by Tracy Rees
‘No, I’m sorry, miss, no such name.’ Mr Manning folds up his directory.
‘I beg your pardon?’ Sheer disbelief floors me. Of all the outcomes I had been imagining, this was not one of them.
‘No Entwhistle. Not that it surprises me; it’s rare I don’t know of a fellow dealing in books.’
‘You must be mistaken. Please look again!’
Mr Manning looks irritated but humours me and shows me the relevant listings, even pronouncing them aloud with painstaking clarity as if he doubts I can read.
Sure enough, the list jumps straight from ‘Durrant’ to ‘Everley’ and there is nothing in between. I turn over the document, looking for a postscript or an addendum. There is nothing. I clutch it and read every single name on it, one by one, using a finger, in case it has been listed out of place. Mr Manning watches me curiously. No Entwhistle.
‘Was there something particular you wanted? A specialist item perhaps? I could order it for you.’
‘No, sir, there is nothing you can do. Thank you for looking.’
What a difference a mood can make. I return to my lodgings with the heaviest of hearts, utterly baffled. I barely notice the jouncing of the cab, the dingy streets.
I feel nothing but dread. For if there is no Entwhistle’s, there can be no letter. And if there is no letter, then the trail is dead.
Chapter Seventeen
The argument raged for weeks. Proud Mrs Bolton came to the house in her peacock colours, with entreaties, references, credentials. Correspondence flew between Hatville and other interested parties, namely Mrs Bolton’s connections, objects of the proposed visit. Dr Jacobs was consulted. He gave the plan his blessing. A London consultant was summoned. He did not. Aurelia did not much credit his opinion, merely wondered how much it had cost her father.
While the future of this, her latest and wildest project, hung in the balance, Aurelia haunted the halls, white-faced and tense. The days became an exhausting sequence of dramas: private conversations between Aurelia and her parents behind tightly closed doors, doors slamming, footsteps storming and fits of angry weeping. I was a helpless, baffled onlooker. When I asked Aurelia what had been said, she would just look at me with desperate eyes and thin lips and shake her head. This was the same Aurelia who had told me every last thing she heard about Lord Kenworthy, about Lord Dunthorne, every scrap and scandal. She had never spared my girlish sensibilities before. In the eighteen months since her diagnosis I had grown used to our new closeness and now I felt horribly excluded.
I felt cross with her then, I did. I understood that she did not like to be thwarted, of course, but it was only a holiday! I told myself, in secret, dark moments I could not admit to anyone, that she was being hysterical. But one day I slipped into the library and found Aurelia seated in a wing-back chair by the window. She did not hear me – I had perfected the art of moving as unobtrusively as possible in order to cause the least offence. Her book had fallen to the ground – her face was buried in her hands. I knew then that her despair was real and I did not know what I could say, so I left her alone.
I could not understand. I was but thirteen. Her companionship was the greatest joy of my life and I wanted to hoard every precious moment remaining to us. Why did she not feel the same?
I did not like myself for leaving her in the library that day. It was the first time that I felt useless to her. I did not know how to talk to her any more. I missed her even while I still saw her at Hatville every day. At first I would cry myself to sleep but I couldn’t bear that, it felt too tragic – as if she had already gone, as if she had already died. I dared not let myself think ahead to that.
I was not to accompany her on her journey either. I was too young for the plans that had been laid. It would be tiresome for me. By going alone, she promised, she could return in the highest of spirits to share the highlights with me – she would entertain me for hours.
I did not want to endure three months at Hatville without her, not for any entertainment.
Yet she went. I knew that she would. Once an idea possessed her to that degree, she never, ever gave up on it.
*
The night before she left, we sat talking in front of her fire. I sat in a large chair with my knees drawn up to my chin and my arms hugging them close. I could hardly believe that after tomorrow morning I would not see her for three whole months. It seemed an intolerably long time to me then.
‘I will miss you so much,’ she murmured, to my infinite relief. ‘You know I will, don’t you, little bird?’
Oh, there was so much I wanted to say to that! Would she really miss me? Would she still love me best? I craved reassurance but the preceding weeks seemed to have robbed me of the habit of easy speech. I did not answer at first and when I spoke it felt inadequate.
‘But you don’t have to go,’ I argued, knowing it was too late. Mrs Bolton was to collect her early the next morning. Her trunks were packed – and mine were not. ‘And you don’t have to leave me behind. What if . . .’
‘What if . . .?’ she prompted gently, knowing what I was about to say.
‘What if you die? What if you go away and I never see you again? Is it so important to you? So very important you would risk us never sitting together again?’ My voice had risen and grown tearful, so I hugged my knees much tighter.
‘Oh, little bird, never think that! Nothing would be worth that. But there is no such risk. I don’t claim to know when I shall die, but I promise you the time is not near. I should feel it if it were and I should not go. I have to go.’
‘But . . . why?’
She sighed and we both stared at the flames. I thought she would not answer me. When she finally turned to me, it was with the saddest expression. I had never seen her like this before. I was accustomed to compassion, obstinacy, a crusading spirit, but never this naked, defeated grief.
