Page 14 of Into the Sky With You (The Ladies Alpine Society #4)

J ulian was exhausted from horse racing. Not that he had anything to do with the horses. Or the racing, for that matter. But following two horse-crazy lords as they traipsed about Wales was more than he could handle. Fairport would have been in heaven. After three weeks of being at the beck and call of Lords Bordsterth and Costovin, with the hopes of obtaining that coveted commission for Argentinian silver mines, Julian would be happy to not look at a horse for at least a month.

He was hungover, which had been a perpetual state until he became slightly inebriated in the early afternoons. The men were drinkers of fine spirits, owners of horses, and gamblers of the first order. Which was likely why they were investing in developing more mining operations. More gemstones were arriving from various areas of the continent, and these men were betting on more. Silver was the money to be made, and accidental gemstone lodes were the ambition.

Which he could do for them. Surveys of the mountains were not for the sake of elevations, they were to determine composition, and likelihood of ore deposits. The boisterous lords made it seem like Julian had the job, now that he’d imbibed and gambled with them, but formal letters would be forthcoming. As of now, however, he was expected to be ready to depart London in June. He had two months left in the country of his birth.

He didn’t know why it felt like he was never returning, but it did. As if there was nothing for him to come home to. Without Ophelia, there really wasn’t. These men were merely walking coin purses, not mentors in thought and exploration as the last Lord Rascomb had been. And he had no family, no land. Nothing. A bank account, and a meager one at that. His eyelids felt heavy. He’d slept on the train, but he wouldn’t feel right until the brandy that had replaced his bloodstream had cycled through him.

“I thought coffee might be best, from the look of you,” Nicholas said, coming into the flat.

“Nicholas,” Julian said, grateful for the man’s clairvoyance. He snatched the cup up as soon as the valet placed the tray on the table. “You are saving my life.”

“Looked a bit worse for wear when you came in.” Nicholas stood back, his hands folded, giving Julian a look of sympathy.

The dark bitter liquid went down his throat, coursing into his system in welcome relief. It wasn’t a fine roast like he drank in Ecuador, but it was coffee when he’d had nothing but brandy and whisky. “I never want to see another horse race for as long as I live.”

“Did you not enjoy yourself?” Nicholas asked, taking it upon himself to open Julian’s one meager trunk to unpack.

“One day, maybe two, would have been enjoyable. Three weeks of talking about horses, breeding schedules, lineages...” Julian trailed off, his brain still foggy. He sighed. “And drinking. Always a spirit in one hand, a cigar in the other. I won’t breathe right ever again.”

Nicholas tutted sympathetically. “I’ve put your post there on the tray. Something from Miss Ophelia Bridewell, if I may be so bold as to bring your attention to it.”

Julian shot a look to the valet, to see if the man was teasing him or in some way meddling, but Nicholas went about his business, inspecting Julian’s clothes for stains. Before he could read anything, he finished his coffee. His stomach roiled under the weight of non-alcoholic liquid. The pile of post seemed unusually tall.

“A good slice of mutton ought to clear that right up,” Nicholas said. “Old cure that my da’ swore by.”

“Unless you have some in your pockets, that is not going to happen any time soon.” Julian pawed through the stack, noting that it was in chronological order, with the oldest on top, for ease of sorting. The top one was from Ophelia.

He opened the missive, a short thing, really, that invited him to call on her again, since she’d missed his visit due to the arrival of baby Agatha. He had a letter from a friend in Ecuador, which he put to the side to linger and read later. And then, near the bottom, another letter from Ophelia, thicker than the last.

Curious, he unfolded the letter to find that it was two pages long. She made no mention of Paris, nor emotions of any kind. Rather, this was a letter from an expedition leader to one of the mission’s members. It contained a packing list, train schedules, rendezvous points, addresses, and weather expectations. “What on earth?”

