Beyond the Veil of Tears (2 page)

‘Come along, my child.’

Reverend Turner was holding out his hand to her and she stepped forward. She didn’t like the Reverend. She had once heard her mother describe him to her father as a cold fish, when they
hadn’t thought she was listening, and she’d thought this a very apt description. The minister always had cold, clammy hands even on the hottest day, and his pale-blue bulbous eyes and
fat lips reminded her of the rows of gaping faces in the fishmonger’s window. She had said this once to her mama, and although her mother had reprimanded her, her eyes had been twinkling.

She bit harder on her lip as her heart and soul cried out, ‘Mama, oh, Mama’, but not a sound emerged. Her uncle had warned her that, out of respect for her parents, she had to
conduct herself with dignity and propriety today, as befitted a young lady of fifteen years. Shows of emotion were vulgar and were only indulged in by the common people who knew no better. She had
wanted to say that they were only a step removed from the common people, and that if her grandfather hadn’t made his fortune, her father and uncle would most likely have been born in the East
End instead of a grand house; but, of course, she hadn’t. Mainly because she always felt sorry for her Uncle Hector. It must have been awful growing up knowing that your own father
didn’t like you and, furthermore, blamed you for your mother’s death. Her grandfather had died long before she was born – her parents had been married for more than twenty years
before she’d made an appearance, and her mama had often told her they’d given up hope of having a child – and in his will he had left everything to her father. Uncle Hector
hadn’t even been mentioned. It was as though he’d never existed.

Angeline’s thoughts caused her to reach out and take her uncle’s arm as they stood together, and she gave him one of the roses to throw on her father’s coffin. Knowing what she
did, it had always surprised her that her father and uncle got on so well, but then that was mainly due to her father. He had loved and protected his sibling all his life, and when their father had
died, he’d set Uncle Hector up in his own business so that he could be independent and not beholden to anyone. Her father had been so kind, so good. Everyone said so.

When the first clods of earth were dropped on the coffins, Angeline felt as though the sound jarred her very bones. She had the mad impulse to jump into the hole, lie down and tell the
grave-diggers to cover her, too. The shudder that she gave caused her uncle to murmur, ‘Remember what I said, Angeline. People are looking at how you conduct yourself today.’ Then he
added, in a gentler tone, ‘It’s nearly over now. Hold on a little longer.’

The drive back to the house in Ryhope was conducted in silence. Angeline sat with her uncle and her governess in the first carriage, drawn by four black-plumed horses, followed by a procession
of other carriages and conveyances. Drenched with misery, she stared unseeing out of the window of the coach. She’d always liked snow before this last week. It was so pretty, and she’d
enjoyed taking walks in the winter with her mother, snug in her fur coat and matching bonnet. When they returned home they always thawed out in front of the blazing fire in the drawing room, with
Mrs Davidson’s hot buttered muffins and cocoa.

She hated the snow now, though. It had taken her parents, and she didn’t know how she would bear the pain of their passing. It seemed impossible that she’d never see them again.
Never feel her mother’s arms around her or the touch of her soft lips. Never hear her father’s cheerful call when he came home in the evening.

She choked back a sob, mindful of her uncle’s words.

It was going to take every bit of her remaining strength to get through the next stage of the day, and she couldn’t break down now. That luxury would have to wait until she was alone in
her bed. Her uncle had invited friends and family back to the house for a reception following the church service, and she was dreading it. Not that there would be many family members; it would be
mostly friends of her parents and business associates of her father. When her grandfather had returned to the town after being at sea, he had severed all connections with his siblings and other
family members, going so far as to change his surname. Her mother had been an only child and, apart from two ancient spinster great-aunts on her side, there was no one else. No one but Uncle
Hector.

She glanced at him, but he, too, was staring out of the window and seemed lost in thought. She wondered if he would go back to his own house tonight, now that the funeral was over. He had been
staying with her since her parents’ accident, and had seen to the arrangements for the service and other matters. This had included organizing for Miss Robson – who had previously come
to the house every morning for a few hours, to take her through her lessons – to take up temporary residence and sleep in the room next to hers. This had been an added trial. She liked Miss
Robson, but found her very stiff and proper, which was probably why her uncle had considered the governess an ideal companion and chaperone.

