The Ribbon Weaver (29 page)

‘’Ere, less of the old,’ Nancy grinned, and then the Forresters emerged from the house and Mr Forrester was ushering Amy towards the carriage.

Amy waved from the window as Nancy waved back, and then they were off. The adventure was about to really begin now, and Amy could hardly believe it.

Chapter Nineteen

When the carriage had dropped them off at the station, they then caught a train to Dover, and the Forresters watched Amy with amusement. She was so excited that she could scarcely sit still. Amy’s first sight of the docks was nothing at all as she had expected it to be. The smell of rotting fish hung heavy on the air and rats scurried fearlessly here and there. Women whom Molly would have termed as ‘blowsy’ stood here and there in low-cut dresses, trying to get the attention of any matelot who happened to pass them by.

Averting her eyes from them, Amy turned her attention to the ships that were docked, and again her eyes stretched in amazement. They were so much bigger than she had pictured them, and a ripple of apprehension passed through her. How could anything so bulky and heavy ever stay afloat?

Burly seamen with ruddy faces were dragging huge trunks up the gangplank, and as one of them caught Amy looking at him he winked at her cheekily, causing her to blush with embarrassment. Overhead, seagulls dipped and dived as they searched the quay for morsels of food.

It was already late afternoon and Mr Forrester had booked them all a night passage for the twelve-hour crossing to Calais. Taking her elbow he led her towards one of the ships that towered over them and she saw the name of it – the
Dolphin
– painted crudely on its side. Amy glanced down at the water slapping against the quay. In the books she had looked at with Toby, the sea had always been a beautiful clear blue, but here it was a murky brown colour with litter floating upon it.

Mr Forrester assisted his wife and Amy up the gangplank as Amy studiously avoided looking at the sailors who were scurrying around, and once aboard she was shown down numerous flights of metal steps to her cabin. It was very small, boasting little more than a narrow bed, a washstand and a small porthole. Even so she was relieved to find that it was clean and comfortable. Mr and Mrs Forrester had accompanied her to make sure that she had everything she needed, but now they excused themselves and went off in search of their own cabin to have a rest.

Amy gave the cabin boy who had carried her trunk for her a generous tip, and once she was alone she crossed to the porthole and peered out. There was very little to see except the grimy side of the dock, and eager to explore now she hastily turned about and, lifting her skirts, made her way back through the bowels of the ship and climbed back up the many metal stairs, the heels on her small leather buttoned boots making a clanging noise as she went. Once she reached the deck she made straight for the rail, drawing many admiring glances from sailors and passengers alike, but she was so excited that she didn’t even notice them as she moved through the people who were milling about.

Eventually the heavy gangplank was pulled aboard and she watched as the sailors winched a great anchor from the seabed. Then, with a sickening jolt, the ship shuddered and began to pull away from the port. Slowly the white cliffs dropped away into the distance and the lights on the quay became mere specks that resembled flickering fireflies along the shoreline. The enormous craft began to rise and fall with the swell of the waves, and that was when Amy first began to feel unwell. The further the ship got out to sea the more it swayed, and by the time there was nothing but ocean to see, Amy felt as if her legs no longer belonged to her. The contents of her last meal seemed to be rising and falling in time with the ship and she was still clutching the rails as if her very life depended upon it when Mr Forrester found her there some time later.

Instantly concerned when he saw her pale face he asked, ‘Are you feeling unwell, my dear?’

Amy had no need to answer him; her face told its own story. She looked almost green in the fading light and suddenly unable to hold it back a second longer, she leaned across the rail and began to vomit in a most unladylike manner.

‘Oh, dear me,’ Mr Forrester fussed as she clung limply to the rails. As soon as he was able he escorted her back to her cabin personally then hurried away to fetch the ship’s doctor, who told him in no uncertain terms that there was nothing to be done.

‘The young lady is suffering from a severe bout of sea-sickness,’ he informed him flatly then turning on his heel he left the cabin.

Samuel and Josephine eventually left her in the care of one of the cabin crew with a large bowl at hand, and by the time the ship arrived in Calais early the next morning, Amy was convinced that she was dying.

