Amy Snow (18 page)

“Not at all, sir, though you are very kind, and I thank you. I have but a short way to go from here. It is a beautiful day and I love to walk, I assure you.”

He hesitates, then sweeps me a bow of consummate elegance, looking directly into my eyes. I blush, and curtsy. Bidding me good day, he crosses the street to the King's Head, which he doffs his hat to enter, and I heave a sigh of relief at being returned to my customary solitude. I could not fault his manners nor the consideration he showed me, and yet . . . I can let out a breath now that he is gone.

Alone in the bustle of King Street, I acknowledge to myself that, once again, I do not know where I am or which way to go.

I do not hurry, for no one is expecting me. I ask the coach driver for directions to Twickenham Meadows, then ask a young girl driving pigs where I might find Orleans Lane. Soon I stand before the gates of the Wister home, Mulberry Lodge. I have spoken to more strangers in the last few days than in all my life before.

The house stands quite alone, serene and self-possessed. It is square and white, arranged around a dark-blue door. Tangled, leafless vines clamber all about it like cheerful children. I slip through the gates and approach the house, which grows prettier the nearer I draw. There are spreading lawns and cedar trees.

A dog emerges from some bushes and lollops to greet me. He is a shambling, hairy hound in a sandy shade. I cannot recognize the breed; like me he is neither one thing nor the other. He bounds about, barking, and I can't help but smile. I have often thought dogs to be the most sensible creatures—no calling cards or conventions, merely food, sleep, and romping. There were no dogs at Hatville.

“Hello, Caversham. It
is
Caversham, isn't it?” I kneel down to stroke his back. Hair springs up at every angle. Delighted that his fame precedes him, he yowls in joy and rolls over, presenting an equally hairy underside.

The front door opens. “Caversham?
Cav!
Whatever's the—Oh! Hello!” It is a young woman, smiling and drawing a shawl close around her. She comes out onto the steps in nothing but her indoor slippers.

“Please don't catch cold,” I call, getting to my feet. Caversham sticks his head in my skirts and follows me. “Miss Wister, I apologize for calling unannounced. But I should very much like to speak with you.”

“By all means, my dear,” she beckons me in, “only let me close the door on this vile affair that passes for a climate. There. What is your name? Is it me you have come to see, or my father, perhaps?”

“Well, it is both of you. All of you, in fact. Miss Wister, I am Amy Snow.”

A tremulous second passes, during which I fear the name means nothing to her, then understanding dawns in a great bound.

“Oh my! Amy Snow. Why,
welcome
, my dear, come in, come in! We have been expecting you for the longest time. Mama! Papa! Children! 'Tis Amy Snow come to us at last!
Mama!
”

A great many people suddenly thunder out from a great many different rooms. I can hardly take in my surroundings or their faces, only a vast solicitous fluttering and a great many tight embraces which pull me this way and that but put me back approximately where I was to start with.

My outer garments are removed; my muddy boots are whisked away and a pair of slippers proffered. I am placed with great determination in a chair before a fire and a silver tray bearing a plate of cake and a glass of Madeira is laid in my lap. I am forbidden to speak and urged to eat and drink. I endeavor to comply, though it is a little unnerving to have six or seven, no,
eight
faces watch me as I eat, smiling and nodding the while, as though I demonstrate an inspiring talent. I am welcomed to the bosom indeed.

“Now,” says a motherly woman—Mrs. Wister, I assume. “What would you like to do first, my dear? Would you like to see your room? Would you like a rest? Or would you like to tell us your story? Or shall the girls show you around, so you may feel quite at home?”

I look around me, bewildered, at a room decorated in a deep teal-blue with gold and raspberry accents. I can hardly speak for the difficulty in adjusting from my recent trials to this new and entirely delightful reality.

“Indeed, I hardly know! I did not know until last night, you see, that I was to come here. I do not know how much you know of Aurelia's plans for me, but there was a letter, and she bade me come . . . Only please, if this is any inconvenience at all, pray tell me. I should hate to impose and I can easily take a room in the village if that would be easier for everyone.”

“A room in the . . . ? I should think
not
, Miss Snow.
Easier?
Why, we are so eager to know you we should be tramping back and forth to visit you every five minutes. We should quite wear out our shoes.”

“Of course you must stay with us, Miss Snow,” says another pretty girl, not the one who met me at the door. “Why, we have all been looking forward to meeting you for the longest time.”

“Miss Snow,” Mr. Wister stands up, hands in waistcoat, “it must be very strange for you, I think. You say you did not know of the arrangement until yesterday? Well, of course,
we
knew of it, for we made it! Therefore, we have the advantage of you. Dear Aurelia was a lovely girl but one of life's eccentrics—she has conducted a curious little business here. No doubt she had her reasons. But doubtless you would like to hear it from us, so let me reassure you.

“We made Miss Vennaway promise to send you to us when . . . when the sad time came. We wish you to stay here with us in our home for as long as you would care to—forever if you like! We are a large brood as you see, and no doubt a little overwhelming, but we're a tame lot, more bounce than bite, just like Caversham over there. I believe you'll be most comfortable here, Miss Snow, if you'll just let us take care of you, feed you up a bit.”

