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 bel’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.” Marianneglanced 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 cautionyou to be careful with Mr. Lambert. He is a charming gentleman, but we know nothing of him.”
“You treat me as though I am still a girl, but I am a woman grown.” Marianne pursed her lips in a moue of displeasure and began sketching more quickly. “He is the painter I told you about, so Idoknow him. Miss Prexley performed the introduction when he asked for one, and Miss Ferrin spoke highly of his talent. If neither of them have cautioned me, there is no reason for you to do so.”
“I think Papa ought to be informed of any acquaintance you make,” Amy replied, dismissing Miss Prexley’s and even Miss Ferrin’s approval. It was easy for people to be lax in their choice of company, or not to voice misgivings—or simply to be wrong. “After all, we are in a strange city and have few acquaintances here. There is no one to look out for us but Papa. We don’t know whoanyof these men are, except Mr. Fletcher. They might present themselves under false pretenses.”
“But Papa is never to be found when we need him and is distracted when heishere,” Marianne countered, stating only the bald truth. The sketch in front of her was now beginning to take shape under her hand’s quick movements. “How can I expect him to approve every introduction? I will never meet anyone that way.”
Amy wanted to reply with something wise but could return no good argument. She resumed her seat, and little tremors went through her from the low temperature. She tapped her feet to try to bring warmth to her toes. She generally didn’t mind the cold, but it would be more bearable once they started walking.
