by Tracy Rees
I force myself to smile. ‘Of course it is not that. But I have a great many things to do this afternoon, letters to write –’
‘Ah, yes, your wide network of correspondees – that’s it, of course,’ she jeers.
‘Please don’t inconvenience yourself, Miss Snow.’ Mr Garland, tactful as ever, glides over to me, leaving Mrs Riverthorpe fidgeting in the drawing-room doorwary like an impatient child. ‘It was an impromptu suggestion, with no guarantee that I might find you at liberty. I must wait until tomorrow for the pleasure of your company, but would you like to see the horses, at least, before we leave you in peace? They are just outside and I remember you saying you have a great love for animals.’
‘Oh, I do! You’re quite right, how very thoughtful.’ I am flattered that he should remember. ‘Very well, Mr Garland, you are most kind.’ In truth it is a joy to be distracted from Henry, or the lack of him, for a few minutes and we all troop outside.
The April sun is warm and gentle. Mr Garland has a fashionable little phaeton in sky blue and gold, which is exactly the sort of carriage I would have imagined for him. The new horses are two gleaming bays, identical in height and with strong hocks and finely turned heads. Lord Vennaway would have admired them. I smile as I stroke their smooth noses and hold my hands under their enquiring velvety lips. They duck their heads and butt my chest, disgusted with my failure to bring titbits. I stumble, laughing, and Mr Garland reaches out to steady me. Flustered by the warm pressure of his hand on my arm, I comb my fingers through their silken black manes, perfectly straight and crisply trimmed, relishing the always comforting feeling of horsehair under my hands.
‘Come on, come on!’ calls Mrs Riverthorpe from inside the phaeton. Mr Garland smiles ruefully and bows.
‘Until tomorrow, Miss Snow.’ He swings easily into the carriage after her and they move off. I am reluctant to see those beautiful animals go. Horses were a part of my life at Hatville that was never complicated, and always enriching. I watch them trot smartly down the street until the happy sound of hooves has faded and then I go inside to wait.
*
And wait. Days pass, with no sign of Henry and I am lonelier than ever. When Mrs Riverthorpe asks me whether I will accompany her to this or that occasion, I say yes more often than I say no, simply to make the time pass more quickly. No matter my social obligations, I ensure that I go for a walk each day. Every day I cross Bath to walk the length of Henrietta Street, hoping that I might happen across Henry. Every day I return to the bridge where we met, I walk past the coffee shop where we talked and toasted our friendship. I see him everywhere, and yet he is nowhere.
I cannot understand it. His delight at seeing me again had felt real. Our friendship had felt real. He promised to call on me the next morning. My imagination runs wild. He has heard, and believed, that I am a lady of easy virtue . . . or he has simply thought better of a friendship with a woman leading so unconventional a life. I am too unusual, too free-spirited. Even I realize that, considering my fears upon our first meeting that I was too small and dull and dowdy, this is quite a turnaround . . . but I just do not know how to fathom his silence. And I know he knows my address – it is not easily forgettable.
Perhaps he has mentioned me to his friends the Longacres and they do not like the sound of me? They are meant to be a steadying influence upon him; they may suspect a roving single woman of no established background.
Or perhaps he has met someone – a lady – and feels our odd little friendship would not foster well a new romance. If this is the case, I will try my earnest best to wish him well with all my heart, for I could only ever wish Henry happy. Only I cannot help but wish I might be the one to make him happy and, as with so many things, I wish I knew.
Time passes so achingly slow. With all I have learned about Aurelia, and all I suspect besides, I am wild to receive the next letter. I remain convinced that the end of the trail and all the answers are near. I know better than to press Mrs Riverthorpe to give me the letter early, so it is a question of counting days. If she is happy to have my company, she disguises it well, but neither does she forbid me to join her. The presence of Quentin Garland at most of the functions I attend makes them more bearable.
