Amy Snow (20 page)

I know all too well what she means. How many long hours have I spent weaving scenarios that vindicate my mother, which allow for some hope of love in my past?

Why did I not tell you any of this? Dear little bird, I was ashamed! I felt so humiliated by the whole shabby affair I could not bring myself to tell even my sweetest and best confidante. All I could think of was to gain my freedom and then, away from Hatville, to be able to breathe, to think, and find a way to put right all that had become so difficult and complicated. Little did I know then that further complications awaited me in droves, dear, but that is a story for another time. This letter is quite long enough and I shall delay just a little longer before I tell you the rest.

Have you opened your trunk yet? I am certain you have not. Do so now. Amy, you will find new clothes therein. Dearest, I want you to set aside all thought of the treasure hunt for the next two months. Perhaps it may seem a great delay to you but you need time to rest and heal after all you have been through. You need to know what safety feels like. I believe this time is the best gift I can give you—better than money or dresses.

I regret that you must move on at all, but in time you will understand. Therefore, there is no clue in this letter. There is nothing for you to do now, except revel in kindness and safety. There is nothing for you to puzzle over, save for how you could have been so dearly devoted to one so scattered and selfish. Do not fear, the next letter will find you in its own time.

Meanwhile, try to be happy. Try to feel yourself a young woman of privilege. The clothes will help.

With greatest love from your devoted

AV

Try on
clothes
? At such a time as
this
? Only Aurelia could think of it.

Bailor Dunthorne. A forced engagement. I had thought I knew everything about her. How much more will I learn before my quest is done?

Nothing at all for the next two months—that is the brief answer to that!

It is not that I do not
want
to stay here, I want that very much. It is not that I cannot benefit from the rest—last night's terrors testify to that. I have not had such nightmares since those dark days after Aurelia collapsed in the orchard. But to wait so long before another clue is in my hands, let alone any proper answers!
Aurelia!

I am pacing the floor, the sun a pale peace offering upon the floorboards, when there is a quiet tap at my door. It is Miss Madeleine, come to see if I need anything.

I am embarrassed by the state of me—hair in disarray, shabby dishabille—but she appears not to notice. Her eyes go at once to the open trunk and the pages scattered over the rug.

“You've opened it at last,” she says softly. “There is a letter. I thought there must be. I knew she would not leave you without some last word.”

If you only knew, I think.

“I helped her choose the clothes.”

“Truly?” I am granted a sudden glimpse of Aurelia's time away from me. Shopping for me. Enlisting the help of a friend. Suddenly, I feel silly for having been too preoccupied to appreciate this.

“You must be very astonished,” she continues as though reading my mind. “Everything different and now your clothes are to change also. Shall I leave you alone, Amy, or would you like me to bring up some tea for both of us?”

“Tea would be very pleasant indeed, and your company also. Thank you.”

Madeleine is entirely lovely, I decide. Not in the flashing, flaming manner of Aurelia, but beautiful nonetheless. She is smooth and flaxen and calm. Her limbs are rounded and graceful. Her walk is that of a princess. She may grow plump in later life but she will not look the worse for it. It is her character that illuminates her storybook features and prevents her from being bland. She is as welcome as a new morning.

We take tea at my little table in the window, watching the sun grow in confidence about the garden. Madeleine seems not at all perturbed by my nightgown. Perhaps it is from having sisters. She tells me tales of Aurelia's visit.

“We all looked up to her, Priss and I, and the boys. She was extraordinarily vivacious and kind. You must miss her dearly.”

“I do.” What a relief to be able to speak of her of my feelings. I unburden myself more than I intend to, then pull myself up short, fearful that I've breached some etiquette, but her face is soft.

“You know, I too had a friend who died very young,” she tells me, her calm features condensing into a frown. It seems there is heartbreak behind her well-favored exterior and many advantages. It is as Cook once told me: everyone has their story.

“I am so sorry. Is it a recent loss?”

“Not so very recent now. Five years or so ago. Annabelle Sefton was her name. We attended the ladies' academy together and had known each other since childhood. You might think, having so many siblings, that I would not feel the loss of a friend so keenly but I did.”

“I can well imagine. How dreadfully young to die. Younger even than Aurelia.”

“Yes. She was never strong. She had a problem with her lungs. Her parents took her to Italy each winter but she died anyway. She had the sweetest nature and the world for me was a prettier place when I was with her. I am fortunate to have my family, Amy, and we do well for pleasant society besides, but there will never be another Annabelle. What I mean to say is, each person is unique, and loving someone means we love all the small things that make them up. Aurelia cannot be replaced, any more than Annabelle, but you have my true sympathy and friendship, if that is any comfort to you.”

I start to cry. Oh, this is nothing new of course, but in front of someone else, that is new indeed. Madeleine puts her arm around my shoulders until the sobs have passed.

“It comes like this,” she says. “It grows easier in time, I promise.”

When she leaves, I apply myself to the trunk at last. I know she longs to see me admire the dresses she chose with Aurelia, and I will show her willingly, but I must go through them alone first in case of more secrets.

I fold back the muslin and gasp at the richness of the deep red silk that glows up at me.
Red!
It is an evening gown—lavish and low-cut, with silk roses caught up in the puffed and dipping sleeves. It is an evening gown such as I shall never, ever wear! I cannot stop staring at it, half horrified and half in love. It is a dress for the Aurelias of this world, not the Amy Snows.

