Page 11 of Into the Sky With You (The Ladies Alpine Society #4)

J ulian looked around his flat. He hadn’t accrued much in the months he’d been in London. Packing shouldn’t be too much of an ordeal. Travel would still be a nightmare, as he had missed the preferred crossing months. He would likely put off travel for a few more anyhow, but he wanted to be prepared.

It was January now, and the view out his windows was bleak. Fog and cold wrestled for dominance, and the wind wormed its way in between his collar and bare neck no matter how carefully he wound a muffler. He had not seen nor spoken to Ophelia in well over a month.

He tried very hard not to count the days, but every so often, the calculation came to him unbidden. She likely understood that their proposed Matterhorn escapade was off, didn’t she? They’d not explicitly stated so, but any right-minded person would understand his leaving in the middle of their Paris holiday meant they had severed all ties, including a professional one.

There was the option of dropping by Tristan Bridewell’s outfitter, but that made his stomach queasy. The man would ask why he’d run from Paris, and what was he supposed to say? There would be an explanation of an emergency, and given that he had no living family, what was the nature of his supposed urgent return to London? His investments? That was a laugh. Everyone knew he didn’t have two shillings to rub together. No, he would have to admit that the RGS has requested an interview to further his application for a grant to return to South America. It wasn’t a final interview and likely could have waited. But Julian was a coward, so he did a runner.

There was a knock at his door, the familiar pattern of his valet. As it turned out, Julian had grown fond of having a valet, if not for keeping him turned out looking his best with his subpar fashion, then for the news and conversation. Julian opened his door.

“This just arrived,” Nicholas said, thrusting a journal at him.

“What’s this?” Julian took it, instantly recognizing the Royal Geographical Society masthead.

“Look there,” Nicholas said, excitement evident in his face. “You made front page. Big article. They pay by the word? You must have done well by that one then.”

Julian frowned. He hadn’t penned in a new article in months. And as he read the first lines, his heart sank. It wasn’t his article, even though his name was there on the byline. It was Ophelia’s account of her Ben Nevis summit. It should have been printed by Anonymous, and instead was credited to him.

Every curse word he could think of in three languages ran through his mind. This was bad. If it were anyone else, he might consider this a faux pas easily fixed with a bottle of brandy or a night on the town. But not for Ophelia, who faced so many impediments that being printed even anonymously was a challenge.

“This isn’t mine,” Julian said, wanting to tell everyone that it was Ophelia’s work, but not wanting to out her as the author, since the journal didn’t allow women. “This should be written by Anonymous.”

Nicholas frowned. “You aren’t Anonymous?”

Julian shook his head. “I only handed in someone else’s work. Someone who didn’t want to be credited in print.”

Nicholas crowed. “But everyone wants to see their name in print!”

Julian gave the valet a tight smile. “Not everyone has the luxury of wanting such a thing.” He turned and went to the desk, eyes glued on the text. They hadn’t editorialized a thing. This was purely Ophelia, and she wrote so convincingly and lively of their travail. She had done well.

He sat to write a strongly worded letter to the editor, but then realized that it wouldn’t do. Instead, he would go himself, in person, to make this right. And collect any payment owed to Ophelia. Would he bring it to her himself? Or would he wait and hand it off to someone else because his cowardice was too great?

*

“What is it? I don’t like it when your face looks like that,” Ophelia said to Arthur, as he came in holding a handful of newspapers and pamphlets.

“My face looks fine,” Arthur said.

Ophelia glanced to her mother to monitor her expression. There was no use looking at Lady Emily. Her face was far rounder than normal, and it was difficult to focus on her head when her belly was so extraordinarily large.

“You have the Royal Geographical—” Ophelia stood to paw through the stack of papers Arthur held.

He pulled them up and over his shoulder, out of reach. “I do, but I have to say something before you get upset.”

Ophelia frowned. “Why would I be upset? Did they pull the article?”

“No,” Arthur said, dropping his hands once Ophelia withdrew her grasping fingers. “But I received a note today warning me to keep the journal from you until something had been fixed. I don’t pretend to know what the something is.”

Who would send Arthur a note about the article other than Julian? He was the only one who knew she penned the article. The man couldn’t be bothered to reach out to her, but he could send a note to her brother about her? The slow-building anger against Julian grew again in size. He abandoned her, left without saying goodbye, made her feel like an absolute wretch, and now something was amiss with her article and he told her brother to keep it from her? Would it not have been better to write to her and tell her what was happening? The man was such a coward. “Will you show it to me?”

Arthur handed over the blue-boarded bound journal. “Of course. But I will warn you that something is amiss.”

Ophelia snatched the proffered journal, smoothing her hand over the gold embossed seal. She opened it, reveling in the frontispiece, with the insignia of the RGS, stamped with Ob Terras Reclusas. “For the discovery of lands,” Ophelia whispered, translating the Latin text. She turned the page, and while of course the first article was the opening address, as it always was, the next title below it was hers!

