Amy Snow (40 page)

I ring for Ambrose, who shows him out, and before I can begin to sort through my fears—of having behaved improperly, of having hurt his feelings, of having answered his questions too fully, or not fully enough—Mrs. Riverthorpe is back, pouring herself a second Madeira and settling herself for a good gossip. I am beginning to feel that today is nothing but one conversation after another, in a decreasingly enjoyable sequence.

“Mrs. Riverthorpe, might you excuse me, please?”

“No, I might not. Come on, Amy Snow. Sit and talk. You don't interest me often. What's happening between you and Mr. Garland? I'll wager he's shown his hand and now that you're entangled with your Henry you're feeling very awkward.”

“You are quite right as always, Mrs. Riverthorpe. May I speak frankly to you?”

“I am in favor of frank speech, young lady. You may have noticed.”

I close the door, less for privacy than to emphasize the fact that he is gone and comfort myself thus. I seat myself on the chaise. I notice she has acquired a pretty gold and peach shawl, which makes her orange ensemble more modest. I feel sure that she met Henry outlandishly dressed on purpose. But that is the least of my worries now.

“I feel very uncomfortable indeed. I fear I have hurt Mr. Garland and—”

“Haaaa! If that is all that troubles you, you may rest easy. He is no tender young swain to have his heart broken so easy. But then again, he is also not a man to cross.”

“Why do you say that?”

“You remember what he told us last week? He doesn't play to lose.”

I frown. “He was talking about canasta, Mrs. Riverthorpe.”

“Was he now?”

“Was he not?”

She rolls her eyes. “Go on.”

I take a deep breath, to gather my thoughts. “That evening, during your card party, you remember Ambrose called me from the game . . . then you sent Mr. Garland after me to see that I was well?”

“I did no such thing. Remember, Amy, I'm in the minority that believes a female is perfectly capable of absenting herself from a room for five minutes without disaster striking.”

“But . . . what? That is what he told me.”

“Did he now?” Again Mrs. Riverthorpe reminds me of a heron, neck extended, steely eyes searching for fish. “No. He excused himself immediately after you left the room. I don't miss much, Amy.”

“
Immediately
after? Then . . . ”

I frown. I was conversing with Henry and the Longacres for some fifteen minutes at least. I remember entering the house, colliding with Mr. Garland. He was just inside the door. The door has an ornamental glass window next to it. Is it possible that he was . . .
watching
me? That he saw Henry? That the amazing coincidence of his declaration occurring just when Henry reappeared
wasn't
a coincidence? That he wanted to make his interest known as soon as he thought there was someone else? And if so . . . is there anything wrong with that?

“Stop frowning, Amy. You look dreadful. Go
on
!”

“When I came inside, he declared his . . . admiration for me.” Frowning despite myself, I recount what I remember of the conversation.

“He did not wish to make a proposal at that time. He was not some ‘impetuous youngster,' he said.”

Would Henry have appeared to him an impetuous youngster?
Is
Henry an impetuous youngster?

“He wished to ascertain whether I might possibly look upon him as a suitor when we had known each other longer.”

“And did you say you would?”

“I . . . I am not certain.”

Her expression is priceless. “You don't know what you said?”

“No! That is to say, I believe I was a little vague. I was so very surprised. So very flattered, but
surprised
!”

Mrs. Riverthorpe wrinkles her already wrinkled brow, and I resist the urge to tell her
she
looks dreadful. Instead, I stroke a patch of sunlight on the chaise.

“But Quentin is not a man to be easily put off. Surely he pressed you for
some
response beyond that of an imbecile?”

“Well, yes. I told him, I think I told him, that I admired him very much and that I enjoyed his company and looked forward to seeing him, and all that is true! At any rate it seemed to satisfy him—he bade us return to the cards. Then he appeared today, apologizing for having been gone longer than anticipated but I had not noticed! I have spent every day since with Henry. I . . . I had
forgotten
Mr. Garland!”

