Page 2 of Into the Sky With You (The Ladies Alpine Society #4)

F ormal dress was a costume unto itself. While on his travels, Sir Julian had taken on the garb of a local miner, a gentleman traveler, and finally, his own brand of explorer. But the one thing they all had in common was comfort and durability. This—the tightly tailored white waistcoat, the stiff collar—felt the most absurd. He’d rather smear on the greasy paint that protected his skin on the worst summer days of the high Andes than this.

Nicholas frowned as he stepped back. “Pardon me sir, but something still isn’t right, but for the life of me, I can’t figure out what it is.”

“It’s me, Nicholas. I’m the part that isn’t right. My God, I feel ridiculous.” Julian stood in front of the full-length mirror, grateful for the man’s attentions. If it weren’t for him, Julian would feel a bigger fool. It was at Lady Rascomb’s insistence that he attend tonight. He was the support for her and Miss Ophelia, as it was their first outing since mourning.

He’d been visiting them on the regular for a few weeks, enjoying their chats—and their cake. At first he went because it was comforting to be amongst the women his mentor had loved. London felt more welcoming to him because of their hospitality. Over the weeks that had passed, he visited because they made him smile, and he, in turn, made them smile as well. They seemed to look forward to his regular visits, too, greeting him with plum cake and tea, books and maps. Now it was time for him to do his part to ease their discomfort.

Nicholas snapped his fingers. “It’s the details, sir. Have you a pocket watch?”

“Are you sure you aren’t trained as a valet?” Julian asked as he pointed to the dressing table in the corner, where his father’s pocket watch rested. It had not seen the light of day in ten years, stuffed down at the bottom of his trunks for safekeeping. At one low point, upon arrival by ship to Peru, he had considered selling it for the quick money he could get in order to buy food. But then he found his stories of adventure made him a prized dinner guest, and he dined out on his mountaineering experience for the rest of his time there, when he wasn’t nibbling on his provisions in the bush.

“No, sir,” Nicholas said, rummaging through the desk until he found the piece. He looked at it critically. “Needs polish. Do you mind so very much if I take a moment?”

Julian waved him off. “Take all the time you need. I am not looking forward to this evening.”

Nicholas straightened in surprise before continuing to rummage through a basket of polishes stowed in Julian’s dressing area. “I thought this was a much sought-after invitation. It made the gossip sheets.”

“It is.” Julian sighed. “I know I ought to be grateful. But I’m not accustomed to this type of life anymore. It’s been over a decade since I waltzed properly. The parties I’ve been to lately were raucous, and filled with a pidgin Spanish and English, inappropriate jokes, and inappropriate gestures. There was drinking and dancing, and often a fistfight, or at least those on nights where there wasn’t a knife-fight.”

Nicholas’s eyes grew rounded and he stopped searching for the polish.

“I don’t say this to scare or titillate you, Nicholas. I’m only saying that I don’t know how to conduct myself. I’m nearly forty, and I’ve forgotten how to be an English gentleman.”

The man found the polish and the rag and went at Sir Robert’s pocket watch. His legacy was one that Sir Julian benefitted from, but one he would like to distance himself from all the same. “If I may say, you are famous enough and handsome enough that it won’t matter your manners. The ladies will be dazzled all the same.”

His heart ached when Nicholas mentioned ladies. There was a Maria-shaped hole in his heart still, after all these years. Maria, which hadn’t even been her name, but was what the Spaniards had dubbed her, and that which she insisted he call her. At least, until she left him.

The gossip had named Sir Julian as an eligible bachelor, his baronet title a gilded treat on top of his reputation. But no one seemed to realize that he didn’t have a fortune of his own. Very little had come from Sir Robert, and Julian was beholden to the Royal Geographical Society to fund his exploration. He’d stretched his budget with gem-trading, sketch portraiture, and eventually, regaling the public with his adventures.

Whichever woman wanted him would have to have wealth of her own, because he couldn’t provide for anyone. Not that he wanted a wife. What would he do, settle down back in London for domesticity? He felt like a dog dressed up in finery.

