Amy Snow (27 page)

“And will you be quite all right, dear?” asks Constance. “Can we do anything for you? Is there anything you need to take?”

Dear Constance. As if they have not already given me so very much.

•  •  •

If the dinner was difficult, my leave-taking the following morning is worse. Saying good-bye to the girls undoes me completely. Knowing I will not see their pretty, good faces again for an unknowable time is a wrench second only to losing Aurelia. I cannot bear to think that when Madeleine receives her proposal I will not be there to congratulate her. Although we are all very courageous, it is a relief to weep with them a little.

Alone in the carriage, I feel I must be sleepwalking. I hold back my tears to present a brave face as I wave and smile at the Wister clan, who are massed at the gate like lupins. They wave and stand on their toes and their wide smiles are every bit as unconvincing as my own must be. My composure trembles as we roll off, and I crane my neck for every last glimpse of dear Twickenham.

As we rattle along King Street, I remember Mr. Garland depositing me there at the start of February. If he has returned from his business in Edinburgh, I have not heard from him, and I have no address to which I could send a note of farewell. It is another acquaintance rudely severed by Aurelia's treasure hunt, and I regret it.

•  •  •

Between Whitton and Windsor I give way completely and sob most heartily. Then I brace myself and acknowledge that the time to be brave has come again. I permit myself today's carriage ride to reminisce about Twickenham and relive my good-byes. Tomorrow's I must spend preparing myself mentally for Bath. There is only one direction I can go and it is not back.

It was Michael to whom Aurelia had entrusted her letter—so I have learned this morning. I had suspected Constance, Madeleine, or Bessy.

When Bessy came to say good-bye, she gave me a handkerchief that she had embroidered with my initials, AS. I take it out now and run my thumb over the silky lilac stitches. She had so little time to finish it, yet they show no sign of hurry; they are tiny and delicate—a clear demonstration of care and friendship.

Society would not approve. Aurelia and Robin, Aurelia and Amy, Amy and Bessy—combinations of people who should have nothing to say to each other, yet with hearts that do not recognize it.

“Was it you, Bessy?” I asked her impetuously this morning.

“Was it me what?” she said.

But as Michael hugged me farewell, he looked troubled. “It's not too late, is it?” he whispered.

“Too late for what?”

“For Aurelia's business. Only she said two months, and I waited a while longer. I liked Aurelia very much, Amy, and I made her a promise. I didn't want to let her down. I did keep the secret ever so well. So I hope the extra week don't make a difference.”

“I am certain it won't, Michael. Please don't worry. Only,
why
did you wait, if I may ask?”

“Well, I like you every bit as much as Aurelia, Amy.
Every
bit! She went away too soon as well, disappeared all of a sudden, just like you.” He frowns at the memory. “I wanted to keep you a while longer. Truth be told, I wondered about
never
giving you the letter and keeping you for good, but I knew that would be wrong. Only I did so want you to come to my party on Eel Pie before you went.”

I laughed. I wanted to keep him too. I also wanted to ask him what he meant about Aurelia leaving suddenly—as far as I knew, she left exactly when she had planned to—but we were interrupted by the arrival of his grandmother. She brooked no nonsense when my brave veneer wavered and told her I never wanted to leave, never wanted anything to change.

“
Life
is change, Amy, and this place is changing as much as anything. It's not the same as it was fifty years ago, or even ten! Houses going up, houses coming down.
Public
houses going up and coming down, though there are more of those going up than closing, to be sure. Later this year the railway will reach Twickenham. Even if you stayed, the Twickenham you love today would be different in a year and in ten years and twenty. We can't hold on to things. Time is like the river. It carries us off, and faster than we would like, most often.”

I know she is right. I know that holding on is a fool's errand; I learned that from wishing with all my heart that Aurelia might not die. Still, I should like to choose my own errand, even if it
were
that of a fool.

The hours pass and we arrive into Marlborough. I look out of the window as we roll to a halt outside the inn, and my heart sinks, acknowledging that my pleasant interlude with the Wisters is behind me. How I should like the luxury of trying, and failing, to hold on.

The next morning we set off early from Marlborough. William tells me we will arrive in Bath in time for luncheon. I seem to have formed a habit of arriving at new households in time for luncheon.

I have not slept well but already I am a different traveler from the girl who left Hatville, who had never taken a train, nor a coach, nor ever stayed at an inn. Now I am dressed as fine as can be in a gleaming traveling costume of deep claret trimmed with sky blue. I have a fortune of five thousand pounds, which I carry with me (not because I am unaware of the hazards of doing so, but because I lack a viable alternative). I am not bowed by grief and winter, although both are recent memories and both will come again.

But for now, it is spring. It is a beautiful morning. Bath will be a wonderful experience.