Oh, but I feel terrible. I lay my hands to my cheeks, a gesture I seem to be adopting more and more often lately.

“Haaaaa! That is priceless. Well done, Amy, that is the best thing I have yet heard come out of your mouth. Forgot him! He is not one who expects to be forgotten. Nor one who expects to be set aside. I have known Mr. Garland some five or more years now, and every season I see the young ladies fighting over him like magpies with a choice titbit. He is the one who does the forgetting. I venture you will not shake him so easily.”

I fidget uneasily. The Mr. Garland she is describing somehow does not match the considerate person I have seen him to be. I watch dust motes shifting in a sunbeam. Reality feels as though it is shifting too. For just a few days, with Henry, I thought I knew how everything was. Now there are questions again, always questions. “But I spoke to him just now. I was truthful: I told him I have an understanding with somebody else.”

“And he was filled with joy for you and wished you a long and happy life together, I suppose?”

“Well, no, but he was very gentlemanly.”

“Oh, naturally. Quentin is ever the
gentleman
.”

She laughs to herself, an odd little laugh that can really only be described as a snigger. “And what did he say then? Sow a few seeds of doubt in your mind, did he?”

“I could never doubt Henry, Mrs. Riverthorpe. But yes, Mr. Garland did suggest that perhaps he is not quite
settled
, was his word. And that I should expect the very best.”

She nods and smiles grimly. “Namely Quentin Garland, no doubt. Well, he is a great deal better-looking than your Henry, I must say—oh, Henry is pleasing enough in a common sort of way but boasts no real distinction. Though I must say, for a funny-looking little thing you have attracted a decent pair of faces.”

She is wrong! Can she not see that Henry is dashing and merry and alive, while Mr. Garland's beauty is polished and gleaming as marble?

“Then you think I should marry Mr. Garland?” I ask, puzzled. I had thought she and Henry got on rather well, considering.

“Heavens, no! Marry whomever you please. Or don't marry at all! Or have 'em both! But whatever you do, do it with your eyes open.”

The small brown clock on the mantel strikes noon. The April sun is high and slanting. I have been cooped up in this room all morning and I should like to go for a walk. I stand up and go to the window. The street is golden, and busy. There is a world out there, beyond my complex affairs, bustling away.

“What do you mean, Mrs. Riverthorpe? Please speak plainly. It may seem trivial to you, but I am not made like you. Do you know something I don't?”

“My dear,” she begins. I turn from the window and look at her sharply. Is she making fun of me? “Why do you think I keep pictures of moths in every room of the house?”

I cannot follow her. “Er . . . because you are a lepidopterist, I have always assumed.”

“Ha! Me, a lepidopterist? Because of my gentle fascination with the small marvels of the natural world?”

I incline my head stiffly. While I have become accustomed to her manners, I have not grown to enjoy her scorn. It is true she is not how one might imagine a lepidopterist. She would be hard to believe at all, but for the fact of her.

“Foolish child. It is because one must always keep the enemy in sight. Those little dusty brown things look so innocent but they nibble my clothes . . . or their young do, I forget which. At any rate, my beautiful gowns get nibbled and 'tis because of them. 'Tis war between us. So I hunt them. I persecute them. When I catch one whole, I mount it in the case. The pictures are always before my eyes to remind me that there are enemies to my happiness
everywhere
, even the small, creeping, harmless-looking kind.”

I am aware that my eyebrows have risen very high throughout her discourse. I had always known her to be unusual. But this is really quite startling. I return to my seat and spread out my skirts, intent upon arranging them quite symmetrically, giving myself time to compose a response.

“Good heavens! I can see that holes in your beautiful fabrics must be . . . um . . . vexing. But interesting though it is . . . I cannot see . . . ah! The pictures of the gentlemen?” I glance up at the portraits covering the far wall, all lit up with pale, dusty sunshine.

“Precisely so, child. The same reason. Always keep the enemy in sight.”

“I understand. Be wary of men, for they can destroy your happiness.”

