Beyond the Veil of Tears

by Rita Bradshaw

  It was some time before Mirabelle felt able to leave the summerhouse after making herself as presentable as she could, tidying her hair in the gilt mirror and wiping all trace of tears from her face with scented water and a handkerchief from her vanity bag. The bodice of her dress was ruined, but her cloak would cover her until she could get to the safety of her room and dispose of her dress and undergarments. By now the other ladies would be taking tea in the drawing room, and the coast would be relatively clear for her to slip upstairs unnoticed.

  It hurt to walk, but she encountered no one except a footman as she entered the house. The men were still out shooting, but Alice, her personal maid, was busy taking the last of the creases out of the evening dress Mirabelle had chosen to wear that evening, using a small iron heated by methylated spirits that Alice always brought with her when they travelled.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, ma’am, I thought you would be taking tea for some time,’ said Alice, flustered. ‘I’ll take this downstairs and—’ She stopped, taking in her mistress’s pallor. ‘Are you all right, ma’am?’

  ‘I . . . I’ve taken a fall.’ Knowing she was about to faint, Mirabelle reached out as Alice came running to her, and as the maid took her weight, blackness descended.

  She could only have been unconscious for a few moments, and even then not fully, because she could hear Alice murmuring, ‘Oh, ma’am, ma’am’, although she couldn’t bring herself to respond as she lay on the floor of the room with Alice kneeling beside her. It was only when Alice made to rise to her feet that Mirabelle found the wherewithal to clutch at her and say, ‘No, stay. He-help me.’

  ‘Of course I’ll help you, ma’am, but let me fetch someone.’

  ‘No!’ Her voice stronger now, Mirabelle sat up with the maid’s help and, as she did so, her cloak fell apart, revealing the state of her bodice.

  ‘Ma’am . . . ’ Alice’s eyes travelled from the torn frock to the blood splattered on the skirt. ‘Ma’am, who’s done this?’

  ‘I . . . I fell.’ No one must know. Ever. The humiliation was so great it was crushing her. ‘If you could ring for hot water I’ll take a bath, but you must say nothing of this to anyone. I mean it, Alice. Not even Mr Jefferson. Promise me.’

  ‘I promise, ma’am.’ Alice had tears in her eyes. Something terrible had happened, but if her mistress wanted nothing said, she would rather have her tongue cut out than betray her. She had been with Mirabelle for nine years, and a degree of trust and closeness had developed between them; it was hard to attend to the intimate toiletries of someone without getting to know them fairly well. Over this time she had become the confidante of her mistress, sharing not only snippets about clothes and beauty, but gossip, excitements, anxieties and heartaches, too. Only Alice knew how distressed Mirabelle had been in the first years of marriage when one miscarriage after another had eventually determined that she would never have a child. A lady’s maid was expected to be discreet and wise beyond her years, and loyal, regardless of how kind her mistress was; but Mirabelle had always treated Alice very well and, in so doing, had gained her maid’s affection as well as her allegiance.

  After settling her mistress in an easy chair by the window with her back to the room, Alice arranged for the housemaids to bring the hot water. Once the tub in the small bathroom off the bedroom was sufficiently full, she sprinkled into the warm water some of the floral bath-soak consisting of coarse salt, lavender oil, lavender flowers and small dried rosebuds that she made exactly to her mistress’s taste and transported in a glass jar sealed with a glass stopper. After that she helped Mirabelle undress, saying nothing about the soiled, bloodied clothes, but when she lowered her mistress into the water and a cloud of fresh blood spread out beneath her, she murmured, ‘Oh, ma’am, ma’am’ through her tears. For a while the barrier between mistress and maid disappeared as the two women embraced each other, Alice kneeling by the bath with Mirabelle’s head buried in her shoulder.

  Eventually Mirabelle drew away, her voice thick as she whispered, ‘Cut them up and burn them in the fire in the bedroom, Alice’ as she gestured towards the pile of clothes.

  ‘Ma’am, you need a doctor—’

  ‘No. No doctor, no one. You promised.’

