Page 7 of Into the Sky With You (The Ladies Alpine Society #4)

The hotel lobby was positively baroque, filled with chandeliers, thick carpets, and young French porters who winked at her if her gaze lingered on them too long. Ophelia had let Eleanor and Tristan make the arrangements, passing them along to Justine and Prudence via letter.

She’d even invited Julian, who said he would come to meet Karl, as he would be their climbing guide. After the awkward dinner a few months ago, Julian had kept himself mostly away, sending notes of apology. Ophelia’s mother had come back around to bestowing her motherly smiles upon him the few times he’d visited. But Ophelia missed that familiar friendship they’d developed, swapping stories of their derring-do over tea and biscuits.

She’d hoped that this time in Paris, amongst all of them, would bring him back to her. The way their easy friendship had been.

A jostling at the doors caught Ophelia’s attention. When she looked up, she couldn’t help but smile. Justine pushed her way past the porters, not allowing Karl to protect her with his elbow. She caught sight of Ophelia and ran—ran!—through the lobby, her long skirts swishing like mad.

“Winter in Paris! Ophelia, you brilliant, beautiful buxom friend of mine!” Justine threw her arms around Ophelia, gushing over her.

Ophelia gripped her friend tightly, not caring if she ought to be embarrassed by how much she missed her friend. She inhaled Justine’s unmistakable scent, one that had comforted her since their finishing school days. Justine was different now, of course, her scent different, her body rounder from finally eating enough, but still, completely Justine. Ophelia opened her eyes to see Tristan and Karl Vogel shaking hands and making uncertain eye contact.

Then Eleanor threw her arms around both of the women. “My turn too!”

They stuttered around in circles of missing each other and cries of how lovely each of the others were.

Justine wiped her eyes as she pulled back. “Do we know if Prudence will be here?”

“I had word that she and Mr. Moon will arrive tomorrow.” Ophelia looked over Justine’s shoulder and smiled at Karl Vogel, their once-Matterhorn guide, and now Justine’s patient husband.

“Mr. Vogel,” she said, affection in her voice that surprised even her.

“Please, you must call me Karl, for I know you by your first name because Justine won’t stop talking about you.”

Both Justine and Ophelia giggled, knowing that had been a general complaint about them for years.

“Well, come on then,” Eleanor ushered them all. “The porters can take the luggage upstairs. Let’s go find us some refreshment.”

“Not quite yet, we are missing one of our party.” Tristan gazed around the room, and it made Ophelia want to gnaw on her lip, if only she were allowed to do so.

“Ah, there he is!” Eleanor pushed up on her tiptoes, still not matching her husband’s height.

Ophelia scanned the crowd from her toes, using Justine’s shoulder as a bolster, and spotted Julian entering the building.

“There you are,” Tristan called out as Julian approached.

Julian kept his hands in his pockets, a casual man with his bowler hat on, strolling through a hotel lobby. It should have been utterly normal, but Ophelia was strangely affected by the sight. She slammed down her heels, and Justine looked at her with an expression of curiosity.

“Is there...?” Justine trailed off, examining Ophelia, then looking to Sir Julian. Abruptly, she left Ophelia’s side, pushing through their crowd to be the first to greet Julian. Her hand was out, as rude as any American. “I’m Justine Vogel, Miss Ophelia’s best friend. And you are?”

He smiled at her, thank heavens; Ophelia was able to breathe again.

“Sir Julian Dunstan, at your service.”

Karl Vogel came up behind his wife. “And you are looking to climb the Matterhorn, yes?”

“If you are amenable to helping me do it, then yes.” Julian searched the crowd until he saw Ophelia. His shoulders relaxed when their eyes met. Funny, because Ophelia felt less relaxed with him around.

They all circled each other, and Ophelia tried to pay attention to the others and not Julian. But she couldn’t help it. The memory of that awful dinner still sprang to life sometimes, bringing with it the imagined thought of Julian kissing the bespangled Lady DeMarius. Of his powerful hands roaming her bespangled hips. Which had been both a revelation and a betrayal. The very idea of it hurt as viscerally as any tumble down a mountainside she’d ever taken.

She again pushed the thought aside. Julian was here, with her, and he had announced to both Ophelia and her mother that he had secured some funding through his connections at the Royal Geographical Society. They wanted a comparative essay from him, about how climbing in the Alps was obviously better than climbing any mountain in South America. Julian could roll his eyes all he wanted, but Ophelia would take the cheque any day.