Ophelia really did believe he was meeting her in Switzerland. But it had been months since they’d spoken! How could she not know? Julian went to swing his jacket back on, but then, after re-examining the dates, realized she’d already left London. He winced. This was terrible. He felt like an utter cad. She would be so disappointed. According to her letter, her brother and sister-in-law were no longer joining, and neither were Mr. and Mrs. Moon, taking the expedition number down to only four of them: Mr. and Mrs. Vogel, Ophelia, and himself.

He preferred climbing in a smaller group than a bigger one. Less could go wrong. Fewer chances were taken. And in a dynamic of two obvious couples, it made the unspoken decisions all that much easier.

He shook his head. The weight of the past months crumbled on his head, covering him in an ash of shame. “I’m a terrible person.”

She was so na?ve and he’d been a coward. At nearly forty, he ought to have learned how to gracefully back out of an invitation. The idea had been his, an impulse in a wild moment of wanting to see pleasure on a beautiful woman’s face. No, not any beautiful woman. Ophelia’s.

And then he’d fallen in love with her—well, metaphorically speaking. Because he couldn’t actually be in love with her. She was barely more than a child, and he was a disgusting wretch for wanting her so badly. He felt old—incredibly old compared to her—and hated himself for ignoring the voice that kept him from taking her to bed.

But he’d done so. Willingly. Happily. And being with her had been better than he ever could have imagined. No virginal tears—that wasn’t Ophelia. Just a complete giving over of herself. She had trusted him so completely with her body and her heart.

Yet, when she’d asked for a story of his past, he had shut that door as fast as he could. He could see now that they’d made love, and she’d wanted to become closer to him, only, Julian couldn’t, because he didn’t want to talk about his failures. He didn’t want to show her whatever nameless part of him that wasn’t good enough for Maria. The part that caused Delphine to be jealous and rude. Could she not just accept him as he was? With his smattering of gray chest hairs and salt-and-pepper beard?

But she didn’t understand that because she didn’t have a past. At least, not then. Now he was her past. And Lord Fairport, that limpid liar, was her future. A man who wanted her for her money, and not for her unusual, incredible self. Ophelia hadn’t mentioned a wedding date in her letter, so perhaps Fairport had let her postpone the ceremony?

Julian would write to her—it looked as if she’d still be in Augsburg. He could post a letter to both Augsburg and Zermatt to catch her. Which should be enough. This wasn’t something he needed to go in person to explain, was it? No. That was foolishness. No one travelled across Europe just to say he was not pursuing further contact. Height of absurdity.

While he stayed at his flat the rest of that day, berating himself for his willingness to hurt a perfectly lovely girl, the next morning he found himself drawn to Tristan Bridewell’s outfitter as soon as it opened.

“Sir Julian!” Tristan announced, his eyes lighting up when they found him.

Julian bowed and greeted his friend. He was glad to see he received a warm salutation. After his abandonment of the Bridewell family for so many months, he wasn’t sure how he would be received.

From a curtained-off area, a woman’s head appeared. “Sir Julian?”

Julian peered around the corner of a four-staked tent that would absolutely not work in Alpine conditions, to see Mrs. Bridewell’s face. She looked odd, somehow not like herself, but he couldn’t place it. As he stepped further into the shop, she emerged with an expression that was not as welcoming as her husband’s.

She folded her arms in front of her and stood next to Tristan. “Good to finally see you,” she said, the invitation to explain himself laying in every clipped syllable.

“Yes, and you as well.” Julian clasped his hands behind his back, unsure of himself under the scrutiny of Ophelia’s sister-in-law. “I, er, I was wanting to, of course, offer felicitations on Lord Rascomb’s new arrival.” He felt warmth creep up his throat and into his cheeks.

Tristan nodded happily, but Mrs. Bridewell showed no emotion.

“And, I’ve been so busy this winter, interviewing a, well, ah, that’s not important, is it?” Julian’s throat was dry. “What I would like to say is that I only yesterday received Miss Bridewell’s letters.”

