by Tracy Rees
‘You were the companion of the young Lady Vennaway, were you not?’ she demands, somewhat abruptly.
I agree that I was, my smile faltering and an uneasy feeling creeping over me.
‘A young lady dead only a matter of months, I hear.’
I concede the fact.
‘Miss Snow, you offend propriety in so many ways I hardly know where to begin,’ she challenges, to my astonishment. I take a small, involuntary step away from her and she takes a much larger one towards me, closing the distance between us by some uncomfortable inches.
‘Mrs Ellington, do I know you?’ I ask, trying hard not to be overcome by her proximity – and hostility. ‘Am I to understand that you are acquainted with the Vennaway family?’
‘I have that distinction, yes. But I do not wish to reminisce about mutual acquaintances. I wish to challenge your great impropriety. In the first instance, you are not in mourning! You are at a ball! So soon after the loss of someone so infinitely your superior in every way, yet who showed you every indulgence. Now that she can be of no further use to you, you flaunt yourself before society!’ She flings her hands up in disgust, as though quite at a loss to fathom my depravity. ‘Do you really think that a companion, a servant, in point of fact, is a suitable person to mix here tonight? I wager no one else will. Yet you are either ignorant of the gulf between you and us or brazenly indifferent to it. I do not know how you can account for yourself.’
She is as erect and tense as a brass poker. In contrast I feel myself wilting like an old carnation. I look around helplessly. We are stranded halfway between the dance floor and the banquet table. People are all about; some have stopped to listen. Her voice has risen. She is not shouting but she is loud enough that the curious may easily overhear. I notice more than one disapproving face. I think the disapproval is directed at me. I want to reach the safety of my friends.
‘I do not intend to account for myself to a stranger, madam,’ I say in a low voice, my cheeks burning. ‘Good evening.’
I turn to go but she calls after me, this time a little louder, and the ripple of disapproval expands.
‘Then you have nothing to say for yourself?’ she challenges. ‘No way to excuse this flaunting, inexcusable behaviour?’
I pause, reluctantly. I cannot quite bring myself just to walk away. ‘Quite the contrary, ma’am,’ I respond, still quiet, still extremely polite. ‘I have a good deal that I could say. However, I have no intention of saying it to one who knows nothing of the friendship between Miss Vennaway and myself, which was both precious and private. Rest assured that I feel only the greatest respect towards her and the good people here tonight. Please do enjoy the ball, ma’am.’
Now I begin to walk away on legs that wobble but she takes another parry!
‘Friendship!’ She comes after me, forcing me to attend to her. ‘You presume to name it a friendship? How can such a thing exist between the daughter of the finest family in Surrey and one such as yourself, obscure and lacking in fortune or connection? There can be opportunism, there can be ingratiation and there can be an appalling lack of discernment, but there can be no friendship. I’ve heard all about you, Miss Snow! Why, we don’t know where you come from! We don’t know who your people are! ’Tis a disgrace. You are a disgrace.’
And now I am angry. Although my legs still betray me, I turn back to her, holding onto a convenient table for support. I stand up a good deal straighter and I raise my eyebrows. I have faced a worse adversary than this, and when I was a great deal younger. I address her again – and this time I am loud. Louder than she. Loud enough that the whole room can hear me – for the music has stopped and all other conversations have fallen silent.
‘Mrs Ellington, certainly you labour under a number of misapprehensions, for as you see, I lack neither friends nor fortune. Regarding my origins, you are correct – they are entirely unknown. I was educated with Miss Vennaway and became her companion, nurse and friend. We never discovered the identity of my parents and assumed that I was the unwanted product of an illicit union. I grew up in a kitchen, Mrs Ellington. When I was first brought there, I slept in a potato bucket. I was found in the snow, as a newborn. I was naked. These are the facts to be discovered. Good evening.’
I spin on my heel and walk away. The sheer heady thrill of using the word ‘naked’ in public and facing down her aspersions with the bald truth quickly ebbs. I fear I have disgraced the Wisters.
