Lady in the Veil (6 page)

‘But to tell Papa that I was dead was a stupid idea! I was happy just making pictures and counting stitches. How can you make us live on a smelly farm in such a lowly family?’

‘Oh grow up, Eliza! There’s no money left here to indulge you any more. If anything happens to Papa, you’ll have to take up sewing, hire yourself out like a servant.
There’ll be no money for silks and fine linens then. We’re ruined every which way and I can’t help you then . . .’ Mirabel pleaded as she laid out the beautiful wedding gown
on the bed for her Mistress to inspect.

‘I care nothing for this robe,’ said Eliza, picking up the lilac silk gown and throwing it back. ‘This might look like gossamer but it will be like a lead cloak on me. How can
I stand before the altar and make such hideous vows when I can scarce walk a step unaided? Send word to Farmer Stockdale that I’m too ill. Bring the Parson here if you must. Let him wed us in
the drawing room. I care not one way or the other. This was your scheme so you can sort it out. You know I can’t help my fear. It’s not going to go away.’

‘I am trying to be patient, Eliza, but you have to go through with this for my sake and Papa’s. We’ll be a burden off his hands. Don’t shame him before his servants. We
have to go through with this now,’ she sighed, knowing it was far too late to turn back. To be truthful, the whole scheme had spiralled out of control. Matt Stockdale’s proposal was
timely but neither of them was ready to live out their pretences quite so soon.

On the night before the wedding the groom paced through the new farmhouse rooms examining every detail. Would there be enough chairs for the evening visitors and bride cake and
ale for the farm servants and visitors? He had ordered a special frock coat, a tall hat and bathed himself in the tub. His mother was in a fluster of anxiety about how to address the new bride and
would they mind if they threw a plate out of the window to welcome luck on the new couple or would Miss Dacre think that common?

‘I hope you knows what tha’s doin’, me laddo,’ she twined. ‘This wedding will beggar us twice over if you’re not careful. I’ve never heard of a bride
having her own room. She’s yer wife, not some visitor! I hope that poor maid of hers can turn her hand to the pump for yon bride of yours has never done a hand’s turn in her life nor
ever will, I venture. It’s a rum do and no mistake. We’ll be the laughing stock of Lawton.’

‘Hush, Mother, don’t spoil the day with yer mitherings,’ he snapped but he was too nervous to sleep much that night either.

The wedding day passed off without incident. The groom appeared on horseback with the Parson, both dressed in sombre black and tall hats. No one could say that Farmer Stockdale
did not look like a gentleman. Papa was drunk and none too fresh as he escorted Eliza down the stairs in the half mourning outfit of grey and lilac silk with a full skirt and ruffled hem. The
groom’s mother stood in her widow’s black bombazine, nervous and unsure as to how to proceed, looking to the maid to guide them in all things.

Eliza struggled to participate in the ceremony, hardly glancing at her husband, muttering her vows so no one could hear. She didn’t touch a morsel of the wedding feast, picking at her
plate, staring down at the embroidery on her sleeve. Mirabel stood behind the chairs feeling both sorrow and anger that the groom could be so easily duped. He looked so eager and expectant but he
was going to be bitterly disappointed in his new bride. If only things had been different, she mused. How eagerly would she have jumped into those strong arms on her wedding night.

The first moment of concern came when the bridal party left for the bride cake-throwing in the servant’s hall. Eliza refused to go downstairs or even in the garden, making for the chaise
saying she was unwell and wanted to make straight way for the safety of Yewbank but only if her maid would keep her company. Poor Matt had to ride behind his mother in her hired carriage.

How different the outside of the farmhouse looked from that first visit all those years ago. The new front porch stood out proudly to welcome them and to the left a parlour room and to the right
a dining room almost complete with panelled walls with the tall windows he had promised.

What a good man he was, she thought, who didn’t deserve such treatment, but he had wanted his Mirabel Dacre and now they were here, both of them and he must be content.

Eliza glanced up at the walls and headed for the stairs. She was too tired for further conversation and announced she was off to her chamber, leaving her husband looking up in despair.

