Amy turned to him, perplexed, and he leaned in to explain with an exaggerated wink. “I have killed off all of the other publishers.”
She returned an uncertain smile. He was surely joking, but he was a strange creature, to be sure. She made her escape with a mental note to remind her father about the twelve pounds and the visitors’ list. And to ask whether it was true there was only one printer in Spa.
“He’s gone mad, that one,” Frances said as they made their way back to the hotel.
It was easier to retrace their steps now that they knew where to go, and Amy had time to look at their surroundings as they walked. She saw more than one lady walking alone, with some carrying their own purchases. As in Kent, it seemed she and her sisters would not need to bring a maid every time they steppedoutdoors. They arrived at the hotel, and Frances paused at the door before Amy could enter it.
“Bertie and Ambrose’ll be wanting their nuncheon, miss. Shall I bring it to them?”
Amy nodded. “Mrs. Mercy said the kitchen has prepared meals for the servants, and the sous-chef speaks English. Go and inquire there about the meals.” Frances was sweet on Bertie, the footman who served in a double role as assistant groom. Amy still had an ounce of sentiment left in her shriveled spinster heart and would do nothing to hinder their humble courtship.
As she climbed the stairs, her shriveled heart now beat an unsteady rhythm with the irrational fear of seeing James again and the longing for it to happen. Would he look at her in that same inscrutable way? Once he had gotten over his shock, his emotions had been difficult to read. She was the one with a red face and clammy hands, and about ready to drop from the force of her emotions. After his initial show of surprise, he had just stood there, implacable. It made sense, she supposed. She must be a distant memory to him, a man of the world. He likely felt nothing close to what she did.
But what if he does?her heart whispered.What if he still loves you?
A second meeting did not transpire, and Amy entered the white-papered anteroom that led to their parlor, where her youngest sister was perched next to a window. Marianne peered out at the scene in front of their hotel, then brought her gaze back to her painting, adding details to the marble edifice of the Pouhon source. Hannah sat angled on the settee so that some of the light from the window would fall on the pages of her book,An Essay on the Writings and Genius of Shakespear.
“I’ve returned,” Amy announced, when her arrival provoked no response. “Has Father?”
“No.” Marianne glanced at her, then picked up a cloth to wipe a smear of paint off her hand. “Did you retrieve our calling cards?”
“Yes.” Amy wondered if her sisters had left the rooms that morning. If they had, they might have seen James. But then, surely they would have remarked on it if they had. What would her father say when he learned of his presence? He had generally ignored the younger generation when they gathered at Mrs. Waiting’s house, preferring the widow’s patient, listening ear to all else. Amy had never spoken of her attachment with him. There had been no point since it came to nothing. But surely Papa could not fail to recognize James despite the passage of six years?
Amy unwrapped the cards and pulled a wry face, though her sisters had already turned their attention back to their pursuits.
“It is the oddest thing. They are printed on the back of playing cards as though they had not enough paper in town to print fresh ones. I hardly dare show these to anyone, although Mr. Gaetano said he has already distributed them to everyone of note.” She turned them over again to look at the backs. “What will people think?”
“Father received a card from a General Cocksey of the English Society Club of Spa, and it is also printed on reused paper,” Hannah replied without lifting her eyes from the page. “Mr. Gaetano said he was the only printer, so I imagine everyone’s must look like that.”
“True.” Amy showed one to her sister. “Just look at these.”
Hannah raised her eyes from her book and took one in her hands to study both sides before handing it back. “Well, at least the script and embellishment are nicely done.”
Amy crossed the room to set the calling cards on the desk. Then she reached up to untie her bonnet and remove it carefully from her powdered curls. She glanced at the reflecting glass placed above the desk, wondering if James had found her changed. If he had found her improved or ... not. Her heart began to pound at the thought of seeing him at the ball. Would he come and seek her out for a dance? Did he regret casting her from his life so decisively all those years ago?
She turned to face her sisters, both of whom looked at ease in their foreign surroundings. Hannah had even kicked off her mules as she leaned against the back of the sofa, and Marianne was completely absorbed in mixing the paints to achieve her desired color. Her sisters were very becoming, and Amy knew it was not partiality that made her think it. Hannah had a slender neck, a noble nose, and large eyes; and she had the darkest hair of the three, taking after their father. Marianne’s face was shaped like a heart, and her light, honey-colored curls framed it in a halo. One day, if Amy succeeded in her objective, they would meet well-established husbands who would be kind to them. Gentlemen they could love and respect. Then she could be easy.
This brought another matter to the forefront of her mind. “May I remind you both that there is the ball at La Redoute this evening at six.”
“We know,” Marianne called from the window and leaned back, narrowing her eyes at the color she had just added.
Amy gave up attempting conversation and wandered into her room to peer at the cheerful vista through the window. Her bedroom was located in the back of the hotel, with a view of a narrow road and low houses, and in the distance, a hill that served as a backdrop to the town. Thick deciduous trees with unfurling leaves filled its incline, and near the top grew evergreens.
Overall, their rooms were more than satisfactory, even if they all agreed the hotel did not bring in as much light as they would have liked. At home, the sun flooded the morning room, and the drawing room had full-length windows. Even the dining room faced west to receive the remaining light from a setting sun.
Amy had unpacked her trunks and set up everything she needed but was too restless to begin her usual diversions of needlework or light reading. Gardening might have answered the purpose, but there was no private garden for her to tend and no inventory to keep her hands occupied. All that was left wasto think over what had transpired that morning and to unearth the memories of their past.
She toyed with the embroidered edge of her handkerchief, remembering the sting of James’s words the last time they had seen each other.“If you do not like the manner in which I proposeto resolve our predicament, perhaps you ought to marry Mr.Bromley.”She had been pulled into the trap of a public announcement, impossible to retract in the moment. And although she had broken the engagement within the month, James had already left. He never wrote to her afterward to renew their attachment. It must not have been as deep on his side.
The afternoon was quiet, and though she attempted to stay occupied by repairing the trim on one of her bonnets, her thoughts were caught in endless loops of what might have been. At last, the sounds of the front door opening and her father’s arrival put an end to her fruitless ruminations. Amy entered the salon, where he was lifting a wooden cane to show Hannah and Marianne.
“They craft these forles bobelins. That’s what they call us foreigners,” he said with a chuckle. “Theboof course comes from—”
“Does it come fromboue?” Hannah inquired, sitting up. Her alert expression showed that her mind was actively working. “Bouemeans ‘mud,’ and the genteel people I saw through the window did not seem to be faring well in it.”
“Why so it does,” Mr. Bridwell interjected, “and there is a great deal of mud to be found in Spa. We might have been called theboubelins instead,ha ha!” Hannah looked pleased at having been clever, but their father continued. “However, the Latin wordbibulusrefers to one who drinks in great quantity, and we will find the name’s origins there.”
“Ah.” Hannah’s expression was downcast. “I should have thought of that.”
