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

“S ir Julian, this was a marvelous talk. Thank you so much for making time in your busy schedule for us,” Mrs. McManus said. The excessive gauzy veil that adorned her bonnet waved as she bobbed her head, threatening to be sucked down into his throat as he breathed.

Julian dodged the silk as best as he could in the breeze and thanked her. “The Garden Club is the most attentive audience I believe I’ve ever had, madame. You have honored me.” And the money didn’t hurt, either. He’d be happy to make this a regular occurrence.

There was a crowd of ladies surrounding him now. “A word, Sir Julian, if I may.” A woman who had beautiful blue eyes and thick white glossy hair tidied away as if the color were a fashion choice and not a sign of aging pushed past Mrs. McManus. “While you spoke at length about flowers, do you think it would be possible to tell me about the viability of thick vines in a climate such as ours here in England? I have a greenhouse that could use some vigor.”

There was something in the sparkle of her eyes that made Julian think that perhaps when she spoke of a thick vine’s vigor that she was not speaking of plants. But Julian gamely spoke of the flora he encountered, and even withdrew his sketchpad from his valise to show her.

More encounters continued, and someone served him tea and then alternated slices of lemon cake and plum cake as he socialized. It was fun to discuss his adventures. And while most of the women were upwards of sixty, some were decidedly not, and almost to a person, they placed a soft, gloved hand on his forearm.

After most of the clamor subsided, someone snatched his empty cup and plate from his hands. He sighed, coming down from the fervor of the afternoon.

“Quite the accomplishment, Shoulders,” a woman purred from behind him.

He turned toward the low voice and saw a woman dressed in a dark green day gown embroidered with beads and black lace. Her dark brown hair was dressed in curls and pinned artfully around. Her bonnet was barely a head covering and more an adornment made of feathers and lace and beads to match her dress.

“I beg your pardon?” Julian asked. She was stunning, likely in her forties, he judged, and with a dress like that, perfectly wealthy on her own terms. Her movements, from the shift of her hips to the languid gesture of her hand, were silky and confident, like the water of the Amazon just before the rapids.

“You had both Mrs. Breton and Mrs. Rielgud vying for your attentions. Those two rarely agree on anything.” She walked toward him and became lovelier still. It was the sort of dark beauty that was not objective, rather factual. Her comeliness partly came from her manner of dress, posture, and overall style, but her features were well formed and even.

“They did not need to agree, nor did they seem to talk to each other. They both spoke with me directly,” he protested, pushing papers back into his valise. It was time to leave, and something told him this woman would insist on walking out with him.

“They both liked you. An exceedingly rare event. Their tastes in men are typically opposite. Breton favors the fine, well-spoken gentleman, whereas Rielgud prefers the strapping sort of ruffian who could toss her over his shoulder. Of which, you do meld both types exceedingly well.” She came to stand next to him but refrained from touching him.

“I know there is a compliment somewhere, but strangely, I don’t feel complimented.”

She smiled. “Then you have the unique experience of a man pursued as a woman is pursued. The difference being that if we get you in a room alone, you’ll be able to fend us off.”

“Us? Do you include yourself in the ranks of these would-be wooers?”

She met his eye, and there was a spark between them. “I could be persuaded to throw my hat into the ring. However, I have one rule for competitions.”

Julian gestured to the door, but she didn’t budge.

“I don’t enter contests that I can’t win.” She sashayed in front of him, and whether it was a move of dominance or one of coquettishness, Julian couldn’t say. But he was intrigued and flattered, and suddenly all those polite hand touches from the other women evaporated from his skin, replaced by the searing words of this one.

*

Ophelia threw the letter down and did her best to not curl up in a ball like a child.

“What is it?” her mother asked, picking up the letter.

“Read it,” Ophelia said, desperate to not cry.

Her mother scanned the beautiful feminine calligraphy of Lucy Walker’s penmanship. “ And I hope that with this hasty band, I shall best my rival and arrive to the summit first of my sex . Oh.” Her mother sighed, putting down the letter.

“It’s over,” Ophelia said. “My dream is done.”

“They might not summit,” her mother said, a tone as hopeful and as disbelieving as she was.