I lay it on the bed and reach for the next dress with some trepidation. Another evening gown in a deep, inky purple. Did she imagine my life was to be nothing but balls? There is some fashionable net concoction sewn into the satin contours. I cast it on the bed hurriedly and plunge again, hoping for some more sensible clothing. It comes at last, though not until I have gasped my way through three more evening gowns: a pink, an apricot, and a silver. These are another girl's clothes, not mine. And yet they are
lovely
, more lovely than anything I have seen.

Then follows an array of day dresses and I must admit they are perfect. Modest yet stylish, pretty yet simple, in such a dazzlement of color and texture I want to wear them all at once. Oh, the delight of it! There is not one item that is black, or navy, or brown, or gray. I am not to go into half-mourning, I am to explode!

The trunk, like something from one of Aurelia's tales, appears bottomless, yielding up slippers and parasols, shawls and stoles and cloaks. There are corsets with what appear to be hundreds of panels, boned and bristling, instead of the corded four-panel creations to which I am accustomed. There are chemises and garters and stockings. The stockings are all white; some are plain, some spotted, some striped and some with little flowers embroidered thereon. The garters are for the most part functional and inoffensive but
some
 . . . ! I am a little shocked.

Interspersed here and there between the layers I find little tulle purses stuffed with money. Hundreds and hundreds of pounds! I do not count it now, but I check each one for notes or riddles or clues. As promised, there are none. Only money and yet more money.

It is hard to understand, properly, that this is all for me. Pretty things were never permitted me, nor had I enough personal beauty to show them to advantage.

Once, Aurelia gave me a comb for my hair, decorated all over with crystals. I must have been seven years old. I was fascinated by how it glittered; it seemed to hold flames captured in faraway places. And every young girl—however plain she may be—if she has long hair, she is proud of it. So I fixed the comb in mine and felt like a princess. Lady Vennaway glimpsed me in the garden that day. She snatched it from my hair, tearing the strands, and threw it in the lake. From then on, Aurelia stopped giving me gifts that we could not read or eat. Filling my chest must have been her delight and her revenge!

But when the whole chest has been emptied and a mountain of brightly colored clothing shimmers on my bed, I realize what this is. It is a blank page as sure and undeniable as my blank, snowy baby bed. This is a fresh start.

I am looking at the wardrobe and fortune of a grand lady. My head spins with the thought of it. Aurelia, I am no such thing.

“And yet,” her voice argues, as clearly as if she were here beside me, tilting her chin in that way of hers, “you grew up in a grand house, did you not? Your closest friend was the young Lady Vennaway. You can ride and paint and embroider and play the piano. You can sing a little, though it is best if you do not. You have a fine education. If you are not a lady, then what? I suggest you apply to any servant, milkmaid, or tradesman's wife . . .
they
would consider you a lady.”

As ever, it is hard to deny her logic.

The new Amy Snow does not emerge, fully fledged, all at once. And yet, by the time I have been at Mulberry Lodge two weeks I cannot deny a burgeoning transformation inside and out—and all around me. Spring is not yet here, but the song of a solitary, pioneering blackbird when I wake, the smell of something warm and floral on the air in fleeting moments, these signs give me hope. After the past months, hope feels as solid and golden as fact.

Gradually, I come to sort the Wister family from one exuberant, good-hearted mass into its component members. I feel close to Madeleine immediately and to Priscilla also, though in a different way. She is my age but she feels like a younger sister. She too has a conventional, smooth prettiness made beautiful by character. It is her dimples that convey everything there is to know about Miss Priscilla. If there is mischief afoot, she will find it.

Both sisters are deeply in love, Madeleine with Mr. Daniel Renfrew, who apparently grows “Every kind of fruit known to man, Amy!” and Priscilla with a different gentleman each week. The three of us forge a swift alliance and they do not appear to find me odd or distasteful at all.

I look different, of course. For one thing, I am cleaner than ever I was! All the ladies of Mulberry Lodge take a bath twice a week, a thorough hair washing included, and I am not exempted.

The washing takes place in a tub in front of a blazing parlor fire, and is conducted by Bessy, one of the maids. At Hatville I spent far more time grooming Aurelia than myself, so I feel inhibited at first to receive such delicate attentions. Bessy, however, does not allow for inhibition: delicate is not a word to be associated with her.

While she washes and sloshes, she talks long and openly about her bowel trouble, her womens' pains, her aching back, her swollen glands. She talks with such earnest and ample detail that it seems foolish to pretend such things do not exist, and downright churlish not to respond in kind. My own health is relatively trouble-free, still I rustle up the occasional sinus trouble and feminine twinge to placate her and often find myself wishing I had more to offer. It is refreshing. Odd, but refreshing.

Since Lady Vennaway severed my hair all those years ago, I have continued to cut it regularly. It is no longer short to my chin but hovers about my shoulders. It is very unfashionable, but that is a small price to pay for hours saved each week from working away at tedious tangles. Also, I fancy it suits me better so perhaps I am a little vain after all. It curls around my new caps and bonnets in a way that is . . . almost pleasing.