Amy Snow (24 page)

I appreciate the message that his calling so promptly sends to me and anyone else who cares to observe it: Amy Snow is not disgraced, she has friends besides the Wisters. And life goes on, despite scandal.

The following day I receive another thoughtful attention from a gentleman: Mr. Quentin Garland. It comes in the form not of a visit but of a note. It is brief yet very cordial. Fearful as I am of disgrace, it comes as a welcome surprise and quite washes away any misgivings I had about his recent visit.

My dear Miss Snow,

I trust this humble note finds you well. Pray accept my compliments. And convey, if you would be so good, my kindest wishes to the two Misses Wister of my acquaintance.

I was disappointed not to have seen you all at the ball at Lowbridge; as I had suspected, my business called me away. I hope perhaps I may see you at another before too very long. This same business has now taken an unexpected turn and consequently I must away to Edinburgh, where I will likely be detained several weeks. I do hope I may be permitted to call on you when I return to London.

Assuring you of my continued regard, I remain yours very sincerely,

Quentin Garland

Now I shall surely not see him again for, of the two months Aurelia prescribed I stay at Mulberry Lodge, six weeks have somehow disappeared. I would be happy to pass the remaining precious time quietly, but the Wisters will not hear of my beating a humble retreat from society. I am urged to accompany them on their calls, and while it is true that two or three families are frostier than they were, and one refuses to see us altogether, everyone else behaves as normal. Thus, time slides by, idyllic and swift.

The weather is fine for the time of year and we pay a second visit to Mr. Renfrew, this time with the boys in tow. He has magically coaxed some early fruits in his hothouse and bids us taste them. Hollis particularly favors the peaches and conducts a thorough sampling, juices running all down his chin.

Another afternoon, I take Michael to the river; he confides in me that he does not wish to follow his father into the law. What he likes best, he tells me, is learning, and passing it on. Apparently, he is often called upon to help with the younger children at school. His master has told him of an opportunity: the government has acquired a building in Whitton with plans to use it as a training school for masters who will teach poor children and those with a criminal record. It will not open for two years, by which time Michael will be just seventeen. His master has promised to recommend him for a place if he wishes it.

“I only hope Papa thinks it through,” sighs Michael. “He'll say I'm young and that there are finer things to be done and that I should go away to university and see the world. But I don't want to, Amy. I want this.”

I think of Henry, who earnestly wishes for a vocation but has not so far discovered one. I wonder—as I often do—if he has made peace with his medical career since we met. It must be a hard thing for a young man trying to be responsible while wishing at the same time to find a tolerable way of passing his life. I hope Edwin will see the beauty of the plan once he understands that Michael is set on it.

•  •  •

Time is moving us forward. Michael is only fourteen yet already in possession of an ambition. Madeleine is about to receive a proposal of marriage, not that she knows it. And I? I am soon to move on to pastures unknown. I spend my private moments dipping into Aurelia's old letters and speculating as to where I might be sent next. I find myself wondering where it is that Henry Mead studies medicine. My fanciful mind dreams up the most unlikely ways in which our paths might cross once again.

Then it comes. The morning I have been longing for, yet dreading all this time.

I am in the conservatory, reading a letter from Aurelia dated June 1844—from when she was in Twickenham. The weather was so hot, so punishing, week upon week, that the Thames dried up completely. A game of cricket, apparently, was played on the riverbed. All the Wisters went to watch and Edwin was invited to join in. Even Aurelia was permitted to strike a couple of balls—only Aurelia could charm her way into something like that. With her weak heart, the heat wave was a torment. She yielded to the demands of her health when fatigue and dizziness overcame her completely, but still managed to pack in a remarkable number of boating parties and croquet matches and picnics.

I am reflecting on this when Bessy comes clumping in.

“Letter for you, Miss Amy. Just come. You'll be wanting lunch with the others?”

This must be it. It is the last day of March. My time is up.

Dizzy with anticipation, I contemplate the stationery. It is palest mauve, not Aurelia's usual cream. I wonder who has sent it, and where from. I wonder how they knew the time was right. The postmark is a smear so I turn it over, frowning. The ink is black, the hand is flowery and familiar—but definitely not Aurelia's. I drop the letter when I see the return address: Hatville Court, Surrey.

I am flooded with horror. How have they found me? Have all my precautions been for nothing? Have I let Aurelia down before I am even close to completing the trail? At least it is just a letter. At least they are not here, before me, sneering. I drop to my knees and fish the pages from under the sofa. I do not have the strength to get up again. I read the letter sitting on the floor with my skirts puffed around me in a great cloud.

Amy Snow,

It is with mixed feelings that I write to you, yet conscience dictates that I must. I do not even know if this letter will reach you and I confess a part of me hopes it will not. We ordered you to disappear and you have obeyed. I have been glad of this.

I have questioned the staff thoroughly in case any of them have received any communication from you. They swear they have not. I have gone through Aurelia's old correspondence, seeking the names and addresses of friends she visited that year. She has been extremely vague. She did, however, mention a Wister family in Twickenham and through a tenuous chain of acquaintance I have discovered their address. It is my hope that, even if you are not with these people, they may be in communication with you and forward this letter—or else return it to me. Perhaps it may find you.

