by Tracy Rees
‘Yes, thank you, but I have to go!’
‘Truly?’ His face falls and he pulls out a gold pocket watch. ‘Gracious yes, we’ve been talking a while. I am late too. But may I walk you home first? I should rather be late than see you disappear into the rain alone.’
But that is exactly what I must do. Like Cinderella – but with both my boots firmly on my feet – I am fleeing. I am already out of the jingling door while Henry tosses coins on the table, grabs his hat and chases after me.
‘I’m sorry, Henry.’ When he joins me in the rain-drenched street, I turn to him and take his hand, heedless of custom. ‘I should love to stay longer but I cannot delay. My hostess is expecting me. I don’t suppose you will attend the ball at Greatmead Hall tonight?’
He will not. He is staying with friends and they have arranged a dinner for this evening in their house in Henrietta Street.
‘I have heard about tonight’s event, however. In honour of Miss Genevieve Colt’s betrothal, is it not? I’m afraid my friends and I are not sufficiently grand. You’re moving in fine society, Amy. Come now, don’t look so glum! Half of Bath would give a great deal to be going tonight. And the other half already are!’
I cannot help being glum. To move in circles that would not recognize Henry Mead is no honour at all to me. ‘But I will see you again while I am in Bath?’
‘Of course you will.’ He looks puzzled by my haste and keeps one eye on the street. ‘Let me call you a cab if you will not let me walk you. Here!’ He gives a piercing whistle. ‘What is your address, Amy? Where can I find you?’
‘Rebecca Street.’ A cab draws up beside us, hooves and wheels splashing through puddles – the door flies open. ‘You cannot forget the house. It is called Hades House! My hostess is Mrs Riverthorpe. Do call on me, Henry!’ I climb inside and he exchanges a word and some coins with the driver.
‘I promise. Tomorrow. Hades House? That sounds like a story for another time.’
‘It is. Oh, Henry, it is so good to see you again . . .’
‘And you. ’Til tomorrow then! I’ll come in the morning.’ He slams the door.
I think to ask him one more thing and lean out of the window. ‘Oh, before you go, have you perhaps met a Mr Frederic Meredith during your stay in Bath? I believe he was a friend of Aurelia’s.’
‘Frederic Meredith? Sorry, Amy, no. I’ll ask my friends if you like, but I’ve never heard of him.’
The cab jolts off with a hiss of wheels in rain, leaving me in a shiver of misery. Once again my past has brought a happy encounter to an abrupt end. For an instant there in the coffee house I thought my two nights in Hades House had unhinged me completely.
Aristocratic features – indelibly etched in my mind, proud bearing, long auburn hair and blue eyes. But it was not Lady Vennaway. It was the next worst thing.
Her sister Arabella Beverley.
Chapter Forty-Five
By the time I reach Hades House I have persuaded myself that no harm was done. Mrs Beverley did not see me. And although it hurt to be wrenched from Henry again, he is here and I will see him tomorrow. I hurry inside, newly reconciled to Bath. The presence of a friend in the city casts a whole new light on the weeks ahead. That light is dimmed when I find Mrs Riverthorpe lying in wait in the hall. She lurks like a crocodile, patient and deadly in pools of shadow.
‘I see you have attempted to drown yourself as a way of evading the ball! I assure you I shall not let you off the hook so easily.’
‘I am certain you will not, Mrs Riverthorpe. I have come back to dry off and get ready.’
‘It’ll take more than drying to get you ready, miss! I shall send Cecile to you. She will see you right.’
I do not know who Cecile is but I know better than to argue. I have acquainted myself only a little with the rather odd household that is Hades House so far and have met only Mrs Riverthorpe and Ambrose. Ambrose seems to occupy an ambiguous position somewhere between housekeeper, lady’s maid and esteemed friend. As such, I find myself unsure of how to speak to her, an irony that is not lost on me.
I suppose I should tell Mrs Riverthorpe, who presumably is bound up in Aurelia’s secret in some unfathomable way, that Aurelia’s aunt is here in Bath. But she is bustling me up the stairway, intent upon the ball. I will tell her tonight, I promise myself; there will be a better moment to speak of it.
