Amy Snow

by Tracy Rees

  Some things are lost to me for ever: I will never see Aurelia again, nor the place that I grew up, and I know deep in my heart that I will never learn the truth about my parentage. So be it. Other things need not be lost unless I choose to give them up. My love for Henry. My friends. My dreams. My self-respect and determination.

  The world commanded that Aurelia and I should not be friends, that the differences between us were too vast. We knew differently. Despite our troubled, prohibitive youth, we found laughter in almost everything. We loved bluebells and snowdrops, horses and stories, good food, mornings at the stream and each other. But I think now that what united us more than anything was that we were both fighters, in our own ways. We both resisted what we were told, preferring to make up our own minds. We chose what was important to us.

  I had always felt that, without Aurelia, I should collapse. To me, she seemed like the knight in bright armour and colourful array, I her plodding squire. But I find after all that I too am a warrior – I glimpsed her in the mirror at the ball in Bath. I have sensed it every day that I have plodded around London or Bath or York unattended, against rationality and convention, braving condemnation to find my own way, one footstep at a time. I knew it that day in the dining room at Hatville, when I faced down Lady Vennaway and stamped my little foot, just moments before she cut off my hair.

  I shall listen to that internal warrior a great deal more henceforth. And as for the dark whisperings in my heart that tell me I shall never be loved? I shall not listen to them. The story of two girls, inseparable and irrepressible, is about to end. Only one story is to continue, and it is mine.

  I grow very calm. When the time comes to go to town, I find Mr Capland’s establishment without difficulty, even though I have not previously found my way to any one place in York that I have intended. My days of stumbling about in confusion are ended.

  I enter the shop and the butcher looks up from his deft and powerful division of a carcass into saleable cuts of meat. I note at once which are intended for a modest family and which for a dinner at a fine household. The smells of blood and fresh meat remind me of my childhood, watching Cook at work in the kitchen. The sight of his cleaver reminds me of Lady Vennaway bearing down on me to slice off my hair. The confusion writ large on the butcher’s face at my arrival reminds me that, of course, I look like a lady now.

  ‘Good morning, m’lady,’ he says in astonishment. ‘I trust you are well? Can I help you wi’ owt?’

  I remember Mr Crumm approaching me in his bookshop, guessing at once who I was. I remember the Wisters, welcoming me to the bosom. I remember Ambrose’s unquestioning acceptance of my appearance at Hades House. In a moment he will understand.

  ‘Good morning, sir. I am well, thank you. Mr Capland, I am delighted to meet you. I am Amy Snow.’

  But light does not dawn. ‘Beg pardon, Miss Snow . . .?’

  ‘Amy Snow,’ I repeat, for lack of other inspiration. ‘I am Amy Snow.’

  His bafflement visibly deepens. There is no recognition in his face. Instead I can see him wondering about this eccentric gentlewoman who likes to repeat her own name. He is a tall, broad man with dense black hair and a luxuriantly curling beard. He has peaceful eyes that are at odds with his hulking figure and blood-spattered apron.

  ‘I am sorry, Mr Capland. I am not explaining myself well. I have come a long way to meet you. I believe that four years ago you met a dear friend of mine. Aurelia Vennaway?’

  ‘Four years ago. Vennaway,’ he murmurs, plum-red above his whiskers, poor soul. ‘I’m sorry, miss. I don’t believe so. Beggin’ your pardon, miss, why should you come to find me? What is it you want, exactly?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know. I thought you would tell me why I am here. Surely you remember Aurelia? Aurelia Vennaway!’

  He clearly thinks I’m a madwoman. ‘I don’t understand . . .’

  For a horrible moment I wonder if Mrs Riverthorpe’s change of subject was just that, and not a clue at all.

  ‘Mrs Riverthorpe, sir, Mrs Ariadne Riverthorpe of Bath. She is a good friend of yours, I think?’

  Snow, Vennaway, Riverthorpe . . . I am firing names at the poor man like arrows, but none hits a target.

  He moves his head from side to side, ponderous as a minster bell. ‘I’m very sorry, miss. I don’t know her neither. Riverthorpe, you say? Nay, miss.’

