Chapter 1
Ostend, the Austrian Netherlands
Oooooh, heavens! This is not dignified! Amy Bridwell sat perched on a stout Belgian fisherwoman’s back as the woman waded in the North Sea waters from the yawl to the southern Netherlands shore.
She clutched her hands in front of the woman in a terrified embrace, toes arching upward at the end of extended legs so as not to lose her buckled shoes.
An odor of fish lingered about the woman carrying her, but Amy certainly would not complain.
With nothing but the dark waves beneath her, the woman held Amy’s very life in her strong, capable arms.
Before leaving the safety of the boat, Amy had reached down and dipped her hand into the sea.
It was freezing. She did not know how the fisherwoman could bear it and was terrified lest she fall, taking Amy with her.
The sky was overcast, and the wind biting.
Water splashed onto her skirt in the awkward march to shore, but it was not enough to reach her skin.
Of all the things she had dreaded about their journey to the Continent, this horror was one she had lacked the imagination to conjure up.
Amy’s father, Mr. Cosmo Bridwell, wealthy landowner and erudite scholar with his wig currently askew, was being carried in front of her in an equally undignified manner.
Although Amy would have liked to tell him it served him right, he did not appear to be at all put out by this manner of transportation.
Once on land, he slid off his benefactor’s back with an arthritic grunt, then a hearty “merci,” slapping the man on his arm in thanks.
Enthusiasm for foreign adventure had trumped Mr. Bridwell’s selective gentlemanly reserve.
At last, her carrier staggered up on the beach, and Amy was able to slide off onto the soft sands, which promptly filled her shoes.
She glanced behind, anxious for the safety of her sisters, Hannah and Marianne, who were being transported by two other strong women.
Hannah was delivered to shore first, followed by eighteen-year-old Marianne, whose eyes crinkled in amusement at Amy’s expression of misgiving.
She clambered down and thanked her porter in pretty French.
Amy turned and mumbled her own thanks in atrocious French without looking the woman in the eye.
It was the best she could do. Never once had she dreamt of leaving England, and she’d certainly never desired it.
Under the strict tutelage of her governess, she had learned French as any gently bred lady must do; but with no intention of using it to communicate, she had quickly forgotten it.
Then, what must her father do but take it into his head that, without sons to send off on their own Grand Tour of the Continent, he would accomplish his second Grand Tour in the company of his daughters. Only it would be grander.
Trim and still handsome for a man in his late fifties, Mr. Bridwell surveyed the beach in regal pose, all benevolent smiles as Hannah and Marianne stumbled over the sand to the packed road. One look at her father’s pleased expression now compelled Amy to protest.
“Papa, in England, we would never allow such a spectacle to be made of ourselves.”
“But that is precisely the point, my dear. We are not in England.”
Amy knew she pleaded to deaf ears now that her father was set on this exploit.
According to him, any young gentleman might go on tour and return a scholar learned in fashion, the arts, architecture, and even the antiquities.
Only Cosmo Bridwell could do the same with his three daughters and transform them into luminaries—the feminine ideal.
Amy brushed her palms against her bottle-green worsted-wool gown, then shook sand from the bottom of her skirt as she grumbled to herself.
Anyone of sense must see that the feminine ideal had been perfectly achieved on English soil for the past millennia and more.
But why should her papa settle for sense when he might have sapience?
Mr. Bridwell’s valet hurried to his side to assist him to the road.
Their lady’s maid came to help Amy do the same, but she shook her head, fearing her irritation would spill onto Frances.
She emptied her shoes of sand and slipped them back on, only to have them promptly fill again as soon as she took a step.
The family carriages and trunks had been transferred to shore by means of a flat raft that was easier to navigate in the shallow water, and their other servants were negotiating the coach’s arrival along with the last of their effects.
Mr. Bridwell slipped a coin into the hand of the eldest fisherman, who had organized the safe landing of their persons and possessions.
The trawlers smiled and bowed in thanks before wading back to the boat, leaving the Bridwells to continue their journey.
Amy looked from the servants standing by the mound of trunks to the second carriage, which had been rolled from the shallowest part of the water onto the road that led inland.
It was early in the spring and still cold, and the beach was otherwise deserted.
“Where are the horses?” Amy had expected to see someone waiting to meet them with two pairs of carriage horses in tow. Perhaps that had been too optimistic.
Her father now swung his regard to her. “The horses?”
“Surely you made arrangements to have two pairs brought to us?” she asked, certain he could not have forgotten such a key element to their trip’s success and attempting to quash any niggling doubt to the contrary.
“Ah.” Mr. Bridwell removed his cocked hat and scratched his head, somehow righting his wig in the process. “There must be an ostler nearby to see about renting some.”
On the beach? She blinked at him and worked at schooling her features into something that resembled filial piety.
“Never mind,” he said, lifting his face to the cloudless, gray sky. “It is daylight for a few hours yet. I will go and find some to rent, and we will be on our way in no time. We will reach Bruges before nightfall.” He moved stiffly, taking only three steps before Amy called out to him.
“Papa, wait.” She hurried to his side, the sand shifting beneath her feet. Her compassion for his suffering overcame her own frustration. “You cannot walk that far. Your legs must be paining you.”
Mr. Bridwell paused, pursing his lips. “Well then, I will send Ambrose.”
“Ambrose does not speak French,” Amy reminded him, her heart sinking.
Who knew how easy it would be to find a town within walking distance, much less one with horses to rent?
What if they were forced to sleep on the beach?
She sent her sister a considering glance.
“Hannah, I think you will need to accompany me.”
“Very well.” Thankfully, Hannah was more enthusiastic about their journey, and her readiness strengthened Amy’s resolve.
