Chapter 6
La Redoute was located only a couple of streets from the Bridwells’ hotel, an assembly hall built of wood and covered in pitch, a plain, massive edifice, alleviated by the evenly spaced windows and double doors in the middle.
As they drew up to its entrance, Amy scoured the faces of each person streaming in, seeking one in particular.
Hundreds, it seemed, entered the doors at once, making her goal impossible.
This was a larger number of Quality than she had expected to see in the humble town of Spa.
She stepped out of the carriage, her breath visible in the night air.
With the intemperance of spring, the temperature had plummeted since yesterday.
As she turned to watch the crowds from under the stiff rim of her calash bonnet while waiting for her father and sisters to alight, it dawned on her that all other attendees, apart from the most feeble, were arriving on foot and carrying their dancing slippers.
People glanced at her family as they passed by, their carriage announcing them as newcomers.
“Come, daughters. I must bless the building before we enter it.” Mr. Bridwell had taken out a green vial from his waistcoat pocket and excused himself as he walked over to the building and began shaking the contents on its facade.
People stopped to watch, and Amy hid her flush of embarrassment by turning back to walk with her sisters. Why could their family not, for once, remain under the cover of anonymity?
The ladies wore thick cloaks over their gowns, and a few courageous ones left their heads bare except for a feather or other adornment to their tall coiffures.
The men wore greatcoats and cocked hats pushed low to cover their ears.
Variations in fashionable attire labeled some as foreigners, and she heard sounds of Italian and what she thought might be German or Dutch.
There were also the blessed sounds of the English tongue with both Irish and the more familiar English accents, and she glanced at these faces curiously.
They would provide her best hope for companionship.
Once inside, they followed the stream of guests past the cardroom, where some stopped to greet acquaintances or join the tables set out, the rest going up the stairwell leading to the ballroom.
Amy pinched the thick woven silk of her skirt as she climbed and wondered how they would gain introductions upon arrival, for they knew no one.
Their father could not always be relied upon to follow the proper protocol in social situations, as his mind was occupied with loftier matters.
This was one of Amy’s recurring trials whenever they were away from their home and required the protection of a guardian.
When they reached the top of the stairs, Marianne’s gasp echoed her own surprise.
Nothing on the outside of La Redoute had prepared her for the elegance of the ballroom, which was open and visible from the landing at the top of the stairs.
Sixteen columns graced the perimeter, creating a covered peristyle to allow guests to walk along the outskirts of the floor.
The ceiling had a recessed interior with a double cornice, and the center was painted with mythological figures in pale blue and creamy white.
Low chandeliers illuminated the white and gold decorations on the walls, and the left side of the ballroom contained a tiered seating area for people wishing only to watch the dance.
At the entrance stood the master of ceremonies, greeting and bowing to all who entered. This proved to be none other than Mr. Gaetano, who gave a broad smile when he saw them.
“Ah, Mr. Bridwell, good evening. I had hoped I might see you here and brought the visitors’ list in anticipation. This will enable you to be included in tomorrow’s publication.” He leaned in and murmured, “Miss Bridwell has spoken to you about the fee for the reputation of honesty?”
Amy had forgotten about this local courtesy and turned to her father, slightly panicked. However, her father’s tendency to distraction came in good stead, and he replied, “Of course, of course. I will come tomorrow.” She would have to make sure he did so and that he had the necessary funds on him.
Once Mr. Bridwell had signed the list so indispensable to Spa society, Amy and her sisters followed their father into the ballroom, where they stopped to watch the people milling in front of them.
She swallowed the nervous lump in her throat as a few strangers glanced her way.
How dreadful to have no acquaintances. She did not wish for James to see her so awkwardly situated.
The room was full without being packed, and as the dancing had not yet begun, people gathered in groups of three or four.
Heavy gold velvet draperies were tied back from the tall windows, revealing ivory curtains underneath.
It was just as well that they had not changed the draperies for a lighter set.
There was enough of a crowd to keep out the frosty night air, but the cold would seep in between the window frames and chill those standing close to them.
“Good evening, sir.”
