by Tracy Rees
The first of these was Lady Vennaway’s visiting troupe of sisters. Although all were horrified by me, some also expressed sympathy for my poor infant self – and relief that Fate had brought me to a family with such ample fortune that I surely would be no trouble to anyone. (It may be that mischief towards Lady Vennaway, the proudest and most beautiful of the sisters, lurked behind these philanthropic sentiments.)
The second was the appearance, just two hours later, of the Reverend Mr Chorley. If he was dismayed by the gaggle of ladies into which he stumbled, he was soon distracted by the news that awaited him. Aurelia, stubbornly absent since my arrival, suddenly reappeared and informed him of her discovery. Her florid description of the poor blue baby was further embroidered by Gwendoline, the youngest and least circumspect of the aunts. The good reverend was also of the opinion that God had brought me to the Vennaways in order to preserve my life, as well as to bless Lady Vennaway with a priceless opportunity to do her Christian duty and set an example to the whole village.
For the Vennaways, reputation was everything. Her ladyship was cornered. General Aurelia prevailed.
Chapter Three
In the waning light of my lantern I take an envelope from the pocket of my black dress. I weigh it in my hands and think back to the reading of Aurelia’s will. It feels like a full lifetime ago. In fact it was just yesterday.
The funeral – vile occasion – took place in the morning, then we all retreated to nurse our grief in private. At four o’clock, we gathered in the study: Lord and Lady Vennaway, Aurelia’s cousin Maude, myself, Cook and Mr Clay, the village school teacher. In short, her beneficiaries. And Wilberforce Ditherington, her lawyer, of course.
It was a room well befitting the sombre occasion. Indeed the whole house, though splendid, is grim and austere. A new visitor to Hatville might be deceived by the grounds, which are vibrant, lavish and vast. The lush fields and rippling woods, the grand lawns and orchards, the walled gardens massed with herbs and roses are all unchanged these hundred years. Yet the beauty, the abundance, is all on the outside.
The façade of the house is impressive, to be sure. Once inside, however, the new arrival would be hard pressed to contain a shiver. Two of the wings are veiled in dustsheets, for three Vennaways are too few to fill them all. The furniture in the grand rooms is splendid in its way, but also old-fashioned and bare. The tables bear food and the chairs provide places to perch, yet any further inspiration is lacking; it would occur to no one at Hatville to consider comfort or ornamentation.
From the moment of Aurelia’s death I felt my own light die inside me. So the Amy Snow who stood yesterday in the corner of the gloomy study, most despised of all present, could no longer feel the excoriating looks shot her way. Mr Ditherington read to us how Aurelia wished to dispose of her personal fortune and the words blew over me like sand. Sums of money, he intoned, had been distributed to the various philanthropic causes Aurelia supported: the Society for the Education of the Lower Classes; the Surrey Anti-Cholera Movement; the Alliance for the Promotion of Humane Housing for the Destitute and so on. Aurelia’s parents gazed out of the window, as ever unenthused and mildly disconcerted by Aurelia’s charities. Then Mr Ditherington came to the more personal bequests and the Vennaways paid attention once more.
Mr Clay trembled when he heard the sum she had bequeathed to his little school. It would mean repairs, supplies, extension, his long-held dream come true.
Cousin Maude was delighted to receive all of Aurelia’s sumptuous dresses, bonnets and cloaks. Even as an invalid Aurelia had remained incongruously passionate about the latest fashions and regularly commissioned bespoke gowns from London. She had always been considerably – justifiably – vain.
Cook wept when she heard that Aurelia had left her several items of jewellery, including her gold and ruby heart-shaped locket. Lord and Lady Vennaway looked pained but Cook was not the dangerous one here. She was a family servant of longstanding; it was inevitable that Aurelia should have some affection for the woman. And, being Aurelia, she was bound to be inappropriately generous.
It was I who was the danger, for I had been closer to her than anyone. Despite my shameful beginnings, and their insistence that I was a lowly, utterly dispensable servant, Aurelia had persisted in elevating me to lady’s maid, then companion and, in the last months, private nurse. They had tried to evict me with multiple cruelties both petty and great. But Aurelia would not be parted from me and I have a powerful capacity for endurance.
