Beyond the Veil of Tears (9 page)

‘Perhaps.’ Her mother had nodded. ‘But the Queen has lived a large portion of her reign without the man she loved at her side. I would not change places with her.’

And then her mother had smiled at her father in the special way they kept for each other, Angeline remembered, and even then, at thirteen years of age, she had thought, ‘I want that. When
I marry, I want to love someone like that.’

And now she did.

She opened her eyes as Oswald said gently, as though he knew her thoughts had been with her mother, ‘With your parents gone, I want to take care of you as they would have done, my sweet.
Are you agreeable to a short engagement?’

She knew most engagements were of two or three years’ duration, especially when the bride-to-be was as young as she was, but she didn’t want to wait so long. Shyly she nodded.

‘I’ll speak with Hector.’ Drawing her arm through his, he gave the wide, ingenuous smile that she loved. ‘Let’s tell him you’ve have made me the happiest man
in the world, and then the three of us will lunch at the house and I will introduce you properly to the staff.’

She stared at him, something approaching alarm replacing the light in her eyes. ‘Your staff? Is that necessary? I mean . . . ’ For the first time it dawned on her what being a wife
to someone as wealthy as Oswald would mean. ‘What will I say?’

For a second she thought she saw disdain in the handsome face, but it was gone in an instant and his voice was soft. ‘I’ll be with you, and you don’t need to say a word –
merely act as the future mistress of my house. They will not expect any acknowledgement from you, for they are merely servants.’

Oh dear, that sounded so different from what she’d been used to at Oakfield, and from the way her father had behaved towards Mrs Lee and the other staff. She hoped she could live up to
what Oswald expected of her, but she didn’t like the thought of looking down on his servants, even if – as he’d insinuated – it was what they were used to. And then he
pressed her to him, stroking back a wisp of hair from her forehead, and his touch banished the tiny cloud that had momentarily overshadowed her happiness.

Angeline found that she had to force herself to eat the delicious lunch; even the caramel pudding that followed the three other courses seemed to stick in her throat. It
hadn’t helped that, on entering the great hall of Oswald’s house, her uncle had taken her aside and muttered, ‘The going-on here is a different kettle of fish from anything
you’ve been used to. Remember that, and take your lead from Oswald. If in doubt, say nothing and, whatever you do, don’t be familiar with any of the servants – and by that I mean
don’t treat them like you did that lot at Oakfield. Do you understand me, Angeline? Today will set the tone, for you as well as them, because give ’em an inch and they’ll take a
mile, and laugh behind their hands while doing so.’

And now lunch was finished and she had to face the ordeal. Hector remained in the dining room, as he would not be accompanying them. Oswald walked with her into the hall where a long line of
servants stood waiting. Numbly she heard him say, as they reached the first man, ‘This is Palmer, my man, and Wood, the butler. Mrs Gibson, my housekeeper, will continue.’

The housekeeper was the very antithesis of Mrs Upton, being a large plump woman with rosy-red cheeks and a double chin, but her voice was circumspect as she stepped forward after bobbing her
head and began to name names, which Angeline immediately forgot. Two footmen, housemaids, the cook, two kitchen maids and a scullery maid, a seamstress, a laundress and a boot-boy all bowed their
heads or dipped their knees, and then the butler took over and pointed at various individuals, beginning with the coachman and grooms and finishing with the gardeners and a married couple who were
the lodge-keepers. Angeline didn’t have to worry about remaining aloof, for her brain was so addled she couldn’t have spoken or smiled if she had wished to.

When they reached the end of the line Oswald took her elbow, saying in an aside to the housekeeper, ‘We’ll take coffee in the drawing room, Mrs Gibson’ and to Angeline,
‘Come along, my dear, a tedious ritual but necessary’, as though they weren’t within sight or hearing of the servants.

Once in the drawing room, where Hector was waiting for them, Oswald closed the door and said, his tone faintly surprised, ‘One would have thought you’d been doing that all your
life.’

She stared at him. There was something – the merest inflexion in his voice – that she didn’t like, although she couldn’t have said why. Nevertheless it jarred. And this
came through in her tone, which was cool as she replied, ‘I am glad you approve.’

