If only the memories were not so visceral.
He could see everything as though he were there, watching it unfold before his eyes. He remembered every moment of Mrs. Waiting’s ball where they had fought—where they had ended things with a vicious plunge, as sharp as a knife separating joint and marrow. Memories of the day preceding it swam before his eyes as well. It was the day he had kissed Amy Bridwell. Not just kissed a loose curl wrapped around his finger or kissed her cheek or her hand ... hekissedher.
He had just arrived from Oxford with his diploma, exultant at being free from classes and having the school of life wide open before him. He had come to know with a surety that he wished to spend the rest of his life with her and was ready to lay his heart down at her feet.
In his anticipation, he had gone looking for her by the pond on her family’s property bordering his. This was where they had taken to meeting in fair weather. It was not precisely clandestine, he used to tell himself, for anyone might walk that way and see them.
She had been there. The setting sun shone on the water, turning it an amber color. Even from a distance, he could see its rays reflecting off the ripples and onto her profile.
His lips stretched up as he walked toward her, wondering how he was going to surprise her. Should he shift his path and embrace her from behind? No, that would be too forward. Then, she turned and saw him coming, spoiling his surprise. Her face lit with pleasure as she dropped the flowers she was holding and hurried toward him. When she came to stand in front of him, she lifted her face up to his, her full lips drawn into a smile. Her orange blossom scent had enveloped him like the warmth of the lingering rays of sun.
The young man he was six years ago could not resist such an open invitation, and he leaned down to place a kiss on those lips. Just a chaste kiss, nothing more—except that his lips lingered on hers, and when she did not pull away, the kiss became something else. Something warmer. The flare of passion that landed on the intimacy of their friendship was like a spark on gunpowder, and a conflagration burst behind his eyelids. When he drew back at last, slightly stunned by what had just happened, she blinked slowly. He could not move. Even now, his heart hammered in his chest just to remember it.
“Mr. Fletcher,”she had said, her husky voice and shy smile quite different from what he had yet seen. It hinted at a layer of closeness he longed to delve into.“Is that how they teach you in Oxford to greet young ladies?”
She was all shyness and innocence, but she had not lost her head in that kiss, it seemed—not in the way he had. Amy, serious and practical, had yet been able to make him laugh. He had done so then, carefree and delighted at her wit, intoxicated by the kiss and the future it promised. He had turned to take her arm in his and begun recounting all of his news since he had last seen her. The day had been near to perfect, and its charm continued through until the next night, when everything had come crashing down.
The noise of a door opening on the floor above echoed through the stairwell. James lowered his gaze to the narrow wooden railing and the steps leading down and exhaled. His composure far from restored, he descended. His mind was filled with that day—remembering the sweet innocence. Remembering how it felt to laugh and release the joy bubbling over. It dawned on him that he could not recall feeling as carefree as he had then at the Bridwells’ pond, not in a long while. But it was too late to hope for remedy or restoration now. She had come crashing back into his life too late.
Chapter 5
Amy leaned against the wall in the stairwell, her lungs curiously airless and her limbs reduced to a jellylike state. James had looked just the same. His fashion had changed, but the same set of piercing eyes had seen right through her. There was the same firm mouth, the same obstinate chin. It had not escaped her that he was completely overthrown at seeing her. He had not been able to hide how much their meeting had affected him. He had also called her Mrs. Bromley, which meant he had thought her married. For six years, he had thought her married.
A liveried servant rounded the curve of the stairs from below, interrupting Amy’s too-brief reprieve. His arms were full, and she stepped to the side to allow him to pass. Then, with a fortifying breath, she continued downstairs to where Frances stood waiting to embark on their first errand in Spa. Mr. Bridwell, in his plans to meet his physician and seek out what circulating libraries or gentlemen’s cafés might be had, had forgotten all about the calling cards. Amy could only venture a guess as to when he might return. There was no sense in hoping that one of her sisters might accompany her. Hannah declared that the novelty of their new city must not interfere with her study ofLatin, to which she devoted three hours each day, and Marianne was already setting up her paints.
