Amy Snow (30 page)

I feel a little crestfallen until I realize he is teasing again.

“Actually, I have been sent away in disgrace. Well, disgrace is a strong word. I have been sent away to reflect upon the error of my ways.”

“Oh! And . . . well . . . are they fruitful reflections?”

He looks out of the window at the rain and the murky street, then turns back to me. “Honestly, they've turned up little I didn't already know. Just that I am a drifter with no motivation and no direction. I've left my studies, Amy. You remember I was chafing against them when we met? I resumed them shortly afterwards and I was refreshed from the break. I applied myself stoutly to the books, really I did! My tutor was highly pleased with me—for close on two whole weeks! And then it came over me again—that suffocating sense of life unfolding outside my study and I missing out on the parade. My brain stopped working, Amy.” He throws up his hands in surrender. “It refused to digest one more femur or bacterium.”

“Did it? Well then, what else could you do? Why did you choose medicine, Henry?”

“Well, I wanted to
help
people. I love learning, I hate to see suffering. Medicine seemed an obvious way to address all these things. But instead, I found I could not learn, I saw no people, except for in disassembled parts—a skull here, a scapula there, and
I
was suffering! The goal still seems noble to me, but the path to reach it was not one I could tread for one more minute.” He shudders at the memory. “Now this raises an important question for me and for my father. Does my inability to do what I must for a predetermined period in order to reach a worthy goal mean that I have no character?”

“I see . . . well . . . so you are in Bath to ponder the case.” I avoid answering the question for I cannot tell a man his own character. He does not
seem
feckless or ignoble to me, but I am aware that I may be influenced by his curling hair and tall figure, and by his eyes. (They are of the very darkest, most gleaming brown and currently have a tiny silver raindrop trembling on his uptilted black lashes.) But even I know that hair and figure are not the substance of a man, nor even dark and rain-lit eyes.

“I believe my family think it is youthful high spirits which prevent me from working, Amy,” he laughs, in a way that suggests he can't imagine
where
they'd get such an impression. “But I do not think parties and young ladies are the answer for me, although I hold nothing against either. I don't
want
to squander time,” he assures me earnestly, settling his elbows on the table and hunching over them. “I squandered plenty as a young dasher. I already
wish
I had a settled purpose . . . It's just that I don't know what it is.”

Because he is leaning forward and I am leaning forward, we are very close. I am flushed with the thrill of sharing sympathetic confidences, and I cannot pull away from him; I do not want to. I want to convey so much to him—that I feel privileged he would confide in me so honestly, that I admire his determination to find a course in life that feels right, that I think he has the loveliest eyes that I have ever seen . . . My heart is beating very hard.

“Perhaps some more coffee?” asks Henry suddenly, breaking the spell and raising an arm to a waiter before I can reply. I sit up properly again and look around to compose myself. The coffee shop is more crowded than ever and the door jingles again, announcing yet another customer. My chair is jostled once more. I look up to reassure the jostler but she appears unconcerned. I startle and duck my head almost completely beneath the table, as if my boot laces are in urgent need of adjustment.

“Amy? Hello? Amy?” I hear Henry's voice above me and reluctantly sit up again. I glance to my left but the newcomer is halfway across the long rectangular room. Her perfectly straight back and sweeping skirts are gliding away from me, but still, she is here and I cannot stay.

“Are you quite well, Amy?” asks Henry, leaning over the table.

“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 honor 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 honor 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 coffeehouse 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.

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.