Amy Snow (43 page)

It was a relief to hand over the letter to Henry, to feel for a moment that my responsibility might be shared. But now I feel cornered. This journey cannot be shared. York will be like London all over again, except with not so much as an Entwhistle's to guide me. There is the possibility that I might find no reason at all, only another clue, another journey. Or that I might fail. These are things I could not bear for Henry to see.

“I . . . I don't know what I will find in York. If I
were
to continue the quest, it would be a highly personal matter between Aurelia and me. If I decide to turn away from it, that too is personal between us. But either way, I must choose alone. To have you go with me would seem . . . I do not know . . . wrong? Unfair?”

Henry shoots to his feet and stalks to the window. I anxiously watch his bristling back. How have we moved in moments from laughter to what may very well be an altercation?

“And your pledge to share your life with me, in all its odd and problematical forms, is
that
not personal, Amy? Is the trust between us not personal? The revelations of the other letters may well be delicate. The revelations of this latest letter, however, are nonexistent! Where would you even begin to find a letter when your only clue is the entire city?”

The demands Aurelia is placing upon me do not paint her in a good light. I don't want Henry to think badly of her. Nor do I like to think that she has put me at risk, more than once. So to avoid considering the matter too closely, I snap at Henry.

“This is not what you said ten days ago, Henry. You said you understood my loyalty to Aurelia; you said you accepted that the quest must come first until it is done. You said you supported me!”

“I do support you! That is what I am doing by offering you my protection. Forgive me if I cannot be perfectly sanguine about your crossing the country alone to only a very vague destination! Amy, I stand by what I said. But it's one thing when we're sitting together beneath the trees and the matter is hypothetical. It's far harder when we've admitted our feelings, started planning our future, and I am faced with watching you slip through my fingers
yet again
! I am trying, Amy, but I do not see why you must choose between your loyalty to Aurelia and your loyalty to me. You may honor both!
Why
must you turn your back on her in order to be with me? I do not ask it of you. I don't want you divided thus. But take me with you, let me help you; that is what the man who loves you is
supposed
to do! Is it that you don't trust me? Do you think I might disapprove of Aurelia, or of you, or that I would betray your confidence? Whatever it is, Amy, it makes no
sense
!”

By the end of his wretched speech he is glowering at me. I cannot bear it. My smiling, sunny Henry is angry with me. Insisting I do what I cannot as if it were a simple matter to bring together my old life and my new. Asking me to explain the inexplicable. Does he not realize I have been living with impossible conundrums and ambiguity all my life? Of course it makes no sense. Nothing ever has.

“I'm sorry, Henry,” I sob in a great rush. “I can't be what you want. I knew it was so. I have never fitted easily and my circumstances are too complicated for love and a normal life. I am so sorry.” I race towards the door.

He catches me on the way and wraps his arms around me.

“Let me go, Henry! I cannot bear this conversation. I will see you in the morning when I am myself again.”

But he is strong and his arms about me are gentle.

“Shhh, my darling. It is I who am sorry. Forgive me, Amy. We shall talk of it no more tonight, I promise. You must manage things your own way and not be upset. Please, my love, don't go when you are like this. Let us put this aside for now and be calm.”

And I do grow a little calm. Later, when we bid each other good night, we are subdued and affectionate.

But the ache in my heart is heavy and strangling, for I know that I am not behaving as a truly devoted wife-to-be should act. I feel deeply, disappointingly unequal to the role. Perhaps such precious dreams can't come true—not for me.

Over the next two days I learn just how far avoidance can take us—and where it cannot. Its temporary benefits come at a distressing cost. Henry and I are docile and affectionate, but there is something lifeless between us, where previously all was flicker and spark. Whenever we are together, we hold hands and we smile. We pass each other milk and sugar when we take tea. We look like the very portrait of a young betrothed couple. But we don't burst out laughing anymore. We don't grin or tease. We don't forget ourselves and kiss until we can't breathe. We are close once again, and yet a black abyss yawns between us.

I tell myself he is sulking because he did not get his way, that he does not understand how it has always been for me. Our voices are bright when we talk of the future, but our words do not ring true. Our sentences are vague because so much is unknown and so much unsaid. We are in a sort of dreadful half-life. I still cannot feel comfortable turning my back on Aurelia, yet the prospect of leaving Henry is far harder now than if all were well between us. I think I am waiting until we feel like
us
again before I decide—but we seem to grow more stiff and stifled every day, and all I am doing is fruitlessly delaying Aurelia's quest. I feel guilty about that. I feel guilty about Henry. I feel, as I did at Hatville, that Amy Snow is a wretched, troublesome creature.

It becomes a relief to spend time away from him. If Mrs. Riverthorpe is curious as to why I begin attending her card parties again, she refuses to show it. And this is how I find myself alone with Quentin Garland once again.

He has arrived early for canasta—I know not why—but Mrs. Riverthorpe reacts to his presence irritably; she has things to do before the rest arrive, she tells him, and stalks off, leaving us together in the drawing room. I wrap my thick, mulberry-colored shawl about my shoulders. It is May now, so there is no fire this afternoon, but the room is especially cheerless. Or perhaps it is my state of mind.

He is, naturally, immaculately turned out, in a jacket of midnight blue and exquisitely tailored cream trousers. The rich shade of his coat accentuates the lighter blue of his eyes, his cravat and, today, his matching pale-blue gloves. These he removes now, delicately tugging at fingertip after fingertip. For something to do, I ring for tea.

For a few moments he and I exchange stiff pleasantries while the tea sits disregarded on its silver tray, then he favors me with a smile.