Although every Bridwell but Amy spoke the French language fluently, not for a moment did any of them think her presence on the errand dispensable.
After all, her place in the family was to make sure all was organized and running smoothly.
It was the duty her mother laid upon her before breathing her last when Amy was only ten.
To take care of their well-meaning but sometimes distracted father and to care for her two younger sisters, who were then seven and four.
Amy had faithfully carried out her mother’s charge in the fourteen years since.
Here, however, and far out of her element, she could not help but turn to her father for one last bit of reassurance.
“You have seen to our rooms in Bruges? And the other inns where we are to stay until we reach Spa?” She regretted not having inquired more thoroughly into the details of the journey, but how could she have when she’d needed to supervise the packing of everyone’s trunks?
“Of course, my dear. What kind of an incompetent do you take your father for?” Mr. Bridwell chuckled and gestured for Ambrose to leave off attaching the trunks to the humbler carriage that was to transport both servants and luggage.
“Go with Miss Amy and Miss Hannah into the nearest town and find horses to rent for us. Take Bertie with you.”
Ambrose nodded, his sober expression revealing nothing of his thoughts on accomplishing this otherwise mundane task on alien soil.
There was no ambiguity in Amy’s heart about how she felt.
It was hard enough to see to every detail when she could clearly communicate her wishes to tradesmen and servants.
In unfamiliar territory, the charge would be dreadful.
Bertie, the undergroom, came to Ambrose’s side, and they followed Amy and her sister along the road of grayish-beige packed sand. The wind picked up, filling her nostrils with cold, briny air and whipping the ribbons of her bonnet onto her face.
“Where are my paints?” Marianne called after them, flinging the effects of the smallest trunk onto the sand. Mrs. Mercy, the housekeeper, hurried over, saying she knew where to look.
“It is not a promising beginning,” Hannah remarked prosaically as she trudged forward, her broad-striped linen skirts swaying with each step.
“You know what Papa is like.” Amy trained her weary eyes on the road in front of her. “I only wish I had overseen all the details for our journey to Spa. I will certainly do so before we leave for Paris.”
Hannah trod forward in silence. Then a smile appeared on her face, the one she reserved for when she had information to disclose that no one else knew.
“I may reassure you on one point. I happen to know that we do indeed have rooms spoken for in each of the inns. I overheard Mr. Eckert asking Papa if he did not wish for him to reserve them in advance so we would always be assured of having the best accommodations.” For once, Hannah’s information concerned a practical matter.
“Bless Mr. Eckert.” Amy could have married the man for his efficiency if he were not sixty. And already married.
In the end, her worst fears of following a path only to discover it led to nowhere did not occur.
At the turn of the road, a lively town emerged in the distance that appeared to hold a market hall where horses might be rented.
After a short walk in that direction, they entered the broad street flanked by buildings, and Amy looked around uncertainly.
The houses and shops were all functional one- or two-story edifices with slate roofs and white plaster and dark wooden beams visible at the junctures.
Its inhabitants dressed simply, the women in cotton gowns and caps and the men in breeches and shirts or smocks.
They all seemed to have someplace to go.
“We might try here, miss.” Ambrose indicated a larger building of three stories farther ahead that had an adjoining stable.
The sign above the entrance read ’t Vissertje, a word that meant nothing to her, but the building did resemble an inn. “I believe you are right. Let us inquire within.”
Amy led the way into the crowded taproom, where patrons sat drinking ale. Mercifully, none of the men paid her or her sister any heed, and she stepped up to the counter with mustered confidence.
“Good afternoon. We are desirous of renting four carriage horses.” It was only after the words were out that she half turned to her sister, remembering that Hannah had come because of her capacity for the French language.
“Gorik!” the innkeeper called out over his shoulder to someone hidden from view. “Er zijn een paar Engelse dames voor jou.” Her grasp of French was suspect, but even she did not think that was the language he had spoken.
In the next instant, a man in prime form despite his gray curls and stout belly entered the taproom and removed his hat before encompassing them with a small bow.
“Good afternoon, mesdemoiselles. What can I do for you?” His English was heavily accented but perfectly comprehensible, a great relief to Amy. She could work with someone who spoke her language.
“We would like to rent four of your horses to get us to Bruges, if you please. Or, if we find them adequate, we will continue on with them until we reach Brussels. My father plans to purchase a set for our use on the Continent there.”
“You are in luck, miss. We have just the ones you need, rested and ready to set out. They can take you to Brussels.” He reached for the pen and inkpot stashed beneath the counter.
“I will write down the directions of Monsieur Doumer, who will sell you two pairs for your extended stay. Or if he cannot, he will direct you to someone who can.”
“That is good of you.” Amy took the paper.
When the horses had been readied and paid for, Amy and Hannah retraced their steps in the direction of the beach.
Ambrose followed behind, leading two carriage horses, with Bertie behind him leading a pair of draft horses for the heavier load.
In short order, the pairs were hitched and the larger trunks were secured onto the coach that would carry the maids and housekeeper.
Amy saw to everything and was the last to climb into the more spacious coach, where her family rode with the portmanteaux and smaller trunks. Theirs lurched forward first.
“The universe is a sort of book,” her father began.
“Of which one has read but the first page when one has seen only one’s own country,” Hannah finished the quote for him, lifting her chin. “Fougeret de Monbron.”
Marianne grasped the window ledge with two hands to peer out, her blond curls having been blown out of their coiffure by the wind. “At last, we begin.”
Amy followed her sister’s gaze to the beach grass rippling on the sides of the road.
The landscape was pretty, she had to admit.
At least they were back in the familiarity of their family carriage, and the Continental roads appeared to be well kept.
With any luck, the rest of their journey would be more enjoyable than its start.
Only one hundred and four weeks to go.