Amy Snow (39 page)

I have warned him, of course, about Mrs. Riverthorpe. Now it is time to prepare her to meet Henry.

“Haaa!” she squawks when I tell her I am engaged, or the next thing to it, to the man I will love for the rest of my life. “Are you engaged or aren't you? Is there a ring or is there not? Oh, child, child, do not bore me with your blustering explanations. I thought you might have had more sense than to add this to your long list of problems.”

Yet meet him she does. He raps smartly at the door at ten o'clock, the appointed time, and I run to answer it, to the chagrin of a disgruntled Ambrose, who lurks in the hall making no attempt to disguise the fact that she wants to see him for herself.

“Lord, Henry!” I exclaim when I open the door. I have always seen him handsome but easy, in serviceable brown town suits that suit his taste for roaming around the city for hours on end. Today he is wearing a dark-gray suit the color of a November sky and a black waistcoat with a distinguished white pinstripe. His shirt, gloves, and cravat are all snowy white and his curls are flattened and combed back from his face, though when he removes his hat they threaten to spring up at any moment. He looks so dashing that I feel an unladylike rush of warmth which bolts immodestly through my whole body, then comes to settle in my stomach, where it spirals distractingly.

“You look beautiful,” he whispers, kissing my hand. “How well your dress becomes you.”

“You must be a lawyer or an undertaker,” Mrs. Riverthorpe observes acidly, coming to the drawing room door and beckoning us to join her with a clawed hand. She cuts an alarming figure, in an orange gown which would be daring for a soirée, never mind at ten o'clock in the morning. “Amy, are you going to introduce us or just gawp at him all day? Ambrose! I can see through pillars, you know. Stop spying and get back to work.” She shuffles off. “Eyes in the back of my head too,” her voice floats back to us. “We shall be needing tea!”

I am horrified, but Henry only laughs. He takes my hand and pulls me after her into the drawing room. “Mrs. Riverthorpe,” he greets her, deducing that I will be little use to the conversation, and kissing her hand. “I am Henry Mead. I'm delighted to meet you. Amy has told me a great deal about you.”

“None of it good, I'm sure,” she challenges him, jutting her bony chin at him.

“Very little,” he agrees gravely, offering his arm.

She allows him to help her to a seat, then he turns and offers me the same service. Of course I am not stiff and elderly, but I am just too appalled by her manners to move.

“So which is it?” she demands when we are all seated.

I throw her a furious glance, which she ignores.

“Undertaker or lawyer?” says Henry equably. “Neither at present, although I am willing to consider both. I am between professions and in search of a new one.”

“What was your last profession?”

“It was medicine. That is to say, I studied it for a time.”

She shudders. “Unnatural occupation. Best you dispensed with that one as soon as possible. You should not want a medic, Amy! So you are not between professions, you are in fact a young idler yet to make his mark?”

I wince, knowing what a sensitive subject this is for Henry. What was I
thinking
, bringing him here? But he seems unperturbed.

“That is precisely the case, Mrs. Riverthorpe, though I intend to rectify it as soon as possible.” He nods at me and smiles and I smile back, proud of him. I am touched, too, with the effort he has made with his appearance, all for the honor of meeting my hostess and creating a good impression—if such a thing is possible.

“Yet still she seems entranced with you and determined to entertain a romance,” muses Mrs. Riverthorpe in a tone which calls my intelligence into question, shaking her head.

“I'm delighted to hear it!” he responds. “But what of you, Mrs. Riverthorpe? I hear you are a fearsome woman who does exactly what she pleases. I am pleased to hear it, though I hope you are not corrupting my Amy, for I should like to bind her to a life of servitude if I can manage it.”

I close my eyes. Mrs. Riverthorpe cackles appreciatively and they are off—sparring and exchanging polished jibes as though they had known each other always. I am not sure whether this is a good thing or not.

Ambrose brings us tea in green-sprigged china and Mrs. Riverthorpe grills Henry about every facet of his life. She wants to know who his people are and how he intends to make something of himself and what his intentions are towards me (I confess I am interested to hear that myself, I shall never tire of hearing it). She is appallingly rude to him, naturally, but Henry weathers the storm with a great, good-natured fascination. Like Aurelia, he is a lover of humanity in all its quirks and foibles, quick to delight and slow to judge. After a half hour, which leaves me weak with exhaustion, they take their leave with no hard feelings.