“Miss, you’ll want to be careful, for there’s mud out, and a great deal of it. I almost fell twice coming from the stables.” Frances was a red-cheeked, hale young woman—graceless for a lady’s maid, but necessary to the Bridwells’ comfort. She was particularly indispensable to Amy, who sometimes felt the maid was her only ally in sense and practicality.
Amy stood numbly beside Frances at the entrance. Her mind worked sluggishly, revolving around one subject only.James.Only by degrees was she able to take in the state of the roads outside. The portion in front of her had been paved with cobblestones, but a layer of mud covered the stones. She watched as an otherwise genteel couple picked their way along the road in front of the hotel, wearing thick leather shoes that could not at all be described as fashionable but seemed more appropriate than what Amy had on. They kept their balance with elegantly carved wooden canes.
“I believe there are some necessary purchases to be made if we are to be comfortable here,” she murmured. Her pattens would be useless in this mud.
“Let me help you, miss. I’m wearing sturdy shoes.” Frances held out her arm, and Amy clutched it as they stepped outdoors.
The printer had drawn a rudimentary map of the village with a cross to mark where he had his office, and they set out toward it. Although her blue buckled boots were not her most elegant pair, Amy could not watch them sink into the mud without regret. In certain places, it was only with the help of Frances that she could wrench them out again. After fifteen minutes of slow progress, they at last came to a door with a wooden sign above it that read,M. Giuseppe Gaetano, l’Imprimeur.
“This is it.” Amy attempted to wipe the mud from her pattens on an iron bar jutting out from the building, then gave up and pushed the door inward. A bell tinkled from within, announcingtheir arrival, and the shop had only enough room to hold four or five patrons. The counter in front of them held a guest book and fountain pen, stacked papers that looked to be copies of a newssheet, and a small pile of calling cards that she supposed to be theirs.
Mr. Gaetano appeared from an adjoining room and bowed low, his words tumbling out rapidly before he had stood upright again.
“Mademoiselle Bridwell, I had expected your father, for he must sign the visitors’ list. The newest edition is to be published and distributed tomorrow. However, I have printed your cards and had them sent to all of Spa’s most distinguished residents, as I promised Mr. Bridwell I would do.” With a pleased air, he presented her with the pile of cards sitting on the wooden counter. She took them in her hands and glanced down.
Monsieur Cosmo Bridwell, English Gentleman
& Mesdemoiselles sesfilles
À L’Hôtel de Lorraine,Place Pierre-le-Grand,Spa
“As for the visitors’ list,” he went on, indicating theliste des seigneurs et des dameswith the prior week’s date, “we must add all of the members of your household, including the servants. You must write your names, followed by the words ‘avec deux servantes, deuxserviteurs, et un valet’”—he waved his hand dismissively—“or whatever the number of your entourage, for everyone must be included. It is how things are done in Spa.”
“My father will see to that,” Amy murmured as she studied the cards. Although the printing was properly done and even gilded, the thick paper seemed worn and almost dingy. Amy turned the first card over to look at the back of it and suffered a small shock when she saw it had been printed on an old playing card. She lifted her eyes to Mr. Gaetano mutely, uncertain if sheshould comment on it. She would have in England, but she was in a strange country, and who knew what was normal?
“Very nice, are they not?” Mr. Gaetano said cheerfully. “You will need them for the ball at La Redoute tonight. Allow me to wrap them for you.”
The printer retrieved the cards and folded them in brown paper, then tied them with a string. She remembered that the cloth draper had also mentioned La Redoute, saying that the assembly hall would host a ball tonight, beginning at six. It would be their first one in Spa, and she was fairly certain she would see James there. It would be their first ball since Mrs. Waiting’s that had ended so disastrously.
She accepted the wrapped bundle from him. “Thank you.”
“Inform Mr. Bridwell that he must also pay the twelve pounds for a reputation of honesty and for all other formalities.” Drawing himself upright and placing a hand on his breast, the publisher continued. “And should you have any other printing needs, you know where Mr. Gaetano is to be found.Iam the only publisher in Spa, for I have eliminated the competition.”
