by Tracy Rees
I know all too well what she means. How many long hours have I spent weaving scenarios that vindicate my mother, which allow for some hope of love in my past?
Why did I not tell you any of this? Dear little bird, I was ashamed! I felt so humiliated by the whole shabby affair I could not bring myself to tell even my sweetest and best confidante. All I could think of was to gain my freedom and then, away from Hatville, to be able to breathe, to think, and find a way to put right all that had become so difficult and complicated. Little did I know then that further complications awaited me in droves, dear, but that is a story for another time. This letter is quite long enough and I shall delay just a little longer before I tell you the rest.
Have you opened your trunk yet? I am certain you have not. Do so now. Amy, you will find new clothes therein. Dearest, I want you to set aside all thought of the treasure hunt for the next two months. Perhaps it may seem a great delay to you but you need time to rest and heal after all you have been through. You need to know what safety feels like. I believe this time is the best gift I can give you – better than money or dresses.
I regret that you must move on at all, but in time you will understand. Therefore, there is no clue in this letter. There is nothing for you to do now, except revel in kindness and safety. There is nothing for you to puzzle over, save for how you could have been so dearly devoted to one so scattered and selfish. Do not fear, the next letter will find you in its own time.
Meanwhile, try to be happy. Try to feel yourself a young woman of privilege. The clothes will help.
With greatest love from your devoted
AV
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Try on clothes? At such a time as this? Only Aurelia could think of it.
Bailor Dunthorne. A forced engagement. I had thought I knew everything about her. How much more will I learn before my quest is done?
Nothing at all for the next two months – that is the brief answer to that!
It is not that I do not want to stay here, I want that very much. It is not that I cannot benefit from the rest – last night’s terrors testify to that. I have not had such nightmares since those dark days after Aurelia collapsed in the orchard. But to wait so long before another clue is in my hands, let alone any proper answers! Aurelia!
I am pacing the floor, the sun a pale peace offering upon the floorboards, when there is a quiet tap at my door. It is Miss Madeleine, come to see if I need anything.
I am embarrassed by the state of me – hair in disarray, shabby dishabille – but she appears not to notice. Her eyes go at once to the open trunk and the pages scattered over the rug.
‘You’ve opened it at last,’ she says softly. ‘There is a letter. I thought there must be. I knew she would not leave you without some last word.’
If you only knew, I think.
‘I helped her choose the clothes.’
‘Truly?’ I am granted a sudden glimpse of Aurelia’s time away from me. Shopping for me. Enlisting the help of a friend. Suddenly I feel silly for having been too preoccupied to appreciate this.
‘You must be very astonished,’ she continues as though reading my mind. ‘Everything different and now your clothes are to change also. Shall I leave you alone, Amy, or would you like me to bring up some tea for both of us?’
‘Tea would be very pleasant indeed, and your company also. Thank you.’
Madeleine is entirely lovely, I decide. Not in the flashing, flaming manner of Aurelia, but beautiful nonetheless. She is smooth and flaxen and calm. Her limbs are rounded and graceful. Her walk is that of a princess. She may grow plump in later life but she will not look the worse for it. It is her character that illuminates her story-book features and prevents her from being bland. She is as welcome as a new morning.
We take tea at my little table in the window, watching the sun grow in confidence about the garden. Madeleine seems not at all perturbed by my nightgown. Perhaps it is from having sisters. She tells me tales of Aurelia’s visit.
‘We all looked up to her, Priss and I, and the boys. She was extraordinarily vivacious and kind. You must miss her dearly.’
‘I do.’ What a relief to be able to speak of her of my feelings. I unburden myself more than I intend to, then pull myself up short, fearful that I’ve breached some etiquette, but her face is soft.
‘You know, I too had a friend who died very young,’ she tells me, her calm features condensing into a frown. It seems there is heartbreak behind her well-favoured exterior and many advantages. It is as Cook once told me: everyone has their story.
‘I am so sorry. Is it a recent loss?’