  ‘Well, for heaven’s sake! No, forgive me, sir – my exasperation is not with you but with my predicament. Mrs Riverthorpe is a . . . well, I suppose you may call her a friend of mine. She told me not two weeks since that were I ever in this area I should call on her friends the Caplands. You own a shop, she told me, and you have a kind-hearted wife.’

  ‘Nay, miss. That is, I don’t have any wife yet, though I’m hoping Miss Mary Avery will have me come September.’

  ‘Oh! Well . . . I hope so too. But how very vexing and . . . and . . . disappointing!’

  ‘Most like your friend meant my brother, miss.’

  ‘Oh! You have a brother?’

  ‘Aye, miss. I’m Jeremiah Capland. My brother, Joss, he owns a shop too, a drapery over on High Petergate. He has a wife, and two littl’uns besides.’

  ‘Oh! Thank you, sir, that must be the answer. High Petergate, you say? Is that far from here?’

  He directs me and I turn to go.

  ‘Perhaps I will meet you again, Mr Capland, if you see much of your brother?’

  ‘Aye, I see him oft enough. Good luck, miss.’

  I stride along the prescribed route with a hammering heart. On High Petergate I see the name Capland once again, etched above the prettiest shop imaginable. It is dark green, and the leading between the diamond panes is painted green too. The door and the legend ‘Joss Capland & Sons, Purveyor of Fine Textiles and Haberdashery’ are both painted a fresh, gleaming white.

  In the window I see a mouth-watering bonnet decorated with peach roses and an array of ribbons, buttons, feathers, hatpins, shoe roses and fine lace, like icing on a cake. They are artfully displayed alongside bolts of fabric stacked in a rainbow of glowing colours. I suspect a woman’s touch.

  I step inside and the bell sends a merry jangle through the shop. A man of perhaps forty steps from the back and greets me with a bright smile. I know at once that this is the right place.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Capland. I hope you are well. And I sincerely hope you will know who I am when I tell you that I am . . .’ I hesitate. Who am I?

  ‘I am Amy Snow.’

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Joss Capland resembles his brother in his dark colouring only. He is shorter and slighter and his accent is decidedly southern, though with a slight turn to it that I cannot place. At any rate, it is very pleasing. I have ample time to enjoy it as we rattle through the countryside in his trap. He knew at once who I was and left his shop as promptly, leaving Sampson – a young man of about twelve – to close up.

  I asked if Sampson was his son. Joss Capland smiled and bit his lip.

  ‘No, Miss Snow, Sampson is my apprentice. My boy is too small yet for shop work, though his enthusiasm knows no bounds.’

  The Caplands live at Fountain Cottage in Heworth, a leafy village situated to the northeast of York. It is a gusty morning – speckling rain alternating with thin displays of sunshine. I have found the north to be noticeably colder even than Bath but this is not what makes me tremble today. I am equipped with my mulberry shawl, my warmest. It is excitement that makes my teeth chatter and my feet feel like blocks of ice within my boots. I am sitting beside the man who can tell me everything I need to know and put an end to my wandering – and wondering. We travel along grassy lanes between fields, under the shade of spreading oaks. The land is flat and the air is green with the smell of sap. It is good to be in the country again and hear the song of thrushes.

  Joss Capland chats of inconsequential things and tells me how, when the wind is right, the sound of the minster bells carries even all the way out here. Then he winks and explains that he must t
ell me nothing of any importance without his wife present or he will face the gravest consequences.

  ‘She will not want to miss a moment of getting to know you.’ He smiles.

  Sure enough, the cottage has not yet come in sight when a woman in a white dress comes running along the grassy track, a small girl toddling gamely after her, arms flailing.

  ‘Miss Snow!’ she cries before the horse has stopped, to my astonishment. ‘It is you, isn’t it?’

  ‘She’s found us at last, Elspeth!’ agrees Mr Capland, pulling up the trap and leaping off. He kisses his wife, then offers his hand to help me from the cart. I stand before the prettiest woman I ever saw, apart from Aurelia. She has dark hair like her husband, and huge, sparkling dark eyes. The little girl reaches us at last, takes a fistful of her mother’s skirt and regards me intently. She is her mother’s identical reproduction in miniature. She is so lovely to look at that I cry out in delight and kneel in the grass before her. She lights up – she has her father’s smile.

