Beyond the Veil of Tears (24 page)

Not dignifying this with a reply, she said crisply, ‘What is wrong with my uncle?’

‘I’m afraid he has passed from us.’ Oswald was watching her closely, his eyes glittering. ‘It happened some time ago, but the matron has only recently decided you were
fit to be told. I am so sorry, my dear. He was a fine man, and I know you were fond of him.’

Gripping the back of the chair harder, she made herself say, ‘How? I mean, what happened? He wasn’t ill.’

Oswald’s gaze went to the matron and then back to her, as though asking how much to say. ‘It appears to have been an accident.’

‘An accident? What kind of accident?’

‘It appears, although one cannot be certain, that your uncle drowned, Angeline. He came to visit you here, just after you were admitted, but of course you were too ill at that point for
visitors. On the way home he stopped at an inn and then took a walk down to the river and . . . ’ Oswald shrugged his shoulders. ‘He was found the next morning more or less where he
must have fallen in. The edges of the river were frozen hard, but the middle was still running and very deep, I understand. He had become wedged against a large rock, or he would have been carried
downstream. There were no signs of foul play, and his watch and money were still intact, so the police have ruled out an attack of any kind.’

There was something here she couldn’t understand. ‘My uncle doesn’t like the water, be it a river or the sea. He couldn’t swim. My father often used to tease him about
it. Why would he take a walk to the river, on what was clearly a cold winter’s night? It doesn’t make sense.’

Again Oswald glanced at the matron. ‘I said it
appears
to be an accident, my dear. There’s always another possibility.’

‘What? What is the other possibility, if not that he was attacked?’

‘It was discovered after your uncle died that he was bankrupt. In fact he had massive debts and owed money to a considerable number of people. Gambling debts.’

Her head was swimming. Uncle Hector dead, and she hadn’t known. A shaft of pain pierced her. He was her last link with her parents and she had always imagined that in time the rift between
them, which had sprung up so suddenly and was beyond her comprehension, would be healed. And he had died on his way home from coming to see her here. Had he wanted to see her one last time before
he took his own life? But no, she couldn’t believe that. Not Uncle Hector. It had to be an accident. ‘Perhaps he wanted a walk to clear his head after visiting the inn,’ she said,
speaking her thoughts out loud. ‘You said there was ice, and ice can be treacherous. He could have slipped and slid in and been unable to save himself. The water would have been very cold and
the shock of it . . . ’ Her voice trailed away. She felt bereft, far more so than she would have imagined at losing her uncle. He was part of her father – it had been a tangible
bond.

Looking Oswald straight in the eye, she said, ‘Did you know he had money worries, before he died?’

Her directness threw Oswald. He hadn’t been expecting the question. Completely taken aback, he muttered, ‘I . . . yes. No. I mean, not exactly.’

‘Did he come to you for help?’ Like a mist clearing when the bright morning sun cast its light and warmth on it, the reason for the rift between her uncle and Oswald suddenly made
sense. ‘He did, didn’t he, and you refused him?’

Oswald had recovered himself. Keeping his voice gentle, he murmured, ‘Angeline, Angeline, how many crimes will you lay at my feet? I have no idea if Hector’s death was an accident or
if he took his own life, but I had nothing to do with it. You must try and get better, my dear, and then you will see things clearly. See
me
clearly.’

‘I see you clearly now, Oswald.’

‘Mrs Golding, please. Now calm yourself. This will help no one. Your husband loves you, and he is trying his best in what is a very difficult situation.’

‘Difficult for whom?’ she shot back at the matron. ‘Not for him. He is not the one imprisoned against his will. He is free to do exactly as he pleases.’

‘I am sorry you feel this way, my love.’ Oswald shook his head sorrowfully. ‘When you are better you will remember these times and wonder how you could have been so lost, but
for the moment you must concentrate on getting better. That is all we want for you, the matron, the superintendent, everyone. We thought you were strong enough to hear about your uncle, but we were
clearly wrong, and I take full responsibility for that.’

Angeline glared at him. The chaplain’s sermon the previous Sunday came to mind, and her voice ringing with contempt she said, ‘You are like one of the Pharisees Jesus spoke about. A
whitewashed tomb on the outside, but inside full of filth and decay and corruption.’

