Chapter 20
The surge of energy that had spurred James on his quest to find Marianne now seemed to pool at his feet.
He had arrived at exactly the right moment, though he had feared he would be much too late.
Only the greatest piece of luck had led Morry and Miss Bainesworth to walk on the quiet path that provided a glimpse of Lambert leading Marianne in the direction of Watroz.
The knowledge that Marianne had been imposed upon—or worse—without him there to help would have been intolerable to bear.
Amy turned to Mr. Lambert and raised one eyebrow. “As Mr. Fletcher has said, Miss Marianne has more than enough people who are concerned with her interests, so you will kindly leave her now.”
Lambert’s annoyance showed, and he turned from Amy to James. “Fletcher.” He bowed, his smile becoming fixed. “How nice to see that you have time on your hands, despite your busy profession.”
“Indeed,” James answered courteously, an edge to his voice. He dismounted and brought his horse directly between Lambert and the Bridwell ladies. At the movement, Lambert seemed to resign himself.
“I bid you farewell, Miss Marianne.” He bowed. “Miss Bridwell. Fletcher.”
Without another word, he strode in the direction opposite the path through the woods where James had come from. James was glad of it. It would keep him off the main road and leave them to travel to the H?tel de Lorraine unhindered.
They collected the rest of Marianne’s painting supplies, saying little. James suspected she was suffering from embarrassment and strove for normalcy as they began to walk along the road.
“Let me take you this way. We will go past the Tonnelet, where I’ve had my baths built. It is a little longer, but we will avoid the marsh, which can be dangerous if you step in a hole.”
“Thank you,” Amy said, once again conscious of her soaked feet.
James led the horse on his right and walked beside Amy.
He was still recovering from the relief of having reached the Bridwell sisters in time to perform them a service.
He did not know how far Lambert would have pushed himself on Marianne and could not convince himself he would have been restrained in his treatment of her.
Gently bred women were prevailed upon all the time in situations of anonymity, but this was a small city where everyone knew each other.
It was astonishing, really, that Lambert would try.
“How did you come to be here?” Amy asked.
Marianne walked at her sister’s side, her manner subdued. As a child, she had always had an open, trusting nature, and he suspected this event would take time to recover from.
“It was Miss Bainesworth who alerted me to your whereabouts. She and Mr. Moreau were walking near the Promenade, and they saw the direction that Mr. Lambert was leading Miss Marianne. Morry knows I am a friend to your family and thought it best I be made aware of the situation. Miss Bainesworth offered to come and fetch me.”
“It was most timely,” Amy said with a glance at Marianne.
“It was,” he agreed.
They walked in silence, and he felt the weight of Marianne’s distress.
He wished he had a carriage so he could bring her home quickly and shield her from having to face anyone.
After walking for some time with only platitudes for conversation, they passed the source, where his bathing structure stood out in its newness.
“Le Tonnelet,” Amy read, her gaze taking in everything from the outdoor pool to the stone entrance and wood structure. “You said you have installed the baths here?”
“I have. They will be ready to open tomorrow.” He eyed Marianne, concerned by her silence and pale face. “Do you need to rest, Miss Marianne? I apologize that I have no sidesaddle or carriage that can carry you.”
“I am well,” she said, offering him a bleak smile.
They continued down the road toward the town, and Amy asked him questions about the source and its properties, which he was happy to answer.
It made an otherwise awkward journey more comfortable, and he was able to tell her how the baths worked and what kinds of ailments they cured.
From there, the conversation—carried on without any contribution from Marianne—drifted to which ailments the waters could cure by drinking and what they could not.
Finally, they reached the H?tel de Lorraine.
Hannah was exiting as they reached its entrance.
“You have returned,” she exclaimed in relief, her eyes on Marianne.
With a glance at the group of people walking along the road behind them, she lowered her voice.
“Papa was quite worried about you. Amy, you disappeared as well. I was coming in search of you, for I could not bear to wait and do nothing.”
“I will leave you, then,” James said, but Amy touched his arm to stop him. She pulled her hand away as quickly.