‘She’s very tired,’ Mirabel apologised, lowering her face. No one liked to be reminded of her features. ‘Fresh air disturbs her, I fear. It reminds her of York,
sir.’

The extra servants hired for the evening supper stood back awkwardly and were later dismissed when no bride appeared to grace the event. The celebrations fizzled out early without any of the
raucous lewdness that usually accompanied a wedding night. Mirabel tried to help clear away the plates and show willing but she, too, was exhausted by the strain and relieved that the deed was
done. She climbed the stairs smelling the fresh paint and polish. Everything was new and bare, spotless and raw. Matt was trying so hard to please them and she was touched by his earnest desire to
give them the best. Somehow she was going to have to make it up to him for this deception but only time would guide her as to how.

Matt looked over his handiwork in the upstairs parlour with satisfaction. The ceiling plasterwork was ornate and from its centre hung a finely branched brass candelabra. The
fireplace was surrounded by a Dent marble mantlepiece and coal burned brightly in the grate. The room was large and square enough to hold his bride’s best chairs and spinet, firescreen and
sofa bed so she could arrange them to her taste.

He’d even turned the old staircase to face the new entrance and tiled the floor with a mosaic of coloured tiles so Mirabel would not have to face or hear the farm kitchen bustle beyond the
door.

The duties of a farmer’s wife would be strange to one used to such leisure. He didn’t expect her to perform anything that took her to the kitchen and the meaner parts of the house.
His new wife was his extravagance and his responsibility, his reward for all his endeavours but he had beggared himself in giving her all the refinements she deserved.

Tongues wagged in the farmyard that Matt Stockdale was getting above himself in this show of extravagance. He knew what folk thought but didn’t care. It was hard though not to show his
disappointment when his bride took to her new bedroom and barred the door, leaving her maid to explain that she was too exhausted by travel to receive callers in her private chamber. For three days
she kept to her room with a terrible headache and slept alone.

His mother said nothing about the arrangement and went about her humble business as if the new wing didn’t exist. The maid came down to collect her covered dishes and tried to show by
little acts of kindness to his mother that she could make herself useful if asked.

Bella Carswell was so well spoken, so polite that it almost made things worse. Everyone knew that he had not yet gained admittance to Mirabel’s bed where the maid spent her days sewing at
the side of her Mistress. This was not how it was supposed to be but Matt bit his tongue and hid the pain of his broken dreams.

‘Yon’s a right carry on and no mistake,’ grumbled his mother. ‘If hadn’t seen it for mesen, I’d think you’d dreamt it all up: all that good brass spent
and she can’t be arsed to show her presence or warm thy toes. You must put thy foot down and sharpish! You won’t get bairns out of that one either, have you seen the size of her? I
don’t know what you were thinking of, son.’

Matt shook his head and bit his lip. It was one thing having an ornament like fine porcelain on a pedestal to admire but Mirabel was neither use nor ornament hidden away upstairs. Suddenly he
felt foolish and down-hearted and took himself out into the fields with his men, out to market, buying and selling. Everything he touched had turned to profit lately but all his private hopes were
shattered.

There were plenty of gatherings and parish affairs to keep loneliness at bay. He could busy himself but the sadness in his heart turned into disappointment and then into bitterness. He had
hardly spent a few hours in his wife’s presence and then never alone. He was a laughing stock in his home and it had to stop. Enough was enough!

One night, fired by the ale pot, he stormed up the stairs two at a time. ‘Mirabel Stockdale open the door to me! I’m thy husband and I’ve fair had enough with this carry on.
Open the door or I’ll bash it down!’ His accent thickened as his anger spilled over. No one made a fool of Matt Stockdale. ‘What’ve I done to deserve such treatment? Any
other man would’ve taken a whip to you for this disobedience. It has been twelve long nights since you came here. I’ll not stomach another night out of our marriage bed!’

The two sisters listened as he banged on the door, waking the whole household in his fury. Eliza cowered under the bedclothes, crying and shaking. ‘What’ll I do? You promised me . .
. I’ve kept to my bargain, done what you said but this I will not do . . . Tomorrow we must go back home and tell Papa the truth.’