“Did you?” Mrs. Bridewell said, her expression clearly waiting for more explanation or apology or something. Oh drat, had he cocked this up so badly? Yes. Yes, he had.

He licked his lips, wincing as he tried to prepare his next verbal volley. “I have written to her, in duplicate of course, one letter to Augsburg, one to Zermatt, just in case the post doesn’t catch her in time.”

“Catch her in time for what?” Tristan frowned.

“To tell her to not expect me for the Matterhorn ascent, of course.” Julian scanned their faces. Both of them looked properly shocked. That was not a good sign.

Mrs. Bridewell recovered first. A frown would be an understatement. Her face creased into an anger he had only seen in the most extreme situations. “You are abandoning her again?”

Tristan heard the spitting tones of his wife and immediately popped his hands up as if he were refereeing between them. “Now, let’s hear him out. Not everyone is suited for such an endeavor.”

“I’m perfectly fit,” Julian asserted, his hackles rising in response to Mrs. Bridewell’s volley. “But I am not obligated to go on her expedition.”

The slow turn of Mrs. Bridewell’s head reminded Julian of a raptor focusing on its newfound prey in the grasses. “Obligated? To go on an expedition you proposed? That she has spent months planning to make it easy for you ? And when no funds that you promised from the RGS came in, she renegotiated her dowry to facilitate this, for you . But you aren’t obligated?”

Thoughts and emotions tumbled through Julian’s mind. Her dowry? He shook his head. “Lord Fairport is marrying her without a dowry?” That made no sense. The man had been salivating after it.

“My brother convinced him to stay the wedding until after the Matterhorn expedition.” Tristan tried to bodily move his wife towards a chair that sat in the corner, but she would not be budged. She glared with her full force at Julian.

A crystal bubble formed in his heart. This tiny, iridescent precious pearl of information began to bump around in his chest. He recognized it: hope.

“Get your hands off me, Tristan. I swear to the Lord Almighty if you touch me again, I will take one of those blasted tent stakes and absolutely wreck this shop,” Mrs. Bridewell spat.

Tristan snatched his hands away, but continued a soft-faced pleading. “My love, the baby, though. You are very emotional right now, and it’s not something—”

The look of pure hatred that flashed on the woman’s face combined with Tristan’s whisperings about a baby made it instantly clear why they would not be on the expedition. And also explained why his presence was so hated. Mrs. Bridewell had clearly wanted to go; when else would an opportunity come for her?

And now here was Julian throwing that opportunity away. Her points of inconveniencing Ophelia also hit the mark. He’d spent the past months wishing he could bury his head in the sand... of another country entirely.

He’d put all of this squarely on Ophelia’s shoulders, for wanting more of him. But this was his fault. Spending so much time alone had given him the privilege of absolute privacy at all times. As soon as someone asked for more than his surface level, he ran. Literally booked the next train home. Shit.

But there was no way to change it now. If he suddenly turned down the offer to survey silver mines, then what kind of career did he have? Was he really willing to turn down a decade worth of work to chase after a girl who was far too young for him anyway?

What a terrible time to have such an epiphany.

“Will you please just sit down? Eleanor.” Tristan pleaded with his wife as all these revelations fell around Julian’s head.

“Letters are the very least you could do. Even though we all know you should do more,” Mrs. Bridewell shot at him as she allowed herself to be herded into the back corner’s chair.

Julian fiddled with his hat, realizing he was clutching it tight enough to ruin the brim. He had obligations before Ophelia, of course. His career. His monetary solvency. These had to be priorities first. He had to think of his future. But what was his future when he was entirely alone?

“I have another appointment,” Julian called to the back of the small shop, trying to leg it out of there as fast as he could. Because, when was he not? But the other appointment was true. “I still have a matter to discuss with you, Mr. Bridewell, but perhaps another time.”

Tristan waved him off, still herding his angry wife.