  ‘But you’re hurt.’

  ‘It will pass. Now do as I say.’ As Alice went about her grisly task, Mirabelle lay back in the bath and shut her eyes, images of what had happened stark behind her closed eyelids. Alice had said she was hurt and she was right, but the physical pain was only part of it. The miscarriages had hurt, the agony of grief and pain and loss seemingly unendurable, but she had endured each one until she had come to accept the unacceptable. But this – this was . . . She could find no words for what it was, as hot tears coursed down her cheeks and she bit into the flesh at the base of her thumb to stop herself moaning aloud.

  Only her hatred of him had stopped her walking into the lake and drowning herself when she had first left the summerhouse. She had thought about it, she had stood there and seriously considered it, but then he would have won.

  Sitting up in the water, she brushed her hand across her eyes. She would have her revenge. When, how, she didn’t know, but it would come. She would bring Oswald low, have him grovelling in the dust as he had made her grovel. She wouldn’t rest until he was broken, defiled. She knew people – or rather Marmaduke did – men who could turn a game of cards into whatever they determined it would be. Skilful players who could strip the very bones of a man dry. She would intimate to Marmaduke that Oswald had offended her and, in doing so, had belittled him. No details, but she would insinuate that he had been playing to an audience when he’d derided her good name and had held Marmaduke up as an object of ridicule. It would be a slow process, but she could wait. Oswald would know what humiliation was.

  Every movement made her wince, and when she stood up in the water it was tinted scarlet, but nothing would prevent her going down to dinner tonight as normal. She would be gay and sparkling and would put on the performance of her life, because the aim to destroy him began now. One day she would make Oswald Golding wish he had never been born.

  Chapter Ten

  An agonizingly slow forty-eight hours had crept by and the final shoot had taken place. Angeline had been on tenterhooks the whole time. She had prepared herself for a verbal assault from Oswald for her temerity in challenging Gwendoline Gray, but his displeasure had taken the form of an icy silence when they were alone. In public he maintained the facade of a happily married man. Angeline didn’t mind his ignoring her in the privacy of their room, in fact she welcomed it, but she was surprised and wary. Normally Oswald didn’t rest until he had vented his anger.

  On the last evening after dinner Lord Gray had arranged a musical soirée to entertain his guests. A fine Scottish choir from Edinburgh had arrived at the estate earlier that afternoon, and for once, as Angeline sat with the rest of the company enjoying the excellent singing, she found herself relaxing.

  The firelight flickered in the magnificent drawing-room fireplace, casting dancing shadows on the walls; the reflection of the lamps glancing off the jewels at the neck and wrists of the ladies made brilliant points of light; the men looked well fed and content after their days of wholesale slaughter, somewhat somnolent in their white tie and tails, and overall a peaceful and lazy atmosphere pervaded the air.

  At the invitation of Lord Gray, the servants stood in the hall listening to the choir through the half-open door. They had served coffee and liqueurs before the entertainment had begun and were free to go to bed when they wished – all but the housekeeper and butler, who never retired before their master, and the ladies’ maids and valets, who would help their respective mistresses and masters prepare for bed later on.

  The ladies were sitting at the front of the semicircle of several rows of small upholstered chairs that had been placed in the middle of the room. Most of the men were sitting or standing towards the rear. Angeline was sitting in the second row and found her eyes constantly strayin
g towards Mirabelle in the front row and to the left of her. She couldn’t rid herself of the feeling that something was amiss with the other woman. Certainly Mirabelle was her usual vivacious herself and, popular as she was, she’d had her familiar group of friends clustered around her all evening, but since the incident with Gwendoline at the breakfast table two days ago Angeline felt there was a brittleness to the lovely redhead’s gaiety. And at the dancing the night before, Mirabelle had openly rebuffed Oswald when he’d asked her to partner him. Angeline didn’t know how many people had noticed, but she certainly had. Had the two of them had a tiff?

  Angeline glanced behind her to where her husband was standing with a group of other men. He was half a head taller than anyone else and easily the most handsome man in the room. Her stomach curdled with distaste.

