Amy Snow (47 page)

In Bath, I found it relatively easy to keep my bearings. Hades House was up the hill. Crescent Fields were higher. The abbey was down and the river a short way east. Here, the streets meander and tease. No sooner have I fixed one landmark—shop, church, or garden—in my mind, than it vanishes and I cannot find my way back to it by any means. I must have walked miles, but the unvarying volume of the minster bells as they mark off the hours suggests that all these miles are folded and refolded upon themselves within a contained area, like paths in a maze. It is a beautiful, baffling place.

I return, circuitously, to the Jupiter and write to Edwin Wister again. I tell him where I am, that any of the Wisters may write to me at the Jupiter Hotel if they wish, and that I will let him know when I leave. I tell him I am well, for really, what can anyone do to alleviate my particular difficulties? I give my letter to a maid, then time stretches heavy ahead of me.

I could roam the streets again, but what will that achieve? I could try to find some clever solution to the puzzle of York, but my mind is sluggish and slants ever towards Henry and hurt. I could write to Mr. Garland and tell him exactly what I think of him, but as there are no ladylike words to frame this, I resist. I am furious that I did not take the opportunity to say it when I saw him on the bridge that morning. Doubtless he would not have remembered it, given the state he was in, but it would have given me such satisfaction to tell him that I despise him.

Henry . . . I want to write to Henry . . . I start letter after letter, even though I have nowhere to send one, until the floor of my room is strewn with crumpled balls of paper and I fling down my quill in disgust. So I sit at my window, staring at pigeons sporting amongst the eaves until dusk draws a veil over this, my first day in York.

Heartbreak makes me stupid. I do try, in the days that follow, to set to the task assigned me. I puzzle over letters, speculate theories, and try to piece together probabilities. I sit at my window for hours, thinking of Aurelia, hoping that a childhood memory may trigger a clue, as it did in London. But at inconvenient moments I am invaded by the recollection of Henry's lips on mine, of the light in his eyes. I remember the warm, melting feeling I experience whenever I am close to him and touching him is an irresistible possibility. I turn my mind away most firmly, but he follows me . . .

I write to Mrs. Riverthorpe, apologizing for my anger when we parted. I assure her of my continued regard—not that she will prize it, I'm sure—and beg her to tell me anything she knows, for otherwise I seem doomed to live out the rest of my days at the Jupiter Hotel.

Letters arrive from Madeleine, Michael, and Edwin. They each contain glad news, and I am reassured that elsewhere, outside my own strange, convoluted life, good things can happen. Madeleine is finally betrothed and her letter glows with rapture.

The elderly Mrs. Nesbitt has a beau! Michael reports this with some disgust, but, being a boy, gives me no further details, much to my exasperation. However, he encloses a fair copy of his latest school assignment, a critique of John Donne's poetry. It is very accomplished.

And Edwin announces with delighted modesty that Constance is expecting another child! She has also acquired an alabaster statue of Aphrodite for the conservatory.

Between letters and tears I walk. I rattle around inside the enclosure of these ancient city walls, aware that they present a marvelous opportunity for sketching and learning about architecture but, honestly, I do not care.

I am returning to my hotel one aimless evening when something catches my attention and makes me stop.

I look all around me: a winding street like so many others, with a coffeehouse and a number of shops, all closed now. I consider walking on, but no, something snatched at me and I must know what it is. I gaze at the buildings, the doorways, at the cat that tiptoes past my boots, then shoots away down the street. And then I see, really see, the butcher's shop.

“J. Capland, Butcher,” says the sign. What is familiar about that?

A sudden memory of Mrs. Riverthorpe: “Should you ever find yourself in the North Country, do please look up my friends the Caplands . . . Shall you remember that name, Amy? Capland? Or will Henry's dark eyes drive it from your swiftly dissolving brain?”

I force myself not to think of Henry's dark eyes and stare at the shop. Is Aurelia's tale to end in a
butcher's
shop? No matter, it could end in a slaughterhouse for all I care, if it means I can complete my charge.

I hurry back to take supper in a newly restored frame of mind. I will say this for Aurelia's treasure hunt: for all its difficulties and inconvenience, the feeling of moving one step closer is uplifting.

I feel optimism for the first time since Bath. I might be able to write to Madeleine in just a day or two and tell her I am coming to Twickenham! She and Constance can advise me about Henry and I will find him, however hard that may be. Seeing him face-to-face will be better than any letter could be. I will be free at last and he will be able to see it in my eyes. Yes, I will find him and tell him I am so very sorry . . .

I try to recall what Mrs. Riverthorpe said about the Caplands. It was a radical change of subject, I remember, and with hindsight it is clear that she was imparting important information to me. At the time, however, it merely seemed typical of her fleeting attention: “He is a very good fellow as they go, owns a shop . . . She is as silly a creature as ever lived, but kind-hearted . . . Oh, do not fear, they are nothing like me.”

I pass the evening in a sort of fever of excitement. The end of the trail is within my grasp. I have allowed myself to hope this a number of times, but that was wishful thinking; this is certainty. I am filled with such a sense of vigor and energy as I never knew. I curse British trading laws and the need to wait 'til morning. My slumber is fitful, but deep when it comes.

I wake suddenly, to a startled dawn. Something profound has happened. I sit up, pulsing and alert, while the dawn chorus ripples through my room. I have dreamed.

