Amy Snow

by Tracy Rees

  ‘I am indeed, Miss Snow, only you must call me Constance. And may we call you Amy right away? Only, if we stand on ceremony, there are a good many Miss Wisters and Master Wisters, as you see, and it is sure to grow confusing.’

  ‘Aye, and you can’t call Papa Mr Wister,’ says the oldest boy, Michael, who is fourteen or so and very indignant. ‘It sounds ridiculous! I keep urging him to get a peerage, so he may be Lord Wister, which sounds a good deal finer, only he won’t oblige me. Mr Wister! And Amy, when I am older, I shall be Mr Wister too!’

  I can’t help but laugh. ‘Then I shall certainly call you Michael. Now, let me take the measure of you all.’

  I see now that the girl who answered the door is a year or two older than I. ‘You are Miss Madeleine,’ I hazard and she nods. She is lovely. Her white dress and gold ribbons show off her flaxen hair and creamy complexion to perfection.

  ‘Miss Priscilla.’ I greet the second daughter, whom I know to be my own age. She wears a soft periwinkle gown with pink roses. She has brown hair, brown eyes and dimples that wink like sunlight on water.

  ‘See now, there again!’ interjects Michael. ‘Miss Priss Wister. They didn’t think it through, did they?’

  ‘Perhaps not, Michael. Now who is this? Oliver?’

  ‘No, I’m Hollis.’ The next two boys are close in age and very alike with brown hair and brown eyes, Hollis and Oliver. ‘Like twins but not twins, d’you see?’ explains Hollis.

  ‘And this must be . . . well, this must be the baby!’

  I remember as if it were yesterday, Aurelia declaring that Mrs Bolton’s cousin had given birth to a beautiful baby girl. And now that baby is a person of four years old, with a cloud of white-gold curls. Miss Louisa hugs a spaniel puppy that squirms in her arms.

  ‘Clover,’ she says softly, lifting the puppy towards me and fixing me with huge blue eyes.

  ‘I am very honoured to meet you, Clover.’ I reach forward and stroke the little face; a tiny pink tongue comes out to lick my hand.

  I am shy under such intense scrutiny – not just from little Louisa but from all of them. They all look so . . . happy! And easy.

  I imagine how I must look to them: pale and gaunt and shadow-eyed, my black mourning made up in cheap, scratchy fabric. I feel like a goblin in their midst, an unwholesome thing, brooding, secretive and mired in the past. I long to untangle myself from it and be washed clean in the sunlight of this happy, hearty family.

  Yet, even newly arrived as I am, I know the time will soon come when I will have to leave.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The Wisters are a prosperous, middle-class family brimming over with good feeling. I am overwhelmed by my new hosts. I realize this after just an hour in their company, over a sumptuous luncheon that appears soon after my cake and Madeira. For one thing, there are too many of them. It makes it hard for me to monitor whether I might be causing offence. I was shy when I dined with Mr Crumm and his grandson but two people is not so great a number that I could not concentrate on them both and assess each comment for danger.

  But here! I cannot keep track of the conversation – or conversations, in fact – that flow every which way about me. So many people addressing me at once: asking questions, making jokes, telling stories, rushing from the table to show me shawls and sketches and toy soldiers . . . I am in an anxiety that I will fail to answer someone, or neglect to show sufficient enthusiasm, or that I will simply fall asleep in my soup.

  Since my arrival, another member of the family has appeared to swell the ranks: Mrs Larissa Nesbitt, Constance’s mother. Mrs Nesbitt (I cannot bring myself to call this elderly matriarch ‘Larissa’) looks every inch the sweet, dependent widow. She has white curls under a snowy cap and apples in her cheeks. She appears diffident and frail but, as Aurelia proved, appearances can be deceiving.

  Mrs Nesbitt, it transpires, has a great appetite for socializing and is rarely to be found at home. She returns to us during luncheon from a visit with ‘dear Jack’, by whom, I come to understand, she means Lord John Russell, our Prime Minister.

