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

6 October 1023, Bois-de-Bas

Amelia,

I have spent much of the past week at your cousin’s wagonworks, where I have alternated between several activities: pondering what the Two Sloops will require in the way of table settings, bed linen, and staff; discussing how best to use the space within the two sloops themselves; reading A Gentleman’s Guide to Mont-Havre, which Jack handed me “so that you’ll know what I’m on about”; and trying to make sense of this jackanapes of a Jack, who has adopted a far too familiar manner with me from the moment we met.

At first I thought he might be trying to take advantage of a supposed widow, for we are of an age; but having seen him with Amelie, Elise Frontenac, and the other ladies here at the wagonworks and beyond, and indeed with the men as well, I now see that he is cheerful, charming, impudent, and too familiar with everyone, given the least opportunity. I daresay he knows how to be grave should it be required, but it has not been required.

And yet I have not seen him take any liberties, not with me, and not with any of the other women. He is forward in his speech but takes it no further. You take my meaning, I am sure. And as he is the same with everyone, I have found it quite impossible to remain offended.

He does seem to know what he is about when, as he puts it, things “get muddy”, meaning that there is serious work to be done. I have read his book, and it is plain that he has spent just as much time making sweet with waiters and chambermaids and chefs as he has with innkeepers and his fellow diners, and that they have chattered freely about their work.

We have made several visits to the Two Sloops—properly chaperoned, I assure you, and often by Amelie, who will be ordering our required goods and supplies for us—in order to pace out the various compartments, discuss modifications, and so forth. Our current plan is that one sloop will contain the bar parlor, the dining room, and the other public rooms, along with the kitchen, and also Jack’s office with attached quarters. The second sloop will contain a number of guest rooms, linen closets and other storage. We mean to open two guest rooms at first, and to be ready to add others “when we see the enemy coming over the horizon.”

The remaining staff will be “quartered”, as Jack puts it, on the banks, and not in the sloops. Our quarters will be rustic at first, but Jack promises that they will improve “unless we are forced to withdraw in disgrace from the field of battle, don’t you know.” I have selected one of the larger shacks for myself and the other unmarried women that Jack will employ; I understand it was used as a barracks for boys too young to fight in the war, and it will do quite well for us until we have something better.

Though I have been solemnly informed by the ladies at the hot springs that it will not do for me to remain unmarried indefinitely. “Ce n’est pas ainsi que les choses se passent,” said Mme. Gagnon, “it is not—”

“—the way of things,” broke in Elise Frontenac,

“Oui, oui, the way of things, for a mademoiselle to hold authority over other unmarried women.”

I could have countered that I am a widow—I have had to explain to the ladies about Mr. Sloane-Price, and have so far managed to do so without telling any out-and-out lies—but they have accepted that it was a marriage in name only, and they all understand about making a new start in a new land. I chose to be Mlle. Gamble, not Mme. Sloane-Price, and they respect that…but as they respect my choice, so I must respect the role that I have chosen.

I have allowed Amelie to tell them that I left Cumbria because I loved a man I could never marry, that my heart is tender and that I am of no mind to be seeking a husband, and I believe they will accept that—for a time.

But for now I am delighted to rise in the morning with something worthwhile to do, and equally delighted to be drawing my pay, which I shall be doing each Friday. Winter is coming, and I shall need warmer clothing. Delighted, but also somewhat appalled when I contemplate how my late parents would have responded to having a daughter “in service”. Though, when I consider the wrack and ruin John has made of our house in Nexing Cross, I begin to think that they might be more appalled at John.

The most difficult part of the work, so far, is addressing Jack. Calling him “Jack” seems far too familiar, but he has given me no other name to call him; and certainly everyone else here calls him Jack. I tried calling him “Captain,” once, and he said, “Just call me ‘Jack’, darlin’,” which was no help.

In my head I have taken to calling him “Mr. Napes,” jackanapes that he is, and I fear that one day I shall say it out loud.

Cathy

Next letter

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Photo by Rolf Schmidbauer on Unsplash