Amy Snow (22 page)

Madeleine and Priscilla then burst in, to my great relief. The responsibility of entertaining a gentleman alone, even for the accustomed fifteen minutes, feels daunting. We are still standing awkwardly. I had not even offered him a seat! Madeleine rectifies this and we all sit, I rather heavily, like dough being flung onto a table, Mr. Garland like butter melting in a pan. Cordial greetings all round. Madeleine offers light refreshment, and Mr. Garland declines, while I sit quietly in some bewilderment.
The prospect of seeing me was tempting!
Despite my discomfort, I glow.

“Do you live nearby, Mr. Garland?” Madeleine asks with her lovely smile, rescuing the conversation.

“No, I live in Chiswick. My business, however, brings me out here fairly frequently. I often stay with friends—it saves me traveling back and forth all the time. This morning was so pleasing I set out for a ride.” He laughs and shakes his head ruefully. “When the weather turned, I wished I had thought better of it.”

“Will you attend the ball at Lowbridge while you are here, Mr. Garland?” asks Priscilla, fidgeting like a marionette. She has been full to the brim of the ball for days now. “You helped me choose my chain for it, after all.”

“I remember! And I should like nothing better than to see you wear it. I will attend if I can, although most likely I shall need to be back in town by the end of the week.” He frowns, as though deeply disappointed, although I cannot imagine he suffers from a dearth of invitations to balls.

We go on to talk of inconsequential things, and when he leaves, we all leap up to show him to the door, gently jostling each other in our eagerness to grant him every attention. He vanishes into the rain, whereupon Priscilla squeals and jumps up and down and gloats that even her famously sociable grandmother has not met Mr. Garland.

I slump back onto the chaise, frowning. I cannot tell why I am so unsettled by his call when his manners were, as ever, gentlemanly in every particular. I have a sense, rightly or wrongly, that he was verifying an impression. Perhaps he is unused to conducting conversation in a conservatory stuffed to the gills with flora and parrots. Perhaps he disapproved of Bessy's bringing him to me instead of asking him to wait in the drawing room. I saw the gleam in her eye when she announced him; I will hear about this come next bath day.

But I am uneasy, I cannot deny it. I shoot up again, restless, and go to the mirror in the hall to check that it is not I who am surprising in some way. My hair is surprisingly tidy beneath a white cap, and I am wearing an apple-green gown. The sleeves are not over full and the skirt is not excessively wide; I am a little reassured. Perhaps I am merely unused to being treated civilly by fine folk.

Or perhaps it is just that he is so gleamingly handsome.

The much-anticipated ball is upon us at last. Priscilla almost weeps when I refuse to wear the red dress.

“But Mr. Garland may be thinking of courting you! He may be there tonight! He is used to consorting with the most sophisticated of ladies! Oh, Amy,
why
won't you?”

“Priscilla dearest, I am
not
the most sophisticated of ladies! To wear such a dress would take far greater confidence and panache than I possess. And please do not talk of Mr. Garland that way! I am absolutely sure his intentions are not what you are imagining.”

I am not being coy. The thought has crossed my mind more than once since the day in the conservatory; it is a persistent nuisance. But it simply
cannot
be, I am quite sure of that. It would be a compliment too far. To be sure, I look very different than I did when we met. I am no longer a shabby, pinched goblin. If I were a generous friend looking at Miss Snow, I would say she was an average-looking girl, with some pleasing features, who is making the best of herself. But
that
is not the sort of girl for Quentin Garland of Chiswick. For heaven's sake!

“Then why did he call on you?”

I cannot answer that. Nevertheless, I veto the red dress absolutely. I feel next to naked in any one of my evening gowns. The red and the purple are the most daring. I look far older than I am and ready for . . . well, they are not modest. The silver is beautiful but it is the color of a bride, or a princess, or a celestial body fallen to earth, and I am none of those. Shivering in my silk slip, I favor the more subtle apricot muslin. Priscilla pushes me to compromise with the pink tarlatan, and I clamber into it at last.

Madeleine dresses my hair for me, with pink and white roses and a subtle pink ribbon woven through the dark mass. It is not tame, but it is decorated. I have a fine cream shawl with pink embroidery and cream kid slippers with pink roses. I feel like a child playing dress-up, but with no one to seize me and drag me back to the kitchen.

I am self-conscious as we climb into the carriage, together with Constance, Edwin, Mrs. Nesbitt, and Michael. Michael complains at having to go to a dance while his brothers are building a fort in the dining room. But Edwin says no man should be made to escort five ladies alone and what is the point of having sons if not to share the burden of social obligation?

Despite the soft pink silk and my bare, snowy shoulders, I fear that everyone will somehow see that I was reared in a kitchen, and laugh. Even so, I cannot help but gasp as we cross Richmond Bridge. The shining black depths of the Thames reflect the lights of the tall houses at the water's edge, displaying an elegant world that I marvel to be part of, even for a night.

At Lowbridge House, braziers flare in long parallel lines to usher guests to the door. The long drive is an open expanse, busy with carriages coming and going; I have no chance to flee like Cinderella.

As if Priscilla would let me! She grasps my hand as we walk to the door, as we are announced, as we greet our hosts, and as we step into the great swirling ballroom. It is only when Michael and Edwin have found seats for us all that she lets go.

And by then the ball has claimed me. I think I have never seen anything so beautiful. I know that everyone here must have their own history of joys and disappointments, that behind the happy facade any quantity of bitterness or pain might lurk. But for one night these burdens have been laid aside, along with dusty day dresses and sensible shoes. For one night I have stepped into a shimmering illusion. It is not just the spectacle that enchants me but the feeling in the room, such a buoyancy and a brimming as to make me forget all my worries. I long to run onto the floor and spin around, all by myself if necessary.