  Turning round, she remembered his expression when Mirabelle had refused him. His features had tightened and his eyes had narrowed, before he had quickly stitched a smile on his face and sauntered off as though nothing had happened. But then he hadn’t come to their room until the early hours, and she had assumed he might have made things up with his mistress and they had found a quiet corner somewhere. But now she wondered. Perhaps he had just continued to play cards and knock back the whisky, as he had been doing when she’d gone upstairs? He had been as drunk as a lord when he’d come to bed, and she’d been thankful that pregnant women repulsed him. He hadn’t touched her in months.

  As though her thoughts had conjured it up, she felt the faintest of flutterings deep in her abdomen. Instinctively her hands covered her belly. It had happened once or twice since they had been in Scotland, a slight but unmistakable movement of the baby in her womb. It had thrilled her beyond words. Each time it occurred the rush of protective love and tenderness it caused had taken her breath away.

  Myrtle, who had been with her mother when several of her siblings were born, even helping them into the world because the family couldn’t afford a midwife, was familiar with all aspects of pregnancy and birth. It had been she who had gently suggested to her mistress in the early days that the nausea Angeline was experiencing, coupled with the non-appearance of her monthly cycle, probably meant that a baby was on the way. In spite of being married for more than a year, Angeline had had no idea, and when Myrtle had understood the extent of her mistress’s ignorance, she’d sat with her one day and explained what Angeline might expect month by month, and how her body would adapt and change for the time when she would give birth, and how that would be accomplished.

  Angeline had been embarrassed but grateful, and that day had strengthened the growing bond between the two women.

  Myrtle would help her when she left Oswald after the child was born, Angeline thought now, her hands still splayed over her stomach. Her mother’s jewellery and the pieces she now owned would fetch a goodly sum, and she had been saving for some time the monthly allowance for clothes and fripperies that Oswald allowed her. He was anxious that she didn’t let him down, by not keeping up with the likes of Gwendoline and Mirabelle, but such was his disinterest that he didn’t notice if she wore the same dress once or a hundred times.

  She would ask Myrtle if she wanted to accompany her when she left England, and she would give Myrtle a sum of money to settle on her family before they left. It could work.

  The tiny stirring of life inside her came again, and with it the resolve to carry through the plans she had been mulling over for months. Each time she considered them she grew more certain of what she was going to do, and with that came strength. It was up to her to protect and safeguard her child, and her father had always maintained there was no shame in good, honest toil. Whether he had expected his own daughter would have to support herself was, of course, doubtful. But she could do it. She just had to believe in herself.

  As soon as Angeline was able, she made her way out of the drawing room, pleading a headache to Lord Gray, when he asked her why she was leaving the entertainment so early. As solicitous as ever, he told her he would send one of the housemaids to her room with a mild sleeping draught, despite her protest that she would be quite recovered after a night’s sleep.

  ‘It will ensure you do sleep well, m’dear, that’s the thing,’ he murmured as the choir sang on. ‘I always find that rather difficult myself when I’m away from home, don’t you? But then I am a creature of habit. Gwendoline is always telling me I need to be more spontaneous. I fear I can be a little dull at times.’

  ‘I think you do very well just as you are.’ Angeline smiled at him. ‘And thank you. You are very kind.’

  It came to her as she left the room that she had never thought of Oswald’s house as home. It was a luxurious prison, a beautiful gilded cage that she had walked into willingly.

  Nicholas Gray stood staring after Angeline after she had left him, the music and singers fading into the background of his thoughts. There was something terribly wrong with Oswald’s young wife, but he was damned if he knew what it was. The first time he had met her she had been little more than a child, it was true, and immature for her years, but she’d had a light in her eyes and an inner serenity, and that in spite of having lost her parents only months before. Now that light was extinguished – that was the only way he could put it. He frowned, the sense of unease he’d felt about Oswald’s marriage on several occasions strong. But what could he do? He could hardly ask a fellow pertinent questions about his wife and how they were getting on.