I saw him, of course, for the archery on Sunday. He then encouraged me to go to a luncheon at a Mrs Rathbone’s on the Monday. Later that afternoon, he called in his carriage and took Mrs Riverthorpe and me out for a ride. She is as dire towards him as can be, but he seems at ease in her company. Since I now find myself growing fond of her, for reasons entirely beyond my comprehension, I like him all the better for that. In fact, I like him a great deal. He is always courteous, always reliable and if the impression persists that he is far too glossy and perfect for me, I tuck it away and ignore it, for I have decided he is free to come to that conclusion – or not – himself. Certainly he seems to seek out my company and that gives my heart a warm, full feeling that is new and welcome.
*
When I have been in Bath, I feel sure, approximately six months, I check the calendar and learn that I have been here a week. Readying myself for another dinner, I pause to rest my forehead on the window pane and gaze at the street. It has become a habit. I see park railings, black and curlicued, an old lady with a small dog taking the air, accompanied by her maid, and pink cherry blossom in a garden. I see a gentlemen walk past briskly. I follow his progress idly, watching as he tips his hat to another gentleman approaching in the opposite direction. I stand up straight and look again. The approaching gentlemen is Henry! It is Henry! For a moment I am unable to move for the joy of watching him walk along Rebecca Street to see me. Oh, the relief! I cannot imagine what has taken him so long but I’m sure there’s a good explanation and I will learn it very soon now. I turn to run to the door, then stop and watch him. Ambrose will call me and I want to savour the moment.
He looks taller than ever, dressed smartly for a call and wearing a new top hat, or at least a top hat which I have not seen before. He is not as perfectly turned out as Mr Garland, I note. A little too much shirtsleeve peeps below the cuff of his coat and his cravat is askew, as though once tightly knotted but soon tugged loose. There are dark curls about his face and his walk is a lope. My heart melts. He is exactly how a man should be.
He stops a little way short of the house and I smile. No, it’s here, Henry, I telegraph him mentally. But I don’t think he has the wrong place, for he is looking directly at Hades House. Perhaps he is put off by its sombre appearance? From this angle I can just see his face and to my dismay he does not look happy. His expression is not that of a man about to call on the woman he . . . well, what was I expecting? But it is not even that of a man about to visit a friend. I have never seen Henry look grim before. He takes off his hat and scratches his head so that all his curls stand up on end, then he jams the hat back on as though he would be happy to break it.
A dreadful thought occurs to me. I do not want to entertain it, but what if he is not coming here to continue our friendship? What if he has come to tell me that it is at an end? It must be the ball – he has heard the talk from the ball and now he wants to tell me that he cannot continue an acquaintance with a woman of such a reputation. Shame washes through me . . . but I can explain! He will say what he needs to say and I will put him right and we will laugh about it . . .
But he is walking away! After a long moment of looking at Hades House, he has spun on his heel and returns smartly in the direction from which he came. My face crumples in horror. At long last he is here, within sight, and I am not even to talk to him? I cannot bear it!
I fly from my room and down the long spiral stairs. I run along the long, echoing hall and heave open the front door, forgetting the curl papers still in my hair. I run into the street just in time to see Henry’s tall figure disappearing around the corner. I race after him, as quickly as my wide blue skirts permit, feeling every stone and crack in the pavement through my fine slippers. I don’t care. All I can think of is to see Henry, to
tell him that whatever he is thinking about me is wrong and see his face break into that easy, melting smile once more.
When I get to the end of the street, he is gone. I cannot see him anywhere on the hill. Other streets cross it to right and left and I look down two or three of them to no avail. People are staring at me. Henry could be anywhere.
Cowed by hurt at the nearness of the thing, I slink back like a dog. Mr Garland’s phaeton is at the door. Unable to bear the thought of him seeing me now I run upstairs and tear the papers from my hair. Then I sink onto my bed and cry and cry.
Chapter Fifty-One
I stumble through a numbness of days. I should not quite be able to believe that Henry Mead, who was so kind to me in London and so frank and confiding with me only days ago in Bath, could have come so close to calling yet decided against it. I should not believe it but that I saw it happen with my own eyes. I shed tears over it more than once, but they do not change anything.
