Chapter 5
Amy leaned against the wall in the stairwell, her lungs curiously airless and her limbs reduced to a jellylike state.
James had looked just the same. His fashion had changed, but the same set of piercing eyes had seen right through her.
There was the same firm mouth, the same obstinate chin.
It had not escaped her that he was completely overthrown at seeing her.
He had not been able to hide how much their meeting had affected him.
He had also called her Mrs. Bromley, which meant he had thought her married.
For six years, he had thought her married.
A liveried servant rounded the curve of the stairs from below, interrupting Amy’s too-brief reprieve.
His arms were full, and she stepped to the side to allow him to pass.
Then, with a fortifying breath, she continued downstairs to where Frances stood waiting to embark on their first errand in Spa.
Mr. Bridwell, in his plans to meet his physician and seek out what circulating libraries or gentlemen’s cafés might be had, had forgotten all about the calling cards.
Amy could only venture a guess as to when he might return.
There was no sense in hoping that one of her sisters might accompany her.
Hannah declared that the novelty of their new city must not interfere with her study of Latin, to which she devoted three hours each day, and Marianne was already setting up her paints.
“Miss, you’ll want to be careful, for there’s mud out, and a great deal of it.
I almost fell twice coming from the stables.
” Frances was a red-cheeked, hale young woman—graceless for a lady’s maid, but necessary to the Bridwells’ comfort.
She was particularly indispensable to Amy, who sometimes felt the maid was her only ally in sense and practicality.
Amy stood numbly beside Frances at the entrance.
Her mind worked sluggishly, revolving around one subject only.
James. Only by degrees was she able to take in the state of the roads outside.
The portion in front of her had been paved with cobblestones, but a layer of mud covered the stones.
She watched as an otherwise genteel couple picked their way along the road in front of the hotel, wearing thick leather shoes that could not at all be described as fashionable but seemed more appropriate than what Amy had on.
They kept their balance with elegantly carved wooden canes.
“I believe there are some necessary purchases to be made if we are to be comfortable here,” she murmured. Her pattens would be useless in this mud.
“Let me help you, miss. I’m wearing sturdy shoes.” Frances held out her arm, and Amy clutched it as they stepped outdoors.
The printer had drawn a rudimentary map of the village with a cross to mark where he had his office, and they set out toward it.
Although her blue buckled boots were not her most elegant pair, Amy could not watch them sink into the mud without regret.
In certain places, it was only with the help of Frances that she could wrench them out again.
After fifteen minutes of slow progress, they at last came to a door with a wooden sign above it that read, M. Giuseppe Gaetano, l’Imprimeur.
“This is it.” Amy attempted to wipe the mud from her pattens on an iron bar jutting out from the building, then gave up and pushed the door inward.
A bell tinkled from within, announcing their arrival, and the shop had only enough room to hold four or five patrons.
The counter in front of them held a guest book and fountain pen, stacked papers that looked to be copies of a newssheet, and a small pile of calling cards that she supposed to be theirs.
Mr. Gaetano appeared from an adjoining room and bowed low, his words tumbling out rapidly before he had stood upright again.
“Mademoiselle Bridwell, I had expected your father, for he must sign the visitors’ list. The newest edition is to be published and distributed tomorrow.
However, I have printed your cards and had them sent to all of Spa’s most distinguished residents, as I promised Mr. Bridwell I would do.
” With a pleased air, he presented her with the pile of cards sitting on the wooden counter.
She took them in her hands and glanced down.
Monsieur Cosmo Bridwell, English Gentleman
& Mesdemoiselles ses filles
à L’H?tel de Lorraine, Place Pierre-le-Grand, Spa
“As for the visitors’ list,” he went on, indicating the liste des seigneurs et des dames with the prior week’s date, “we must add all of the members of your household, including the servants. You must write your names, followed by the words ‘avec deux servantes, deux serviteurs, et un valet’”—he waved his hand dismissively—“or whatever the number of your entourage, for everyone must be included. It is how things are done in Spa.”
