Amy Snow (38 page)

I did not, of course I did not.

I marveled at the length of his legs. In truth, anyone's legs are long compared to mine, but Henry's appear to me to be particularly fine examples.

When at last he sat up again, I jumped as though caught doing something illicit, although in truth I don't feel there is anything so wrong with a woman admiring an attractive man. Perhaps Mrs. Riverthorpe is rubbing off on me. Perhaps that is not a bad thing.

That evening, the Longacres sent their carriage for me as promised. Finally, I wore my beloved apricot muslin. I took real delight in attending an occasion for which I could choose my own gown, wear my hair simply, dress myself, and, in short, please myself. Cecile would not approve, but I left my room feeling entirely comfortable.

In the hall I collided with Mrs. Riverthorpe, who was pulling on a pair of long, black satin gloves.

“Child!” She shuddered when she saw me. “Are you spending the evening in a nunnery?”

She could not dent me. “Only with friends, Mrs. Riverthorpe. I hope you shall enjoy your evening.”

“I doubt it. I sincerely doubt it,” she muttered as she swept out of the house, in so far as it is possible to sweep when leaning hard on a cane.

I had a brief, rash longing to take her with me and show her a gentler sort of company before rationality returned.

I passed the most pleasant of evenings. The Longacres and their friends made me feel so welcome. The food was simple yet excellent and the dancing was crowded into a small parlor with space for only three couples at once to stand up safely. Everyone danced with everyone else but dancing with Henry was a dream. He was graceful and sure of himself and kept me entertained with a number of witty comments and private jokes.

I returned to Hades House in a warm glow that not even eerie gray corners and mothy artwork could dim. Needless to say, Mrs. Riverthorpe was not at home before me.

•  •  •

I spent the next four days with Henry, Gus, and Ellen. My world was all tilted on its axis. Appalled that I had not seen any of the surrounding countryside, they took it upon themselves to acquaint me with the views from Beachen Cliff and the leafy lanes of Widcombe. They arranged a picnic in the fields along the river. I believe my memory of that day will always be the sound of rippling water, the brush of ladybirds, and a rich warmth of sunlight and laughter.

It is strange and wonderful to be a part of two couples—an altogether new feeling for me. I study Gus and Ellen surreptitiously whenever I have the chance. She is small and fair and feisty, with a great fondness for parasols—she carries a different shade every time I see her. He is not a handsome man—he has a profusion of ginger whiskers and an impressive copper beard—but he is thoughtful and gentle and their appreciation for each other is plain to see. I wonder how Henry and I would seem after a decade in each other's company—if such is to be our destiny.

The city too seems all new to me with Henry as a guide. He is surprisingly knowledgeable about a great many things. I do not know why I should find that surprising, except perhaps that he is so self-effacing. He can take me to the weir and he makes me see, instead of just a rushing horseshoe of water, a sophisticated symbol of modern life. He can explain the series of locks and canals that make Bath a vital center for travel and trade, not only fashion and flirtation. The splendid architecture of the city comes alive for me when we are together.

I feel the hard shell of my discontent with Bath and my frustration with the treasure hunt breaking open. I am finding the time to pause and delight in life after all; my concerns are all suspended when I am with Henry. He is like a fire on a cold day and draws me closer and closer to him, making me feel treasured and wanted.

We promenade along Royal Crescent but also explore the streets that lurk behind. The backs of those sweeping, smooth houses are knobbly and jagged like teeth. I reflect that society is like that—elegant and flawless at face value, bumpy and biting behind the facade. Henry voices this very thought as it passes through my head. He does that often.

Occasionally, we encounter someone we know; it is like being reminded of a strange dream, so caught up am I in these magical days. In the lobby of the Royal Hotel, after enjoying a sumptuous lunch in celebration of Ellen's birthday, we find Mrs. Manvers handing out pamphlets about the Temperance Movement. She generously gives us one each (although I already have three) and she and Henry enjoy a long conversation while Gus, Ellen, and I go and admire the fountain in the courtyard.

I find Henry informed and reflective, not the light, insubstantial fellow he condemns himself as being. I have had a lifetime of being told that I am worthless and lacking; it has done me no favors. I see no point in Henry inflicting the same anguish upon himself, so I tell him to stop. He seems to take the point.

•  •  •

Last night, after an early supper in Henrietta Street, he told me that he loves me.

We had supped on the terrace with honeysuckle unfolding around us. Gus had excused himself to look at some papers, then Ellen retreated indoors to play the piano. Henry and I braved the chill to stay outside together. Despite the recent sunny days, the evenings have been much cooler. Henry says it is because Bath lies in a basin amongst the hills, a sound geographical explanation for something I had fancied was simply my own disenchantment with the place. We talked of literature and we read a few sonnets to the accompaniment of twittering blackbirds making ready for summer. Then we began talking of our childhoods.

“I wonder what became of them?” said Henry suddenly. “The awkward little girl running around after her big, bright sister and the scamp of a boy who could not leave the house without getting into trouble. I wonder if they exist anywhere now except in our memories and hearts.”

“I still feel like that awkward little girl much of the time. And in truth . . . I am still running after Aurelia.”

“Much of the time? And what about the rest of the time? How do you feel then?”

I frowned for a long time, pondering his question.

“Like the adult I always wished I had to look after me,” I realized with some astonishment. “Thoughtful. Confident. And steady. I loved Aurelia dearly, but she was not steady. It was like loving a flame. And . . . I
interest
myself, Henry. My path through life is not conventional, and yet I seem to be making my way! I never thought I could. And you, Henry? Do you still feel like the same boy?”