When my name was read, the whole party stiffened. Aurelia’s parents bristled, waited to hear what insufferable extravagance she would bestow upon me posthumously. In the event, it was surprisingly inoffensive:
To Amy Snow, true friend and devoted companion through these long years of my illness, I leave ten pounds, a sum that I know she will manage wisely to start a new life wherever she may please. Also, my gold and garnet ring, which I entreat her to wear in memory of me. Also, my recent sketchbook capturing my impressions of this past autumn, made brighter through her friendship, which burned like a good fire to dispel the chill of my impending departure.
I was aware of the sighs of relief all around. There was no need for a scene so soon after Aurelia’s death. The ring she had left me was less valuable than Cook’s locket – of sentimental value mostly. The money at least removed the necessity for them to decide what to do with me; I knew they would not supplement it with a single penny. The sketchbook, though vastly personal, was more meaningful to me than to them. They could bear to allow it. Ah, how well she knew us all.
Ten pounds. This was the sum of money that Mr Ditherington gravely counted out and pressed into my palm late yesterday afternoon. A ring and a sketchbook. These were the keepsakes I slid onto my finger, tucked into my carpet bag, knowing I would leave Hatville Court for ever the next day. I would have been packed off the moment Aurelia passed if her feelings for me had not been so well known in the neighbourhood. If I had not been at the funeral, people would have talked and the Vennaways could not abide talk. Then of course I was needed at the reading of the will and they could not be seen to turn me out so late. Such tenuous threads of timing and circumstance made possible what happened the next morning. This morning. Today!
I slept fitfully, riven with loneliness and afraid of a future that I could not imagine. But I trusted Aurelia: if she said I could start a new life with ten pounds, then that is what I would do. This uneasy mix of trust and fear bore me through to morning, when I struggled upright in the dusty winter shadows to stand at the window and stare at the horizon, in the hope that it would yield some inspiration.
And so it did, though not in a way I could have anticipated. Mr Clay was pacing in the kitchen garden.
I was astonished. He had of course gone home yesterday after the reading. Why was he back so soon, and amongst the vegetable plots? Surely he could not have business with the Vennaways, a lowly schoolteacher with no breeding?
Then he looked up and saw me and raised a hand, his mouth opening into an ‘Ah!’, though of course I could not hear it. He made a sequence of gestures expressing an invitation to join him, an imprecation to be secretive and a great, good-mannered deference all at once. I had not known that communication without words could be so fulsome. Hastily I dressed and bundled back my hair, then ran through the silent passages, out into the walled kitchen garden.
‘Is there somewhere to speak in private? Away from the house?’ he asked at once in a low, urgent voice. Whatever his business, it was clearly too important to waste time on niceties.
So I led him through a gate, along a lane and thence into a small copse. Shrouded by trees and January mist, we would not be observed. The wind whispered secrets in its own incomprehensible language. The trees stood in enigmatic silence, bare and black like the truth of Aurelia’s death.
He glanced around and, satisfied that the place would do, whipped off his hat. ‘I beg your pardon, Miss Snow, for disturbing you at such a difficult time. Only, you see,
I was charged to come.’
‘Charged by whom, Mr Clay?’
He looked bewildered by his own words. ‘By Miss Vennaway.’
My heart stilled. How could this be?
He reached within his overcoat and drew out a parcel. Clutching it, he hesitated. ‘After I returned home last night I felt . . . uplifted by the generous bequest she had made me. I sat in my study and wrote an extensive letter to Miss Page telling her of Miss Vennaway’s generosity and vision. Miss Page and I are betrothed, you know.’
‘I know, Mr Clay, I know.’
‘And then, well, I partook of some chops.’
‘Chops, Mr Clay?’
‘Yes, chops. Simmered with herbs and onions, delicious. I find that good fortune brings on a hearty appetite. And so it was some time before I returned to my study to open the package that Mr Ditherington had entrusted to me. It was quite large, as you may recall, and I expected it to contain a great many legal papers.’
