by Tracy Rees
By the end of his wretched speech he is glowering at me. I cannot bear it. My smiling, sunny Henry is angry with me. Insisting I do what I cannot as if it were a simple matter to bring together my old life and my new. Asking me to explain the inexplicable. Does he not realize I have been living with impossible conundrums and ambiguity all my life? Of course it makes no sense. Nothing ever has.
‘I’m sorry, Henry,’ I sob in a great rush. ‘I can’t be what you want. I knew it was so. I have never fitted easily and my circumstances are too complicated for love and a normal life. I am so sorry.’ I race towards the door.
He catches me on the way and wraps his arms around me.
‘Let me go, Henry! I cannot bear this conversation. I will see you in the morning when I am myself again.’
But he is strong and his arms about me are gentle.
‘Shhh, my darling. It is I who am sorry. Forgive me, Amy. We shall talk of it no more tonight, I promise. You must manage things your own way and not be upset. Please, my love, don’t go when you are like this. Let us put this aside for now and be calm.’
And I do grow a little calm. Later, when we bid each other goodnight, we are subdued and affectionate.
But the ache in my heart is heavy and strangling, for I know that I am not behaving as a truly devoted wife-to-be should act. I feel deeply, disappointingly unequal to the role. Perhaps such precious dreams can’t come true – not for me.
Chapter Sixty
Over the next two days I learn just how far avoidance can take us – and where it cannot. Its temporary benefits come at a distressing cost. Henry and I are docile and affectionate but there is something lifeless between us, where previously all was flicker and spark. Whenever we are together, we hold hands and we smile. We pass each other milk and sugar when we take tea. We look like the very portrait of a young betrothed couple. But we don’t burst out laughing any more. We don’t grin or tease. We don’t forget ourselves and kiss until we can’t breathe. We are close once again, and yet a black abyss yawns between us.
I tell myself he is sulking because he did not get his way, that he does not understand how it has always been for me. Our voices are bright when we talk of the future but our words do not ring true. Our sentences are vague because so much is unknown and so much unsaid. We are in a sort of dreadful half-life. I still cannot feel comfortable turning my back on Aurelia, yet the prospect of leaving Henry is far harder now than if all were well between us. I think I am waiting until we feel like us again before I decide – but we seem to grow more stiff and stifled every day and all I am doing is fruitlessly delaying Aurelia’s quest. I feel guilty about that. I feel guilty about Henry. I feel, as I did at Hatville, that Amy Snow is a wretched, troublesome creature.
It becomes a relief to spend time away from him. If Mrs Riverthorpe is curious as to why I begin attending her cards parties again, she refuses to show it. And this is how I find myself alone with Quentin Garland once again.
He has arrived early for canasta – I know not why – but Mrs Riverthorpe reacts to his presence irritably; she has things to do before the rest arrive, she tells him, and stalks off, leaving us together in the drawing room. I wrap my thick, mulberry-coloured shawl about my shoulders. It is May now, so there is no fire this afternoon, but the room is especially cheerless. Or perhaps it is my state of mind.
He is, naturally, immaculately turned out, in a jacket of midnight blue and exquisitely tailored cream trousers. The rich shade of his coat accentuates the lighter blue of his eyes, his cravat and, today, his matching pale-blue gloves. These he removes now, delicately tugging at fingertip after fingertip. For something to do, I ring for tea.
For a few moments he and I exchange stiff pleasantries while the tea sits disregarded on its silver tray, then he favours me with a smile.
‘Miss Snow, may I speak quite plainly? I fear that recent events have put an end to our former easy friendship and I regret it. I would never have spoken if I had known that the loss would be thus. However, I would like to be your true friend, if I can. May I?’
I do not remember us as having an easy friendship, only that I was ever in awe of him, but I say yes, of course.
‘Then, forgive me, is all quite well with you? You look tired, a little . . . troubled. If there is aught amiss, I should like to help, if I can.’
