Amy Snow (17 page)

I take a sip of my wine, savoring both the taste and the fact that Henry has asked my opinion. He watches me attentively as he waits for my answer. “I think the study of medicine a very admirable endeavor, but I understand the training is something of an endurance challenge. I do not wonder that you should find it restrictive. But I am sure you will find your way, one way or another.”

“Thank you, Amy.” He looks thoughtful then, as though my comments really matter. I wish I could say more. I wish I could prolong this conversation forever.

He reminds me of Aurelia—bright in personality and appearance, able and energetic in his mental abilities, and restless and idealistic to boot. I hope that as a man he will find the world easier to navigate than Aurelia did.

•  •  •

All too soon the clock chimes midnight and I am dismayed. I had no idea so many hours could pass so swiftly with relative strangers. I am eager to follow Aurelia's trail, of course, and indeed I have no choice, but it is hard to be winkled from the company of cheerful friends so newly discovered.

Both Henry and Albert insist on escorting me back to Jessop Walk in Albert's carriage. I think they feel that the presence of two gentlemen is more seemly than one, and Kate is still in bed. Occasionally, her sneezes have drifted down to us like dandelion seeds. I am touched and appalled when she staggers to the stairs to call farewell to me. I return the courtesy by prescribing a rum toddy.

The gentlemen rattle me home, except that of course it is not home at all. The dusty, poky house in Holborn felt more welcoming to me than Hatville ever was, and Jessop Walk is lackluster and lonely in comparison to both.

I tiptoe through the silent house to my room. This evening's laughter and warmth have made me lonelier than ever and I sit on my bed, still wearing my cloak and boots. I feel I need some time for this experience to sink in. For the very first time I have had a taste of belonging. It is the feeling that accompanies that old dream of mine, the one with the cottage and the pony . . .

I cast my mind back over the last few days. My landlady here, the Begleys on the train, Mr. Carlton in the Rose and Crown, they have all been helpful and courteous. And I have been thankful in the extreme for it! But with them all, I was still Amy Snow of Hatville, stiff, awkward and nervous of giving offense. With Albert and Henry . . . I felt something different altogether. I felt
comfortable
! I talked with them—I
laughed
!

With all my heart I wish I could accept Albert's invitation, meet his daughter Annie, lodge in their home. But the decision to stop and rest is not mine to make. I have to keep moving on. I cannot abandon my quest every time I have a congenial encounter.

I sleep fitfully and wake to a sparkling morning. The rain has stopped and I am bound for the country. It is the first day of February.

At long last, something is easy. I need go to no exhausting lengths to discover the address of the family I must visit, nor must I mine my memories, sifting through long-forgotten moments as though searching for weevils in flour. I know more about them than anyone else Aurelia encountered on her travels. They are the Wisters of Twickenham; to be precise, of Mulberry Lodge, Orleans Lane, Twickenham Meadows, Middlesex. I used to fancy the address exotic when I saw it inscribed at the top of Aurelia's letters.

Apparently, there are any number of ways to reach Twickenham: by omnibus, by stagecoach, or by boat. Or one could go by train to Richmond and then walk. So I learn from the informative Mrs. Woodrow, who is happy to discuss the merits and drawbacks of each journey.

Thus, after a brisk walk through rain-washed streets, I am seated inside a gleaming mail coach at St. Paul's, peeping through the window at the great cathedral. The vast facade of Portland stone is blackened and smoky. As the early-morning freshness falls away, it seems to fume and brood.

The coach reminds me of one of Lord Vennaway's horses; it is so sleek and well kempt, tacked out in shining brass and leather. It has a name, Meteor, which actually
was
the name of one of Lord Vennaway's horses. Although that first Meteor was not maroon and black, nor did he have scarlet wheels, nevertheless the one reminds me of the other; something about pride, the promise of speed and impatience to be off.

I paid without hesitation for a seat inside. The thought of swinging myself up onto the roof and rocking along all the way to the country, exposed to the elements, requires a sense of adventure as yet dormant in me. Anyway, I no longer have to pretend I am eking out a small sum of money; no one here will recognize me.

Nevertheless, I look all around me before allowing a tall gentleman with very blond hair and very blue eyes to help me climb inside. I hardly expect to see a predatory Vennaway at this stage—yet still I feel an irrational, sharp instinct to check for danger.

There are six of us squashed inside, including a governess with two young charges, both girls, one several years older than the other. I make the inevitable comparison and feel it all over again, the loss of her. Then there is an extremely rotund gentleman with a red face. His belly is so high and straining, so buoyant and round, that it threatens to take him over altogether. I cannot help but think that a gentle walk might serve him better than a jolting, jerking stagecoach. In fact, a good deal of gentle walking, every day.

The last passenger in is the golden-haired gentleman who helped me board, as finely dressed a person as ever I saw at Hatville. He wears a shining, powder-blue cravat to match his eyes. He makes me feel the way I felt at Hatville, shabby and unprotected. However, he is extremely solicitous to all and offers assistance to myself and to the governess as abundantly as the sun dispensing sunbeams.

“Allow me to offer my services should you require any aid,” he says to me when we are settled. He is seated opposite me and I do not know where to put myself for the nearness of him. “I understand the delicate position of a lady traveling alone, though circumstances sometimes dictate, do they not?”