“I got top spot! Mine is first!” she squealed, paging to it, longing to see her words in print. But then she realized it wasn’t accredited to Anonymous. It was credited to Sir Julian Dunstan.

Ophelia sank down in her mother’s plush chair.

“What’s wrong?” her mother demanded, looking from Ophelia to Arthur.

Arthur gently removed the volume from Ophelia’s grasp. He tsked. “It looks as if this has been credited to Sir Julian Dunstan.”

“He took it,” Ophelia said. “I didn’t think he would do that. But he did.”

Ophelia was hardly the first to pen an academic article and have a man take credit for it. In the small world of academic and unusual women in London, this was a common worry. Some pre-emptively made arrangements with brothers or friends to take the credit while giving the proceeds to the women behind the work. Others took on male pseudonyms if their families were not well known. And others, like Ophelia, naively believed that the protection of the name Anonymous would be enough.

If she couldn’t be the first woman to climb the Matterhorn—indeed, if she could summit this coming summer, she would be the third—she hoped to have an article in the most prestigious journal in the world. And now, Julian had taken it from her. At least on a mountain, it was weather that turned a party around. It was outside forces that thwarted the attempts. But here, it was a man. A man she had trusted.

And a man who had let her down for a second time. That pit yawned inside of her again. Had his month-long silence been his sign that he would not be going with her to Switzerland? That in addition to leaving her in the lurch with his assurances of RGS funding for the expedition, he was also stealing her work? How could he do this? How had things spun out of control so quickly?

“Please excuse me,” Ophelia said, standing.

“Do you want—?” Arthur spun around to hand Ophelia the blue Royal Geographical Society journal.

“I want nothing,” Ophelia said, leaving the room.

She heard them whispering behind her, but she did not care. Nothing mattered anymore.

*

“You must retract this edition,” Julian argued with Mr. Murray at the press.

“I’ll not retract an entire print run. How did you not catch this when you spoke with Bates?”

“I did, and I insisted that the article be attributed to Anonymous,” Julian insisted. He ran his hand through his hair. He couldn’t imagine what kind of pain this would cause Ophelia. It made him ill thinking she might believe he did this on purpose. He would never take another’s work. Never. Hers especially. He knew how much this meant to her.

“I asked Bates if all was in order, and he assured me it was. If there is anything to be done, take it up with him. Good day, sir.” Murray dismissed him.

Julian shrugged on his overcoat and slammed on his hat. Damn him. He’d walk over to the RGS and hope that Bates was there. As the assistant secretary, he did all of the actual work. The secretary, as the other main positions in the Society, was maintained by only those who were of aristocratic birth and therefore had no actual tasks to complete. The assistants were men of lower birth who did the work that made the Society run.

So fine. Out in the January slog of London he went. At least he’d warned Rascomb, that was something. If the man could keep his inquisitive sister at bay, that would be a small boon. The pain Julian felt was almost visceral. More than anything, he wanted to go to her, hold her and tell her he’d tried. That he was doing his best to rectify the situation, and that he would make it right.

Make it right, make it better. If only he could. He had been a cad of the absolute first order. If he hadn’t, she would be entering marital negotiations with him, and not that milquetoast Fairport. At least, that’s what the gossips had said when he went in for a round of cards at White’s—at a member’s invitation, of course. He didn’t have the money to belong to a gentleman’s club of any stripe. But who was he to say no to free drinks and companionship to occupy his mind?

He’d even grown so desperate as to think Delphine might help him. He didn’t want to rekindle their relationship, but he’d thought that she might give him a perspective on what he could have done differently with Ophelia. It hadn’t taken him long to realize that was an utterly foolish idea. Delphine couldn’t stand competition—she’d said so herself.

The one good thing was that his mind was so obsessed with thoughts of Ophelia that walking in the cold winter of London, he didn’t even register the icy wind. When he finally arrived at RGS, he was able to catch Bates.

“We can’t retract!” Bates said, after Julian explained the predicament and his solution. “And we can’t publish Anonymous. It’s not what the Royal Geographical Society does. After all, how can we verify that the account written is fact if we don’t have a name?”

“I would be happy to vouch for its veracity,” Julian said.

“But that isn’t the draw, you see. We need to see the explorer, that’s what compels our readers.” Bates walked down the hallway, leaving Julian to chase him down.

“I understand, but the way it stands, I’m given credit for something I haven’t done. I’ve never climbed Ben Nevis.”

Bates turned and narrowed his eyes. “Do you remember where you stand, sir? There is a great deal of work being done by men whose minds are sharper and quicker than our figureheads. That is the way it is done.”

“But—” Julian felt his arguments losing ground, but he couldn’t give up yet. Picturing Ophelia’s crestfallen expression killed him.