I do not.

I sit primly, sipping my punch and listening to Mrs. Nesbitt's commentary on who is who and what they are about and why ever are they wearing
that
?! She knows everyone, of course.

“There is Mr. Gooch, the registrar, and Mr. Figg, the beadle. There is Meg Pawley—I met her years ago at Mr. Dickens's house in Ailsa Park. She was Meg Fellowes back then, of course.”

I look at Meg Pawley with interest, wishing fervently that
I
could meet Mr. Dickens, but Mrs. Nesbitt has already told me that he is not currently in Twickenham. The great man's friend is a pretty woman in a lemon-yellow dress, and she is conversing with a statuesque dark-haired matron in a striking gown of jade green, with every ruffle and flounce piped in brilliant snowy white. She looks vaguely familiar; she must be a neighbor of the Wisters, I muse, as Mrs. Nesbitt runs on:

“There is her sister Meribelle, never married. Unsurprising. She's a dear girl but has the gift of doing and saying absolutely the wrong thing in
any
situation! What man would take the risk? Now, why on
earth
do you suppose Mr. Elms over there has seen fit to wear straw-colored gloves? And is that
embroidery
on his necktie? Do not catch his eye, dear, for if he asks you to dance, you will not want to offend, but those gloves are
not
the thing at all.”

I am fascinated. I do not intend to start judging men by the presence or absence of embroidery on their neckties, but I had no idea that gentlemen might need to dress just as carefully as we do. I have never given much thought to the social challenges of men at all.

I glance at Michael, tugging miserably at his own gloves (exemplary white) and realize that he is being schooled. His hair is carefully groomed with the curls suppressed a great deal—I know not how. I promise myself that I will take him to the river tomorrow, just the two of us. And if he should choose to leap directly from the bank onto Tam Marks the waterman's boat, or take a swig from Tam's father's water flask (which I gravely doubt contains water), I shall say nothing about it.

In any case, he is quickly bored and abandons us for the banquet tables, justifying himself by bringing back thoughtful compilations of fowl, ham, and tongue. There are so many guests, and so much food, I cannot help but spare a thought for the kitchen staff, who must have spent the whole day, at least, carving the meats and tying the slices into convenient bundles with ribbons. I am too excited to eat much, but a little jelly or tipsy cake can never be unwelcome.

I offer a fervent thank-you to Aurelia for teaching me to dance. Thanks to her erratic yet passionate tutelage, behaving like a lady is so much easier for me than it might have been. I dance with a great many gentlemen, young and slender, old and heavyset. Despite Priscilla's urging, I do not think of beaux, not least because I know I will not be here long enough to foster any meaningful connections. Then there is my grief, which will be waiting for me in the morning.

Besides, I am not be ready for beaux just yet. If a courtship were ever to unfold, how might I explain my background? I am not confident anyone could love me in
that way
, were they to learn all that is obscure and shameful about me. So I am happy to dance and smile, to say little of myself and be quietly agreeable. As a result I am a great favorite!

There is no sign of Mr. Garland, who is surely back in the city now. Once or twice I imagine I glimpse Henry Mead in the crowd, but of course I must be wrong. By now he will be back at his studies, submerged once again in the dreaded medical textbooks.

The highlight of my evening is meeting Mr. Renfrew, adored of Miss Madeleine. It is not only because he is a pleasant-looking gentleman with a most agreeable temperament. And it is not only because he is a divine dancer and dressed to perfection in a fashionably tapered coat with a plaited shirtfront. Seeing him dressed so finely made her laugh out loud.

“I am usually covered in mud,” he tells me. “I believe she thought me incapable of civilized dress.”

“I never said so, Daniel! I mean, Mr. Renfrew,” she objects, provoking a sharp glance from her papa.

No, the reason Daniel Renfrew delights me so very much is because as we dance, he confides in me a plan he has been forging for some time. Of course, it is to propose marriage to Madeleine. He has thought of it for some months, he explains, but does not feel he has enough in the way of material comforts to offer a young lady like Miss Wister. But now he has been offered a commission by one of the many dukes who live hereabouts to create a splendid landscape in the gardens of his mansion. The project will be extremely well paid—the opportunity of a lifetime.

“Imagine, Miss Snow! A whole landscape, in a garden!” And he tells me with great enthusiasm of his ideas for a gentle treatment to favor the particularity of the site, which is a little hilly and sweeps down to the river at its far end. He imagines lush lawns and an orchard of cherries and limes, a spiral garden ornamented with obelisks and hedges of hornbeam, and a grapery.

I am fascinated. My early experiences in Robin's wheelbarrow have given me a great appreciation for gardens, though I do not mention this.

Our second dance draws to its conclusion and I promise not to say a word before he formalizes the agreement with the duke.

We are returning to the unsuspecting Wisters when a lady of middle years hails me. I noticed her earlier, in her fine jade-green gown with its brilliant white piping.

Mr. Renfrew bows and takes his leave, not realizing that he is leaving me with a stranger. But I am so happy and light, my head such a whirl of cherries and grapes, that I think only with pleasure of making a new acquaintance and smile happily at her.

She is Mrs. Ellington, she informs me. A name that, like her face, is somehow familiar to me. At second sight, I am sure I have not met her in Twickenham.

“You were the companion of the young Lady Vennaway, were you not?” she demands, somewhat abruptly.

I agree that I was, my smile faltering and an uneasy feeling creeping over me.

“A young lady dead only a matter of months, I hear.”

I concede the fact.

“Miss Snow, you offend propriety in so many ways I hardly know where to begin,” she challenges, to my astonishment. I take a small, involuntary step away from her and she takes a much larger one towards me, closing the distance between us by some uncomfortable inches.