Amy Snow

by Tracy Rees

  ‘And did you say you would?’

  ‘I . . . I am not certain.’

  Her expression is priceless. ‘You don’t know what you said?’

  ‘No! That is to say, I believe I was a little vague. I was so very surprised. So very flattered, but surprised!’

  Mrs Riverthorpe wrinkles her already wrinkled brow and I resist the urge to tell her she looks dreadful. Instead I stroke a patch of sunlight on the chaise.

  ‘But Quentin is not a man to be easily put off. Surely he pressed you for some response beyond that of an imbecile?’

  ‘Well, yes. I told him, I think I told him, that I admired him very much and that I enjoyed his company and looked forward to seeing him and all that is true! At any rate it seemed to satisfy him – he bade us return to the cards. Then he appeared today, apologizing for having been gone longer than anticipated but I had not noticed! I have spent every day since with Henry. I . . . I had forgotten Mr Garland!’

  Oh, but I feel terrible. I lay my hands to my cheeks, a gesture I seem to be adopting more and more often lately.

  ‘Haaaaa! That is priceless. Well done, Amy, that is the best thing I have yet heard come out of your mouth. Forgot him! He is not one who expects to be forgotten. Nor one who expects to be set aside. I have known Mr Garland some five or more years now, and every season I see the young ladies fighting over him like magpies with a choice titbit. He is the one who does the forgetting. I venture you will not shake him so easily.’

  I fidget uneasily. The Mr Garland she is describing somehow does not match the considerate person I have seen him to be. I watch dust motes shifting in a sunbeam. Reality feels as though it is shifting too. For just a few days, with Henry, I thought I knew how everything was. Now there are questions again, always questions. ‘But I spoke to him just now. I was truthful: I told him I have an understanding with somebody else.’

  ‘And he was filled with joy for you and wished you a long and happy life together, I suppose?’

  ‘Well, no, but he was very gentlemanly.’

  ‘Oh, naturally. Quentin is ever the gentleman.’

  She laughs to herself, an odd little laugh that can really only be described as a snigger. ‘And what did he say then? Sow a few seeds of doubt in your mind, did he?’

  ‘I could never doubt Henry, Mrs Riverthorpe. But yes, Mr Garland did suggest that perhaps he is not quite settled, was his word. And that I should expect the very best.’

  She nods and smiles grimly. ‘Namely Quentin Garland, no doubt. Well, he is a great deal better-looking than your Henry, I must say – oh, Henry is pleasing enough in a common sort of way but boasts no real distinction. Though I must say, for a funny-looking little thing you have attracted a decent pair of faces.’

  She is wrong! Can she not see that Henry is dashing and merry and alive, while Mr Garland’s beauty is polished and gleaming as marble?

  ‘Then you think I should marry Mr Garland?’ I ask, puzzled. I had thought she and Henry got on rather well, considering.

  ‘Heavens, no! Marry whomever you please. Or don’t marry at all! Or have ’em both! But whatever you do, do it with your eyes open.’

  The small brown clock on the mantel strikes noon. The April sun is high and slanting. I have been cooped up in this room all morning and I should like to go for a walk. I stand up and go to the window. The street is golden, and busy. There is a world out there, beyond my complex affairs, bustling away.

  ‘What do you mean, Mrs Riverthorpe? Please speak plainly. It may seem trivial to you but I am not made like you. Do you know something I don’t?’

  ‘My dear,’ she begins. I turn from the window and look at her sharply. Is she making fun of me? ‘Why do you think I keep pictures of moths in every room of the house?’

  I cannot follow her. ‘Er . . . because you are a lepidopterist, I have always assumed.’

  ‘Ha! Me, a lepidopterist? Because of my gentle fascination with the small marvels of the natural world?’

  I incline my head stiffly. While I have become accustomed to her manners, I have not grown to enjoy her scorn. It is true she is not how one might imagine a lepidopterist. She would be hard to believe at all, but for the fact of her.

