Amy Snow (12 page)

“But to what avail? And in what sphere? With my
parents
? I have hated them for how they treat you Amy,
hated
them. One should not hate one's parents. And now . . .” She took a deep breath. “Sometimes, Amy, the people you love are, are . . . well, sometimes they are
bad 
!”

I knew better than anyone that Aurelia's parents were not good. But I did not understand the depth of her anguish—why so extreme, and why now? Nonetheless, I scrambled from my seat and held her while she cried.

At last she grew calm again and rested her head on mine. “I wish to die having done
something
remarkable. Perhaps a journey is not the noblest of causes, perhaps I am being selfish again. But it is the best I can do now. One day, Amy, I'm going to die, and far sooner than I would like. There is so much I wanted to do. This will not even amount to a tiny part of it, but it is
something
.

“Three months will not see the end of me. The time will fly past, and I promise to write to you every day. Then I shall return to you to live out the rest of my days, however many they may be. But I
will
have this first, whilst I still can. I am a grown woman of plentiful fortune. To be told, once again, that I
cannot
, is no longer to be borne.”

I swallowed, and squeezed her hand. Although I desperately wanted to, I did not ask the questions I burned to ask. What use was a companion at Hatville with no one to accompany? During her absence what would I do?
What would I be?

•  •  •

In the end I was left to my own devices entirely. The Vennaways, to my relief and astonishment, were not actively cruel. I learned later that Aurelia had threatened
never
to return unless she was assured that I would be waiting for her, safe and well. Instead, they ignored and avoided me.

Aurelia's departure seemed to have roused her father from the stupor that had held him since her diagnosis and he once again attended to his affairs. Mr. Henley, the tutor, was released. He secured employment in a school in Edinburgh.

The rest of the household was, as ever, fully occupied with their own ample workloads. No one checked up on me to see whether I was dressing, studying, eating . . . I went several weeks unsure of whether I actually existed. I passed whole days without speaking and felt so wretched, purposeless, and alone that I wanted to scream. In fact, I was very silent.

Without Aurelia's animating presence, the house felt like a mausoleum. I could no longer hold at bay my fears about her death. This was, I realized, only a foretaste of the time when she would be gone forever. How would my heart survive without her? And what would become of me when I was banished from Hatville?

For a short time I prayed constantly for her health. Nothing would change the eventual outcome, I knew. Even so, I pleaded with God that I need not confront it
yet
.

Desperate for company, I sought out anyone I could. On the occasions that Dr. Jacobs attended Lady Vennaway, I hovered on the staircase like a silent sprite, hoping to catch him yet too afraid to frame the question I wanted to ask. Despite my shyness, he seemed to understand.

“Never fear, child,” he would say, “she has time enough yet. Maybe two years, perhaps even longer . . . unless she is very unlucky.” Once, he sat beside me on the top stair and talked to me of valves and ventricles.

I went on like this for a month, maybe more. And then, despite my belief that without Aurelia my life had no meaning, my wild fears quieted. Every night the darkness looked likely to go on forever, yet every morning it lifted. Every day I grew a day older. Not only was I alive but so was she. When I realized that a month had passed, and that in only two more she would be back, my spirits lifted a little. I was a young woman now, I told myself; the time would pass more rapidly if, instead of feeling sorry for myself, I put myself to some use. So I conscientiously put my fears aside to try to live a little, each day. I walked into the village often, and visited the workers in Aurelia's stead. I took food when Cook would permit it. I called once or twice on Mr. Chorley in the vicarage and Mr. Clay in the school, though I could not offer Aurelia's sparkling conversation.

At Hatville, I helped Cook with a few small things although, after my long absence from the kitchen, there was less need for me now than ever. So I would take myself off to the gardens and beg Robin to let me do some planting.

Though Robin rarely spoke, his was the presence I found most soothing. The young boy who had wheeled me around in a barrow had grown into a tall, bearded man of one-and-twenty but our friendship remained unchanged. A comfortable resonance existed in our silence—as if his spirits and mine occupied a similar domain.

One evening, as I dusted the dirt off my hands and stood up, he seemed to sense my reluctance to return to the house.

“ 'Tis not the same without her,” he said unexpectedly. “There's none like her.” I felt a rush of gratitude for his understanding.

•  •  •

In my remaining hours I read, studied, and played the piano. I wrote to Aurelia and told her all the news of home, trusting that she would still find interest in such things. And every day I received a letter from her. Whereas at first I appreciated them only because they signaled she was alive, I came to enjoy them for their own sake. Her writing style was just like her: warm, irreverent, and funny. By now she was in Twickenham, staying with Mrs. Bolton's cousin, a Mrs. Constance Wister. Aurelia professed herself enchanted with the effusively furnished home and great proliferation of children.

My dear, you should
see
Mulberry Lodge! It could not be more different from Hatville if I had scoured the earth for its opposite. Constance delights in all things modern and has filled her home with statuary and wallpapers (sometimes in quite astonishing colors!) and furniture that is jeweled and studded and striped! She is a lovely, warm-hearted woman, Amy, whom you would like very much. I do so wish you could meet her. Perhaps one day you will. She has a husband every bit as affable as she, two parrots, a splendid dog, and approximately three hundred children . . .

And so the days passed. The elements of life were the same, just repositioned, and lacking the centerpiece.

My second day in London. I have picked up a pestilent head cold. My throat rasps, my eyes sting, and my head buzzes like a nest of wasps. I stay curled up in bed, fully dressed, trying to control my shivering.

I have existed in this world without her for a little less than a week. It is an incomprehensible grief, now joined by frustration and dejection. What a merry little trio they make. There is no Entwhistle's! This unwelcome fact will insist on advertising itself though I should dearly love to forget it, even for a moment.

