Armand’s First Letter. Amelia’s First Letter. Cathy’s First Letter.

28 September 1023, Bois-de-Bas

Amelia,

I suppose the frequency of my letters is a measure of how lonely I have been here in Bois-de-Bas: I have had much time on my hands, a condition seemingly shared by no other woman in the town. But today I have hope that this will change.

In my last I wrote of speaking to Amelie Tuppenny about finding some suitable occupation. She advised me not to come to the Hot Springs on Sunday for she and the other ladies must “consider”. Not go to the Hot Springs! Quelle horreur, as my my new neighbors say. If not attending the Hot Springs is the price of asking for the consideration of the ladies of Bois-de-Bois, I must ask for their consideration more often! Of course I did as she requested.

On Monday afternoon a lad appeared at Mrs. Grier’s door and asked for me: a rangy lad, perhaps fourteen years of age.

“Bonjour,” he said to me with a bow. “Je m’appelle Jean-Marc. I am M. Tuppenny’s apprentice.”

“And I am Mlle. Gamble,” I said. “You have a message for me?”

“Mais oui!” he said. “Mme. Tuppenny will call for you tomorrow avant midi. She said to dress warmly.”

I assured him that I would, and he grinned and ran off.

I was waiting somewhat before noon, wearing my warmest coat, when the strangest conveyance I have ever seen came floating down the road from the Wagonworks and stopped in front of the Grier’s house: a long red box with windows, rather like a floating shed. A man sat just within a broad window at the front of the contraption, and seemed to be controlling it, rather like a man driving a wagon, but there were no horses: this shed moved on its own.

A door opened at the back, a small stair folding out, and Amelie Tuppenny emerged and hurried up to me, taking in my garments at a glance.

“This is what I wore on the crossing from Cumbria,” I said.

“C’est bon!” she said. “You will be warm enough, I think. Now, come!”

She lead me up the steps and into the shed, which proved to be appointed like a kind of carriage. There was a place for baggage just inside the door, empty save for a covered basket, and then an open space with long benches along the sides. At the front were two seats facing the broad window.

The carriage was empty save for the driver, who rose and came down the aisle. Well-dressed; most likely a former officer, for he had a peg leg, though it didn’t appear to slow him down. An open smile, and an outstretched hand. He looked familiar to me, though I was sure I had never seen him before.

“Miss Gamble, I presume,” he said, giving my hand a shake. I nodded. “Excellent,” he said. “Call me Jack; I am sure we shall get along famously.” He had a Cumbrian accent that matched his appearance: clipped, well-to-do, good natured.

I smiled awkwardly, and glanced at Amelie, who merely smiled and sat on the bench behind where this “Jack” had been sitting.

“Come, come,” he said, “and join me.” At his gesture I took the other seat at the front. I was glad to see that there would be a comfortable space between us, for I still had no idea who he was.

He sat and touched the controls; and the conveyance began to glide down the road in the most exhilarating way, smooth, more like the Amelie packet writ small than any carriage or coach I had ever encountered before.

“Please,” I said, “what do you call this conveyance.”

“Armand calls it a caravan,” he said, smiling at me. “It’s like one he built for m’sister, to travel in, but this one is meant to carry passengers.”

“And where are we going in it?”

“We’re having a picnic,” he said. “And as to where, I don’t want to spoil the surprise.”

I looked back at Amelie, who smiled and said, “You will see.” She had a dreamy look on her face, like one having a happy memory.

And so we glided on through Bois-de-Bas and up a tree-lined road, heading north, I thought. Jack kept up a constant stream of chatter as we went. He had, as I had thought, been an officer: a captain, in fact, under Lord Doncaster. “Always intended to make a career of it,” he said, “but then I lost my leg in Malague. I came here as Lord Doncaster’s secretary, and when he returned to Cumbria, well, I stayed, didn’t I.”

I was only half listening, for the trees had opened up to reveal a broad lake; and high above the lake, a floating island; and joining the two a long ribbon of water and mist.

I must have gasped, for Jack said, “Beautiful, ain’t it?”

“I saw islands in the sky on the way to Bois-de-Bas, but nothing like this! Has anyone ever been there? The Amelie could carry one there, couldn’t she?”

“Well, now, that’s an interesting thing,” Jack said, grinning at my excitement. “Seems that they have. Been there, mean to say. Just the place for a picnic.”

And reaching forward he touched a control…and to my shock the caravan rose smoothly into the air, ascending steeply towards the island.

I looked at Jack, wide-eyed, and he laughed, long and loud.

“Now that’s what I like to see,” he said. “Amelie, your husband’s a genius.”

Bother. It’s late, and I am out of ink. I shall have to finish this tomorrow.

Cathy

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Photo by Griffin Wooldridge on Unsplash