Chapter 10
Amy followed her family into the walled garden of the Capuchin monastery and let her gaze take in the pleasing alleys, their brick walls forming secluded passages on the outskirts with arched openings that allowed visitors to move easily through them.
Neat squares of earth with spring buds sat at regular intervals on each side of the paths, and the brick monastery stood sentry at the far end.
It was the beginning of May and unseasonably cold.
The gray sky provided a canvas to paint the daffodils and tulips in colorful relief, and a smattering of flakes fell in evidence of the frosty air.
Benches had been artfully placed under ivy-covered trellises in even intervals, offering seclusion to any person wishing to sit and contemplate the pretty scene before them.
The usual order of the day in Spa, Mr. Bridwell informed them, was to go to the Parc de Quatre-Heures near the four o’clock hour, as the name suggested.
This was the first real activity of the day after a restful morning and the meal that broke their fast. Others chose to walk in the Capuchin gardens as early as two o’clock, although Marianne had told them it was growing out of fashion.
She also informed their skeptical father that not everyone was required to stay at home in the mornings like Mr. Hughes had insisted.
When asked her source, she stated that Josephine Ferrin had told her so, which made the claim easy for Mr. Bridwell to dismiss.
After all, what was Miss Ferrin’s experience in medicine?
Then, when both the garden and park closed at half-six, their father continued, the fashionable set moved to the Promenade de Sept-Heures, although it was yet early in the season for this to be de rigueur.
The promenade referred to the broad alley shaded by elm and linden trees, sandwiched between the wooded hill and rustling creek a short distance from their hotel.
Amy was still fatigued from their second early-morning excursion to the sources and found it difficult to summon the energy to walk anywhere, no matter what hour of the day.
It was a rather rigorous schedule, she thought, for a town that was supposed to be focused on rest and cures.
However, one aspect of building routines around the time of day served in their favor.
It was easier to integrate into local society with all of these scheduled events.
They were likely to continue meeting the same people and thereby form desirable connections.
Mr. Bridwell led the way to the Capuchin monastery, limping but speaking with bluster.
She was sure this determination to experience everything Spa had on offer could not last long.
His stiff gait gave evidence of his pain.
Mr. Hughes had visited their father and, after bleeding him, stated that every curable ailment could be improved by the waters if his patients followed his precise instructions.
She wished to trust the physician’s advice but had difficulty crediting such certainty.
They paused in the main alley, and Mr. Bridwell lifted his nose and sniffed deeply.
He pulled out a blue glass bottle and swiped the air around his head, then turned and swiped in the opposite direction.
Amy and Hannah exchanged a glance as he covered the opening with his hand and fumbled in his waistcoat pocket for a piece of cloth.
“Hold this, Amy,” he said, gripping the cloth tightly around the opening of the bottle.
“What are you doing, Papa?” she asked, resigned.
“I am collecting the scents in the air of each of the places we visit. Of course, the cloth is not meant to preserve it scientifically. I shall have a wax stopper put in as soon as we return home. This will be l’Air du Capucin.”
If any of his daughters found anything unusual in this—and they all did—they were too accustomed to his flights into the improbable to protest.
“I would like to paint there,” Marianne announced, pointing to the brick wall near the covered peristyle. “I do not care if the garden is not fashionable. It is so pretty.” She led the way over to one of the benches inside a leafy arbor with a view of a stone sculpture set amid decorative bushes.
“Are you certain you do not wish to see more of the garden first?” Hannah asked. “You might find a spot you like better.”
Marianne merely shook her head and opened her book to begin sketching, already forgetting everything else. Mr. Bridwell had moved forward, and Hannah hurried to join him. He pointed out various flora and fauna in Latin, with Hannah attempting to say the name before he had a chance to.
Amy was left to decide what to do. The options were not pleasing, for one meant sitting in the cold and being ignored while her sister sketched the outline of what she wished to paint.
The other meant walking with her father and sister and being ignored while they argued over whatever scholarly pursuit they were following—usually without listening to what the other had to say.
Since she could scarcely leave Marianne alone, her choice was made.