“It is done, sir,” Bates said, his tone brooking no more protestations.

Julian sighed and sagged against the wall as Bates left him. There was nothing to do. If he told them Ophelia wrote it, the article would be pulled and he would definitely be blackmarked for knowingly submitting it. He pushed a knuckle into his eye where a headache had been lingering all day.

This was beyond the pale. There was nothing to do but call on Ophelia tomorrow and beg her forgiveness. The very idea made his bowels go watery. He didn’t want to face her, but he also longed to see her. How could she evoke both emotions in him?

Because he’d known better than to touch her and yet he had done so gleefully and with abandon. And again. And again the morning after. Had she been amenable to visiting him the next night, he would have just as happily bedded her then. Not because it was a release for himself, but because it was her . Because of all the ways he already missed her. That cleverness and unexpected wit. Her teasing charm and easy smile. The way she made him feel that the ten years he spent in South America were not just unique but worthwhile. That she actually envied him such an adventure.

He had no doubt that Ophelia would enjoy small excursions like a stroll through the British Museum as he’d done with Delphine, as well as accompanying him on larger ones, like climbing mountains. She was a Londoner, yes, but she was also a person who looked beyond the British Empire. A global citizen as much as a British one. And she didn’t seem to possess that air of English superiority that so many of the explorers at the RGS seemed to be harboring. It drove him mad.

How lovely would it be to come home to a woman that he could really talk to? One who was not just a helpmeet, but a partner? Able and funny, beautiful and curious, strong and ambitious. And there was that need inside his aching heart again. Waxing poetic didn’t make him want her less. But that telegram from RGS, asking for an interview as soon as possible made it easy to swallow his cowardice.

“Oh, Dunstan, good chap,” Lord Fairport said, strolling down the damp hallway. “I am well to bursting with excitement.”

The man looked pleased, but no more than the type of expression a man might have than having a good apple tart placed in front of him. “Are you?” Julian inquired, not caring, but unable to snub such a blandly amiable man.

“I am. It’s been months, and that Rascomb is a hard negotiator, he is.” Fairport put his hands on his hips, as if he were chastising a dog. “But we’ve finally come to an agreement, and tonight I shall propose to Miss Bridewell formally.”

Julian would have much preferred Fairport thrash him. There was an impulse that scratched through him, to tell him he’d already been with Ophelia, and therefore staked his claim. That there was no amount of negotiation that Fairport could do to erase the fact that Julian knew her body better than Fairport ever could. That the sound of Ophelia’s ecstasy, her arched back, her mewling gasps as her climax coursed through her haunted his dreams nightly. But he couldn’t. He never staked his claim to her heart. That awful breakfast the morning after her apology, where she sniped and taunted him. The disdain for him that made him run. “Do you think she will agree to marry you?”

Fairport blinked at him. “What do you mean?”

It was Julian’s turn to blink and frown. “I mean, do you think she will accept your suit?” Because Julian wanted her to say no. Julian wanted her to run away with him to Ecuador or Chile, to the beautiful green Andes, shaped unlike any mountains in Europe. Any place where they could be themselves, and he didn’t have to constantly belittle himself for not being a viscount, or not having a fortune.

“Why wouldn’t she?” Fairport looked vaguely concerned.

“I don’t know, but is that not why you are asking?” Julian countered. In a perverse way, he enjoyed watching Fairport squirm.

“I’m asking as a formality. I’ve signed contracts with her brother. It’s done.”

“But it is contingent on her agreement, is it not?”

“Well, yes, but why would we go to all this trouble if it were not certain?” Fairport backed up, as if he needed the support of the opposite wall to keep him upright.

“I don’t know,” Julian said.

“Well, I don’t know either.” Fairport held his hand to his head. “Why would you bring up such a difficult conundrum?”

“I did not bring up a conundrum,” Julian said slowly. Was the man entirely daft? “I merely asked a question.”

“A question designed to utterly undermine my efforts! It was you, after all, who pointed her out. It was under your influence that I set my mind to asking Miss Ophelia Bridewell to dance. What is your game, sir?”

Baffled, Julian raised his hands, as if it could indicate some defense. “I have no game. I was merely being polite in inquiring after your impending nuptials.”

Fairport sighed, relief streaming into his wide-set features. “Oh. Oh, I see. I see it now.”

“Yes,” Julian said, wondering if Fairport was moments away from an entire mental breakdown. How very tedious it would be to deal with this man’s temperament. Which Ophelia would have to do for the rest of her life. And apparently, he had orchestrated it all, unknowingly. As if he couldn’t ruin her even more than he already had. He let his head fall back against the wall, the impact stinging.

“But thank you for bringing me back to reality, sir.” Fairport collected himself and stood fully upright again and shook a finger at Julian. “You are the devil himself, but I’m glad to have you on my side.”

