Page 12 of Into the Sky With You (The Ladies Alpine Society #4)

“I beg your pardon?” Julian stood on the freezing stoop of the Rascomb townhouse, only to be told that he would have to endure this agony all over again.

“They will not return before calling hours have ended. If you have a message to convey, however,” Ferris, the butler, intoned.

Julian waved his hand. “No, no. That’s quite all right. If you tell me where they’ve gone to, perhaps I might catch up with them.” If he could muster the courage. He wasn’t sure this was something that could be duplicated. It had taken a bit of brandy to walk out the door this afternoon.

“Bond Street, sir. Miss Bridewell has begun assembling her trousseau.” Ferris looked at him sharply, as if he knew every stray thought Julien had ever had regarding Ophelia, and was now astonished that he would allow another man to enter her life. Well, that made two of them.

“Many thanks, Mr. Ferris. I’ll see if I can track them down.”

Ferris shut the door, and Julian turned back to the street. What was a man like him to do when his lover was shopping for her wedding trousseau for another man? No, that wasn’t quite it, was it? Because if they were still lovers, he’d have talked to her at least once in the past two months.

Could Julian bear to track them down? That was the rub. He pointed himself in the direction of Bond Street and hoped he would come to a decision before he met up with them. He perversely wished for a long engagement.

There was no part of him that believed Ophelia cared for the man. She was careful with her emotions and didn’t trust easily, it seemed. Or at least not with men, anyway. A gust of wet wind swirled down the street as he crossed, causing Julian to hunch his shoulders even more.

No, this was the height of foolishness. In the meantime, he needed to worry about his own life, and his own plans. There had to be a grant of some kind lurking in this city for a surveyor like him. Some way to take him out of London, away from Europe.

Instead of Bond Street, he went to RGS, and on a blustery day like this, he walked in looking as trod upon as he felt. As he was drying in front of the fire, another man walked in, soaking wet.

“Quite the deluge out there,” the other man said.

Julian made a noncommittal noise back, for politeness’ sake.

“I don’t mean to be too forward, but are you Sir Julian Dunstan? I read your recent article about climbing Ben Nevis. Brilliant work, there. You made it seem like I was on the mountain with you.”

Julian gave a terse smile as the knife of guilt twisted into him further. “I am Sir Julian Dunstan, yes. But I’m afraid there was a mistake in the article, it wasn’t mine. I was submitting for a friend.”

“Oh? A bit of intrigue, how fascinating. Who was the explorer I should be complimenting then?” The man had an open and easy smile.

“They wished to stay anonymous.”

“How disappointing. But I suppose if I could write like that, I’d be writing all kinds of salacious things for money.”

Julian made his polite noncommittal noise again. They stood there in silence, drying. What was he thinking, charging off to find Ophelia and apologizing in public? That would ruin her reputation and provide gossips with enough ammunition to absolutely murder her in the papers.

The man had said it himself—salacious things make money. And if he hunted Ophelia down like a spurned suitor, Lady Rascomb would never forgive him. Nor would he forgive himself.

*

The seamstress took Ophelia’s measurements while Lady Rascomb chose fabrics, and Portia second-guessed with a critical eye. Eleanor sat nearby on a plump round stool paging through a magazine of current styles. There was nothing about this that seemed fun to Ophelia, but the women in her life rallied to her in a way that seemed excessive, given the circumstances.

But her mother, sister, and sister-in-law were the women that would sustain her through the doldrums of her marriage. Life seemed so small all of a sudden. This would be what she was reduced to?

Prudence and Leo had already left Europe again, and Justine had returned to Augsburg after Paris. Justine had insisted that the winter celebrations were superior in Munich to London, and while she trusted Justine, Ophelia couldn’t imagine missing out on the weeks they spent at the Berringbone property. Which of course, would change, for as a wife, she would be expected to stay with her husband and his family during a holiday season.

It seemed interminable. Like all of this drudgery.

Arthur had said he’d fought hard to keep her plans for the Matterhorn intact for this summer. Fairport had fought any future promises, but contractually, he had to allow her time to be at the Matterhorn this summer and he had no say in who might accompany her.

This meant Julian, of course. That despite a marriage to Fairport, she could still climb the Matterhorn with Julian, but only if it happened this summer, and not the next.