“It’s Lucy Walker, Mama. And she’s up against Marguerite Brevoort, that’s why she had to be hasty. She found out Mrs. Brevoort was in Zermatt to hire guides.”

“But even Miss Walker has been turned around before,” her mother pointed out.

Ophelia raised her head and looked at her. “Mama. If both of them will attempt, the conditions are good. And Lucy Walker got Melchior Anderegg as one of her party. He has more summits than most have fingers.”

Her mother smiled and that irritated Ophelia. “Are you saying more summits than most, or that most people have fewer than ten fingers?”

“Don’t try to make me smile, I’m not going to do it.”

“Not going to do what?” Arthur asked, strolling into the drawing room.

“Smile,” Ophelia said, already feeling the twitch to do so.

“Both Lucy Walker and Meta Brevoort are attempting the Matterhorn,” her mother explained.

“Ah,” Arthur said. He did not share the love of the mountains with Ophelia and Tristan, but he’d been on plenty of enjoyable climbs with them as a family. His sense of duty was extreme, and he insisted that as the heir, he could not risk his life for a bit of rock.

“What brings you to the drawing room in the middle of the day, darling?” Lady Rascomb asked.

“A question for Ophelia. I’ve already checked with my wife, and she is happy to oblige—”

“Is she feeling better?” Ophelia asked.

Arthur’s mouth cracked wide. “Somewhat. She’s still having the, er, you know, illness. But the doctor is coming next week to confirm our suspicions.”

“That it’s not the flu?” Ophelia asked, hoping to lighten her own spirits.

“Precisely. That we will be starting our own family.” His chest puffed out, the picture of paternal pride.

The swell of warmth in her brother made her own heart ease. It did mean that in nine months or so, she and her mother would have to find a new place to live, but Arthur having children felt correct. He had always dreamed of his own family, and wanted the life promised by his station.

How wonderful that must be, Ophelia thought. To fit so well and precisely into one’s own life.

Her mother was up hugging him—an unusual event, but this would be her first grandchild from someone besides Portia. She’d gotten the earliest start, after all.

“I’ll have to begin making baby clothes. Oh, this is quite exciting.”

His news was welcome, but it was only a brief respite from the crushing blow of the letter from Lucy Walker. It wasn’t that they competed—except that they did—as they encouraged one another in climbing and adapting to a world that might not be so accepting of them. Lucy managed it by living with her brother, and being the perfect hostess at their home in Liverpool, so no one could criticize her time in the Alps.

But what would Ophelia do?

“Thank you, Mama, but that is not why I came in.” Arthur cleared his throat.

“Yes, your business. I apologize for distracting you.” Her mother returned to her seat and her embroidery hoop.

“I was speaking with Lord Fairport,” Arthur said, turning now to look down at Ophelia.

“Please sit, Arthur. When you speak to me from your great height, it feels like you are purposely trying to lord over me.”

“Well, I am the lord,” he quipped, taking his seat.

“Yes, well, no one will forget if you sit.” Ophelia tried to get her mind around Lord Fairport. He was perfectly respectable, as far as she knew. There was nothing about the man to excite her or anyone else, for that matter. He was unseasoned porridge. It would do when one was hungry, but unappetizing still.

“Lord Fairport has asked to see more of you. I thought we ought to invite him to dinner.” Arthur’s expression was one of hope.

So many people with their hope. Her mother, Arthur, Lord Fairport. “May we also invite Sir Julian?”

Arthur blinked. “Of course. May I ask why?”

“He is in the Royal Geographical Society with Lord Fairport and has socialized with him on a number of occasions. I would like to see how he speaks with him. I consider Sir Julian a friend who would have my best interests at heart. It would be nice to hear his opinions on the matter.”

“We will have to find another woman to balance out the numbers.”

“Why? The numbers are exactly even with Sir Julian in attendance.”

Arthur shook his head. “While Lady Emily would adore hostessing such a prestigious dinner, she is not capable of being in a room with, er...”

“Food?” Ophelia suggested.

“Odors.” Arthur winced.

Lady Rascomb chuckled.

“Is this normal, mama?” Ophelia asked.

“Oh yes, for a woman who is with child, the first few months are unpredictable and fraught. Odors, in particular, can be a challenge.”

“Would it be an imposition to wait a week or so, in order to allow Lady Emily to recover herself?” Ophelia asked. “I wouldn’t mind a postponement either.”