“Yes, good to see you! I’ll be off!” Julian said, escaping the store. His actual real appointment that was not at all made up was at the RGS printers. There was much groveling to be done, promises from Mr. Bates to extract, and likely a bribe to be paid to Mr. Murray.

Later, after the sun had set, he plodded home in the twilight, where Nicholas accosted him with his post.

“This one seems to be important,” Nicholas said, turning as if he might peer over Julian’s shoulder to read it as well.

Julian thanked him for the prompt notification and headed up to his rooms to read it in private. It was the formal, expected offer from Lords Bordsterth and Costovin for the Argentinian silver expedition. They included a ticket for the ship sailing on June 15 th , and information on lodging arrangements upon arrival.

It was all set. His life could continue on, as if there had been no bump. No change. As if the man who’d returned from South America and the one that existed now were the same.

He wished for his mentor again. The only man he would have been able to speak with about such a difficulty. Who could he turn to now? None of his acquaintances here would be discreet enough, and there was no one who could be discreet enough that wouldn’t immediately side with Ophelia out of principle.

But he was nearly forty. It was time for him to grow up, think for himself. He didn’t need a sounding board to do what was right. For months he had dodged the responsibilities of an honorable man. He would start with what he could fix.

*

“This is so pretty!” Ophelia said, again, and again, and again, as Justine walked her around Augsburg’s squares. There were fountains in almost every single one, and it made the burgeoning spring weather all the more pleasant. There were many people sitting on benches reading, which seemed to be an excellent way to spend an afternoon. The sunshine on one’s face, a good book, the sound of a burbling fountain to add to the pastoral yet urban scene.

Justine’s expression was almost dreamy. “The only thing missing in Augsburg is you.”

Ophelia pulled her elbow tighter, which pressed Justine in close. “London is lost without you.”

Justine snorted. “You mean bored. What do they talk about now that they can’t talk about me?”

“They are bereft,” Ophelia said with mock mourning.

“They are vultures. But no matter. I am having my revenge—perfectly married and perfectly respectable as a merchant’s wife.”

It was Ophelia’s turn to snort. Merchant was technically true, but it didn’t encompass her friend’s large house with intricate architectural details that she was still noticing upon third and fourth looks. While nothing they wore or displayed was opulent, Ophelia knew well the difference between average cloth and exceptional craftsmanship. Justine’s dresses were modest, as befitting her status as a married woman, but there were of the best quality. Seams so small they were invisible.

Inside her home, everything was polished and tidy. There was not a fraying cushion or deflated pillow. The art was nicely framed and not too crowded on the walls, giving the entire house a bigger feel. Not that it needed to feel bigger when it was already more than ample. Their dinners were excellent, and the pastries were to Justine’s exacting palate: not too sweet. Ophelia could eat apfelkuchen every meal and be happy.

“Karl is too busy for us this evening. The big market is happening next month and he and his father are frenzied,” Justine said, moving them along past the Augustus fountain.

“I hadn’t noticed,” Ophelia said. She’d met Karl’s father, a lovely man who looked very much like his son, only not quite as tall, and half as broad. While Karl looked like a mountain guide, which he’d been when they’d met him, his father looked precisely like what he was: a prosperous merchant.

She wondered what Julian would think of Augsburg. Would he have insights about the fountains or the architecture? Would he know of the mythologies of Mercury and Hercules? Ophelia pushed the idea away. In front of her and Justine walked a man and a woman, arm in arm. They were easy and familiar in their movements, comfortable in a way that made Ophelia believe they were married.

That sucking sensation in her chest started again. The hollowed-out feeling that she had fought so hard against, that only helping Lady Emily through her labors had cured. That the primal arrival of life made insignificant. The only thing that could keep her feelings at bay was that balance.

The need to walk up a mountain sang through her blood. She needed the Matterhorn to fix her broken heart. Even if the man who had broken it was right alongside her, matching her step for step, it didn’t matter. So much of mountaineering was pushing until there was nothing left but one’s own pulse of life against the uncaring monolith of stone.

