Page 3 of Into the Sky With You (The Ladies Alpine Society #4)

H e’d made the papers. Not for his insightful articles, not for his triumph or a topographical map. Not even for his excellent dancing. The scandal sheets loved his shoulders . It was embarrassing. Nicholas had brought up the papers specifically to call Julian’s attention to it.

“I think it’s a rather good thing,” Nicholas protested when Julian showed his dismay.

“Of all my accomplishments, it is my shoulders upon which my value sits?” Julian huffed.

“I think it’s nice anyone notices you at all,” Nicholas said, his face screwed up into a doubtful frown.

“Thank you, Nicholas, for your ringing endorsement.” Julian pulled on his waistcoat. He wished he were pulling on his hobnailed boots instead, setting up another isolated slope with his equipment.

“I only meant that some of us never get mentioned at all,” Nicholas said, handing him his jacket.

Julian accepted the apology and allowed the man to take a brush to his jacket. Today he was attending a lecture by another explorer about his venture into the Amazon jungle itself. He was curious how the man had fared, given his own experiences dallying around the edges. It was so unlike anywhere else in the world, he couldn’t imagine how to accurately prepare for a sojourn such as that.

And given the death toll of the expeditions that disappeared into the green hell, as it was named by adventurers, Julian had no interest in that sort of exploration. After the morning lecture, he would stop by the Rascomb house to convey his impressions to Lady Rascomb and Miss Ophelia. They were not invited to attend these talks, as the RGS did not extend membership to women. Another grievous oversight by the men in charge.

When he first returned to London, his visits to the ladies were purely out of a sense of duty and mourning of his mentor and friend. Now, though, he and the Rascomb set seemed to circulate amongst the same people, and he found himself encountering them at dinners and parties and other sorts of soirees. It was always a great excuse and pleasure to dance with Ophelia or dote on Lady Rascomb. Few debutante mamas were interested in pursuing him given his meager pockets, but a great many widows of all ages were happy to listen to his stories. He’d been summoned to dinners that he thought were parties, only to arrive and find a tete-a-tete was arranged.

If he were a younger man, he might not have minded, but now he found that he didn’t care for those, as it made him feel as this whole shoulders business did. As if he were an exotic prize, or a notch on a merry widow’s bedpost. He supposed this was how actresses and opera dancers felt. Not that he’d ever engaged with one of those. He slurped down the last bit of tea and stuffed the last bit of crust from his buttered toast in his mouth and headed out. He hated to be late, and yet he was chronically so.

As he was about to enter the lecture hall, he was approached by Lord Fairport. The tall, bland man now only existed in his mind as the one who had first asked Miss Ophelia to dance. It was almost as if even while speaking, the man blended into the background noise of faceless Englishmen.

“You seem to be good friends with Lord Rascomb,” the man said after giving a polite and equally forgettable greeting.

“I was,” Julian said, thinking of his mentor. “And I visit his family regularly.”

Fairport blinked. “Ah yes, the former Lord Rascomb, you mean. Yes, I am more friends with the current one.”

Fair point to Fairport , Julian thought. He waited as the other man collected his thoughts. Other RGS members started to gather, passing them as they entered the small lecture hall.

“I suppose I mean to say, do you think Miss Ophelia would be open to being courted? I know she makes no effort on the marriage mart, and I know about her failed expedition that killed her father, which is quite the odd thing. But if I made a suit, would she be receptive, do you think?”

Julian frowned. Fairport seemed to imply that Miss Ophelia was responsible for the death of her father, which could not be correct. She had not yet confided in him the specifics of the mission, but it didn’t seem appropriate to press for details. Fairport must be incorrect or have heard the worst of the gossip and believed it.

Aside from his obviously erroneous assumptions, the man seemed far too uninteresting to think of marriage with Ophelia Bridewell. He was only a bit older than Miss Ophelia, surely younger than Julian himself, who would be better suited to courting Lady Rascomb than Miss Ophelia. He’d known her as a child after all, and that didn’t sit well with his sense of decorum.

But this man? “I am not certain,” Julian confessed. “She has been deep in mourning for her father. If you wish, I could bring up the subject to her, in a gentlemanly manner, of course. I mean to call upon them today after the lecture.”

“Should I accompany you?” Fairport asked, his face open in milky hope.

“No,” Julian answered sharply. “That is, if she were to decline, it would be most awkward. They have asked me to convey the proceedings of this lecture to them. They are very curious.”

