by Tracy Rees
I take a sip of my wine, savouring both the taste and the fact that Henry has asked my opinion. He watches me attentively as he waits for my answer. ‘I think the study of medicine a very admirable endeavour, but I understand the training is something of an endurance challenge. I do not wonder that you should find it restrictive. But I am sure you will find your way, one way or another.’
‘Thank you, Amy.’ He looks thoughtful then, as though my comments really matter. I wish I could say more. I wish I could prolong this conversation for ever.
He reminds me of Aurelia – bright in personality and appearance, able and energetic in his mental abilities, and restless and idealistic to boot. I hope that as a man he will find the world easier to navigate than Aurelia did.
*
All too soon the clock chimes midnight and I am dismayed. I had no idea so many hours could pass so swiftly with relative strangers. I am eager to follow Aurelia’s trail, of course, and indeed I have no choice, but it is hard to be winkled from the company of cheerful friends so newly discovered.
Both Henry and Albert insist on escorting me back to Jessop Walk in Albert’s carriage. I think they feel that the presence of two gentlemen is more seemly than one, and Kate is still in bed. Occasionally, her sneezes have drifted down to us like dandelion seeds. I am touched and appalled when she staggers to the stairs to call farewell to me. I return the courtesy by prescribing a rum toddy.
The gentlemen rattle me home, except that of course it is not home at all. The dusty, poky house in Holborn felt more welcoming to me than Hatville ever was, and Jessop Walk is lacklustre and lonely in comparison to both.
I tiptoe through the silent house to my room. This evening’s laughter and warmth have made me lonelier than ever and I sit on my bed, still wearing my cloak and boots. I feel I need some time for this experience to sink in. For the very first time I have had a taste of belonging. It is the feeling that accompanies that old dream of mine, the one with the cottage and the pony . . .
I cast my mind back over the last few days. My landlady here, the Begleys on the train, Mr Carlton in the Rose and Crown, they have all been helpful and courteous. And I have been thankful in the extreme for it! But with them all, I was still Amy Snow of Hatville, stiff, awkward and nervous of giving offence. With Albert and Henry . . . I felt something different altogether. I felt comfortable! I talked with them – I laughed!
With all my heart I wish I could accept Albert’s invitation, meet his daughter Annie, lodge in their home. But the decision to stop and rest is not mine to make. I have to keep moving on. I cannot abandon my quest every time I have a congenial encounter.
I sleep fitfully and wake to a sparkling morning. The rain has stopped and I am bound for the country. It is the first day of February.
Part Two
Chapter Twenty-Five
At long last, something is easy. I need go to no exhausting lengths to discover the address of the family I must visit, nor must I mine my memories, sifting through long-forgotten moments as though searching for weevils in flour. I know more about them than anyone else Aurelia encountered on her travels. They are the Wisters of Twickenham; to be precise, of Mulberry Lodge, Orleans Lane, Twickenham Meadows, Middlesex. I used to fancy the address exotic when I saw it inscribed at the top of Aurelia’s letters.
Apparently there are any number of ways to reach Twickenham: by omnibus, by stagecoach, or by boat. Or one could go by train to Richmond and then walk. So I learn from the informative Mrs Woodrow, who is happy to discuss the merits and drawbacks of each journey.
Thus, after a brisk walk through rain-washed streets, I am seated inside a gleaming mail coach at St Paul’s, peeping through the window at the great cathedral. The vast façade of Portland stone is blackened and smoky. As the early morning freshness falls away, it seems to fume and brood.
The coach reminds me of one of Lord Vennaway’s horses; it is so sleek and well kempt, tacked out in shining brass and leather. It has a name, Meteor, which actually was the name of one of Lord Vennaway’s horses. Although that first Meteor was not maroon and black, nor did he have scarlet wheels, nevertheless the one reminds me of the other; something about pride, the promise of speed and impatience to be off.
I paid without hesitation for a seat inside. The thought of swinging myself up onto the roof and rocking along all the way to the country, exposed to the elements, requires a sense of adventure as yet dormant in me. Anyway, I no longer have to pretend I am eking out a small sum of money; no one here will recognize me.