‘
Mrs Golding!
’ Matron Craggs glanced at her husband as she said, ‘I’m sorry, she has been so docile over the last weeks. I thought she was ready for this.’
And to Oswald, ‘Please don’t take it to heart, Mr Golding.’

‘Please don’t distress yourself, Matron.’ Oswald was at his most charming. He could afford to be. Everything was going even better than he had hoped. ‘As I said, I am
aware it is the illness – and not my wife – causing her to speak in this way.’

‘I’m not ill.’ Angeline swung to face him, spots of burning colour in her cheeks, but her voice now coming low and bitter and with terrible intent. ‘And I tell you that
you’ll pay one day for what you did to our child and to me. Her blood is on your hands. Remember that. And keeping me locked away in here won’t change it. One day God will demand an
account from you for the wicked things you’ve done.’

The grey of Oswald’s eyes were almost black, but his voice was quiet and controlled as he said to the superintendent, ‘Is this part of the illness? Thinking she can speak for God
Himself?’

The matron said agitatedly, ‘She hasn’t done this before, Mr Golding, and—’

‘Please, Matron.’ Oswald raised his hand. ‘Might I perhaps have a word with my wife in private? I fear the presence of others could be aggravating her neurosis.’

‘I don’t think that is wise, Mr Golding.’ The superintendent had stood to his feet, clearly disturbed. ‘The puerperal mania that began your wife’s illness seems to
have developed into more than a passing animosity against your good self. I cannot agree to you putting yourself in harm’s way, not after the last attack and the condition in which you were
left.’

Oswald nodded regretfully, sighing. ‘It is so sad, so very sad, but I will be guided by you, Dr Craggs.’ He too had stood up, and before she realized his intent he took a couple of
steps to bring himself in front of Angeline and bent towards her, as though to kiss her cheek, but whispering so that she alone could hear, ‘You will be in here for the rest of your life, my
sweet.’

She sprang back, as much from the nearness of him as from what he’d said. ‘Keep away from me! Don’t you touch me.’

‘Please, Mr Golding.’ The matron was as edgy as her husband. ‘You can see that we can do no good here today. Perhaps in a month or two . . . ’ She took Angeline’s
arm as though to lead her out of the room.

Oswald nodded, his voice seeming to break as he said, ‘I had thought, when she became pregnant, that a baby would bring us closer together, but she doesn’t seem to understand that I
am grieving, too. I have lost a daughter after all.’

The hypocrisy was too much. Taking the matron by surprise, Angeline slapped Oswald hard around the face with her free hand, crying, ‘Do not mention her! Don’t you dare mention her.
You’re not fit to speak of her.’

In the next moment she found herself swung around by the matron’s grip on her arm and practically thrown out of the door into the corridor outside, where the nurse was waiting. ‘Help
me take her back – and be careful, she’s violent.’

‘I’m not violent.’ Angeline ceased to struggle in their grasp, but although she didn’t protest as she was whisked back to the ground-floor ward so fast her feet hardly
touched the ground, once they arrived there the matron issued orders that she be put into one of the restraint rooms.

Terrified at the thought of being fastened into a strait-jacket again, and knowing that she had played into Oswald’s hands, Angeline tried to keep calm. ‘I’m not violent,
truly. Please, Matron, please.’

‘Sedate her.’

Blind instinct took over. She started to fight to get away, to get out of the ward, as more nurses came to help the matron and nurse, but as before, she was soon rendered helpless. She felt the
injection, but could do nothing to prevent it, and neither could she stop them strapping her into the harness and thrusting her into the windowless cell.

And then she was alone, and all became quiet except for the whimpers she could hear through her panic. It was only as the injection took effect, and she felt the whirling darkness begin to close
in, that she realized the noises were coming from her own lips.

‘It’s criminal, Albert, keeping the mistress locked away in that place. I can’t bear it, I can’t. An’ them not letting me see her. What’s
that, if not downright cruelty?’

‘Lass, lass, don’t take on so.’ Albert put his free arm round Myrtle, who was now sobbing as he drove the horse and cart down the drive of the asylum. ‘We’ll keep
trying. You know that. And, to be fair, they’re only obeying orders from Golding.’

‘
Him!
’ Myrtle rubbed at her wet face with the back of her hand. ‘He’s a wicked devil. All that’s happened to Miss Angeline is because of him, and he drove
Mr Hector to his grave.’