Angeline’s bow-shaped mouth pulled uncharacteristically tight. She wasn’t a baby. She was fifteen years old, and her father had always said she possessed an old head on young
shoulders. She knew some girls of her age were flibbertigibbets and given to fancies, but she wasn’t like that, possibly because her parents had had her so late in life that all their
friends’ children were grown-up, and so she had mixed almost entirely with adults. It would have been different if she had been allowed to go to the local school, but her father had been
against it, and her mama had been equally against sending her away to boarding school. Hence Miss Robson. Not that she had minded. She loved her home and being with her mother; her mama had been
her best friend and confidante and companion. Some afternoons on their walks they had laughed and laughed until their sides ached.

This time a sob did escape, and Angeline turned it into a cough. If she could just get through this day she would be able to take stock. She felt as though she had been in a daze since the
accident.

Nevertheless, in spite of her desolation, as the carriage swept through the heavy wrought-iron gates and drove up the long drive to where the house sat nestled between two giant oak trees, she
felt a moment’s comfort. Her parents had loved Oakfield House, and so did she. She had been born in one of the eight bedrooms and had never known another home. As the family business started
by her grandfather had continued to go from strength to strength, her father could have moved to a much grander house, or so her mother had confided, but both their hearts had been firmly at
Oakfield. The main building consisted of fourteen rooms over two floors, with a corridor from the kitchen leading to the purpose-built annexe housing the indoor servants. McArthur and his lads
lived with his wife and the rest of the family somewhere in Bishopwearmouth. Angeline didn’t know exactly where, but every morning the gardener and his lads were working before she came
downstairs, and in the summer they often didn’t leave until twilight.

It was a happy household. Or it had been, Angeline amended in her mind as the carriage stopped at the foot of the steps leading to the intricately carved front doors. Now nothing could be the
same again.

Somehow she got through the endless reception. Her new black dress with its stiff little raised collar and long buttoned sleeves seemed stifling, and the corset that Myrtle had
laced her into that morning was too tight. She had rebelled against going into corsets when she had turned fourteen, but her mother had told her that she was a young lady now and, along with
privileges such as joining her parents when they had guests for dinner, there were sacrifices. Her childhood was behind her, and young ladies
always
had tiny waists. Her mama had brooked
no argument on the matter, and that had been that.

Outside the house the overcast January day was bitterly cold with a keen north-east wind; inside, the huge fires burning in the basket grates of the dining room and drawing room where the
hundred or so guests were assembled made the heat suffocating, at least in Angeline’s opinion. All she wanted was some fresh air, or to get into a room that wasn’t full of people.
Nevertheless, she did her duty. She chatted here and there, accepted the words of condolence from this person and that, and behaved with the decorum her mother would have expected.

Finally, as the magnificent grandfather clock in the hall chimed four o’clock, the last of the company made their goodbyes and stepped into the snowy night. All, that is, but Mr Appleby,
her father’s solicitor. Before this day Angeline had only known him as a friend and dinner guest of her parents, and on those occasions she had loved to sit and listen when her father and Mr
Appleby had engaged in sometimes heated debates about social inequality and the like. These had usually finished with Mr Appleby calling her father a Socialist at heart – something her father
hadn’t minded in the least.

Angeline had always thought Mr Appleby’s name suited him very well. Small and fat, with rosy red cheeks and twinkling brown eyes, she imagined that if an apple could take human form it
would be exactly like the solicitor. Now, though, his eyes were full of sympathy when he said, ‘Your uncle wishes me to acquaint you with the details of the will, Angeline’, and he
glanced at Hector, who was standing to the side of her.

‘Now?’ She asked the question of her uncle. He nodded.

‘It is customary on the day of interment,’ he said briefly.

Angeline didn’t care if it was customary or not. She didn’t want to think about the will – not today. All she wanted was to curl up by herself in front of the fire in her
bedroom and cry. ‘Can’t it wait, Uncle Hector? I’d like to rest before dinner.’