  ‘I do not know how she does it,’ Miss Priscilla mutters to me. ‘We think ourselves sociable, but Grandmother knows everyone! Even the very grandest folk, who would never think of noticing us, become great friends with Grandmother.’

  Mrs Nesbitt informs me, in her sweet, winsome way, that it is extremely important for a woman in her position to have her own life and her own circle of friends. She would not, she adds, be averse to marrying again.

  Another difficulty is how cheerful they all are. I have little experience with such things and I am hard pressed to know how to speak and act so as not to feel like the spectre at the feast. I do not think even Aurelia was ever properly happy – not like this. From its earliest days our friendship was shaped around evading the powers that be, sticking together against the odds. Here, I’m not sure that there are any odds.

  If I am not offering solace, or deeply engrossed in an analysis of some unsolvable mystery, I am not sure what I have to offer. Perhaps I can watch and learn their ways before the spotlight turns on me, so that I may not appear so very curious. And so, in my earnest, anxious way, I make of these good people a course of study for myself and quite exhaust myself long before the evening meal.

  Seeing me wilt in their midst, Constance finally calls off the children and takes me to my room. It has been waiting for me, she says.

  It is airy and pretty, with white muslin curtains trembling like blossoms in the draught from an ill-fitting window. To ward off the cold, the fire has been lit and a large copper scuttle glints with coal.

  ‘Use whatever you need,’ she instructs. ‘There is the shovel. You simply must be comfortable. I wanted you to have this room because Miss Vennaway stayed here so I thought it might please you. And, in truth, it is the only spare room we have.’

  I assure her I am more than content. This is the closest thing I have ever seen in life to the home I have wished for myself. To be sure, Mulberry Lodge is far larger than the modest cottage of my dreams but every bit as welcoming and warm in spirit. It strikes me as a small miracle to find myself in so homely a place. It makes me feel as though Aurelia’s is not the only path I am following, that some comforting strand of my own destiny is woven into my quest after all. I pray that is so.

  The care that has gone into making my room a haven more than compensates for the chill. There are soft pink and green rugs, a bookcase, a small canopied bed and walls bedecked in rose and ivory stripes. I have never seen papered walls before. A round table and two chairs wait before the window and I can already see myself sitting there in the early morning, looking out over the garden. Paintings decorate the walls. One depicts the house, shrouded in clematis, with Cavendish sitting foursquare and military on the top step.

  ‘Did Aurelia paint that?’

  ‘She did. A gift to us when she left, bless the dear girl. And here is your trunk.’ She points at a large wooden trunk at the foot of the bed.

  ‘My trunk?’ She speaks as though I was expecting it but I have never had a trunk in my life, nor the possessions to fill one.

  ‘Why, yes! The trunk Aurelia left for you. It kept her so busy while she was here. The key is in the bookcase drawer. I shall leave you now – you must yearn for peace and quiet. Please rest, and do not emerge until you are good and ready, even if that is tomorrow. Even if that is three days from now! I cannot think what it must be like to be without a home at such a time. Therefore ours must supply the need.’

  I thank her wholeheartedly. I do need to rest. This morning I woke in cheerless Jessop Walk and now the afternoon grows dark over Mulberry Lodge.

  When Constance has left the room, I look at the trunk. A gift – or gifts – from Aurelia! Waiting here for me all this time! It is large and made of oak, with brass handles at either end. If Aurelia expects me to take it with me, I do not know how I shall travel. But I shall spare myself the trial of worrying about that for now. Feeling safe for the first time si
nce she died, I draw the curtains on the twilit lawn and the gracious trees and what may be a glimpse of the river beyond. It can wait. Even the trunk can wait. It can all wait.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  I wake with a start from a dream of falling. I was plunging a great way, into an abyss from which I knew I would not return. Deep snow gentled my descent, but still I sank with my back toward the depths, arms and legs reaching vainly above. My black skirts billowed and floated and Aurelia’s letters – there were dozens of them – escaped from my pockets and flew away like little birds. The snow closed above me and all was darkness . . .