Nicholas finished polishing the watch, affixed it to his waistcoat, the gold chain drawing a dashing line across Sir Julian’s lean abdomen. Then Julian got a cab to Lord Sutherford’s party, where he was ushered in amongst a crush of carriages, hansom cabs, and top-hatted dandies. The overpowering smell of ambergris, a dark animal musk used as the basis of most colognes and perfumes, gave Julian a hint of a headache. He’d rather be in the crush with everyone’s unwashed servants. They, at least, smelled like people.

Julian rode the wave of polite society like a balsa raft on the whitewater-plagued Amazon river, until he was deposited into the sea of people in the ballroom. Despite the fact that he was dressed as every man here, he still felt like he stuck out, obvious and foolish. But soon, his Royal Geographical fellows surrounded him, welcoming and congratulating him on his triumphs.

“Splendid article,” said one man whose name Julian couldn’t remember.

“The perfect balance between the scientific numbers and the conversant tale-telling we all long for in an explorer’s narrative,” said Lord Sutherford.

Sir Julian ducked his head in humble thanks as he was smothered with compliments he wasn’t certain were genuine. They probably were, but he’d lost his ability to read the subtle emotional range of the British aristocracy.

He could absolutely tell when a Spaniard was about to draw a knife in a tavern, though. Or when a nonverbal trade with a tribesman was going woefully wrong. And he could read the sky and a mountain and a river far better than any person.

“Ah,” Lord Sutherford said, maneuvering himself to a new position in their tight circle of gentlemen. “I would like to present to you Lord Rascomb.”

Julian’s chest caved in for a moment until he saw the tall man approach. The new Lord Rascomb. Arthur, as Miss Ophelia called him. Julian remembered him from before, when he hadn’t yet filled out, and was as gangly as any tall young man could be, with widely spaced eyes that gave him the look of some unfortunate sea creature. In fact, he recalled the younger brother calling him something dreadful but accurate during those dinners.

“Sir Julian, I am so pleased to finally make your acquaintance again after all these years.” This new Rascomb inclined his head, to which Julian gave a low bow.

“Your father was an incalculable influence, Lord Rascomb. I give my condolences and my gratitude to your family for sharing him with me. At your service.” Julian heard the men around him give hums of approval. At least he was able to perform some of his manners correctly. The words were earnest and from the heart.

“I understand you have been calling upon my mother and sister since your return to London. Please let me extend my gratitude for keeping them company and sharing your relationship with my father with them while I was in the country. I know for my mother particularly, she finds your presence a balm.”

Lady Rascomb was only eighteen years his elder, but she treated him like another son. Her maternal affection was unmistakable. At first, it nettled him that he was treated like an adult child rather than an equal or even a potential suitor, but he soon realized that she would never remarry. Her husband had been the love of her life, and she had no intention of finding another man. Indeed, why would she?

He wondered how Miss Ophelia thought of his visits: if she felt his company to be a balm as well. She was still somewhat reserved in his presence, as if she were keeping a secret. But each week she smiled more, welcomed him more. She quizzed him on adventures and locations, mineral deposits and gemstones. Julian had noticed the smoky topaz swinging from Miss Ophelia’s ears, no doubt coming from the box of them he’d shipped to Lord Rascomb years ago, as thanks for helping him secure the funding for his adventure. It was gratifying to see them adorning a beautiful woman, but he dared not comment on it. He did not want her to think she owed him anything. As it stood, Julian owed her the stories of her father’s wisdom and generosity of spirit.

“Are they here? I should wish to bid them good evening.” Julian looked around the crowd, but did not see them.

“Indeed, their first night out since father passed. It’s quite the occasion.” Rascomb gestured over to the far wall, where the older matrons, spinsters, and wallflowers dwelled.

Julian frowned. “Surely your sister will be dancing.”

It was Rascomb’s turn to frown. “If someone asks her, but she is quite on the shelf.”

“I say!” said the man Julian couldn’t remember.

“Uncalled for, Rascomb,” said another.

“But she is very beautiful, are you not providing an ample dowry?” Julian asked, ignoring the calls of Rascomb’s rudeness at his sister’s expense.

Finally, he caught sight of Miss Ophelia, who looked a vision this evening. She was in dark blue silk, trimmed with a contrasting white lace that ran in patterns across the bell of her skirt. Her shining blonde hair was done up with matching silk ribbons, curled and braided in ways he could not track. She was beautiful in her drawing room, a serious crease between her eyebrows, but here, she was dazzling.

