Chapter 1
Paris, France
Hannah Bridwell threw open the door to the rented voiture before the coachman could perform his service.
He scrambled to pull down the steps, but she leapt to the ground and turned to take in the rue Saint-Antoine.
Her father’s words of caution from inside the vehicle were swallowed up by the clatter of wheels over pavement, the cries of vendors, and the greetings of men and women of fashion who walked or paraded by on horseback.
Hannah cast her eyes the length of the broad, treelined road teeming with the noise and colors of sophisticated Paris, a decided change from the restful stillness of Spa.
A thrill of excitement seized her and sparked a sharp intake of breath. Paris! She was here at last.
Despite the chill in the autumn air, the shops had their doors thrown open and displayed silks and other wares on the street under the watchful eyes of the merchants.
A tradeswoman carrying a basket with loaves and cakes appeared at Hannah’s elbow, urging her to try one.
She had no time to answer before another approached with a basket full of nosegays and lifted one for her to smell.
The coachman chased them both away with a lift of his whip and a friendly word to soften it.
Hannah scarcely noticed this as her attention was caught by the sight of other vendors braving the crush to leap up on the steps of passing carriages to offer oranges, sweetmeats, or fans.
“The Parisians are dressed more fashionably than in Spa,” her sister, now at her side, observed. As an artist, Marianne was watchful and observant, her skill in the arts distancing her from the insecurity other women of nineteen might feel.
“It is to be expected. This is Paris,” Hannah said without looking away from the scene.
Her father paid the coachman, and she remembered Amy’s advice to visit a modiste as soon as she could discover the best one.
She may wish to be received for her intelligence, Amy reminded her, but she could not permit herself to be a dowd.
After all, if she desired an introduction into the literary salons of Paris, she must look like she belonged there.
Powdered women whose bosoms spilled out of their fine silk robes à la francaise paraded by on the arms of their beaux, and even inexperienced Hannah knew them for courtesans, for they glittered with diamonds.
Other more respectable women crossing their paths deigned to return their greetings, albeit with an understandable reserve.
Even the abigails and shopwomen who gossiped between the stalls or negotiated prices had artfully styled hair and wore fashionable cotton sacque gowns with rich patterns.
How sophisticated they seemed despite their lower station.
Under the tall plane trees, old soldiers in uniform lounged in chairs as they smoked and laughed or spurred on the boys in a fight that broke out nearby.
Not wishing to miss anything, Hannah wrenched her gaze away to watch the workmen passing in front of her doff their hats at wenches with saucy grins, then turn away abashed after encountering the severe gazes of two nuns in religious habits.
The impression was slow to take form, but at last she identified what was so different about Paris besides its foreign culture.
Here, men and women of all stations mingled in one place.
In London, the areas for Quality and for the rest were distinct, and one might go his whole life scarcely encountering a person from a different sphere apart from the family servants.
Strains of melody from a performing musician added gaiety to a scene already made lively by conversation and movement, and Mr. Bridwell came to join Hannah and Marianne. He reached into the leather pouch he carried and pulled out a sizeable object wrapped in tissue.
“Paris is so little changed.”
“Is it, Papa?” Hannah asked, turning to him, eager for his opinion. “It is far, far greater than I had dreamt of. I do not see how you were able to leave it and return to England when you came on your tour.”
Mr. Bridwell unwrapped the cloth carefully, revealing a brass sextant. “Well, I had no need to truly leave it, my dear. I made certain to collect several vials of the air in Paris. The specimen collected here I called Essence des Remparts. I needed only unstop the bottle when I wished to return.”
“I hope you were able to filter out the stink,” Marianne said with a glint of humor.
The boulevard was not terribly odorous, but with the usual rotting food that plagued even the humblest city streets, animal droppings, and other waste, it would be less charming in the heat of summer.
It was a small price to pay, Hannah decided.
“Of course I separated the undesirable scents from the true essence. I used my obsidian knife to cut the air,” Mr. Bridwell said as he stuffed the cloth back into his bag and opened the sextant, then added in confession, “When I collected air from the gardens, it was easier done. The knife did not at all struggle against the air.”
