Cold settled in Amy’s chest. What must they do? There might be dozens of places they had gone. “I must sit for a moment. I must think.”
Hannah came instantly to her side. “I was about to ask the servants to help me to look. Shall we fetch Papa?”
Amy dismissed the idea of summoning their father. “He will not be able to go after her. He is lately in too much pain, and this will only make the condition worse. Besides, for the moment, weare the only ones who know she cannot be found. Perhaps it is not too late to find her and avoid scandal. Let me call the servants.”
Amy went to the servants’ quarters, where Frances, Eunice, and Mrs. Mercy were each having a cup of watered-down tea. They jumped up guiltily.
“Marianne has gone off...” Her voice trailed away. She trusted their servants implicitly, but it was still difficult to put her fears into words. “She was last with Mr. Lambert, and I believe she is with him still. I trust her intentions but not his. Will you help me to go about town to look for her? But do not speak of it to anyone, for it will raise suspicion.”
The maids hurried to gather their bonnets, and Amy strode to the anteroom, telling Hannah, “The servants will search in the town. I will go to the parks.”
She tied her chip bonnet under her chin, then sat on the small bench by the entrance to change into her thick leather shoes for walking. Hannah grabbed her bonnet, too, and tied it on with hurried fingers. “I am coming with you. I can check the Capuchin gardens while you look in the Parc de Quatre-Heures.”
Amy nodded. Time was of the essence. Every minute Marianne spent in Lambert’s company posed a danger to her reputation, certainly, and possibly to her person as well.
Within minutes, they were leaving the hotel. The servants had already left and gone in a different direction. Amy told Hannah to check back at home after she was finished in the Capuchin gardens and to search the streets adjoining the monastery, as well as the Hôtel Waldeck along the bridge. Perhaps they had chosen a scenic spot near the base of the watermill for painting instead of the Pierre le Grand monument. As for her, she would go to the Parc de Quatre-Heures, then see if they had made a reappearance on the Promenade.
Amy did not hold out hope that they were actually painting, although she knew Marianne would only have agreed to the invitation for that purpose no matter what feelings she harboredfor Mr. Lambert. Her sister was not of a clandestine nature and would not willingly engage in a dalliance. Mr. Lambert likely had other ideas.
Amy entered the park and cast her eyes across the grassy plain from the row of trees bordering one side to the steep hill on her left. A few people rode or walked there, but not many. It was too early in the day for the fashionable crowds. She hurried along the path, but with such an open plateau before her, she was given a view of everything at a glance. It was evident her sister was not there.
She exited the park and walked along therue de la Grande Placein the direction of the Promenade when she saw Mr. Gaetano in the distance. He must not know the purpose of her mission, for it would be spread throughout Spa within a day. In an effort to hide the state of her distress, she slowed her pace and stopped to greet him.
“It is well I have run into you, Miss Bridwell,” he said after performing an elaborate bow. “I have seen your talented sister, Miss Marianne, only an hour ago.” He sighed and lifted his eyes to the heavens in a theatrical pose. “It is only natural that she should wish to be in the company of Spa’s illustrious painter, Mr. Lambert. When I greeted them, she informed me that he had promised to take her to the Watroz source, for the ground is of an unusual texture. He said attempting to paint it would improve her skill.”
Amy looked at him keenly. Was he trying to warn her of the danger Mr. Lambert posed to her sister, or did he truly think it was an innocent diversion? She did not want to let on how worried she was, though she remained grateful for the information he had given her.
“The Watroz source, did you say? Yes, I have heard of its interesting landscape.” She appeared to think for a moment. “I suppose I should go and retrieve my sister, for I should not wish for her to become fatigued by being out for too long.”
“An excellent idea. Tell Miss Marianne that Mr. Gaetano will be keen to see her painting when she is finished with it. And she must not fear that I will spread it about that she is painting the Watroz. It would not do to have every aspiring artist attempting to copy her subject.” He winked. “Her secret is safe with me.”
“Thank you,” Amy managed to reply, now certain that Mr. Gaetano was doing her a service, letting her know where Marianne was while promising he would not cause harm to her reputation. If he indeed kept his word, Amy would forever be obliged to him.
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 reachedthe 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.”
