Beyond the Veil of Tears

by Rita Bradshaw

  ‘How long have you been here? How long have I been ill?’

  ‘It’s Christmas Eve, Mrs Golding.’

  ‘Christmas Eve?’

  ‘Yes, my dear. Now, now, don’t get agitated. You have been very poorly, very poorly indeed, but you’ll soon be strong and well. Take this medicine. No, don’t shake your head. Open wide now, that’s it. Go to sleep and you’ll feel better each time you wake.’

  It was late evening before Oswald came again, and after her evening meal of soup and a roll Angeline had made herself stay awake. She was sitting propped up against the pillows with her eyes closed when he came into the room, and he was looking at Nurse Ramshaw as she opened them, asking about the day. He seemed to glow with health and vitality, his blond hair shining in the light of the oil lamp and the flickering flames of the fire, and his clothes as impeccable as always. She remembered Reverend Turner preaching one Sunday about Lucifer, the fallen angel, saying how everyone always depicted the devil as a type of gargoyle with horns and a hideous face, but the Reverend had put the case that the Bible spoke of Lucifer being beautiful – the most beautiful and enchanting of all the angels, even in his fallen state. She believed that now. She was looking at him.

  She had imagined she would be frightened when she saw Oswald again, and all day her dozing had been punctured by moments of real terror. Now, as she looked at him, she knew she was not. Her baby was gone. The worst had happened. Nothing else could hurt as much.

  He turned his head and was at her side in an instant, his voice breaking as he murmured, ‘Oh Angeline, my sweet, my darling. How I have prayed for this. Oh, my darling.’

  In spite of herself she shrank back from him, pressing into the pillows, but her voice was clear as she said, ‘The baby. Was it a boy or a girl?’

  He had been about to bend over and kiss her, but something in her voice warned him to be careful. Instead he drew the bedside chair closer and sat down, taking one of her small cold hands in his. ‘A girl. It was a little girl.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘When it became clear you were so unwell we held a small service here, and she is buried next to my mother in the family graveyard.’

  ‘So she had a proper burial?’ She had been worried that the baby would be disposed of without any ceremony, as was very often the case with stillborn infants.

  ‘Of course, darling,’ Oswald murmured softly. He was aware of the nurse’s eyes on him and would have liked to ask her to leave the room, but, fearing the woman would refuse, he held his tongue. Now that Angeline was conscious again he intended to get rid of Nurse Ramshaw at the earliest opportunity, knowing full well she disliked him as much as he disliked her. He wanted no cosy chats between nurse and patient.

  ‘Have you asked for God’s forgiveness?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Oswald kept his voice low, but his fingers tightened, crushing hers. Angeline ignored the warning.

  ‘I said: have you asked God’s forgiveness for the death of our child, because I want you to know that even if He forgives you, I never will.’

  ‘What? What are you saying? You’re ill, my love, and—’

  ‘Where’s Myrtle? Have you had her sent away?’

  ‘Now, sweetheart.’

  ‘I think that is enough, Mr Golding.’ Nurse Ramshaw was at Oswald’s shoulder as Angeline began to weep, and to his absolute amazement and fury she manhandled him out of the chair, positioning herself between him and her patient as she said, ‘It is best you leave now. You are distressing her.’

  ‘I’m distressing her? Did you hear what she accused me of? Dammit’ – he caught hold of himself, gaining control with some effort – ‘I want to comfort her, to talk to her. She’s clearly been in the grip of hallucinations, you heard her.’

  ‘That is quite possible, Mr Golding, but no good will be served by upsetting her more tonight.’

  ‘I don’t want to upset her. I want to talk to her.’

  ‘Not tonight.’

  Determined brown eyes held his angry grey ones. Brown won. With a muscle working in his clenched jaw, Oswald ground out, ‘Very well, but I question your judgement and I shall make that perfectly clear to Dr Owen.’

  ‘That is your right, of course, Mr Golding. Goodnight.’

  ‘I want to kiss my wife before I leave.’

  Angeline made a strangled sound in her throat and again Nurse Ramshaw said, ‘Goodnight, Mr Golding.’ He had reached the door when she added affably, ‘Oh, and merry Christmas, sir.’

