Chapter 4
Whether it was a mercy or a curse, Amy had little time that day to dwell on James Fletcher or his presence in Spa.
Not a half hour had passed after the proprietor showed them to their suite of rooms when a knock on the door heralded the first of a stream of visitors, leaving them with no time to unpack or even catch their breath.
Honor of first rights went to two smiling monks from the Capuchin monastery, who graciously invited the family to join their morning mass, if of the Catholic faith, and to avail themselves of their garden.
The walled garden was open to both men and women, which was in itself a marvelous quality.
The monks then complimented their father on his discernment in having chosen Spa as the first destination of his Grand Tour and reminded him that the Capuchins subsisted solely on the generosity of the city’s visitors.
Inspired by their eloquence, Mr. Bridwell was moved to give them two louis.
The monks had scarcely quit the premises when another knock announced the arrival of the town’s most prominent perruquier, who assured them of his ability to craft any sort of wig they might need no matter how tall or elaborate the style.
This was followed by a furniture maker, a cloth draper, a pharmacist, and a merchant of luxury goods—the finest to be found in all of England and Europe.
No sooner had the door been closed to the latter, who had not been easy to fob off, than they opened it again for the local laundress, who called herself Annette.
She had merely come to leave the housekeeper her direction and price list, assuring Hannah in earnest tones that for the most modest prices, she would launder all of their garments, including their silks and precious lace.
She didn’t attempt to stay, and Amy liked her the better for it.
Just when she thought they might at last have a reprieve, a Mr. Gaetano arrived, offering his services as owner of the only publishing house in Spa.
“You must sign la liste des seigneurs et des dames before this week’s publication goes out,” he announced in a cheerful Italian accent.
“All newcomers of consequence must do so to be received by the other guests residing in Spa. And you will of course wish to have calling cards made up and distributed to Spa’s most prominent residents.
This may be done for a mere five florins—little more than a crown, if you will. ”
Amy had spent every ounce of her own energy in the barrage of visitors, reeling all the while from the shock of her discovery. It had all become too much, and she left her father to agree to the calling cards and make the necessary arrangements to fetch them the next day.
It was not until she lay in bed that night—in an unfamiliar room and staring up at the ceiling partially lit by a full moon—that she was given the luxury of being alone with her thoughts.
Not even in her solitude, however, could she find rest. Her heart, battered and worn by novelty and exertion, was not ready to contemplate what it might mean to be in the same city as James again.
To meet him and perhaps be reunited with him, although she dared not allow herself such hope.
The most she could hope for was a new day with fresh strength. For sleep, which came eventually.
James’s mission of speaking to Mr. Prexley or his daughter the previous evening had come to nothing.
Following his morning visit to the sources that included the special baths he was constructing at Le Tonnelet, he entered the breakfast salon, where Mr. Hughes sat eating a solitary breakfast. While most of Spa took their morning meals at the assembly hall called La Redoute, James often took his at the private inn where Mr. Vroomen stayed with his wife.
With few patients of his own this early in his career, James elected to accompany Mr. Vroomen on his visits three times a week.
The older physician had an uncanny sense of what truly ailed a person, and his creative and effective methods of healing were instructive.
James also learned from Mr. Vroomen’s compassionate approach in his consultations.
The man showed a degree of respect for his patients’ own observations that was often missing from other doctors’ approaches.
James formally greeted Mr. Hughes, then went to serve himself from the sideboard.
The meal was more copious than what could be had elsewhere at this time of day.
It was essentially an English breakfast with the addition of fried potatoes, cheese from the Herve region, and wild boar steak.
The servant poured coffee for him and set it at his side.
Mr. Hughes folded the newspaper he had been reading. “A gentleman has taken up residence on the first floor of the H?tel de Lorraine who will be consulting me on his rheumatic complaints.” He picked up his knife, then cut his steak with vigor.
“George Moreau spoke of him and mentioned he was accompanied by three daughters,” James said. It was early enough in the season that new arrivals were worthy of notice. He set his plate on the table and sat. “Are his daughters all in good health?”