‘And tell the whole world of this deception? I think not. There is a way, but you must speak to him and soften his mood, give him hope. I’ll think of something to soothe his
pride,’ Mirabel ordered, knowing there was only one explanation that would do for now. ‘Leave it to me.’

She unlocked the door and brought a candle across the room, drew the drapes open across the bed and let the husband in.

‘Sir,’ she bobbed. ‘Do not distress yourself that you have been barred from my Mistress. See for yourself, she is abed waiting but fears she cannot give you pleasure for it is
a delicate matter that has occurred that only women speak of between themselves.’

Matt stepped forward, not understanding. ‘Sir,’ she continued, ‘The moon courses are upon my Mistress and sorely cramp her stomach. She has suffered much these past two weeks
and that is why she cannot oblige but the moment they are over, she will open the door and you may fulfil your obligations to your satisfaction. Is not that so, Mistress?’

Eliza smiled wanly and nodded. ‘It pains me to disappoint you, Master. Please be patient with me.’

This took all the air out of his bellows and he blustered and apologised and made for the door. ‘I’m sorry to have distressed you, Madam.’

‘And she is sorry to disappoint you,’ Mirabel replied, ushering him out of the door quickly.

‘Now what’ve you done?’ Eliza cried. ‘How will I oblige him?’

‘You can’t, but I can,’ Mirabel smiled.

‘Are you cracked? You will be uncovered.’

‘In the darkness we see what we want to see and feel what we want to feel,’ she said. ‘Darkness covers a multitude of sins and confusions. It’s the only way.’ It
was a risk she must take but she felt nervous, wishing her hair would grow longer, her skin softer. One flicker of light and her ruse would be discovered.

A few nights later, with Eliza tucked up in the dressing room that served for the maid’s chamber, Mirabel unlocked the door and waited for the handle to turn with thudding heart. She had
undressed with care into a soft silk shift with long sleeves that Eliza had prepared, bathed her limbs in the tub with attar of rose oil, covered her growing hair with a pretty lace night cap and
blew out all the candles for fear of exposure. Once the curtains were drawn there would be nothing but silk between them.

At first there was silence as he climbed into the sheets, only the sounding of his breathing as he ferreted under the counterpane whispering her name. Hidden in the darkness, she was to him what
he had imagined, young, beautiful and willing. She caressed him through the silk and let his hands slide over the shift. She surrendered to his touch with a warmth and passion that stunned her with
its novelty and enjoyment. Pictures of Papa’s secret drawings came into her mind and she mounted him so that he cried out for mercy and they laughed and kissed and slept until the light of
dawn began to creep under the shutters.

Mirabel then slipped into the side room shaking her sister awake. ‘Tis done. Go to him and make a fuss. He is well satisfied now.’ Eliza for once was compliant and uncomplaining.

Mirabel lay on the truckle bed feeling sad that she must leave his side but they were in so deep in deception that she had no desire for him to be distressed by the sight of his lover. Dressing
quickly, she made noise to rouse the lovers and sped down to the kitchen where the Mistress sat smiling into the fire.

‘It is done then?’ His mother looked up as she grinned. ‘I was beginning to wonder at the wisdom of his choice but all’s well that ends well.’

Mirabel bent her head in shame knowing it was wrong to deceive this kind lady but Matt was happy and contented with his lot for the moment. Her own new-found pleasure would have to be rationed
but no matter. As a go-between she would be able to ensure he didn’t go too long without lovemaking.

The days grew out into a glorious summer and Mirabel took her turn at the haymaking. The servants grew used to her disfigurement but she always took care to cover her fading pockmarks with a
large sun bonnet in case a likeness to her sister was exposed. In truth she was happier than she had ever been in her life, outside in the fresh air, learning to milk cows in the dairy and make
butter and cheese with Matt’s mother who was struggling to see clearly. Only the fact that she was deceiving them spoiled the enjoyment of those first few months at Yewbank.

Eliza refused to set foot out of the door but true to his promise, Matt made no further demands on her other than she entertain civilly when called upon. Then it was hard for Mirabel to stand
back and wait on the Parson’s wife and the church wardens, resume her servile role and forget she was the elder of the Dacre sisters. York began to feel like many moons ago and even their
rare visits to Papa went off without incident.