Hannah respected her father’s scholarly gifts; she even admired them.
As to his forays into natural philosophy and its related fields, however, she was less enamored.
Marianne was the only one of the three sisters who seemed completely unembarrassed by their father’s eccentricities; she merely laughed at them.
Without offering a reply, Hannah turned to watch a beautiful courtesan walk by on the arm of an equally attractive man wearing a justaucorps and breeches of ivory silk, his dark powdered hair pulled back in a queue.
The woman, clothed in an expensive gown patterned with cherries, held a red silk ribbon tied to a fluffy white bichon frisé, who darted here and there as he sniffed the sources of Paris’s perfume.
Humor lit the gentleman’s eyes as he watched the dog, and this somehow made him seem less foreign.
The corners of his wide mouth lifted, springing attractive dimples to his cheeks, and Hannah felt he might even be English to be smiling so naturally.
She had always viewed foreigners from a distance—as illustrious and sober personages, not souls who might delight in a dog’s antics.
But then the woman called his attention, and he leaned in to listen, the smile leaving his lips and dispelling the feeling of familiarity.
Marianne tugged on Hannah’s sleeve. “I simply must draw my first impression before we venture farther,” she declared, turning to their father. “The café beside the silk merchant has space to sit. May we do so?”
“Just a moment, my dear. I must measure the position of Apollo’s Chariot against Sainte-Catherine’s fountain. In that way we will know if our time in Paris is to be favorable or if we must beware of dishonest dealings.”
He peered into the sextant as he adjusted dials and muttered to himself.
The courtesan looked at Hannah’s father and gave a tug at her dog, who had drawn too near him.
With her eyes on Mr. Bridwell, she whispered more confidences to the gentleman and followed them with a glacial laugh.
To Hannah’s indignation, the humorous light returned to the gentleman’s eyes, and he rested his gaze on her.
She lifted her chin and pivoted so she faced her father, shielding him from the gentleman’s view.
As humiliating as this was—for she would not likely be taken seriously in Paris connected as she was to such eccentric behavior—she would not allow him to see her affected by his mocking.
Fortunately, within minutes, her father folded up the sextant, declaring that they were in luck for it was to be a propitious stay.
Cafés were placed at regular intervals between the shops, bakeries, and stalls along the avenue, and the Bridwells moved toward the nearest one.
Small parties gathered at the tables in front of it, and more occupied tables placed among the circles of cane chairs under the trees closer to the street.
Promenaders watched and commented on the flow of people or applauded the amusements given for their benefit.
Here one played violin, and there another directed little dancing dogs with a flourish of his hand, causing the public to smile and clap.
Garcons in immaculate white aprons and waistcoats carried trays of coffee and cakes between the tables.
Marianne sat and pulled out her sketchbook, and Hannah sat beside her before turning to their father.
“Papa, was John able to reserve the opera for us tonight?” They had only arrived the day before to settle in their suite of rooms on rue Saint-Honoré, but all three of them were of one mind to begin sampling all that Paris had to offer without delay, whether that was entertainment, boutiques, or culinary treats.
They were fortunate that John, Mr. Bridwell’s valet, also spoke French, for it saved them from having to arrange everything themselves.
“He did indeed. He reserved a box for us through the end of June.” Mr. Bridwell signaled to the garcon and asked for three cups of coffee.
When the servant did not understand—or at least appeared not to understand—his English, Hannah lifted her head. “Bonjour monsieur, nous aimerions trois cafés, s’il vous pla?t.” The garcon nodded and went to retrieve them.
“Spa provided many scenes of nature for me to draw, but in Paris I shall draw people and streets and all the sights. Perhaps I will begin to study portraits.” Marianne spoke with an enthusiasm that Hannah had almost feared would be forever lost from her voice.
She had been imposed upon by a gentleman of unscrupulous morals in Spa and was fortunately saved in time by James Fletcher, who was now their sister Amy’s husband.
It was good to see Marianne unaffected and in good spirits once again.