Arthur looked at her with concern. “Why?”

Ophelia squirmed. She had the answer—this whole Lucy Walker situation—but it didn’t feel like the truth. What the truth was, she wasn’t sure, and therefore couldn’t say. “I’m afraid that having my dreams dashed makes me not want company.”

Arthur slapped his knees. “Then we shall wait until a more fortuitous time. Lord Fairport waited this long to pay his attentions to you. He can wait a bit longer.”

“Thank you, Arthur, er—I mean—” Ophelia still couldn’t manage to address him by his title.

Arthur put his hand on her shoulder. “Quite all right. You can always call me Arthur. I know it doesn’t seem right the other way.”

Ophelia swallowed the lump that formed in her throat and nodded, giving a faint, pained smile as recognition of his generosity. The shades of her father were everywhere.

*

“I must admit, I do not know who that is,” Julian said, not daring to rest his teacup on the table, for fear that Ophelia’s wild gesticulations might upend it. He’d never seen her like this, and it was amusing.

“Melchior Anderegg?” she repeated, looking at him with such huge blue eyes that he wondered if they were smaller or bigger than the circumference of a chicken egg.

He shook his head again, trying very hard to hide the smile that was about to break out upon his face.

“Not only is he a vastly experienced guide, he has done first ascents on a number of the more treacherous peaks—” She held up a finger, as if he might dare interrupt her. “—Which are not necessarily the famous ones.”

“He sounds like an excellent man to know,” Julian said.

Ophelia leafed through a notebook that was stuffed with copious notes in her precise handwriting. There were illustrations for ideas on how to improve gear, instructions on challenging knots, notes on certain snow conditions, all things she had noted during both the Ben Nevis and the Matterhorn expeditions. All notes she had shown and discussed with her father, no doubt. He wondered if she could separate her father from her ambition.

“There are a few other men I might consider, but Anderegg is typically in the Alps for the summer climbing season.”

“Would you consider a woman guide?” Julian asked, just to see what she would say.

She dropped her book. “You know of one?”

“You sound so hopeful.”

“Of course I do! An all-woman expedition?” She sighed and leaned back on the sofa, as another woman might do when describing her wedding day or perfect husband.

“I thought you might be too jealous to entertain the thought,” he said, looking at her sideways, so they both faced the same way.

“Julian,” she said, dropping the formal honorific. What a relief to not have that hang between them. He hated the sound of that sir on her lips. “I want all women to be able to climb a mountain. To have access to the kind of physical freedom my parents have encouraged me to have. We are restricted in so many ways, this gilded cage of frippery, when the feeling of running in cool air, sliding down a snowy hill, jumping to climb a tree, all bring a visceral joy. Why should that be beaten out of us? Do we not deserve a happiness that does not come with the price of pain?”

Julian frowned, not following. “What joy carries the price of pain?”

“Childbirth,” she said simply.

Her answer threw him. It was not an answer he expected from a young lady, but then again, Ophelia Bridewell surprised him at every turn. “There are other happinesses in the world besides a child. I know, for I have had many.”

“Name one,” she said, smoothing out the map of the Matterhorn. There were four sides of the mountain, and she’d already attempted one. Would it be more logical to try a different route? He could suggest it, but knowing her, she’d already thought through the idea and discarded it.

He cast his eyes about the room, his brain suddenly unhelpful in this endeavor. “Music,” he said.

She thought about it. “Do you think music creates the same joy as the love of a child?”

“Well,” he said, drawing out the word as he thought. “I have only listened to music. I’ve never had a child. Given birth, or otherwise.”

She grinned at him. It dazzled him when she did that. She was beautiful not smiling, but when she allowed her earnest joy to surface on her face, the transformation to goddess was instantaneous. It stopped his breath.

“I suppose the scientific inquiry is limited to those who have had children, and given the existence of a person whose feelings could be hurt, the answer must always be no. It seems this line of reasoning is not going to solve anything.”

Julian nodded, putting down his teacup. But it covered the north side of the mountain—rather the most treacherous-looking approach—and Ophelia shoved it aside.

“Children, how are we doing?” Lady Rascomb returned to the room, escorting a footman, carrying the late Lord Rascomb’s expedition journals.