Mr Forrester helped her from the ship on unsteady legs, and as soon as they were ashore, Amy thanked God that she was back on solid ground. Josephine too had been very queasy.

‘Perhaps we should delay the next stage of our journey until you are both feeling better?’ Samuel suggested thoughtfully. ‘We could always book into an hotel and continue tomorrow.’

After the ship the long coach ride to Paris that lay ahead of them seemed as nothing, and both women were determined to go on. Mr Forrester was silently impressed with their courage, especially Amy’s. As he had discovered, Amy might not be very big in stature but what she lacked in size she more than made up for with spirit. And so they boarded the coach and continued with their journey.

After three hours the coach stopped at a quaint coaching inn for refreshments. Amy refused food – her stomach rebelled at the very thought of it – but she did drink two glasses of lemonade made with freshly squeezed lemons, and by the time they resumed the journey she was beginning to feel slightly better. As they passed the French fields and villages, Amy stared from the carriage window with interest. Dotted here and there were enormous fields in which French peasants were busy toiling. They waved gaily in greeting as the carriage rumbled past on the uneven roads, and beginning to enjoy herself again, Amy waved back.

Set up in the hills were the châteaux of the wealthy. With their turrets and towers and the sunshine reflecting off their windows, they reminded Amy a little of Forrester’s Folly and she pointed them out to Mr Forrester, who smiled indulgently.

It was pleasant rolling along with the spring sunshine pouring in on them. Amy had not slept a wink the night before on the ship and now the warmth of the sun and the gentle rolling of the carriage lulled her off to sleep.

The next thing she knew, Mr Forrester was shaking her arm and as she started awake she realised with a little shock that they had stopped.

‘Come along, Sleepyhead. We’re here,’ he told her.

Amy gaped as she straightened her bonnet. ‘What … you mean we’re in Paris?’

‘We most certainly are. This is our hotel.’

‘But why didn’t you wake me?’ she asked sleepily.

‘Judging from the snores that were bouncing around the coach I think I might have had quite a job trying that. And anyway, you were worn out and we thought the rest would do you good.’

Peering from the window, Amy saw that they had drawn up outside a palatial building called the Hôtel Meurice. Beneath the colonnades was a doorman in scarlet and gold livery, his highly polished brass buttons reflecting the lights in the Tuileries Gardens.

As Mr Forrester climbed from the carriage, the man came to unload the luggage.

He said something in French and Amy noticed that when Mr Forrester answered him in the same language he sounded almost as French as he did. He then handed him a coin and bowing deeply, the doorman thanked him, ‘
Merci, monsieur
.’

Within minutes Amy had been shown to a luxurious suite of rooms that was to be hers for the duration of their visit. The young maid who escorted her there could speak nothing but French, and as Amy could only speak her own native tongue, conversation between the two of them consisted mainly of sign language and smiles.

When her luggage had been delivered and she was alone at last, Amy yawned and stretched, too tired for now to even explore her rooms. After taking off her suit she crawled into an enormous mahogany bed in her undergarments and there she slept soundly until the following morning.

Once she was up and dressed, yet another young maid showed her down to breakfast, and she found Mr Forrester waiting for her in the dining room. He was seated at a table in the window but the minute he saw her he stood up and drew out a chair for her. ‘Well, if you don’t mind me saying, you’re certainly looking better this morning, my dear,’ he told her. ‘I trust you slept well?’

‘Like a log,’ Amy grinned as she joined him.

She was feeling so much better, in fact, that she tucked into a hearty breakfast that would have satisfied someone double her size. There were hot croissants and baguettes served with butter and various jams, and a huge steaming pot of coffee. Amy enjoyed every bit of it.

Between mouthfuls, Mr Forrester told her of the plans for the day and she listened intently.

‘Monsieur Laroque will be sending a carriage for us at ten o’clock and we will be meeting him at one of his largest fashion houses. I must say I’m looking forward to it tremendously. It might give us some ideas for the shops back in London. My wife will be resting but we will see her later on.’