I could not recall the package, distracted as I had been during the reading of the will. But if there were some final word from her, I would give everything I owned for it.
‘In fact, it contained very little for me. A banker’s draft for the amount stated and a letter containing very kind sentiments for the school’s future and my matrimonial happiness. The letter also contained a request. And . . . there was this.’ He handed the parcel to me at last.
‘Amy Snow’ was written on the outside in Aurelia’s familiar handwriting, in Aurelia’s favourite violet ink. I could hardly believe it. I looked up at Mr Clay’s earnest face.
‘The request was that I should deliver this to you in person before you left Hatville Court, and let no one else know that I had done so. I could not let her down.’
‘She has thought of everything,’ I said in a low voice.
‘You meant everything to her. I wish you luck, Miss Snow. I hope you will count me as one friend, at least, wherever you may go.’
He bowed and I curtseyed, then we took our leave. He wished me Godspeed and I blessed his endeavours for the school, strongly suspecting that I would never see good Mr Clay again.
I would not linger. I was dressed now and half packed. If I could leave before encountering the Vennaways, it would spare us all one last discomfort. But first I was impatient for some word of further explanation. Hastily I opened the parcel and withdrew an envelope. The envelope contained a sheaf of money that I did not count and a letter, which I read at once. I dared not risk lingering to read it in the house; even in my room I could not rely upon privacy. So I stayed in the copse, in the half-light, reading and shivering and quite unable to believe the words before me.
Then I hurried back inside. I finished packing, buckled my carpet bag and brushed my wayward cloud of dark hair, readying myself for the road.
My heart nearly jumped into my mouth when the bedroom door suddenly burst open. I spun round to see Lord Vennaway stalking towards me, face grey, moustache shivering on his lip.
‘You!’ he rasped, running a hand through his hair, plunging it into a pocket, withdrawing it in a fist, pocketing it again. ‘You are here and you should not be, you should never have been. Who are you, anyway? Taking advantage of my girl’s soft heart and innocence. Wheedling your way into her affections. Staying here where you were not welcome. Schemer! Vagabond! Baseborn! You should have died, not her. We treasured her, but she was blighted like a rose. And you were poison in her ear. You were unfit company for her. She might have lived if you had let her be but you wouldn’t. You wouldn’t!’
I had never heard him speak so. In fact I rarely heard him speak at all – we avoided each other as much as possible in the usual run of things. His wife was more often my tormentor; I had heard from her countless times that the wrong child thrived, that Aurelia had been destined for greatness, that I should have been left to die in the snow. Lord Vennaway, by contrast, was merely a disapproving presence – a raincloud over a picnic. The reality of the man, here in my room, angry, tragic and raving, was deeply alarming. I backed away from him.
‘What have you there?’ he demanded, pushing past me and seizing my carpet bag.
I gasped in horror. The precious package! I must not lose it before I had even inspected its contents. I must not let Aurelia down at the very outset!
At least the envelope was safe in my skirt. Instinctively my hand went to it and I felt its papery crackle. Lord Vennaway stared at me and for an awful moment I thought he would grab my hand, find the letter and the money. But instead he started hunting through my bag – oh, humiliating invasion though it was. Clothes, books, undergarments (I closed my eyes in mortification) and old letters were tossed through the air to land on bed and floor as he grunted in the passion of his search. The parcel was discovered in a trice.
‘What’s this?’ he demanded, seeing Aurelia’s handwriting on the wrapping.
I had to speak. ‘A birthday present. From Aurelia.’
‘A birthday present? You don’t have a birthday. You have no birth worth marking.’ His eyes locked onto mine.
I would not be undone. I had heard worse.
‘We used to pretend a birthday for me. In January. The day I was found. It was a few days before she . . . she . . .’ My eyes filled with tears. For the love of God I could not say died. ‘I kept it,’ I struggled on, ‘to have something from her after . . . after . . .’
Aghast I watched him turn it over as though to open it.