It was his turn to grin. “It’s been a long while since anyone called me a child.”

“That is the inequity that shocks me the most,” Ophelia said, straightening up again. “Well, one of many, I suppose.”

Her mind whirred and clicked at dizzying speeds. It was fascinating to watch as she spoke and thought simultaneously. “Yes?”

“I am an unmarried woman, and despite being eight-and-twenty, am still considered almost a girl, though most call me a spinster. But you, as an unmarried man, have been considered adult since... since when would you say?”

He thought. “I suppose since my father died and I inherited at age fifteen?”

Ophelia threw her hand at him, as if his experience was the exact proof she had been looking for her entire life. “There. Mama. We should be equals.”

“Yes,” her mother said, gesturing to the footman to put the stack of books on the chair, nearest to Julian. “As you are planning another death-defying expedition that pushes people to their absolute limits, calling you children, as if you were in here playing with blocks, is funny.”

Ophelia gave her mother a sly smile.

“Sir Julian, feel free to look through my husband’s papers. I don’t know if you’ll find anything you need, but I trust you to keep his works safe.” Lady Rascomb rounded the edge of the sofa with her cane and sat next to Ophelia. Looking at her daughter, she asked, “How are things looking?”

“I can’t decide if we should go the same route or try the Italian route.”

Julian had opinions, but he didn’t dare voice them, and he was pleased to hear that he wasn’t an idiot for thinking about a different route. He enjoyed Ophelia’s clear revelry in all the minutiae of the planning. They would obviously be staying in the inn they’d gone to before, as her best chum had married into that family. But there were debates about guides and routes, equipment and timing.

Technically, Julian didn’t have to be there for any of this. He’d told her to take him, and thus put all responsibility in her hands, and it was a year off, besides. There was no reason to be having bi-weekly meetings, but it thrilled him to see her like this, her glossy blonde hair falling out of its pins as she peered over yet another map.

The resemblance to her mother was palpable, but he no longer thought of her as a younger version. Ophelia possessed a tenacity more like her father.

The grandfather clock in the corner dinged, and Julian checked his own pocket watch against it. “I fear I’ve overstayed my welcome.”

Ophelia scrunched up her nose. “Must you go?”

“Sadly, I must.” He looked forward to meeting Lady DeMarius at the opera, the hint of musky perfume and heightened banter luring him in. It was very different from the scene he’d been enjoying all afternoon with Ophelia. He told himself it was because Ophelia was but a girl to him, despite her protestations of being eight-and-twenty, and Lady DeMarius was an age-appropriate woman for him. Was it also that as a widowed aristocrat, Lady DeMarius held the promise of sexual favors, while Ophelia was a wide-eyed virgin?

He cursed himself for even entertaining such a lewd thought. His mentor’s daughter deserved more respect than his crude evaluations. Lady DeMarius offered scintillating company, and they would be at the opera, in her private box. It was an opportunity for him to luxuriate in the wealth he himself did not possess, but could appreciate.

Well, wealth in London banknotes. He had other wealth, but not the sort that was so easily converted into goods and services here. Not without finding a jeweler he could trust. In the places he’d ventured, far from the European-style towns that had sprung up all over the South American continent, rubber was quickly outpacing any other resource. He’d been given jewels in exchange for a week’s worth of labor in some places. But in others, he’d witnessed horrific acts against the indigenous people of the Amazon. From the first time he encountered them to the last, some tribes were almost wholly wiped out from the growing rubber plantations.

He’d written letters of complaints, but they were falling on unwilling readers. How could one protest the injustice when there were vast amounts of money to be made? He was but one man. And not a powerful one, at that. It made him wish that his mentor was still alive to throw his influence behind Julian’s account. That might have had an effect. But this new Rascomb didn’t have the same reach as his father. He was a fine fellow, but Julian could already see the difference in institutions like RGS when they lacked members with the moral backbone of a man like his friend.

Once out of the Rascomb townhouse, he had the distinct displeasure of a blustery summer day. He gripped the brim of his hat as a gust of wind blew by. He could already feel the difference in his legs and back in this new, cushioned life. He was getting softer by the day. At least, unless Ophelia Bridewell started up his training regime as she had already threatened to do. He smiled at the thought. She was an extraordinary person. With her exterior beauty, he did not understand how she’d not been snapped up by some lord or another already.

