Amy Snow (41 page)

The following morning I attend a small brunch at Henrietta Street. Throughout the feast, Henry seems full of a barely suppressed, gleeful impatience.

After the meal he and I take up our corner of the garden and after he has kissed me in a way that turns my legs to water, he fixes me with dancing eyes.

“Amy, I am brimming with thoughts I must tell you.”

I knew it!

“Amy, we have made a commitment to each other, based on true and loving feelings. I am the most fortunate of men. The past days have been a delight. But I am aware that I have nothing to offer you. I am not in a position to ask you to marry me yet.”

Mr. Garland's words flash through my mind, but I push them away and take Henry's hand.

“Amy, I feel that needs to change as soon as possible. So I have been awake at night thinking how to rectify the situation. I need a profession. It needs to be something that suits me and something I can sustain, so that I shall not be the most weary and grouchy of husbands.”

“I could not agree more.”

Henry loosens his cravat. “I have mentally run through every profession known to man over the last few nights. During those small dark hours I believe I have pursued at least seven careers!”

I smile. “You must have amassed a very great fortune, dear.”

“Oh, rich as Croesus! And I have found the answer. Now, it is a modest income, it is not a grand profession in the eyes of the world. No doubt many will say, with my education and intelligence, that I could do better, but you do not care so much for finery and fashionable living, I believe, from what you have told me of your own hopes?”

I fidget with impatience to hear his plan. “Indeed no, and I would see you happy, dear. Tell me at once, what have you chosen?”

“I was thinking about your friends, the Wisters, and what you told me of young Michael's aspiration to teach unfortunate children.” Henry sits up very straight, his eyes shining. “
I
want to do that, Amy. I want to be able to jump into a profession without further study. I want to work with people—help them—right away. I don't know why I never thought of it before, only I suppose I always felt I must have a greater income, that society felt . . . that I would be somehow lacking if I did not.

“But no! I can think for myself.” He detaches his hand from mine and begins to stride energetically to and fro across the terrace. I watch him as though he is a game of tennis. “What matters is to make you happy, and myself as well. This will do it, I'm sure, and that is more important to me than earning a vast salary as a fine lawyer and impressing all who meet me. Provided you, my love, are content to be the wife of a schoolmaster. It will be a modest living, I must say so again so that you know what our life would be. If you tell me it must be otherwise, I will do otherwise. If you require a finer living, I will endeavor to earn it.”

I jump to my feet and kiss him. “Henry, no! You know my heart. I have had enough of great cold corridors and empty rooms. I have had my fill of society and balls and scandals and wealth.”

“I knew you would say it!” he declares, tucking my hand under his arm so that I am pacing up and down with him. “In that case, I shall ask Elsie to post the letter I wrote this morning when she goes into town. I didn't want to send it until I had spoken with you.”

“To whom have you written, Henry?”

“To a fellow I know in Twickenham, friend of Grandfather's. He is something political, but something educational also. Suffice to say, he's influential in school reform and he will know about this Kneller House and initiatives like it. I have asked him to let me know of any opportunities in that area and to put me forward for any positions he may hear of.”

I stop still and look at him. “In the . . .
Twickenham
area, Henry?”

He smiles at me. “You would wish to settle near your friends, would you not, my darling?”

“Oh, I should like that more than
anything
! But, what about you? Where would
you
wish to settle?”

He laughs easily. “Why, with you of course! No, stop frowning! This is no great act of martyrdom. It's a lovely place, a stone's throw from London and the old one and Aunt Annie. Mother's in Hertfordshire, not so close but close enough—love her dearly but she's got a fierce temper on her. It's not Cardiff. It's not
Manchester
! I think we shall do very nicely in Twickenham.”

I suddenly see all my small dreams coming true before my eyes, and they are exploding, like roses bursting into bloom.

“Henry, do you suppose I might . . . no, perhaps . . . well, do you think I might help you, in some way? I don't know how. Maybe I could read essays if you have too many, or help you research new projects for the children.”

“Amy, I shall depend upon it!”

“And . . . what are your feelings about a conservatory, dear?”

“Entirely favorable, my love, nothing more pleasing.”

“Henry? Do you think we shall have a pony?”

“My dear, we can have ten.”

“One will certainly suffice. Henry, I must tell you—” Suddenly, I remember what Mrs. Riverthorpe said and I want to tell him, to trust him. “I . . . I have five thousand pounds. All left to me by Aurelia, all secret, of course. It is yours—that is to say, ours—to help you set up in your profession, or to buy a house or . . . or . . . in fact I do not know what five thousand pounds can do—I never had one shilling before—but I want you to know that we have it.”

Henry kisses me soundly. Again my head spins and my knees tremble and he sits me back down gently. He joins me, wearing his serious face again.

