Amy Snow (44 page)

“I am going nowhere like this. Surely a few moments of explanation will not wreak havoc. Please tell me everything that happened and what was said. How did she look?”

I do not know why I ask this, but that she was a part of my life for the longest time. For all that she despises me, I know how it feels to have lost Aurelia.

“How did she
look
? Riven. Pale. Exquisite. Dressed in full mourning and wearing it like a queen.”

Mrs. Riverthorpe then consents to tell me that, some time since, there was a mighty rap at the door. Assuming one of her guests had forgotten something, she sent Ambrose to receive the caller, despite the late hour. But Ambrose returned bearing the card of Lady Celestina Vennaway.

Mrs. Riverthorpe was at the door in a trice, determined to see her off before I returned. She hobbled out to address Lady Vennaway in her carriage.

“May I come in, Mrs. Riverthorpe?” asked Lady Vennaway.

“You may not,” retorted Mrs. Riverthorpe.

When she saw that the object of her visit was both determined and aged, Lady Vennaway offered Mrs. Riverthorpe a seat in her carriage for the duration of the conversation, which was duly refused on the grounds that the interview would not be long enough to warrant the courtesy.

I permit myself a moment to imagine this mythical interlocking of horns of the two proudest women of my acquaintance; both so haughty, both so accustomed to having their way in every small particular. I do not believe either of them can ever have met with opposition before. It must have been like an exotic dragon facing a prehistoric monster.

Lady Vennaway asked for me. Her sister had seen me, she said, in the company of a lady who claimed to be my guardian. She wished urgently to speak to me and, her attempts to communicate in writing having failed, had sought me out in person.

Mrs. Riverthorpe lied outright and said she had never met me, never heard of me, and that there was some mistake. She did so with such great energy and such negligent civility that although her visitor clearly did not believe her, she was forced to leave with no satisfaction.

Part of me dearly wishes I could have been there to see it.

But, Mrs. Riverthorpe resumes, I must leave the very next morning.

“Would it be so very detrimental, after all, to grant her an audience?” I ask. “If I did so here, with you, I should feel safer. I am tired of running and looking over my shoulder and always fearing whom I might see. Can I not just stop and face her?”

“No, Amy. Whatever she wants can bode no good, and for you to see her would put your quest at risk. You are not an accomplished liar, child, more's the pity. You must go. I am sorry.”

I feel as though I am teetering on the very edge of a chasm. I had never thought I could feel sorry to leave Hades House but now that it is upon me, I find I have developed a strange attachment to the place. While
my
quest is certainly very unusual, Mrs. Riverthorpe is a constant, reassuring rebuttal of the conventional. She has seen so much of the world and scoffs at most of it. Although no serene, compassionate mentor, she has been an anchor of sorts. Now I must leave what little stability she has given me to take my longest journey, and with the least guidance.

“Mrs. Riverthorpe, how do you know I am to go to York?”

“I know everything.”

“Then please, please, I
beg
you, tell me what I am to do there and what I will find. I have followed Aurelia's trail most diligently, indeed I have, but now there is Henry to think of . . . I have been anguishing over this. Can you not tell me and save me this last step? It would be but a shortcut.”

“No, Amy. It's not that I wish to be obstructive”—she raises her eyebrows—“but I have told you before, I promised Aurelia. The secret is not mine to tell. I believe you will be better learning it in the way she intended. Henry will wait.”

“Then tell me one thing, just one thing. Promise me.”

“If I can.”

“Is the trail to conclude in York? Will this see an end to it?”

She looks at me for the longest time. I fancy I can see arguments in favor of speaking and arguments for staying silent chasing each other through her cunning brain. Eventually, she sighs.

“It ends there.”

Oh! I seize on this slight scrap of certainty. To know this, at last, rather than merely suspecting, or painfully hoping—how wonderful to be able to tell Henry this one thing. Surely then, any separation must be relatively brief; I can reassure him at last. It makes a difference to
everything
, knowing that. It means I can bear to continue the quest after all . . . although, of course, the decision has already now been made for me by Celestina Vennaway.

“I will miss you, Mrs. Riverthorpe. Thank you for all you have done for me . . . odd though some of it has been. I truly hope we may meet again, if I do not bore you too much.”

Another pause and I imagine—no, I am
sure
I see a softening in her face. But “Go and pack, Amy, you must leave tomorrow,” is all she says.

I stumble awake to the sound of hammering at my door. It is dark and I search through the tangled strands of my mind for the dark thing I have forgotten. Through the gloom I discern my wardrobe, door open, standing empty, and I recall: I must leave today.

Mrs. Riverthorpe bursts into my room and shakes my bedclothes.

“Come on, young lady! Up! Up!”

I tumble from bed like a sparrow chick from a nest, blind and confused. I feel like to be crunched by cats, too.

“Mrs. Riverthorpe, wait! 'Tis not light. Give me time.”

She ignores my protests. “Time we do not have! That woman may call here this morning. You must be gone. I see you are packed, good. Get dressed. I will give you bread for the journey.”

“You will not give me breakfast before I leave?”

“You can eat all the breakfast you like in York. Come, come. Stop mumbling.”

I stagger into my clothes and find myself at the front door, blinking. My trunk is gone before me, the horses are ready, bridles chinking, hooves scuffing at the pavement. A three-quarter moon hangs yet in the sky, veiled by chiffon bolts of cloud.

Ambrose appears in a traveling cloak, holding a parcel of bread. What I really want is coffee.

“Mrs. Riverthorpe, will you not accompany me to London? There is still so much I wish to ask you. We have scarce spoken of Aurelia the whole time I have been here.”