Small wonder I look tired. Euphoria chased away sleep when Henry first told me that he loved me. Now I sleep badly for the old reasons. Memories of Hatville reclaim my mind. In skewed snatches of sleep here and there, strange dreams take shape. I have not had a good night’s rest for some time.
‘It is merely that I am tired, Mr Garland. You recall perhaps the private business of which I spoke to you? The need for me to move on quite soon?’
‘Indeed.’
I suddenly feel the need to unburden myself to someone, anyone. ‘Well, that time is upon me and the matter is . . . delicate. You’re right, I am troubled. I find I’m undecided about my course of action and that is surprising to me.’
‘And your gentleman friend, is he content to see you go?’
‘There you hit upon the other matter, Mr Garland. Henry wishes to come with me; he does not wish me to go alone.’
‘I suppose it is natural he should not want to be parted from you. And it is highly unusual for a young lady to travel alone in the manner you have done. Oh, I say nothing of it for myself but perhaps he is the traditional sort?’
‘I don’t think it’s a question of propriety, I believe he is concerned for my welfare. Also, I believe he is hurt that I don’t entrust more to him about the business in question.’
‘But it is a secret, you said?’
‘Indeed it is!’ I cry with some frustration.
‘Then there is nothing more to be said. A secret must be honoured. Especially, perhaps, a secret between two young ladies.’ He smiles fondly. ‘If he is the right man for you, Miss Snow, then he will respect your need for privacy on this matter.’
‘Thank you, Mr Garland, you are very kind.’
I feel somewhat reassured that I am not being unreasonable. Perhaps I allow him to reassure me so because I need to believe it. I even allow myself to think, for one wild instant, that perhaps Mr Garland is the right man for me. It would be easier, after all, to be with someone who unquestioningly respects Aurelia’s secret and does not press me. But of course that is not the point. The point is that it is Henry whom I love.
One at a time, the other guests arrive and I hope that the game, however tiresome, will take me out of myself for a little while. It does not. I consider the fact that Henry goes to Richmond in two days’ time and I still don’t know what to do.
The cards are slow. Mr Garland wins every hand. Mrs Riverthorpe grumbles. Conversation is desultory; I know my black mood doesn’t help. Outside, an indifferent afternoon has blossomed into a May evening as fine as spun silk so I decide to take the air, pleading a headache. I am glad that Mr Garland does not offer to escort me.
I walk to Crescent Fields, remembering the day I met Henry. Pouring rain and a dripping bonnet. Standing in this very spot contemplating three weeks in Bath and expecting to drag myself minute by minute through the days. Now that time is up and I am loath to leave. I stand beneath a haze of waning sunlight and an early summer moon. Aurelia’s quest is suspended, and nothing feels right.
I force myself to breathe, to think. I tell myself I am mistress of my life and even the most difficult decisions are all mine to make. Only I cannot make them. I cannot choose. The guilt of abandoning my quest would surely crush me, shadow every good thing my life might bring. But I cannot leave Henry; I can’t risk losing him. I want to go to Richmond with him. I will go to Richmond with him . . . The prospect shimmers in front of me for a moment like a mirage. And yet . . .
I tell myself I will not return to Hades House until I have settled upon a course of action. The sky grows dark around me.
When a stranger in a slouch hat slips past me from the shadows, fix
ing me with hooded eyes, I know I am being foolish staying out alone and yield to indecision. Tonight then. I will make my choice tonight.
I walk briskly back, relieved when the house looms up at me, all towers and teeth as it is. But my relief is short-lived. The bent figure of Mrs Riverthorpe stalks up and down, up and down the hall. When she sees me, she swoops towards me with fierce eyes.
‘Amy, you must leave at once.’
My hour of reverie is abruptly ended. ‘I beg your pardon? Why?’
‘You have not seen her then?’
‘Seen whom? I have seen no one.’
‘Where have you been?’
‘At Crescent Fields. Mrs Riverthorpe, what’s happened? Why must I leave?’
‘You have had a visitor, Amy.’
‘Henry? At this time of night?’