She’d sent a footman with her missive to his place of residence, hoping to receive a note in return, but when her man returned, he said that Sir Julian was gone to Wales for an extended venture with no forwarding address. So she waited to reach him, hoping for a note, or for him to show up during calling hours. But that didn’t happen. She put off leaving as long as she could, still stupidly waiting, believing that he would come.

But he didn’t. The hope that had buoyed her for those weeks popped, as insubstantial as a soap bubble. So she’d written the most professional letter she could manage, because she was beginning to suspect he didn’t want to climb the Matterhorn with her.

She didn’t doubt his willingness or desire to climb the mountain. The part that was making the trip untenable for him was her. And that hurt so much. Much more than she believed possible. The hurt generated that sucking maw in her chest. The one that whispered how unlovable she was along with every beat of her heart.

Ophelia clung to Justine, pushing those whispers down and away. Justine loved her. And that would have to be enough. But could it sustain her from now until eternity? She shuddered.

Justine glanced over with concern and pulled her close. “I’m always here. I will kick Karl out of his own house if that will make you happy.”

Tears clouded Ophelia’s eyes. Why did it hurt more to have someone love her? “No need. But thank you.”

“You’re first. He’s second.” They walked together, skirts swaying in time. “A distant second.”

Ophelia laughed, and it allowed her to pretend the tear escaping was from joy.

*

Julian kept himself as busy as he could. Planning, writing a new article, taking in all of London because he planned on never returning. He went to the opera, to plays, to chamber music. He walked along the Serpentine, and visited the British Museum. It was on one of his walks in Hyde Park that he ran into Delphine.

She was on horseback, a groom on a horse behind her. Julian raised his hand in greeting, using the movement to sweep his hat off in a gallant bow. The smile that spread across her face was genuine. Julian returned his hat to its perch on his head and waited for her to halt her horse.

She dismounted and handed the reins to her groom, informing him to meet her at the edge of the park. Julian was surprised by the order, giving him far more time to converse than he thought she would want.

“You look well,” he said, careful to not be so formal as to use her title, but not so impertinent to use her given name.

“As do you.” She smiled and swung her riding crop. “Will you walk me to the entrance?”

“Of course,” he said, and they fell into step. He could feel her examination of him, the smile that played upon her lips as she did so.

“I lied,” she said.

“Oh?” Julian turned to meet her gaze, which was nothing short of triumphant.

“You don’t look well. You look simply awful.”

He nodded, aware that he’d lost weight in the past few weeks, as he spent the hours he couldn’t sleep walking the length of London. Perhaps it was dangerous to make himself a target of the underbelly of London, but while he felt watched at times, he also felt that those pickpockets and cutthroats pitied him. As if they could sense his moral turmoil and his—if he dared say it—heartbreak.

Because he had finally come to realize that he had been ready to pitch himself head over heels into Ophelia’s world. He had loved being in Paris with her and her friends. The group of them had fit, even though he was new. The other men were doting sorts, proud of their accomplished and unusual wives. None of them required the chest pounding that often occurred when meeting a group of men. They were all so happy. Content. And he wanted to be among them.

Paris made it seem as if he could step into her world, her family, this bosom of warmth and support. The kind he’d never had. And at the center of it all was this charismatic, driven, intelligent, beautiful woman. She was a culmination and epicenter of an incredible group of people, and she led them.

The biggest miracle of all was that she wanted him . Broke, broken, and old. But she wanted to hear his stories, learn his perspectives. As if she wanted to live his life vicariously through him. And when she’d wanted one small, private bit, he’d shunned her for no other reason than he was appalled someone might ask for it. She had wanted to know him. To see him without all of the “adventurer” labels slapped all over his life. She’d wanted to know what love had looked like to him, and he couldn’t bring himself to tell her. Or even defend himself. His denial ate at him, gnawing like a mouse worrying a burlap sack, waiting for its contents to spill out.