Folding her long cloak more tightly around her gown, Amy sat at her sister’s side.
Her skirt was fashioned from thick embroidered silk, and she had tucked a heavy fichu into the bodice of her gown, adding to its warmth.
In addition, an ivory velvet calash was pulled over her hair.
The cold of the stone bench seeped through her skirt, but her sister did not appear to feel any of it as her plumbago stick darted over the paper in expert strokes.
“Will you wish to sketch just this one view?” Amy asked, hoping they might at least walk and see more of the secluded areas of the garden.
Perhaps they would find interesting statues there or exotic plants, although in this cold, the species would have to be hardy.
She was not given time to hear her sister’s answer when a gentleman’s shadow fell over them.
“Why, Miss Marianne, it is indeed you.”
Mr. Lambert, the painter who had flirted with Miss Prexley, had come to stand near their bench and was looking at Marianne’s sketchbook.
His cloak was open to reveal a justaucorps in gold velvet, cream breeches, and thick clocked stockings.
Even though Amy could not find it in her heart to trust him, she had to admit he was a well-looking man.
She and Marianne stood as Mr. Lambert smiled and extended his leg, bowing and sweeping his hat off his head in a flourish.
“Mr. Lambert.” Marianne dipped into a curtsy, her sketchbook dangling from her hand. “This is my sister, Miss Amy Bridwell.”
“I believe we have met. Forgive me for not greeting you, Miss Bridwell.” After bowing very properly to Amy, he turned back. “Miss Prexley mentioned you were a painter, and I see now that you take the art form seriously. May I look?”
With a blush Amy knew was not from the cold, Marianne extended her book to him. “I have scarcely begun.”
He took the leather-bound sketchbook in his hands and examined it with what seemed the eye of a connoisseur. It transformed his face into something more serious—more respectable—and therefore more dangerous to a young woman’s heart. Amy glanced at Marianne.
“The proportions are good. This is a fine beginning.” She murmured her thanks, and he handed the book back to her.
“The Capuchin monks have graciously extended me leave to paint here at sunrise when the garden is not yet open to visitors. I am not sure they would make the same allowance for a woman. Pity.”
“Late afternoon suits me just fine, Mr. Lambert.” Marianne glanced down at her sketch, then skirted her eyes around him, seemingly too nervous to meet his gaze.
Amy watched her discreetly, hoping her sister would not lose her heart to such a man and determined to set her on her guard.
Marianne had no experience with a gentleman’s flirtation and might be inclined to give such a trifle too much weight.
“Indeed. The light is pretty at this time of day,” he replied gallantly. “However, I must show you some of the other sites in the area that are worthy of painting. The ones you won’t easily find on your own.” He turned to Amy, adding, “Chaperoned, of course.”
She nodded but voiced no promises. After a pause in which he eyed a silent Marianne expectantly, Amy replied on her behalf. “Perhaps another time, Mr. Lambert.”
He brought his eyes to her. “Very well, mesdemoiselles.” He bowed and took his leave.
He had certainly shown a pointed interest in Marianne, perhaps beyond a simple dalliance, but Amy could not encourage such a thing. No one knew who he was. He could be a fortune hunter, for all she knew—he was certainly a flirt. Amy would have to ask James when she saw him next.
No! She stopped herself short. Her thoughts had drifted to James more than once since she had seen him yesterday morning, although she attempted to resist thinking of him.
He had matured well and grown more distinguished in the intervening years.
And yet their brief encounter was much like what it used to be when they were younger.
As if the years hadn’t flown by at all. This was perilous territory if she were to preserve her heart.
She must address her questions concerning Mr. Lambert to Miss Prexley and simply hope she would receive an honest answer.
From now on, all interactions would have to go through James’s future wife or through someone else.
Anyone but him. In the meantime, Amy would have to warn her sister.
Marianne had resumed her seat and activity, but her pace had slowed.
Amy stood at her side, unwilling to sit just yet. “I must caution you to be careful with Mr. Lambert. He is a charming gentleman, but we know nothing of him.”