The contract, the clothing, the constant chatter regarding Fairport, it all suffocated her. The only fresh breath of air she could gulp was when she thought of the Alps. Those days two summers ago when they climbed so many peaks surrounding Zermatt. The way the cold and sludgy spring melted into the buttery fresh summer. It was the best Ophelia had ever felt. The freest, most expansive feeling.

And now she’d found its opposite: the small world of London and its decaying ton . But it was this cloying suffocation that she was supposed to want. The oppressive wet grayness that was her greatest achievement. It made her, frankly, want to wink out of existence. To take a step sideways into a shadow and go to sleep for a hundred years. Let her family continue on without her, oblivious to how she made herself smaller and smaller, until they didn’t notice that she had disappeared.

The seamstress stopped taking measurements and scurried off. Eleanor shut the magazine and came over, taking hold of Ophelia’s hand.

“How are you faring?” Eleanor asked, straining her neck to look up at Ophelia from where she stood on the center platform.

“As well as could be expected,” Ophelia said, not wanting to lie.

“You don’t seem...” Eleanor trailed off, examining Ophelia further. “You seem very unhappy.”

“I am.” Ophelia didn’t feel there was any way around saying so.

“Ophelia, if you do not want to marry Lord Fairport, do not. There is no pressure.”

Ophelia stared down at Eleanor and had the urge to laugh. But she didn’t, as she knew Eleanor would not understand. Instead, Ophelia pointedly looked at her mother and sister holding court amongst bolts of fabric. “Is there not?”

Eleanor glanced over at them and set her mouth in a line. “If your family requires you to marry him, you may come live with us. There is no reason to sacrifice yourself for some ridiculous idea of family honor.”

An angry chuckle moved as a wave in Ophelia’s body. Was there not? She was a Bridewell. She was the daughter of a viscountess. For nearly a thousand years, blood was spilled to elevate one family over another, and hers had survived. They survived by alliances, by blood pacts in the form of shared children. Her job, her very existence, was to be in service of this centuries-old tradition. And there wasn’t pressure?

Ophelia opened her mouth to educate Eleanor on all the ways her family’s title made their traditions different than those of a ship captain’s family, but was rescued by Portia.

“I’m famished. Let’s take a small break from this, shall we? A little tea and cake helps everything.” Portia seemed to be getting thicker around the middle, and it could be tea and cake, or it could be another child on the way. Not that Ophelia minded any excuse for a respite from this tedium. A seamstress came back in and helped Ophelia back into her dress and adjusted her garments and clucked about her hair.

But Eleanor’s offer stuck in Ophelia’s mind. Arthur would be most unhappy if she did not carry through with this marriage to Fairport—after all, he had spent the time negotiating a contract. And he would be responsible for caring for Ophelia if she did not marry at all. She would be a burden on him. A burden to Lady Emily and their child when it came.

They bustled down the street to duck into the closest café. The weather was volatile, and not for being out in. But her mother had been insistent they do this today. Granted, the weather had not been this bad earlier.

As they were settled in at a table, and tea was brought, Ophelia saw a sliver of hope in the distance. She could not abandon her family and not marry. But she had remained unattached this far. Could she not ask to wait until after her Matterhorn ascent to marry? Yes, that was preferable. There would not have to be such a scuffle about merely a postponement.

Instead of spending her preparatory season buying a trousseau and setting up house, she could focus on the Matterhorn and outfitting herself and her company. She had Eleanor and Tristan, Justine and Karl. Prudence had said she would go, but Ophelia wasn’t certain Prudence would be back from her world travels in time. She would write to her and see.

She didn’t know if Sir Julian was still amongst their party. He had not specifically said he would not go, which is what Ophelia waited to hear from him. Otherwise, could it all be just a misunderstanding?

She would plan for eight members, just in case. And that space in her accounting ledger where the money from the RGS was supposed to be... she wouldn’t count it, just to be safe.

It made her feel better, just the thought of planning. Because if she could do the Matterhorn, nothing else in her life would matter. And if she stepped sideways into those shadows afterwards, no one would notice.

