Beyond the Veil of Tears by Rita Bradshaw Read Free Book Online

feeling that Oakfield had had, and her
uncle’s housekeeper, Mrs Upton, and his ‘man’, Albert (who was also Mrs Upton’s brother), were like their name: uppity. She had sensed their unfriendliness to Myrtle, but
when she’d asked Myrtle about it, the maid had cheerfully assured her that she could give as good as she got, and with knobs on, too. Angeline thanked God every day for Myrtle. Life would
have been unbearable without her bright face and chatter, and she knew, too, that the little maid was hers, which was infinitely comforting.
    Hector was sitting on one of the two hard-backed chairs in the hall that had a small table between them, and his fingers were drumming impatiently on its polished surface. He rose to his feet at
the sight of her, his face losing its look of irritation as he said with genuine sincerity, ‘Why, Angeline, my dear, you look lovely. Quite the young lady.’
    ‘Thank you, Uncle.’
    He was holding a marabou-trimmed white cape, which he now placed over her shoulders, saying, ‘A small present from me, to celebrate your first dinner party as a young woman. Shall
we?’ He bent his arm and she slipped her hand through it as they walked out of the front door, which Mrs Upton had opened for them. The cape was lined with fur and reached to her ankles, and
Angeline was glad of this, as the icy air hit her, causing her to take a breath.
    Albert was standing by her uncle’s carriage holding a lantern, and at their approach he held it higher while keeping the door of the conveyance open. Her uncle helped her up the steps and
followed her in. Albert closed the door and then climbed up into the driver’s seat and, after he had clicked his tongue at the two horses, they were off.
    Angeline caught a last sight of Myrtle, standing just inside the front door, beaming all over her face, but Mrs Upton was nowhere to be seen. Not that she had expected the housekeeper to see her
off, she thought wryly. From the moment she and Myrtle had entered her uncle’s house, Mrs Upton had made it plain she considered them usurpers. Once the woman’s veiled resentment would
have bothered her, but since her parents’ death it was as though the worst had happened, and minor irritants like an unfriendly housekeeper didn’t matter.
    She bit hard on her bottom lip to quell the sudden surge of hot moisture at the back of her eyes. She couldn’t cry. Not now.
    Hector’s five-bedroomed house was set in its own grounds on the outskirts of Bishopwearmouth, not far from Barnes Park, and as the Golding estate was to the west of
Sunderland, not far from the village of Washington, they were soon on country roads and the wheels of the carriage were hitting large potholes. Angeline had heard of the village – some
decades before, thirty-five men and boys had been killed in an explosion at the colliery, and her father had known one of the present owners, who had discussed the matter one afternoon when her
parents had thrown a garden party – but had never ventured this way before. As it was, she could see nothing of the countryside they were travelling through, for it was pitch-black outside
the coach windows.
    Her uncle was not a great conversationalist, and often a whole meal could pass as they sat at opposite ends of the dining table and he said not a word, but now he kept up a commentary about the
state of the roads, the cold weather and umpteen other tedious subjects. Angeline answered politely when it was expected, and wished he would stop talking so that she could concentrate on preparing
herself for the evening ahead.
    Then out of the blue, and apropos of nothing that had gone before, he said something that brought her full attention to him. ‘It is extremely kind of Oswald to invite us to dine tonight,
and I shall expect your manner towards him to reflect this. Do you understand, Angeline?’
    His face was a dim blur in the darkness and she couldn’t read his expression. She blinked. ‘Of