‘No!’ I could not help myself. I reached out to seize it and he pushed me hard away from him.
He tore the paper and I watched, wretched with helplessness. Some kind of gauzy green fabric spilled out, soft and feminine, perhaps with embroidery, I could not tell in the shock of it all. He cast it away too. The wrapping landed on the bed, the green gauze slithered to the floor.
‘Get out!’ he hissed. ‘Leave my house and never return. We have tolerated your unsavoury presence too long. Now Aurelia is gone and any affection for you is dead with her. Know that if you ever set foot on this property again we will call the constable and make sure you are removed for good.’
Shaking, I gathered my possessions. No careful packing this time; I just bundled them in anyhow. The green fabric and torn wrapping I stuffed in first, then everything else on top, while he watched me fumble and drop things. My only thought was to escape with Aurelia’s bequest undiscovered. I packed so badly the bag scarcely closed; my old grey dress spilled from the top.
There were no farewells. Not even Cook came to see me off, though I imagine she was forbidden to. The door was slammed behind me and I was on that long, straight road while my hair still crackled from the brushing. But the money and letter were undetected and the parcel was still in my possession. That was all that mattered.
Chapter Four
The Barley Room in the Rose and Crown is a quarter the size of my room at Hatville and contains twice the amount of furniture. It smells of polish and soot. It feels lonely and unfamiliar but it offers blessed privacy; at last I can investigate Aurelia’s gift thoroughly.
The green fabric is silk, embroidered with tiny sprays of Myosotis – forget-me-not. It is a light stole such as fine ladies wear to summer balls to veil ivory shoulders. When I bury my nose in the silky folds, I fancy I can smell jasmine and moonlight. It is not the season for such a pretty thing, nor am I the girl to wear it.
I count the money and discover it is a hundred pounds. I gaze at it in bewilderment, then hide it, for want of a better place, in my wash bag. It is not yet safe for me to have it.
I read the letter again by lamplight, hours after my first reading in the greyish sigh of early morning. Now the page is lit by the lantern’s deep golden glow.
My treasured Amy,
If you are reading this letter, then Mr Clay has carried out my request, as I feel sure he will, and I am gone, as I know I must. Dear heart, I know you must be in great pain now. We have been lucky, haven’t we, in our time together? I do not know many who can boast the dept
h of affection and great camaraderie that we have shared. I may have been born an only child, but I have a sister nonetheless.
Enough of this, for you know my sentiments well enough and there is much that I must tell you. Close as we were and are, dearest, there are secrets I have kept from you. Not through lack of trust, I hope you know. You will understand when you learn them, as I always meant that you should. But they are not secrets I can simply set out in a letter – at least, not this one. I wish with all my heart that I could tell you in person, our heads bent together in the firelight as we have sat so often. Prepare yourself, dear Amy, for much that you do not know.
Do you remember, dear, when you were little, how I used to delight in creating treasure hunts for you? I would labour away at clues and secret locations after you had gone to bed, creep out to plant them and then enjoy every moment of watching you run about the place to find the treasure! (Usually nothing more than an old doll or a lace hanky, but we both know why that was, don’t we? And once, some handmade chocolates that I brought you from London – at least you could eat that gift before they took it! Oh, very well then, we both ate it.)
What have these old memories to do with here and now, you must wonder. Just this: this is the start of my last treasure hunt for you. Think of my letters (for there will be several) as the clues – each will lead on to the next. I have planned for my story to unfold just a little at a time, with every letter taking you further from Hatville, further from the ignominy of your treatment there: safer and stronger and freer. By the fourth or fifth letter, the trail will long have run out for anyone else. No one knows me as well as you, dear.
So forgive me if there are no answers here. Forgive me, too, if the tone of this letter is all wrong. Perhaps these are not the perfect first words to send to someone from beyond the grave. But you see, as I write this, I am still here, seated at my desk in the room you know so well. I said goodnight to you just five minutes ago and I will see your sweet smile tomorrow. We plan to sit in the rose garden after breakfast. It is hard to write as a dead woman when life is still so sweet.