Amy Snow (29 page)

Bath. I arrived on a Wednesday and by Friday morning I am thoroughly miserable. I have been trying to embrace my new position and explore my surroundings in an appreciative state of mind. I
am
trying. But now I miss the Wisters as much as Aurelia and Mulberry Lodge vastly more than I have ever missed Hatville. I am lost in Bath.

Standing dutifully before the abbey in the rain, I stare at the carvings of the men climbing the ladder to heaven, one toilsome rung at a time. I feel a certain comradeship with them. At least
they
do not have to contend with Aurelia's treasure hunt.

Yesterday, tired, irritable, and eager to escape the house, I sallied forth to explore the city. As a courtesy I consulted with Mrs. Riverthorpe, lest I disgrace her by wandering unchaperoned. She merely hooted at me and did not deign to reply. So I went out alone and was stared at a great deal. As a result I observed a decidedly defiant tilt to my head whenever I caught sight of myself in the glamorous, glittering shop windows.

Then, yesterday afternoon, I dutifully attended the card party. It was as tedious and tense as the dinner, with a guest list as carelessly assembled. When it was over and the guests had gone, I broached the subject of the ball with Mrs. Riverthorpe. I told her that I wished to be excused. I was at a ball just recently, in Richmond, I explained, which left me with no desire to brave another so soon.

She would not hear of it. A Richmond ball is not a Bath ball, she decreed. No one comes to Bath in order
not
to go to balls. If I don't want to go to a second one I don't have to, but she won't hear of my not going to one. And I had better not wear something so tasteful.

Then I asked her if she knows Mr. Frederic Meredith, but Mrs. Riverthorpe claims never to have heard of him. I should have liked to ask her then whether she might know something of the purpose of the treasure hunt, but I had worn out her scant patience with me. She blew off to a supper before I had the chance.

•  •  •

Today I have come out again early, not because I am hungry for more of Bath but because I do not want to spend all day in the house waiting for the ball. By midday I am jaded and drenched, besides. I have admired Royal Crescent. I have stood overlooking Crescent Fields. When I think of how I might have spent a rainy day at Mulberry Lodge, I want to weep.

I have wandered all the way to the river and am studying the weir and rushing water with waning interest when brisk footsteps splash past me along the pavement. Then they slow, and return.

“Excuse me, madam.”

My heart sinks. Have I left myself open to an ungentlemanly approach by wandering around alone? I turn and squint through the curtain of drops that stream from my bonnet.

The blurred figure tips his hat.

“I do not wish to offend or alarm you, madam, but are you quite all right? Seeing you standing there alone in the rain, I merely wished to inquire. Might I offer any assistance?”

Something about his voice is familiar. I put up my hand to stem the cascade; an icy rivulet streams into my sleeve. I stumble, not from the wet but from amazement. Henry Mead reaches out a hand to steady me, then snatches it back at once.

“Beg pardon, madam. Are you unwell?”

“Why, Henry!” I exclaim. “Whatever are you doing here? How
are
you?”

It is horribly apparent that he does not remember me. I am astonished at the leap of my heart when I see him—and the corresponding plunge when I realize he has forgotten our meeting. I certainly have not been so present in his thoughts since as he has in mine. It is hardly as though I am a memorable sort of a person.

He looks embarrassed. “Excuse me, madam, I—”

“Oh, please don't apologize, Mr. Mead.” I am mortified at having greeted him like an old friend when of course he is nothing of the sort. “Why on earth should you remember me? We met just the once, at your grandfather's, some months ago. It was only that it was welcome to find a familiar face here in Bath, you see, and—”

“
Amy?
Amy
Snow
? Is that really you?”

Now he is peering towards me through the rain and I suddenly, joyfully realize he has not forgotten me, he simply did not recognize me!

“You look
completely
different! Why, I did not expect to see you
here
! What brings you to Bath? And why are you standing on a bridge all alone in the pouring rain?”

He is shaking his head and shaking my hand and grinning the mischievous grin I remember so well. I find myself grinning too, though I am sure that is another unladylike behavior to add to my repertoire.

We are both blinking raindrops and struggling to withstand the torrents, so he suggests a coffeehouse and I gratefully accept. Why should I worry? Mrs. Riverthorpe doesn't care what I do, and I do not expect to impress Bath society in any case. I want to be warm and dry and avoid Hades House. I want to talk to Henry.

Henry offers me his arm and we hurry back into town, past elegant shops and fuggy public houses glimpsed through a smear of rain. Near the ancient Roman baths, Henry ducks through a narrow doorway, pulling me after him. I find myself in a long, warm room shaped like a letter box, where I am greeted by the snaking, swirling smell of coffee, thick as fog. We find seats in a mullioned window, the rain making fantastical the swirls in the glass, steam veiling the city. I remove my bonnet and with it my own personal waterfall.

“Ah,
now
I see you!” beams Henry, looking more delighted than I could have thought possible. “Amy, it is so good to meet you again. I confess I was saddened not to be able to further our acquaintance back in . . . January, wasn't it? But you were on confidential business, so what could I do? I confess further, my grandfather
ordered
me not to bother you for a contact address. And now, here you are!”

A waiter brings coffee in a tall silver samovar. He pours the dark, steaming liquid into cream china cups translucent as petals and I wait until he has bowed and withdrawn to look up at Henry and say, “You were? Saddened, I mean.”

“Well, of course! We had a fine night of it in Holborn, did we not? A warm friendship was born, I think. Unless the pleasure was all mine and the confidential business was a fabrication to escape a feckless idiot who ruined your dinner by talking nonsense all night.”

