Amy Snow Read Free Page A

brighter through her friendship, which burned like a good fire to dispel the chill of my impending departure.
    I was aware of the sighs of relief all around. There was no need for a scene so soon after Aurelia’s death. The ring she had left me was less valuable than Cook’s locket—of sentimental value mostly. The money at least removed the necessity for them to decide what to do with me; I knew they would not supplement it with a single penny. The sketchbook, though vastly personal, was more meaningful to me than to them. They could bear to allow it. Ah, how well she knew us all.
    Ten pounds. This was the sum of money that Mr. Ditherington gravely counted out and pressed into my palm late yesterday afternoon. A ring and a sketchbook. These were the keepsakes I slid onto my finger, tucked into my carpet bag, knowing I would leave Hatville Court forever the next day. I would have been packed off the moment Aurelia passed if her feelings for me had not been so well known in the neighborhood. If I had not been at the funeral, people would have talked, and the Vennaways could not abide talk. Then of course I was needed at the reading of the will and they could not be seen to turn me out so late. Such tenuous threads of timing and circumstance made possible what happened the next morning. This morning. Today!
    I slept fitfully, riven with loneliness and afraid of a future that I could not imagine. But I trusted Aurelia: if she said I could start a new life with ten pounds, then that is what I would do. This uneasy mix of trust and fear bore me through to morning, when I struggled upright in the dusty winter shadows to stand at the window and stare at the horizon, in the hope that it would yield some inspiration.
    And so it did, though not in a way I could have anticipated. Mr. Clay was pacing in the kitchen garden.
    I was astonished. He had of course gone home yesterday after the reading. Why was he back so soon, and amongst the vegetable plots? Surely he could not have business with the Vennaways, a lowly schoolteacher with no breeding?
    Then he looked up and saw me and raised a hand, his mouth opening into an “Ah!,” though of course I could not hear it. He made a sequence of gestures expressing an invitation to join him, an imprecation to be secretive and a great, good-mannered deference all at once. I had not known that communication without words could be so fulsome. Hastily, I dressed and bundled back my hair, then ran through the silent passages, out into the walled kitchen garden.
    â€œIs there somewhere to speak in private? Away from the house?” he asked at once in a low, urgent voice. Whatever his business, it was clearly too important to waste time on niceties.
    So I led him through a gate, along a lane, and thence into a small copse. Shrouded by trees and January mist, we would not be observed. The wind whispered secrets in its own incomprehensible language. The trees stood in enigmatic silence, bare and black like the truth of Aurelia’s death.
    He glanced around and, satisfied that the place would do, whipped off his hat. “I beg your pardon, Miss Snow, for disturbing you at such a difficult time. Only, you see, I was charged to come.”
    â€œCharged by whom, Mr. Clay?”
    He looked bewildered by his own words. “By Miss Vennaway.”
    My heart stilled. How could this be?
    He reached within his overcoat and drew out a parcel. Clutching it, he hesitated. “After I returned home last night I felt . . . uplifted by the generous bequest she had made me. I sat in my study and wrote an extensive letter to Miss Page telling her of Miss Vennaway’s generosity and vision. Miss Page and I are betrothed, you know.”
    â€œI know, Mr. Clay, I know.”
    â€œAnd then, well, I partook of some chops.”
    â€œChops, Mr. Clay?”
    â€œYes, chops. Simmered with herbs and onions, delicious. I find that good fortune brings on a hearty appetite. And so