Amy Snow (37 page)

After the guests depart, I am surprised that Mrs. Riverthorpe asks me nothing about my absence from the party. If she was concerned enough to send Mr. Garland after me, I imagined she might be curious.

The following morning I go out. The Longacres are to send their carriage for me at five and I do not know how else to pass the time. It is well that I do, for Henry is loitering under a plane tree outside.

“Amy!” he cries, drinking me in with delight.

I am wearing a pale-blue-and-white-striped dress with large panels cupping the sleeves and a simple scooped neckline. The day is fine and I have dispensed with a cloak. I have dispensed, too, with all thoughts of Mr. Garland. I need not deal with him for at least three days, and doubtless my mind can undergo any number of revolutions in that time if I am not firm with myself.

“Good morning, Henry!” The sight of him coaxes the broadest of smiles from me, every time. It is like seeing a dog launch itself into a river; you cannot help but feel joyful. “What are you doing here? Oh! Is the dance canceled?”

“What a pessimist you are! Of course not. I merely wanted to spend time with you before tonight. We have wasted enough of it over the last few days. But in my eagerness to make up for lost time I had not thought that perhaps it was too early to pay a call. Thus, you find me lurking in the shadows as though I am planning a burglary.”

“I am very happy to see you.”

“You are going out. Is this a bad time?”

“Only for a walk. It is a perfect time.”

He offers me his arm and we walk in silence. My head, which was a whirl of excitement and confusion last night, between Henry's reappearance and Mr. Garland's declaration, is clearer now. Mr. Garland is a tempting proposition as a suitor, of course he is; any young lady would say so. But I know in my heart that it is Henry for whom I have the warmest feelings, I have done so from the start. I promise myself then and there that I will not—indeed, I do not want to—encourage Mr. Garland further. I shall have to speak to him when he returns from London, though I dread the prospect. But first I need to have some proper understanding of how things lie with Henry. And then, of course, there is my quest . . .

We walk to the Crescent Fields and sit beneath a chestnut tree beginning to bud with pale-pink candles. He spreads out his jacket to save my dress from grass stains and offers me his hand to steady me while I sit. Then he sits next to me, the breeze ruffling his hair.

“It's good to see you, Amy,” he says quietly. “I did not act like a true friend to you this week, and I want to apologize again. I wouldn't have worried you for the world, you know. I felt unworthy to call on you, and you ended up thinking I'd forgotten you.”

I look across the fields. Early slants of sunshine light the grass and show cobwebs beaded with dew. It is early, and the green expanse is mostly empty, but a handful of families here and there are walking, or playing cricket. The chestnut tree rustles above us, and I think of Eel Pie Island and Constance and Edwin's willow.

“I saw you on Wednesday, Henry. Oh, I'd been walking all over Bath hoping I'd see you, but the only time I did I was in my room, looking out of the window. I saw you walking down the street and I was so happy, but then you stopped just short of Hades House, and you turned around and walked away.”

He grimaces. “That was not a proud moment. After seeing you with Mr. . . . Garland, was it? . . . I'd convinced myself you weren't really interested in pursuing a friendship with me but still a part of me hoped. I hoped we might bump into each other again and I could gauge whether you seemed pleased to see me without taking the risk of presenting myself at your door and making my interest clear. Then I decided that was a coward's way, so on Wednesday I came back, but lost my nerve, as you saw. Anyway, I'm so glad I persevered . . . except that I seem to be very muddled in all I am saying to you, and I should like to be clear!”

He sits up straight and takes a deep breath. “Amy, in case you should be in any doubt . . . I would like to be more than a friend to you, but I feel just now I cannot, because I have nothing to offer, nor even any prospect of it until I choose my career and get stuck in. And besides, we've met only twice before so it seems more than a little hasty. I shouldn't have said anything really. But now that I've made a mess of things by not calling on you, I have to tell you, don't I, to explain?”

An early bumblebee buzzes past us like a floating powder puff. I can feel the sun on my face, and Henry likes me. I cannot stop smiling.

“You did. And I have said more than sense would dictate too,” I respond. “I . . . I did think of you often, you know, after meeting you in London. When you appeared here, I was so happy and then I thought you did not care for me after all. I know we are only strangers. Only you don't
feel
like a stranger.”

“Nor you to me. At least now we can continue getting to know each other and catch up with ourselves. Already you have learned that I have my faults, like any man, and pride, of course, is one of them.” He looks troubled. “I had not thought, though, that pride would make a coward of me. I shall try not to let it happen again. This is a hard time for me, you know, Amy. Turning away from medicine, now this. I always thought myself a rather splendid fellow, but now I'm learning that being a man is not always easy. You see? I shouldn't be telling you that! I should be hiding behind platitudes and trying to convince you that I'm perfect.”

“I shouldn't believe you, Henry, not for a moment. But I think you will do a marvelous job of it, being a man, I mean. You are young still, as am I.”

He turns away from me again, smiles at the view. “Thank you, Amy.”

For a while we sit and watch a black-and-white dog sport with an immensely fat boy of about seven. When the boy trips and lands on the dog, we both wince. But they untangle themselves uninjured and continue their game, good-natured fellows both.

Henry entrusting me with his confidences is like the sun dispelling shadows. I am so tired of keeping secrets and being guarded. I feel closer to Henry than ever now, but I am aware that we may not have much time. I may have to leave Bath in just over a week. I cannot be fully open with him, of course, but I feel a strong desire to tell him what I can, perhaps more, even, than I should. I am reluctant to break the easy silence between us, but at last I do.

“It is not only you who is in transition at the moment, Henry,” I say quietly, stealing a glance at his handsome profile. His lips are curved and very beautiful.