*

Stepping into the study made her stomach flip. This room had been her father’s domain, and she hadn’t wanted to see how it had changed now that Arthur had taken over. While they weren’t a family that kept up with the royal set, there were still land and estates to be watched over and dealt with. A land steward met with Arthur a few times a year, and then there was a passel of officious men who paraded through as well. Money men and accountants and managers. Ophelia had always ignored them. It had come as a shock to find out that Prudence was marrying Mr. Leo Moon, after all, since he’d been one of those men that had paraded for so many years. It was odd to think of those men as having lives outside of their time sitting in her father’s study.

It was late now, but the lamps were still blazing, so Ophelia didn’t feel as if she were encroaching on any special time of Arthur’s. They’d finished dinner hours ago, and their mother and Lady Emily had retired, too. Ophelia knocked at the door, even though it sat well ajar.

As she spied him, his head bent scribbling at the wide mahogany desk, it seemed so much like a scene from her childhood that her throat caught. How many times had she burst into this room demanding her father’s attention? And how willingly he had given it. She would sit on his foot while his legs were crossed and he would bounce her while he balanced a ledger. Or she would chatter at him endlessly about whatever her latest hobby was while she sat on his desk and he sat back in his chair, his hands folded over his middle, listening.

And here was Arthur. Stepping into those same shoes. The idea was dizzying, the repetitive nature of it all, how the circle had turned and while her father was gone, Arthur was here, training himself to be the father to a new child that was blossoming in Lady Emily’s womb. But where was she? Stuck in time. Frozen. Unable to be a part of the circle, because she didn’t have the faintest idea where she would be happy if she were not the child.

“Come in,” Arthur said without lifting his head. “I hear you lurking, Ophelia.”

“How did you know it was me?” she asked, finally crossing over the threshold.

“I can hear that flicking thing you do with your nails.”

She looked down at her hand, unaware that she had even been doing it. “I wanted to speak with you.”

Finally he looked up, and the illusion that he was her father dissipated like fog blown off the Thames by a breeze. His wide-set eyes and pointed chin were an echo of a different relative, one that they did not know. His resemblance to their father was not as pronounced as Tristan’s. Arthur motioned to the chair opposite. “Unless you’d rather sit more comfortably by the fire?”

Ophelia scooted across the room and sat in the chair he gestured towards. “This is fine.”

There were dark circles under his eyes, and he looked tired, but he still gave her a kind smile. “What would you like to talk about?”

“The er—” Ophelia hoped he wouldn’t be mad at her. “The marriage contract.”

Arthur’s eyebrows lifted as he clicked his tongue. “Would you like to see it?”

Ophelia folded her hands. “I was wondering if we could postpone it.”

Arthur frowned. “The contract is signed. There is no postponing it.”

“The wedding, I mean. The actual marriage part.” Her fingers itched to start their clicking sequence, but she held them fast.

“Why? What has happened?”

“I wish to climb the Matterhorn unencumbered.” That was the truth, but she knew that it might not sound real to anyone else. What would it matter if she had a husband at the bottom or not?

“If you’re worried he would stop you, don’t be. It’s there, in the contract, that you will climb it and he has no power to keep you from it.”

“I understand that those are the words on a piece of paper,” Ophelia met his eye. She hoped he could understand how very different life was for people in a world where a contract might be broken. “But what does he forfeit if he does prevent me from going?”

“Oh, er, I’d have to check—” Arthur rummaged in the desk drawers.

“But it’s more than that, Arthur. The wedding will happen, and then there will be a house to set up, and a staff to meet, and rounds, and what if I fall pregnant?”

Arthur blushed past his hairline at the mention of his own wife’s condition. “Ophelia!”

“You needn’t be so prudish,” she admonished. “Honestly. Your wife is with child.”

“Yes, but you are a maiden. ”

“An old maiden.” Ophelia sagged. Her nerves fell away, replaced only with the deep and weighty sadness. “I have one thing in my life that I’d like to do, Arthur. One. I don’t care about the rest of it. Let me climb the Matterhorn. Please.”

Arthur contemplated her for a moment. “Is this because you do not like Lord Fairport?”

She sighed. “I don’t dislike him.”

“But do you like him enough to marry?” Arthur suddenly leaned forward. “Father was very clear with me, that no matter what, I was to allow you your choice of husband, and I intend to honor that. But if you don’t tell me what you want, then I cannot know.”