  ‘Foolish child. It is because one must always keep the enemy in sight. Those little dusty brown things look so innocent but they nibble my clothes . . . or their young do, I forget which. At any rate, my beautiful gowns get nibbled and ’tis because of them. ’Tis war between us. So I hunt them. I persecute them. When I catch one whole, I mount it in the case. The pictures are always before my eyes to remind me that there are enemies to my happiness everywhere, even the small, creeping, harmless-looking kind.’

  I am aware that my eyebrows have risen very high throughout her discourse. I had always known her to be unusual. But this is really quite startling. I return to my seat and spread out my skirts, intent upon arranging them quite symmetrically, giving myself time to compose a response.

  ‘Good heavens! I can see that holes in your beautiful fabrics must be . . . um. . . vexing. But interesting though it is . . . I cannot see . . . ah! The pictures of the gentlemen?’ I glance up at the portraits covering the far wall, all lit up with pale, dusty sunshine.

  ‘Precisely so, child. The same reason. Always keep the enemy in sight.’

  ‘I understand. Be wary of men, for they can destroy your happiness.’

  ‘Ha! Very good. Indeed, indeed.’

  I take up my glass of Madeira. ‘Are the portraits of any particular men, Mrs Riverthorpe, or merely a selection to display the variety of the species?’

  ‘They are my former husbands and lovers.’

  I spill the Madeira a little in shock. ‘What, all of them?’

  ‘Don’t be silly, child, I should run out of space on the walls if I were to display all of them. They are the chief troublemakers, I suppose. Amy, there is no happy ending. Disabuse yourself of that expectation. Even if you marry for love – perhaps especially then. Tall men, short men, rich men, poor men, handsome men, grotesques, grotesques who believe themselves handsome . . . I have had them all and they nibble, Amy, they all nibble.’

  It is a dismaying turn to the conversation. I look all around me. This room has become familiar now, but it still does not feel like home. It is ever the scene of unexpected revelations, difficult questions, unsettling ideas . . .

  ‘Surely not all men? Surely there are those who are good and kind and honourable and, and support a woman’s right to learn, to choose her way and . . . and –’

  ‘And breathe? How very good of them. I shall be sure to apply to them for their blessing the next time I wish to exercise a basic human right. Well, I assume you think your Henry is one such and you will live happily ever after.’

  ‘Yes, I believe he is.’

  ‘But you will not live happily ever after!’ She bangs her fist down on the table and I jump. ‘You are not even trying! He has no profession, not even a trade. You have been out in the world for all of five minutes and are as green as a sapling. I’m sure his family are good people, but I doubt they have the means to support him in any decent manner indefinitely. Very well, you have money, but does he know that? Have you even discussed it? Or have you just gazed into one another’s eyes and sighed and recited poetry?’

  I bristle. ‘We have read a sonnet or two, but we have only declared our feelings yesterday. I think we may be forgiven for not having arranged all our worldly affairs to your satisfaction just yet.’ My cheeks are beginning to grow hot. ‘Remember, we are not engaged; we have not been so very hasty.’

  But she appears to have lost interest in Henry and me.

  ‘Then again, I do not think Quentin would make you any happier. I wonder why he has set his sights on you, when there are heiresses crawling all over Bath.’

  ‘You think Mr Garland courts me because I appear wealthy? But that cannot be . . . why would he need to do that? I am not so very rich!’

  ‘He does not know how rich you are, remember. H
e has seen you impoverished and then, suddenly, dressed like a princess and mixing in the finest circles. You may even stand to inherit my money, as far as he is concerned. He knows nothing of specifics, but you must look like a good bet.’

  ‘I suppose that’s true. But he is wealthy! He need not marry for money.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure he will not marry for love.’ She leans forward and fixes me with a look. ‘Amy, I have tried to say this to you before and I wish you to hear me now. Be careful of Quentin Garland. I know nothing specific or I would tell you, to be sure, but I have not spent a lifetime weaving in and out of men’s lives without learning a great deal. My instinct tells me he is not what he seems. Be very careful of him. And Henry – you love him better, you say?’

  ‘Why, yes. For all that I have admired Mr Garland most highly, Henry is the one I love. I feel instinctively that we belong together.’