If her uncle noticed the break in her voice, he ignored it. ‘You have to understand the situation in which you find yourself, Angeline, and hear your father’s instructions. It will
pave the way for the arrangements that need to be made.’

She stared at him. Something told her that she wouldn’t like these arrangements. ‘Do you know what the will says?’

‘Partly. Your father made me your guardian, in the event of something happening to him and your mother. This was a long time ago, just after you were born. Now, please, come along to the
study, where Mr Appleby has the papers ready.’

It was a moment before she followed her uncle, Mr Appleby making up the rear. Angeline’s head was whirling. It was stupid, but she hadn’t thought about anyone being her guardian.
She’d imagined that, once the funeral was over and her uncle and Miss Robson returned to their own homes, things would get back to normal.

Well, not normal, she corrected herself in the next moment. Things would never be normal again. How could they be? But if she had thought about the future at all – which she had to admit
she hadn’t really, not with her mother and father filling every waking second – she’d assumed that Miss Robson would resume coming to the house in the mornings, and Mrs Lee and
the other servants would run Oakfield as they always had done.

The familiar smell of wood smoke from the fire and the lingering aroma of the cigars her father had favoured made her bite her lip as she entered the book-lined study. It was perhaps her
favourite room of the house. From a little girl, she had stretched out on the thick rug in front of the fire and played quietly with her dollies, or had drawn or read books while her father worked
at his desk, and as she’d grown she’d brought her needlework or crocheting and had sat in one of the armchairs at an angle to the fireplace. Her father was away so much in the town
dealing with the business, and when he was home she liked to be with him, if she could. She had known that he liked having her there, albeit as a silent presence. Why had she never realized just
how wonderful life was, before the accident? She’d taken it for granted, and now she couldn’t tell them they’d been the best parents in the world and she loved them so much.

George Appleby walked over to her father’s desk and sat down, as she and her uncle seated themselves in the two chairs that had been drawn close to it. He said nothing for a moment, his
gaze on Angeline’s face. He felt he knew what she was thinking, for her tear-filled eyes spoke for her, and his shock and sorrow at his dear friend’s untimely death were compounded by
his anxiety and concern for this young girl. Philip and Margery had been devoted to her of course, but in that devotion had come a desire to keep Angeline wrapped in cotton wool.

It was understandable – oh, indeed. He mentally nodded at the thought. They had been over the moon when they’d discovered Margery was expecting a baby, and when Angeline had been
born, and her such a bonny and happy child, you’d have thought she was the most gifted and perfect being in all creation. And any parent wants to protect their child, if they’re worth
their salt. But George and Margery’s decision to keep the girl in what amounted to a state of seclusion didn’t bode well now – or for the future. She was the most innocent of
lambs.

Hector Stewart cleared his throat, and George’s gaze turned to him. As much as he had liked and respected Philip, he disliked his brother. The man was weak and ineffectual and uppish into
the bargain, but he had always held his tongue about Hector, because Philip wouldn’t hear a word against him. Which was commendable, he supposed, but sometimes not seeing the flaws in someone
you loved could have far-reaching consequences. There were constant rumours at the Gentlemen’s Club about Hector’s drinking and gambling, and if even half of them were true, the man was
on the road to perdition. Eustace Preston had told him only last week that it was common knowledge Hector took himself off to Newcastle these days to certain gambling dens where fortunes were
regularly won and lost. Mostly lost, he’d be bound. And this was the individual to whom Philip and Margery had entrusted their beloved daughter.

Hector cleared his throat again even more pointedly, and George put his thoughts behind him and picked up the document in front of him on the desk. Addressing himself to Angeline, he said
gently, ‘This is the last will and testament of your parents, child. Do you understand what that means?’ When she nodded, he continued, ‘I will read it word for word in a moment,
but essentially your parents left everything to you, which makes it simple. They appointed your uncle as your guardian, should they die before you reached the age of twenty-one and were unmarried.
You will reside with him and have a personal monthly allowance, and your uncle will also have a sum of money each month for as long as you are in his care.’