‘Not so very recent now. Five years or so ago. Annabelle Sefton was her name. We attended the ladies’ academy together and had known each other since childhood. You might think, having so many siblings, that I would not feel the loss of a friend so keenly but I did.’
‘I can well imagine. How dreadfully young to die. Younger even than Aurelia.’
‘Yes. She was never strong. She had a problem with her lungs. Her parents took her to Italy each winter but she died anyway. She had the sweetest nature and the world for me was a prettier place when I was with her. I am fortunate to have my family, Amy, and we do well for pleasant society besides, but there will never be another Annabelle. What I mean to say is, each person is unique, and loving someone means we love all the small things that make them up. Aurelia cannot be replaced, any more than Annabelle, but you have my true sympathy and friendship, if that is any comfort to you.’
I start to cry. Oh, this is nothing new of course, but in front of someone else, that is new indeed. Madeleine puts her arm around my shoulders until the sobs have passed.
‘It comes like this,’ she says. ‘It grows easier in time, I promise.’
When she leaves, I apply myself to the trunk at last. I know she longs to see me admire the dresses she chose with Aurelia, and I will show her willingly, but I must go through them alone first in case of more secrets.
I fold back the muslin and gasp at the richness of the deep red silk that glows up at me. Red! It is an evening gown – lavish and low-cut, with silk roses caught up in the puffed and dipping sleeves. It is an evening gown such as I shall never, ever wear! I cannot stop staring at it, half horrified and half in love. It is a dress for the Aurelias of this world, not the Amy Snows.
I lay it on the bed and reach for the next dress with some trepidation. Another evening gown in a deep, inky purple. Did she imagine my life was to be nothing but balls? There is some fashionable net concoction sewn into the satin contours. I cast it on the bed hurriedly and plunge again, hoping for some more sensible clothing. It comes at last, though not until I have gasped my way through three more evening gowns: a pink, an apricot and a silver. These are another girl’s clothes, not mine. And yet they are lovely, more lovely than anything I have seen.
Then follows an array of day dresses and I must admit they are perfect. Modest yet stylish, pretty yet simple, in such a dazzlement of colour and texture I want to wear them all at once. Oh, the delight of it! There is not one item that is black, or navy, or brown or grey. I am not to go into half-mourning, I am to explode!
The trunk, like something from one of Aurelia’s tales, appears bottomless, yielding up slippers and parasols, shawls and stoles and cloaks. There are corsets with what appear to be hundreds of panels, boned and bristling, instead of the corded four-panel creations to which I am accustomed. There are chemises and garters and stockings. The stockings are all white; some are plain, some spotted, some striped and some with little flowers embroidered thereon. The garters are for the most part functional and inoffensive but some . . .! I am a little shocked.
Interspersed here and there between the layers I find little tulle purses stuffed with money. Hundreds and hundreds of pounds! I do not count it now, but I check each one for notes or riddles or clues. As promised, there are none. Only money and yet more money.
It is hard to understand, properly, that this is al
l for me. Pretty things were never permitted me, nor had I enough personal beauty to show them to advantage.
Once, Aurelia gave me a comb for my hair, decorated all over with crystals. I must have been seven years old. I was fascinated by how it glittered; it seemed to hold flames captured in faraway places. And every young girl – however plain she may be – if she has long hair, she is proud of it. So I fixed the comb in mine and felt like a princess. Lady Vennaway glimpsed me in the garden that day. She snatched it from my hair, tearing the strands, and threw it in the lake. From then on, Aurelia stopped giving me gifts that we could not read or eat. Filling my chest must have been her delight and her revenge!
But when the whole chest has been emptied and a mountain of brightly coloured clothing shimmers on my bed, I realize what this is. It is a blank page as sure and undeniable as my blank, snowy baby bed. This is a fresh start.
I am looking at the wardrobe and fortune of a grand lady. My head spins with the thought of it. Aurelia, I am no such thing.