“Oh, no! That is to say, yes, it
was
a fine night, and I wish I could have stayed to see you and Mr. Crumm again.”

“I'm relieved to hear it. Then let's have a toast. To friendship! And to chance meetings in unexpected places!” He raises his cup, which looks tiny in his large hand. I smile and chink mine against it. I know I am staring at him, but I can't quite believe that he is sitting opposite me, after all this time. He is real! Solid and rain-spattered and
real
.

“How is your situation now, Amy? Are you at liberty to talk about it, or should I stop asking questions? I am not nosy, only interminably curious. Do tell me to stop talking if you need to.”

I feel myself stiffen at the mention of the quest, then I shrug. For those few minutes I had forgotten all about it. “The truth is I am no freer, Henry. My time and purpose are still dictated by the same departed friend. I am afraid I am not at liberty to explain the details, though I should like to, very much. You may ask me all the questions you wish, only there may be many I cannot answer.”

He reaches across the table and touches my hand briefly, sympathetically. I feel like the china cup, dainty and small under his touch. “I see. But are you
well
? How long have you been here? Is everything . . . um . . . ?”

He takes his hand away and gives a vague gesture somewhere along the lines of querying whether my life makes any sense at all. I experience a great desire to stroke his cheek. I take a sip of coffee instead.

“Thank you, I am well, certainly, and I have found more happiness in the last months than I ever hoped I might.” I look around the coffee shop. I have never been inside one before. I like the steamy air and the brisk, purposeful flit of the waiters. “I have been in Twickenham, amongst the dearest people. I was very sorry to leave. I came here on Wednesday, and I am feeling the wrench very sorely. I have somewhere rather grand to stay in Bath, and it is a very desirable city, of course, only . . . I . . . I find that it . . . well, to be honest, I dislike it intensely.”

“But how can that
be
? It's
Bath
, my dear!” he gasps. But already I can see he is teasing me. “No, no, I know precisely what you mean. There is something about being told that one absolutely
must
love a place that makes it impossible to love a place—that makes one quite determined
not
to love the place—true?”

“
Yes!
And Henry, it is an extremely
fashionable
place, and I am by no means a fashionable person. It is beautiful, certainly, but the reasons people come here, to see and be seen, to dance, to flirt . . . well, those things are all very well in amenable company, but I am without friends here and besides, deep in my heart I long for a quieter life.”

“Yet you appear to lead anything but that,” comments Henry, leaning back in his seat and regarding me. “Mysterious business, traveling alone from one place to the next. It is not the usual thing for a young lady.”

“Yes, I assure you, there is nothing usual about my circumstance.”

“Furthermore, I'm not sure you can claim to be an unfashionable person. To be sure, in London you were not—”

It is my turn to tease. “What? How
can
you say such an ungallant thing!”

“Ungallant it may be, but 'tis true. Whereas
now
, well, no wonder that I didn't recognize you on the bridge. Very fine dress, very large bonnet, your little face quite swallowed up in it. You cut a very different figure now, you know.” He grins and stretches his long legs out beneath the table. They bump against mine, and he pulls them back again hurriedly, sitting up straight again. “Sorry, Amy!”

“Well, the thoughts in my head are the same, no matter the size of the bonnet that's wrapped around it,” I rush on, hoping to distract him from my flaming face. “Aurelia arranged . . . many things for me. I am better dressed than I have ever been, but there is still much about me with which society can still find fault. I cannot deny that it is pleasant to dress well and not be looked down upon in the street, but as for becoming a great lady, at the heart of a social whirl, that is not what concerns me.”

“What does concern you?”

“Being true to Aurelia, carrying out her wishes, doing what I must do.”

“But . . . what about yourself?”

I frown and a comfortable silence springs up between us while I think how I can explain it to him. The door behind us opens with a bright jingling of bells. One patron is trying to leave while another enters. My chair is bumped; the tables are rather close together. Henry leaps up but the customer apologizes most kindly and moves on. “I am fine, Henry.” I smile and he subsides again.

I clasp my hands before me on the table and continue. “I can hardly think beyond Aurelia; her business determines where I go and when. When I reach the end of this . . . business . . . I know I will need to fill in that blank. I will need to decide where to settle and in what manner to live. I have fortune enough that I do not need to work, and yet I am not a lady, not by birth. I have no wish to constantly pretend to be one, nor do I wish a life of lonely idleness. Having no family of my own . . . well, I will have a great deal to think of, once Aurelia's work is done.” I shrug again, knowing that what I have said is inadequate, but I hardly know what else to tell him—unless I tell him everything.

Henry leans towards me and looks as if he too is thinking carefully of what to say next.

“Your loyalty is inspiring. I can see that you loved Aurelia very much. But does it sometimes feel . . . heavy, carrying out her wishes in the dark like this?”

I sigh. “It is both blessing and curse.” I pause and Henry watches me patiently. “While I am thus occupied, I cannot make my own decisions, nor carve out my own way, and that is heavy, yes. When I meet kind friends, I am not free to stay with them. Of course, it is Aurelia who has enabled me to meet them in the first place! But then, I still feel rather lost without her and I am not yet confident, Henry, that a happy future awaits me. Now I am like . . . a carriage. Alone I might flounder, but Aurelia's wishes are the horse that pulls me on.”

“I understand. A purpose is a valuable thing. Perhaps soon you may feel that you are both carriage
and
horse.”

“Perhaps. But what about you, Henry? What brings you to Bath?”

Henry stirs his coffee and nibbles a biscuit. Silver grains of sugar fall on his sleeve and he brushes them off. “Oh, the usual reasons, to see and be seen, to dance, to flirt . . .”