Amy Snow (31 page)

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 vagueness 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 center 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 curtsy, 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 curtsy.

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 honor 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 inquire. 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.

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 gray 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.

She takes my other arm and for an instant I am caught between the two as though they are children fighting over a doll. Then Mrs. Beverley lets go and I take a step closer to my hostess. She is narrow as a blade and quivers when she walks but next to me now she feels as solid and strong as an oak.

“Do you know who this
is
?” Mrs. Beverley splutters.

“Naturally, I do,” says Mrs. Riverthorpe dismissively. “Amy Snow, poor as a church mouse when she left your sister's house, looking decidedly more splendid now. What of it?”

I watch as Mrs. Beverley takes in her opponent's plentiful diamonds and bare, wrinkled shoulders, the coquettish feathers piled in her silvery hair. Then she looks at my flashy, low-shouldered gown, at my black net and beading, at the roses tumbling seductively from my hair. I see her draw inevitable comparisons.

“I should like to know how I find her here. She does not belong amongst respectable people. Clearly she was thwarted when Aurelia left her nothing but a modest legacy, and now it seems she has found another means to advance herself . . . well, financially at least.”

Her face is wearing that mixture of horror and delight I saw so often at Hatville. I begin to entertain a creeping suspicion about the conclusion that Mrs. Beverley is drawing about me. It is true, I know, that precious few options are open to a young woman alone in the world without protection or means—and really only one that would allow me to have become so fine so fast.

“Respectable people, are we?” Mrs. Riverthorpe sneers. “Your
respectable
sister threw Amy out without a sou, after a lifetime of service to her daughter! Amy has rectified the situation—remarkably successfully. I am proud of her.”

I want to pull away from her restraining hand. I do not mind people knowing I come from the shabbiest of beginnings, but my self-respect chafes at having them think such a thing as this. I want to protest that I am wealthy thanks to Aurelia and Aurelia alone. But this is precisely what I cannot do. And while Mrs. Beverley may believe the worst of me, this way she will not ask questions about my legacy.

“I do not know your name, madam,” says Aurelia's aunt, “for you have not had the courtesy to introduce yourself. I am not sure, however, that what
you
consider a source of pride would be considered such by people of refinement, who
might
see the passing years as a cause to present themselves with dignity and reticence.”