Free Beyond the Veil of Tears by Rita Bradshaw

clothes needed to be
put away. Once the door was closed behind her, Myrtle sank down on the bed. Mr Golding had virtually undressed her, there on the doorstep. Her cheeks burning, she put her hands to her face. The
filthy so-an’-so. And it hadn’t been like when the butcher’s boy gave her the eye, or when the odd lad whistled at her on her day off. She gave as good as she got then. No, this
had been different. He’d made her feel dirty and ashamed – sullied.
    She brought her hands down from her face, staring at the window. And this was the man Miss Angeline was fair barmy about. He was playing her like a violin, but why would he do that, with all his
money and influence? He could have any woman he wanted. She didn’t understand any of this, but one thing she did know: Miss Angeline wouldn’t hear a word against him. Anyway, what could
she say? That Mr Golding had looked at her – because in truth he’d done nothing more.
    Slowly Myrtle slid off the bed and made herself start tidying the room, but her thoughts were with her young mistress, and they were fearful.
    Angeline found the whole evening something of a strain, not because of the company, although the elderly aunt was deaf and consequently everyone had to bellow their
conversation, but because the picture of her parents enjoying themselves in this very place – not knowing what was to befall them – was at the forefront of her mind. She endeavoured to
hide her feelings, joining in the talk about the play at the interval and smiling and laughing, but by the time the little party of four left the theatre, a headache was throbbing at the back of
her skull.
    The Golding carriage had been waiting outside. Although the month of May was just around the corner, the odd desultory snowflake was wafting in the air and it was bitterly cold. Angeline pulled
her cloak tightly round her and, once in the carriage, snuggled into the fur with the hood low over her face. Hector had invited Oswald and his aunt in for coffee and brandy and, much as Angeline
lived for the moments spent in Oswald’s company, tonight she would have preferred to go straight to bed.
    As they entered the house Oswald took Angeline’s elbow, letting the other two go on before them into the drawing room. ‘Is anything wrong? Have
I
done anything wrong?’
he murmured softly. It had been his constant fear over the last weeks that she’d hear something about him – about his past, some remark or insinuation or other comment – that
would cause her to withdraw from him, but he had still felt that he dare not hurry things along any faster than he was doing.
    ‘No, of course you have done nothing wrong.’ Shocked that such a thought would enter his mind, Angeline was further emboldened to whisper, ‘You . . . you could never do
anything wrong. I have a headache, that is all, and . . . ’ She paused, wondering if it would further spoil the evening if she mentioned her parents.
    ‘And?’ he prompted gently.
    ‘I have been thinking of Mama and my father. It was on leaving the Avenue Theatre that the accident occurred on the way home.’
    ‘Oh, my dear.’ His tone and manner altered, and he caught her hand, pressing her cold fingers to his warm lips, before muttering, ‘I didn’t realize. Your uncle should
have said, and we could have gone elsewhere tonight. I would never willingly do anything to cause you a moment’s unhappiness. Can you forgive me?’
    Angeline looked into the handsome face that fascinated her and filled her dreams, her heart in her eyes. ‘There’s nothing to forgive, Oswald. Truly, please don’t distress
yourself.’
    This evening had rattled him. He had almost been sure she was turning cold on him. Her fortune would provide the injection of cash that was necessary to turn his finances around; he
couldn’t afford to let Angeline slip through his fingers. Telling himself that he might not get another chance like this for a while, he drew both her hands