He nods, still staring over the fields, but I can tell he is listening. I untie my bonnet and lay it beside me on the grass, for I want to be able to see Henry clearly.

“The whole mystery pertains to Aurelia, the dear friend whom I lost in January.”

I can tell that he is longing to know. “The young lady my grandfather knew. You grew up with her, I think?”

“That's right. The bond is greater even than you might imagine, Henry, for I owe her my very life. When I was a newborn, she . . . she found me in the snow.”

“What?”
Now he turns to me, his eyes fixed on my face.

“Yes. I had been abandoned. I was . . .” I just resist saying naked. “I was blue with cold and Aurelia, who was then eight and had the most tender heart imaginable, snatched me up and took me home. She was a very great lady, Henry, though she never knew it at that age—indeed, at any age. Her parents did not want me. They saw me as a disgrace, you see.” I tuck my hair behind my ears a little nervously. I am not used to telling this story.

He scowls. “
You
a disgrace? An innocent child? That is not a logic I can understand.”

“I am glad to hear you say it. I felt for many years that they must have been right, else they would not have treated me as they did. They would have consigned me to the orphanage then and there, you see, if Aurelia had not set her heart upon my staying. Their attitude towards me has left its mark.”

“I am sure. Were they
very
unkind to you, Amy?”

I swallow. “Yes. I think they spent the rest of my life ruing their leniency that day.” I feel tears well up, but I blink them back determinedly, for I want to say this. “They insisted I be kept out of sight of the family, but Aurelia would not stay away from me. She was spoiled and lonely. She was imaginative too—I think she was fascinated by the mystery of an unknown snow baby.”

“Of course she was. Did you ever learn anything of your origins, Amy?”

I drop my gaze and notice that my knuckles are white; I am twisting my hands in my lap. “No, I never did.”

“I am truly sorry to hear it. You have seen something of my family. I cannot imagine how it must feel to be without one.”

I don't know how to describe it to him. Where might I begin to explain Cook's impersonal kindness, Lady Vennaway's bitter hatred, the dreary grayness of knowing I was only ever there on sufferance?

Nevertheless I try, in stumbling sentences, for I want Henry to understand. I manage to condense seventeen years into five minutes, then look up to see if I am boring him. He appears anything but bored.

“Amy, please know that whatever your past, assorted Meads and Crumms will
always
be pleased to receive Amy Snow.”

“Dear Henry.” I cannot help myself. I reach out and take his hand. It is quite against etiquette, but once I have clasped it I do not find it easy to release and he does not pull away. So there is an awkward yet brilliant moment in which I find myself sitting in a meadow adrift with pale-yellow primroses, holding hands with a friend who is a man . . . and young, and handsome . . . “Thank you,” I whisper.

“Amy, you do not need to
thank
me,” he replies, his voice soft.

Slowly, I sit back, withdraw my hand. “Forgive me, Henry, if I am behaving all out of place. I feel as though all my emotions have been stirred like a pudding and risen to the surface like steam. I am not used to telling people things.”

“Do not tell me another word if it upsets you too much, Amy, though I confess I hope you can battle through. I should dearly love to know Aurelia's secret and how it affects you now—your choices, your life.”

“Indeed I will try. I cannot tell you Aurelia's secret, not only because I must not but because I do not know it. I will tell you what I can Henry, but . . . Aurelia has left me several posthumous letters, each containing a fervent plea for secrecy. It was of the gravest importance for her, Henry, and I
cannot
betray her. But it is hard to be so clandestine.”

I had not realized how living a riddle was oppressing me still. It is easy to guard the truth in Bath, for no one requires it. But Henry wants to know me. He is tall and warm and good. If I cannot tell him some of it soon, I shall burst and scatter into petals myself.

Now he takes my hand, and the gesture is not impetuous, nor is it brief. He holds it firmly and deliberately. Despite the flooding beauty of the moment, I actually find myself glancing around to see if anyone who knows me is watching. Society is a powerful thing.

“Amy, anything you tell me I shall receive in the greatest confidence. I shall feel proud to be your confidant and tell no one. I shall honor Aurelia's secret, whether or not I know what it is. I promise.”

At the end of this solemn declaration he replaces my hand in my lap and I feel relieved and bereaved, both at once.

So I tell Henry about the treasure hunt. I tell him that each letter reveals more and more that I did not know, though I tell him none of the details of her story. I tell him I have more money and fine clothes than I know what to do with but none of the things my heart longs for: security, family,
answers
. I know that I am not following Aurelia's instructions to the letter, but this is the compromise that enables me to feel that my life matters too.

I confess that at times I have cried angry tears for feeling that I am still a piece on the Vennaway chessboard. I admit that Aurelia was far from perfect, that I am hurt that she kept so much from me when she was alive. And I conclude with a sigh that, underneath it all, my loyalty to her is as deep and true as it ever was and will always remain thus.

I am so happy! I am so achingly, blisteringly, crashingly happy. It is like the sun on my skin and the splash of rain and the scent of orange roses all rolled into one.

He loves me. Henry loves me. And I love him. Of course I do. The past five days have been the happiest of my life.

Throughout my great outpouring in the Crescent Fields, he listened and listened. When I finished, he leaned back with his hands behind his head and closed his eyes. I understood him to be deep in thought, rather than overcome with boredom.

I had not previously had the opportunity to observe him lying down, and so I seized my moment and studied minutely his black, curling hair, the warm tones of his skin, the pleasing curve of his lips. I noticed the way his mouth reposed into a gentle smile, the way his throat grew paler where it disappeared inside the high wings of his collar. His suit was no parlor shade of blue; it was a perfectly serviceable brown and fell open to reveal a white shirt and a red waistcoat, both of which lay snug over a broad chest that I suddenly craved to lay my head upon.