by Tracy Rees
‘What?’ Now he turns to me, his eyes fixed on my face.
‘Yes. I had been abandoned. I was . . .’ I just resist saying naked. ‘I was blue with cold and Aurelia, who was then eight and had the most tender heart imaginable, snatched me up and took me home. She was a very great lady, Henry, though she never knew it at that age – indeed, at any age. Her parents did not want me. They saw me as a disgrace, you see.’ I tuck my hair behind my ears a little nervously. I am not used to telling this story.
He scowls. ‘You a disgrace? An innocent child? That is not a logic I can understand.’
‘I am glad to hear you say it. I felt for many years that they must have been right, else they would not have treated me as they did. They would have consigned me to the orphanage then and there, you see, if Aurelia had not set her heart upon my staying. Their attitude towards me has left its mark.’
‘I am sure. Were they very unkind to you, Amy?’
I swallow. ‘Yes. I think they spent the rest of my life ruing their leniency that day.’ I feel tears well up, but I blink them back determinedly, for I want to say this. ‘They insisted I be kept out of sight of the family, but Aurelia would not stay away from me. She was spoiled and lonely. She was imaginative too – I think she was fascinated by the mystery of an unknown snow baby.’
‘Of course she was. Did you ever learn anything of your origins, Amy?’
I drop my gaze and notice that my knuckles are white; I am twisting my hands in my lap. ‘No, I never did.’
‘I am truly sorry to hear it. You have seen something of my family. I cannot imagine how it must feel to be without one.’
I don’t know how to describe it to him. Where might I begin to explain Cook’s impersonal kindness, Lady Vennaway’s bitter hatred, the dreary greyness of knowing I was only ever there on sufferance?
Nevertheless I try, in stumbling sentences, for I want Henry to understand. I manage to condense seventeen years into five minutes, then look up to see if I am boring him. He appears anything but bored.
‘Amy, please know that whatever your past, assorted Meads and Crumms will always be pleased to receive Amy Snow.’
‘Dear Henry.’ I cannot help myself. I reach out and take his hand. It is quite against etiquette, but once I have clasped it I do not find it easy to release and he does not pull away. So there is an awkward yet brilliant moment in which I find myself sitting in a meadow adrift with pale-yellow primroses, holding hands with a friend who is a man . . . and young, and handsome . . . ‘Thank you,’ I whisper.
‘Amy, you do not need to thank me,’ he replies, his voice soft.
Slowly I sit back, withdraw my hand. ‘Forgive me, Henry, if I am behaving all out of place. I feel as though all my emotions have been stirred like a pudding and risen to the surface like steam. I am not used to telling people things.’
‘Do not tell me another word if it upsets you too much, Amy, though I confess I hope you can battle through. I should dearly love to know Aurelia’s secret and how it affects you now – your choices, your life.’
‘Indeed I will try. I cannot tell you Aurelia’s secret, not only because I must not but because I do not know it. I will tell you what I can Henry, but . . . Aurelia has left me several posthumous letters, each containing a fervent plea for secrecy. It was of the gravest importance for her, Henry, and I cannot betray her. But it is hard to be so clandestine.’
I had not realized how living a riddle was oppressing me still. It is easy to guard the truth in Bath, for no one requires it. But Henry wants to know me. He is tall and warm and good. If I cannot tell him some of it soon. I shall burst and scatter into petals myself.
Now he takes my hand, and the gesture is not impetuous, nor is it brief. He holds it firmly and deliberately. Despite the flooding beauty of the moment, I actually find myself glancing around to see if anyone who knows me is watching. Society is a powerful thing.
‘Amy, anything you tell me I shall receive in the greatest confidence. I shall feel proud to be your confidant and tell no one. I shall honour Aurelia’s secret, whether or not I know what it is. I promise.’
At the end of this solemn declaration he replaces my hand in my lap and I feel relieved and bereaved, both at once.
