Oooooh, heavens! This is not dignified!Amy Bridwell sat perched on a stout Belgian fisherwoman’s back as the woman waded in the North Sea waters from the yawl to the southern Netherlands shore. She clutched her hands in front of the woman in a terrified embrace, toes arching upward at the end of extended legs so as not to lose her buckled shoes. An odor of fish lingered about the woman carrying her, but Amy certainly would not complain. With nothing but the dark waves beneath her, the woman held Amy’s very life in her strong, capable arms.
Before leaving the safety of the boat, Amy had reached down and dipped her hand into the sea. It was freezing. She did not know how the fisherwoman could bear it and was terrified lest she fall, taking Amy with her. The sky was overcast, and the wind biting. Water splashed onto her skirt in the awkward march to shore, but it was not enough to reach her skin. Of all the things she had dreaded about their journey to the Continent, this horror was one she had lacked the imagination to conjure up.
Amy’s father, Mr. Cosmo Bridwell, wealthy landowner and erudite scholar with his wig currently askew, was being carried in front of her in an equally undignified manner. Although Amywould have liked to tell him it served him right, he did not appear to be at all put out by this manner of transportation. Once on land, he slid off his benefactor’s back with an arthritic grunt, then a hearty “merci,” slapping the man on his arm in thanks. Enthusiasm for foreign adventure had trumped Mr. Bridwell’s selective gentlemanly reserve.
At last, her carrier staggered up on the beach, and Amy was able to slide off onto the soft sands, which promptly filled her shoes. She glanced behind, anxious for the safety of her sisters, Hannah and Marianne, who were being transported by two other strong women. Hannah was delivered to shore first, followed by eighteen-year-old Marianne, whose eyes crinkled in amusement at Amy’s expression of misgiving. She clambered down and thanked her porter in pretty French. Amy turned and mumbled her own thanks in atrocious French without looking the woman in the eye.
It was the best she could do. Never once had she dreamt of leaving England, and she’d certainly never desired it. Under the strict tutelage of her governess, she had learned French as any gently bred lady must do; but with no intention of using it to communicate, she had quickly forgotten it. Then, what must her father do but take it into his head that, without sons to send off on their own Grand Tour of the Continent, he would accomplish hissecondGrand Tour in the company of his daughters. Only it would be grander.
Trim and still handsome for a man in his late fifties, Mr. Bridwell surveyed the beach in regal pose, all benevolent smiles as Hannah and Marianne stumbled over the sand to the packed road. One look at her father’s pleased expression now compelled Amy to protest.
“Papa, in England, we would never allow such a spectacle to be made of ourselves.”
“But that is precisely the point, my dear. We arenotin England.”
Amy knew she pleaded to deaf ears now that her father was set on this exploit. According to him, any young gentleman might go on tour and return a scholar learned in fashion, the arts, architecture, and even the antiquities. Only Cosmo Bridwell could do the same with his three daughters and transform them into luminaries—the feminine ideal. Amy brushed her palms against her bottle-green worsted-wool gown, then shook sand from the bottom of her skirt as she grumbled to herself. Anyone of sense must see that the feminine ideal had been perfectly achieved on English soil for the past millennia and more. But why should her papa settle for sense when he might have sapience?
Mr. Bridwell’s valet hurried to his side to assist him to the road. Their lady’s maid came to help Amy do the same, but she shook her head, fearing her irritation would spill onto Frances. She emptied her shoes of sand and slipped them back on, only to have them promptly fill again as soon as she took a step.
The family carriages and trunks had been transferred to shore by means of a flat raft that was easier to navigate in the shallow water, and their other servants were negotiating the coach’s arrival along with the last of their effects. Mr. Bridwell slipped a coin into the hand of the eldest fisherman, who had organized the safe landing of their persons and possessions. The trawlers smiled and bowed in thanks before wading back to the boat, leaving the Bridwells to continue their journey. Amy looked from the servants standing by the mound of trunks to the second carriage, which had been rolled from the shallowest part of the water onto the road that led inland. It was early in the spring and still cold, and the beach was otherwise deserted.