Cecile comes to me just after I have laid out my dress and put some curling papers in my hair. I have selected the pink dress again. It seems a shame to wear the same gown twice and I prefer the apricot, yet for this reason I know it will not please Mrs Riverthorpe. Likely nothing will please Mrs Riverthorpe but that cannot be helped.
Cecile, however, takes one look and purses her lips. She hails from France, is very young and very certain of right and wrong. She opens my armoire without asking and leafs through my gowns like pages in a book. She stops at the red dress.
‘No, Cecile. I cannot wear that. It is not right for me.’ I speak simply in case there is a language barrier but Cecile looks astonished.
‘Not right, mademoiselle? I think you are mistaken, forgive me. This is the perfect choice for the occasion.’
‘No, you see, it is somewhat . . . racier than I would normally wear. It was a gift from a friend, a very kind gift, but it does not suit me so well as the pink.’
‘It will suit you to perfection. Far better than that one.’ She shrugs and pulls out the dress. ‘Come, mademoiselle, Mrs Riverthorpe will want to inspect you before you leave. Let us not waste time.’
‘No, truly, Cecile. It’s very kind of you to help me but I would not be comfortable. I do not mean that it would not become me, but I would not feel comfortable in it. It does not . . . express who I am. It does not suit my character. Do you understand?’
‘I understand you perfectly, mademoiselle, you explain it most clearly, but that is not the point. The point of dressing for a ball is not to express your character, it is to look . . . comme il faut. The pink will not do.’
Her English is impeccable, yet it is clear we do not speak the same language.
With remarkable dexterity, Cecile removes my hoop and exchanges it for a larger one, engulfs me with the red dress and pulls the papers from my hair, all in a matter of minutes.
She runs to fetch red roses, bandoline serum and something that looks very much like paraffin wax, then proceeds to work my hair into an extraordinary style. By the time she has finished I look as if I have twice the quantity of hair that I actually do; it is piled atop my head, and I look taller than I am. Flat curls like question marks lay along my cheeks, and there are at least as many roses as tresses upon my head. Because of them, I smell divine.
I murmur that perhaps Cecile has overestimated the self-restraint of my hair, even with bandoline, but she shakes her head decisively and I dare to hope that even my hair will be cowed into obedience this evening.
I am equipped with a black fan, a black shawl and a black, beaded reticule. I am turned and turned about for a minute inspection, my bodice is smoothed, my skirts are tweaked and I am at last allowed out of the room.
Mrs Riverthorpe barely glances at me, but I know that in that glance she has taken in every detail of my appearance. ‘Well done, Cecile. Good night.’
As we sweep out to the carriage, I catch sight of myself in a long mirror in the hall. I want to weep. It is not only that I feel exposed, uncomfortable and quite unfamiliar. But I do not even look pretty! The styling of my hair is not flattering to my face. Roses and hair appear to be engaged in a fight for supremacy and the black trimmings make my white skin look very stark. If I must become someone else for a night, I had far rather become a beauty.
Chapter Forty-Six
The most surprising thing is that I impress. With intense concentration, my social graces are impeccable. Of course they are, they are Aurelia’s. My dress is admired and my hair even more so. Apparently I am the height of fashion.
Mrs Riverthorpe introduces me with admirable vagu
eness as ‘a young friend from the country’. No one seems to care where in the country – if it is not Bath, it is not interesting. All anyone talks about all night is Bath and no one asks me anything apart from what I think of Bath. I say how fine it is and what an array of diversions it offers, and everyone is happy.
I am continuously surrounded by a great lake of people. Mrs Riverthorpe, although shockingly rude to everyone, appears to be in great demand. Yet at the centre of this little court I feel lonelier than ever. I long for Madeleine and Priscilla, for Edwin and Constance, for Michael. I long for Henry. I long for a familiar face.
And then I see one! For the third time today, I am amazed. I am starting to feel as though everyone I ever met (which is admittedly not so very many) will congregate here in Bath tonight. As I glance and glance away, I see his gaze sweep the room, measured and methodical. When it reaches my party, it rests on me with some interest, then moves on to Mrs Riverthorpe. I am unsurprised; if Henry could not recognize me earlier, then surely Mr Garland cannot do so this evening. My transformation has gone a stage further tonight.