Her eyes welled up. “Oh, Arthur.” They were the two that were least alike. She knew that he thought her strange and contrary. But what she wanted? She wanted something that never could be hers. To be the first woman up the Matterhorn. To wake up in the arms of a loving and honest Julian. To spend her years planning climbs and adventures with like-minded women—and men!—without the speculation and comments from a judgmental and curious society.

But those were as false as a golden slipper left on a staircase at midnight.

“Please. I’ll marry him the second I return to London.”

“He’ll accuse me of trying to wriggle out of a contract,” Arthur said. When she didn’t say anything, he added, “But if you don’t wish to marry him for any reason, anything at all, let’s tear it up. You don’t like how he holds a cricket bat.”

A laugh burst out of her unexpectedly. “I haven’t the faintest how he holds one.”

“Perhaps he chews his food too thoroughly.”

“Or he treats his mother too kindly.” Ophelia relaxed, realizing that her brother was on her side. She had been so scared that he would make her go through with it before the summer. They could put off the trousseau, the clothes, all of it. What a relief.

“He is an absolute pushover for stray animals.” Arthur mirrored her relieved posture. “It’s going to be all right, Ophelia. And I know you think otherwise, but Emily and I have spoken, and we are fine if you and Mama stay here for years to come. Neither of you are a burden.”

Ophelia nodded. It had been that word that chased her, burden . “Thank you, Arthur. You’re a good brother. But I do try to keep my word, you know. I’ll marry upon my return.” She stood and crossed the study, noticing that it was the same and yet absolutely different in the room.

“Ophelia?” Arthur called.

She turned, expecting him to give her details on when he might call upon Lord Fairport.

“I’m proud of you, you know. I’m astonished at what you have already accomplished, and I support you as fully as I am able.”

A breathy and tearful laugh came out this time. “You are going to make an excellent father, Arthur. As I would expect. You had the best teacher.”

“The very best,” Arthur agreed. “Good night.”

Ophelia nodded again, blinking back the sudden tears in her eyes. At least she would no longer have to bear the expectation of Lord Fairport as she prepared herself for the Alps. That was a problem for September and no sooner.

*

Anything to keep thoughts of Ophelia at bay. Anything to keep him occupied so he wouldn’t crash into her house, find her, and ruin her life because he could. More details had arrived about the South American venture from RGS, after all applicants were interviewed.

More assaying of mountains, though no desire for his experience with making topographical measurements. There would be some venture into the interior, but not much, thank goodness. That green hell was home to bugs that laid eggs under the skin. Julian had seen these hatch out of a man’s elbow once, and that was enough to put him off the Amazon indefinitely.

RGS invited him to write an application essay, which occupied his days. Once he’d managed a decent draft, he went to the Society’s building to write out the final copy. He didn’t want any sort of chance that it could wind up wrinkled or smudged. After he had finished it and set it aside to dry, he turned to the provisions list. Any potential investor needed a reasonable estimate of what upfront costs were required to achieve this goal. In fact, his experience in this regard made him an excellent candidate.

Deep in concentration, he didn’t hear the steps behind him.

“Did you do this?” Fairport barked at Julian.

Julian’s head swiveled towards the doorway of the library. Fairport looked positively individualistic as he stood his ground. He seemed somehow taller than before, and if he were any other man, Julian might conclude he was perturbed by something. On Fairport, he seemed merely expressive.

“Do what?” Julian asked, sliding the papers covered in damp ink farther into the middle of the table to protect them.

“Miss Bridewell has postponed our wedding ceremony, and I ask you, is it at your bidding, sir?”

Julian stood, blocking line of sight to his papers, so no other intrepid adventurer might see his work and steal it for his own. He wanted this assignment. He needed this next assignment, for his sanity and his livelihood. Besides, there were only so many South American explorers who hadn’t any interest in rubber or the Amazon.

“I have no knowledge of Miss Bridewell’s motivations, nor have I spoken to her.” Much to his shame. He had not been able to bring himself to her doorstep since that fateful day. Instead of finding her on Bond Street and begging her forgiveness for turning in an article that was attributed to him, he hid inside RGS.