Amy nodded and at ten o’clock sharp she was waiting in the foyer, looking as smart as a new pin, with Mr Forrester.

Monsieur Laroque’s stylish carriage arrived promptly on time and as it rattled down the rue de Rivoli, round the Place de la Concorde and up the Champs Elysées towards the Arc de Triomphe, Amy gazed in awe from the window. Dotted here and there were colourful little cafés and bistros with tables and chairs standing outside on the pavements. Even at such an early hour of the morning, Amy was fascinated to see that people were already seated at them, sipping at glasses of wine.

‘Isn’t it a little early in the day to be drinking wine?’ she asked.

‘Oh, you’ll find that the French drink wine like we English drink tea,’ Mr Forrester chuckled, and Amy wondered what her gran would have made of it all.

Ladies and gentlemen, all dressed in smart attire, were streaming up and down the busy pavements, and horses and carriages filled the streets.

They eventually drew to a halt before what appeared to be a very grand shop in a busy part of the city. Above the door was a large sign with LAROQUE emblazoned on it in large gold letters, and on either side of the door were two enormous windows displaying gowns of all shades and colours. Amy was suitably impressed and suddenly more than a little nervous.

After climbing down from the coach, Mr Forrester took her elbow reassuringly and together they entered the shop. They found themselves in a small but luxuriously decorated foyer. Two women in identical day dresses were standing on either side of the door and the elder of the two immediately approached them.

‘Monsieur Forrester?’ she enquired in a heavy French accent.

He took off his hat and inclined his head politely. ‘
Oui, madame
.’

She beckoned them to follow her through a door concealed by a heavy velvet drape and into a small hallway. In comparison to the room they had just left the hallway was stark but spotlessly clean, and smiling at them pleasantly, their guide then took them up a metal staircase. They soon found themselves on a long landing. Rooms led off either side of it: Amy peeped in as they passed and could see large windows, and women busily sewing. There seemed to be dressmaker’s dummies with gowns all at various stages of completion on them everywhere she looked. Amy would have loved to pause and study them, but instead she continued to follow the woman until she came to the end of the landing, where she paused to knock at a door. She then held it open for them so that they could pass her, and once they were inside she inclined her head politely and withdrew.

They found themselves in what appeared to be a large office, and almost immediately a man rose from behind a vast desk. He was nearly as tall as Mr Forrester and he smiled at them welcomingly. He was immaculately dressed in a smart black tail-suit, and beneath the suit he was wearing a bright satin waistcoast with a heavy gold chain attached to a fob watch that was tucked into a pocket. Beneath that was a stiffly starched white shirt and an elegant blue silk cravat. His greying hair was heavily greased and lay flat to his head, and he had bushy sideburns and a little waxed moustache. Amy felt somewhat intimidated by him, but when he approached Mr Forrester with his hand outstretched, he was smiling.

‘Monsieur Forrester,’ he beamed as the two men shook hands warmly. ‘You are most welcome.’

Amy was relieved to hear that although he too had a heavy French accent, he spoke in English.

‘And you must be Mademoiselle Ernshaw,’ he said, turning his attention to Amy.

Amy nodded and to her embarrassment he clicked his heels together and bowing from the waist he then took her hand and kissed it, his eyes openly admiring. ‘
Enchanté
. I am … how do you say? Most charmed to meet you.’

Amy stifled the urge to giggle as he ushered them to the far side of the room where he opened a large cabinet that contained numerous bottles of wine and a number of elegant cutglass wine goblets.

‘
Voudriez-vous quelque chose à boire
?’ he asked, and then remembering who his visitors were, he quickly repeated in English, ‘You would like a drink?’

Amy shook her head, feeling totally out of her depth, and once Monsieur Laroque had poured a generous measure of red wine for himself and Mr Forrester, he then ushered them to a sofa.

‘I am most delighted that you have come,’ he told them sincerely. ‘I am intrigued with the designs that I have seen so far. They are very impressive. But do forgive me … I am forgetting my manners. Before we go on to that I must enquire, is the hotel that I booked for you to your satisfaction?’

Amy and Mr Forrester nodded in unison.