Nevertheless, I look all around me before allowing a tall gentleman with very blond hair and very blue eyes to help me climb inside. I hardly expect to see a predatory Vennaway at this stage – yet still I feel an irrational, sharp instinct to check for danger.
There are six of us squashed inside, including a governess with two young charges, both girls, one several years older than the other. I make the inevitable comparison and feel it all over again, the loss of her. Then there is an extremely rotund gentleman with a red face. His belly is so high and straining, so buoyant and round, that it threatens to take him over altogether. I cannot help but think that a gentle walk might serve him better than a jolting, jerking stagecoach. In fact, a good deal of gentle walking, every day.
The last passenger in is the golden-haired gentleman who helped me board, as finely dressed a person as ever I saw at Hatville. He wears a shining, powder-blue cravat to match his eyes. He makes me feel the way I felt at Hatville, shabby and unprotected. However, he is extremely solicitous to all and offers assistance to myself and to the governess as abundantly as the sun dispensing sunbeams.
‘Allow me to offer my services should you require any aid,’ he says to me when we are settled. He is seated opposite me and I do not know where to put myself for the nearness of him. ‘I understand the delicate position of a lady travelling alone, though circumstances sometimes dictate, do they not?’
I somehow succeed in both nodding and shaking my head at the same time, eager only to convey gratitude for his concern and agreement with anything he says. No fine gentleman at Hatville ever spoke to me with such delicacy – or, indeed, at all – save for Bailor Dunthorne, and that is not a memory worth cherishing!
Now he inclines his golden head to the governess. ‘And you, madam, not alone but charged with a great responsibility, I see. Likewise if you should need anything, I am at your command.’
‘I am unlikely to need anything at all, sir. I only go to Hammersmith.’ Her tone conveys an unmistakable message: Do not pity me, do not speculate about me; I can manage perfectly well. I should like to be able to emulate it.
‘Of course. Merely a stone’s throw and a pleasure to travel with such a precious cargo, I am certain.’
She relents a little. ‘Thank you, sir. They are dear girls.’ Then she turns her attention to the window. The precious cargo is certainly well trained, I observe. They do not move, speak or make faces at each other. They stop reminding me of Aurelia and myself around Westminster.
With a cry and a crack of whip we are snatched into motion! From the very first instant, I can feel the whole process: horses leaning into harness, harness pulling on shaft, shaft yanking at carriage. I can feel the wheels spinning us across the city along routes laid down long, long ago – routes soon to fall into disuse, they say, now the trains are come.
The shining gentleman and the portly gentleman make gentlemanly conversation. ‘Sebastian Welbeck,’ says the latter, reaching a chubby hand around his own girth. ‘And you are Mr . . .?’
‘Garland,’ supplies the other, leaning forward easily to shake hands. When he introduces himself, Mr Welbeck turns even redder.
‘Quentin Garland of Chiswick?’ he splutters. ‘Honoured to make your acquaintance, sir, entirely honoured. Financier, entrepreneur, leading light of society, is there anything to which your talents do not run?’ He proceeds to grill Mr Garland as thoroughly as a fish for his views about the railway.
I am unsurpri
sed that he is a man of towering accomplishment. I marvel that within two days I have met two men, each blessed with a surplus of looks and manners and yet so different. Henry was easy and frank and merry. Mr Garland is polished, polite and poised. Henry was all rumpled curls and sprawling limbs. Mr Garland looks as though no breeze would dare ruffle him, no act of God could disarrange him. Henry is still trying to find his way in the world, beset with the uncertainties and disappointments of mortal men. Mr Garland is set fast in his life, successful and self-contained. Henry warmed my heart. Mr Garland dazzles me. In fact, he chills me a little. Both are very pleasing to look at.
At Hammersmith we lose the governess and her girls. Three old men take their place, nod curtly and resume a fiery debate about curry powder. Because Mr Welbeck is so large, they all three crowd in beside me.
‘Are you quite comfortable there, Miss Snow? Would you like to exchange seats?’ Mr Garland enquires in a low voice. His discretion is wasted – the debate rages, intense and flavourful. The horsehair seats are lumpy, and prove scant protection from the vigorous reverberations of the road.