  ‘Then be even more careful of him. Now, Amy: one final word. Should you ever find yourself in the North Country, do please look up my friends the Caplands. Oh, do not fear, they are nothing like me. I imagine your Twisters, or Willows, or whatever you call them, to be very much like my Caplands.’

  This is a change of subject as bizarre as the moths. How will this lead back to the subject at hand, I wonder?

  ‘He is a very good fellow as they go, owns a shop, but for a tradesman he is very respectable. Not that I care about that. She is as silly a creature as ever lived, but kind-hearted, and that matters to some people.’ She gives me a look. ‘Shall you remember that name, Amy? Capland? Or will Henry’s dark eyes drive it from your swiftly dissolving brain?’

  ‘I shall indeed, Mrs Riverthorpe. But what have your Caplands to do with Henry, or Mr Garland or any of this, in fact?’

  She rolls her eyes. ‘Why, nothing at all, child. I am just so very bored of the conversation.’

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  The following morning I attend a small brunch at Henrietta Street. Throughout the feast, Henry seems full of a barely suppressed, gleeful impatience.

  After the meal he and I take up our corner of the garden and after he has kissed me in a way that turns my legs to water, he fixes me with dancing eyes.

  ‘Amy, I am brimming with thoughts I must tell you.’

  I knew it!

  ‘Amy, we have made a commitment to one another, based on true and loving feelings. I am the most fortunate of men. The past days have been a delight. But I am aware that I have nothing to offer you. I am not in a position to ask you to marry me yet.’

  Mr Garland’s words flash through my mind, but I push them away and take Henry’s hand.

  ‘Amy, I feel that needs to change as soon as possible. So I have been awake at night thinking how to rectify the situation. I need a profession. It needs to be something that suits me and something I can sustain, so that I shall not be the most weary and grouchy of husbands.’

  ‘I could not agree more.’

  Henry loosens his cravat. ‘I have mentally run through every profession known to man over the last few nights. During those small dark hours I believe I have pursued at least seven careers!’

  I smile. ‘You must have amassed a very great fortune, dear.’

  ‘Oh, rich as Croesus! And I have found the answer. Now, it is a modest income, it is not a grand profession in the eyes of the world. No doubt many will say, with my education and intelligence, that I could do better, but you do not care so much for finery and fashionable living, I believe, from what you have told me of your own hopes?’

  I fidget with impatience to hear his plan. ‘Indeed no, and I would see you happy, dear. Tell me at once, what have you chosen?’

  ‘I was thinking about your friends, the Wisters, and what you told me of young Michael’s aspiration to teach unfortunate children.’ Henry sits up very straight, his eyes shining. ‘I want to do that, Amy. I want to be able to jump into a profession without further study. I want to work with people – help them – right away. I don’t know why I never thought of it before, only I suppose I always felt I must have a greater income, that society felt . . . that I would be somehow lacking if I did not.

  ‘But no! I can think for myself.’ He detaches his hand from mine and begins to stride energetically to and fro across the terrace. I watch him as though he is a game of tennis. ‘What matters is to make you happy, and myself as well. This will do it, I’m sure, and that is more important to me than earning a vast salary as a fine lawyer and impressing all who meet me. Provided you, my love, are content to be the wife of a schoolmaster. It will be a modest living, I must say so again so that you know what our life would be. If you tell me it must be otherwise, I will do otherwise. If you require a finer living, I will endeavour to earn it.’

  I jump to my feet and kiss him. ‘Henry, no! You know my heart. I have had enough of great cold corridors and empty rooms. I have had my fill of society and balls and scandals and wealth.’

  ‘I knew you would say it!’ he declares, tucking my hand under his arm so that I am pacing up and down with him. ‘In that case, I shall ask Elsie to post the letter I wrote this morning when she goes into town. I didn’t want to send it until I had spoken with you.’

  ‘To whom have you written, Henry?’

  ‘To a fellow I know in Twickenham, friend of Grandfather’s. He is something political, but something educational also. Suffice to say, he’s influential in school reform and he will know about this Kneller House and initiatives like it. I have asked him to let me know of any opportunities in that area and to put me forward for any positions he may hear of.’