  Once the door had banged shut, Angeline said weakly, ‘Thank you. I hope I haven’t got you into trouble with Dr Owen.’

  Nurse Ramshaw smiled. ‘Don’t you worry about that, m’dear. I’m going to ring for a warm drink for you and then we’ll settle you down to sleep, and I shall be here all the time. All right?’

  Angeline knew what the nurse was really saying. Oswald would have to get through Nurse Ramshaw to reach her, and she had already seen that the big-boned, hefty northerner was a match for him. ‘Thank you,’ she said again, and within moments she was asleep.

  It was another few days before Angeline was considered well enough to spend an hour or so lying on a chaise-longue at the window of the bedroom in the afternoons. During that time Oswald stayed away. Then, on New Year’s Eve – the first day Nurse Ramshaw helped her to the chaise-longue and settled her with a book to read – he made an appearance. He stood staring at her from the doorway and Angeline stared back, refusing to be intimidated or to speak first. It was Nurse Ramshaw who broke the charged silence by saying, ‘Good afternoon, Mr Golding. Mrs Golding is making good progress, as you can see.’

  His gaze moving to the nurse, he said nothing for a moment. Then he smiled, ‘Quite. Which leads me to explain why I am here. Dr Owen is waiting downstairs to drive you back to town. My wife is quite able to continue her convalescence without medical care. I have a houseful of servants who can attend to her needs. Gather your things together.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t think your wife is at a stage where she doesn’t need medical care, Mr Golding.’

  ‘Would it surprise you to learn that I am not interested in what you think?’

  ‘Dr Owen—’

  ‘Dr Owen agrees with me. When he examined Mrs Golding yesterday and was satisfied she could begin having an hour or two’s change from the bed, I put it to him that it was time you left. Be downstairs in the hall in five minutes with your bag.’

  He stepped back onto the landing and then paused in the act of closing the door. ‘Oh, and as you will not be here tomorrow, happy New Year, Nurse Ramshaw.’ He smiled again, his gaze moving to Angeline’s white face for a moment before he withdrew.

  Angeline and the nurse stared at each other. ‘This is ridiculous,’ Nurse Ramshaw said angrily. ‘You’re not well enough, in my opinion, and I can’t believe Dr Owen would say otherwise. I shall go and have a word with him right now.’

  Angeline watched the nurse march out, but she knew there was no point. Dr Owen would do and say as he was told.

  Within minutes a distinctly ruffled Nurse Ramshaw was back. Angeline didn’t ask what had been said, for it was obvious, and neither did she criticize the doctor, as Nurse Ramshaw worshipped the ground he walked on. Instead she reached out and took the nurse’s hand. ‘Nurse Ramshaw, now you are leaving, would you do me a great service? My maid – the one my husband dismissed, and no doubt without a reference – is walking out with a young man who is employed by my uncle. Myrtle was utterly loyal to me, and I am sure that’s why my husband sent her away when I was too ill to know about it. Would you take something to her young man, if I give you my uncle’s address, and make sure you put it into his hands, and his hands only? I . . . I owe her a great deal, for her support and kindness after my marriage, and she’s been treated shamefully; in fact, I don’t know what I would have done without Myrtle.’

  ‘Oh, my dear, has it really been that bad?’

  For a moment Angeline was tempted to tell the nurse the t
ruth about the day she lost the baby, but she knew Dr Owen would not support her. Oswald had the doctor in his pocket. He held all the cards. The day after Christmas, when Dr Owen had come to see her, she had heard Nurse Ramshaw talking to him on the landing as he had left, relating the scene with Oswald when Angeline had accused him of being responsible for the death of her baby. They hadn’t known she could hear them, but her hearing had always been particularly acute.

  Dr Owen had clucked for a moment and then said, ‘Mrs Golding has been through a distressing time and it is natural she is over-emotional. It is not uncommon for women to shift the guilt that follows a miscarriage to another source, and in this case I fear it is her husband. She is very young, childlike even, and it is well known that the female reproduction role tends to dominate the thinking of some women. Mr Golding has told me his wife was looking forward to their first baby almost as though the child would be a live doll to play with; a little girl looking forward to Christmas morning and the special present she would receive. When that present was taken away – and, I understand from Mr Golding, through his wife tripping over a sewing bag she had left on the floor – like a child, she wanted to blame someone else.’

