Chapter 8
A sleepy and apologetic Frances woke Amy up the next morning at half past four. “I’m sorry, miss. I’ve the master’s orders to wake you.”
Amy groaned and burrowed deeper in her covers, but she knew resistance was futile.
If the head of the Bridwell family had decided they must follow the trend of drinking the waters at five in the morning, then she must rise and see that her sisters were up as well or he would grumble everyone into compliance.
Their father might lose enthusiasm for the practice at some point in the future, but in the meantime, he would expect them each to traipse along in his quest to discover the novelties of their new home.
This was to be her routine while in Spa.
The night had been a short one. Although the ball had started early and they were home before midnight, Amy had spent half of the remaining hours scrutinizing each aspect of her exchange with James.
She had danced with others but scarcely remembered their faces or what they had spoken of.
Her thoughts were consumed with James’s betrothal to Miss Prexley.
Had Amy been asked, she could not have chosen a woman more unlikely to catch his eye.
Her head ached as Frances assisted her into her stays and panniers, followed by a linen gown.
What does one wear to drink the waters? She put on her sturdiest shoes, for they had not yet received the plain leather walking shoes from Liège.
Upon entering the parlor, she was surprised to find both of her sisters dressed, although they sat slumped in their chairs.
She hadn’t the heart to correct them for such undignified postures.
“We will eat afterward,” Mr. Bridwell was saying from his position by the door. “Mr. Hughes informed me that we are not to consume anything before we take the waters. However, we may have a cup of chocolate when we return and then a proper meal at noon.”
Marianne groaned at the delay of her breakfast, but their father had not finished.
“Mr. Hughes insists the mornings be spent quietly after having drunk the waters. We are not to perform any physical or intellectual activity, not even reading or writing.” He paused and drew his thick brows together as the full import of his words penetrated.
Still, he forged on. “We are to sit and contemplate the restful nature of Spa. Only by following these orders in their exactitude will we receive the full benefit of the cure.”
“But we don’t need the cure,” Marianne protested.
“My daughter, it will enrich you to participate in the experience. I am confident you will not regret it,” he added, patting his waistcoat for his spectacles.
Amy walked over, lifted them from his head, and handed the pair to him.
“‘Curiosity is, in great and generous minds, the first passion and the last.’”
“Francis Bacon?” Hannah asked, yawning.
“No, my dear. Samuel Johnson, of course. ‘The character of Nugaculus.’”
He went to retrieve his cane leaning in the corner of the room, and Amy drew near to Hannah to whisper, “You can tell Father that your bedroom will be more conducive to proper rest. He will never know if you are reading there instead.”
Hannah sent her a grateful smile. None of them had a habit of practicing deceit, but sometimes their exigent and capricious father required handling.
The bond between Amy and her sisters was not as deep in affection as she could have liked.
Perhaps, she had to own, it was to do with her having taken on the role of caring for them, which required a degree of practicality that left little room for sentiment.
With them, she was generally serious and regimented because it was the only way she knew how to carry out her mother’s instructions.
But deep inside, she wished to laugh more with them.
She desired joy and playfulness as much as she did efficiency.
With James, it had been possible to express this side of her character, and that was one of the things she had grieved with the end of their romantic relationship—a deep friendship and the outlet of her more playful sentiments.
When he left, she had no one to be that person with.
Amy was the last of her family to step outdoors, and the frigid early-morning air accosted her.
Across the street, a crowd of people congregated in the large square around the Pouhon source, their breath coming out in clouds.
Some sat on the low wall that enclosed the monument, and a short line of people purchasing their cup of water extended from the source.
Others walked around the square in deliberate movements as though stretching their limbs.
Amy burrowed into her dark red wool cloak and wished she had worn a pelerine to cover her neck and hair instead of just a bonnet.
The cold spell that had chased them home the night before had turned glacial.
After a brief perusal of the scene, their father went over to pay the inexpensive one escalin per cup of water and brought it to them, two at a time.
She sipped cautiously and found its taste not unlike other spring water she had tried—sweet and fresh.