Her unusual passion, while unconventional, was certainly not scandalous. And her status as the daughter of a viscount gave her a respectability that would allow her mildly odd behavior to be overlooked. His thoughts brought him to Lord Fairport, and that quickly dampened his spirits. The man was not worthy of her. Not even close. He would ignore her passion, convince her to stay home, and she would dwindle in his house, become a shadow of the phenomenal creature she was.

Since her father had been his mentor, would it not be his duty to become her mentor in return? He would protect her as best as he could, given his lower status and lack of pound notes. But he had access and influence unique to his role as an explorer. The trouble was, how could he persuade anyone that a match with Fairport wasn’t a brilliant idea? A wealthy, titled man who appeared respectable and did not indulge in the vices of many other Peers: he had no known mistress, did not overindulge in drink or gambling. Though, just because it wasn’t widely known did not mean the man didn’t indulge. Yet, telling somebody the man was boring was not news, and certainly not a reason to reject a suit from him.

Strange how his conversations with Miss Ophelia made him feel more the important explorer of the world than all the speeches and articles he’d so far done. Like the ten years of gathering data and mapping the smaller ranges of the South American continent was a real contribution, and not a way for him to just escape London.

He arrived at his flat, signaling Nicholas when he entered that he would require a shave and help dressing that evening. Mrs. Talbert asked about dinner, and he requested a light repast early enough to make the opera on time. Perhaps if things went well with Lady DeMarius, he could enlist the widow’s help with Lord Fairport. She appeared to be a very clever woman.

*

“But do you like him?” Eleanor pushed her teacup around the saucer, creating an excruciating screeching sound.

Ophelia wanted to stop her, but for some reason, felt paralyzed by politeness. How to tell a friend that her behavior was driving one absolutely insane from noise? Finally, Ophelia reached out and put her hand over Eleanor’s, stopping that horrific sound of porcelain on porcelain.

“I apologize, Eleanor. I cannot think while that screech is occurring. What are we discussing?”

Eleanor didn’t bother looking sheepish, as she might have years ago when they first met. The Eleanor Bridewell of London didn’t look at all like the Eleanor Piper of Ben Navis. She was far more stylish, and far more self-assured. She no longer flinched at perceived slights or cowered when attention was brought to her.

Not that she was brash or loud, but the comfortable love that she and Tristan shared was easy and obvious. If Ophelia believed for one moment that she might be able to have something like that, she would have been envious. But she was happy most of all for Tristan, who came into his own when he found Eleanor. He didn’t mind not being the heir, didn’t mind finding a profession—if one could call a mountaineering outfitter an actual profession.

They sat out in Eleanor’s garden, enjoying the late summer afternoon sunshine. “I was asking if you actually liked Lord Fairport.”

“Oh. Him.” Ophelia looked over at a cluster of purple flowers dotting the rosemary bush. “He’s a fine enough dancer.”

Eleanor’s shrewd expression would not be deterred. Ophelia knew she must continue speaking on the topic or else Eleanor would ask repeatedly.

“He has inoffensive breath.”

Eleanor stared her down. “What do you think Justine would say right now? Have you written to her about this?”

No. Because she’d written to Justine of what consumed her: another trip to the Matterhorn. Lucy Walker and Meta Brevoort be damned. It didn’t matter if Ophelia’s name was in a history book. She wanted that summit. She wanted to stand atop that pile of rock and scream her own name.

When Ophelia didn’t verbalize any of this, Eleanor leaned forward. “I’ll tell you what she’d say. Something to the effect of ‘Having nice breath and not stepping on your toes is hardly marriage material.’”

“I just don’t like thinking about it,” Ophelia confessed, looking down at her teacup. The dregs swirled in there, and it made her wonder what a fortuneteller would see in the pattern.

Eleanor narrowed her eyes. Sometimes she could be too insightful. Tristan even said so. “What are you thinking about, then?”

“I’m planning another trip. Another expedition.” She wasn’t ready to tell the world about it, not even Eleanor, but needs must.

“When?” Her voice sounded possibly interested? Definitely not damning, which is what Ophelia had expected.

“Next summer. With Sir Julian.”

