Amy Snow (55 page)

The father was a gentleman who had been staying near Enderby that spring. He happened upon Sophy driving cows from one pasture to another. He told her that her hair in the sunlight put him in mind of an angel; he professed himself enchanted with her smile. I sincerely doubt that he was. Sophy's smile was exactly like Amy's—too wide, too clumsy, unrefined. However, he had clearly had designs upon her in that moment and the silly girl believed him.

It sickens me to hear such tales. What a fiend he must have been to debase himself with someone so greatly inferior to him.

This gentleman—she knew him only as “Bradley,” and whether that was a Christian name or a family name I cannot conjecture—stayed for a week and sought her out more than once.

I felt some sympathy with Sophy, knowing the horror of such an act. But no! The girl told me I misunderstood her tears. She was not crying with horror but with heartbreak that he was gone. She could not believe it, for he had told her they would marry.

She had loved every moment with him, she told me. More than anything she had loved their coupling—in the hay loft behind the dairy! She felt her soul flood with light, so she said. I stopped her there. I would not listen to more. I had some extensive experience of these things, after all, and the suggestion that it could be enjoyable was obscene. Profane.

It was too late for Sophy; the act had taken place. But perhaps it was not too late for her soul, that soul of which she spoke so lightly. I urgently explained that this was an act only to be sanctioned within marriage, that taking pleasure in it was as grave a wrong as a woman can commit. It was difficult for her to understand, naturally, for she had not been educated at all. I insisted that the resulting child could be naught but disgrace and shame.

I made her a gift of a cast-off dress. This was seen by her family as a great kindness; in truth its size and unaccustomed style hid her steadily altering shape. When her time was near, I offered her a place at Hatville, that she might carry out only the lightest of duties without raising her family's suspicions. When the child was born, I would take it to the nearest orphanage and Sophy could resume her normal life as soon as possible. She said she wanted to keep it, but I insisted. She need not be marked by it. It would be as if nothing had ever happened.

Then I lost my last, longed-for baby, and I was very ill. Some of my children slipped from me like an involuntary sigh. Others struggled and fought to stay with me—that's how I understood it anyway. This little son (I was convinced that this child was a boy) fought harder than any and I was told that I was very near death with it. I would have died, to bring him to life, but yet again it was all denied me.

When I was able to dress and take to my feet again, my sisters had arrived and Sophy had vanished.

I never learned what happened to her. I did inquire once. She had not gone back to her family and was never heard of again. It was, indeed, as if none of it had ever occurred. Or would have been, but for the appearance of a baby girl, naked in the Hatville snow.

I do not pretend to understand. Sophy loved her child enough to run away with it, ill-considered plan though that was. And then she abandoned it.

•  •  •

I imagine that a sort of nervous lunacy descended upon her. Even I have felt the pull to madness that comes with the terrible experience of loving and melding with a child when all was impossible. Likely she simply lost all sense of what she was doing—she had been distraught over the preceding weeks.

At first I wondered whether the child Aurelia named Amy Snow was in fact some other unfortunate's baby and the timing of the thing was merely malign circumstance. But as Amy grew, there could be no doubt. Every time I saw her clumsy, ugly smile, I saw Sophy accusing me. Her thatch of hair, too, and the way it parted in the center of her brow, was all Sophy, though its dusky color must have come from the father.

I even wondered, in dark moments, whether Sophy deliberately left her own child to die before my eyes, as a direct reproach. There are a number of possibilities, I suppose, and I cannot claim to have the energy to spare for their consideration.

The fact remained that this child, this small girl, who should never have been conceived, who should never have been born, found her way into
my
household to live a full and healthy life under my very nose. The timing was so cruel, just days after losing my sweet Samuel, as I thought of him in private. At each sight of her, grief clanged loud within me. I told Cook I must never see her.

It worked well enough for a time—I thought the solution imperfect but functional. But then Aurelia—recalcitrant, contrary Aurelia—made a pet of her, and then a sister, and the rest makes for a very sour history.

•  •  •

Now Aurelia is gone and so is Amy. Her departure is the one good thing to come out of Aurelia's death. I breathed my first full breath in seventeen years when her obstinate little form finally vanished into the gray gloom of a January day, months ago. I believed I should have peace of mind at last.

But the memories of Sophy grew strong; I remembered details I had not considered in years. She chose names—Flora for a girl, Nicholas for a boy—even though I told her the orphanage would do as they pleased. Why should I remember
that
? She told me the father came from Devon and rode a white horse. Well, of course he did. She would sing to the baby inside her sometimes, when she did not know I was near. Should I have sung to mine?

Perhaps I hoped these shreds of someone else's story would leave me if I passed them on to Amy. Perhaps she
should
know her history, after all those years of gypsies and princesses and Charles Vennaway's bastard child. I told myself many times that I owed her nothing, that her survival was due to my condescension. But I know the truth.