‘No, not Henry. Lady Celestina Vennaway was here at the house, large as life and fine as you please, demanding to see Amy Snow.’
I put a hand out to steady myself. ‘Lady Vennaway? Here? What did she want? What did you say to her?’
‘Told her I’d never heard of you, of course. Sent her away. Clear she didn’t believe me, but that doesn’t signify, provided she doesn’t get her hands on you, and provided she doesn’t know where you’ve gone. Go on, pack your bags. Make ready. The carriage will take you to London at first light. Oh, you could take a train but I want no trace of you. I don’t want her snooping around, charming some unsuspecting fool into telling her where you are gone. The carriage can bear you to London – you can take a direct train from Euston to York. I shall send Ambrose with you and she will arrange porters for your luggage. I have sent Cecile to follow Madam Vennaway, to make sure she stays away from the house. I can –’
‘Mrs Riverthorpe, stop!’
I have never seen her like this. She is babbling, thinking aloud, forming plans, all the while as if I am not there; I, the object of those plans. I remember that she knows Aurelia’s secret. It must be momentous indeed if she is so disarranged by the arrival of a Vennaway.
‘I am going nowhere like this. Surely a few moments of explanation will not wreak havoc. Please tell me everything that happened and what was said. How did she look?’
I do not know why I ask this, but that she was a part of my life for the longest time. For all that she despises me, I know how it feels to have lost Aurelia.
‘How did she look? Riven. Pale. Exquisite. Dressed in full mourning and wearing it like a queen.’
Mrs Riverthorpe then consents to tell me that, some time since, there was a mighty rap at the door. Assuming one of her guests had forgotten something, she sent Ambrose to receive the caller, despite the late hour. But Ambrose returned bearing the card of Lady Celestina Vennaway.
Mrs Riverthorpe was at the door in a trice, determined to see her off before I returned. She hobbled out to address Lady Vennaway in her carriage.
‘May I come in, Mrs Riverthorpe?’ asked Lady Vennaway.
‘You may not,’ retorted Mrs Riverthorpe.
When she saw that the object of her visit was both determined and aged, Lady Vennaway offered Mrs Riverthorpe a seat in her carriage for the duration of the conversation, which was duly refused on the grounds that the interview would not be long enough to warrant the courtesy.
I permit myself a moment to imagine this mythical interlocking of horns of the two proudest women of my acquaintance; both so haughty, both so accustomed to having their way in every small particular. I do not believe either of them can ever have met with opposition before. It must have been like an exotic dragon facing a prehistoric monster.
Lady Vennaway asked for me. Her sister had seen me, she said, in the company of a lady who claimed to be my guardian. She wished urgently to speak to me and, her attempts to communicate in writing having failed, had sought me out in person.
Mrs Riverthorpe lied outright and said she had never met me, never heard of me and that there was some mistake. She did so with such great energy and such negligent civility that although her visitor clearly did not believe her, she was forced to leave with no satisfaction.
Part of me dearly wishes I could have been there to see it.
But, Mrs Riverthorpe resumes, I must leave the very next morning.
‘Would it be so very detrimental, after all, to grant her an audience?’ I ask. ‘If I did so here, with you, I should feel safer. I am tired of running and looking over my shoulder and always fearing whom I might see. Can I not just stop and face her?’
‘No, Amy. Whatever she wants can bode no good and for you to see her would put your quest at risk. You are not an accomplished liar, child, more’s the pity. You must go. I am sorry.’
I feel as though I am teetering on the very edge of a chasm. I had never thought I could feel sorry to leave Hades House but now that it is upon me, I find I have developed a strange attachment to the place. While my quest is certainly very unusual, Mrs Riverthorpe is a constant, reasurring rebuttal of the conventional. She has seen so much of the world and scoffs at most of it. Although no serene, compassionate mentor, she has been an anchor of sorts. Now I must leave what little stability she has given me to take my longest journey, and with the least guidance.
‘Mrs Riverthorpe, how do you know I am to go to York?’