‘I didn’t think you liked her uncle?’

‘I didn’t, but what’s that got to do with it? At least he came and tried to see her – that’s something in his favour. And I don’t care what anyone says about
him being in debt and the rest of it. I think it was knowing Miss Angeline was locked away in that place that did for him. It was no accident, Albert. He topped himself, sure as eggs are eggs. His
conscience saw to it.’

‘Aye, well, if we’re talking about consciences, mine and Olive’s are none too happy about Mr Hector. If we hadn’t said we were going, perhaps he might have come home that
night. He was a funny old bird, but me an’ Olive were the nearest thing he’d got to family, especially Olive. If we’d known the load he was under, with the debts an’ all, I
wouldn’t have said what I did.’

Myrtle sniffed and scrubbed at her face again, before turning to Albert. ‘We’ve been through this, Albert. You weren’t to blame for him ending up in that river.’

‘Maybe, maybe not, but what’s done is done, an’ it’s no use dwelling on it, not with all I’ve got now.’ His arm tightened as he hugged her close for a moment
or two. ‘It’d be like spitting in the face of the Almighty not to count me blessings – you being the most important one.’

‘Oh, Albert.’ Myrtle reached up and kissed his stubbly chin, then gave another little ‘Oh’ as the horse and cart passed through the gates of the asylum and into the lane
beyond and one of the cart wheels bumped over a particularly large pothole.

Albert took his arm from around her, holding the reins of the big carthorse with both hands as they trundled down the lane. The cart was a heavy, open vehicle, wide and long and perfect for
transporting goods and hay and farming equipment, but very different from the light, attractive conveyances with two wheels and springs that the gentry used for business or pleasure, or the smart
carriages with two matching horses pulling them.

He glanced at Myrtle sitting on the wide, long, plank-like seat beside him. She was still clearly trying to compose herself and so he gave her a minute, but he hadn’t been exaggerating
when he said that she’d blessed his life. With her windfall from Miss Angeline and what he’d saved over the years, they had been able to buy the smallholding he’d dreamed of since
he was a boy. Well, it was more than a smallholding, he qualified in his mind. It was a small farm, and over and above anything he’d thought he could aspire to. They’d got wed the day
before he’d completed the transaction and moved in a couple of days later, at the end of March. They had invited Olive to come with them, but she’d maintained that she wanted her
independence after working for someone or other all her life, and had rented a small cottage in the nearest village, about a mile or two from the farm. She’d been canny with money and had a
sizeable nest egg to see her into her old age. But the landlord of the village pub had lost his wife the previous month and, when he’d come cap in hand to ask Olive if she’d take on the
cooking for his customers in the evenings, she’d found that she liked the idea. Having her days free to potter round her cottage and small garden, and the evenings occupied and providing a
nice steady income, suited her down to the ground, she’d told them.

‘At least they promised they’d pass Miss Angeline my letter this time,’ Myrtle said in a small voice after a few minutes had passed. They had been to the asylum once before,
but hadn’t got beyond the front door. This time the hall porter had taken pity on Myrtle and allowed them to come in and wait, while he found a nurse to talk to her. And after consulting the
matron – who, with Myrtle’s permission, had opened the letter and read it – it had been agreed there was no reason why Angeline could not receive it. ‘She’ll know
we’re thinking of her, and that she’s helped us so much. That should do her good, shouldn’t it?’

‘Of course it will, lass. And like I said, we’ll keep visiting, and one day soon they might let you see her. Golding can’t stop her having visitors indefinitely.’

He probably could. Myrtle didn’t say this out loud. It had been five months now since Miss Angeline had been locked away. Five months in that prison of a place. Myrtle shuddered in spite
of the warm May sunshine. What would she be like when she came out?
If
she came out? She had no one to speak for her, that was the thing. No family, besides that wicked devil she’d
married. Myrtle had asked about a bit, and it was apparent that the longer a patient stayed in one of those places, the less likelihood there was of her or his release. Someone had told her that
less than one-third were released in under a year, and a growing proportion of most asylum populations comprised chronic, long-stay patients. When she had repeated this to Albert, he had said that
as Miss Angeline wasn’t a chronically ill patient, she’d be out in no time. But she didn’t believe that. Perhaps he didn’t, either.