“Curious!” Fairport laughed, as if Julian had made a pun, that the women were both of curious minds and possessed of a curious—meaning odd—spirit. “Curious but beautiful.”

Damn the English language, that’s not what he had meant. A man like this would never have made it in South America. Never would have made it out of port. He used the filling seats of the lecture hall to make his escape. “Looks to be starting. Shall we?”

“Ah yes, right, right. I’m interested to hear about the cannibals of the deepest jungle.” Fairport moved in front of Julian.

This was precisely what he hated about the RGS. Instead of having open curiosity, Fairport had already digested the fictional and sensationalist accounts of the region. And Julian sincerely doubted that these men had reached the deepest jungle, for the Amazon was deep enough to swallow hundreds of Englishmen whole. There were entire expeditions that disappeared without a trace.

*

“And then?” Ophelia was so far on the edge of her seat, she might fall off. But Sir Julian’s stories were so riveting, it was worth a bruised bum.

He laughed, pleasure so evident in his handsome face. “Then I dug a snow cave on the side of the mountain and hoped I wouldn’t freeze to death.”

She shook her head in amazement, both impressed and envious. “That sounds incredible. I would love to do that someday.”

Her mother embroidered a pillowcase. She didn’t bother to look up. “You’ve had your share of hardships on a mountainside, too.”

“Yes, but not like this! I always knew Zermatt was there, just a day’s hike away. This is different!” She gestured toward Sir Julian, who looked pleased with himself and comfortable as he snacked on a scone smothered in apricot jam. “Sir Julian was in the middle of a mountain range, abandoned by his team, and uncertain of where the next settlement was, let alone if they were hostile.”

“But I had plenty of food, Miss Ophelia. That was the key. I was content to sit in my snow cave overnight, knowing I could eat comfortably.”

Ophelia looked at the man she now regarded fondly, slumping back into the sofa. “Someday, I want you to take me out there. I want to see these Andes mountains and their odd rounded peaks.”

Her mother chuckled.

“What, do you object?” she asked.

Lady Rascomb shook her head. “It is not my place to object anymore, Ophelia. It is your brother’s. Or, should you choose one, your husband’s. And I should say, given the talk of Sir Julian in the newspapers, a husband would greatly object to you running off to the Andes with ‘London’s Most Eligible Explorer.’”

Sir Julian groaned. “You saw that, did you?”

Ophelia clapped her hands and laughed. “What did it say? No one showed me.”

Lady Rascomb raised her eyebrows, peering over her needlework. “That Sir Julian’s appeal was not in deep pockets but rather his broad shoulders.”

Ophelia squealed in delight. “That’s fantastic. ” And it was. He absolutely did have very appealing broad shoulders, as if he were able to carry anything—or anyone—where they needed to be.

“Does no one respect me for my intellect?” Sir Julian protested, finishing off his scone.

Ophelia laughed, tossing a sugar cube at him. “Now you know how it feels.”

“I’m more than a pretty face. Er, I suppose I mean shoulders.” Sir Julian tossed the sugar cube back at her.

“How will you deal with the incoming female horde? Plead your unexciting perseverance? Your dry attention to topographical measurements? Your ability to do complex calculations in your head?”

Sir Julian straightened up and pulled his jacket round himself, puffing out his chest. “Those qualities are all very attractive to my female admirers.”

Ophelia pelted him with the sugar cube again, smacking him directly in the broad left shoulder.

“Fine, fine, they aren’t. But once they see my unimpressive bank account, they shall depart forthwith.”

“Only a very foolish woman would take into account your bank register. What you offer is far better than a flat in a fashionable postal district.” Ophelia meant it, too. If only he’d been in London, she would have been after him for her Matterhorn expedition.

“Your flattery does not fall on deaf ears, Miss Ophelia, and I thank you for it. I shall remind the papers to print that, instead.” His powerful thighs strained at the tweed trousers, and Ophelia had a sudden wonder that if the gossips rags were so fond of his shoulders, had they not discovered his extraordinary thighs? It seemed remiss of them, if they intended to catalogue his pleasing body parts.

There was an easy silence, and Ophelia took it upon herself to pour more tea for all three of them. Sir Julian took the sugar cube lodged in a crease of his tweed coat and plopped it into his cup, giving her a look of satisfaction as he did so. She laughed.

“Oh, and—” he pulled a folded newspaper from the inside pocket of his coat. “I almost forgot. The latest from the RGS. You’ll note the article here on the front page.”

