Chapter 2
After a brief stop to ask a passerby which of the two roads they must take to reach Bruges, Mr. Bridwell informed his daughters that the language they had heard in Ostend was Flemish, a fact he admitted to having forgotten, and they should expect to hear more of it as they passed through Bruges, Eeklo, and Ghent before entering the French-speaking parts of the Low Countries.
They settled in Brussels for a stay of two weeks, where Mr. Bridwell purchased two pairs of horses from Mr. Doumer, allowing them to continue to their first destination for a stay of five months.
Although Spa was not ordinarily on the list of essential stops on the Grand Tour, Mr. Bridwell suffered from rheumatism, and they hoped it might be eased by drinking the waters there.
The roads between cities in the Netherlands were broad and paved in stone with neatly tilled fields or meadows on either side.
But as they left Brussels and traveled eastward, these became increasingly rudimentary and the towns and villages smaller.
True to their name, the Low Countries had been absent of mountains and hills in their travel from the coast. However, on the third day, their carriage slowed as it began to lumber up the first noticeable incline, marking a change in their journey.
Next to Amy, Hannah lifted a weary head from the squabs and leaned her forehead against the window.
“We shall soon be there,” she announced, causing both Marianne and Mr. Bridwell to peer through their windows.
“I believe you are right,” Mr. Bridwell confirmed. “The city of Spa should sit on the other side of this hill.”
The barrier of woods had been cleared to make way for the road to travel through it.
Branches with light green buds nearly obscured the path as the carriage ascended the low rise.
Amy opened the window for a sight of the town on the other side of the hill and was greeted with the fresh, cool scent of nature, despite the ground still being frozen in parts.
It was not that she was eager to discover the novelties of Spa, but she was quite ready to climb out of the carriage and unpack her trunks for a stay of longer than a few nights.
The road widened as they crested the hill, and Amy had her first glimpse of the town.
Her eyes eagerly scanned the horizon, looking for points of interest, and found .
. . none. Spa, it appeared from this vantage point, had been arranged in the most haphazard manner, with no town square and none of the majestic architecture of the cities they had seen thus far.
As their carriage descended and drew closer to the outskirts, she caught sight of two or three buildings in the distance built in more noble lines, with steep slanting roofs made of thatch or slate.
Most of the houses, however, were of wood and covered in pitch, adding to the town’s humble appearance.
The chill of the air seeped through her cloak, and she closed the window. What would their season in Spa hold? Would they find agreeable activities to divert even those who were not invalids? Would anyone speak English?
Her father stopped peering through the window and stated, not for the first time, “People have come here to drink the waters since the Romans first passed through. Some even bathe in them.” He raised an eyebrow to show what he thought of that notion.
“Does a person derive any benefit from bathing in the waters?” Hannah asked doubtfully.
“The physician in Spa whose services I have written to engage has said nothing about it,” their father replied. “I shall inquire what he thinks.”
From outside the carriage, a loud voice instructed them to halt. This was accompanied by a thump on the side of the coach. A man then appeared in the window, dressed simply in a brown coat and farmer’s hat, his hair loose and unpowdered. Amy let down the window.
“Bienvenue à Spa.” The man continued in a stream of French that Amy could not understand, gesturing to the small wooden house by the side of the road.
Her father furrowed his brows, then indicated for Amy to open the door.
She reached for the small handle, but unsure of what the man wanted, looked at her father expectantly. He called out to the groom.
“Ambrose, give this man my swords.” He then turned to his daughters to explain. “Spa is a city of leisure, and I am obliged to give up my weapons during my stay here.”
Armed with the knowledge, Amy stepped out of the carriage to see that Ambrose retrieved the smallswords without disordering the arrangement of the trunks.
When the groom handed these over, she was given two metal tokens in exchange.
She climbed back into the carriage and started to hand those to her father before thinking the better of it.
She tucked them into the left pocket tied around her waist, whose purpose was for all essential items, except money.
Her father had regained his equanimity after the unexpected halt and added pleasantly, “Weapons are not allowed in the city, not even those belonging to His Royal Highness, the Prince of Orange, should he happen to visit.”
They had hardly begun to move forward again when a crowd of children dressed in little more than rags swarmed the carriage with indistinguishable pleas and dirty hands plastered against the windows.
“Oh, these poor creatures,” Amy murmured. Until now, they had not been solicited for alms any more than they generally were in Kent.
“Do we have anything for them?” Marianne exclaimed, her voice tinted with the same compassion Amy felt.
“I have a few escalins.” Amy slid her hand into her right pocket and pulled out a handful of foreign coins.
“Yes, you may give them those,” Mr. Bridwell said magnanimously and reached out to signal Ambrose to drive on.
Amy extended her hand and dropped small shiny coins into the clamoring fingers at the window.
Even when the largess had reached its end, the children continued to run alongside the carriage, tapping on the side of it.
“There is no more,” Amy called out anxiously. Hannah lent her assistance by translating Amy’s words into French, but their enthusiastic train did not end until they approached the town center.
The remaining minutes of their journey were spent in anticipatory silence as each stared through the windows at the Spadois houses of white plaster and exposed wooden beams. The road became a bridge over a source of water that cascaded from the hillside and fed into a water mill on the opposite side.
After crossing it, the carriage followed the dip in the road and continued a short distance before pulling to a stop in front of an unadorned marble structure, whose hollow concave held a spout.
The memorial, engraved with the word Pouhon, had been erected in the center of a small square set below street level.
“That’s the source, I wager,” Mr. Bridwell observed, then leaned over to look through the opposite window. “Well, my girls. This must be our hotel.”
He opened the carriage door and made a move to climb out, and Amy reached forward to assist him.
Mr. Bridwell stretched his legs out of the conveyance and landed, feet on the ground, with a painful grunt.