‘And yet,’ her voice argues, as clearly as if she were here beside me, tilting her chin in that way of hers, ‘you grew up in a grand house, did you not? Your closest friend was the young Lady Vennaway. You can ride and paint and embroider and play the piano. You can sing a little, though it is best if you do not. You have a fine education. If you are not a lady, then what? I suggest you apply to any servant, milkmaid or tradesman’s wife . . . they would consider you a lady.’
As ever, it is hard to deny her logic.
Chapter Thirty
The new Amy Snow does not emerge, fully fledged, all at once. And yet, by the time I have been at Mulberry Lodge two weeks I cannot deny a burgeoning transformation inside and out – and all around me. Spring is not yet here, but the song of a solitary, pioneering blackbird when I wake, the smell of something warm and floral on the air in fleeting moments, these signs give me hope. After the past months, hope feels as solid and golden as fact.
Gradually I come to sort the Wister family from one exuberant, good-hearted mass into its component members. I feel close to Madeleine immediately and to Priscilla also, though in a different way. She is my age but she feels like a younger sister. She too has a conventional, smooth prettiness made beautiful by character. It is her dimples that convey everything there is to know about Miss Priscilla. If there is mischief afoot, she will find it.
Both sisters are deeply in love, Madeleine with Mr Daniel Renfrew, who apparently grows ‘Every kind of fruit known to man, Amy!’, and Priscilla with a different gentleman each week. The three of us forge a swift alliance and they do not appear to find me odd or distasteful at all.
I look different, of course. For one thing, I am cleaner than ever I was! All the ladies of Mulberry Lodge take a bath twice a week, a thorough hair washing included, and I am not exempted.
The washing takes place in a tub in front of a blazing parlour fire, and is conducted by Bessy, one of the maids. At Hatville I spent far more time grooming Aurelia than myself, so I feel inhibited at first to receive such delicate attentions. Bessy, however, does not allow for inhibition: delicate is not a word to be associated with her.
While she washes and sloshes, she talks long and openly about her bowel trouble, her womens’ pains, her aching back, her swollen glands. She talks with such earnest and ample detail that it seems foolish to pretend such things do not exist, and downright churlish not to respond in kind. My own health is relatively trouble-free, still I rustle up the occasional sinus trouble and feminine twinge to placate her and often find myself wishing I had more to offer. It is refreshing. Odd, but refreshing.
Since Lady Vennaway severed my hair all those years ago, I have continued to cut it regularly. It is no longer short to my chin but hovers about my shoulders. It is very unfashionable but that is a small price to pay for hours saved each week from working away at tedious tangles. Also, I fancy it suits me better so perhaps I am a little vain after all. It curls around my new caps and bonnets in a way that is . . . almost pleasing.
Then there is the way I carry myself now. I had thought at first to betray my promise to Aurelia in one small particular and continue to wear my old corded corsets. The new ones quite intimidated me. But when I did try the new style (aided and abetted by Madeleine and Priscilla), I found I liked it. It is impossible to feel humble in such a thing. Even when I am tired, my reflection shows me looking poised, proud and energetic. It cannot be impossible to have a bad day in such a corset, but it is impossible to appear to be having one.
Then there are the clothes themselves. My old drab weeds are gone, not burned but laundered and donated to the local almshouses. At the girls’ insistence, and with their attendance, I have tried on each and every item in my chest. Yes, even the scandalous garters, though I took them off again very quickly (then tried them again later, in private). Every gown, even the ones I will never wear, and every shoe. I never liked the colour of my eyes, but set off by the hues Aurelia has chosen, they look striking – cat-like and amber, instead of an indifferent hazel, failing at brown.
I smile more. The little frown is still there; old habits do not fall easily away and there is much to puzzle at in life. But I can smile and puzzle at the same time, it seems. And so this lavishly corseted, beautifully dressed, smiling creature who cannot be me and yet somehow is me is the Amy Snow who participates in life at Mulberry Lodge.