I wave Henry off and stand gazing after him long after he has disappeared down the street. He and I are not to meet again until tomorrow. I feel I might not survive the evening, but I am promised to Mrs. Riverthorpe tonight for a concert and do not want to break my word.

“Come along then, foolish child,” she says in my ear, making me jump. “We had better take a glass. I know
I
need one after that sentimental display. Not one to veil your feelings, are you?”

I reflect on a lifetime of trying to hide my hurt and fear, on years of putting my feelings aside to be brave and capable for Aurelia when she was dying, of the last long months of obfuscation and reticence. I cannot find the energy to argue. Being guarded has been my way of surviving the world, but Henry has somehow rendered it utterly impossible.

We have just taken our seats and raised our glasses—“To love!” proposes Mrs. Riverthorpe in an ironic toast—when Ambrose suddenly knocks at the door.

“Mr. Garland is here to see Miss Snow, if you will receive him, Miss Snow.”

“Haaaaa!” crows Mrs. Riverthorpe. “Delicious!”

I feel the happy flush she finds so irritating drain from my face. I had quite, quite forgotten about Mr. Garland.

“I . . . I . . .” I stutter, wishing with all my heart I could refuse him but unable to think of how I might explain it.

“Tongue in a loop again!” cries my hostess. “Ambrose, what she means to say is that she wishes she could pretend she is not at home but she don't know how to say it!”

Uncanny.

“But I think she must see him, so bring him in, why not, and I shall make myself scarce.”

“Oh no, Mrs. Riverthorpe, please . . . I mean, there is no need for you to absent yourself. Mr. Garland is quite as much your friend as mine—more so! He will wish to see you, I am sure.”

She shrugs her skinny shoulders. “But I don't wish to see him.”

She disappears. She can move surprisingly swiftly when she wishes to.

Ambrose shows Mr. Garland into the parlor, and I feel my face flaming at the memory of our last conversation, so tactfully broached by him, so readily forgotten by me. Will he raise the matter again? Either way I must disabuse him of any false hope at once. But suddenly, I realize that Mr. Garland will not be accustomed to disappointment. With his favor comes a sense of . . . obligation. How do I tell him that whilst I did not discourage his attentions less than a week ago, I have now consented to marry someone else? Surely this would present a difficulty to any fine belle, let alone Amy Snow, parasite of Hatville!

“My dear Miss Snow!”

He swoops in, all golden and gleaming, looking happy to see me. I had forgotten how handsome he is, but that must not distract me. If he notices that I am twisting my hands together painfully, it does not deter him.

“What a delight to see you again. How well the cream and that pink become you. I am so very sorry that I have been from Bath longer than I intended.” He glides over to me, graceful as a swift, and bows.

I swallow. If he only knew how I had lost track of time in my delirious daze. I actually have no idea how long he has been gone.

“How . . . how do you do, Mr. Garland?” I stammer, dipping a curtsy. “I trust your business in London was successful?” I suddenly feel like little Amy of Hatville again, about to be caught out in some misbehavior. I feel one of my fingers crack—another moment and I should have twisted it right off. I force myself to put my arms at my sides and bury my hands in my skirts.

“Indeed yes! I am very well pleased. But even more pleased to be once again in Bath, amongst my friends. I trust I find you well?”

“Very well, thank you, sir. In fact . . . very well, yes indeed.” I cannot meet his eyes and fix mine on his blue cravat. I could swear it winks at me, the fabric is so lustrous.

“Excellent!” He gives his hat a merry little twirl. I seize upon the fact that he has held on to it as grounds for hoping he does not intend to stay long. “Now I wonder if I might prevail upon you and dear Ariadne to accompany me to hear a string quartet this evening? My old friend Quintus Crace is the viola and I should very much like you to meet him.”

“Is it to be held at the Upper Rooms, Mr. Garland?”

“Quite so.”

