Amy Snow (21 page)

Then there is the way I carry myself now. I had thought at first to betray my promise to Aurelia in one small particular and continue to wear my old corded corsets. The new ones quite intimidated me. But when I did try the new style (aided and abetted by Madeleine and Priscilla), I found I liked it. It is impossible to feel humble in such a thing. Even when I am tired, my reflection shows me looking poised, proud, and energetic. It cannot be impossible to have a bad day in such a corset, but it is impossible to
appear
to be having one.

Then there are the clothes themselves. My old drab weeds are gone, not burned but laundered and donated to the local almshouses. At the girls' insistence, and with their attendance, I have tried on each and every item in my chest. Yes, even the scandalous garters, though I took them off again very quickly (then tried them again later, in private). Every gown, even the ones I will never wear, and every shoe. I never liked the color of my eyes, but set off by the hues Aurelia has chosen, they look striking—catlike and amber, instead of an indifferent hazel, failing at brown.

I smile more. The little frown is still there; old habits do not fall easily away and there is much to puzzle at in life. But I can smile and puzzle at the same time, it seems. And so this lavishly corseted, beautifully dressed, smiling creature who cannot be me and yet somehow
is
me is the Amy Snow who participates in life at Mulberry Lodge.

And what a life! Edwin Wister is a lawyer and works a good deal in London, in Holborn to be precise. I have been tempted to ask him if he is familiar with Crumm & Co. I often think of Albert and Henry; that first experience of making new friends, when I was so very alone, has left a great impression on me. I cannot deny that I wish—just very occasionally—that I might one day see Mr. Henry Mead again. Perhaps I wish it a little more often than that. But secrecy binds me.

We receive a great many visitors and twice a week the ladies conduct their morning calls; I am always invited. In my first few days I preferred to stay home, walking in the gardens or resting in the conservatory. But soon I am tempted to go along, and so I become part of the accepted social circle of polite Twickenham. People accept without question the arrival of Miss Vennaway's young companion; everyone remembers Aurelia. I have a sensation of very crumpled wings unfurling, shaking themselves out despite a few dents and scratches and passing an inspection for fatal damage.

Twickenham is a delight. Meadows and market gardens and mansions that dream away their days. A great variety of personages, from foreign nobility to ladies bent on charitable pursuits to reclusive writers who occasionally emerge, ink-spattered and blinking.

The days roll by, growing tentatively greener, swifter, and more beautiful—like the river. As winter lifts its wearying hold on the land, flashes of blue are seen in the sky, the muted, dreamy powder blue of spring, of the elegant Mr. Garland's cravat. The social calendar grows fuller, if that can be imagined. Spring balls are planned and the girls grow excited at the prospect of dancing with beaux glimpsed only in drawing rooms since Christmas. They start to plan picnics and regattas and boating parties to Eel Pie Island, including me quite as if I shall always be amongst them. I yield to the illusion, as though drifting on a gentle summer current. I never forget that I shall not see summer at the river, yet it is sweet to pretend that I shall.

With the advent of balls comes the necessity for Madeleine and Priscilla to spend a great deal of time in the shops of Twickenham. It is there, one day, that I see a tall, familiar figure. My breath catches, although I can claim no true acquaintance.

The girls nudge each other as he strides down King Street—he is really very fine. He sweeps all three of us an approving gaze and tips his exceptionally tall hat, then disappears into the King's Head. Inexplicably, I find that I am relieved at escaping the notice of the rather memorable Mr. Garland.

But an hour or so later, our paths cross again. We are in a jeweler's shop. Priscilla has great need of a gold chain to display her opal pendant to best effect with her oyster-colored gown. We are all three poring over a display cabinet when a familiar voice greets Mr. Price, the appropriately named owner of the shop.

I cannot help but look up. Sure enough, it is Mr. Garland, blue cravat gleaming at his throat, hat brushing the ceiling. He looks like an advertisement for gentlemen's fashions. Mr. Garland tips his hat again and smiles, then looks again at me and frowns. Hastily, I divert my attention towards a row of gold chains of fascinatingly varied lengths.

“Excuse me.”

My heart thrums unaccountably. For just a brief instant I feel like running away.

“Good afternoon, ladies, I beg your pardon for accosting you like this, only”—he looks directly at me—“do I know you? You look familiar, and if that sounds like a lamentable excuse to introduce myself, I assure you it's not. My name is Quentin Garland. I should hate to pass over an acquaintance if we have met, Miss . . . ?”

The girls look at me in astonishment. I can tell they know the name. It has been uttered frequently in the drawing rooms of Twickenham since I have been here; he is quite the man of the moment. I have felt foolishly proud to have met the great man, and his gracious address quite sweeps away my urge to run.

“I am Miss Snow, Mr. Garland. We met once, briefly. It was on the mail coach from St. Paul's to King Street.”

“Why, so we did! Good heavens! I am pleased to find you looking so
exceptionally
well. Twickenham obviously agrees with you.” We shake hands for the second time and this time my gloves are the equal of his own. He has an intent gaze and I can see him registering the change in me, though he is too civil to comment.

I can feel myself blushing. “Thank you, sir. I think Twickenham must agree with everybody.”