By the Friday I am shocked to realize that I have spent a great many more hours in Quentin Garland’s company than in Henry’s, although I persist in thinking of Henry as a friend and Mr Garland as an acquaintance. In point of fact, Henry is conspicuously absent, having clearly decided against being a friend, whilst I could, as Mrs Riverthorpe has so bluntly pointed out, marry someone like Mr Garland if I chose to play up my fortune and my new connections. If I decided to stay.
This life, this fashionable existence of dinners and dances and card parties, still does not feel like the right life for me. And yet I am in it and one day leads to the next without fail. Existence takes on its own validation and I am weary of looking beyond the surface of things, always looking beyond. I do not have Aurelia’s love of the far horizon. I want, still, to settle down, albeit on my own terms.
Is Mr Garland someone with whom I could live on my own terms? Why do I even ask myself that question? Because he is here, I suppose, and he is handsome and attentive and intelligent and everything that is admirable in a man. And it is clear that he is paying court to me now, even in my naivety I can see that. I am excessively flattered and long to write to Madeleine and Priscilla about it. But I still must not. I have written to their father, as I promised, so that he knows I am safe and well. I cling to my hope that the trail is to end here in less than a fortnight and then I will be free to do, be, communicate whatever I will. Besides, although I know the girls would delight in the gossip, my heart would not quite be in it.
Mr Garland remains as he ever was: cool, elegant and so perfect. So other. Perhaps that is the way of fascination between the sexes. When we ride together, I notice how his long body sways minutely with the jolting of the carriage, a fluid ability to move as one with the world. When we conduct polite conversation in the drawing room at Hades House, I notice how the light gleams on his smooth, golden side-whiskers. When he holds a door for me or passes me a glass, I observe his pale, clean gloves and his pastel sleeves.
What is it about him that intrigues me so? It cannot be merely that he is handsome – surely I am not so shallow? It is not as though I have never seen a fine gentleman before, not after living at Hatville. Unlike Mrs Riverthorpe, I do not find him dull; to me his company is intelligent and gracious. Being always with him at social events enhances my sense of inclusion, it facilitates the illusion that that there is no gossip about my mysterious arrival in the heart of society – that I am amongst friends. Certainly he has shown no censure of my outrageous hostess, shabby origins or mysterious background. He has never made reference to the confrontations at either ball, never made me feel unworthy or unwanted. I begin to shed my sense of formal restraint with him and to take pleasure, at last, in his company.
I have never been courted before. In our moments of private conversation, he tells me of his estate in Berkshire, his horses, his many investments. I am aware that he is telling me things that he believes will cause me to think favourably of him. I wonder that he should feel the need to bother, when he is so eminently admirable. I am not sure what it is meant to lead to but I am only relieved that, overall, my time in Bath is passing less painfully than I might at first have imagined.
*
I am reflecting on this during one of Mrs Riverthorpe’s interminable card parties. We are seated in the drawing room, with the rich evening light falling pleasingly into the dusty interior. The guests are Mr Garland, Mr Pierpont, the former rower, Mrs Manvers, of the Bath Temperance Association, and Mr Gladsby, a fervent campaigner to suppress the education of the lower classes, whom he believes to be corrupt and anarchic to a man.
The conversation is accordingly surreal and I allow my mind to wander on the shafts of light. There it dances, alongside the motes of dust, towards Wednesday coming and Aurelia’s impending letter. I have grown accustomed to Mrs Riverthorpe’s odd little ensembles. My early impression, that she selects her guests purely for maximum potential for tormenting them, has been confirmed by the lady herself as accurate.
My gaze drifts upwards to find Mr Garland’s eyes resting on me. He smiles as though he understands why I have mentally absented myself for a moment. Mrs Manvers has been explaining the importance of building public libraries: they give the working man with a taste for strong drink an alternative to a tavern as a place to relax after a hard day’s work.
Mr Gladsby responds swiftly that no member of ‘that class of person’ can ever be prevailed upon to eschew the demon drink and that all they will do with a library is burn it.
Mrs Manvers looks close to tears. Mrs Riverthorpe chuckles silently to herself and Mr Pierpont breaks in with a thinly veiled attempt to steer the boat onto a more favourable current:
‘Back in 1803, on the Thames, near Henley, I achieved my greatest triumph when . . .’