Oswald’s eyes narrowed, but in the next moment he had taken both her hands in his and turned to Hector. ‘We must have an engagement party so that I can show Angeline off to the
world,’ he said jovially. ‘A ball – yes, that’s it. We’ll have a ball. Have you been to a ball before, my dear?’ he added, smiling down at her as he kissed her
fingertips. ‘No? Then I will make this one perfect, as you are perfect.’

Telling herself it was nerves making her imagine absurd things, and that Oswald would never belittle her in word or thought – for didn’t he love her as much as she loved him? –
Angeline smiled back. A ball, for her. Oh, her mama would have been so thrilled.

‘And we will announce the date of the wedding, too. After the London Season, I think? Late August perhaps, or maybe September. September can be a beautiful month for a wedding, don’t
you think? Mellow and warm.’

Angeline could tell that her uncle was as amazed as she was; when Oswald had said a short engagement, she had expected it to last eighteen months, at the very least twelve.

‘It’s what we both want.’ Oswald turned to Hector again. ‘You have no objection, I presume? There will be time enough for certain legalities and . . . financial
arrangements to be put in place.’

Hector blinked. His debts were pressing and the situation could only get worse month by month, but September? He looked at Angeline and said weakly, ‘I have no objection, if that’s
what you want?’

She couldn’t disappoint Oswald, and there was no reason to delay anyway. What did custom and convention matter? She wanted to be his wife, and if Oswald wished them to marry in September,
so be it. Nodding, she said, ‘Yes, it’s what I want.’

‘Then the wedding preparations will be put in motion this very week.’ Oswald bent and kissed her nose. ‘And you must busy yourself deciding how you want our private quarters
refurbished. I confess they are very much a bachelor’s taste at present, but I give you free rein, my sweet.’

The mention of this brought a blush to her cheeks. Their bedroom and private quarters were where
that
side of marriage went on, and although she had no idea what it entailed, she knew
it was the means by which babies were made. When she had begun her monthly cycle two years ago, her mother had told her it was the natural preparation of a woman’s body for marriage and
bearing children, and that when she met her future husband she would explain further. In the meantime, her mother had said, she must not worry about such matters. Angeline hadn’t been too
anxious, as it happened, reasoning that if her beloved mother and father did whatever it was that they did, then it was nothing to fret about. Now she wished that she had asked more questions.

Oswald had noticed Angeline’s reaction and had to curb his impatience. Nothing about her innocence attracted him; it was merely an inconvenience. His father had arranged his introduction
into manhood when he was a boy of fourteen, and it had been some weeks later before he had realized that the lady in question – who had been well versed in the intricate variations of a
man’s needs and base desires – had been his father’s former mistress. Oswald had enjoyed her services for some good time, before moving on to new pastures, and with the passing
years had come a taste for depravity and lewdness. He had never been in love and had no wish to be, viewing the concept with distaste and suspicion. Sexual attraction was something else, and his
present mistress – the wife of a friend he’d known for years – fitted his requirements in the bedroom perfectly. Mirabelle Jefferson was passionate and wanton and beautiful, and
his body was aching for her. Since he had begun his assault on Angeline’s affections he had kept Mirabelle out of the picture, but the London Season was beginning and he intended to visit his
town house in the West End as soon as he could. He would make some excuse to Angeline for his absence for a while. The girl would believe anything he said.

He glanced at Angeline and Hector as Mrs Gibson came in with the housemaid, who was wheeling the coffee trolley. Provincial to the core, he thought irritably. Oh, for some decent conversation.
Mirabelle was a clever hostess, and in any gathering of people she selected there were always one or two Cabinet ministers or a viceroy or some high official from a far-off corner of the Empire,
along with a painter or architect and a group of musicians who played to the company after dinner. She only invited women famous for their beauty or wit, or both, who gave the conversation a
sparkling turn or were wise enough not to interrupt the good talk; and scandal and gossip were always rippling like a current through the guests.

How long before he could escape? It had to be soon, or he’d be unable to keep this charade up for much longer.

But then in the next instant he told himself: steady, steady. All was going so well, he couldn’t rock the boat now. He had to remember that this particular boat was a treasure trove.