If all went well, he would leave London for another decade, have another life in South American. He would return to England to meet the young progeny of his friends once again. Except this time, he would be a proper old man. Englishmen had a tendency to age exponentially in South America, and while Julian escaped that the first go-round, he likely wouldn’t escape the second.

“All those months of negotiating,” Fairport moaned, trudging into the room, as if Julian’s innocence prompted a new conversation. “I thought it seemed odd, that she wanted to go with you. I understand you were her father’s friend, and thus, Paris was you watching after her and all that—”

Julian’s face almost flamed, but he kept a hold on himself. Paris had not been fatherly. His intent on meeting Ophelia there had nothing to do with keeping her safe, but rather with basking in her glow. In being unable to control the pull he felt towards her.

“So naturally I agreed to the terms of you accompanying her to Switzerland when I finally understood the dynamic.” Fairport dropped into the chair next to Julian’s, which obliged Julian to sit down as well.

Julian opened his mouth to protest that he wasn’t going to Switzerland with Ophelia. They hadn’t spoken in months now. There couldn’t be any doubt in her mind that he would not go with her. Could there? But she was quite stubborn. She might see it as his word of honor, and not understand that while men would do insane things to uphold their honor, breaking their heart willingly was often a bridge too far.

“But now she is insisting on putting off the wedding until she returns from that venture.” Fairport put his head in his hands. “It makes me think you aren’t a father figure. Are you or are you not?”

Julian opened his mouth and closed it again, unsure of how to proceed. No matter what he said, he would end up looking like an utter arsehole. Instead, he reached behind him and grabbed the hopefully dry papers. “I intend to be on my way to Argentina this summer, friend. I won’t be going to Switzerland.”

Fairport’s shoulders slumped in relief and he pushed the paperwork back in front of Julian, not bothering to look. “Oh, thank the Lord.”

Julian stared at the papers he’d written. The dates expected, the money he asked for to upkeep himself while away. The numbers jumped out at him. His boat left two weeks before prime climbing season. She would be there in the grassy Alps, her blond hair pinned back in braids, and he would be on a boat, buffeted by the smells of other passengers below deck and then the open sea above.

He didn’t like the emotion those images brought to the fore of his mind. But it couldn’t be helped. His chest was hollowed out; the excision of Ophelia from his heart had taken the rest of him with it. “I had no idea you were so attached to her.”

“Attached? I suppose I am,” Fairport said, musing. “She is a rather odd bird, but intelligent, and very pretty.”

Very pretty like the Matterhorn was awfully tall. “If you aren’t in love with her, then why are you so anxious to secure this marriage?”

Fairport waved his hand. “Oh, you know how it is. Debts. Need a dowry and all that.”

Julian felt as if he had been punched in the stomach. Hadn’t part of Fairport’s allure been that he didn’t have any debts? Was that assumed because he was so excruciatingly boring that no one wanted to know his personal business? “Debts?”

“Mum has been on me to marry anyhow. Heirs and all that bit. Which is fine, I have no trouble there. Got one by accident some years back, but managed to keep that on the sly. Dear Mama has no idea about him.”

Julian was about to choke. Ophelia was going to marry this wobbling piece of blanc mange? Who had already fathered a bastard? He didn’t think Fairport had it in him, but apparently he was wrong. Did Ophelia know this? Did her brothers? Surely they wouldn’t put her in such a position, or sell her to a man who needed her money?

“And if I marry some untitled heiress, then everyone will know I have money troubles. But I needed to know how hard to fight for this. If it’s just her brother indulging her girlish fancies, then I’ve naught to worry. Say, I’ve a rather good tip on a horse. Whatever you’ve got, we can add to mine, and you can have a cut of the winnings.”

But then, who was he to say? He listened to Fairport prattle on about horses and lineages, and which place was more secure to lay bets at. Was this what Ophelia would spend the rest of her evenings listening to? She was so much smarter than Fairport, so much more interesting. To pair such a flower with this drab shrubbery seemed inhumane.

Did her family know about the mistress and his bastard already? Did Ophelia? No, this was not his business. Not his at all. But surely, he should go visit her and feel it out, shouldn’t he? A woman should not enter into such a situation without knowing she already had competition. Delphine had taught him that.