‘Amy, I have never had control over my life. I have marched all over this small corner of the world as though I did, but it was pretence. Advantages I have, advantages aplenty, but control, no. I am not my own person.’
I rested my chin on my knees and gazed at her, listening. She hesitated again with a faraway look in her dark-blue eyes. She looked as if she were sorting through a great many things she would like to say in order to pick the ones she would, or could.
But when she spoke again, in a soft, considered voice, it was only to say things I had heard many times before.
‘There are walls all around us, holding us in. At every moment one circumstance dictates the next. A neighbour pays a call and we politely receive them or politely pretend to be from home. One person decides to hold a dinner and someone else cooks it. Someone else cannot afford to eat, so they die. And no one questions it, at least, no one in my family. I have always known this, Amy, I have always seen it. But I have been able to go on with my life nonetheless. But lately, perhaps since we learned about my heart, I don’t know, I cannot stop seeing it – I cannot turn off this awareness. It grows unbearable of late. The stupidity of it all, Amy, the conventions, the things we must do and the things we must not. The things that are respected and revered, like an advantageous marriage, when all it amounts to is selling a woman for money, like a horse! And the things that are frowned upon, when they are good and true things . . . it’s all so nonsensical. And there in the middle of it all am I and what good does seeing all this actually do? I can win small wars. I can take food to the villagers, support the dear reverend’s charitable projects, I can be kind to someone who has been disgraced, whether or not it scandalizes my mother. But these things do not change anyone’s lives, not permanently.’
I nodded and did not trust myself to speak. I could not understand why she was talking to me as though I were a stranger who did not already know her every thought. I did not want social commentary, I wanted her to tell me that she loved me and could not be parted from me.
‘Until now, dear, my greatest victory is you! I have kept you safe, here with me, I have educated yo
u and given you a chance at a better life after I am gone. And that you are my greatest friend is the very happiest of outcomes. But even that is poisoned, Amy, for what has been the cost to you? I find myself questioning everything, of late. I am grateful every day that you are here with me. But I am not sure that I have done you such a very great favour. I have made you . . . a misfit! I should set you free, only it would break my heart to come back to find you gone.’
I was appalled. This had never occurred to me. Now, as well as worrying that I might be neglected, forgotten, I needed to worry that she would cast me out through some misguided notion that it would be better for me. ‘Aurelia, how can you say that? You’ve done everything for me! I would never leave you. Not ever!’
She raked her nails over her scalp until her hair stood up. Her cheeks burned and tears glowed in her eyes. ‘During my life I have fought passionately – over bonnets. I have stood my ground to defend my rights – to wear feathers. Everyone knows where I stand – with regard to ribbons. The concerns of a spoiled child.’
‘Aurelia! No! You have fought for a great deal more than that! You know you have!’
‘But to what avail? And in what sphere? With my parents? I have hated them for how they treat you Amy, hated them. One should not hate one’s parents. And now . . .’ She took a deep breath. ‘Sometimes, Amy, the people you love are, are . . . well, sometimes they are bad!’
I knew better than anyone that Aurelia’s parents were not good. But I did not understand the depth of her anguish – why so extreme, and why now? Nonetheless, I scrambled from my seat and held her while she cried.
At last she grew calm again and rested her head on mine. ‘I wish to die having done something remarkable. Perhaps a journey is not the noblest of causes, perhaps I am being selfish again. But it is the best I can do now. One day, Amy, I’m going to die, and far sooner than I would like. There is so much I wanted to do. This will not even amount to a tiny part of it, but it is something.
‘Three months will not see the end of me. The time will fly past, and I promise to write to you every day. Then I shall return to you to live out the rest of my days, however many they may be. But I will have this first, whilst I still can. I am a grown woman of plentiful fortune. To be told, once again, that I cannot, is no longer to be borne.’
I swallowed, and squeezed her hand. Although I desperately wanted to, I did not ask the questions I burned to ask. What use was a companion at Hatville with no one to accompany? During her absence what would I do? What would I be?
*
In the end I was left to my own devices entirely. The Vennaways, to my relief and astonishment, were not actively cruel. I learned later that Aurelia had threatened never to return unless she was assured that I would be waiting for her, safe and well. Instead they ignored and avoided me.
Aurelia’s departure seemed to have roused her father from the stupor that had held him since her diagnosis and he once again attended to his affairs. Mr Henley, the tutor, was released. He secured employment in a school in Edinburgh.
The rest of the household was, as ever, fully occupied with their own ample workloads. No one checked up on me to see whether I was dressing, studying, eating . . . I went several weeks unsure of whether I actually existed. I passed whole days without speaking and felt so wretched, purposeless and alone that I wanted to scream. In fact, I was very silent.
Without Aurelia’s animating presence, the house felt like a mausoleum. I could no longer hold at bay my fears about her death. This was, I realized, only a foretaste of the time when she would be gone for ever. How would my heart survive without her? And what would become of me when I was banished from Hatville?
For a short time I prayed constantly for her health. Nothing would change the eventual outcome, I knew. Even so, I pleaded with God that I need not confront it yet.
Desperate for company, I sought out anyone I could. On the occasions that Dr Jacobs attended Lady Vennaway, I hovered on the staircase like a silent sprite, hoping to catch him yet too afraid to frame the question I wanted to ask. Despite my shyness, he seemed to understand.