  ‘Miss Snow,’ begins Mrs Capland again. ‘I knew it was you. I saw the trap from an upstairs window. At this time of day it could only mean that Joss had taken poorly or that Miss Snow had come. When I saw a young woman with him, I knew it was the latter. I am so very pleased to welcome you.’

  ‘Miss Snow, may I introduce my wife, Elspeth, and my daughter, Verity?’

  As I stand to greet Elspeth Capland, she shakes my hand and kisses my cheek; I am won over by her expansive warmth.

  ‘I am so very happy to meet you, only please, will you not call me Amy?’

  ‘Of course we will. Now come in and be at home. We have so very much to talk about.’

  Elspeth carries Verity and Joss leads the horse and we walk together to the cottage.

  ‘Where is Louis, dearest?’ asks Joss.

  ‘I was trying to settle him for a rest when I saw you.’

  He laughs. ‘Louis, rest?’

  ‘I said only that I was trying, not that I succeeded. Ah!’ she adds with a rueful smile. ‘And here he is. Amy, this is my unstoppable son, Louis.’

  I gasp. We are almost at the cottage, which is square and brown and covered in white roses, but I cannot take it in now.

  There is a portrait that hangs in the drawing room at Hatville Court. In the painting, Aurelia, aged around four years old, sits on her mother’s lap. It is as if that painted Aurelia has scrambled from the frame and now comes running towards me along the Caplands’ flagged path, chestnut curls bouncing and blazing in the sun.

  ‘Papa, you’re home! Oh!’ Upon seeing a stranger, he falters and tucks himself behind his mother. From behind this safe shelter, he peeps out and regards me through bright, violet-blue eyes. ‘Mama, who is the pretty lady?’

  Elspeth kneels down. ‘Louis darling, this lady is Amy Snow. We’ve told you about her, remember? She has come to visit us at last.’

  Louis’s face breaks in a delighted smile. ‘Oh! Will she stay for luncheon? Will she see the garden with me? Will she read me a story?’

  Precocious, with boundless energy, endless demands and a cherubic face, he is Aurelia all over again, dressed in a dark-blue sailor suit.

  Joss holds out his arms, scoops up the boy and swings him around and around ’til his boots are a blur and he squeals with agonized joy that fills the air like birdsong.

  ‘It is as you see, Amy . . .’ says Elspeth in a low voice. ‘We will explain when the children are occupied.’

  My eyes fill with tears and she takes my hand.

  ‘My dear,’ she says.

  It is enough.

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  I had suspected, of course, but suspecting had not prepared me for the fact of it. To see this living piece of Aurelia here before me feels like wind filling a sail. I feel taut and tugging with the wonder of it.

  His parents make solemn introductions and Louis bows and shakes my hand. I bend towards him and take his little hand as if in a dream. Of all the strange realities in which I have found myself since Aurelia died, this is the strangest. Her son, somehow here in Yorkshire. The nodding trees, the stiff breeze that has blown the rain away, and the grassy lane have all receded: there is only Louis. I long to gather him to me and smother him with kisses, but of course I am a stranger to him. So I restrain myself, although I cannot take my eyes off him. He tells me he is pleased to know me and again presses the point about the garden and the story. I am willing to agree to anything he wishes, just so long as I can continue to feast my eyes on him – smooth, plump cheeks pink as roses, determined set to his chin . . . all so familiar, yet so tiny and strange.

  ‘Perhaps Amy might like to come inside first, Louis,’ cautions his mother gently. ‘She may be thirsty, or tired.’ I catch her eye and feel that she understands something of the wonder that I am in.

  Louis concedes that I may postpone our arrangement for a little while if this should be the case.

  ‘Unless, of course, you’d rather . . .’ Elspeth adds. ‘We could take Verity inside if you’d like to spend some time with Louis first. It’s entirely up to you.’

  Gradually the lane, the breeze, the sunshine creep back into my awareness. I take a deep breath of cool, clean air. When I speak, my voice is not steady.

  ‘It’s such a lovely morning. Perhaps I shall see the garden first after all, and then we might sit down together afterwards.’