I still hope to speak with him, however. If nothing else, I should dearly love to hear news of Twickenham and perhaps of my friends there.
Mr Garland excuses himself from his company and moves towards us. He insinuates himself with great delicacy through the throng. I feel some nervous anticipation lest he should greet me, and lest he should not. Upon reaching Mrs Riverthorpe, tonight clad in an outlandish gown of shimmering gold, he seizes her hand and kisses it.
‘My dear Ariadne, how splendid to see you, and looking so radiant. How do you do?’
She creaks a curtsey, as though her very bones resist civility.
‘Quentin. I do as usual, that is to say still alive, still in possession of my fortune and still vastly displeased with everyone I meet. I doubt you can entertain me any better. At least you are easier on the eye than most. I always think that if a man has no looks to recommend him, he should hide away and not inflict himself on the public. Delicacy demands it. Yet, here we are, surrounded by men both unattractive and dull. What can be done?’
I gasp at her audacity. The gentlemen in question, standing all around, smile gamely as though determined to enjoy Mrs Riverthorpe by hook or by crook.
At my gasp, Mr Garland turns to me with a charming smile. ‘Might I have the pleasure, Ariadne, of meeting your new friend?’
‘I thought you’d like her. Quentin, this is a young friend of mine from the country, Miss Amy Snow. Amy, may I present Mr Quentin Garland. He’s a bore like the rest of them, but he’s handsome and rich so it takes people longer to notice.’
‘Good evening, Mr Garland.’ I make a deep curtsey.
At the sound of my name he raises his eyebrows.
‘Good heavens! Why, I do believe we have . . . Miss Snow?’
‘That’s right, Quentin. Amy, have you met this shiny fellow before?’
‘Why, yes, at Twickenham. How do you do, Mr Garland? How good to see you again.’
And it is. He looks handsomer than ever – tall and slender, with the light from the chandeliers dancing over his golden hair like sunlight on water. His customary powder-blue cravat has been exchanged this evening for a paler shade, cold and blue as ice.
‘I wouldn’t go so far as good, Amy. It is never truly good to see Mr Garland, with his fingers in pies and his multiple investments. Lord, how he makes one yawn.’
Mr Garland looks genuinely amused.
‘I hope that is not your memory of me, Miss Snow, but if it is, I hope I may rectify it tonight. Would you honour me with a dance, if you have any free?’
I consult my dance card, fumbling and dropping my reticule and fan. I duck to pick them up, then remember that I am corseted and hooped in a way that makes doing so impossible. Besides, I am supposed to stand around and wait for eager gentlemen to pick them up for me. As indeed they do. Mr Garland gravely fills in his name in more than one space.
*
The night passes, unsettling as a dream. Oh, the scene is as pretty as the ball in Richmond: the whirling skirts and twinkling crystal, the beautiful young ladies and enormous bouquets. But it is grander, and Lowbridge was quite, quite grand enough for me. I feel as though I meet the whole population of Bath in one evening, and I dance for hours.
I try to imagine Aurelia here, dancing in this very room before me, too caught up in flirting and fascinating to come home. I keep expecting to see Aurelia, laughing and rolling her eyes at me. When I began this journey, I used to feel this way all the time, but I have not done so for a while. It shocks me to realize that somewhere along the way I must have accepted that she is gone for always.
I dance several times with Mr Garland and it feels very strange to be here with him, particularly after meeting Henry in town today. It is as though the different pieces of my life are reassembling themselves and time has blurred.
I find that dancing with him is an entirely different experience from holding a conversation with him. I feel small and awkward. Where he glides, I scurry, where he dips and sways, I bob and swing. I wish I could feel at ease, I wish I could impress him but I remain convinced that I seem gauche and unpolished next to him. If he receives the same impression, he gives no sign of it and returns for each new dance with as much enthusiasm as the last.