After all, more than anything, Ophelia wanted to climb the Matterhorn next year, and if going with Sir Julian would allow her to do so, then he needed to meet their guide, Karl. But now they were all here. And Ophelia had to see him.

Their troupe finally organized, Eleanor herded them out the door to a nearby restaurant that she was assured was simply the best. Julian waited and fell into step with Ophelia. Justine watched closely, but when Ophelia gave her the look that showed his company was welcome, Justine abandoned her friend for her husband’s arm and kept two paces ahead.

“I’m happy to see you here, Miss Ophelia,” Julian said, returning to formality.

Ophelia noted that he didn’t offer his arm. She sniffed, pulling her shoulders back. “I’m glad you could make it.”

“Are you?” Julian slowed his steps, forcing Ophelia to do the same, giving space between them and the rest of the group ahead.

“Yes,” she said, as if this were an answer she knew beyond the shadow of a doubt.

“Because you’ve hardly spoken to me in two months.”

“You called me ‘Miss Ophelia,’” she pointed out.

“Because you haven’t spoken to me in two months,” he repeated. “Please talk to me, Ophelia. I have missed our easy conversation.” The look of pleading in his dark eyes, one of those powerful hands outstretched, reaching for her, was more than she could take. Her defenses crumbled.

“As have I,” she admitted.

“May we be true friends again?” Julian offered his arm, tentative, his head bowed, as if waiting to see her reaction.

She slid her arm around his, feeling the strength and the warmth of him in the windy Parisian November. He smiled down at her, and she returned the gesture. It was as if the ice wall between them melted. “Although I do ask you to never bring Lady DeMarius to dinner again.”

“Not to worry. Our connection is permanently and irrevocably severed,” Julian assured her, without a hint of remorse or regret.

Ophelia looked up at him again, stunned. “Truly?”

He chuckled and gave her an earnest grin. “You seem surprised. It was but a small matter. Besides, I need to know: will you still climb the Matterhorn with me?” he asked quietly, in tones that sounded more as if he were proposing marriage.

“I would love nothing more,” she said.

“Excellent. Now we must hurry to catch up to the others.” Julian pulled her arm in close, and as they hurried, they ended up running across the Place des Vosges, laughing wildly in the pending dark.

*

The next few days were the happiest Julian could ever remember being. They slept in, drank perfect coffee with pain au chocolat, wrapped scarves around their necks to marvel at the multicolored leaves drifting to the ground. The sun shone, and they toured every possible site, from museums to sites of famous uprisings. He talked about climbing with Mr. Vogel, who intermittently accepted correction from his bride.

Julian watched Ophelia blossom and relax around her friends, and seeing her outside of London, outside of the expectations of duty was eye-opening. Her cheeks pinked up, and her large pale blue eyes brightened. She made jokes and bantered in the group, swung her clasped hands with her friends, and squealed with delight when another couple joined their entourage, Mr. and Mrs. Moon.

Sometimes it felt as if the men were merely afterthoughts of their daily routines, as the women chatted amongst themselves, frequently erupting into laughter. Most of the time, Julian had no problem observing, as watching Ophelia live so brightly was his new favorite pastime. Other times, however, he grew unnerved when one of the ladies shot a glance in the men’s direction.

He leaned over to Mr. Moon, whom he was still getting to know. “Do you think they are talking about us?”

“No,” he said, not bothering to elaborate. He wasn’t a rude man, but he wasted no syllables, at least not on Julian. Of them, Tristan was the talker, and he was happy to elaborate.

“When they are together like this, I don’t even exist. My lungs don’t function, even my body seems to disappear completely. I am invisible.” Tristan waved to a garcon to ask for more butter for his bread.

“Isn’t that your third helping?” Julian asked him.

Tristan nodded. “The French do many things well, aside from the rioting. And that, my friend, is their bread.”

“Don’t forget beheading aristocrats,” Mr. Moon said drily.

“I don’t see any,” Tristan said, slurping at the dregs of his coffee.

“Aren’t you—” Mr. Vogel began.

“I. Don’t. See. Any.” Tristan stared the Bavarian down.

“Noted,” Mr. Vogel said, picking up his own coffee.

“So Mr. Moon, are you interested in this Matterhorn adventure next summer?” Julian tried his conversational bait.

“God, no.” Mr. Moon went back to his newspaper. Tristan had the English version, but Mr. Moon seemed to be getting along just fine with the French version.

Eleanor and Ophelia both spoke flawless French, and Julian’s French was accented by his Spanish, causing some misunderstandings. Perhaps his dark hair and eyes made him seem Spanish here, while in London everyone believed him to be Welsh.