So I tell Henry about the treasure hunt. I tell him that each letter reveals more and more that I did not know, though I tell him none of the details of her story. I tell him I have more money and fine clothes than I know what to do with but none of the things my heart longs for: security, family, answers. I know that I am not following Aurelia’s instructions to the letter, but this is the compromise that enables me to feel that my life matters too.
I confess that at times I have cried angry tears for feeling that I am still a piece on the Vennaway chess board. I admit that Aurelia was far from perfect, that I am hurt that she kept so much from me when she was alive. And I conclude with a sigh that, underneath it all, my loyalty to her is as deep and true as it ever was and will always remain thus.
Chapter Fifty-Four
I am so happy! I am so achingly, blisteringly, crashingly happy. It is like the sun on my skin and the splash of rain and the scent of orange roses all rolled into one.
He loves me. Henry loves me. And I love him. Of course I do. The past five days have been the happiest of my life.
Throughout my great outpouring in the Crescent Fields, he listened and listened. When I finished, he leaned back with his hands behind his head and closed his eyes. I understood him to be deep in thought, rather than overcome with boredom.
I had not previously had the opportunity to observe him lying down, and so I seized my moment and studied minutely his black, curling hair, the warm tones of his skin, the pleasing curve of his lips. I noticed the way his mouth reposed into a gentle smile, the way his throat grew paler where it disappeared inside the high wings of his collar. His suit was no parlour shade of blue, it was a perfectly serviceable brown and fell open to reveal a white shirt and a red waistcoat, both of which lay snug over a broad chest that I suddenly craved to lay my head upon.
I did not, of course I did not.
I marvelled at the length of his legs. In truth, anyone’s legs are long compared to mine, but Henry’s appear to me to be particularly fine examples.
When at last he sat up again, I jumped as though caught doing something illicit, although in truth I don’t feel there is anything so wrong with a woman admiring an attractive man. Perhaps Mrs Riverthorpe is rubbing off on me. Perhaps that is not a bad thing.
That evening, the Longacres sent their carriage for me as promised. Finally I wore my beloved apricot muslin. I took real delight in attending an occasion for which I could choose my own gown, wear my hair simply, dress myself and, in short, please myself. Cecile would not approve, but I left my room feeling entirely comfortable.
In the hall I collided with Mrs Riverthorpe, who was pulling on a pair of long, black satin gloves.
‘Child!’ She shuddered when she saw me. ‘Are you spending the evening in a nunnery?’
She could not dent me. ‘Only with friends, Mrs Riverthorpe. I hope you shall enjoy your evening.’
‘I doubt it. I sincerely doubt it,’ she muttered as she swept out of the house, in so far as it is possible to sweep when leaning hard on a cane.
I had a brief, rash longing to take her with me and show her a gentler sort of company before rationality returned.
I passed the most pleasant of evenings. The Longacres and their friends made me feel so welcome. The food was simple yet excellent and the dancing was crowded into a small parlour with space for only three couples at once to stand up safely. Everyone danced with everyone else but dancing with Henry was a dream. He was graceful and sure of himself and kept me entertained with a number of witty comments and private jokes.
I returned to Hades House in a warm glow that not even eerie grey corners and mothy artwork could dim. Needless to say, Mrs Riverthorpe was not at home before me.
*
I spen
t the next four days with Henry, Gus and Ellen. My world is all tilted on its axis. Appalled that I had not seen any of the surrounding countryside, they took it upon themselves to acquaint me with the views from Beachen Cliff and the leafy lanes of Widcombe. They arranged a picnic in the fields along the river. I believe my memory of that day will always be the sound of rippling water, the brush of ladybirds and a rich warmth of sunlight and laughter.
It is strange and wonderful to be a part of two couples – an altogether new feeling for me. I study Gus and Ellen surreptitiously whenever I have the chance. She is small and fair and feisty, with a great fondness for parasols – she carries a different shade every time I see her. He is not a handsome man – he has a profusion of ginger whiskers and an impressive copper beard – but he is thoughtful and gentle and their appreciation for each other is plain to see. I wonder how Henry and I would seem after a decade in each other’s company – if such is to be our destiny.