I write with a simple request. I wish to speak with you. You may return to Hatville just once more for the purpose. Or, if you prefer, I can meet you in London, at a locale of your choosing. I would require, at most, an hour of your time. If you are unable to comply with my request, then I ask you to write to me, giving an address where a letter will be certain to find you. There are things I wish to say and I shall not confide them to paper if there is any doubt at all that it will reach you.

I had not thought there should be any cause to see you again. However, these are things better said in person, no matter how distasteful such an interview might be.

Sincerely,

Celestina Vennaway

My head is a tumbling, collapsing darkness. Even with all the unpredictability and strangeness of my recent life, I had not imagined this.

For an awful moment I worry that this is the prompt to move on. Is
Lady Vennaway
—knowingly or not—the contact to whom Aurelia has entrusted the next clue? I cannot believe it. Surely this letter from her mother is something unrelated, arrived with uncanny timing. What on earth could she want with me? Nothing pleasant, of
that
I am certain.

Perhaps the secret is that there was some great reconciliation between Aurelia and her mother before she died. Is the trail to lead me in a loop back to Hatville? I cannot believe it and I do not want to believe it. For all that I dread the prospect of any number of unfamiliar places Aurelia might send me, Hatville is where I should wish to go least of all. I should rather
Africa
!

I stuff the letter deep into my pocket and scramble to my feet. At least she does not know where I am. There will be another clue. It will appear shortly. There must be another clue.

And yet the days pass and no further clue arrives. April has come. The meadows of Petersham and Ham across the river begin to blossom; cattle doze hock-deep in clouds of green and budding white. The Thames is greener than ever, and there is even a sunny day or two for strolling in the garden, taking tea on the lawns, and sitting under the willows at the riverbank, sketching herons and boats.

I wish with all my heart that I could stay. I have never wished so fervently for anything, except that Aurelia might be spared. I daydream, passionately, intensely, as though dreaming might make it so, that the letter comes and tells me the journey is at an end after all, that in fact all the answers are here.

I have spoken to Edwin and explained what I can of my plight. Deeply unsettled by Lady Vennaway's letter, I have asked him if he knows anything of Aurelia's plan for me, of the treasure hunt. I know that in acting thus I am not doing exactly as Aurelia has asked, but the tension of not knowing what is to become of me is unbearable. He knows nothing.

But now he knows that I am soon to leave, that I could be sent almost anywhere when I go. He is deeply concerned.

“I do not like to think of it, Amy! Going off into the world on your own, to who knows where! No one knowing where you are! What was she thinking? This is not what you need. 'Tis a tragedy that she is gone from us, for you more than anyone, but what you need now is a good life of your own. We had hoped that you might stay here. Why not? What's one more woman when I already have five? I should be honored to count you amongst them, Amy—make it a round half dozen, why don't you?”

I cry, and he embraces me. For a moment I pretend I am Priscilla and that he is my father and imagine what life would have been with such a man to watch over me. I wonder about my own father, where he is now and whether he ever knew of my existence. I rather hope he did not.

Then I compose myself and tell Edwin that while it seems exceeding strange I must keep faith with Aurelia and trust that there is a very good reason for all this intrigue.

“She had a flair for the dramatic, it's true, but she truly loved me and wanted the best for me, Edwin. After all, she brought me here, did she not? Wherever could I have found better people by myself? I do not want to leave, I want nothing less, but I do believe that wherever I go next will be for good reason.”

“But will it be safe? I suppose I cannot stop you if you are bent on following her wishes, and I can understand that you are. But if you wish me to accompany you, I will. I would ask no questions.”

“I am overcome. That is the kindest offer anyone has ever made me. But I do not know where this quest will take me, nor how long it will be before it is fulfilled. It could be months! It could be years, I suppose, though I hope it will not. Besides, she has sworn me to secrecy. I cannot betray her.”

He sighs, looking deeply uncomfortable. “Then I must insist on two promises from you, Miss Amy Snow, since you are so very good at keeping them.”

I feel quite burdened down by promises already—they are a heavy sea chain pulling me under—but of course I ask what they are.

“Firstly, that you will write to me once a month, even a brief note, even if you cannot write to the others, so I know that you are safe. Even if you will not give an address for me to write back, I must know that you are well. And secondly, that if you need anything at all, even if you are at the farthest end of the earth, you will tell me so I might help you. Promise me, Amy!”

I promise willingly.

“You know,” he adds, “if you cannot keep contact, Madeleine will be devastated. All of them, of course, but Madeleine in particular. I think you know you will not be the first friend she has lost. She does not deserve it. I confess I feel a little annoyed at Aurelia. Has she not thought of the impact this will have on others? Did she not think how
we
would feel at losing you? Have
you
thought of it?”

“Dear Edwin, only very lately. Before then it never occurred to me that anyone could ever miss me at all, save Aurelia, of course. But no, I never understood that I might inspire the loyalty, consideration, and affection you have all shown me, not until the night of the Lowbridge ball.”