“Indeed. Delightful place. The fields, the river, the . . . yes, excellent.” He glances around, gesturing vaguely at the wonders of Twickenham, then returns his blue gaze to my face. It is upturned like a daisy, he is so tall. “And now our paths cross once again. I confess, I have more than once felt remiss for not escorting you that day, Miss Snow. King Street is no place to leave a lady alone. But you obviously found your friends.”

“You were most courteous and helpful, sir. But yes, I found them. May I introduce Miss Madeleine Wister and her sister Miss Priscilla Wister?”

“Charmed.”

The girls curtsy, subdued by his illustrious manner, but Priscilla bubbles up again very quickly.

“I am
plagued
to choose a chain, sir. Do you consider a belcher chain or an oval link to be more stylish? I do not wish to be unfashionable; I wish to choose something truly
Victorian
.”

I clasp my hands together to stop them flying up to cover my face. I cannot imagine a man like Mr. Garland, steeped in the concerns of business and national progress, to have an opinion about ladies' necklaces. Yet he inclines himself to the cabinet and appears to study the question with consummate gravity.

“Priscilla, Mr. Garland does not want to think about your necklace!” breathes Madeleine in horror.

But he is not to be rushed. When he turns to us again, we look at him as though awaiting a pronouncement from an oracle.

“The oval link,” he beams, “will be quite the thing for a beauty as delicate as yours, Miss Priscilla. It is hard to imagine
any
adornment looking ill on one so lovely, yet you are quite right to choose something modern and fresh. Is there a special occasion?”

Priscilla is too overcome to answer.

“There is to be a dance at Lowbridge House in Richmond next Saturday,” Madeleine explains.

“And a finer occasion it will be for your attendance, ladies. Now if you will excuse me, I must take my leave. I am pleased to meet you again, Miss Snow. Good day.”

We are left, all three, gazing after him, like ducklings in a row. The excitement of shopping for a ball was polished to a high shine by the addition of Mr. Garland to the experience. With his departure, the gleam is dulled.

Despite my absorption in the enchanted kingdom that is Mulberry Lodge, I have not forgotten Aurelia, nor the old days in Hatville, nor the trail of letters. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that they will not forget
me
.

For the most part, my manner has grown easier and more confident. I converse readily now and I have not once disgraced myself. But sometimes I find myself scrutinizing an accepting face and mistrusting courtesies. Are they wrong?
Should
I be persecuted? For if not, why did the Vennaways feel so differently? For all those years,
why
? The question pursues me like a sigh.

Mostly, however, I am happy indeed. This at last is my own dream come true: family, good cheer, hearth and home, domestic bliss. Oh, I know it is not
my
family, and not my home. But I like to fancy that by experiencing it here, now, I am shaping the possibility somewhere in my future. When Aurelia's quest is finished with me, I shall remember this time, perhaps create my very own Mulberry Lodge somehow, with people of my own.

My favorite refuge is the conservatory, the ultimate demonstration of Constance's taste for the exotic. If I had a home of my own, I would have a conservatory
just
like this. A whole room made of glass! Filled with plants! The conservatory is like a garden within a house. In fact, it is like a jungle in a house.

Tall palm trees sweep the ceiling. There is a hammock as well as several sofas, and a wrought-iron bench painted white. There are orange trees and orchids. The Wisters own two parrots, Solomon and Xerxes, whose spread-winged, long-tailed shapes cast gliding shadows. Their cries make me shiver with delight both at the thought that far-off, tropical places exist and that I am not called upon to visit them.

It is a very wet, very English day when I receive an unimagined visitor. Bessy brings him to me in the conservatory and so I am alone with Quentin Garland for the few moments it takes her to run for reinforcements.

“Good heavens!”

My astonishment bests my manners at first. I cannot imagine what he is doing here, and I am horrified to be happened upon so. I am sketching the parrots, with the puppy Clover dozing in my lap and Cavendish spread across my slippers. I spring to my feet, sending dogs scattering.

“Mr. Garland! I hope you are well? What an unexpected honor!”

He looks immaculate, despite the rain. He wears his habitual powder-blue cravat, but his riding jacket is burgundy with a collar of pale-pink velvet. It would look flamboyant on anyone else, but Mr. Garland is not flamboyant. He is elegance personified. I have sometimes wondered if he employs a whole staff simply to dress him. I have fine clothes now but I am still a mortal girl within them. Still I can stumble and bump and still a breeze untidies my hair. Mr. Garland, by contrast, could be skating on glass, inside a protective crystal cabinet. Beyond these, admittedly fanciful, suppositions, I have been able to imagine nothing of what Mr. Garland's life is actually like. The migration and nesting habits of a rare bird, fleetingly and memorably glimpsed, could not be more alien to me.

“My apologies, Miss Snow.” He bows, deeply. “I should perhaps have sent a card, only I was passing and the day is so inclement—the prospect of seeing you again and taking shelter for a few moments were together too tempting.”

The prospect of seeing me was tempting? That seems unlikely. It is almost as if he . . . but no—that is too outlandish a thought. “I am delighted to see you. However did you find me?”

“I had some business with Ashleigh Charlton. He mentioned the Wisters in passing, and I remembered meeting your charming friends in town. I told him that I had met their young guest and asked where I might find you.”

Why on earth should he do such a thing? Yet I find I cannot ask. “A small world,” I murmur.