“They were not mentioned in his letter, so I assume it to be the case. I am to meet with him today.” Mr. Hughes looked up when the door opened. “Ah. Mr. Vroomen.”
“Goedemorgen.” James greeted his mentor with a smile. Although he spoke French fluently, he had not managed to learn more Flemish than the basic civilities.
“Good morning to you, too, James. Good morning, Mr. Hughes.” Mr. Vroomen bowed to the other doctor as he took a seat next to James. “I have come to the conclusion that Mr. Morrison’s condition cannot be relieved by the waters. I believe we will have to try more traditional methods.”
“What ails him?” Mr. Hughes asked.
“Worms in the belly.” Mr. Vroomen took a roll from the basket on the table, applying butter to it liberally. He pushed his cup over for the servant to pour him tea. He rarely ate more for breakfast.
“Nonsense,” Mr. Hughes replied between bites. “He suffers from an imbalance of yellow and black bile, a condition that allows the worms to thrive. He will certainly benefit from the waters with time. He simply hasn’t followed the treatment long enough.”
“You and I shall not agree on that point, Mr. Hughes.” Mr. Vroomen softened this with a smile. “I shall give him a dose of gentian.”
As they continued to debate preferred methods for treating the condition, James finished his meal without allowing the dissection of various ailments to affect his appetite.
When James and Mr. Vroomen had both breakfasted, they began by calling on Mr. Vroomen’s patients who were staying in private houses that rented out rooms. Following those visits, they went to the newly built H?tel d’Irlande, where Mr. Vroomen had been called to examine the Honorable Rebecca Bainesworth, a young woman who complained of ceased menstruation.
James knew little of her family other than that her father, Lord Spencer, had engaged Mr. Prexley as his attending physician and was rarely seen in public.
The baron had arrived in Spa a mere two weeks earlier, and his daughter attended all of society events, though it seemed to James that her goal was to make herself invisible.
Her mother, Lady Spencer, meanwhile, commanded the attention of everyone in the room with plunging bodices and extravagantly tall hairstyles that forced her to duck under some of the doorways.
There were whispers that she had married up and couldn’t remove the taint of vulgarity from her past, but James never listened to gossip.
A maid showed them directly to the patient’s bedroom, where Miss Bainesworth sat in the chair beside her bed.
She could barely lift her eyes to meet the doctor’s regard.
When she did speak to answer his questions, it was with timid glances sent James’s way.
He was not surprised when Mr. Vroomen looked up from listening to her pulse to address him.
“I will examine Miss Bainesworth in privacy. Why do you not call on Mr. Gatcomb in the Lorraine, then meet me in the drawing room there.”
James nodded and picked up the leather satchel that held his medical tools.
He understood Miss Bainesworth’s reticence to divulge her ailment before him.
His youth and lack of marital status—although that would soon be rectified—made it difficult for many female patients to feel at ease in his presence.
It did not matter. Trust would come with time and perhaps a few gray hairs on his head.
Mr. Gatcomb was a timid man of an accommodating nature, and he had been following James’s recommendations without question.
The visit was efficiently concluded, and James bid Mr. Gatcomb farewell, wishing more of his consultations could be so satisfactory.
It was not that he minded the difficult cases, but it was refreshing to have a patient who placed such absolute trust in his methods.
He exited and descended a flight of stairs.
The stairwell on the opposite end led directly to the drawing room on the ground floor without requiring one to traverse the main hall and dining room, so he turned in that direction.
As he strode down the corridor, a door to one of the rooms opened, and he saw a flash of a burnished silk skirt as someone exited.
Guessing it might be one of the new arrivals, he lifted his head and prepared to smile in greeting, curiosity pulling at him.
His first welcoming instinct gave way to shock, which loosened his grip, and his satchel fell to the wooden floor with a dull thud. His head grew suddenly light, and there was a sort of whistling in his ears.
It can’t be.