“I am so glad for your good fortune. But I could not take your money to get started in life—it is my privilege to do that for myself. I should like to be able to provide a home for us. No doubt you will think me very old-fashioned, but taking that responsibility is something I shall enjoy. You must use your money for yourself.”

“But I should like to . . .
invest
it in our life together. You will be working and earning our yearly budget. This could be my contribution to our finances.”

“Then shall we make it our nest egg? In case of any difficulties, or splendid opportunities that may arise. Or, perhaps, for our children?”

•  •  •

Had I allowed myself to be swayed by any of Mr. Garland's reservations about Henry's fixity of purpose, my mind would now be put to rest. Over the following week I see a man truly determined. He writes countless letters: to his old tutors, asking for testimonials; to his family, informing them of his decision; to schools in Richmond, Twickenham, Hammersmith, and Ham, inquiring about vacancies. He accosts the local schoolmaster, begging to discuss the profession with him, that he might be informed when he secures an interview. He persuades the Longacres to invite local politicians to dinner so that he may discuss education reform at length.

It is a busy, exciting, energetic week, and every time I see him he has something new to tell me. I see Mr. Garland only twice, at the concert in the Upper Rooms and at a dinner four days later. I feel horribly uncomfortable, and guilty for being so happy, but he is civil, of course, and does not refer to personal matters between us again. It seems that he has accepted my decision and retired gracefully, as I might have expected.

And soon enough, it is the twenty-ninth of April and time to receive Aurelia's next letter.

Mrs. Riverthorpe tosses it casually into my lap on her way out, making me jump. I had not forgotten the date—far from it—but I have seen little of her over the past days and have had no chance to mention it. I was expecting she would summon me and present it over a ceremonial glass of Madeira, not throw it at me in the middle of breakfast.

My appetite drains away. I hear the front door bang as Mrs. Riverthorpe departs. It is only a rectangle of cream paper but, now that there is Henry in my life, it feels like the sword of Damocles poised above my head.

I leave my kippers half eaten and, telling Ambrose I am not at home to callers, I run to my room. I close the door firmly and tuck myself up in the window seat. I take a deep breath and rip the letter open.

My treasured Amy,

I hope you are well. I hope you are happy. I hope you are finding your way to embrace all that life has to offer.

It has been a bad day today. Mr. Clay came to discuss the school, but I fainted after breakfast and could not see him. I did not recover myself to any great degree until twilight was all around. What a waste of a precious day.

No matter, I had promised myself that I would write this letter this evening and write it I shall, though in a more somber frame of mind than I have written previously. I have no spirits to write amusing recollections, nor for emotional unburdening, nor for the commitment to page of my greatest and most valuable secret. Not now.

Your trail is nearly at an end, dear Amy, very nearly. Therefore, please, my beloved friend, take one more journey on my account. Go to York. 'Tis a beautiful city and the countryside is wild and wonderful. I believe you will like it.

Dearest Amy, my next letter will be better and fuller. Travel alone, tell no one where you are going, and know that my confidence in your discretion brings peace to my poor ailing heart at a time when nothing else could.

With greatest love from your devoted

AV

I rest my head against the window pane. Go to York.

I gaze out over the narrow, quiet street. A solitary carriage bowls along, two black horses high-stepping on air. On a stretch of pale wall, a squirrel dashes and stops, then vanishes in a flourish of tail. The sun is shining.
Go to York.

My eyes brim hot and a tear escapes. I stare and I stare for, oh, I suppose ten minutes, if not more.

With a sudden deep swoop of foreboding, I hear Henry's cheerful voice planning our life in Twickenham.

“It's not Cardiff! It's not
Manchester
!”

York, I believe, is farther than Manchester.

I take a deep breath and swing my feet to the floor to face into my room. “My” room. This strange space with its gray walls and its dipping eaves, its framed sketches of moths and an old woman's former lovers. It is time then to leave it. And, suddenly, I come to understanding of what I am feeling.

I am furious! Oh, I am so angry I can hardly bear it! What has my time in Bath been? What have the last weeks achieved? Well, it has given me Henry, of course, but Aurelia was not to know that. Otherwise, it has been time endured in the cactus patch that is Mrs. Riverthorpe's home: an onslaught of her merciless teasing, a tedium of stiff social occasions and an awkward entanglement with a gentleman with whom I should never have crossed paths in the first place. I have learned
nothing
of Aurelia's year away, except that she was never here, which only makes it all the more pointless. And all for
this
? Go to
York
! A place she was never supposed to have visited for more than a day or two. If indeed she did! Just when a life of my own was taking shape.

The long-awaited clue, for which I have endured so much, amounts to just three words. I could spit. I am finished. I am finished with Aurelia. I am finished with her ridiculous quest and her demands for my loyalty and her secrets. Finished.