Ophelia snatched it from him and scanned it. Julian’s narrative style was stunningly straightforward, so unlike the other stories of adventures found in the papers. She’d helped him with it, rearranging paragraphs, asking him to put more sensory details in to help the reader feel immersed in the mountains. As she read, she was thrilled to find he’d taken her suggestions. Not as good as having a published article herself, but still. Her suggestions found their way to print by the RGS.

“Thank you for showing me. May I keep it?” Ophelia asked, hugging it to her chest.

“Of course, that’s your copy.” Julian stirred the sugar dissolving in the tea. “I would have liked to put your name on there as well, but the RGS has a standing policy to not allow women anywhere near their doors or their printing press.”

“May I see?” Lady Rascomb reached out to her.

“Don’t I know,” Ophelia grumbled, handing the paper to her mother. “I have an article that would be so well suited for RGS, about our Ben Nevis run, and how it prepared us for the Matterhorn. I’ve sent it everywhere I can think of, but it’s too much for the ladies’ magazines, and it’s written by a woman, about women, so none of the men’s magazines will print it either.”

Ophelia swished her spoon in her tea, letting the milk swirl in its pleasing patterns. She normally drank her tea black, but she’d found that she enjoyed watching the liquids entwine around one another, until their individual identities dissolved into one.

“Have you thought about removing the gendered pronouns, and not mentioning you happen to be women?” Julian raised his eyebrows at her, looking more mischievous than intrepid.

The thought struck her. She could replace their names with initials, erase any mention of a Miss or a Missus, erase the paragraph about skirts, and the article would remain intact. “That is very possible.”

“Give it to me when you are ready, and I’ll see if I can get it run. I’ll tell them it is from an anonymous friend who doesn’t wish to boast.”

Ophelia couldn’t help the bubble of laughter rising from her. “I wouldn’t want your fame. I don’t have the shoulders for it.”

Julian chuckled. “I wouldn’t wish it upon you. The women of London are positively rabid.”

“It is a very good article, Julian,” Lady Rascomb said.

“Isn’t it?” Ophelia said, knowing that she was gushing. “Someday I want to go to South America.”

“Perhaps someday I’ll take you,” he said, beaming under Lady Rascomb’s praise. She didn’t begrudge him the maternal petting he received. Nor his relationship with her father, not anymore. He clearly was in need of that delightful closeness that developed between parents and children when children became adults. Everything shifted, and while they weren’t friends exactly, the nature of the relationship deepened and stretched. The love grew stronger every day. At least, with her parents it did. And she was wise enough to know that not everyone had that. Eleanor, for instance, her sister-in-law, never had that with her parents, and likely never would.

Lost in her own thoughts, she wasn’t sure how much time had passed when Julian cleared his throat. It shook her from her reverie, and she frowned when she saw how his posture had changed. He’d been proud and loved, and now he looked pained.

“There is an item of business I must discharge,” Sir Julian said, looking down into his cup, as if he must concentrate sincerely on his tea. “Which is why I haven’t brought it up until now.”

“Sounds so serious,” Ophelia said, sipping the lukewarm tea.

“I have been asked, as a friend of your family, if you would be amenable to being courted.”

Her mother’s spine straightened at that statement. “By whom?”

Sir Julian winced. “I’d rather not say as of yet. I don’t wish to make anyone think more of it than what it is on either side.”

Ophelia’s heart pounded. No one had offered a suit for her hand in ages. But the way Sir Julian acted about it clearly made him uncomfortable. She wondered why, thinking it could only be for two reasons. One, the man in question was not someone Sir Julian respected, or two, it was Sir Julian himself.

The latter idea warmed her. Sir Julian was handsome, and the scandal rags of London were not wrong about his shoulders. She sipped her tea as she considered the idea of marriage. It was a concept she’d put aside for herself, much as Prudence had once, even while receiving missives from Justine on the benefits. But Prudence had changed her mind. And Eleanor had no complaints, and she was married to her brother Tristan. But for Ophelia? It wouldn’t be so bad if it were someone like Julian who understood her passions.

“I think that while my daughter can answer for herself, as her mother and adviser in such dealings, it matters greatly who is asking.”

Ophelia nodded. “I concur. I would only consider marriage to a man who would encourage my mountaineering and attempts to gain what the male mountaineers enjoy as their due.”

Sir Julian met her eye. “I’m glad to hear that. A stifled person, man or woman, cannot survive.”