  ‘That’s very agreeable, Miss Amy,’ Louis pipes in his high little voice, grabbing my hand. ‘Come this way. I want to show you the fountain!’

  I wander after Louis, feeling that I’ve stepped back in time. The garden is exquisite, with a fountain, a dovecote and an abundance of lupins and hollyhocks. The ample lawn is sprinkled with daisies; tall hedges are threaded with honeysuckle. Louis explains to me the significance of every inch and shows me his secret den in the hedge. I am taken back to my childhood as I follow him, rapt and dumb as though I were the toddler, held in thrall to someone more fascinating and adventurous. It is a vastly familiar experience.

  Louis is pleased with all my comments. When I explain to him that I know something of gardens, that when I was his age a wheelbarrow was my habitual conveyance, he is rendered briefly mute with awe. Will I push him in a wheelbarrow, he wants to know.

  A white kitten streaks onto the lawn and I sit on a garden seat and watch, spellbound, while she and Louis play chase. He is Aurelia all over. His laugh, his exuberance, the radiance of him . . .

  My poor, astonished brain slowly comes back to life. As it does so, realization floods in. Now, at last, it makes sense – or begins to. If any secret is worth protecting with hidden letters and a trail full of red herrings, snaking back and forth across the land, this is it. He is magical. Already I feel that I would go to any lengths to keep him safe, and I am at peace with every difficulty I have suffered in getting here. Aurelia’s extraordinary measures to protect her secret – her child – make sense in their entirety now. Louis will not suffer Aurelia’s fate. He will not be channelled along roads for which he is utterly unsuited, nor told which friends he may and may not have. He will not suffer his very nature being tweaked and restrained and repressed as his mother did. He will not have every natural inclination of his bright spirit quenched and checked. These are good people, it is easy to see that, a loving, natural family. He will be happy.

  Oh, the thought that she will never see her son as a young boy, going to school, becoming a man . . . Oh, if the Vennaways only knew!

  ‘Why do you look sad, Miss Amy? Are you crying?’ Louis has climbed up beside me and abandoned the kitten, which is jumping up and down on her back paws trying to swat his shoes. He slides his little hand into mine.

  ‘I was just thinking of a dear friend of mine who died, Louis. I miss her still and I was just thinking how much she would have enjoyed this lovely garden and meeting you.’

  He frowns and I wonder for a moment whether I ought to have spoken of death to a child so young.

  ‘I had a frog that died,’ he says at
last. ‘I was sad. His name was Gregory. If I had met your friend, I would have showed her my den too. Would she have liked that?’

  ‘She would have adored it, for she loved secrets and adventures and I always had the most fun with her. When I was little, she used to make treasure hunts for me in our garden, and they were splendid.’

  ‘What’s a treasure hunt?’

  ‘You’ve never done a treasure hunt? Well, Louis, one day I will make one for you and then you will see.’

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  After some time, Elspeth, Joss and Verity come out to the garden with a jug of lemonade. My eyes fill once again; Aurelia had a passion for lemonade that I have never seen rivalled. It is the little things like that that undo me still, but then it has only been five months since I lost her, though it feels like many lifetimes now.

  With the children playing a safe distance away, we begin to talk. Firstly, Joss hands me a thick envelope with my name on it in Aurelia’s hand. Like all its predecessors, it disappears into my pocket. This will be the last I hear from her and I want to cherish it. Now, I want to get to know these people to whom Aurelia has entrusted the care of her precious son. I want to know everything.

  ‘The story really begins with Joss’s childhood in Wales,’ says Elspeth. ‘Tell her, Joss.’

  He nods. ‘Yes, by all means. I was born in Wales, Amy, and orphaned very young. I can’t remember my parents. I was from a mining family, I was told, but the nearest orphanage was in Cardiff and there I was sent at the age of two. I do not suppose it was worse than any other such place, but nor was it a happy one. It was managed without passion or interest by people who did the work for the wage. Friendships were not encouraged and education was rudimentary – counting to ten, writing one’s name and so on. We all knew that at the age of eight we must leave – we were furnished with no illusions about the sort of future we might expect. It was a drab existence.