The devil himself? Seemed a bit harsh to say, or rather, it wouldn’t be if Fairport knew the true extent of it.

“I must dash. New coat for this evening’s dinner. Must be on my best for my future bride.”

Julian dipped his head, acknowledging Fairport’s superior rank. “Then good luck to you.”

“Yes, thanks. I shan’t need it.” Fairport disappeared around a corner.

No. A wealthy earl didn’t need luck. He’d already been born with it, wedged between every tooth.

There was no way to atone for how awful he had made Ophelia’s life. He should have never appeared at their house, so long ago. He should have never visited so regularly, or engaged in such welcome and stimulating conversation with her. And of course, he never should have opened his hotel room door that night. That wonderful night where he’d felt complete and whole for the first time. A night that he turned to in even the smallest of moments, not only for the eroticism, but for that feeling of acceptance. The peace she had given him when they had finally found their rhythm together.

Tomorrow then, hat in hand, he would go make the best apology he could muster. And break his own heart as he did so, for he was calling on the future Lady Fairport.

*

The drawing room was ablaze with candlelight. Lady Rascomb had never fully trusted the gas lines that were installed in the house and preferred the more forgiving light of actual fire. Ophelia didn’t mind on cold, rainy nights like this evening, as the chill still seeped past the heavy tapestry of the winter curtains.

Lady Rascomb also maintained that Ophelia’s flaxen hair—which was the same shade as her mother’s and her siblings—looked best in candlelight, as it brought out the warm golden glow. But tonight, in this candlelight, she was not with her siblings or her mother. She was not even with a good friend. Good Lord, she missed Justine.

Lord Fairport was monologuing. Not that Ophelia minded all that much. She found it harder and harder to speak these days. The blow from earlier today had robbed her of it entirely. Dinner was agonizing. She did not want to hear others speak either. Words were too much, the noise of the silver forks clattering on the porcelain plates, the sound of chewing from every quarter—it was more than she could bear.

Had it been any other night, she would have excused herself. But she knew that tonight she could not. There was too much at stake. Instead, Ophelia tuned it all out. She heard not a word spoken, nor did she utter a word. It was the safest way to proceed, curled and tucked inside of herself for safety.

But now her family had conveniently left her in the drawing room alone with Lord Fairport. The opportunity for him to make his formal proposal, despite everyone acknowledging that marital contract negotiations had been dragging on for three months. Partly because during the holidays, the Rascombs absconded to a familial estate for most of a month, and while Arthur offered to return to London periodically to hasten the proceedings, Ophelia adamantly said she preferred to spend her last holiday as a Bridewell amongst other Bridewells.

But now it was nearly February. And it was cold and damp outside, and that same weather had made its home inside Ophelia’s heart. All of her girlish hopes and dreams were dashed on cobblestones, evaporating in such an onslaught. She imagined the incorporeal on the trafficked streets of Holborn, dashed to pieces by horse hooves and carriage wheels. Disintegrating.

“...and while I know that’s not a reason to begin courting, I found that once I started dancing with you, I rather enjoyed myself.” Lord Fairport looked at her expectantly.

Oh dear, she should have been paying attention. She made a noncommittal hum and nodded for him to go on.

“Many have told me this is foolish, but I say, dash it all. I said to myself, ‘I quite like Miss Ophelia Bridewell, and so if she will have me, I shall have her.’”

Ophelia blinked. Was this the proposal part? She swallowed, hoping it would help her speak. Her lips parted, but no words came.

“I see you are overcome. Am I too bold?” Lord Fairport came closer to her.

He smelled of milk. How? There was no cream on the table at dinner. But still, he smelled like a child.

Instead, Ophelia shook her head. He was not too bold. Bold was arriving at a man’s hotel room in the middle of the night. Bold was confessing her attraction—and her feelings—to a man a decade her senior. Bold was crying herself to sleep after his betrayal. It was awful. Bold hurt.

“Then Miss Ophelia Bridewell, would you consent to be my wife?” Lord Fairport asked, taking one of her hands.

She meant to speak—she honestly did. But no words could be spoken. Her body wouldn’t allow it. Instead she nodded her head.

“Wonderful!” Lord Fairport said, standing, looking as pleased with himself as a boy who had just built himself a fort. “We shall inform your family straightaway.”

Ophelia tried to be excited. Tried to speak again, but still nothing could escape her mouth. So she sat there as Fairport called her family in, as a round of champagne was opened, and congratulations were called. Eventually, after shoulder squeezes and hand holds, Fairport nudged himself into the settee beside her. His warm milk scent wafted over. It wasn’t unpleasant. But then, it wasn’t pleasant, either. It just was. And that’s how she would be, too, as his wife. Merely existing, without purpose, without effort. A bit of flotsam set out in a warm sea, carried by the tide this way and that, until finally disintegrating and falling to the bottom.