Amy Snow (8 page)

When he was newly in post and did not yet know the rules concerning me, he found me in the schoolroom one day and let me stay to share the lesson. And if he was a little condescending to me, well, I was only eight.

Thus he came to notice what several others remarked upon over the years: I calmed her down. With me present, Aurelia grew more settled, attentive, and, he liked to think, receptive to instruction. If the truth was simply that she hoped to be dismissed from her lessons earlier so we could escape to our own entertainments, she certainly didn't disabuse him. So Mr. Henley, of all the improbable figures, was the next to argue the case for our continued association.

He earnestly explained to his employers that for a restless spirit such as Aurelia's, a companion with a steadier disposition and a more pedestrian mind was a beneficial thing. Further, that in the absence of brothers and sisters, placid company could soothe and sweeten the path of correction. He very strongly advised that I be allowed to share her lessons.

Lord Vennaway was too lofty altogether to care either way. “Why ever not allow it?” he demanded of his wife, bored. Lady Vennaway's more heated emotions had no place amongst these bastions of male rationality. Her womanly feelings must bow to sense and expediency; it was what they were trying to teach Aurelia, after all.

Thus it happened that I was with Aurelia more than her mother could ever have wished, and my role in the household subtly changed: I heard myself referred to as Aurelia's companion more than once—though never in earshot of Lady Vennaway. I was now privileged to see Aurelia living in her own world, instead of only in our happy, separate little bubble. And I came to see her in a new light. I realized that whilst to me she was the friend of my childhood (older to be sure, but free and careless even so), other people thought of her as a young lady, with a clear duty before her.

•  •  •

Aurelia was sixteen when Mr. Henley arrived, and by then her parents had been discussing her marital prospects for over a year. Aurelia refused even to acknowledge their plans, as though by ignoring them she could will them out of existence. I did not like to admit that Aurelia had a blind spot. I was dependent on her after all, and I wanted to believe her all-powerful. But, watchful little soul that I was, I started to see that reality as Aurelia determined upon it and reality as everyone else saw it were not always the same.

Shortly after Mr. Henley joined us, her parents started entertaining suitors at Hatville Court, and shipping Aurelia off to balls with her aunts and cousins as chaperones (Lady Vennaway would not go herself, being wary of anything that might be considered an amusement). At first Aurelia enjoyed the novelty of dressing up and dancing and being admired. She laughed outright at the men who came to dinner. Just as I looked up to Aurelia, and learned from her, she in her turn adopted airs she copied from Mrs. Bolton. She behaved as if she was blithely unaffected by it all. I was taken in at first.

But time passed and Lord and Lady Vennaway became more explicit about their plans. They forbade Aurelia to change the subject or flounce from the room when the subject of marriage arose. Arguments grew more frequent. And Aurelia was afraid. She was loath to admit it, but I often saw her staring around her wild-eyed, like a horse bridled with curb chain and martingale too tight.

I do not doubt that they loved her—no one ever could who saw the way they looked at her. But they were people for whom love was a complicated affair, very closely bound up with, and easily confused with, matters of proprietorship, duty, and control. Being who they were, the public eye upon them as it was, the honor of their family
so
great . . . well—there were
expectations
. They wanted her well mannered, modestly dressed, reserved, and blushing, an immaculate prize for some wealthy noble with fine whiskers who could match or better the Vennaways' fortune and prestige.

They foresaw a future of stately grandeur for her—producing heirs, gracing society, decorating her husband's arm. Aurelia, however, had read too much and lived too little. Inspired by the vast libraries of Hatville, and with no wise guide to understand or check her, every wild daydream seemed possible to her. She wanted a life of travel and intrigue, romances of her own choosing (she was determined there should be several), and to use her fortune and privilege to do philanthropic works. She wanted to be a new kind of role model for rich young ladies. (“Subversive and scandalous!” spat her father.) She wanted her name in the history books, never mind that no history book we had ever read recognized the opinions of women.

“Then I shall be the first,” she resolved, tossing her lovely head. “Everything must happen for the first time at some point; otherwise, nothing would
ever
have changed and we should still be burning whole villages to the ground.”

“Some things are not
meant
to change!” thundered Lord Vennaway.

“
Some
things are long overdue for change,” blazed Aurelia.

I could almost pity the Vennaways senior. The proudest, most conservative family in the county—no heir, only one daughter. That daughter everything they could wish in terms of beauty, grace, and a loving heart. That daughter also harboring dreams of . . . social reform. Keeping far-from-suitable company (myself, Mr. Clay, and Mrs. Bolton, the nearest thing Surrey had to a bluestocking). It was an unsavory business.

Of the many suitors that they had auditioned over the years, two were now leading the field, and they were growing impatient. Lord Kenworthy and Lord Dunthorne were very different men, yet each as deeply unpleasant as the other. Giles Kenworthy was some twenty years Aurelia's senior, cold and rigid, with dry skin and a face that could not smile. The first time I saw him I was peeping out of a forbidden library and he was sweeping along the hall as though riding down a fox. I was thankful that he did not catch sight of me. He had eyes that made me want to run away.

Bailor Dunthorne was young and debauched, drenched with an oily charm. He was handsome and flashy and vigorous. Vigorous enough to beat a horse bloody—we saw it. Handsome enough that an inconceivable number of young women had succumbed to his dubious charms and received scant rewards for their favor—Mrs. Bolton told us (or at least she told Aurelia, and I was there). He had a habit of paying impromptu visits, happening upon us when we least expected him. Ever his adversary's opposite, he condescended to ruffle my hair and bend to my height, sweeping his dark eyes over my face whenever he saw me. It made me shudder.