‘I am quite well, I thank you, sir,’ I reply and my voice comes out in a whisper. I am annoyed with myself for being such a mouse. But he is the sort of person I used to see at Hatville, whisking past and bent upon seeing Aurelia, and he is but a few feet away. His legs are so long that, even folded elegantly as they are, they reach into my half of the carriage. For once I am glad that mine are so very short and I curl them as close as possible to my seat.
Looking concerned, he leans towards me. I shrink back. ‘And do you have a great way to go?’
I hesitate. ‘Not so very far, sir, thank you.’
Mr Welbeck looks annoyed at having lost the great man’s attention, which he wins back with a detailed supposition about stocks and shares that I cannot follow at all. As we travel and conversations roll around me, I find myself glancing at Mr Garland from time to time. It cannot be the thing, I am sure, but he does rather lend himself to contemplation. He is a man of around thirty, neither young and foolish nor old and stale. I find myself fascinated by the perfect features, the exquisite dove-grey costume and his top hat, the tallest I have ever seen. How does a human being achieve such easy perfection? Mortified lest he should notice me looking, I apply myself to the view.
My thoughts stray to yesterday, to the indigo sky above London and the hammering rain. The discovery of the letter and dinner with Henry and Albert. Is it possible to miss people one has met only once? It seems that it is.
We roll through Richmond. I see gracious buildings, green flashes of river and a beautiful bridge spanning the Thames. I see a world of willows and floating islands. London has been left most decidedly behind.
‘A fine view, is it not?’ remarks Mr Garland, smiling at me. I think he has noticed the wonder in my eyes.
We rattle to a halt at the bridge, pay the toll and rattle off again into Twickenham. We pass through meadows and market gardens, all glimpsed in snatches and patches, pinned awkwardly as I am by the curry-loving gentlemen.
‘Twiiiick’num!’ cries our driver, drawing us to a dramatic, whinnying stop. ‘The George, King Street, ladies and gents.’
I start to my feet, self-conscious in front of so many male companions, but they are all indifferent, saving Mr Garland. He is out before me and the door swings wide. He is helping me disembark; my bag is in my hand.
‘Miss Snow, is there anyone to meet you? May I escort you anywhere?’ He offers me his arm. I do not know what to do with it! I solve the conundrum inelegantly, by holding out my hand for him to shake. My shabby gloves and his perfect ones meet briefly.
‘Not at all, sir, though you are very kind, and I thank you. I have but a short way to go from here. It is a beautiful day and I love to walk, I assure you.’
He hesitates, then sweeps me a bow of consummate elegance, looking directly into my eyes. I blush, and curtsey. Bidding me good day, he crosses the street to the King’s Head, which he doffs his hat to enter, and I heave a sigh of relief at being returned to my customary solitude. I could not fault his manners nor the consideration he showed me, and yet . . . I can let out a breath now that he is gone.
Alone in the bustle of King Street, I acknowledge to myself that, once again, I do not know where I am or which way to go.
Chapter Twenty-Six
I do not hurry, for no one is expecting me. I ask the coach driver for directions to Twickenham Meadows, then ask a young girl driving pigs where I might find Orleans Lane. Soon I stand before the gates of the Wister home, Mulberry Lodge. I have spoken to more strangers in the last few days than in all my life before.
The house stands quite alone, serene and self-possessed. It is square and white, arranged around a dark-blue door. Tangled, leafless vines clamber all about it like cheerful children. I slip through the gates and approach the house, which grows prettier the nearer I draw. There are spreading lawns and cedar trees.
A dog emerges from some bushes and lollops to greet me. He is a shambling, hairy hound in a sandy shade. I cannot recognize the breed; like me he is neither one thing nor the other. He bounds about, barking, and I can’t help but smile. I have often thought dogs to be the most sensible creatures – no calling cards or conventions, merely food, sleep and romping. There were no dogs at Hatville.