  ‘Sir?’ Nicholas’s butler spoke softly in his ear. As his master turned to him, he murmured, ‘With your guests leaving in the morning, I wondered what time you would like the vintage port served tonight?’

  Nicholas Gray was generous with his guests and this generosity was reflected in the excellent food and drink he had served to them in huge quantities. However, there was a subtle difference between the excellent vintage port that had lain in his cellars for some twenty years and the good-quality port of a later vintage. The opening of the vintage port on the last day of the annual shoot in Scotland involved some ceremony, not least for the servants below stairs. It formed a crusty sediment over the years it was laid down in the massive cellars and, to avoid disturbing this, and to make sure that none of the cork crumbled into the port, the necks of the bottles were gripped tightly using iron tongs, heated red-hot in the coal fire of the range, and a feather dipped in icy-cold water was then passed over the neck of the bottles. Only the butler had the authority to open the vintage port and, being a difficult operation, the procedure was a nail-biting affair from beginning to end. Once the neck had snapped off in the required fashion, the port was then poured through a silver funnel into a linen-covered sieve, to further avoid contamination of the fine, rich liquid as it dropped into a crystal decanter.

  Nicholas Gray, like his father before him, was well aware of the finesse entailed and of the agonies his butler suffered until the job was done. He himself had attempted the process once and it had been an unmitigated disaster. He smiled his gentle smile. ‘Now would be a good time, I think, McKenzie. You have the ladies’ glasses ready?’

  The ladies were served an inferior, although still excellent, claret, as it was accepted that their less discerning tastebuds would not appreciate the delicate difference.

  McKenzie nodded. ‘Yes, m’Lord.’

  As the butler bustled off, Nicholas glanced across the room to where Oswald was standing. He looked somewhat bored. Clearly the choir was not to his taste, Nicholas thought wryly, and certainly the man was not concerned about his wife’s departure from the company.

  Nicholas frowned. He could have sworn in the early days that the Golding marriage was one made for love and not for convenience, but now it had all the hallmarks of the latter. Had he been mistaken all along, or had something happened to drive a wedge between the couple? He had spoken of his misgivings to Gwendoline and she had pointed out that, with Angeline not being of their class, she was perhaps finding it difficult to fit into the life that was expected of her as Oswald’s wife. And
of course that was possible. Angeline did seem on edge.

  Nicholas sighed, flexing his shoulders and wishing the evening would soon be over. He was looking forward to getting out on the river with his ghillie, once his guests had departed, for a few days’ uninterrupted fishing. Besides his private stretch of river, the estate boasted a large lake in the grounds, which was well stocked with prime brown trout. There he could forget any problems and concerns, especially ones he could do nothing about, like the Golding question. And probably he was imagining something that wasn’t there anyway. He nodded mentally at the thought. When he had tentatively broached the possibility of Gwendoline having a little word with Angeline, his wife had flatly refused, saying that if the couple were experiencing any problems, it was their business and theirs alone. And of course Gwendoline was right. It was just that Oswald’s young wife seemed so very alone . . .

  Chapter Eleven

  It was nearing the end of an icy-cold, wet November, and the change in the weather of the last day or two heralded that December was around the corner. Rain and sleet had changed to hard frost in the mornings and snow was forecast.

  Since returning from Scotland, Angeline had used the fact of her ever-increasing girth to remain in seclusion on the estate, and Oswald had not objected to this. He had continued with life as normal; accepting invitations to one or two weekend shoots in the Durham area, travelling down to London in the middle of October for a few days and, when he was at home, staying out till all hours drinking and gambling with his cronies. There were periods when Angeline did not see him for days at a time and she was thankful for this. She busied herself organizing the redecoration of the nursery wing, which comprised a day-nursery, a night-nursery, the nursery maid’s bedroom and a washroom and closet. Within the next week or so she was due to interview a number of nursery maids, as she was now just seven months pregnant, with a view to the successful applicant taking up employment after Christmas ready for the birth at the end of January.