“So who is this potential suitor?” Lady Rascomb pressed.

Sir Julian winced. “Lord Fairport.”

Ophelia nodded and fell back into her seat once more. He’d danced with her at every social occasion, but so had a few other gentlemen, Sir Julian included. Would Fairport be as encouraging of her mountaineering as she required him to be? That was an unknown.

And somewhere, a small part of her wondered why it was Lord Fairport who was inquiring. As Portia’s former suitor, would he recognize Ophelia as her own person? And if Lord Fairport was interested, why not any of the other men? Why not Sir Julian?

“You make a face, Sir Julian,” her mother reprimanded. “What is it about this man you do not wish us to know?”

“When we chatted earlier, he made an allusion to something that I did not care for. About the attempt on the Matterhorn.”

Ophelia felt herself collapse inward, as if her muscles cinched her up towards her middle. What had been relaxed and happy in the weeks since Sir Julian first visited them pulled themselves taut and closed. “And what was that insinuation?”

Sir Julian studied her. “I don’t wish to say—not as of yet. But I would now like to press you for the details of your experience. Not that I wish to cause you pain, but I need to know how my mentor perished and be able to properly defend and disseminate the facts, as your friend.”

Ophelia stopped breathing. It was a moment she hated reliving, yet she did so nightly, sometimes waking from a dream, her father’s bloodied head cradled in her hands. The silence in the room was deafening.

Lady Rascomb stowed her embroidery. She cleared her throat and flexed her bad foot. “You should tell him, Ophelia. But I apologize, I cannot hear this again. I will leave the door open.”

Ophelia watched as her mother left the room abruptly, abandoning Ophelia to the grief and guilt that had for so long colored her existence. The change from joy and hope to the shuttered pain of the last year was jarring.

“I apologize again,” Sir Julian said, a blush creeping over his tanned face. His dark eyes searched hers. “I ask as a friend. As someone who loved your father as well.”

Ophelia nodded. If she’d ever worried about crying in front of a stranger, those days were over. The entire affair had made her so numb that she didn’t think she could descend back into the days where she thought she’d cry enough to soak her entire wardrobe.

“Of course. You deserve to know.” Ophelia took a fortifying sip of tea. “Although could we ring for sherry or brandy? This sort of story seems to demand it.”

Thankfully, Sir Julian did not seem scandalized by her request in the least, which she thought he might be. An unmarried woman, asking to drink with him? It was uncouth. But this was an extraordinary time, and required extraordinary measures.

When Ferris arrived and Ophelia requested brandy, he gave her an odd look and departed. But when he returned, he was very much at ease. Likely her mother had informed the butler as to what conversation was pending.

“Well,” Ophelia said, cradling the snifter, not even taking a sip as of yet.

It was Sir Julian who posed the toast, raising his own snifter. “To your father, ever the motivator and visionary of extraordinary deeds.”

A lump formed in her throat. “To my father.” They sipped at their drinks, the Calvados bringing her back to the evenings in Zermatt, after their long preparatory climbs up other peaks. When they were hopeful and excited.

“We did as Whymper had done, using his successful route as our template. After stashing gear at a small church at Schwarzsee—how much do you know of the geography of the Matterhorn and its surroundings?”

“Very little, I’m afraid. My mind is stuffed full of the mountain ranges on the other side of the Atlantic.”

“Then it does not matter much if I refer to the precise locations,” Ophelia said, sipping again at the brandy.

“I wouldn’t know the difference,” he agreed. There was a lull, and his face softened as he searched hers with those coal-black eyes. “I believe you might be stalling, Miss Ophelia.”

She smiled at him, pained with his accuracy. “Indeed I am. I was expedition leader. All of these events were my calls to make.”

“Yes, but you cannot take responsibility for the weather, nor the mistakes of your team.”

“No,” Ophelia protested. “I know that. But—” she sighed. “I shall start again.”

Sir Julian sat back and crossed his legs, looking very much at his leisure.

“My plan all along was to keep our risks to a minimum. We would not try to reinvent a route or waypoints. Our only innovations were to those items that were peculiar to our group and our weather.”

“And what was peculiar to your group?” Sir Julian asked, his brows furrowed.

Ophelia couldn’t help but look at him as if he were daft. “We were majority women. We wore our long woolen skirts. Our upper body strength is less developed.”

Sir Julian nodded. “But I will wager you had the same experience as others who had attempted this climb.”