I practice saying so, all the way from Marlborough to Chippenham, where we make a brief stop when one of the horses throws a shoe. I cannot restrain myself from sticking my head out of the window and watching the hastily summoned smithy do his work. This is why I will be so transparent in Bath, which is much more fashionable than Twickenham. I am sure a lady should loll in her seat,
intolerably
bored.

Two barefoot little girls on the side of the road point and whisper at the sight of my huge bonnet, with its cascade of pleats and ribbons. When they see me looking at them, they stick their pink tongues out at me and I return the courtesy. They gasp and run away, then come back and sidle closer. Their hair is matted and their clothes don't fit. One hangs back, but one is bold and comes right up to the carriage.

“Please, miss, do you 'ave a penny?” asks the bold one.

“I'm afraid not, not for you,” I reply. Her face draws into a ferocious scowl. “For you, I only have half a crown.” I watch her mouth fall open.

“Here.” I open my purse and hold out the coin. “And here is another for you,” I call to the second urchin, who is too petrified to move.

The first girl snatches it and tosses it to her.

“Thank you, miss, oh,
thank you
!”

“On our way, Miss Amy!” cries William, and so we are. The children stand in the street gaping after us and blowing kisses. I should like to take them with me and wash and dress and love them.

•  •  •

I had not thought to find the area so beautiful. The city of Bath is built in a circlet of hills, now green-clad and lovely in their springtime garb. The gentle undulations are dotted with farmhouses and church spires. Swathes of sunlight and peaceful pools of shadow define the landscape, carving it into the most pleasing reliefs. Perhaps it will not be so bad, I tell myself as my winding road takes me onwards.

Why then, at my first sight of Bath, am I filled with dread? I cannot explain it, but as my eyes light on the first pale-golden buildings, shimmering in the sunlight, a sharp sense of danger pierces me, just as it did at St. Paul's. Perhaps it is the memory of Lady Vennaway's letter; it haunts me. How can I relax when I feel myself pursued? I scour the lanes for highwaymen; of course there are none and the carriage rolls into the city along a smooth, wide road. It is lined on either side with sweeping terraces of gracious town houses. I have never seen the like.

At least it is not Derby, I comfort myself. If my business concludes here, as I had hoped, I will only be a two-day journey from my friends. It could be worse. I should not have liked to go so far north.

Farther into the city we go, past shops and fine homes and a small but sumptuous abbey. We turn right up a steep hill and I feel the horses tug and prance. Now I can see the hills only in snatches between buildings. I am enclosed by limestone and civilization.

A left turn, it transpires, is Rebecca Street. We draw to a halt and I clamber out. The terrace is not so grand as those I saw earlier. The street is not so wide. The air feels closer.

The house at which I am to present myself is the last at the far end. Larger than its fellows, it bristles with turrets and gables. There is even a lead-covered flèche that leans as though it, like me, strains to be elsewhere. A front portico advances onto the street as if intent upon meeting any callers and seeing them off. I am distracted by the words carved into the columns on either side of the door. Heavily leaded, they leap out black and forbidding from the limestone: Hades House.

“Lord, Miss Amy!” says William at my shoulder, making me jump. I have been standing staring, oblivious to all but the house.

“Lord indeed, William,” I agree.

The door is opened by a person so regal that I am entirely confused—she is dressed in the simple gray garb of a housekeeper, yet I have never seen a servant carry herself with such hauteur.

“Are you . . . ? Is . . . ? Excuse me, is Mrs. Ariadne Riverthorpe at home?”

“May I take your card?”

“I'm afraid I don't have one, but I believe she expects me. Would you be so good as to tell her that Miss Amy Snow is here?”

“Miss Snow, of course. Come in, and have your men bring your belongings. I am Ambrose.”

I hold out my hand. It is not the done thing, I know, but my ladylike demeanor cannot erase my habitual manners. I step inside and stare around me at lofty, ornamental ceilings, a narrow staircase disappearing into shadowy heights, and a hall like a river, with three gray stone columns emerging from the depths.

Ambrose waves imperiously at my coachmen, then leads me to a small drawing room.

“You can wait here for Mrs. Riverthorpe. I'll have your luggage taken up.”

But I want to say good-bye to the men so I return to the vaulted hall. I am taking my leave of Jack and William when Mrs. Riverthorpe descends the staircase.

My first thought is of the Wisters' parrots. Her face is deeply yet delicately lined, and the hand that grips the stair rail is hooked and fierce. Her eyes are gray and beady. She wears a deep-purple gown with flashes of emerald green on the bodice and shoulders. It is obviously costly, and looks brand new although the style is some twenty years or more out of date. Her hair is piled high into a crest, which bobs and quivers as she makes her painstaking way towards me, leaning on a cane. She is bent like a question mark.

“ 'Bye, Miss Amy.”

William and Jack duck and disappear into the sunlight. I swallow as the heavy gray door slams shut on my last link to Twickenham.