I remember the dream vividly—a parade of faces. I see them still: Mr. Clay handing me a parcel in the January dawn; Mr. Carlton at the Rose and Crown, with his evangelical zeal for railway travel; dear Mr. Crumm, with his books and periodicals and his handsome grandson; Madeleine and her family; Mrs. Riverthorpe, with her razor tongue and bristling feathers—all those who have helped me on my journey. I saw Henry. And Aurelia, shining like an angel, laughing in the summertime.

It is still too early to find my fate in the butcher's shop. While I wait, I am a-quiver with resolve. The night has changed me. I remember Hatville, I remember it all, and I no longer shrink from the memory. It is what formed me, and this treasure hunt has fired me like clay passing through flame. I will be stronger and better for this, I know that now.

Some things are lost to me forever: I will never see Aurelia again, nor the place that I grew up, and I know deep in my heart that I will never learn the truth about my parentage. So be it. Other things need not be lost unless I choose to give them up. My love for Henry. My friends. My dreams. My self-respect and determination.

The world commanded that Aurelia and I should not be friends, that the differences between us were too vast. We knew differently. Despite our troubled, prohibitive youth, we found laughter in almost everything. We loved bluebells and snowdrops, horses and stories, good food, mornings at the stream, and each other. But I think now that what united us more than anything was that we were both fighters, in our own ways. We both resisted what we were told, preferring to make up our own minds. We chose what was important to
us
.

I had always felt that, without Aurelia, I should collapse. To me, she seemed like the knight in bright armor and colorful array, I her plodding squire. But I find after all that I too am a warrior—I glimpsed her in the mirror at the ball in Bath. I have sensed it every day that I have plodded around London or Bath or York unattended, against rationality and convention, braving condemnation to find my own way, one footstep at a time. I knew it that day in the dining room at Hatville, when I faced down Lady Vennaway and stamped my little foot, just moments before she cut off my hair.

I shall listen to that internal warrior a great deal more henceforth. And as for the dark whisperings in my heart that tell me I shall never be loved? I shall not listen to them. The story of two girls, inseparable and irrepressible, is about to end. Only one story is to continue, and it is mine.

I grow very calm. When the time comes to go to town, I find Mr. Capland's establishment without difficulty, even though I have not previously found my way to any one place in York that I have intended. My days of stumbling about in confusion are ended.

I enter the shop and the butcher looks up from his deft and powerful division of a carcass into salable cuts of meat. I note at once which are intended for a modest family and which for a dinner at a fine household. The smells of blood and fresh meat remind me of my childhood, watching Cook at work in the kitchen. The sight of his cleaver reminds me of Lady Vennaway bearing down on me to slice off my hair. The confusion writ large on the butcher's face at my arrival reminds me that, of course, I look like a lady now.

“Good morning, m'lady,” he says in astonishment. “I trust you are well? Can I help you wi' owt?”

I remember Mr. Crumm approaching me in his bookshop, guessing at once who I was. I remember the Wisters, welcoming me to the bosom. I remember Ambrose's unquestioning acceptance of my appearance at Hades House. In a moment he will understand.

“Good morning, sir. I am well, thank you. Mr. Capland, I am delighted to meet you. I am Amy Snow.”

But light does not dawn. “Beg pardon, Miss Snow . . . ?”

“Amy Snow,” I repeat, for lack of other inspiration. “I am Amy Snow.”

His bafflement visibly deepens. There is no recognition in his face. Instead, I can see him wondering about this eccentric gentlewoman who likes to repeat her own name. He is a tall, broad man with dense black hair and a luxuriantly curling beard. He has peaceful eyes that are at odds with his hulking figure and blood-spattered apron.

“I am sorry, Mr. Capland. I am not explaining myself well. I have come a long way to meet you. I believe that four years ago you met a dear friend of mine. Aurelia Vennaway?”

“Four years ago. Vennaway,” he murmurs, plum-red above his whiskers, poor soul. “I'm sorry, miss. I don't believe so. Beggin' your pardon, miss, why should you come to find me? What is it you want, exactly?”

“Well, I don't know. I thought
you
would tell me why I am here. Surely you remember
Aurelia
? Aurelia Vennaway!”

He clearly thinks I'm a madwoman. “I don't understand . . .”

For a horrible moment I wonder if Mrs. Riverthorpe's change of subject was just that, and not a clue at all.

“Mrs. Riverthorpe, sir, Mrs. Ariadne Riverthorpe of Bath. She is a good friend of yours, I think?”

Snow, Vennaway, Riverthorpe . . . I am firing names at the poor man like arrows, but none hits a target.

He moves his head from side to side, ponderous as a minster bell. “I'm very sorry, miss. I don't know her neither.
Riverthorpe
, you say? Nay, miss.”

“Well, for heaven's sake! No, forgive me, sir—my exasperation is not with you but with my predicament. Mrs. Riverthorpe is a . . . well, I suppose you may call her a friend of mine. She told me not two weeks since that were I ever in this area I should call on her friends the Caplands. You own a shop, she told me, and you have a kindhearted wife.”

“Nay, miss. That is, I don't have any wife yet, though I'm hoping Miss Mary Avery will have me come September.”

“Oh! Well . . . I hope so too. But how very vexing and . . . and . . .
disappointing
!”