“Then we are already going. Mrs. Riverthorpe knows the cello, I believe. In fact, I expect she knows the entire quartet and the audience besides.”

He laughs. “Splendid! Then a musical little party we shall be, to be sure. Might I have the honor of saving seats for you both when I arrive?”

“We should be grateful. Ah, Mr. Garland . . . I . . . ah . . .”

“Miss Snow! Is something the matter?”

He takes a seat with a look of concern. I wish I had not spoken; he was about to leave, the interview was almost over. Yet I cannot bear the thought of meeting him again tonight with so much unspoken between us and Mrs. Riverthorpe brimming with mischief.

“No, that is to say, yes, a little.” I am standing before him, wringing my hands once more. “I find myself extremely embarrassed to raise the matter but I feel I must . . . it pertains to our last conversation, before you went to London, when you . . .”

“When I spoke of my great admiration towards you, Miss Snow. I remember.”

I nod in relief. “It is just that . . . I was so very grateful and honored, Mr. Garland, and I knew then of no reason to ask you not to speak, I assure you. However, since then I have become . . .
promised
, I suppose, to another, an old friend who has recently reappeared in my life. I did not want you to . . . I did not want to . . .”

I am, of course, overstating the case by describing Henry as an old friend. Imagining the whole matter through Mr. Garland's eyes, if he knew it all, reminds me that I have not truly known Henry very long at all, yet it sounds gentler this way. My face is burning. I truly wish the ground would swallow me up this instant. I steal a glance at him. His head is bowed, and I cannot see his face. I have not seen Mr. Garland less than poised before. His golden hair gleams. I bite my lip; this is dreadful.

“I understand, Miss Snow,” he says in a quiet voice. “Matters have progressed and you did not want to let a false impression stand between us.”

“Precisely so, Mr. Garland, thank you. I hope we may still be friends. I value your friendship very much.”

“As I do yours, Miss Snow.” He looks up at me at last with a brave smile. There is an unfamiliar expression in his eyes. I presume it to be disappointment and his words confirm it. “I am disappointed, of course, I am a man! But not such a hot-headed fellow, I think, as to spurn a friendship truly given.”

The thing is said. Quite weak with relief, I sink into a chair.

“Are matters quite settled between you and your . . . friend?” he inquires.

“They are.”

“Though I do not see an engagement ring, Miss Snow.”

My head begins to throb. “We are not yet engaged. Circumstances prevent . . . but the understanding is very clear, Mr. Garland.”

“I see. Of course.” He nods and smiles again. There is a little silence. I wonder when he may leave. Then he resumes. “Your circumstances or the gentleman's, I wonder?”

“Well, both, in truth. I mentioned to you, I think, that I am not currently at liberty to follow my own course, and that is still the case.”

“I remember. And who is the fortunate gentleman? Perhaps I know him?”

“I doubt it, sir. He is not from Bath, merely staying with friends for a time. And he does not . . . he has not been at any of the gatherings that you and I have attended.”

“Oh!” He manages to pack in a world of surprise and mild disapproval into that one syllable. “But he is a good, solid gentleman? Your equal in every way? He is settled in life and able to make good his hold on your affection?”

Oh, this is horrible. Horrible! “He is my equal, yes, certainly,” I reply, smoothing out the folds of my skirt with my palms. “He is not
quite
settled yet, but his intention to improve his position is clear.”

He arches golden eyebrows.

“I would not doubt it. It is only that I had imagined, for you . . . well, provided you are confident of his character and he is not some idle young dandy with a great many fine ideas and no decided action . . . provided he is fully sensitive to your needs and all you deserve . . . then I wish you both great joy. And of course this
must
be so or you would not have entered into an agreement with him.

“Forgive me, Miss Snow, I naturally feel protective towards you, though I readily admit it is not my place. I shall take my leave of you now and see you tonight. If we are to be friends, I may still see you tonight?”

“Oh! Of course! Yes, naturally.”

“The gentleman is not accompanying you?”

“No, sir, he is not.”

“I see.”

The look of delicate confusion on his perfect features is plain. This has been the most uncomfortable interview of my life.