Chapter 5 #2
Amy unwrapped the cards and pulled a wry face, though her sisters had already turned their attention back to their pursuits.
“It is the oddest thing. They are printed on the back of playing cards as though they had not enough paper in town to print fresh ones. I hardly dare show these to anyone, although Mr. Gaetano said he has already distributed them to everyone of note.” She turned them over again to look at the backs. “What will people think?”
“Father received a card from a General Cocksey of the English Society Club of Spa, and it is also printed on reused paper,” Hannah replied without lifting her eyes from the page. “Mr. Gaetano said he was the only printer, so I imagine everyone’s must look like that.”
“True.” Amy showed one to her sister. “Just look at these.”
Hannah raised her eyes from her book and took one in her hands to study both sides before handing it back. “Well, at least the script and embellishment are nicely done.”
Amy crossed the room to set the calling cards on the desk.
Then she reached up to untie her bonnet and remove it carefully from her powdered curls.
She glanced at the reflecting glass placed above the desk, wondering if James had found her changed.
If he had found her improved or . . . not.
Her heart began to pound at the thought of seeing him at the ball.
Would he come and seek her out for a dance?
Did he regret casting her from his life so decisively all those years ago?
She turned to face her sisters, both of whom looked at ease in their foreign surroundings.
Hannah had even kicked off her mules as she leaned against the back of the sofa, and Marianne was completely absorbed in mixing the paints to achieve her desired color.
Her sisters were very becoming, and Amy knew it was not partiality that made her think it.
Hannah had a slender neck, a noble nose, and large eyes; and she had the darkest hair of the three, taking after their father.
Marianne’s face was shaped like a heart, and her light, honey-colored curls framed it in a halo.
One day, if Amy succeeded in her objective, they would meet well-established husbands who would be kind to them.
Gentlemen they could love and respect. Then she could be easy.
This brought another matter to the forefront of her mind. “May I remind you both that there is the ball at La Redoute this evening at six.”
“We know,” Marianne called from the window and leaned back, narrowing her eyes at the color she had just added.
Amy gave up attempting conversation and wandered into her room to peer at the cheerful vista through the window.
Her bedroom was located in the back of the hotel, with a view of a narrow road and low houses, and in the distance, a hill that served as a backdrop to the town.
Thick deciduous trees with unfurling leaves filled its incline, and near the top grew evergreens.
Overall, their rooms were more than satisfactory, even if they all agreed the hotel did not bring in as much light as they would have liked.
At home, the sun flooded the morning room, and the drawing room had full-length windows.
Even the dining room faced west to receive the remaining light from a setting sun.
Amy had unpacked her trunks and set up everything she needed but was too restless to begin her usual diversions of needlework or light reading.
Gardening might have answered the purpose, but there was no private garden for her to tend and no inventory to keep her hands occupied.
All that was left was to think over what had transpired that morning and to unearth the memories of their past.
She toyed with the embroidered edge of her handkerchief, remembering the sting of James’s words the last time they had seen each other.
“If you do not like the manner in which I propose to resolve our predicament, perhaps you ought to marry Mr. Bromley.” She had been pulled into the trap of a public announcement, impossible to retract in the moment.
And although she had broken the engagement within the month, James had already left.
He never wrote to her afterward to renew their attachment.
It must not have been as deep on his side.
The afternoon was quiet, and though she attempted to stay occupied by repairing the trim on one of her bonnets, her thoughts were caught in endless loops of what might have been.
At last, the sounds of the front door opening and her father’s arrival put an end to her fruitless ruminations.
Amy entered the salon, where he was lifting a wooden cane to show Hannah and Marianne.
“They craft these for les bobelins. That’s what they call us foreigners,” he said with a chuckle. “The bo of course comes from—”
“Does it come from boue?” Hannah inquired, sitting up. Her alert expression showed that her mind was actively working. “Boue means ‘mud,’ and the genteel people I saw through the window did not seem to be faring well in it.”
“Why so it does,” Mr. Bridwell interjected, “and there is a great deal of mud to be found in Spa. We might have been called the boubelins instead, ha ha!” Hannah looked pleased at having been clever, but their father continued.
“However, the Latin word bibulus refers to one who drinks in great quantity, and we will find the name’s origins there. ”
“Ah.” Hannah’s expression was downcast. “I should have thought of that.”
“You are right about the mud,” Amy said, wishing to cheer her sister, who was too hard on herself on the subject of Latin.
Their father nodded sagely. “They laugh at us becoming stuck in the muddy lanes with our fine shoes, while they are clever enough to wear the Liège shoes made of sturdy leather.” He lowered himself into the wingback chair and lifted his cane, adding, “I’ve learned they also call us tripeds, and I should say it is quite apt, for I certainly resemble one.
I particularly like this one I’ve just purchased. ”