“Do you not climb?” Julian pressed.

“No,” Mr. Moon repeated. “It’s pointless.”

“Unusual attitude for a man married to a lady climber,” Julian said.

Mr. Moon closed the newspaper and put it down, giving Julian his undivided attention, which was, frankly, unnerving. “I love my wife very much, and she is very much her own person, as am I. She supports me, I support her, that’s how it’s supposed to work. I gather you’ve never been married?”

Julian swallowed hard, thinking of his time living with Maria. The time where he thought they would get married, but she didn’t understand the difference between Catholicism and Church of England. Well, ultimately, she didn’t care about marriage, because she left the village he stayed in, disappearing into the Amazon, back to her people. “No,” he croaked. “Never married.”

He didn’t mean to, but his eyes drifted toward Ophelia then. Watching her laugh and talk, sipping her tea, as they all lingered over breakfast. Mr. Moon followed his gaze.

“Do you intend to be married?”

The question made his heart stop. He blubbered out meaningless sounds, never less articulate in his life.

Mr. Moon smiled suddenly, which should have been friendly, but somehow came across as condescending and vaguely threatening. “Good luck.” And he picked up his newspaper and continued to ignore Julian.

Julian glanced at Tristan, who immediately stuffed a heavily buttered piece of bread in his mouth and looked the other direction. Mr. Vogel likewise looked away.

“I’m not—” Julian protested, but Tristan just held up a hand to make him stop. “But there’s nothing—” Tristan waved his raised hand. “I’m too old for her.”

Tristan swallowed hard, no doubt regretting it. “Mate. Stop. When you’ve something to tell me, tell me. ’Til then, none of my business.”

Breath whooshed out of him as he sat back hard against his chair, causing the legs to squeak across the café’s polished floor. Did they see something he didn’t? Yes, men married much younger women all the time, but those were men who were of higher rank. An earl could marry a younger viscount’s daughter, but a baronet? Especially a penniless one? It seemed uncouth. But was there a possibility? Did she look at him the way he looked at her? He felt foolish and young and utterly ridiculous. He stood suddenly, snatching the green cloth napkin off his lap and throwing it on the table. “Excuse me,” he said. “I’m going to take some air.”

*

At dinner, Julian sat next to her, feeding her funny quips and insights as everyone talked loudly across the table. Even Mr. Moon smiled and joked, allowing them to see his prodigious wit. With intelligence like that, it was no wonder that Prudence liked him so much.

Ophelia’s cheeks hurt from laughing.

“I meant to tell you earlier, but I forgot,” Julian said, leaning in conspiratorially.

He smelled good, like cloves and cinnamon. She’d had enough wine that she could admit that to herself. The evening was the most perfect one she could imagine, full of delicious food and good, plummy wine, and his unwavering attention.

She searched his face, wondering when she would be this close to him again. “Yes?”

“I received a note from the RGS. They plan to publish your article next month.”

Ophelia gasped. “My article?”

Julian chuckled as he nodded. “Your article. The one you wrote. I handed it to the editor shortly before I got on the ferry. It’s set. Next month, you will be a published authoress.”

Ophelia squeezed her eyes shut and kicked her legs to keep from squealing. A dream come true! But questions thrummed through her. “Wait, does he know who the author is?”

Julian shook his head. “I told him the author wanted to protect their identity, and preferred to be published as anonymous.”

Ophelia could kiss him, she was so happy. “I wish Papa could see it.”

Julian took one of her hands in his. “He would have been so proud of you.”

“He would, wouldn’t he?”

Justine snapped her fingers at them from across the table. “Share the good news with the class, please.”

“My article about us climbing Ben Nevis will be published by The Royal Geographical Society next month!”

Justine thrust both fists in the air. “Yes! Ophelia! You are incredible. I knew you could do it! Karl, be a love and order us some champagne!”

“Don’t get—nothing young!” Prudence called after him, but when he didn’t turn around, she stood. “I’ll go help him order.”

Soon they were all toasting to her, and Ophelia felt so warm and loved that she forgot to be embarrassed by the attention.

Later, after the wine glasses were emptied, and eyes were drooping, and even the Parisians were going home, they stood and shuffled about, donning coats and hats and gloves. They sky was beautiful and dark, while the light of the city glowed above the buildings. Ophelia felt giddy and warm and free, like she had everything in the world.

Her arms were linked with Justine and Eleanor, but she glanced over her shoulder at Julian. Dear Julian. Handsome, broad-shouldered, capable Julian who would choose her. She made her most daring decision yet—and it had nothing to do with the Matterhorn.

*