  All is darkness. I am somewhere soft and strange. There is no reference point by which I can gauge where I am; no chink of light allows me to make sense of myself. My heart drums. It is as though the world I know has been snatched away and I’ve woken in some other realm.

  Gradually memory returns, and with it the knowledge that I am in bed at Mulberry Lodge. I am safe. And yet I do not know where to find a candle, a chamber pot, a clock. I do not know in which direction is the door, the window or the chair with my dress flung over the back. I have slept in four different rooms in just six nights; small wonder I am all at sea. I promise myself that if it is at all possible I shall stay in this house until I can wake to sure knowledge of which direction I am facing.

  I climb from bed with a shiver. ’Tis an icy night. I tiptoe to the window, bumping into the table, and draw the curtains. No moon to aid me, and everything motionless without. It must be the very middle of night. I can’t find candle or taper in this penumbra so I return to bed.

  Now that I am awake, thoughts insist on plaguing me. The treasure hunt, I reflect, is a mixed blessing. Without it dragging me on, grief might well have swallowed me whole by now. But at some point, I know, I will need to let go of Aurelia and forge a life of my own construction. This is not my journey; it has been laid out for me by someone else. I am like a seamstress cutting out a dress to a pattern she did not design, uncertain of how the finished garment will suit her when she is done or whether it will even fit. I am still not free.

  Yet the prospect of freedom scares me. What should I do with it? Now that I am here amongst this boisterous, open-hearted family – three generations under one roof – I feel the gaping maw of my own family history all anew. Who am I? I wish I knew who my parents were. I wish I knew why they left me. I wish I knew any tiny scrap of information by which I might hold onto them: the sound of a laugh, the colour of a dress . . . I wish, I wish, I wish . . . Yet even as I yearn, a part of me understands that knowing would not give me what I need. Aurelia knew all too well her lineage – and spent her whole life resisting it because she swore it did not define her.

  I drift back into an uneasy sleep and when I wake again, a ragged dawn offers enough light to explore by.

  I find candles in the bookcase drawer and light two. I wrap my tatty old shawl around my tatty old nightgown for warmth; it seems almost wrong to wear this miserable garb with its taint of misfortune here in this happy house. Then I settle myself on the floor in front of the trunk.

  The key fits snugly and turns easily. It is a new chest, not musty or creaky but smooth and clean; the lid lifts silent and willing. It is full to the brim. A muslin sheet is drawn over the contents and scattered with lavender. The scent rushes up to meet me, heady and evocative of happy summers, but when I lift a sprig, the flowers immediately drop off, dry and brittle. An envelope bearing my name lies on top.

  My treasured Amy,

  Here I am, waiting for you in the best way I can now. You see, I will never forget you, not so long as I live, and not after that either. You have reached the dear Wisters. They are taking care of you now, and may they do a better job of it than I!

  When I found you in the snow, my intentions were all good, I assure you. I believed I could do anything – I wanted to believe it. But I could not make my family accept you. I could not change society to make a good place for you in it.

  I want you to know, little bird, that I see all this now and apologize with my whole heart. I know you do not want my apology, I know you do not hold me accountable for the cruelties that have been dealt you. Nevertheless, it is the first step in my unburdening to say that I am sorry and to thank you for your gracious affection despite my many faults. Not the least of these is my selfishness.

  Which brings me to the year that I went away and left you – I cringe to think of it, dearest. You were but thirteen.

  I was determined to go away, you know that. I had a fever upon me to grab any opportunity that came my way and consequences be damned. But there was another reason for my fervent resolve – one that I have never told you. I shall do so now.

  Dearest, you will remember how resolute my parents were that I should marry, how desperately they longed for an heir. The news about my heart put an end to all that, of course. My parents – the whole household, I believe – was frozen with shock.

  But time went on, did it not? And I remained, to all intents and purposes, in good health. It was easy for us all to pretend that I did not have that fatal defect, or at least to relax, trusting that I would not pass on for some long while. We all came back to ourselves. The exciting opportunity to go away with Mrs B arose. And my parents began to think (a development that never spelled any good for me).