  I stop still and look at him. ‘In the . . . Twickenham area, Henry?’

  He smiles at me. ‘You would wish to settle near your friends, would you not, my darling?’

  ‘Oh, I should like that more than anything! But, what about you? Where would you wish to settle?’

  He laughs easily. ‘Why, with you of course! No, stop frowning! This is no great act of martyrdom. It’s a lovely place, a stone’s throw from London and the old one and Aunt Annie. Mother’s in Hertfordshire, not so close but close enough – love her dearly but she’s got a fierce temper on her. It’s not Cardiff. It’s not Manchester! I think we shall do very nicely in Twickenham.’

  I suddenly see all my small dreams coming true before my eyes, and they are exploding, like roses bursting into bloom.

  ‘Henry, do you suppose I might . . . no, perhaps . . . well, do you think I might help you, in some way? I don’t know how. Maybe I could read essays if you have too many, or help you research new projects for the children.’

  ‘Amy, I shall depend upon it!’

  ‘And . . . what are your feelings about a conservatory, dear?’

  ‘Entirely favourable, my love, nothing more pleasing.’

  ‘Henry? Do you think we shall have a pony?’

  ‘My dear, we can have ten.’

  ‘One will certainly suffice. Henry, I must tell you –’ Suddenly I remember what Mrs Riverthorpe said and I want to tell him, to trust him. ‘I . . . I have five thousand pounds. All left to me by Aurelia, all secret, of course. It is yours – that is to say, ours – to help you set up in your profession, or to buy a house or . . . or . . . in fact I do not know what five thousand pounds can do – I never had one shilling before – but I want you to know that we have it.’

  Henry kisses me soundly. Again my head spins and my knees tremble and he sits me back down gently. He joins me, wearing his serious face again.

  ‘I am so glad for your good fortune. But I could not take your money to get started in life – it is my privilege to do that for myself. I should like to be able to provide a home for us. No doubt you will think me very old-fashioned, but taking that responsibility is something I shall enjoy. You must use your money for yourself.’

  ‘But I should like to . . . invest it in our life together. You will be working and earning our yearly budget. This could be my contribution to our finances.’

  ‘Then shall we make it our nest
egg? In case of any difficulties, or splendid opportunities that may arise. Or, perhaps, for our children?’

  *

  Had I allowed myself to be swayed by any of Mr Garland’s reservations about Henry’s fixity of purpose, my mind would now be put to rest. Over the following week I see a man truly determined. He writes countless letters: to his old tutors, asking for testimonials; to his family, informing them of his decision; to schools in Richmond, Twickenham, Hammersmith and Ham, enquiring about vacancies. He accosts the local schoolmaster, begging to discuss the profession with him, that he might be informed when he secures an interview. He persuades the Longacres to invite local politicians to dinner so that he may discuss education reform at length.

  It is a busy, exciting, energetic week and every time I see him he has something new to tell me. I see Mr Garland only twice, at the concert in the Upper Rooms and at a dinner four days later. I feel horribly uncomfortable, and guilty for being so happy, but he is civil, of course, and does not refer to personal matters between us again. It seems that he has accepted my decision and retired gracefully, as I might have expected.

  And soon enough, it is the twenty-ninth of April and time to receive Aurelia’s next letter.

  Mrs Riverthorpe tosses it casually into my lap on her way out, making me jump. I had not forgotten the date – far from it – but I have seen little of her over the past days and have had no chance to mention it. I was expecting she would summon me and present it over a ceremonial glass of Madeira, not throw it at me in the middle of breakfast.

  My appetite drains away. I hear the front door bang as Mrs Riverthorpe departs. It is only a rectangle of cream paper but, now that there is Henry in my life, it feels like the sword of Damocles poised above my head.

  I leave my kippers half eaten and, telling Ambrose I am not at home to callers, I run to my room. I close the door firmly and tuck myself up in the window seat. I take a deep breath and rip the letter open.

  My treasured Amy,

  I hope you are well. I hope you are happy. I hope you are finding your way to embrace all that life has to offer.