“Ha! Very good. Indeed, indeed.”

I take up my glass of Madeira. “Are the portraits of any particular men, Mrs. Riverthorpe, or merely a selection to display the variety of the species?”

“They are my former husbands and lovers.”

I spill the Madeira a little in shock. “What,
all
of them?”

“Don't be silly, child, I should run out of space on the walls if I were to display
all
of them. They are the chief troublemakers, I suppose. Amy, there is no happy ending. Disabuse yourself of that expectation. Even if you marry for love—perhaps especially then. Tall men, short men, rich men, poor men, handsome men, grotesques, grotesques who
believe
themselves handsome . . . I have had them all and they nibble, Amy, they all
nibble
.”

It is a dismaying turn to the conversation. I look all around me. This room has become familiar now, but it still does not feel like home. It is ever the scene of unexpected revelations, difficult questions, unsettling ideas . . .

“Surely not
all
men? Surely there are those who are good and kind and honorable and, and support a woman's right to learn, to choose her way and . . . and—”

“And breathe? How very good of them. I shall be sure to apply to them for their blessing the next time I wish to exercise a basic human right. Well, I assume you think your Henry is one such and you will live happily ever after.”

“Yes, I believe he is.”

“But you will
not
live happily ever after!” She bangs her fist down on the table and I jump. “You are not even trying! He has no profession, not even a trade. You have been out in the world for all of five minutes and are as green as a sapling. I'm sure his family are good people, but I doubt they have the means to support him in any decent manner indefinitely. Very well,
you
have money, but does
he
know that? Have you even discussed it? Or have you just gazed into each other's eyes and sighed and recited poetry?”

I bristle. “We have read a sonnet or two, but we have only declared our feelings yesterday. I think we may be forgiven for not having arranged all our worldly affairs to your satisfaction just yet.” My cheeks are beginning to grow hot. “Remember, we are not engaged; we have not been so very hasty.”

But she appears to have lost interest in Henry and me.

“Then again, I do not think Quentin would make you any happier. I wonder why he has set his sights on you, when there are heiresses crawling all over Bath.”

“You think Mr. Garland courts me because I appear wealthy? But that cannot be . . . why would he need to do that? I am not so very rich!”

“He does not know
how
rich you are, remember. He has seen you impoverished and then, suddenly, dressed like a princess and mixing in the finest circles. You may even stand to inherit my money, as far as he is concerned. He knows nothing of specifics, but you must look like a good bet.”

“I suppose that's true. But
he
is wealthy! He need not marry for money.”

“Well, I'm sure he will not marry for love.” She leans forward and fixes me with a look. “Amy, I have tried to say this to you before, and I wish you to hear me now. Be careful of Quentin Garland. I know nothing specific or I would tell you, to be sure, but I have not spent a lifetime weaving in and out of men's lives without learning a great deal. My instinct tells me he is not what he seems. Be
very
careful of him. And Henry—you love him better, you say?”

“Why, yes. For all that I have admired Mr. Garland most highly, Henry is the one I love. I feel instinctively that we belong together.”

“Then be even
more
careful of him. Now, Amy: one final word. Should you ever find yourself in the North Country, do please look up my friends the Caplands. Oh, do not fear, they are nothing like me. I imagine your Twisters, or Willows, or whatever you call them, to be very much like my Caplands.”

This is a change of subject as bizarre as the moths. How will this lead back to the subject at hand? I wonder.

“He is a very good fellow as they go, owns a shop, but for a tradesman he is very respectable. Not that
I
care about that. She is as silly a creature as ever lived, but kindhearted, and that matters to
some
people.” She gives me a look. “Shall you remember that name, Amy? Capland? Or will Henry's dark eyes drive it from your swiftly dissolving brain?”

“I shall indeed, Mrs. Riverthorpe. But what have your Caplands to do with Henry, or Mr. Garland, or
any
of this, in fact?”

She rolls her eyes. “Why, nothing at all, child. I am just so
very
bored of the conversation.”