“Do I look so tragic?” Julian asked, looking at Delphine.

She examined him again after her teasing, and her expression shifted from glee to cynicism. “You do. But I’m guessing it’s not caused by our parting.”

Julian licked his lips, hoping to come up with a happy turn of phrase that would soften the blow. “Ah. No.”

“Thought not,” Delphine murmured.

They walked in silence for a moment.

“I did miss your company,” Julian said, wanting to offer her something.

Delphine laughed, a brittle, almost sarcastic sound. “I’m sure you did.”

“Your friendship. Your eye for art, your appreciation of music.” Julian watched her as he clarified.

Her lips thinned. “We were better as friends, weren’t we?”

“I think so.”

She listed away from him, swinging her horse crop in her hand.

“What is it?” A leftover ember of affection smoldered in him. An echo of what she had wanted from him.

“It’s a pity. I rather liked you. More than friendship. At least, for a while.” She gave him a whisper of a smile.

“You would have tired of me in no time.”

“That’s probably true.”

June was almost upon them, and the park was crowded, even though it was not quite the fashionable hour yet. Julian didn’t like the crowds that came with the fashionable hour.

“It’s Miss Bridewell, isn’t it?”

Denying the claim flashed through his mind. But it was pointless. Delphine was an astute reader of people. “Yes.”

“But she was to marry Lord Fairport.”

Julian suppressed a shudder. “Yes.”

Even Delphine made a face. “If he was still wealthy, I could understand.”

Julian frowned. He knew from Fairport’s own mouth that he was in need financially, but was it that bad? “That bad?”

Delphine laughed. “After your girl postponed the engagement, Mama Fairport sent letters inviting all the age-appropriate heiresses from New York to Boston to visit her this summer. Expect a deluge of Americans in the ballrooms.”

Julian laughed at her tone of distaste. “I won’t be around much longer, so that isn’t a threat to me.”

“Yes, still pursing the lofty summit of the Matterhorn?”

“No. I took a contract in Argentina.”

Delphine stopped short and put her hand on his arm. “But why? You were so excited about the Alps.”

Julian shook his head, frowning. “It’s not right. I can’t, I mean, it’s hard to—” He stopped babbling and took a breath. Before he could start his thought anew, Delphine looped her arm through his.

“Heartbreak,” she said simply.

Julian nodded his head, feeling that burlap sack gnawed completely open, and his guts spilling out everywhere. “I can’t be that close to her and not confess my feelings. The last months have been agony. It’s better if I just stay away.”

Delphine nodded as they slowed to a stately amble. The entrance to the park was getting closer. The groom and her horses were at the ready for her. “Why should you not tell her? Why should you not be with her?”

Julian scoffed. “I’m old. I’m poor. My career takes me to the other side of the world for decades at a time.”

Delphine considered his options. “Age is relative. She’s rich. And why could she not go with you? Miss Bridewell strikes me as the sort of person who rather likes adventure.”

Julian blinked. It had never occurred to him that Ophelia would want to go with him. Or that staying in London and having a family might not be what she wanted for a future. He honestly didn’t know what she wanted. He felt like a complete dunce. Why had he never asked what she had wanted? Why had he assumed she would be like the conventional women of the ton , when she was organizing mountain expeditions instead of charity drives? “Oh.”

Delphine patted his shoulder as she extricated her arm from his. “Not that I meddle in other people’s personal affairs. However, I think you taking that contract is a mistake. You’ll find another one when the time is right. But if you never confess your feelings, if you never ask Miss Bridewell what she wants, you will shrivel. Take a chance, Julian. Give her that opportunity to be with you. The one you couldn’t give to me.” She gave him a wistful smile before turning to hail her groom.

Julian watched her mount and ride away. Pulling away from his present course seemed too difficult. If he broke his contract, would he ever be trusted by another company again? The clatter of other horses pulled him from his reverie. His walk home took longer than usual, his thoughts heavy and churning.