Both gentlemen were of exquisite lineage and impressive fortune. The Vennaways had decided that either would do. When Aurelia turned eighteen, it was time for her to choose; they had indulged her sensibilities long enough. But Aurelia would not cooperate. She would come into her fortune in three short years, she argued; she had no need of a husband. She often pointed to the young queen as role model and exemplar. “
Victoria
refused to marry unless for love. Victoria seriously considered remaining unmarried, like Queen Elizabeth before her. Victoria only married her Albert because they have a
true understanding
.”

“Her Majesty,”
roared her father, “is queen of our nation and in a somewhat different position from
you
! Your responsibility, Aurelia, is not to govern the country and your duty is not to the people. It is to family. It is to marry and continue the Vennaway line. I have not been granted a son and I will
not
have my daughter fail me as well.
Her Majesty
is not my concern. You seem to think you have a choice in this, Aurelia. I assure you that you do not.”

Two equally strong sets of ambitions dueled, but of course her parents held all the power. They were bound to prevail, and Aurelia was so lovely that men would overlook her unusual convictions in their lust to possess her.

So the Vennaways reassured themselves: yes, she lacked judgement, tractability, and deference, but she more than compensated for this with beauty, breeding, and thirty thousand pounds a year.

As for me, I was ten years old and could see no way for the impasse to be resolved. And what kind of man would nurture and support her pioneering temperament, her passionate heart? More likely by far that she would be oppressed and raged at until her spirit was battered. Lord Kenworthy, for example, would think it a fine thing to procure a woman like Aurelia. He would then steadfastly prune away any of her traits that did not meet with his approval (and that was a thing very rarely earned indeed) as though she were a recalcitrant sapling. She confided her fears in me, for she had no one else. He would, she fretted, foist baby after baby upon her until her body and spirits were worn and she would start to be some other person.

Young as I was, I worried sorely for her, and I confess to no small concern on my own account as well. I could tell from the way Lord Kenworthy looked at me that I would not fare well in
his
household—if I were permitted to go there at all. I would doubtless be slickly welcomed to the Dunthorne home and that could be worse. It was impossible to think of a way out.

And then nature took care of it.

•  •  •

She collapsed in the orchard one day during a picnic; the Vennaway cousins were visiting. I had been put to work, as was usual when pleasant times were to be had. I was helping Robin gather plums and their shrieks of laughter—Aurelia's loudest of all—reached me through the trees. I didn't notice when they fell quiet; I was crouched in the grass, tying my apron into a bundle because my basket was full, the material slithering about unobligingly.

What I noticed was Robin dropping an armful of plums. They thudded one after another to the ground and bounced; it was unlike him to be so careless with the precious harvest. I looked up and saw his face white as ash, then he leapt from his ladder without a word and ran on long legs towards the party. I stood slowly, a bad feeling scurrying up and down my spine like a spider. Unable to move, I watched as Robin carried her lifeless-looking body back to the house, her cousins clustered nervously around. The sight of her dangling arm in particular has stayed with me always—a chilling premonition of the future.

Dr. Jacobs was summoned. After a long, grave examination he told us that Aurelia's vibrant beauty and high spirits were a cruel disguise on the part of Fate. Her heart, expansive and courageous as it was, was weak, diseased, and would not carry her through her twenties.

Aurelia greeted the news as though it were the cleverest device she had yet dreamed up to thwart her parents' matrimonial plans for her. What a merry to-do! For no one would have her now. No one wanted a wife who would die in a few short years, necessitating the tiresome search for another. Of course, they might have undergone the inconvenience in order to inherit her fortune but, warned Dr. Jacobs, there was a very real possibility that childbirth could bring on an even earlier demise. He strongly advised against marriage and all its consequent activities. Without the possibility of an heir, the Vennaways had no reason to marry her off. Better keep the fortune in the family. Aurelia nodded complacently. Better it go to Cousin Maude than to a
stranger
.

So Aurelia had her way after all—at a cost. There would be no illustrious wedding. There would be no precious Vennaway heir. But neither would there be travel, passion, or reform.

Or so I believed.

Thoughts of that time settle heavy upon me as the train slows and halts. The days following her diagnosis are echoed now in the dark days that follow her death. Now as then my brain resists it—death and Aurelia are two phenomena that do not sit easily together. I half expect to find her here, waiting for me.

London is a series of vivid, fleeting tableaux, a pack of cards that won't stop shuffling. The throng at Bricklayers' Arms further reveals Ladywell for the sleepy backwater it is. I see hawkers, hollerers, scantily dressed women, and barefoot children. As though the experience has set me outside myself, I see my own person: a girl of seventeen who feels a hundred years older, dressed all in black and shrinking from the chaos.

The faces of Mr. and Mrs. Begley beam like tangerines as they spy their son in the crowd. He cordially greets them with news that the young Mrs. Begley is at home in Pentonville, supervising a welcome luncheon. I feel I would give them my whole hundred pounds if I could go with them.

But I am in the way of their happy reunion. I fear I have been forgotten, then experience a nauseating relief at suddenly being remembered and bundled into a cab with shouted good wishes and hasty, duty-done farewells.

The cab sets off at a great rate through a sea of traffic. I am flung forwards, flung backwards. Flung from side to side. My carpet bag flying about the interior like a bluebottle. An omnibus hurtling towards us, missing us by an inch. Horses whinnying in alarm. A rain of curses from my driver. A world so different from Hatville, where all was grace and state and order.