This, combined with the chilly morning air, helped to counter the effects of little sleep.
After another sip, she cast furtive glances around her.
James was not present, so she focused on the motley crowd that had gathered.
For the most part, everyone dressed simply.
For some, their attire was a mere step above peasants’ garments, as though they were playing at being members of a lower station.
However, with their bearing and the overheard snatches of conversation, no one could mistake their status.
One such woman had taken this to the extreme with a Hessian apron covering a simple skirt, and she completed the look with a worn farmer’s bonnet pushed onto a head of untended, powdered curls.
Amy pulled her gaze away before the woman noticed she was staring but feared she had not been quick enough.
Marianne came to stand beside her and whispered, “Did you notice her too? The one wearing the peasant clothing? That is the widowed Princess Orlova of Russia, who is staying in the other wing of our hotel. She was a friend of the Empress Catherine but has lately fallen out of favor and travels here under the name of Madame Michalkoff.”
“How do you know?” Amy glanced at Marianne, whose curls were scarcely tamed underneath her bonnet in her sleepy attempt at dress. She was rosy from the morning air and looked well, Amy thought with a surge of affection.
“From Miss Prexley at the ball last night.” Marianne yawned and covered it with her hand. “She told me she knows everyone and everything that happens in Spa.”
Amy returned her gaze to the woman, attempting to reconcile her odd dress with her claims to royalty. “She is a princess? She doesn’t look it.”
“She is—and quite eccentric besides being remarkably well-connected in Europe. She knows Voltaire! Can you imagine?”
Hannah joined them and caught the last of Marianne’s words. “Who knows Voltaire?” Amy shushed her for speaking too loudly, fearing the princess would take her family in dislike for being gossips.
“The Princess Orlova,” Marianne whispered softly, with a nod in her direction, before switching to an entirely different subject.
“Miss Prexley is quite the interesting creature, by the by. I do not believe she is here this morning. Is she indeed to marry James? I had been sure you would marry him at one point.”
Hannah looked at Amy curiously, and the inquisitive gazes of both of her sisters was too much for such raw sentiments.
“Yes, but let us talk of other things. Mr. Fletcher and I were acquainted a long time ago.” Though Amy had never opened up to her younger sisters about her feelings, it was unsurprising that they had been aware of them.
A servant came by to collect cups, and they handed theirs over.
The signs of Marianne’s fatigue had disappeared, and she leaned in.
“You have no idea how many interesting people there are residing in Spa for the season. Miss Prexley presented me to Mr. Lambert, who is also a painter. The magnificent landscapes on the hotel’s drawing room wall are his. ”
“She introduced Mr. Lambert to me as well,” Amy replied, unable to disguise the repression in her voice.
She wanted to warn her sister against him, for she thought him too much a flirt, but did not know how to articulate such a thing to an innocent younger sister, particularly when it was only based on one impression.
Their father stood nearby, talking to an Irishman by the sound of the man’s accent, and Mr. Bridwell broke away to join them. The gentleman was the pale, frowning figure who had exchanged greetings with Isabel last night.
“That was Mr. MacFirbis, who is training under a physician here,” their father said, his words coming out with the steam of his breath.
“His family possesses a cabinet of curiosities that includes the Burren fossils. Is that not magnificent? I was telling him how I have been wishing to acquire some ever since I read about them.” He turned to Hannah.
“Perhaps I will arrange an introduction between the two of you. You are of an age for marriage.”
“Papa,” Hannah whispered furiously, her face turning a deep red, “I have no wish to marry him or anyone.”
“Well, I did not say you had to,” Mr. Bridwell replied, his eyes lifting in surprise.
Amy felt for Hannah with their father’s clumsy attempts at matchmaking, as she had also been the victim of them.
She did not think her father would make the same mistake of engaging Hannah to someone publicly without her knowledge beforehand.
He would know the consequences of such a move were too calamitous.
Amy was reflecting on how she might protect Hannah when their father turned and gestured for them to follow.