“You will need to bring your horse to the stables, but I hope you will return and pay us a visit. You were there to assist us, and I believe my father would wish to thank you.” She hesitated, adding, “You might also try to speak to him about the baths. Perhaps he will listen to you. I found it quite convincing.”
James smiled. “I will certainly come if you think your father wishes it, and I will speak to him of the baths if he is inclined to listen.” He dipped his head in farewell, then turned his mare to lead her to the stables.
His heart had a raw, dull ache to it. He might be locked into an unhappy engagement of his own making, but he could not help but be pleased that Amy believed in him.
He returned the rented horse, then retraced his steps back to their hotel, his mind filled with his approaching meeting with Mr. Bridwell.
It would be his first time paying a formal call on Amy’s father, although he would have sought a different type of audience if his circumstances had been otherwise.
At least he could speak to him now about the baths, as he truly did think they would help Mr. Bridwell’s particular ailment.
When he was admitted to the parlor, Mr. Bridwell, who normally wore a distracted, jovial air, now peered somberly at James as though seeing him for the first time. He rose slowly. “Mr. Fletcher. I hear you had a hand in bringing my daughter back.”
James and Amy exchanged a look, and he replied, “Miss Bridwell had matters well in hand before I arrived. I merely accompanied your daughters back to town.”
The look Mr. Bridwell gave him was hard to read, but the older man seemed abashed, as though he had discovered some fault in himself he had not been aware of before. He sank back into the chair and gestured to a vacant seat in an absent manner. “Well, I must extend my gratitude. Please sit.”
Hannah occupied one of the chairs next to Amy, and Marianne was seated beside her father.
Now she stood. “I will go and ask Mrs. Mercy for some ratafia to refresh me, and then I think I will lie down.” She glanced in James’s direction without really looking at him.
“I have been walking and painting for hours, and I must rest. I thank you for coming in search of me.”
“Of course,” James murmured. He wished he could tell Marianne that she needn’t feel embarrassed in front of him. His opinion of her had remained unchanged. Lambert was the one at fault.
Marianne’s sisters encouraged her to rest as long as she needed, then Amy offered tea to James. They sat and drank it with only polite conversation to break the silence. After a space, she stood and went to her father, taking the seat Marianne had vacated.
“Mr. Fletcher showed us his project at the Tonnelet, and I thought it might interest you. You will be curious to learn how he has diverted the source into basins there for bathing. He has even managed to create baths with different temperatures.”
Mr. Bridwell listened to this, but the way he furrowed his brow did not lead James to believe he would be in favor of hearing more about his project. Mr. Bridwell’s next words confirmed it.
“I spoke to Mr. Hughes about the baths, and he said the cold water would only make my condition worse. He said I should restrict myself to drinking it, for its properties are only potent when ingested.”
James nodded, considering how he should best respond to an argument he had heard a hundredfold.
“I understand Mr. Hughes’s point of view,” he replied carefully.
“But as for myself, I am not convinced. I have studied the benefits of bathing in different thermal towns and have gained a small reputation for the papers I’ve written on the subject.
That was what brought me to Spa.” He hated to say what sounded to his ears like boasting, but he needed to help Mr. Bridwell to trust him.
“I understand that you are pained by a rheumatic complaint?”
“Yes, and the air here seems only to worsen it. It is cold and damp, and these early-morning excursions are unpleasant in the extreme.” As though to demonstrate this, Mr. Bridwell pulled his dressing gown more tightly around him.
“I have told Mr. Hughes that I will no longer require his services. We are to leave for Paris in a week or so, and from there travel to Aix-en-Provence. But Mr. Hughes was quite opposed to the notion.”
An idea struck James, and he seized it. “It is true that not every mortal is courageous enough to try the baths. It requires a person possessing foresight and a scientific curiosity—someone who will try it without being sure of its success.”
This struck home, as he had known it would. He was not a charlatan, for he was convinced the baths would indeed work for Mr. Bridwell, but he needed to convince him in a way he would understand.
“Hmm, yes. Others must be content with what they know, poor creatures.” Mr. Bridwell was quiet for a moment as he meditated on this. “I, on the other hand, have made a vow never to limit myself to what is seen and proven and known.”