“Sir Julian?” Eleanor asked.

“Surely Tristan has told you about him,” Ophelia said. But, had Tristan met him? She wasn’t sure. To Ophelia, his frequent visits to the house permeated every aspect of her life. As if he’d brought with him some of the South American sunshine, the heat and color that the Amazon was known for.

“No, he has not. Tell me about him. And the trip.”

There was something in Eleanor’s voice that Ophelia didn’t understand, but that was fine. She could speak on this topic for a year without stopping to sleep. And so she did. About how Sir Julian was a friend and correspondent of her father’s, about his regular social calls, about him asking her to take him up the Matterhorn.

Eleanor sat back in her chair with an unreadable expression. “And who all do you plan to take to the Matterhorn?”

“So far, just Sir Julian and I. Though the idea of engaging the rest of the Ladies’ Alpine Society has occurred to me. I am not ready to extend invitations, as the planning is not complete.”

Eleanor smiled. “I’d be willing to go again. To finish what we started.”

Ophelia inhaled the sweet summer air. “I’m so glad.” Another weight lifted from her chest. They didn’t hate her. Or blame her for their injuries. They said they didn’t, but words were not always truthful. On the way down from the Matterhorn, both Eleanor and Prudence were injured, an additional piece of guilt that laid on Ophelia every time her mind was quiet.

“But in the meantime, there are other issues to contemplate. Like a suit from Lord Fairport.”

Ophelia grimaced. “But I hate the idea.”

“Of Lord Fairport?” Eleanor’s eyebrows shot up.

“No,” Ophelia waved her hand, as if she could erase her previous words. “The future in which I am married is much less interesting than the future in which I climb mountains.”

Eleanor chewed on her lip. “To me, that sounds very telling.”

“Does it?”

“I think it means you do not wish to marry Lord Fairport.”

“Or perhaps I do not wish to marry at all.” Ophelia rocked back into her chair. “Though I know I ought to. Otherwise, I’ll be a drain on my brother for the rest of my life.”

Eleanor gave her a sympathetic look. She was older than Ophelia, though not by much. “It isn’t fair, is it? To not have the options to care for oneself as well as men can care for us?”

“It’s ridiculous, is what it is,” Ophelia snapped. She’d thought about becoming a working woman, as if it wouldn’t reflect poorly on Arthur, signaling that he either refused to look after her, or was too cheap to do so. But the occupations available to her were severely limited. Governess? Absolutely not. Seamstress? No, thank you. Actress? Hardly. “All I want to do is climb mountains. If I could open an outfitter like Tristan’s, or become a guide like other climbers, I would do it. But no one would trust a woman.” And what Ophelia left unsaid was, No one would trust me.

“Tristan sometimes gets inquiries about outfitting a woman,” Eleanor said. “If any of those ever write back, I know he would pass them along to you. I’d make sure he paid you, of course.”

Ophelia smiled at her friend, trying so hard to help. “You’re very kind, Eleanor.”

“I’m not, really. I’m quite selfish. You’re my friend, and I believe my friends should all get what makes them happy.” Eleanor shrugged. “It’s a failing of mine.”

“So you’ll go with me to the Matterhorn?”

Eleanor reached across the wrought iron table and gripped her hand. “If I am able, I will go.”

Ophelia frowned. “What would make you unable? Does your shoulder still pain you?”

Eleanor looked like she were stifling a grin. Oh, she’d misunderstood something again. But what?

“We are discussing adding a child to our family, Ophelia. So that you might be an auntie. If that occurs before next summer, then I will not be able to climb with you.”

An image of a ten-year-old child moving into their house occurred to Ophelia, and she momentarily thought, Why could she not just bring the child along? But then the reality sank in: this was far enough away that Eleanor could be very pregnant by the time the expedition would begin. Right. And it would be a baby, not a child who was of a speaking and reasoning age.

“Of course,” Ophelia said quickly, once her mind had figured out the puzzle of Eleanor’s words. Still, she felt embarrassed for not seeing that already. Her friends were all married now, and children were a real threat to their freedom. “Then let’s hope for the best.”

Eleanor gave her a strange look, as if she weren’t sure which way Ophelia meant to be the best. Honestly, Ophelia wasn’t sure either.