But another voice stops me. ‘Amy, wait!’ Edwin Wister comes racing towards us from the haven where his family are gathered; I see them in a blur, upset as I am. Edwin turns to Mrs Ellington with furious eyes.
‘I will thank you, madam, not to address any guest of mine thus again. Miss Snow is under my protection whilst she is in Twickenham. She is an esteemed friend of ours, as was Miss Vennaway before her. You disrespect the late Miss Vennaway, ma’am, by treating her protégée thus. This is sorry behaviour.’
He comes after me and takes my arm. ‘I am sorry, my dear, I am sorry,’ he murmurs as he leads me through the crowd, away from the ghastly Mrs Ellington.
‘I too. What I said! Only she would keep hounding me! I could not have her think I was afraid of her. I did not want her to think I am ashamed. Although I am, a little.’
‘Amy!’ Michael runs after us.
His father closes his eyes. I am aware that the ballroom is still motionless, watching one Wister after another chase after me.
‘Amy, you’re a dear girl and we love you!’ Michael cries. ‘Don’t care where you come from! Don’t mind what a fat old trout thinks! You’re a diamond in here!’ and he beats his narrow chest firmly with a fist.
Edwin places an arm around Michael and me and guides us out of the ballroom, into the hall, out of the public gaze. Behind us the orchestra strikes up again. I am shaking and find myself leaning against him, though I never thought myself the vaporous sort.
‘There, there, my dear,’ says Edwin. ‘Let us sit and compose ourselves. This was an unfortunate turn to the evening but it will all blow over, never fear. Michael, I understand that you wanted to make a demonstration of our regard for Amy and it was a chivalrous impulse, but please, dear boy, do not say anything else. You really were quite shockingly rude. ’Tis not how we have taught you.’
‘You ain’t taught me to sit back and let a codfish insult my friends either, Papa.’
‘Maybe so, but I had already addressed Mrs Ellington and there was no need for you to add your tuppenceworth. I don’t criticize your intentions, merely your precise actions. Promise me, Michael, nothing further.’
‘Aye, very well, Papa, I promise, only she made my blood boil! Going on and on at poor Amy like that. I wanted to get there and put a stop to it, only I was trapped behind three or four fat fellows who were gawping too much to move. Then you said your bit and I wanted to stand up for Amy too. But I won’t call names any more, if you say so.’
‘I do say so. Thank you, Michael.’
‘But she is a codfish, Papa, don’t you think so?’
‘Michael!’
‘But she is, Papa! You can’t say she ain’t, can you?’ Michael refuses to subside until he has forced his father to admit, very privately between us, and in a whisper, that yes, Mrs Ellington is a codfish, and a species of trout furthermore.
Only then does Michael lean his head on my shoulder, a chivalrous young gentleman no longer and a tired boy once again.
Soon the other Wisters cluster around. Constance and the girls reassure me with hugs and kisses. I feel dizzy with relief that I have not scandalized them excessively. Madeleine professes herself delighted with my speech to Mrs Ellington and giggles a little at the interesting detail of the potato bucket.
Even so, we decide there has been enough excitement for one night and that a tactical retreat might be the thing.
We step into the cool April night and I draw my shawl about me. I fancy I hear whispers chasing after me like draughts: ‘found in the snow’, ‘reared in a bucket’, �
�illicit union’.
While Edwin attends to a slight blockage amongst the waiting carriages, a gentleman tips his hat and bids us goodnight. Constance introduces Mr Charlton. I remember the name; he is the gentleman from whom Mr Garland learned my whereabouts. He shakes hands with us all and presses mine sympathetically. It is a welcome kindness. His own carriage is similarly detained; we make small talk.
‘I was glad I could tell our mutual acquaintance where he might find you at last, Miss Snow. He had been most persistent – asked all about for days, I gather. Happy I could help him.’
