swiss chalet at the start of their affair some years ago. They had made good use of it since then, for their clandestine assignations during the annual shoot – the danger of someone stumbling across them bringing extra spice to their lovemaking. Today, though, Mirabelle was finding that a hitherto unknown phenomenon was taking the edge off the prospect of the enjoyment to come; she was developing a conscience. Not about her husband, oh no. Marmaduke was fully aware he couldn’t satisfy her needs and, by unspoken mutual consent, they had decided long ago that she could look elsewhere as long as she was discreet.

  She paused, glancing up at the sky, which was now as blue as cornflowers after the grey of the last few days.

  It was Angeline who was bothering her. She bit down on her bottom lip, worrying it for a moment with her small white teeth as she brought her eyes to the summer-house once more. Was Oswald ill-treating his wife? Once she would have dismissed the idea as ridiculous, but not any more. Which in itself was a concern. And now the girl – because Angeline was still little more than a girl, in spite of having been married for two years – was expecting a child, when she seemed such a child herself.

  When she reached the summerhouse she found it empty, and after kicking off her soft kid shoes and discarding her cloak, Mirabelle settled herself on one of the two upholstered couches, idly flexing her toes in the thick wool rug at her feet. The summerhouse was beautifully furnished in the style of a pretty miniature drawing room, and she had been enchanted when she first came across it. Today she found herself wishing she was somewhere else.

  Should she end her affair with Oswald? It wasn’t the first time she had considered it since his marriage to Angeline, but it was the first time she had admitted to herself the element of fear which the thought held. She had caught glimpses of another Oswald over the last months, glimpses that had persuaded her that the stories about his fiendish temper and dark side might be true. Perhaps she had always known it was so, but hadn’t wanted to acknowledge the truth? Not while he met her physical needs so completely. This thought was even more disconcerting.

  A sixth sense told her she was not alone, and she came out of her thoughts to see Oswald standing in the entrance to the summerhouse, his eyes narrowed and his handsome face unsmiling. In spite of her deliberations, his manly beauty sent a thrill of desire shooting down her backbone and she smiled at him, patting the space beside her as she murmured, ‘Come and sit, I’ve been waiting for you.’

  He didn’t move for a moment, then he stepped inside and shut the summerhouse door, but still he remained standing.

  Her smile faded. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘What do you think is the matter?’

  His tone brought Mirabelle stiffening. ‘I have no idea, Oswald, and I do not appreciate being spoken to in this manner.’

  ‘And I don’t appreciate your collaboration with my wife in making me look a fool.’

  Mirabelle’s face stretched in amazement. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I’m talking about that scene at breakfast, when you turned me into a laughing stock. The morning I’ve had’ – he ground his teeth before going on, his voice little more than a growl – ‘I’ve been the butt of every Tom, Dick and Harry’s snide jokes. Do you know what that swine Braithwaite said to me? No? I’ll enlighten you. “Too bad you can’t control your wife, old chap, but it comes to something when you can’t control your mistress, either.”’

  ‘Braithwaite?’ Mirabelle flicked her hand. ‘The man’s a moron.’

  ‘Moron or not, he said what the others were thinking.’

  Mirabelle stood up, every inch the aristocratic lady as she said clearly and coldly, ‘Angeline expressed a point of view and I did likewise, that is all. The conversation had absolutely nothing to do with you, as far as I can see. Marmaduke hasn’t objected to my expressing my opinion, so I hardly see that you have the right to do so.’

  ‘Marmaduke!’ It was a snarl. ‘You castrated him years ago, and everyone knows it. And what you and my dear wife said was all to do with me. She did it to make me look a fool, don’t you see, woman? And you applauded her.’

  ‘Don’t “woman” me, Oswald. I’m not your wife and I don’t have to put up with your tantrums. Can’t you see Angeline was merely saying what she thinks, and why shouldn’t she? Why shouldn’t I? Women have got brains, too. Believe it or not, neither of us thought of you when we were speaking our minds. You were unimportant.’

  Her words acted on him like fuel to a fire. ‘Unimportant, you say? Unimportant! I’ll show you how unimportant I am.’

  For a moment Mirabelle didn’t understand what he was about to do, not until he reached out and, grasping the bodice of her gown, ripped it in two. In her pampered childhood and youth, and even more in adulthood, she had never experienced another human being raising their hand to her in anger, and for a moment the shock rendered her helpless. Then his knee whipped her legs from beneath her and they f
ell to the floor, and she began to fight back with as much effect as a kitten defending itself against a savage dog.

  She twisted and turned beneath him on the rug where in happier times they had sported, aware of the curses spewing out of his mouth as he attempted to hoist her dress and undergarments over her thighs. He slapped her hard across the face at one point, her head thudding back, and for a moment everything went black, but then she felt her silk drawers being torn away and she brought her knees up in an instinctive movement of self-protection.

  She heard him gasp as her legs caught him in a sensitive place and tried to scramble away as his grip loosened momentarily, but then he was on her again, growling through gritted teeth, ‘You need to be taught a lesson, my fine lady – one you won’t forget in a hurry.’ The next second he had flipped her over so that she was facedown, and his hands parted the rounded globes of her bottom.

  Indescribable pain brought high-pitched screams, muffled by the thick rug, as he hammered into her, panic and horror and agony at what was happening to her reducing Mirabelle to an animal caught in a trap.

  When it was over and she felt his weight roll off her, she couldn’t move. She heard him say, ‘You brought this on yourself, remember that. I won’t be crossed and those who try live to regret it.’ She knew he was standing looking down at her, and there was no resistance in her now; if he attacked her again she would be unable to put up a fight. Tears of shock were still seeping from her eyes as she heard him rearranging his clothes, but it wasn’t until she knew she was alone that she found the strength to roll onto her back.

  She lay for long minutes shaking with the pain and when she attempted to sit up at first it brought overwhelming nausea. She was sick several times, but when her stomach was empty she dragged herself to her knees. There was blood on the rug, and when she stood up she was aware of the darkness rushing in on her and had to hold onto the back of the couch for a full minute.