‘Never fear, child,’ he would say, ‘she has time enough yet. Maybe two years, perhaps even longer . . . unless she is very unlucky.’ Once, he sat beside me on the top stair and talked to me of valves and ventricles.
I went on like this for a month, maybe more. And then, despite my belief that without Aurelia my life had no meaning, my wild fears quieted. Every night the darkness looked likely to go on for ever, yet every morning it lifted. Every day I grew a day older. Not only was I alive but so was she. When I realized that a month had passed, and that in only two more she would be back, my spirits lifted a little. I was a young woman now, I told myself; the time would pass more rapidly if, instead of feeling sorry for myself, I put myself to some use. So I conscientiously put my fears aside to try to live a little, each day. I walked into the village often, and visited the workers in Aurelia’s stead. I took food when Cook would permit it. I called once or twice on Mr Chorley in the vicarage and Mr Clay in the school, though I could not offer Aurelia’s sparkling conversation.
At Hatville, I helped Cook with a few small things although, after my long absence from the kitchen, there was less need for me now than ever. So I would take myself off to the gardens and beg Robin to let me do some planting.
Though Robin rarely spoke, his was the presence I found most soothing. The young boy who had wheeled me around in a barrow had grown into a tall, bearded man of one-and-twenty but our friendship remained unchanged. A comfortable resonance existed in our silence – as if his spirits and mine occupied a similar domain.
One evening, as I dusted the dirt off my hands and stood up, he seemed to sense my reluctance to return to the house.
‘’Tis not the same without her,’ he said unexpectedly. ‘There’s none like her.’ I felt a rush of gratitude for his understanding.
*
In my remaining hours I read, studied and played the piano. I wrote to Aurelia and told her all the news of home, trusting that she would still find interest in such things. And every day I received a letter from her. Whereas at first I only appreciated them because they signalled she was alive, I came to enjoy them for their own sake. Her writing style was just like her: warm, irreverent and funny. By now she was in Twickenham, staying with Mrs Bolton’s cousin, a Mrs Constance Wister. Aurelia professed herself enchanted with the effusively furnished home and great proliferation of children.
My dear, you should see Mulberry Lodge! It could not be more different from Hatville if I had scoured the earth for its opposite. Constance delights in all things modern and has filled her home with statuary and wallpapers (sometimes in quite astonishing colours!) and furniture that is jewelled and studded and striped! She is a lovely, warm-hearted woman, Amy, whom you would like very much. I do so wish you could meet her. Perhaps one day you will. She has a husband every bit as affable as she, two parrots, a splendid dog and approximately three hundred children . . .
And so the days passed. The elements of life were the same, just repositioned, and lacking the centrepiece.
Chapter Eighteen
My second day in London. I have picked up a pestilent head cold. My throat rasps, my eyes sting and my head buzzes like a nest of wasps. I stay curled up in bed, fully dressed, trying to control my shivering.
I have existed in this world without her for a little less than a week. It is an incomprehensible grief, now joined by frustration and dejection. What a merry little trio they make. There is no Entwhistle’s! This unwelcome fact will insist on advertising itself though I should dearly love to forget it, even for a moment.
I try to tell myself that all is not lost, but all I want is to hide away, nursing my heartache until I feel stronger. I cannot face another day of tramping London’s grimy, winding dead-ends now I know there is no Entwhistle’s to be found. I have failed Aurelia at the first hurdle.
If not for the treasure hunt, I might spend my days consulti
ng newspaper notices and writing off for employment. I try to persuade myself I should give up the quest and secure some position as a governess or companion. Of course I will not.
I almost despise myself for my dogged devotion. Did Aurelia not think about the position she has put me in? Did she really believe that travel, secrecy and impossible challenges would be in my best interests at this time? Once again I am caught between worlds because of Aurelia’s wishes.
I recall that intense, painful conversation, the night before she went away. I was so shocked when she said she had made a misfit of me. But it was true, I consider. Even as I think it I can see her dear lovely face streaked with tears and hear her words: ‘. . . that you are my greatest friend is the very happiest of outcomes. But even that is poisoned . . . I should set you free . . .’
‘But I’m still not free, Aurelia,’ I croak, then swallow painfully. I feel guilty when I remember how grateful I was to receive that first letter in the kitchen garden at Hatville. What a lifeline it seemed. How quickly that gratitude has been dimmed by misgiving. Of course I did not know then what she had in store for me.
I remember again the strong-minded little girl I used to be. When I was very small, it was a pure joy to do everything Aurelia wanted. But as I grew older, life was always too complicated for joy. Did I decide, somewhere along the years, that it would be easier to make Aurelia happy than to be happy myself? If I did, can I really blame Aurelia for doing likewise? And now I am suspended in this impossible quest.
I curse Mr Entwhistle with all my heart. Has he died too? Gone out of business? Whatever was Aurelia thinking, laying my path upon such crumbling foundations? Surely if she knew anything, it should have been that life is precarious, even for the youngest and brightest. Who is Mr Entwhistle, for heaven’s sake?