And what a life! Edwin Wister is a lawyer and works a good deal in London, in Holborn to be precise. I have been tempted to ask him if he is familiar with Crumm & Co. I often think of Albert and Henry; that first experience of making new friends, when I was so very alone, has left a great impression on me. I cannot deny that I wish – just very occasionally – that I might one day see Mr Henry Mead again. Perhaps I wish it a little more often than that. But secrecy binds me.
We receive a great many visitors and twice a week the ladies conduct their morning calls; I am always invited. In my first few days I preferred to stay home, walking in the gardens or resting in the conservatory. But soon I am tempted to go along, and so I become part of the accepted social circle of polite Twickenham. People accept without question the arrival of Miss Vennaway’s young companion; everyone remembers Aurelia. I have a sensation of very crumpled wings unfurling, shaking themselves out despite a few dents and scratches and passing an inspection for fatal damage.
Twickenham is a delight. Meadows and market gardens and mansions that dream away their days. A great variety of personages, from foreign nobility to ladies bent on charitable pursuits to reclusive writers who occasionally emerge, ink-spattered and blinking.
The days roll by, growing tentatively greener, swifter and more beautiful – like the river. As winter lifts its wearying hold on the land, flashes of blue are seen in the sky, the muted, dreamy powder blue of spring, of the elegant Mr Garland’s cravat. The social calendar grows fuller, if that can be imagined. Spring balls are planned and the girls grow excited at the prospect of dancing with beaux glimpsed only in drawing rooms since Christmas. They start to plan picnics and regattas and boating parties to Eel Pie Island, including me quite as if I shall always be amongst them. I yield to the illusion, as though drifting on a gentle summer current. I never forget that I shall not see summer at the river, yet it is sweet to pretend that I shall.
Chapter Thirty-One
With the advent of balls comes the necessity for Madeleine and Priscilla to spend a great deal of time in the shops of Twickenham. It is there, one day, that I see a tall, familiar figure. My breath catches, although I can claim no true acquaintance.
The girls nudge each other as he strides down King Street – he is really very fine. He sweeps all three of us an approving gaze and tips his exceptionally tall hat, then disappears into the King’s Head. Inexplicably, I find that I am relieved at escaping the notice of the rather memorable Mr Garland.
But an hour or so later, our paths cross again. We are in a jeweller’s shop. Priscilla has great need of a gold chain to display her op
al pendant to best effect with her oyster-coloured gown. We are all three poring over a display cabinet when a familiar voice greets Mr Price, the appropriately named owner of the shop.
I cannot help but look up. Sure enough, it is Mr Garland, blue cravat gleaming at his throat, hat brushing the ceiling. He looks like an advertisement for gentlemen’s fashions. Mr Garland tips his hat again and smiles, then looks again at me and frowns. Hastily I divert my attention towards a row of gold chains of fascinatingly varied lengths.
‘Excuse me.’
My heart thrums unaccountably. For just a brief instant I feel like running away.
‘Good afternoon, ladies, I beg your pardon for accosting you like this, only –’ he looks directly at me – ‘do I know you? You look familiar, and if that sounds like a lamentable excuse to introduce myself, I assure you it’s not. My name is Quentin Garland. I should hate to pass over an acquaintance if we have met, Miss . . .?’
The girls look at me in astonishment. I can tell they know the name. It has been uttered frequently in the drawing rooms of Twickenham since I have been here; he is quite the man of the moment. I have felt foolishly proud to have met the great man, and his gracious address quite sweeps away my urge to run.
‘I am Miss Snow, Mr Garland. We met once, briefly. It was on the mail coach from St Paul’s to King Street.’
‘Why, so we did! Good heavens! I am pleased to find you looking so exceptionally well. Twickenham obviously agrees with you.’ We shake hands for the second time and this time my gloves are the equal of his own. He has an intent gaze and I can see him registering the change in me, though he is too civil to comment.
I can feel myself blushing. ‘Thank you, sir. I think Twickenham must agree with everybody.’