  Nurse Ramshaw had murmured something she couldn’t catch, to which the doctor had replied, ‘I’m sorry my dear, and I know you have Mrs Golding’s best interests at heart, but I think you have to accept that she is not herself at the moment. The loss she has suffered affects the mind every bit as much as the body. Mr Golding is prepared to be patient with her and has shown great restraint thus far; I have no doubt he is a caring, loving husband. Time is the best healer in cases like this. To come so close to death and not succumb has taken a great toll on body, soul and spirit, but come the summer I am sure this distressing episode will be behind them both.’

  Remembering this now, Angeline chose her words carefully. ‘My husband is not what he seems, Nurse Ramshaw. I think you have seen evidence of this while you have been nursing me? But with regard to my maid, could you fetch me pen and paper, so I may write to her? And I would greatly appreciate this staying between the two of us. Please help me, there is no one else.’

  Nurse Ramshaw appeared to be having an inward tussle with her conscience. ‘This is most irregular. I don’t know what Dr Owen would say if he knew, Mrs Golding.’

  Angeline thought the nurse knew only too well and there was no point in pretending. ‘What do you say, Nurse Ramshaw?’

  There was a moment’s silence. ‘I’ll get the writing material.’

  ‘Thank you, thank you so much.’

  Angeline kept the letter short. In truth, she was so tired it was an effort to form the words and think straight. She wrote:

  Dear Myrtle

  It was with deep regret that I learned Mr Golding dispensed with your services when I was too ill to know. I shall always remember your kindness to me at a time when I needed a friend. I shall pray for you every day. Please pray for me. Accept the enclosed with my grateful thanks.

  She hesitated for a moment as to how to sign it, then followed her heart: ‘Love Angeline’.

  Folding the letter into an envelope, she said to Nurse Ramshaw, who’d been gathering her things together, ‘Would you pass me the musical box on the dressing table, please?’

  As the nurse watched, Angeline lifted the beautifully engraved wooden and tortoiseshell lid, so that the tiny ballerina began to whirl and dance, and then pressed a hidden spring so that a secret compartment in the bottom of the box opened. Looking at Nurse Ramshaw, she said, ‘My father bought me this for my tenth birthday and told me the secret was between him and me only, and I have never revealed it to anyone else.’ She took out the wad of notes that the hidey-hole contained, putting them in the envelope and sealing it.

  ‘Mrs Golding, that’s a great deal of money. Shouldn’t you think about this? You are still unwell.’

  ‘I know my own mind, Nurse, truly.’ She hesitated and then said, ‘My monthly dress allowance is more than Myrtle’s family can earn in a year. I say this not to boast, but to my shame. Something is very wrong in our society, don’t you think? But I digress. Myrtle was dismissed unfairly and it will have hit her family hard. This is hers by right, because if ever anyone earned thanks, it is Myrtle. Will you help me, Nurse Ramshaw?’

  The nurse nodded, taking the envelope on which Angeline had written Myrtle’s name, care of Albert (she had no idea of his surname) and her uncle’s address. ‘I’ll give it to’ – she consulted the envelope – ‘Albert myself, Mrs Golding. You have my word. I wish I could do more to help you.’

  ‘That is far and away the best thing you could do for me.’ Angeline smiled at the nurse, whose soft centre was hidden behind her strong, rather masculine features and forbidding countenance. ‘And I’m very grateful.’

  Once they had said their goodbyes and Nurse Ramshaw had left, Angeline sat looking out of the window. The snow was thick and a pearly-grey sky promised more, but it could have been a bright and beautiful summer’s day for all the scene outside registered on her senses.

  She had given Myrtle every penny she had saved over the last months, and she knew it would seem like a king’s ransom to the maid and her family. On the last count there had been more than 500 pounds salted away in the musical box; there would have been more, but for the fact she made sure she bought a certain amount of new clothes now and again to avoid Oswald becoming suspicious. It might seem the height of foolishness to give all the money away, but it wasn’t. Her dream of making a new life for herself and her child had died. It was over. She had nothing to live for now. Her only desire was to join her baby, her precious little baby girl. It was the beginning of a new year tomorrow. Well, she wanted none of it. Nurse Ramshaw had tried to explain the darkness of spirit that had overtaken her by saying it was natural in the circumstances. She had suffered a great loss, the nurse had said gently, on top of which she had nearly died. Body and soul needed time to heal. But she was young and healthy, and there was no reason why she shouldn’t have more babies when the time was right. And the nurse had patted her hand comfortingly.