“Some yes, some no. But by the time we attempted the Matterhorn, we’d climbed most of the mountains in the range, including Mount Rosa and Breithorn, which are difficult treks themselves.”

“So you had the preparation, the experience, and the knowledge.”

Ophelia squirmed. “Of course we did. I made sure we arrived in Zermatt months earlier than other expeditions, knowing full well that we required the altitude and training that only the Swiss Alps could offer. It was no accident, and I certainly would never purposely endanger the lives of those I love.”

Sir Julian nodded, his body relaxed, and that made her relax as well. She sipped her brandy. “Everything seemed to be going rather well. We camped overnight on the Hornli Ridge, a rocky shoulder that sits directly in front of the Matterhorn. The ridge extends to base of the mountain, and is quite treacherous. We slept there and woke early, hoping to ascend to the top by the early afternoon, but it wasn’t to be. We were stopped where Whymper first camped as well. It’s most of the elevation needed to make the summit, but it was getting too late in the day to make the peak and return down safely.”

“So you took refuge? This sounds deeply pragmatic so far.”

Ophelia shook her head. “No, and I’ll thank you to not interrupt me.”

“My apologies,” he murmured, his dark eyes fixed firmly upon her.

“It was the chimneys. The chute was covered in ice, and it had turned Whymper and others around on the mountain before. But, with our ropes and our guide, I thought we could end our day there, as we still had some light. My plan was to camp just above it, hoping to make the summit early the next morning and descend, arriving back at the church where we had cached our change of clothes and food by noon.”

Ophelia sipped at her brandy, not wanting to relive this next part, the piece that was so indelibly imprinted in her heart. “The guide, myself, and Justine Brewer had made it to the top of the chimney. Each of us had to negotiate different routes on the icy chute given our different sizes and reach. It was then my father’s turn to climb it.”

Sir Julian leaned forward in his seat, putting down his brandy snifter. Ophelia felt she had no choice but to mimic him. The moment made her ill. Nausea gripped her, but she pressed on, knowing she must continue to tell the story in order for her sickness to ease.

“We all had these spikes we’d devised on our shoes, in order to aid us in the icy sections. My father used them to drive into the ice sheet, held in the grips of the rope being monitored by our guide. And then, he—slipped.” Ophelia shrugged. Something so fallible, easy, and common could kill a man. “He lost his footing and pendulated into the wall of the chimney. The sound—” she choked on the memory, her stomach threatening to rebel. “I can never forget the sound of his head hitting the rock wall. There is nothing like it.”

Sir Julian reached across and gripped her hand. The softening callouses comforted her. “And this is where he died?”

“No,” she said, almost laughing. “My father could not perish so easily.”

Julian returned her appreciative grin. “He was not a man easily defeated.”

“He was unconscious, bleeding from the head, it was awful.” Ophelia saw it all again in her mind’s eye, the chunk of bone that had chipped out of his skull, his hair still attached. It was the stuff of nightmares. “I wrapped his head to the best of my ability, and we were forced to abandon our attempt. It was a long struggle to make our way down the mountain, and by then it was dark.”

She gripped Sir Julian’s hands as tightly as she’d gripped the rock during that descent, that terror for her father making her cling to the mountain with the bottoms of her feet. “And then as we crossed back over the Hornli Ridge, it was so narrow that only one person could cross at a time. Being the tallest, our guide and Tristan tied my father in between them to carry across the ridge. It’s so rocky and uneven, and it was dark, and we were tired and hungry and cold.”

“That fatigue is something I understand. I’ve felt that myself.” He gripped her hand back, lending a support that Ophelia hadn’t felt since her father died.

The sensation of his hands warm, strong, and still calloused gave her a burst of courage. “One of us slipped. I think it was Eleanor, I can’t be sure. And it took Prudence over the edge, and I heard the rope slithering over the rock, another sound I cannot forget.”

“What did you do?”

“Before Prudence could pull me off the ridge, I tried to wedge myself onto one of the rocks. I almost fell. I almost didn’t make it. Justine was the other end of our quartet’s rope, and she had better terrain for bracing herself without falling. And then Tristan and Karl—Karl was our guide—put down my father and came to help us. Tristan tied me into the rock face and then together we were able to pull up Prudence and Eleanor. They were both injured, but not horribly so. Only Justine and I were unscathed.”

“I would not say you are unscathed, Miss Ophelia.”