Angeline stood staring at herself in the bedroom mirror, much as she had done on that evening months ago just before she had met Oswald for the first time. Now, as then, she
barely recognized the reflection looking back at her.

Myrtle finished adjusting the gossamer-thin veil and stepped back a pace to check her handiwork, and she, too, was remembering that other night and wishing passionately it had never happened.
Not a trace of this came over in her voice as she said softly, ‘You’re beyond beautiful, Miss Angeline. I don’t think there’s ever been such a lovely bride.’ When, in
answer, she received a radiant smile from the fragile figure clad in pure white, who seemed too ethereal and celestial to be of this world, Myrtle had the wild impulse to throw herself at
Angeline’s feet and beg her not to walk out of the door.

She didn’t, of course. What could she say, after all? Her only comfort was that she was accompanying her young mistress to the big house as her personal maid. This had only come about
because of Angeline’s insistence that it be so. Myrtle was fully aware that Oswald Golding had wanted to employ a lady’s maid of his own choosing for his new wife; he seemed intent on
controlling every aspect – large and small – of her life, but in this one thing Angeline had stood up to him.

‘Here, Miss.’ Myrtle passed Angeline the small bouquet of pink rosebuds and baby’s breath tied with white ribbons that she was to carry. ‘Are you feeling all right? I
could get you a tot of sherry to calm your nerves, if you like.’

Angeline’s giggle dispelled the illusion of an angelic creature. ‘I ought to be feeling nervous, I know. It’s the done thing, isn’t it? But the truth is that I’ve
been awake half the night because I’m so excited. Is that terribly unladylike? Anyway, I don’t care if it is. I want to be Mrs Golding, Myrtle, and to begin my new life.’

Myrtle forced a smile. Mrs Golding – and her not yet turned seventeen, and him twice her age. The old master and mistress would turn in their graves if they knew what Mr Stewart had
allowed, and it wasn’t only her who thought so. She’d heard what was being said when Mr Appleby had called some weeks back; you couldn’t not hear it. Mr Appleby had been shouting
like one of the stallholders at the market – he hadn’t sounded like himself at all. Miss Angeline had been up at the house with Mr Golding (she suspected Mr Stewart had arranged it that
way), and hadn’t Mr Appleby given him what for. Course, it hadn’t made the slightest bit of difference, and she had known it wouldn’t. Mr Appleby had left in the end, red-faced
and spitting bricks, and Mr Stewart had called her and Mrs Upton and Albert into his study. He had warned them that he didn’t want his niece knowing about the solicitor’s attitude. It
would distress her, he had said, and cast a pall over the wedding preparations.

The three of them had walked through to the kitchen when they were dismissed, and for once Mrs Upton had let her guard down and been almost friendly. ‘You can’t blame Mr Appleby for
saying she’s too young – not with a name like Mr Golding’s got, and Mr Appleby being a friend of the lass’s father. You going to say anything to Miss Angeline?’
she’d asked.

Of course she hadn’t replied to that, she wasn’t daft. She wouldn’t trust the housekeeper as far as she could throw her. Instead she’d said, ‘What do you mean? A
name like Mr Golding’s got?’

‘Well . . . ’ Mrs Upton had lowered her voice. ‘Albert here hears things, don’t you, Albert? From other coachmen, you know? If they’re waiting outside with the
horses for hours, they all get talking to pass the time, and’ – her voice went a shade lower still – ‘Mr Golding likes a pretty face and a turn of ankle, right
enough.’

Myrtle had shrugged. ‘So do lots of men.’

‘Aye, true, but Mr Golding don’t just look, if you get my drift? There’s been some right goings-on, I can tell you, but the devil looks after his own, and he’s got away
with his shenanigans by and large. Now I’m the first to say that what the gentry get up to is their own business, and me an’ Albert have always considered ourselves in clover here with
Mr Stewart. But all this with the young lass sticks in my craw. I can’t say I was over-pleased to hear she was coming, and I was wary at first – thought she’d be expecting to be
waited on hand and foot, and would be full of airs and graces – but, well, she’s a nice little thing.’

Myrtle had nodded. ‘Aye, she is.’

‘But young, very young for her years, and impressionable, you know? All this with Mr Golding, it don’t seem right.’