  Angeline had listened quietly, eaten and drunk what she had been given, taken the sleeping draught the nurse had measured out each night and indulged in the relief of tears only when she was sure Nurse Ramshaw was asleep, but from the moment she had woken and felt her empty, flat stomach life had become pointless. She didn’t want to stay in a world where good people like her mama and father died, and Oswald Golding prospered and thrived; where money and power and influence dictated might over right, and the capricious spitefulness of someone like her husband meant an honest, decent family could find themselves forced into the workhouse. Most of all, she didn’t want to stay in a world that didn’t hold her child.

  Angeline glanced over at the ornate chest of drawers where she had hidden the new unopened bottle of sleeping draught that she’d taken from Nurse Ramshaw’s bag when the nurse had gone downstairs to speak to Dr Owen. As she had expected, the nurse had not left the partly used bottle with her, saying that she would pass it to the housekeeper with instructions that Angeline be given a dose each evening for as long as she required it. Angeline hoped the stolen bottle would not be missed among the many pills and potions piled into the nurse’s cavernous leather bag.

  It was an hour later when Polly, one of the housemaids, brought Angeline her afternoon tea. Angeline had gone back to bed. She felt more exhausted than she would have thought possible, when all she’d done was to move from the bed to the chaise-longue. She felt like an old, old woman.

  She glanced at the tray Polly was holding. It held a pot of tea, milk and sugar, a plate of daintily cut sandwiches and a small cake stand with assorted iced cakes and pastries. Lying back against the pillows, Angeline sighed wearily before she murmured, ‘Just pour me a cup of tea, Polly, and then you can take the tray away.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am, but Cook made the iced fancies specially to tempt you. Won’t you try just one and perhaps an almond pastry? Cook’s
pastries melt in the mouth.’

  ‘Very well, just one of the cakes then.’ She took from Polly the cup of tea and the plate holding the cake and then said, ‘Thank you’ as she smiled at the girl. Polly seemed a good-natured, caring little soul and she reminded Angeline of Myrtle.

  Polly stood hovering for a few moments and then all of a sudden burst out, ‘We’re all very sorry, ma’am, about . . . about the baby an’ all. I’m not supposed to say, ma’am, but Myrtle came back just before Christmas to see you, but the master had left orders with Mr Wood that she was to be turned away. But Cook said she could have who she liked in her kitchen, and so Myrtle came in for a bit. She was ever so upset about you, ma’am, and’ – Polly paused to take a breath – ‘angry with the master. But like I said, I’m not supposed to say, cos Cook could lose her job an’ all, if the master found out.’

  ‘Rest assured I won’t say anything, Polly, but thank you for telling me. I’ve been very worried about Myrtle.’

  ‘Oh, she’s all right, ma’am, and her young man’s been ever so good. He asked your uncle to give Myrtle a reference so she can get another job – make out she’s been working for him for the last couple of years like.’

  ‘That’s a good idea. And did my uncle agree?’

  ‘Myrtle said her young man had to twist his arm a bit, but the housekeeper – her young man’s sister – put in her two penn’orth and between them they managed it, ma’am.’

  Angeline was feeling so tired it was an effort to smile and nod, and as the maid bustled out she placed the cup of tea on her bedside cabinet and shut her eyes. This lack of strength would have been alarming in other circumstances; as it was, with the knowledge of what she was going to do, it was merely an inconvenience. It was strange, but over the last hour or two all feeling seemed to have gone from her. There was an emptiness in her, a cold emptiness, and though she was pleased to have been able to send the money to Myrtle and to know that Albert was clearly looking after her, it didn’t seem important. Perhaps because she had accomplished what she had wanted to do, courtesy of Nurse Ramshaw? It had been the desire to do something to help Myrtle that had focused what little energy she possessed. She felt now as though she were existing in a vacuum, a nothingness. And she welcomed it.