“Miss Snow, may I speak quite plainly? I fear that recent events have put an end to our former easy friendship and I regret it. I would never have spoken if I had known that the loss would be thus. However, I would like to be your true friend, if I can. May I?”

I do not
remember
us as having an easy friendship, only that I was ever in awe of him, but I say yes, of course.

“Then, forgive me, is all quite well with you? You look tired, a little . . . troubled. If there is aught amiss, I should like to help, if I can.”

Small wonder I look tired. Euphoria chased away sleep when Henry first told me that he loved me. Now I sleep badly for the old reasons. Memories of Hatville reclaim my mind. In skewed snatches of sleep here and there, strange dreams take shape. I have not had a good night's rest for some time.

“It is merely that I am tired, Mr. Garland. You recall perhaps the private business of which I spoke to you? The need for me to move on quite soon?”

“Indeed.”

I suddenly feel the need to unburden myself to someone, anyone. “Well, that time is upon me and the matter is . . . delicate. You're right, I am troubled. I find I'm undecided about my course of action and that is surprising to me.”

“And your gentleman friend, is he content to see you go?”

“There you hit upon the other matter, Mr. Garland. Henry wishes to come with me; he does not wish me to go alone.”

“I suppose it is natural he should not want to be parted from you. And it
is
highly unusual for a young lady to travel alone in the manner you have done. Oh, I say nothing of it for myself but perhaps he is the traditional sort?”

“I don't think it's a question of propriety, I believe he is concerned for my welfare. Also, I believe he is hurt that I don't entrust more to him about the business in question.”

“But it is a secret, you said?”

“Indeed it is!” I cry with some frustration.

“Then there is nothing more to be said. A secret must be honored. Especially, perhaps, a secret between two young ladies.” He smiles fondly. “If he is the right man for you, Miss Snow, then he will respect your need for privacy on this matter.”

“Thank you, Mr. Garland, you are very kind.”

I feel somewhat reassured that I am not being unreasonable. Perhaps I allow him to reassure me so because I need to believe it. I even allow myself to think, for one wild instant, that perhaps Mr. Garland is the right man for me. It would be easier, after all, to be with someone who unquestioningly respects Aurelia's secret and does not
press
me. But of course that is not the point. The point is that it is
Henry
whom I love.

One at a time, the other guests arrive and I hope that the game, however tiresome, will take me out of myself for a little while. It does not. I consider the fact that Henry goes to Richmond in two days' time and I still don't know what to do.

The cards are slow. Mr. Garland wins every hand. Mrs. Riverthorpe grumbles. Conversation is desultory; I know my black mood doesn't help. Outside, an indifferent afternoon has blossomed into a May evening as fine as spun silk, so I decide to take the air, pleading a headache. I am glad that Mr. Garland does not offer to escort me.

I walk to Crescent Fields, remembering the day I met Henry. Pouring rain and a dripping bonnet. Standing in this very spot contemplating three weeks in Bath and expecting to drag myself minute by minute through the days. Now that time is up and I am loath to leave. I stand beneath a haze of waning sunlight and an early-summer moon. Aurelia's quest is suspended, and nothing feels right.

I force myself to breathe, to think. I tell myself I am mistress of my life and even the most difficult decisions are all mine to make. Only I cannot make them. I cannot choose. The guilt of abandoning my quest would surely crush me, shadow every good thing my life might bring. But I
cannot
leave Henry; I can't risk losing him. I want to go to Richmond with him. I
will
go to Richmond with him . . . The prospect shimmers in front of me for a moment like a mirage. And yet . . .

I tell myself I will not return to Hades House until I have settled upon a course of action. The sky grows dark around me.

When a stranger in a slouch hat slips past me from the shadows, fixing me with hooded eyes, I know I am being foolish staying out alone and yield to indecision. Tonight then. I will make my choice tonight.

I walk briskly back, relieved when the house looms up at me, all towers and teeth as it is. But my relief is short-lived. The bent figure of Mrs. Riverthorpe stalks up and down, up and down the hall. When she sees me, she swoops towards me with fierce eyes.

“Amy, you must leave at once.”

My hour of reverie is abruptly ended. “I beg your pardon? Why?”

“You have not seen her then?”

“Seen whom? I have seen no one.”

“Where have you been?”

“At Crescent Fields. Mrs. Riverthorpe, what's happened? Why must I leave?”

“You have had a visitor, Amy.”

“Henry? At this time of night?”

“No, not
Henry
. Lady Celestina Vennaway was here at the house, large as life and fine as you please, demanding to see Amy Snow.”

I put a hand out to steady myself. “Lady Vennaway? Here? What did she want? What did you say to her?”

“Told her I'd never heard of you, of course. Sent her away. Clear she didn't believe me, but that doesn't signify, provided she doesn't get her hands on you, and provided she doesn't know where you've gone. Go on, pack your bags. Make ready. The carriage will take you to London at first light. Oh, you
could
take a train but I want no trace of you. I don't want her snooping around, charming some unsuspecting fool into telling her where you are gone. The carriage can bear you to London—you can take a direct train from Euston to York. I shall send Ambrose with you and she will arrange porters for your luggage. I have sent Cecile to follow Madam Vennaway, to make sure she stays away from the house. I can—”

“Mrs. Riverthorpe,
stop
!”

I have never seen her like this. She is babbling, thinking aloud, forming plans, all the while as if I am not there; I, the object of those plans. I remember that she knows Aurelia's secret. It must be momentous indeed if she is so disarranged by the arrival of a Vennaway.