Amy Snow Read Free

fact, it was just yesterday.
    The funeral—vile occasion—took place in the morning, then we all retreated to nurse our grief in private. At four o’clock, we gathered in the study: Lord and Lady Vennaway, Aurelia’s cousin Maude, myself, Cook and Mr. Clay, the village school teacher. In short, her beneficiaries. And Wilberforce Ditherington, her lawyer, of course.
    It was a room well befitting the somber occasion. Indeed the whole house, though splendid, is grim and austere. A new visitor to Hatville might be deceived by the grounds, which are vibrant, lavish, and vast. The lush fields and rippling woods, the grand lawns and orchards, the walled gardens massed with herbs and roses are all unchanged these hundred years. Yet the beauty, the abundance, is all on the outside.
    The facade of the house is impressive, to be sure. Once inside, however, the new arrival would be hard pressed to contain a shiver. Two of the wings are veiled in dust sheets, for three Vennaways are too few to fill them all. The furniture in the grand rooms is splendid in its way, but also old-fashioned and bare. The tables bear food, and the chairs provide places to perch, yet any further inspiration is lacking; it would occur to no one at Hatville to consider comfort or ornamentation.
    From the moment of Aurelia’s death I felt my own light die inside me. So the Amy Snow who stood yesterday in the corner of the gloomy study, most despised of all present, could no longer feel the excoriating looks shot her way. Mr. Ditherington read to us how Aurelia wished to dispose of her personal fortune and the words blew over me like sand. Sums of money, he intoned, had been distributed to the various philanthropic causes Aurelia supported: the Society for the Education of the Lower Classes; the Surrey Anti-Cholera Movement; the Alliance for the Promotion of Humane Housing for the Destitute, and so on. Aurelia’s parents gazed out of the window, as ever unenthused and mildly disconcerted by Aurelia’s charities. Then Mr. Ditherington came to the more personal bequests and the Vennaways paid attention once more.
    Mr. Clay trembled when he heard the sum she had bequeathed to his little school. It would mean repairs, supplies, extension, his long-held dream come true.
    Cousin Maude was delighted to receive all of Aurelia’s sumptuous dresses, bonnets, and cloaks. Even as an invalid Aurelia had remained incongruously passionate about the latest fashions and regularly commissioned bespoke gowns from London. She had always been considerably—justifiably—vain.
    Cook wept when she heard that Aurelia had left her several items of jewelry, including her gold and ruby heart-shaped locket. Lord and Lady Vennaway looked pained but Cook was not the dangerous one here. She was a family servant of long standing; it was inevitable that Aurelia should have some affection for the woman. And, being Aurelia, she was bound to be inappropriately generous.
    It was I who was the danger, for I had been closer to her than anyone. Despite my shameful beginnings, and their insistence that I was a lowly, utterly dispensable servant, Aurelia had persisted in elevating me to lady’s maid, then companion and, in the last months, private nurse. They had tried to evict me with multiple cruelties both petty and great. But Aurelia would not be parted from me, and I have a powerful capacity for endurance.
    When my name was read, the whole party stiffened. Aurelia’s parents bristled, waited to hear what insufferable extravagance she would bestow upon me posthumously. In the event, it was surprisingly inoffensive:
    To Amy Snow, true friend and devoted companion through these long years of my illness, I leave ten pounds, a sum that I know she will manage wisely to start a new life wherever she may please. Also, my gold and garnet ring, which I entreat her to wear in memory of me. Also, my recent sketchbook capturing my impressions of this past autumn, made