“Where are the horses?” Amy had expected to see someone waiting to meet them with two pairs of carriage horses in tow. Perhaps that had been too optimistic.
Her father now swung his regard to her. “The horses?”
“Surely you made arrangements to have two pairs brought to us?” she asked, certain he could not have forgotten such a keyelement to their trip’s success and attempting to quash any niggling doubt to the contrary.
“Ah.” Mr. Bridwell removed his cocked hat and scratched his head, somehow righting his wig in the process. “There must be an ostler nearby to see about renting some.”
On the beach?She blinked at him and worked at schooling her features into something that resembled filial piety.
“Never mind,” he said, lifting his face to the cloudless, gray sky. “It is daylight for a few hours yet. I will go and find some to rent, and we will be on our way in no time. We will reach Bruges before nightfall.” He moved stiffly, taking only three steps before Amy called out to him.
“Papa, wait.” She hurried to his side, the sand shifting beneath her feet. Her compassion for his suffering overcame her own frustration. “You cannot walk that far. Your legs must be paining you.”
Mr. Bridwell paused, pursing his lips. “Well then, I will send Ambrose.”
“Ambrose does not speak French,” Amy reminded him, her heart sinking. Who knew how easy it would be to find a town within walking distance, much less one with horses to rent? What if they were forced to sleep on the beach? She sent her sister a considering glance. “Hannah, I think you will need to accompany me.”
“Very well.” Thankfully, Hannah was more enthusiastic about their journey, and her readiness strengthened Amy’s resolve.
Although every Bridwell but Amy spoke the French language fluently, not for a moment did any of them think her presence on the errand dispensable. After all, her place in the family was to make sure all was organized and running smoothly. It was the duty her mother laid upon her before breathing her last when Amy was only ten. To take care of their well-meaning but sometimes distracted father and to care for her two younger sisters, who were then seven and four. Amy had faithfully carried out her mother’s charge in the fourteen years since. Here, however,and far out of her element, she could not help but turn to her father for one last bit of reassurance.
“You have seen to our rooms in Bruges? And the other inns where we are to stay until we reach Spa?” She regretted not having inquired more thoroughly into the details of the journey, but how could she have when she’d needed to supervise the packing of everyone’s trunks?
“Of course, my dear. What kind of an incompetent do you take your father for?” Mr. Bridwell chuckled and gestured for Ambrose to leave off attaching the trunks to the humbler carriage that was to transport both servants and luggage. “Go with Miss Amy and Miss Hannah into the nearest town and find horses to rent for us. Take Bertie with you.”
Ambrose nodded, his sober expression revealing nothing of his thoughts on accomplishing this otherwise mundane task on alien soil. There was no ambiguity in Amy’s heart about howshefelt. It was hard enough to see to every detail when she could clearly communicate her wishes to tradesmen and servants. In unfamiliar territory, the charge would be dreadful.
Bertie, the undergroom, came to Ambrose’s side, and they followed Amy and her sister along the road of grayish-beige packed sand. The wind picked up, filling her nostrils with cold, briny air and whipping the ribbons of her bonnet onto her face.
“Where are my paints?” Marianne called after them, flinging the effects of the smallest trunk onto the sand. Mrs. Mercy, the housekeeper, hurried over, saying she knew where to look.
“It is not a promising beginning,” Hannah remarked prosaically as she trudged forward, her broad-striped linen skirts swaying with each step.
“You know what Papa is like.” Amy trained her weary eyes on the road in front of her. “I only wish I had overseen all the details for our journey to Spa. I will certainly do so before we leave for Paris.”
Hannah trod forward in silence. Then a smile appeared onher face, the one she reserved for when she had information to disclose that no one else knew.