“You do look half starved, dear,” puts in his wife. “That was well said, Edwin, for I had not thought of it from Miss Snow's point of view. We are strangers to her, after all. Only you see, dear, we have heard so much about you from Aurelia that we feel we know you very well!”

“And I you, from her letters and stories.” I gather my composure at last. The long line of faces begins to make sense to me. “You are Mrs. Wister, of course—Mrs. Bolton's cousin.”

“I am indeed, Miss Snow, only you must call me Constance. And may we call you Amy right away? Only, if we stand on ceremony, there are a good many Miss Wisters and Master Wisters, as you see, and it is sure to grow confusing.”

“Aye, and you can't call Papa Mr. Wister,” says the oldest boy, Michael, who is fourteen or so and very indignant. “It sounds ridiculous! I keep urging him to get a peerage, so he may be Lord Wister, which sounds a good deal finer, only he won't oblige me. Mr. Wister! And Amy, when I am older,
I
shall be Mr. Wister too!”

I can't help but laugh. “Then I shall certainly call you Michael. Now, let me take the measure of you all.”

I see now that the girl who answered the door is a year or two older than I. “You are Miss Madeleine,” I hazard, and she nods. She is lovely. Her white dress and gold ribbons show off her flaxen hair and creamy complexion to perfection.

“Miss Priscilla.” I greet the second daughter, whom I know to be my own age. She wears a soft periwinkle gown with pink roses. She has brown hair, brown eyes, and dimples that wink like sunlight on water.

“See now, there again!” interjects Michael. “Miss Priss Wister. They didn't think it through, did they?”

“Perhaps not, Michael. Now who is this? Oliver?”

“No, I'm Hollis.” The next two boys are close in age and very alike with brown hair and brown eyes, Hollis and Oliver. “Like twins but
not
twins, d'you see?” explains Hollis.

“And this must be . . . well, this must be the
baby
!”

I remember as if it were yesterday, Aurelia declaring that Mrs. Bolton's cousin had given birth to a beautiful baby girl. And now that baby is a person of four years old, with a cloud of white-gold curls. Miss Louisa hugs a spaniel puppy that squirms in her arms.

“Clover,” she says softly, lifting the puppy towards me and fixing me with huge blue eyes.

“I am very honored to meet you, Clover.” I reach forward and stroke the little face; a tiny pink tongue comes out to lick my hand.

I am shy under such intense scrutiny—not just from little Louisa but from all of them. They all look so . . .
happy
! And
easy
.

I imagine how I must look to them: pale and gaunt and shadow-eyed, my black mourning made up in cheap, scratchy fabric. I feel like a goblin in their midst, an unwholesome thing, brooding, secretive, and mired in the past. I long to untangle myself from it and be washed clean in the sunlight of this happy, hearty family.

Yet, even newly arrived as I am, I know the time will soon come when I will have to leave.

The Wisters are a prosperous, middle-class family brimming over with good feeling. I am overwhelmed by my new hosts. I realize this after just an hour in their company, over a sumptuous luncheon that appears soon after my cake and Madeira. For one thing, there are too many of them. It makes it hard for me to monitor whether I might be causing offense. I was shy when I dined with Mr. Crumm and his grandson, but two people is not so great a number that I could not concentrate on them both and assess each comment for danger.

But here! I cannot keep track of the conversation—or conversations, in fact—that flow every which way about me. So many people addressing me at once: asking questions, making jokes, telling stories, rushing from the table to show me shawls and sketches and toy soldiers . . . I am in an anxiety that I will fail to answer someone, or neglect to show sufficient enthusiasm, or that I will simply fall asleep in my soup.

Since my arrival, another member of the family has appeared to swell the ranks: Mrs. Larissa Nesbitt, Constance's mother. Mrs. Nesbitt (I cannot bring myself to call this elderly matriarch “Larissa”) looks every inch the sweet, dependent widow. She has white curls under a snowy cap and apples in her cheeks. She appears diffident and frail but, as Aurelia proved, appearances can be deceiving.

Mrs. Nesbitt, it transpires, has a great appetite for socializing and is rarely to be found at home. She returns to us during luncheon from a visit with “dear Jack,” by whom, I come to understand, she means Lord John Russell, our prime minister.

“I do not know how she does it,” Miss Priscilla mutters to me. “We think ourselves sociable, but Grandmother knows
everyone
! Even the very grandest folk, who would never
think
of noticing us, become great friends with Grandmother.”

Mrs. Nesbitt informs me, in her sweet, winsome way, that it is extremely important for a woman in her position to have her own life and her own circle of friends. She would not, she adds, be averse to marrying again.

Another difficulty is how cheerful they all are. I have little experience with such things, and I am hard pressed to know how to speak and act so as not to feel like the specter at the feast. I do not think even Aurelia was ever
properly
happy—not like this. From its earliest days our friendship was shaped around evading the powers that be, sticking together against the odds. Here, I'm not sure that there
are
any odds.

If I am not offering solace, or deeply engrossed in an analysis of some unsolvable mystery, I am not sure what I have to offer. Perhaps I can watch and learn their ways before the spotlight turns on me, so that I may not appear so very curious. And so, in my earnest, anxious way, I make of these good people a course of study for myself and quite exhaust myself long before the evening meal.

Seeing me wilt in their midst, Constance finally calls off the children and takes me to my room. It has been waiting for me, she says.