I try to tell myself that all is not lost, but all I want is to hide away, nursing my heartache until I feel stronger. I cannot face another day of tramping London's grimy, winding dead ends now I know there is no Entwhistle's to be found. I have failed Aurelia at the first hurdle.

If not for the treasure hunt, I might spend my days consulting newspaper notices and writing off for employment. I try to persuade myself I should give up the quest and secure some position as a governess or companion. Of course I will not.

I almost despise myself for my dogged devotion. Did Aurelia not think about the position she has put me in? Did she really believe that travel, secrecy, and impossible challenges would be in
my
best interests at this time? Once again I am caught between worlds because of Aurelia's wishes.

I recall that intense, painful conversation, the night before she went away. I was so shocked when she said she had made a misfit of me. But it was true, I consider. Even as I think it I can see her dear lovely face streaked with tears and hear her words: “ . . . that you are my greatest friend is the very happiest of outcomes. But even that is poisoned . . . I should set you free . . .”

“But I'm
still
not free, Aurelia,” I croak, then swallow painfully. I feel guilty when I remember how grateful I was to receive that first letter in the kitchen garden at Hatville. What a lifeline it seemed. How quickly that gratitude has been dimmed by misgiving. Of course I did not know then what she had in store for me.

I remember again the strong-minded little girl I used to be. When I was very small, it was a pure joy to do everything Aurelia wanted. But as I grew older, life was always too
complicated
for joy. Did I decide, somewhere along the years, that it would be easier to make Aurelia happy than to be happy myself? If I did, can I really blame Aurelia for doing likewise? And now I am suspended in this impossible quest.

I curse Mr. Entwhistle with all my heart. Has he died too? Gone out of business? Whatever was Aurelia thinking, laying my path upon such crumbling foundations? Surely if she knew anything, it should have been that life is precarious, even for the youngest and brightest. Who
is
Mr. Entwhistle, for heaven's sake?

Shutting my eyes, I tell myself I have done my best. I have traveled all the way to London. Yesterday I walked and walked and searched and searched and my trail has turned up no continuance. There is no Entwhistle's. What more can I do?

I tell myself I am exhausted, that all will seem better tomorrow, but I do not believe myself. It occurs to me that I am—no, I will not think it. Yet the feeling persists and I mouth the words silently, both to save my throat and because they are so shocking: “
I am angry with Aurelia
.”

I curl into a ball on my side, turning my back on the quest and the letters and Aurelia's great secret. I do not care anymore.

I open my eyes and sit up so quickly my head spins.
Of course I care.
There can be no peace for me now until I have learned whatever it is she wanted me to know. I curse Aurelia too, then feel terrible and apologize. She remains maddeningly silent.

Miserable, I climb from my bed and make my way along the hall, swaying. I beg a hot toddy of Mrs. Woodrow for my cold. She is sympathetic and brings one to my room. Most people make them with brandy, she tuts, swearing rum is more medicinal.

Sitting up in bed, I sip and read Aurelia's letter for the hundredth time.

Cast your thoughts around the book we discussed at length that summer's evening after Mr. Howden came to dine. Consider the variables . . .

The memory of Mr. Howden coaxes a wry smile. A tedious man, insipid and patronizing. He was a sometime guest of the senior Vennaways, one of the several they assessed for suitability as a future husband for Aurelia over the years. I only ever saw him once—in those days I was still not permitted to dine with Aurelia.

Heavens, I think, if Aurelia depends on such distant memories, the thread is a fragile one indeed.

He was a gentleman, which meant of course that he had no useful employment whatsoever, but still insisted on referring to himself as a “man of science.” Aurelia told him that she would very much like to study science—an effective and frequently employed way to put off men she found unattractive. Mr. Howden, apparently, took it as evidence of her willingness to try to please. Ha!

So he gave her an impromptu tutorial there at the table while his host and hostess looked on with bated breath, hoping that here at last was a man willing to humor their strange daughter. Ha!

Once their dinner was over, Aurelia came straight to the kitchen and reenacted, at great length, the whole of his discourse. His favorite phrase, “consider the variables,” was liberally peppered throughout. By the time she finished I was doubled over with giggles, of no further use to Cook, who shooed us from the kitchen into the hall just as Mr. Howden was leaving. Jesketh, ushering him out, gave an unholy frown when he saw me. Mr. Howden appeared not to notice me whatsoever, but he seized Aurelia's hands and bowed low.

I gleefully took in the thin red nose, the flattened brown hair, and the nervous tremble that Aurelia had described only moments earlier. The thought of flowing-haired, cupid-lipped Aurelia with such a fool was ridiculous.

Mr. Howden, however, seemed to think he and Aurelia had a fine understanding. “Remember, my dear, consider the variables,” he whispered loudly as Jesketh pushed him through the door, then he
winked
at Aurelia!

We could not contain ourselves. We burst into fresh laughter and, I'm ashamed to say, ran away from poor Jesketh, who was attempting to propel me back to the kitchen. Instead, we ran to Aurelia's room (by this time I had grown accustomed to being discovered there and swept out like a stray cat), and together read the last, longed-for chapter of
The Old Curiosity Shop
and cried.

The gist of Mr. Howden's treaty, as I remember it, was that in science, everything was very logical and very linear. Causes could be traced backwards and effects could be predicted forwards and the only thing that made the discipline appear so tangled and confusing to the uneducated mind was the mass of variables that were at work in any given experiment. To explain this simple argument, he had elaborated many times over, using very short words, in considerate deference to Aurelia's ill-equipped, feminine brain.