At this interesting juncture Ambrose knocks and enters.
‘Excuse me, ma’am,’ she nods in her usual assured way to her employer. ‘Miss Snow, might I speak with you for a moment?’
I am astonished. ‘Why, of course! Excuse me please, ladies, gentlemen. I hope I do not disturb your game.’
I lay my cards carefully face down, though in truth it will make little difference; I never win. Mr Garland wins almost every hand with a facility for cards that Mrs Riverthorpe has pointed out a great many times. He told her once that he does not play to lose and she retorted that she knew it very well.
I step into the hall to join Ambrose.
‘Apologies for calling you from the game, Miss Snow, only there is a gentleman waiting outside to see you.’
Breath is snatched from me. ‘Henry?’
Ambrose looks at a small card, which she then hands to me. ‘Yes. Henry Mead. So you do know him. Mrs Riverthorpe would be happy for you to invite him in, miss.’
I can well imagine Mrs Riverthorpe’s delight if I lured poor unsuspecting Henry into that nest of vipers. But I want to see him alone. ‘Thank you, Ambrose, it won’t take long. I shall go out to him.’
‘Very good, Miss Snow.’
I run, actually run, the length of the hall, determined to catch Henry before he disappears again.
I am overjoyed that I am wearing my beautiful emerald-green dress, much despised by Mrs Riverthorpe. Do not get ahead of yourself, I tell myself severely, he may only have come as a courtesy, to let you down in person. I do not believe it for a minute!
I must be calm, I tell myself, as I wrench open the ponderous door and burst onto the porch. A cream phaeton waits across the street and Henry leaps out, all long legs and dark eyes. He runs across the street and, to my amazement, holds me by the arms and stares deep into my face.
‘Amy! You are pleased to see me, I think.’
‘Henry? Of course I am! Why should I not be? Where have you been? You said Saturday and I have been waiting and waiting –’ I stop abruptly, realizing I have just given away any shred of dignity I might have hoped to maintain. But it seems to me that if there has been some misunderstanding we have wasted enough time.
He lets me go and does not look displ
eased at my outburst, quite the contrary. He takes my hand briefly, then lets that go as well. All in all he looks as though he does not know what to do with me. ‘I’m sorry, Amy,’ he says at last, still very serious. ‘I had not imagined you would mind. But that is not the point, of course. I promised to come and I should have. I wanted to.’
‘So why did you not?’
He rubs a hand over his face and grins at me, but it is not his usual spirited grin. ‘Foolish male pride. I did come, in point of fact, although not in the morning as I’d said. When we said goodbye outside the coffee house that day, I was so dismayed that you were slipping through my fingers all over again that I wasn’t really thinking. I had promised Gus – Mr Longacre, the friend who is kindly putting me up in Bath – that I would go to Bristol with him on Saturday morning to witness the signature of some important papers. I couldn’t let him down so I didn’t come to see you until the afternoon.’
‘You came on Saturday afternoon? But Henry, I waited in for you all day!’
‘You did?’ His smile is wider, easier, but a little sheepish. ‘Ah, now Amy, I am about to tell you the truth, which is to say I am about to embarrass myself horribly. Are you prepared to like me even if you think me a fool?’
I promise that I shall.
‘Excellent. I’m glad you’re a forgiving sort, Amy. Considering I’m supposed to be smart, I can be a bit of an idiot. When I came by that day, I found you talking on the street with an extremely handsome fellow, very shiny indeed. It was just the two of you and you were smiling and you looked so happy. He held your arm and you were stroking his horses together. You were both dressed very fine and you looked . . . right together, I suppose. He was obviously very rich and very successful and all the things I’m not –’
‘But Henry! It wasn’t like that! I never –’
‘No wait, please let me finish, Amy. If you’ve been waiting as you say, you deserve an explanation. He leapt in the carriage and drove off and you spent the longest time, Amy, looking after him, as if you could not bear to see him him go. And I was watching you.’