“No.” Henry shook his head decidedly. “Oh, the mischief is still there, I know, but now there is a great deal more of me besides. I have expanded to include so much more of what I must become. I am definitely a man, not a boy. Only . . .”

I remember my initial shock when I saw him fill the doorframe at his grandfather's place. He is certainly not a boy.

“Only what?”

He looks around the garden and crosses his legs, thinking. Dusk gathers around, soft and lilac gray and chilly. I shiver.

“Only . . . I am not yet the man I
want
to be. I am like the outline of myself. I want to be the full portrait.”

“Do you mean because you haven't settled on a profession?”

“That's certainly a part of it. Some parts of myself are surging ahead whilst others lag behind. The leaders are impatient and they want . . . a great many things. The laggards are doing their best, I'm sure, but they feel very intimidated by what is being asked of them. Does that make any sense?”

I imagine what he means is that he is growing up. I never had the chance to grow up in a gradual progression—I was always dealing with situations that a kinder world would not have dealt to a child. I saw it in Aurelia, though—the struggle and the contradiction. And I could see this was important to him.

“It makes sense. Do you think you might go gently on yourself, show the laggards a little compassion?”

“I'm not sure that I should. I believe I must grow firmer with myself. Do you know what makes me so impatient, Amy? Can you guess what it is that I want?”

He looked at me so very intently that I felt my heart start to drum as if it knew my life was about to change. Suddenly, I could not speak, so shook my head.

“Oh, dearest,
dearest
Amy, can't you? Why, 'tis you! Amy, it is lucky I am buttoned up inside this suit for I am coming all undone inside it. I could not bear to cause you a single second's discomfort, yet I must speak. From the first evening that we met, you fascinated me. You looked so very sad, so very alone, yet so determined. I did not want to let you go, indeed I did not, but you and my grandfather made it clear that I must. Then to see you again here! To have the opportunity to get to know you properly, to talk to you, receive your confidences, share my friends with you. Oh, I know we have not known each other very long, and no doubt we still have much to learn, but spending so much time with you these last few days I know this: my life would be so much poorer without you. Amy, if all you feel for me is friendship, then know that I will treasure that always and you must never feel awkward or raw about my declaration. But if you could love me . . . if you could ever, ever love me . . . I should . . . I should . . .”

“What should you do, dear Henry?” I asked softly, drawing his hand towards me across the wrought-iron table.

He looked at me with such extraordinary hope. I will never forget that look on his face. It melted something inside me that I had not known was frozen.

“I should never want to be apart from you, Amy. I should like to build my life with you, if you would have me. I know I am in no position to ask this—at the moment I have very little to offer, except for my unswerving devotion—but one day when I do, might you consider becoming my wife?”

I felt tears spring to my eyes and roll down my face. I made to wipe them on my shawl but he was there before me, his arm around me, softly brushing my cheeks with his handkerchief.

“Tell me these are tears of joy, Amy; please tell me they are tears of joy. It wouldn't do a man's confidence much good to think that the very suggestion of marrying him could reduce a girl to tears.”

Once I managed to stop laughing and crying and to compose myself, I assured him that they were indeed tears of joy. I sat in that garden in a wonderment, my head spinning and my heart singing, floating on waves of heady delight. I wanted to scoop up all his words in my arms and cradle them to me and keep them always; I have been starving for them.

“For me, it began when you laughed at the silly face I pulled,” said Henry. “I remember Grandfather saying something about you being stuck with just him and me, Mama being in bed with a cold and all that. I made a grimace and your face transformed. I felt protective toward you from the first—but to see that brief glimpse of what it would be like to make you happy—it quite turned the world on end. I had to make some excuse to leave the room, I remember.”

“
Truly?
I
thought
you looked at me strangely! I thought it was because I look so odd when I smile.”

“Odd when you . . . ? What on earth makes you say that?”

“That's what they always told me in the kitchen.”

“Well, let me tell you, the folk in the kitchen were quite, quite wrong. Dear Amy, you have a laugh that could make a fellow wish to devote a lifetime to making you happy. And you? Did you fall in love with me in an instant, as soon as you saw my manly frame lounging in my grandfather's doorway?”

“Oh yes, certainly the doorway,” I told him, laughing to cover up my embarrassment at just how true this was. I can admit it to myself now. I can hardly believe that I can finally share with him all the times I thought of him across the intervening months, how happy the very sight of him has always made me, how comfortable I feel in his company, and how I never dreamed anyone—let alone beloved, handsome Henry—could ever feel that way about me.

Thus, we tumbled on, in our dizzy, ecstatic way, never once talking about practicalities, never worrying about the fact that I have no idea where I will be a week from now and Henry has no idea what he wants to do with his life. We might have gone on like that all night but that Ellen came to ask if I wanted the carriage.

Today the delightful dream continues. Life is giddy and galloping and lustrous. I lay awake all night, but for none of the reasons that have kept me awake since Aurelia died. My only regret now is that she can never know Henry, nor he Aurelia.

Light-headed and sore-eyed I spring from bed as though I have slept like a lamb, and don my cream dress with the raspberry stripes. Henry has not seen it before. He is coming to meet Mrs. Riverthorpe. It is a redundant formality, but in our excitement we want to share our joy with everyone and she is the nearest thing I have in Bath to a guardian. I wish he could meet Constance and Edwin, and he has promised me that one day soon—when my circumstances are different—he will.