Amy turned when she heard her father’s voice, relieved to find that Mr. Gaetano, faithful in his role as the master of ceremonies, had presented their father to an English gentleman and his wife. Her father gestured to Amy and her sisters.
“Mr. and Mrs. Ferrin, these are my daughters. Miss Amy Bridwell, Miss Hannah, and Miss Marianne.”
Mrs. Ferrin was considerably younger than her husband, and she sent Amy and her sisters a warm smile. “I hope, Mr. Bridwell, that you will not mind if I bring your daughters to meet some of the other young ladies? I should not like for them to suffer the awkwardness of having no acquaintances.”
“That is excessively kind of you,” Amy answered. Her father did not appear to have heard the offer and was asking Mr. Ferrin about his snuffbox.
Marianne clasped Amy’s elbow and leaned in to whisper, “What a relief. I feared we would adorn the chairs on the dais all evening.”
They followed Mrs. Ferrin over to a group of four young ladies, where she performed the introductions, singling out Miss Josephine Ferrin as her stepdaughter.
After they exchanged pleasantries and explained how they had come to Spa, the fairest of them, Miss Isabel Prexley, turned and enveloped Amy in a bright smile, as if she were the only one of consequence.
“Miss Bridwell, I hope you will take a turn about the room with me? There are too many of us here to talk comfortably, and I am sure the others won’t mind.”
Amy could not hazard a guess as to why she was chosen for the honor, but Miss Prexley did not give either her or anyone else a chance to respond before leading her away, her arm firmly tucked in Amy’s.
“In this way, we may see who has arrived. I cannot bear to stand all night in some stuffy corner where nothing happens. I will be sure to present you to some of the people here, for I know everyone.”
Amy noticed the male heads turning their way, both young and old, and she was not deceived about what—or who—had caused them to turn to look. It did not bother her that Miss Prexley was prettier than she was. If only she would be kind.
“How are you enjoying your stay in Spa?” Miss Prexley asked but did not wait for an answer before inclining her head to a gentleman and leading Amy over.
“Good evening, Mr. Lambert. You must not watch my every movement in this way. I am an engaged woman, you know, and quite devoted to my betrothed. Miss Bridwell, allow me to present to you Mr. Lambert. He is a renowned painter in Spa.”
“A pleasure, Miss Bridwell,” Mr. Lambert replied, extending his leg as he bowed. He was handsome, Amy thought, and possessed a grace that must please. His gaze snapped back to her companion. “And I know very well you are engaged, fair tormentor. It is the day I stopped living.”
“You are a naughty man to lay that at my feet,” Miss Prexley replied with mock severity. “And I shall punish you by leaving now and continuing on with my friend.”
Amy was swept away at her side without having had time to exchange more words with Mr. Lambert—not that she wished for it. Miss Prexley was engaged to be married, and yet she could flirt so! Before Amy’s doubt about Miss Prexley’s constancy could become fixed, her new acquaintance turned to her.
“I don’t believe Mr. Lambert knows how to engage in any other conversation than flirtation. You must not mind us if we treat each other with a freedom that appears unbecoming. We are old friends. I grew up in Spa, and he has been coming to it for many years.”
“I understand,” Amy said, softening under such frank speech. She must not be so quick to judge.
Miss Prexley went on. “Spa society does not stand terribly on ceremony. I should know, since I have lived here my whole life.” She lifted her fan and nodded a greeting to another fair-skinned gentleman, who bowed somberly in return, his regard fixed on Miss Prexley.
Perhaps he, too, was disappointed that she was engaged to someone else. “I hope we might truly become friends.”
“I hope so too.” Amy would not turn away an offer of friendship in a town where she had no acquaintances.
She was momentarily distracted by the bustle of newcomers and the motley fashions in the crowd.
One woman had what appeared to be a bowl of fruit pinned into her elaborate hairstyle.
Another wore a gown with excessively large panniers on either side.
She must have to turn to fit through some doorways, Amy thought, amused.
The gentleman with her wore both breeches and coat cut of a shiny puce silk with yellow embroidered edges and a profusion of ruffles at his throat.
Amy tore her eyes away from the couple, conscious of her manners and the need to continue the conversation. “You are to be married, then, I hear? Allow me to congratulate you.”