From outside the carriage, a loud voice instructed them to halt. This was accompanied by a thump on the side of the coach. A man then appeared in the window, dressed simply in a brown coat and farmer’s hat, his hair loose and unpowdered. Amy let down the window.
“Bienvenue à Spa.” The man continued in a stream of French that Amy could not understand, gesturing to the small wooden house by the side of the road. Her father furrowed his brows, then indicated for Amy to open the door. She reached for the small handle, but unsure of what the man wanted, looked at her father expectantly. He called out to the groom.
“Ambrose, give this man my swords.” He then turned to his daughters to explain. “Spa is a city of leisure, and I am obliged to give up my weapons during my stay here.”
Armed with the knowledge, Amy stepped out of the carriage to see that Ambrose retrieved the smallswords without disordering the arrangement of the trunks. When the groom handed these over, she was given two metal tokens in exchange. She climbed back into the carriage and started to hand those to her father before thinking the better of it. She tucked them into the left pocket tied around her waist, whose purpose was for all essential items, except money.
Her father had regained his equanimity after the unexpected halt and added pleasantly, “Weapons are not allowed in the city, not even those belonging to His Royal Highness, the Prince of Orange, should he happen to visit.”
They had hardly begun to move forward again when a crowd of children dressed in little more than rags swarmed the carriage with indistinguishable pleas and dirty hands plastered against the windows.
“Oh, these poor creatures,” Amy murmured. Until now, they had not been solicited for alms any more than they generally were in Kent.
“Do we have anything for them?” Marianne exclaimed, her voice tinted with the same compassion Amy felt.
“I have a few escalins.” Amy slid her hand into her right pocket and pulled out a handful of foreign coins.
“Yes, you may give them those,” Mr. Bridwell said magnanimously and reached out to signal Ambrose to drive on. Amy extended her hand and dropped small shiny coins into the clamoring fingers at the window. Even when the largess had reached its end, the children continued to run alongside the carriage, tapping on the side of it.
“There is no more,” Amy called out anxiously. Hannah lent her assistance by translating Amy’s words into French, but their enthusiastic train did not end until they approached the town center.
The remaining minutes of their journey were spent in anticipatory silence as each stared through the windows at theSpadoishouses of white plaster and exposed wooden beams. The road became a bridge over a source of water that cascaded from the hillside and fed into a water mill on the opposite side. After crossing it, the carriage followed the dip in the road and continued a short distance before pulling to a stop in front of an unadorned marble structure, whose hollow concave held a spout. The memorial, engraved with the wordPouhon, had been erected in the center of a small square set below street level.
“That’s the source, I wager,” Mr. Bridwell observed, then leaned over to look through the opposite window. “Well, my girls. This must be our hotel.”
He opened the carriage door and made a move to climb out, and Amy reached forward to assist him. Mr. Bridwell stretched his legs out of the conveyance and landed, feet on the ground, with a painful grunt. His valet, John, hurried from the secondcarriage and supported his elbow until Amy handed her father his cane. Once everyone had alighted, Amy lifted her gaze to the upper stories of their new home.
The Hôtel de Lorraine was newly built of stone with iron balustrades on the upper floors. Its mullioned windows stretched six across, each with small leaded panes, and the three stories led up to a smaller servants’ floor underneath the slate roof. The only entrance apparent was the door located on the right side of the hotel that connected to an adjoining house. An elderly couple dressed in elegant foreign fashions exited onto the street, and muted voices spilled out through the open door. On the road behind them, a carriage skirted both of theirs on its way to some other destination.
“Shall we see to our rooms?” Amy asked when her father made no move to enter. It did none of them any good to stand on the street with no other purpose than to announce their arrival to the whole of Spa society. Frances came to her side, ready for any directions Amy might have.
But Mr. Bridwell was busy looking from the hotel to the engraved memorial across from it, clearly caught by some idea.
“Pouhonis a word derived from the Wallon language and means ‘a place where you draw water.’ I remember reading it somewhere. Isn’t that clever? The hotel is right across the street, and I can feel a humming tether between the two, connecting them. We are most fortunately situated.”
“Wonderful,” Amy said in the driest of tones as she glanced again at the entrance. She had meant to respond with sincerity but had lately found it difficult to utter a single word without an ironic edge to it. This produced an inward sigh as she contemplated what the combination of spinsterhood and an unwelcome journey of unknowns was doing to her. Having not found another worthy gentleman following her youthful heartbreak, she now had little doubt she would end up unmarried. At this rate, she would become the detested older aunt of her sisters’ children. Theone who barbed every triviality with veiled spite because she did not live a contented existence.Thatwould not do.
“Shall we go in?” she asked again, with such a bright smile that Marianne stared at her in surprise. Amy met her look, then addressed her father. “Well, what are we waiting for?”
Without pausing for a response, she marched forward as Bertie darted ahead to open the door. Their father advanced at last, and Amy’s sisters followed. Once inside the obscure corridor, the sound of conversation became an audible din. On the left side, double doors stood open to reveal a dining room with light pouring through the large windows. There was a clink of cutlery, and servants moved about with trays of food. At the far end of the corridor where they stood, a set of steps led to a stone landing before the stairwell curved upward and was hidden from view.
“There is a man in livery,” Mr. Bridwell said. He had moved past her to peer into the dining room. “He will know who to see about our rooms.”
Amy came to stand at his side and followed the direction of his gaze. The dining room fit about twenty tables, and it opened up to another room that appeared to be a drawing room. The latter was nearly empty of crowds, as most seemed to be still having their meal, but she glimpsed the servant her father had indicated.
“I will go and speak to him, Papa.” She skirted the edge of the dining room and moved in his direction, hoping she could make herself understood. As she neared the liveried servant, Amy noticed the swish of Marianne’s skirt next to hers and smiled back at her. Even if her youngest sister had come more from curiosity than support, her presence was still welcome.
The servant bowed at her approach, and she explained who they were, relieved when he understood her English. He promised to fetch the proprietor, who would show them to their rooms. Conscious that she did not look her best after traveling for so long, Amy kept her back to the occupants of the dining room and studied the garden visible through the drawing room windows.Each window extended to the floor, and they were presumably used as doors in warmer weather.
“Amy, do you see that man in the blue silk coat sitting alone over there?” Marianne’s whispered voice caught her attention, and Amy turned. “One might almost mistake him for James Fletcher, except James never wore wigs. Could you imagine ifhewere here?”
Marianne covered her laughter, her eyes crinkling above her hand. The full implication of her words hit Amy, and her eyes flew to the corner of the room her sister had indicated.
James?Amy’s breath evaporated as she tried to grasp the notion that he might be here.No. Impossible. He can’t be in Spa.
Marianne moved to stand inside the drawing room, where she could view its full length. Apparently, she did not think the man was likely to be James, but Amy could not dismiss the idea so easily. She searched the room’s occupants and spotted him at last.
At a table near the far end, a man sat alone, his profile visible though he faced partially away. The set of his shoulders was familiar even after six years—the noble chin and firm lines around the mouth. He was dressed in unaccustomed finery for someone who had always preferred simplicity, but there could be no mistake.Of all the places in the world, James ishere.