“Of course I will provide a reasonable dowry, but if you must know, she is eight-and-twenty now.” Rascomb lowered his voice to whisper her age.

When he was a younger man, full of London norms and social cues, he would have likely been just as callous about a woman’s age as Rascomb was. But now, it didn’t seem to matter. There was the issue of childbirth yes, of course, continuing a family line and whatnot, but he’d seen woman her age and much older dominate the taverns and parties in the new world. Beauty paired with a comely spirit made age irrelevant.

“Why would that affect her prospects?” Julian asked, a question he had not meant to say aloud.

“Excellent point, sir!” the man Julian could not remember exclaimed, and Julian did not care for the spark that seemed to flare in the man’s eyes. The reason why Julian could not remember this man was because he was bland. His voice, his features, his bearing, all as forgettable as the fifth gingerbread man. They all looked the same on a tray at a bakery.

“By all means, should you wish to dance with her and break up the monotony of her day, I give my support.” Rascomb looked over at his sister.

Julian knew his morals and beliefs had changed due to his years of travel. No longer could he subscribe to the Sunday preacher’s ideas of natural order for women—or other men! There was no hierarchy to adhere to that placed him at the top. He’d met the peoples of the Amazon who ventured out to trade—for he was not a big enough fool to venture into that green hell—who spoke of groups led by women, and also ones where women fought side by side with the men. Also of tribes where it was the men who cared for the children once they ceased to nurse at their mothers’ breasts.

There was no God-given order to life. And he’d also learned that life was precarious, precious, and chaotic. There was no room for manufactured rules that benefited the few, when the many were ubiquitous. It was why he dreaded returning to the Royal Geographical Society, as it was there that Sir Robert espoused his King James Bible-based ideas that women needed to be servile. Where Sir Robert had listened as others espoused the ideas of finding the elusive men whose faces were in their torsos and possessed the minds of small children, as their forebears had once suspected.

And to men who put ideas first and proof second, there was no explaining nor convincing.

“Then I shall be the first to dance with the maiden,” said the bland, forgettable man.

Julian scowled as he watched him weave through the crowd. “Have they been introduced?”

“Fairport? Ages ago. Never thought he was much interested after my other sister married Garrett Preston.” Rascomb turned to watch the spectacle of prying a woman out of the wallflower nest.

Given what Julian had seen of Miss Ophelia so far, he expected to see her reject the man’s overtures. Fairport, apparently, was his name. Julian repeated it to himself in order to make sure he remembered it. While he didn’t like the man, it was still useful to know who belonged where. And Fairport was a member of the RGS. In the coming months, his good favor could be a deciding vote on whether or not Julian obtained another commission. “Your other sister—Miss Portia Bridewell—she married Garrett Preston?”

“Indeed. He is a barrister and will likely become a member of the House of Commons soon. Ambitious fellow. Hardworking.”

Julian clucked his appreciation. He remembered Garrett Preston as a timid and whiny child who hated attending his father’s lectures at RGS. The other son, the older one, had been the paragon of an earl’s son, which was likely why Garrett had rebelled. Not that it mattered. It only made Julian feel old and out of touch. His inner self felt the same as it always had—yearning for adventure, clean air, and a singleness of purpose.

But he’d spotted flashes of silver in his stubble not long ago, and no doubt if he grew out his beard, it would be a speckle of salt and pepper colors. He didn’t belong in a ballroom as a bachelor.

“Sir Julian, could I persuade you to meet my family?” another man asked. What was his name? “Fecund” was all he could come up with, but he knew it wasn’t correct.

“I should be delighted,” Julian answered with as much respect as he could muster. Still, all he could think was “fecund.” No, Lund! The man was Frances, Lord Lund. That was it. He shook his head and followed him through the maze of dark trousers and swirls of fabrics. He hoped he was being introduced to a spouse, and not daughters.

*

Ophelia blinked at the man asking her to dance. But she could almost feel her mother’s glee as she watched from one chair over. It had been ages since she’d danced. They’d been in Zermatt for the Season one year, then her father died, so they’d not been at the next Season, and then here they were, returning. She hadn’t expected to dance at all, given her age. Given her strange pursuits.

But here was Lord Fairport, asking for a twirl about the room.

“I hadn’t even picked up a dance card,” Ophelia said.