  I looked so well they began to wonder if I might safely bear a child after all. They began to think that it was now more – not less – imperative that I marry. They were going to lose me no matter what – keeping me unwed would not change that sad fact – but if I had a child it would be a living memory of me. Suddenly they wanted a grandson (for of course it would be a boy) more than ever. Not only an heir, an extension of the glory of the Vennaways, but a comfort and boon to them after my demise. They began to insist, once again, that I marry.

  I lay down the letter feeling sick. Could this be true? Could they really have been prepared to force their daughter to marry when she was dying? Although . . . it was as she said. In those days it was hard to believe that she was dying. Her days as a true invalid were yet a way off. She looked as radiant as ever. She caused as much trouble as she ever had. A small, reluctant part of me can understand how the Vennaways would have been able to convince themselves that the risk to her was not so very great. I read on:

  They summoned me one day, Amy, and told me that they had accepted a proposal of marriage on my behalf. They had even been so good as to set a date in the springtime. You may imagine my horror and confusion. This came so suddenly, and after a time of such comparative peace that I was unprepared. It would take a great many pages to recount to you the conversations that ensued, Amy: arguments, entreaties, orders flung and tears shed. In short, I begged, pleaded, raged, threatened and said the most dreadful things all to no avail. I was to marry Bailor Dunthorne two months thence. I trust you remember him, Amy!

  Bailor Dunthorne! How could I forget? An hour spent in his presence was like an hour in a chamber of falling swords. You might be lucky. You might escape without injury. But it wasn’t assured, and the experience was accordingly enjoyable. I shudder, remembering his stocky, cocky frame bending towards me, hands on his knees, his dark face and leering eyes coming closer and closer . . . But he came from an excellent family, a line even longer than the Vennaways. I can see why the Vennaways wanted Aurelia to marry him. As for Bailor, his own father was leaning on him to stop his careering ways and have a son or two. Aurelia always claimed that she was his dream wife, on account of her scant life expectancy.

  ‘Love?’ she’d scoffed. ‘He doesn’t want a wife any more than I want a husband. No, Bailor wants me as a brilliant solution to the tight spot he’s in. One placated father, family duty done, one young rake at large once more. I can imagine him now, pleading a broken heart, using me for ever afterwards as an excuse never to remarry, to do whatever he pleased. If any friendship existed between us, it might make a fine arrangement. But I do not like him, Amy, I do not like him.’

 
; No more did I.

  So you see, I had an even greater motivation to leave Hatville than you could have imagined, little bird. I had grown accustomed to being misunderstood, contradicted, but I never expected, in the last years of my life, to be forced into this . . . with a man who . . . Oh, Amy, you know what I am saying. Either they did not realize that this was the greatest indignity and cruelty they could visit upon me, or else exerting their will was simply more important to them. I will never know.

  Of course, I was still – repeatedly! – forbidden to travel with Mrs B. They wanted me married as soon as possible. In the end, little dove, it came to this: a compromise. I promised that if they would let me go, for just those three short months, I would indeed marry Bailor on my return.

  My heart gives a great leap. She agreed? I remember those long, intense, whispered conversations, the slamming doors, the sense of stakes far higher than a simple pleasure trip should warrant. Now I understand.

  And they agreed! They accepted my terms; I would come back in June with my foolish notions dealt with and tidied away. I would settle down and become a wife; I would begin the serious business of getting a child. Of course I lied. I had no intention of marrying Bailor, in June or ever. I told him as much, in private. When I left Hatville, I had no idea how I was going to insist upon this, but I knew it for fact.

  When I went away, Amy, I believed I would never ever be able to forgive them. But now, close to dying as I am, I need to find a way to understanding, for my own sake as much as theirs. I think they wanted above anything to feel that the possibility of a grandson was not beyond their reach after all. I think they were half mad with the wanting of it. And I can understand that, Amy, truly I can, only that I was to be so entirely disregarded in the getting of one! I do believe that they loved me, in their own strange way. Perhaps every daughter needs to believe that, no matter how many knots she must tie her own mind into to make it so.