‘Hello, Caversham. It is Caversham, isn’t it?’ I kneel down to stroke his back. Hair springs up at every angle. Delighted that his fame precedes him, he yowls in joy and rolls over, presenting an equally hairy underside.
The front door opens. ‘Caversham? Cav! Whatever’s the – Oh! Hello!’ It is a young woman, smiling and drawing a shawl close around her. She comes out onto the steps in nothing but her indoor slippers.
‘Please don’t catch cold,’ I call, getting to my feet. Caversham sticks his head in my skirts and follows me. ‘Miss Wister, I apologize for calling unannounced. But I should very much like to speak with you.’
‘By all means, my dear,’ she beckons me in, ‘only let me close the door on this vile affair that passes for a climate. There. What is your name? Is it me you have come to see, or my father perhaps?’
‘Well, it is both of you. All of you, in fact. Miss Wister, I am Amy Snow.’
A tremulous second passes, during which I fear the name means nothing to her, then understanding dawns in a great bound.
‘Oh my! Amy Snow. Why, welcome, my dear, come in, come in! We have been expecting you for the longest time. Mama! Papa! Children! ’Tis Amy Snow come to us at last! Mama!’
A great many people suddenly thunder out from a great many different rooms. I can hardly take in my surroundings or their faces, only a vast solicitous fluttering and a great many tight embraces which pull me this way and that but put me back approximately where I was to start with.
My outer garments are removed, my muddy boots are whisked away and a pair of slippers proffered. I am placed with great determination in a chair before a fire and a silver tray bearing a plate of cake and a glass of Madeira is laid in my lap. I am forbidden to speak and urged to eat and drink. I endeavour to comply, though it is a little unnerving to have six or seven, no, eight faces watch me as I eat, smiling and nodding the while, as though I demonstrate an inspiring talent. I am welcomed to the bosom indeed.
‘Now,’ says a motherly woman – Mrs Wister, I assume. ‘What would you like to do first, my dear? Would you like to see your room? Would you like a rest? Or would you like to tell us your story? Or shall the girls show you around, so you may feel quite at home?’
I look around me, bewildered, at a room decorated in a deep teal-blue with gold and raspberry accents. I can hardly speak for the difficulty in adjusting from my recent trials to this new and entirely delightful reality.
‘Indeed, I hardly know! I did not know until last night, you see, that I was to come here. I do not know how much you know of Aurelia’s plans for me, but there was a letter, and she bade me come . . . Only please, if this is any inconvenience at
all, pray tell me. I should hate to impose and I can easily take a room in the village if that would be easier for everyone.’
‘A room in the . . .? I should think not, Miss Snow. Easier? Why, we are so eager to know you we should be tramping back and forth to visit you every five minutes. We should quite wear out our shoes.’
‘Of course you must stay with us, Miss Snow,’ says another pretty girl, not the one who met me at the door. ‘Why, we have all been looking forward to meeting you for the longest time.’
‘Miss Snow,’ Mr Wister stands up, hands in waistcoat, ‘it must be very strange for you, I think. You say you did not know of the arrangement until yesterday? Well, of course, we knew of it, for we made it! Therefore we have the advantage of you. Dear Aurelia was a lovely girl but one of life’s eccentrics – she has conducted a curious little business here. No doubt she had her reasons. But doubtless you would like to hear it from us, so let me reassure you.
‘We made Miss Vennaway promise to send you to us when . . . when the sad time came. We wish you to stay here with us in our home for as long as you would care to – for ever if you like! We are a large brood as you see, and no doubt a little overwhelming, but we’re a tame lot, more bounce than bite, just like Caversham over there. I believe you’ll be most comfortable here, Miss Snow, if you’ll just let us take care of you, feed you up a bit.’
‘You do look half starved, dear,’ puts in his wife. ‘That was well said, Edwin, for I had not thought of it from Miss Snow’s point of view. We are strangers to her, after all. Only you see, dear, we have heard so much about you from Aurelia that we feel we know you very well!’
‘And I you, from her letters and stories.’ I gather my composure at last. The long line of faces begins to make sense to me. ‘You are Mrs Wister, of course – Mrs Bolton’s cousin.’