At last an energetic reel defeats me. I cannot keep up with his long legs and he leads me to a seat and brings me a glass of punch, which he delivers with a bow. He has managed to find a quiet spot in a room where I could not have imagined such a thing would exist and sits down with his head inclined toward me.
It is a relief to sit and catch my breath and at last I can ask him about my friends. To my disappointment, Mr Garland has heard nothing of the Wisters since we last met. Apparently, on his return from Edinburgh, he had called and left his card with, he said, a stout red-faced maid.
‘Oh, how was Bessy?’ I cry. He looks at me oddly.
‘I did not enquire. I believe she looked . . . hearty.’
Of course, Mr Garland would hardly have passed the time of day with a servant.
The family were all out and I had moved on, he was told – Bessy could not say where. He was disappointed to have missed me but accepted his fate.
‘If I am to disappear for weeks at a time, what am I to expect?’ he shrugs ruefully. ‘I did not like to call on the family, knowing them so slightly, and ask where you had gone. Still, I am very pleased to find you here, Miss Snow.’
I smile. Although we have said nothing of the Lowbridge ball, I still feel certain that news of the scandal with Mrs Ellington must have reached him; it is good to know he has not regretted our acquaintance because of it.
A further surprise is that no one here has met Aurelia. I ask three or four people but the name of Lady Aurelia Vennaway prompts no fond recollections. Neither can anyone tell me anything of Frederic Meredith. I wonder if people go out of fashion here as quickly as headdresses.
Chapter Forty-Seven
The hours wear on, my slippers wear out. Mrs Riverthorpe calls me back to her side at intervals to meet someone or to ask my opinion on someone else. I do not know why, for she invariably disagrees.
On one such occasion, she asks me to fetch a glass of punch. I am fishing in the crystal punch bowl – as big as a lake – when I again see someone I know. But unlike Henry or Mr Garland, this is no pleasant surprise. Long chestnut hair, aristocratic features . . . my blood chills and stills. I should have known she would be here. I should have known, and told Mrs Riverthorpe.
‘So it is you!’ hisses Arabella Beverley, Lady Vennaway’s third sister.
She is dressed in half-mourning and I feel the red of my dress hot and shameful as blood. Although far less handsome, she has the abundant hair of her eldest sister and niece, the same fine bone structure. It is, quite literally, like being in the presence of a ghost. I move to touch her, expecting that she will dissolve before me, for although my brain tells me it is Arabella Beverley, my
heart searches always for Aurelia Vennaway.
She steps back from my reaching hand and I spill the punch.
‘I should never have recognized you but that Marianne Hamilton just told me that someone was asking about Aurelia. It made me look and look again. How come you to be at Lord Littleton’s engagement ball and dressed so fine?’ She is looking me up and down. ‘I see that bereavement evidently has not troubled you!’
I am filled with panic, my head is entirely clouded with it. All I can think is that she must never know that Aurelia has left me a fortune. Her sister has already written to me. She is still thinking about me. If Arabella Beverley returns to Surrey and tells her sister that I am living the high life in Bath society and clearly dripping with money, they will come after me, they will come after me and they will find out that Aurelia had a secret. All those stages of my journey, all those precautions, all in vain . . .
I spin round to run away but her thin arm shoots out to catch me.
‘Where are you going, you little hussy? What are you hiding? Should you like me to tell all of Bath what you are and where you come from?’
‘I do not care a fig for all of Bath, madam. You may tell them if you like!’ I snap, trembling with rage. It is like the last ball, all over again, except this time I make no attempt to avoid the inevitable confrontation.
‘Is that so?’ she says slowly, still detaining me. ‘Why so careless with your reputation, miss, when you have evidently climbed a great way? I wonder how you did that in so short a time. Ah, I see. I see!’
I do not see. It is apparent that she has reached a conclusion but I am unsure what it is.
‘Amy? Is this person bothering you?’
I am saved by the unlikeliest of rescuers. Mrs Riverthorpe’s grey eyes turn black as they gaze upon Mrs Beverley.
‘This is Mrs Beverley. She is Aurelia’s aunt.’
I mutter the explanation for it seems futile to make a formal introduction and I only want Mrs Riverthorpe to understand that Aurelia’s secret is at stake.