There is something else, too; I am strangely loath to part from her. She is old. What if I never see her again?

“Talking won't bring her back. No, if her mother returns, I must be here to deal with her. That woman must never find out the truth. And I shall deal with Henry, too, when he comes sniffing round here, as he surely will. Fear not, I shall be kindly enough.”

“But Mrs. Riverthorpe! You cannot expect me to leave without saying good-bye to
Henry
! That is absurd.”

“You don't have time for fond farewells. He will understand, if he is worthy of you. Consider, we do not know where Aurelia's mother is staying. What if you should cross her path just as you go to call on Henry? No, you must get into that carriage and stay in it until Bath is far behind. Besides, it is five in the morning. No one will thank you for a social call at this hour.”

Words of affection and farewell die on my lips. I am trembling with fury, such that I don't trust myself to speak. So I do not. I march down the steps and scramble into the carriage, shaking off the helping hand of the driver. I scoop in fold after fold of my skirts—there seem to be miles of them this morning—and slam the door. She is indulging in senseless levels of drama and she is terribly unkind. Ambrose climbs in and we are off. I don't look back. I don't look at Ambrose either.

We rattle at a great pace through streets more silent than I have ever seen them. Birds fly up at our approach. I fear we will wake the whole neighborhood, and then anyone who recognizes Mrs. Riverthorpe's carriage would be able to tell Lady Vennaway that
someone
was seen leaving that household at first light. And she will know that someone was me. There
is
no safety, does Mrs. Riverthorpe not realize that? Lady Vennaway's letter found me in Twickenham; she has found me in Bath. I am starting to feel like hunted prey and I do not favor it.

When we pass very near Henrietta Street, I stand, swaying, and thump the roof with my small fist as hard as I can.

“Miss Snow!” exclaims Ambrose in alarm. “Sit down. You will be hurt. We must not stop.”

“Ambrose,” I say through clenched teeth, lurching and thumping, still, “I do not care.”

The carriage draws to a halt, and I am thrown against the opposite wall. Ambrose makes a grab for me but catches only a handful of my infernal skirts. What am I wearing? My claret traveling dress. I do not remember making the selection.

“Do not obstruct me, Ambrose,” I warn. “You are loyal to Mrs. Riverthorpe, I know, but I will not go along with this. You cannot deter me. Wait in the carriage. I shall be but ten minutes.”

I am on the street before she can say a word. I expect she may follow me, but she will have to keep up with me to be successful. I am banging at the Longacres' door before half-past five in the morning.

At least the servants will be up—I know
that
very well.

A yawning, blinking Elsie is astonished when she sees me. “Miss! Is everything all right? Beggin' your pardon, miss!” She hops back from the door.

“Thank you, Elsie. No, not quite.” I lean against the doorframe, glad that
something
is solid. The hall within is in shadow; I can feel the upper rooms quietly dreaming. A deep wash of sadness seeps through me. “I need to speak with Mr. Mead immediately, if you please; there is no time to lose.”

“Of course, miss. Come in.” She beckons me in and I obey.

I wait in the breakfast room, where I have so often and so pleasantly taken coffee and talked with my friends. The room—the house—is elegant and peaceful. Out there is the garden where Henry told me he loved me. It is another good-bye.

Henry is at my side in moments, a loose white nightgown tucked haphazardly into trousers with suspenders trailing at his sides. His hair is wild—as is my own, I perceive suddenly in a mirror; I must have neglected to brush it. He looks warlike.

“Amy! Is something wrong? Has somebody hurt you? Why are you dressed like that?”

“I am going to York, Henry, now. Lady Vennaway is here in Bath and came to Hades House looking for me last night. Mrs. Riverthorpe has sent me away.”

He looks disappointingly uncomprehending.

“But why must you
leave
? Let her come! You will tell her nothing. She can learn nothing to hurt you for no one
knows
anything—besides myself and Mrs. Riverthorpe, and we will not betray you.”

His confusion echoes my own. What can I say? “I know. But Mrs. Riverthorpe wants me gone and the time is come and . . . and Henry I
must
do it.” My voice cracks on the word “must” and I sink into a chair, surrendering to inevitability. I look up at him, silently imploring him to understand. “Listen to me, Henry, the trail is to end in York. Mrs. Riverthorpe told me so. She knows Aurelia's secret. I begged her to tell me, that I might put an end to this, but she would not. But she did promise that York is the end of it. I will come back to you, my love. It will not be long now.”

Henry looks at me as though I am a madwoman. He comes to my side in three long strides, sinks to his knees, and seizes my hands. “Let me come with you. I'll come now. I'll dress in less than a minute. Do not go alone.”

“No, Henry, your interview! You must go to Richmond.”

“Then come to Richmond with me! Stay here, in Henrietta Street, today—she will not seek you here—and we shall go to York together directly after my interview. We will not delay.” He is hanging on to my hands as if they are his last link with common sense. I shake my head miserably.

“No, Henry, you know I will not take you. I am sorry. But I will see you soon.” I am speaking in a whisper.

He pulls away and gets to his feet. “Amy! You will not leave me like this.”

I feel tears threaten. “You are giving me orders, Henry? I have orders enough to follow, you may be sure.”

He looks at me in disbelief, clasping his hands behind his head. “I do nothing of the sort! But I love you. I shall
worry
about you! You expect me to go to Richmond, interview for a post that is to be the foundation of our life together, never knowing where or when I am to see you again? This is madness! Will you not give me an address where I might write to you?”

I feel as though I am shrinking by the minute. “I don't have one, Henry! I'm sorry, I thought you would understand. Mrs. Riverthorpe said you would, if you . . . if . . . ”