‘I know everything.’
‘Then please, please, I beg you, tell me what I am to do there and what I will find. I have followed Aurelia’s trail most diligently, indeed I have, but now there is Henry to think of . . . I have been anguishing over this. Can you not tell me and save me this last step? It would be but a shortcut.’
‘No, Amy. It’s not that I wish to be obstructive –’ she raises her eyebrows – ‘but I have told you before, I promised Aurelia. The secret is not mine to tell. I believe you will be better learning it in the way she intended. Henry will wait.’
‘Then tell me one thing, just one thing. Promise me.’
‘If I can.’
‘Is the trail to conclude in York? Will this see an end to it?’
She looks at me for the longest time. I fancy I can see arguments in favour of speaking and arguments for staying silent chasing each other through her cunning brain. Eventually she sighs.
‘It ends there.’
Oh! I seize on this slight scrap of certainty. To know this, at last, rather than merely suspecting, or painfully hoping – how wonderful to be able to tell Henry this one thing. Surely then, any separation must be relatively brief; I can reassure him at last. It makes a difference to everything, knowing that. It means I can bear to continue the quest after all . . . although, of course, the decision has already now been made for me by Celestina Vennaway.
‘I will miss you, Mrs Riverthorpe. Thank you for all you have done for me . . . odd though some of it has been. I truly hope we may meet again, if I do not bore you too much.’
Another pause and I imagine – no, I am sure I see a softening in her face. But ‘Go and pack, Amy, you must leave tomorrow,’ is all she says.
Chapter Sixty-One
I stumble awake to the sound of hammering at my door. It is dark and I search through the tangled strands of my mind for the dark thing I have forgotten. Through the gloom I discern my wardrobe, door open, standing empty, and I recall: I must leave today.
Mrs Riverthorpe bursts into my room and shakes my bedclothes.
‘Come on, young lady! Up! Up!’
I tumble from bed like a sparrow chick from a nest, blind and confused. I feel like to be crunched by cats, too.
‘Mrs Riverthorpe, wait! ’Tis not light. Give me time.’
She ignores my protests. ‘Time we do not have! That woman may call here this morning. You must be gone. I see you are packed, good. Get dressed. I will give you bread for the journey.’
‘You will not give me breakfast before I leave?’
‘You can eat all the breakfast you like in York. Come, come. Stop mumbling.’
I stagger into my clothes and find myself at the front door, blinking. My trunk
is gone before me, the horses are ready, bridles chinking, hooves scuffing at the pavement. A three-quarter moon hangs yet in the sky, veiled by chiffon bolts of cloud.
Ambrose appears in a travelling cloak, holding a parcel of bread. What I really want is coffee.
‘Mrs Riverthorpe, will you not accompany me to London? There is still so much I wish to ask you. We have scarce spoken of Aurelia the whole time I have been here.’
There is something else, too; I am strangely loath to part from her. She is old. What if I never see her again?
‘Talking won’t bring her back. No, if her mother returns, I must be here to deal with her. That woman must never find out the truth. And I shall deal with Henry, too, when he comes sniffing round here, as he surely will. Fear not, I shall be kindly enough.’
‘But Mrs Riverthorpe! You cannot expect me to leave without saying goodbye to Henry! That is absurd.’
‘You don’t have time for fond farewells. He will understand, if he is worthy of you. Consider, we do not know where Aurelia’s mother is staying. What if you should cross her path just as you go to call on Henry? No, you must get into that carriage and stay in it until Bath is far behind. Besides, it is five in the morning. No one will thank you for a social call at this hour.’
Words of affection and farewell die on my lips. I am trembling with fury, such that I don’t trust myself to speak. So I do not. I march down the steps and scramble into the carriage, shaking off the helping hand of the driver. I scoop in fold after fold of my skirts – there seem to be miles of them this morning – and slam the door. She is indulging in senseless levels of drama and she is terribly unkind. Ambrose climbs in and we are off. I don’t look back. I don’t look at Ambrose either.