The city too seems all new to me with Henry as a guide. He is surprisingly knowledgeable about a great many things. I do not know why I should find that surprising, except perhaps that he is so self-effacing. He can take me to the weir and he makes me see, instead of just a rushing horseshoe of water, a sophisticated symbol of modern life. He can explain the series of locks and canals that make Bath a vital centre for travel and trade, not only fashion and flirtation. The splendid architecture of the city comes alive for me when we are together.
I feel the hard shell of my discontent with Bath and my frustration with the treasure hunt breaking open. I am finding the time to pause and delight in life after all; my concerns are all suspended when I am with Henry. He is like a fire on a cold day and draws me closer and closer to him, making me feel treasured and wanted.
We promenade along Royal Crescent but also explore the streets that lurk behind. The backs of those sweeping, smooth houses are knobbly and jagged like teeth. I reflect that society is like that – elegant and flawless at face value, bumpy and biting behind the façade. Henry voices this very thought as it passes through my head. He does that often.
Occasionally we encounter someone we know; it is like being reminded of a strange dream, so caught up am I in these magical days. In the lobby of the Royal Hotel, after enjoying a sumptuous lunch in celebration of Ellen’s birthday, we find Mrs Manvers handing out pamphlets about the Temperance Movement. She generously gives us one each (although I already have three) and she and Henry enjoy a long conversation while Gus, Ellen and I go and admire the fountain in the courtyard.
I find Henry informed and reflective, not the light, insubstantial fellow he condemns himself as being. I have had a lifetime of being told that I am worthless and lacking; it has done me no favours. I see no point in Henry inflicting the same anguish upon himself, so I tell him to stop. He seems to take the point.
*
Last night, after an early supper in Henrietta Street, he told me that he loves me.
We had supped on the terrace with honeysuckle unfolding around us. Gus had excused himself to look at some papers, then Ellen retreated indoors to play the piano. Henry and I braved the chill to stay outside together. Despite the recent sunny days, the evenings have been much cooler. Henry says it is because Bath lies in a basin amongst the hills, a sound geographical explanation for something I had fancied was simply my own disenchantment with the place. We talked of literature and we read a few sonnets to the accompaniment of twittering blackbirds making ready for summer. Then we began talking of our childhoods.
‘I wonder what became of them?’ said Henry suddenly. ‘The awkward little girl running around after her big, bright sister and the scamp of a boy who could not leave the house without getting into trouble. I wonder if they exist anywhere now except in our memories and hearts.’
‘I still feel like that awkward little girl much of the time. And in truth . . . I am still running after Aurelia.’
‘Much of the time? And what about the rest of the time? How do you feel then?’
I frowned for a long time, pondering his question.
‘Like the adult I always wished I had to look after me,’ I realized with some astonishment. ‘Thoughtful. Confident. And steady. I loved Aurelia dearly but she was not steady. It was like loving a flame. And . . . I interest myself, Henry. My path through life is not conventional, and yet I seem to be making my way! I never thought I could. And you, Henry? Do you still feel like the same boy?’
‘No.’ Henry shook his head decidedly. ‘Oh, the mischief is still there, I know, but now there is a great deal more of me besides. I have expanded to include so much more of what I must become. I am definitely a man, not a boy. Only . . .’
I remember my initial shock when I saw him fill the doorframe at his grandfather’s place. He is certainly not a boy.
‘Only what?’
He looks around the garden and crosses his legs, thinking. Dusk gathers around, soft and lilac grey and chilly. I shiver.
‘Only . . . I am not yet the man I want to be. I am like the outline of myself. I want to be the full portrait.’
‘Do you mean because you haven’t settled on a profession?’
‘That’s certainly a part of it. Some parts of myself are surging ahead whilst others lag behind. The leaders are impatient and they want . . . a great many things. The laggards are doing their best, I’m sure, but they feel very intimidated by what is being asked of them. Does that make any sense?’