“Then may I assume it isn’t yet full?” Fairport said, and his little joke made him a touch more interesting than before.

“I daresay it is not. Thank you, Lord Fairport. I believe I shall dance.” Ophelia stood, allowing Fairport to take her hand as she did so. It made her feel younger, lighter, to have attentions such as these. Perhaps she wasn’t as miserable and alone as she’d felt in the last year, consumed with the guilt of her failure.

It was hard not to notice the look of triumph that he shot to her brother’s horde, grouped together like some kind of penguin-related spy ring.

Sliding across the parquet in her dancing slippers, she straightened her shoulders, knowing the perfect posture showed her neck in a lovely and graceful light. “I’m surprised you took the time to ask, Lord Fairport. I thought I would reside in the corner all evening.”

“You are too beautiful for that, Miss Ophelia.”

Her long gloves kept her from flicking her fingernails, but she still lightly touched her finger pads together, hoping no one would notice. Thumb, forefinger, middle finger, ring finger, pinkie, then back to thumb. Just once.

They took a position amongst the other dancers and began the opening minuet. But these steps had been drilled into her since she was a child, and they could not be unlearned even if she wanted. And Fairport was pleasing enough. He’d set his cap at Portia years earlier, and Ophelia didn’t want to be his consolation prize, but enough time had lapsed that it was unlikely.

They didn’t speak much during the dance, which was perfectly reasonable. Ophelia didn’t have anything much to say, and she was grateful to be able to count her steps, as while they were second nature, she was still a bit out of practice.

After the dance ended, Fairport returned her to the wallflower corner and offered to fetch her a drink.

“Fairport, how lovely to see you,” Ophelia’s mother said, rising to her feet.

Ophelia could see her mother already matching them up and pushing them to the altar. One dance a wedding did not make.

“You as well, my lady,” Fairport said with a gracious bow. They chatted as Ophelia let her mind drift to more interesting things.

She wondered if she might convince Sir Julian to teach her how to take the readings necessary to make a topographical map. If she could not be the mountaineer she wished to be, perhaps she could at least contribute to the world in this way. She didn’t mind some tedious tasks, as long as they were done after a strenuous hike up a mountain.

As if she had conjured him, Sir Julian appeared at her side.

“Good evening, sir,” she said, surprising even herself with how much pleasure was in her voice at the sight of him. He’d grown to be a fixture in their week, coming to call and bringing news of the Royal Geographical Society, his maps and articles. She’d even taken the time to edit his latest article after noting grammatical deficiencies in the one just published.

“I see you’ve already christened the dance floor,” he said.

Again, how different he looked dressed up in his formal attire. His black hair shone like a raven’s wing, and his dark eyes were warm and inviting. Indeed, having him stand next to all the other men here, he looked broader and fitter than most. His bearing was at odds with the rest of the company as well. Some men were ramrod straight from military service or from boarding schools for the aristocracy. But Sir Julian looked almost relaxed as he stood perfectly tall.

“I had not expected to dance this evening, but the minuet was very enjoyable,” she said. “This is the first I have been out in society since my father’s death. I did not think I would be able to enjoy it.”

His dark eyebrows raised. “Which implies that you are, in fact, enjoying yourself.”

“Indeed. Especially now that you are here.” Her cheeks flared in embarrassment. She sounded as coquettish as Justine! “I did not mean, that is, I am glad you are here, but I mean that—” she stammered.

He smiled broadly and held up his hand. One of his teeth slanted over another, she noticed for the first time. It was only apparent when he smiled that widely, which she hadn’t seen him do yet. It was a charming feature. “I understand what you meant. I did not think you meant to be forward.”

“When I am with friends, sometimes my mouth speaks ahead of me, and I say things that come out in unintended ways.” Although, she usually said things that angered or hurt her loved ones, not pleased them.

“I am flattered you consider me a friend. I would like to consider you one of mine as well.”

“Of course,” she answered.

Lord Fairport finished his conversation with her mother and caught her attention again. “It has been such a pleasant time with you, Miss Ophelia.”

“You as well, Lord Fairport.” Ophelia bobbed her courtesy and Fairport left. Her mother gave her an impressed look.

“Would you, my friend, care to take on the quadrille with me?” Sir Julian extended his white gloved hand in a formal manner.

She dropped her own hand into his. “It would be my pleasure, friend.”