She steadied her breath, wishing she could plead with him to fix it. To go back in time and change what happened. But there was no such magic. “Karl and Tristan took my father to the church ahead of us, while we cleaned up the camp and followed as well as we could, with Prudence and Eleanor’s injuries. By morning, a donkey cart arrived to carry my father back to Zermatt, and we did what we could. We were told the cold temperatures kept him from dying immediately, but it was weeks before he was well enough that we could leave Zermatt. And then when we did, it didn’t matter. He would only come around for short periods, and often not lucid ones. He died, oddly enough, of pneumonia, not of his injury.”

They sat in silence.

Sir Julian nodded. “Thank you for telling me.”

“It was the worst mistake of my life.” Ophelia choked on the words.

“It wasn’t your mistake,” he insisted.

“If I hadn’t insisted we take on the chimneys before making camp, he would be alive. If I had taken into account how tired everyone was, that it was the end of the day, and it would have been better to take the chimneys after rest, he would still be alive.” Ophelia burned with rage at herself, the anger of hindsight.

“If you had taken the chimneys the next morning, you would have been even more fatigued,” Sir Julian argued.

“No, we would have had decent rest,” Ophelia insisted.

“Did you bring food? Tents?”

“No, they’re far too heavy. We’d wanted to complete it in one long day.” Ophelia stuck her jaw out. She felt mulish and obstinate. Her stomach churned, feeling acidic.

“So you think that if you attempted the chimneys in the morning, after spending the night in freezing conditions with no shelter and no food, it would have improved the outcome?” Sir Julian challenged her.

His words were as painful as if he’d struck her. “But.”

“The human body needs food, Ophelia. We require sustenance. And sitting in cold conditions, I can tell you from experience, saps your energy. It makes you need even more.”

Ophelia shook her head. “No, that’s—”

Julian gripped her hands even harder, ducking his head to make her look at him. “You did the right thing. Your call was correct. I would have done the same.”

“But, he slipped—”

“Your father would have done the same. Did he question you on this?”

“No, he agreed with me.” Ophelia started breathing faster, and she didn’t understand why.

“You did the right thing.”

For the first time in months, her eyes teared up. “But. But he died because of the expedition. My expedition.”

“He died doing what he loved. I can’t think of a better way to go.”

“I can!”

“What, feeble in bed? Losing control of your bowels, or a rotten tooth, infecting you from the inside out?”

“No, of course not!” Ophelia drew back, trying to pull her hands from his grip. He stared her down, not letting go. She squirmed.

“You did the right thing,” he said again, boring into her with those dark, dark eyes.

“You keep saying that,” she said, shaking her head, pulling again, but he wouldn’t let go.

“And I’ll keep saying it until you believe me. I know what I’m talking about, Ophelia. I don’t need to climb the Matterhorn to know what it’s like to run an Alpine expedition. That’s what I’ve been doing for the last ten years of my life.”

“You can’t understand the Matterhorn until you climb it yourself,” she insisted, feeling like she had him at last.

“Then take me.”

She frowned. “What do you mean, take you?”

“Take me up the Matterhorn. Let’s go. You’ve already done the research and have the contacts. Let’s go. I haven’t climbed a mountain in months.”

“But.”

“Then say you made the right call.”

The acid churned in her stomach. “We only have a month until the end of July. We can’t put together an expedition so quickly.”

“Then July of 1872. You, me and whomever you deem appropriate.” His cool gaze was a challenge to her. Was he absolutely serious? He was trying to cow her into saying that her father’s death wasn’t her fault—which it clearly was—and thought she would balk?

“You cannot be serious.”

“Then say it wasn’t your fault.” Sir Julian wasn’t smiling. Wasn’t showing her any indicator that he was joking.

The thought of returning to the mountain both filled her with dread and thrilled her in equal measures. Would he really climb the Matterhorn with her?

“Or, you’re booked for the month of July in 1872?”

It was easily doable. That gave her plenty of time to return to the health required to climb the mountain. Plenty of time for them both to raise the money needed. She could recruit the original Ladies’ Alpine Society. She’d promised them a peak, after all.

“We’ll climb the Matterhorn in July 1872. You’d better not be teasing me, Sir Julian.”

“I don’t tease, Miss Ophelia.” Julian finally released her hands, and she felt a shift in the air that she couldn’t identify, but one that felt good. A shift that felt like more than relief, more than the lessening of her guilt, though those were present as well. There was an unknown new promise between them that she’d never felt before.