When Arabella returned to Surrey bursting with news that she had seen Amy Snow glittering like a ruby pendant at the heart of a Bath society ball, I knew I must chase her, just this once, and tell her what I knew if I could.

Arabella's certainty as to how Amy has gained her fortune I believe not at all. My sister is a fool. I am certain that Aurelia left her a great legacy; doubtless she went to some extraordinary lengths to hide the fact. It was well that she did, for Charles would have fought it. Deprived of a bloodline, he grows closer than ever about money. I could not care less.

I have not seen Amy Snow. I know, I feel it deeply, that I will never lay eyes on her again. Quite as I have always wanted. The life I face is barren and burdened—but thus it ever was. The chapter is closed.

I am returned, yes, with the knowledge unshared. But really, it is such a very mundane sort of a tale; as secrets go it is hardly original or interesting. What is it, after all, but the story of one small life, obscured forever?

I'm tremendously grateful to all the amazing and talented professionals I've “won,” thanks to the Search for a Bestseller competition. I couldn't have wished for anyone better to work with, or to bring
Amy Snow
into the world for me. So a BIG and heartfelt thank-you to ALL at Furniss Lawton, Quercus, Plank PR, and WHSmith for their expertise, support, and the warm welcome they've given me. Special thanks go to my truly inspiring agent, Eugenie Furniss, and my very brilliant editor, Kathryn Taussig. And, of course, to Richard and Judy.

Also, thank you, Therese Keating, for being the first of the competition team to read and love Amy.

Huge thanks and love to my own readers, who were my cheerleaders through the writing process and have blessed me with priceless enthusiasm and feedback: Wendy Hammond, Ellen Pruyne, Marjorie Hawthorne, Andy Humphrey, and Jane Rees (aka Mum).

Likewise to the other friends in my Swansea and London posses who have supported and encouraged me in so many ways over the past year. Lisa Mears, Cheryl Powell, Karen Wilson, Patsy Rodgers, Lucy Davies (Research Associate!), Kathryn Davies, Sarah Cole, Anna Hunt, Stephanie Basford-Morris, Rosie Stanbridge, Ludwig Esser, Jacks Lyndon, and Bethan Jones: your friendship and general amazingness make my world a better, richer place and make it possible for me to do what I do.

I would like to thank York Writers, a truly talented and motivated writing group, for supporting my literary dreams and for being the first to comment on the opening pages of
Amy Snow
.

And last but very definitely not least, thank you to my wonderful and ever-supportive parents, without whom I would probably never have seen the competition flyer at all and
Amy
would still be six pages long.

Simon & Schuster Paperbacks Reading Group Guide

AMY SNOW

TRACY REES

Eight-year-old heiress of Hatville Court, Aurelia Vennaway, finds an infant abandoned in a snowbank and names her Amy Snow. Her parents, Sir Charles and Lady Celestina, reluctantly allow Amy to be raised with their only child. Years later, Aurelia dies and Amy is cast out of Hatville Court, facing an uncertain future. But Aurelia has left Amy a small fortune and a bundle of letters with a coded key, a treasure hunt that only Amy can follow. As she travels around England in pursuit of Aurelia's messages, a life-changing discovery awaits . . . one that will enable Amy Snow to discover who she
really
is.

1. How do the mysterious circumstances surrounding Amy's birth link her to the Vennaway family? Given Lady Celestina's tragic history of miscarriages, why do she and her husband prefer to turn Amy over to an orphanage rather than rear her as their child?

2. “
What am I?
Respectable young woman or guttersnipe? Servant, sister, or friend? My role in the tale of Aurelia Vennaway puzzles no one more than me. . . .” At the start of the novel, how is Amy's identity inextricably tied to her relationship with Aurelia? How would you characterize the nature of their connection—is Amy more like a sister or a daughter of Aurelia's?

3. What aspects of Aurelia's affluent upbringing does she accept and what does she reject? What does her rescue of Amy against the wishes of her parents indicate about her? How would you describe Aurelia's relationship with her parents?

4. Aurelia's character is mostly revealed through her letters to Amy, through Amy's recollections of her, and through the details provided by the many friends and acquaintances Aurelia made during her time away from Hatville Court. How do these details add up and define Aurelia? How would you describe her temperament, personality, and preoccupations? In what respects does Amy seem like a good companion for Aurelia, and vice versa?

5. As Amy grows up, she finds herself reared by some of the staff at Hatville Court, including Cook; Robin, the undergardener; Benjamin, the groom; and Mr. Henley, the tutor. How well do they substitute for parents? How does Aurelia improve Amy's quality of life?

6. “[Aurelia] knew that if any one thing on earth could compel me onwards, it would be my sense of devotion to her. She could be dead a thousand years and I would still want to please her.” How does the theme of devotion recur in this novel? How does Amy symbolize devotion in all that she does to follow Aurelia's posthumous instructions? How does her burgeoning independence threaten her devotion?