I am confused. Had not Mr Garland said that he had found me accidentally, thanks to a passing comment? Why ever should he take such a particular interest in me as Mr Charlton describes? And if he did want to see me again, why did he not simply ask me where I was staying when we met in the jeweller’s that day? I confess I feel a little uncomfortable to think that he would seek me out like that and not be transparent about it. After all that has happened, I do not like to remember that if someone is determined enough I can be found.
Never mind. I fear Priscilla must be disappointed, for I wager he will hear of tonight’s events and find those interesting, although in no way I could wish.
Chapter Thirty-Four
I stay in bed late the morning after the ball. The house is quiet. I bury myself in bedding, trying to blot out thoughts of last night. The initial elation of facing down my foe so boldly is quite vanished and my tender joy at being championed by my friends does not fully heal the wound. Constance bid me not to worry when she wished me good night, but worrying is one of my chief pastimes. My shame is twofold: both at my own behaviour – shouting at a lady at a private ball, brandishing the dubious details of my background like a lance – and at the diatribe I received.
Everything Mrs Ellington said was exactly what I had expected eventually to hear from someone, somewhere, and I realize that my situation is as ambiguous now as ever it was. Despite my clothing, my money and my deceptively refined speech, I will never truly fit, because people always want to know where you come from.
It is as though the past is a swamp full of murky creatures, submerged and treacherous. For days at a time since coming here I have been able to walk on safe tussocks of grass, but last night the beasts surfaced to pull me in. I relive Mrs Ellington’s words, her scorn, the look on her face so similar to Lady Vennaway’s. Unless I were to create a whole new identity for myself, someone will always look at me that way.
But what kind of a life would that be, to live a lie and look always over my shoulder, fearing to cross paths with someone from the past who could pull it all down in a moment? No. I would never choose thus. I had better find some way to make peace with who I am, for I cannot be anyone else.
I permit myself a brief interlude of fervent self-pity and a crow gives a mournful croak outside the window. I hear voices in the passage and Mrs Nesbitt calling for the carriage. Soon all is quiet again. She has gone off to her salon and will not return for hours.
I have remembered how I know Mrs Ellington. She came to Hatville once or twice when I was a child. If I remember aright, the Ellingtons lived in London but had a country house in Surrey. I curse Hatville and its malevolent shadow.
And how frustrating Aurelia’s letter was, with its hints of further complications to come – as if there was not already enough that I had not known! She did not even tell me how she avoided marrying Bailor. When she returned from her travels, our friendship had changed and deepened . . . why could she not tell me then about Bailor?
However, I understand better now her reluctance to return home. Perhaps even her transformation into the greatest flirt Derby had ever seen. Was she trying to assert her freedom? Was she hoping to find a new suitor – someone of whom her parents would approve but less repellent than Bailor Dunthorne? Did he simply tire of waiting for her to come back? I try to remember if I heard anything of him in those last years but I draw a blank. Aurelia returned to the Hatville bubble and nothing encroached on us there. No news of suitors past, no visitors from her time away. It strikes me now as a little strange. After such a long and lively adventure, so longed-for and so hard-won, for it all just to fade away. Unless something happened that was so terrible she wanted to forget all about it.
My cheerless musings are interrupted by Madeleine knocking at my door. Her beloved Mr Renfrew has appeared to pay us all a call.
‘I thought you might be planning to hide away all day,’ she smiles, ‘but you see, your friends require your presence so you must abandon that project and get dressed at once.’
Dear Madeleine. How thoughtful she is. (And perceptive; I had been planning exactly that.) Nevertheless I climb hastily into a blue Sunday dress and do battle with my hair in order to go and smile and pretend I am not so humiliated I want to cry.
Mr Renfrew does not leave until he has extracted a promise that Madeleine, Priscilla and I will visit him on Wednesday to see his garden as it comes to life in the spring. The roses are yet a while away, but there are bluebells and narcissi and lilies of the valley.
I appreciate the message that his calling so promptly sends to me and anyone else who cares to observe it: Amy Snow is not disgraced, she has friends besides the Wisters. And life goes on, despite scandal.