I somehow succeed in both nodding and shaking my head at the same time, eager only to convey gratitude for his concern and agreement with anything he says. No fine gentleman at Hatville ever spoke to me with such delicacy—or, indeed, at all—save for Bailor Dunthorne, and
that
is not a memory worth cherishing!

Now he inclines his golden head to the governess. “And you, madam, not alone but charged with a great responsibility, I see. Likewise, if you should need anything, I am at your command.”

“I am unlikely to need anything at all, sir. I only go to Hammersmith.” Her tone conveys an unmistakable message:
Do not pity me, do not speculate about me; I can manage perfectly well
. I should like to be able to emulate it.

“Of course. Merely a stone's throw and a pleasure to travel with such a precious cargo, I am certain.”

She relents a little. “Thank you, sir. They are dear girls.” Then she turns her attention to the window. The precious cargo is certainly well trained, I observe. They do not move, speak, or make faces at each other. They stop reminding me of Aurelia and myself around Westminster.

With a cry and a crack of whip we are snatched into motion! From the very first instant, I can
feel
the whole process: horses leaning into harness, harness pulling on shaft, shaft yanking at carriage. I can feel the wheels spinning us across the city along routes laid down long, long ago—routes soon to fall into disuse, they say, now the trains are come.

The shining gentleman and the portly gentleman make gentlemanly conversation. “Sebastian Welbeck,” says the latter, reaching a chubby hand around his own girth. “And you are Mr . . . . ?”

“Garland,” supplies the other, leaning forward easily to shake hands. When he introduces himself, Mr. Welbeck turns even redder.

“Quentin Garland of Chiswick?” he splutters. “Honored to make your acquaintance, sir, entirely honored. Financier, entrepreneur, leading light of society, is there anything to which your talents do not run?” He proceeds to grill Mr. Garland as thoroughly as a fish for his views about the railway.

I am unsurprised that he is a man of towering accomplishment. I marvel that within two days I have met two men, each blessed with a surplus of looks and manners and yet so different. Henry was easy and frank and merry. Mr. Garland is polished, polite, and poised. Henry was all rumpled curls and sprawling limbs. Mr. Garland looks as though no breeze would dare ruffle him, no act of God could disarrange him. Henry is still trying to find his way in the world, beset with the uncertainties and disappointments of mortal men. Mr. Garland is set fast in his life, successful and self-contained. Henry warmed my heart. Mr. Garland dazzles me. In fact, he chills me a little. Both are very pleasing to look at.

At Hammersmith we lose the governess and her girls. Three old men take their place, nod curtly, and resume a fiery debate about curry powder. Because Mr. Welbeck is so large, they all three crowd in beside me.

“Are you quite comfortable there, Miss Snow? Would you like to exchange seats?” Mr. Garland inquires in a low voice. His discretion is wasted—the debate rages, intense and flavorful. The horsehair seats are lumpy, and prove scant protection from the vigorous reverberations of the road.

“I am quite well, I thank you, sir,” I reply, and my voice comes out in a whisper. I am annoyed with myself for being such a mouse. But he is the sort of person I used to see at Hatville, whisking past and bent upon seeing Aurelia, and he is but a few feet away. His legs are so long that, even folded elegantly as they are, they reach into my half of the carriage. For once I am glad that mine are so very short and I curl them as close as possible to my seat.

Looking concerned, he leans towards me. I shrink back. “And do you have a great way to go?”

I hesitate. “Not so very far, sir, thank you.”

Mr. Welbeck looks annoyed at having lost the great man's attention, which he wins back with a detailed supposition about stocks and shares that I cannot follow at all. As we travel and conversations roll around me, I find myself glancing at Mr. Garland from time to time. It cannot be the thing, I am sure, but he does rather lend himself to contemplation. He is a man of around thirty, neither young and foolish nor old and stale. I find myself fascinated by the perfect features, the exquisite dove-gray costume, and his top hat, the tallest I have ever seen. How does a human being achieve such easy perfection? Mortified lest he should notice me looking, I apply myself to the view.

My thoughts stray to yesterday, to the indigo sky above London and the hammering rain. The discovery of the letter and dinner with Henry and Albert. Is it possible to miss people one has met only once? It seems that it is.

We roll through Richmond. I see gracious buildings, green flashes of river, and a beautiful bridge spanning the Thames. I see a world of willows and floating islands. London has been left most decidedly behind.

“A fine view, is it not?” remarks Mr. Garland, smiling at me. I think he has noticed the wonder in my eyes.

We rattle to a halt at the bridge, pay the toll, and rattle off again into Twickenham. We pass through meadows and market gardens, all glimpsed in snatches and patches, pinned awkwardly as I am by the curry-loving gentlemen.

“Twiiiick'
num
!” cries our driver, drawing us to a dramatic, whinnying stop. “The George, King Street, ladies and gents.”

I start to my feet, self-conscious in front of so many male companions, but they are all indifferent, saving Mr. Garland. He is out before me and the door swings wide. He is helping me disembark; my bag is in my hand.

“Miss Snow, is there anyone to meet you? May I escort you anywhere?” He offers me his arm. I do not know what to do with it! I solve the conundrum inelegantly, by holding out my hand for him to shake. My shabby gloves and his perfect ones meet briefly.