I imagine what he means is that he is growing up. I never had the chance to grow up in a gradual progression – I was always dealing with situations that a kinder world would not have dealt to a child. I saw it in Aurelia, though – the struggle and the contradiction. And I could see this was important to him.
‘It makes sense. Do you think you might go gently on yourself, show the laggards a little compassion?’
‘I’m not sure that I should. I believe I must grow firmer with myself. Do you know what makes me so impatient, Amy? Can you guess what it is that I want?’
He looked at me so very intently that I felt my heart start to drum as if it knew my life was about to change. Suddenly I could not speak, so shook my head.
‘Oh, dearest, dearest Amy, can’t you? Why, ’tis you! Amy, it is lucky I am buttoned up inside this suit for I am coming all undone inside it. I could not bear to cause you a single second’s discomfort, yet I must speak. From the first evening that we met, you fascinated me. You looked so very sad, so very alone, yet so determined. I did not want to let you go, indeed I did not, but you and my grandfather made it clear that I must. Then to see you again here! To have the opportunity to get to know you properly, to talk to you, receive your confidences, share my friends with you. Oh, I know we have not known each other very long, and no doubt we still have much to learn, but spending so much time with you these last few days I know this: my life would be so much poorer without you. Amy, if all you feel for me is friendship, then know that I will treasure that always and you must never feel awkward or raw about my declaration. But if you could love me . . . if you could ever, ever love me . . . I should . . . I should . . .’
‘What should you do, dear Henry?’ I asked softly, drawing his hand towards me across the wrought-iron table.
He looked at me with such extraordinary hope. I will never forget that look on his face. It melted something inside me that I had not known was frozen.
‘I should never want to be apart from you, Amy. I should like to build my life with you, if you would have me. I know I am in no position to ask this – at the moment I have very little to offer, except for my unswerving devotion – but one day when I do, might you consider becoming my wife?’
I felt tears spring to my eyes and roll down my face. I made to wipe them on my shawl but he was there before me, his arm around me, softly brushing my cheeks with his handkerchief.
‘Tell me these are tears of joy, Amy, please tell me they are tears of joy. It wouldn’t do a man’s confidence much good to think that the very suggest
ion of marrying him could reduce a girl to tears.’
Once I managed to stop laughing and crying and to compose myself, I assured him that they were indeed tears of joy. I sat in that garden in a wonderment, my head spinning and my heart singing, floating on waves of heady delight. I wanted to scoop up all his words in my arms and cradle them to me and keep them always; I have been starving for them.
‘For me, it began when you laughed at the silly face I pulled,’ said Henry. ‘I remember Grandfather saying something about you being stuck with just him and me, Mama being in bed with a cold and all that. I made a grimace and your face transformed. I felt protective toward you from the first – but to see that brief glimpse of what it would be like to make you happy – it quite turned the world on end. I had to make some excuse to leave the room, I remember.’
‘Truly? I thought you looked at me strangely! I thought it was because I look so odd when I smile.’
‘Odd when you . . .? What on earth makes you say that?’
‘That’s what they always told me in the kitchen.’
‘Well, let me tell you the folk in the kitchen were quite, quite wrong. Dear Amy, you have a laugh that could make a fellow wish to devote a lifetime to making you happy. And you? Did you fall in love with me in an instant, as soon as you saw my manly frame lounging in my grandfather’s doorway?’
‘Oh yes, certainly the doorway,’ I told him, laughing to cover up my embarrassment at just how true this was. I can admit it to myself now. I can hardly believe that I can finally share with him all the times I thought of him across the intervening months, how happy the very sight of him has always made me, how comfortable I feel in his company and how I never dreamed anyone – let alone beloved, handsome Henry – could ever feel that way about me.
Thus we tumbled on, in our dizzy, ecstatic way, never once talking about practicalities, never worrying about the fact that I have no idea where I will be a week from now and Henry has no idea what he wants to do with his life. We might have gone on like that all night but that Ellen came to ask if I wanted the carriage.