Chapter 19 #3
She briefly weighed her options on how to get to the source.
Although she could go to the stables and ask Ambrose to put the carriage to, it would waste time.
It was in the opposite direction, and he would need to hitch the horses.
Besides, she had heard that the ground there could not be accessed by carriage.
It was much better to continue on foot, though it meant leaving Hannah and the servants without news.
She strode along the road toward the Sauvenière, her lungs aching as she hurried up the incline. Soon she passed Waux-Hall, merely sparing it a glance as she walked by it. It was to hold its inaugural ball in a week—on the very day her father wished to set out. She would not be in Spa to attend it.
There were few people on the road, and she slowed her steps and acknowledged each of them as she crossed their path, despite her heart screaming at her to hurry.
She must not give off the air of someone panicked, although that was precisely what she was.
At any moment, Mr. Lambert might be pressing his advantage on Marianne.
Perhaps he meant marriage—perhaps. She didn’t think so, but even if that were his noble intention, she could not bear the thought of her sister attached to such a man.
He hardly struck her as one who would be faithful.
She was now well outside of town, and there were no houses in sight.
It did not occur to her to fear meeting a stranger, for her entire focus was on finding her sister.
When at last she reached the level plain where Watroz was located, she hurried across the marsh, discovering quickly that her feet sank into the spongy ground.
The edges of her shoes became wet, and water seeped into her stockings.
With every step, the ground sank under her foot, then sprang back up again as though she were walking on soft cheese, or bundles of wool.
Once, she barely caught herself before twisting her ankle as the ground disappeared into a shallow hole.
She wrenched her foot out again, and by the time she had reached the other side of the plain, her feet were drenched. Her breath came in heaves.
Ahead in the distance was a short footbridge, and beyond it the land sank into a decline where only the top of the Watroz monument was visible. She did not see Marianne or Mr. Lambert and was struck by a new fear: What if he had taken her someplace even more secluded?
The footbridge connected the land on either side of a small rippling creek. Crossing it, she caught sight of the tops of a lady’s bonnet and gentleman’s hat and nearly fell to the ground in relief when she heard the sound of her sister’s voice.
“Mr. Lambert, may I remind you a second time not to handle me in such a way?” Marianne’s voice was crisp and indignant. “If I had known you would behave with such impertinence, I would never have agreed to come here.”
“You ought to be flattered by my interest,” Mr. Lambert replied in a lazy voice that was tinged with warning.
“Do you wish to declare yourself to Spa society as nothing more than a country maid? I thought you possessed more sophistication. You have the talent to be a true artist, but you will never be taken seriously on the Continent with such missish ways.”
They still had not seen her, and Amy was too out of breath to call out. She could see them fully now, and Marianne was facing the painter with her hand extended to ward him off. “I wish to be received for my talent and nothing else, Mr. Lambert. You have gone too far, and I will leave now.”
“But what if I will not let you?” His insinuating tone made Amy wish she had her father’s cane so she might bash him over the head with it. The surge of anger restored her voice.
“You had as well put whatever designs you have aside,” Amy said, marching forward.
Marianne turned to her, and although Amy could see the look of relief in her eyes, there was a spark in them that told Amy her sister was more angry than frightened.
“You are just in time, Amy,” Marianne said in a voice sharp with disapproval. “Mr. Lambert has reached the end of any instruction he is capable of offering me.”
Mr. Lambert looked between the two sisters, a veneer of polite attention still on his face at odds with his obvious baleful intent.
“Miss Bridwell, how did you find us? Ah, let me guess. Mr. Gaetano has been busy. He has a reputation for gossip, so I am sure this little adventure must have spread all over Spa by now.”
Ignoring Mr. Lambert, Amy went to help Marianne wrap her paints and brushes. He made a show of handing a brush covered in brown paint to Amy, but Marianne whipped it away, splattering paint on Amy’s gown.
“I find it amusing, I must say,” he said, facing her. “Did you think to come to Marianne’s rescue? How fortunate she is to have a sister like you. But I hardly think a mere woman can make an adequate protector.”
“Miss Bridwell is more than adequate,” a deep-timbred voice replied. “But she is not Miss Marianne’s only protector.”
Amy turned her head in astonishment at the voice, and her eyes flew up to the silhouette of a man on horseback, the sun behind him obscuring his details. It was James! How in the world had he known how much she needed him?