Chapter Thirty-Five
The following day I receive another thoughtful attention from a gentleman: Mr Quentin Garland. It comes in the form not of a visit but of a note. It is brief yet very cordial. Fearful as I am of disgrace, it comes as a welcome surprise and quite washes away any misgivings I had about his recent visit.
My dear Miss Snow,
I trust this humble note finds you well. Pray accept my compliments. And convey, if you would be so good, my kindest wishes to the two Misses Wister of my acquaintance.
I was disappointed not to have seen you all at the ball at Lowbridge; as I had suspected, my business called me away. I hope perhaps I may see you at another before too very long. This same business has now taken an unexpected turn and consequently I must away to Edinburgh, where I will likely be detained several weeks. I do hope I may be permitted to call on you when I return to London.
Assuring you of my continued regard, I remain yours very sincerely,
Quentin Garland
Now I shall surely not see him again for, of the two months Aurelia prescribed I stay at Mulberry Lodge, six weeks have somehow disappeared. I would be happy to pass the remaining precious time quietly, but the Wisters will not hear of me beating a humble retreat from society. I am urged to accompany them on their calls and while it is true that two or three families are frostier than they were, and one refuses to see us altogether, everyone else behaves as normal. Thus time slides by, idyllic and swift.
The weather is fine for the time of year and we pay a second visit to Mr Renfrew, this time with the boys in tow. He has magically coaxed some early fruits in his hothouse and bids us taste them. Hollis particularly favours the peaches and conducts a thorough sampling, juices running all down his chin.
Another afternoon, I take Michael to the river; he confides in me that he does not wish to follow his father into the law. What he likes best, he tells me, is learning, and passing it on. Apparently he is often called upon to help with the younger children at school. His master has told him of an opportunity: the Government has acquired a building in Whitton with plans to use it as a training school for masters who will teach poor children and those with a criminal record. It will not open for two years, by which time Michael will be just seventeen. His master has promised to recommend him for a place if he wishes it.
‘I only hope Papa thinks it through,’ sighs Michael. ‘He’ll say I’m young and that there are finer things to be done and that I should go away to university and see the world. But I don’t want to, Amy. I want this.’
I think of Henry, who earnestly wishes for a vocation but has not so far discovered one. I wonder – as I often do – if he has made peace with his medical career since we met. It
must be a hard thing for a young man trying to be responsible while wishing at the same time to find a tolerable way of passing his life. I hope Edwin will see the beauty of the plan once he understands that Michael is set on it.
*
Time is moving us forward. Michael is only fourteen yet already in possession of an ambition. Madeleine is about to receive a proposal of marriage, not that she knows it. And I? I am soon to move on to pastures unknown. I spend my private moments dipping into Aurelia’s old letters and speculating as to where I might be sent next. I find myself wondering where it is that Henry Mead studies medicine. My fanciful mind dreams up the most unlikely ways in which our paths might cross once again.
Then it comes. The morning I have been longing for, yet dreading all this time.
I am in the conservatory, reading a letter from Aurelia dated June 1844 – from when she was in Twickenham. The weather was so hot, so punishing, week upon week, that the Thames dried up completely. A game of cricket, apparently, was played on the riverbed. All the Wisters went to watch and Edwin was invited to join in. Even Aurelia was permitted to strike a couple of balls – only Aurelia could charm her way into something like that. With her weak heart, the heatwave was a torment. She yielded to the demands of her health when fatigue and dizziness overcame her completely, but still managed to pack in a remarkable number of boating parties and croquet matches and picnics.
I am reflecting on this when Bessy comes clumping in.
‘Letter for you, Miss Amy. Just come. You’ll be wanting lunch with the others?’
This must be it. It is the last day of March. My time is up.
Dizzy with anticipation, I contemplate the stationery. It is palest mauve, not Aurelia’s usual cream. I wonder who has sent it, and where from. I wonder how they knew the time was right. The postmark is a smear so I turn it over, frowning. The ink is black, the hand is flowery and familiar – but definitely not Aurelia’s. I drop the letter when I see the return address: Hatville Court, Surrey.