His valet, John, hurried from the second carriage and supported his elbow until Amy handed her father his cane.
Once everyone had alighted, Amy lifted her gaze to the upper stories of their new home.
The H?tel de Lorraine was newly built of stone with iron balustrades on the upper floors.
Its mullioned windows stretched six across, each with small leaded panes, and the three stories led up to a smaller servants’ floor underneath the slate roof.
The only entrance apparent was the door located on the right side of the hotel that connected to an adjoining house.
An elderly couple dressed in elegant foreign fashions exited onto the street, and muted voices spilled out through the open door.
On the road behind them, a carriage skirted both of theirs on its way to some other destination.
“Shall we see to our rooms?” Amy asked when her father made no move to enter. It did none of them any good to stand on the street with no other purpose than to announce their arrival to the whole of Spa society. Frances came to her side, ready for any directions Amy might have.
But Mr. Bridwell was busy looking from the hotel to the engraved memorial across from it, clearly caught by some idea.
“Pouhon is a word derived from the Wallon language and means ‘a place where you draw water.’ I remember reading it somewhere. Isn’t that clever? The hotel is right across the street, and I can feel a humming tether between the two, connecting them. We are most fortunately situated.”
“Wonderful,” Amy said in the driest of tones as she glanced again at the entrance.
She had meant to respond with sincerity but had lately found it difficult to utter a single word without an ironic edge to it.
This produced an inward sigh as she contemplated what the combination of spinsterhood and an unwelcome journey of unknowns was doing to her.
Having not found another worthy gentleman following her youthful heartbreak, she now had little doubt she would end up unmarried.
At this rate, she would become the detested older aunt of her sisters’ children.
The one who barbed every triviality with veiled spite because she did not live a contented existence. That would not do.
“Shall we go in?” she asked again, with such a bright smile that Marianne stared at her in surprise. Amy met her look, then addressed her father. “Well, what are we waiting for?”
Without pausing for a response, she marched forward as Bertie darted ahead to open the door.
Their father advanced at last, and Amy’s sisters followed.
Once inside the obscure corridor, the sound of conversation became an audible din.
On the left side, double doors stood open to reveal a dining room with light pouring through the large windows.
There was a clink of cutlery, and servants moved about with trays of food.
At the far end of the corridor where they stood, a set of steps led to a stone landing before the stairwell curved upward and was hidden from view.
“There is a man in livery,” Mr. Bridwell said. He had moved past her to peer into the dining room. “He will know who to see about our rooms.”
Amy came to stand at his side and followed the direction of his gaze.
The dining room fit about twenty tables, and it opened up to another room that appeared to be a drawing room.
The latter was nearly empty of crowds, as most seemed to be still having their meal, but she glimpsed the servant her father had indicated.
“I will go and speak to him, Papa.” She skirted the edge of the dining room and moved in his direction, hoping she could make herself understood.
As she neared the liveried servant, Amy noticed the swish of Marianne’s skirt next to hers and smiled back at her.
Even if her youngest sister had come more from curiosity than support, her presence was still welcome.
The servant bowed at her approach, and she explained who they were, relieved when he understood her English.
He promised to fetch the proprietor, who would show them to their rooms. Conscious that she did not look her best after traveling for so long, Amy kept her back to the occupants of the dining room and studied the garden visible through the drawing room windows.
Each window extended to the floor, and they were presumably used as doors in warmer weather.
“Amy, do you see that man in the blue silk coat sitting alone over there?” Marianne’s whispered voice caught her attention, and Amy turned. “One might almost mistake him for James Fletcher, except James never wore wigs. Could you imagine if he were here?”
Marianne covered her laughter, her eyes crinkling above her hand. The full implication of her words hit Amy, and her eyes flew to the corner of the room her sister had indicated.
James? Amy’s breath evaporated as she tried to grasp the notion that he might be here. No. Impossible. He can’t be in Spa.
Marianne moved to stand inside the drawing room, where she could view its full length. Apparently, she did not think the man was likely to be James, but Amy could not dismiss the idea so easily. She searched the room’s occupants and spotted him at last.
At a table near the far end, a man sat alone, his profile visible though he faced partially away.
The set of his shoulders was familiar even after six years—the noble chin and firm lines around the mouth.
He was dressed in unaccustomed finery for someone who had always preferred simplicity, but there could be no mistake.
Of all the places in the world, James is here.
The blood drained from Amy’s face as she spun away and came nose to nose with the proprietor.
He said something she could not quite comprehend, but he did not require an answer and began walking with the servant at his heels toward the entrance, where their father waited.
Marianne went next, and Amy followed numbly, her face turned away from those sitting in the dining room.
She forced one foot in front of the other and pressed her hand to the stiff, laced cloth on her stomach as though that would keep her heart from beating more violently.
In all the stress of traveling through a strange land, she had not once felt so hopelessly unmoored as she did now.
For all her practicality, her reason refused to function and tell her what to do.
Upon seeing him, it was as though she had become a girl again, prey to feelings both forceful and raw.
They reached the hotel entrance, where the proprietor greeted her father.
With everyone’s attention off her, Amy’s mind spun.
What if James were married, and she should meet not only him, but also his wife?
It would be dreadful, for she would most likely be forced into constant society with the happy couple for the next five months.
The proprietor was now gesturing for the Bridwells to follow him to their rooms, and Amy’s father and sisters began to climb the steps, with John lending his support to Mr. Bridwell.
Amy stood, frozen in place, until her maid sent her a questioning look that pulled her to the present.
She risked a last glance into the dining room and saw that James was now standing, having finished his meal.
He might even now turn her way. This lent urgency to her steps, and she hurried up the stairs after her sisters.
Their rooms would be a haven—more so now than she ever could have imagined—and she could not seek their refuge fast enough.