“My father will see to that,” Amy murmured as she studied the cards.
Although the printing was properly done and even gilded, the thick paper seemed worn and almost dingy.
Amy turned the first card over to look at the back of it and suffered a small shock when she saw it had been printed on an old playing card.
She lifted her eyes to Mr. Gaetano mutely, uncertain if she should comment on it.
She would have in England, but she was in a strange country, and who knew what was normal?
“Very nice, are they not?” Mr. Gaetano said cheerfully. “You will need them for the ball at La Redoute tonight. Allow me to wrap them for you.”
The printer retrieved the cards and folded them in brown paper, then tied them with a string.
She remembered that the cloth draper had also mentioned La Redoute, saying that the assembly hall would host a ball tonight, beginning at six.
It would be their first one in Spa, and she was fairly certain she would see James there.
It would be their first ball since Mrs. Waiting’s that had ended so disastrously.
She accepted the wrapped bundle from him. “Thank you.”
“Inform Mr. Bridwell that he must also pay the twelve pounds for a reputation of honesty and for all other formalities.” Drawing himself upright and placing a hand on his breast, the publisher continued.
“And should you have any other printing needs, you know where Mr. Gaetano is to be found. I am the only publisher in Spa, for I have eliminated the competition.”
Amy turned to him, perplexed, and he leaned in to explain with an exaggerated wink. “I have killed off all of the other publishers.”
She returned an uncertain smile. He was surely joking, but he was a strange creature, to be sure. She made her escape with a mental note to remind her father about the twelve pounds and the visitors’ list. And to ask whether it was true there was only one printer in Spa.
“He’s gone mad, that one,” Frances said as they made their way back to the hotel.
It was easier to retrace their steps now that they knew where to go, and Amy had time to look at their surroundings as they walked.
She saw more than one lady walking alone, with some carrying their own purchases.
As in Kent, it seemed she and her sisters would not need to bring a maid every time they stepped outdoors.
They arrived at the hotel, and Frances paused at the door before Amy could enter it.
“Bertie and Ambrose’ll be wanting their nuncheon, miss. Shall I bring it to them?”
Amy nodded. “Mrs. Mercy said the kitchen has prepared meals for the servants, and the sous-chef speaks English. Go and inquire there about the meals.” Frances was sweet on Bertie, the footman who served in a double role as assistant groom.
Amy still had an ounce of sentiment left in her shriveled spinster heart and would do nothing to hinder their humble courtship.
As she climbed the stairs, her shriveled heart now beat an unsteady rhythm with the irrational fear of seeing James again and the longing for it to happen.
Would he look at her in that same inscrutable way?
Once he had gotten over his shock, his emotions had been difficult to read.
She was the one with a red face and clammy hands, and about ready to drop from the force of her emotions.
After his initial show of surprise, he had just stood there, implacable.
It made sense, she supposed. She must be a distant memory to him, a man of the world.
He likely felt nothing close to what she did.
But what if he does? her heart whispered. What if he still loves you?
A second meeting did not transpire, and Amy entered the white-papered anteroom that led to their parlor, where her youngest sister was perched next to a window.
Marianne peered out at the scene in front of their hotel, then brought her gaze back to her painting, adding details to the marble edifice of the Pouhon source.
Hannah sat angled on the settee so that some of the light from the window would fall on the pages of her book, An Essay on the Writings and Genius of Shakespear.
“I’ve returned,” Amy announced, when her arrival provoked no response. “Has Father?”
“No.” Marianne glanced at her, then picked up a cloth to wipe a smear of paint off her hand. “Did you retrieve our calling cards?”
“Yes.” Amy wondered if her sisters had left the rooms that morning.
If they had, they might have seen James.
But then, surely they would have remarked on it if they had.
What would her father say when he learned of his presence?
He had generally ignored the younger generation when they gathered at Mrs. Waiting’s house, preferring the widow’s patient, listening ear to all else.
Amy had never spoken of her attachment with him.
There had been no point since it came to nothing.
But surely Papa could not fail to recognize James despite the passage of six years?