“Equipment discussions can happen at a later time between you and Miss Piper, son.” Rascomb stood as he said it, perhaps not only to forcibly take control of the conversation, but also to remind everyone that it was at his grace that everyone was going. Despite giving Ophelia the lead, he wasallowinghis daughter to go, he was funding the bulk of the mission, and it was his time they were wasting. “Let’s get to the finances, so that we can get to the training.”
“Of course. Mr. Moon?” Tristan gestured to the tall man as he unfolded himself from his chair. “The floor is yours.”
*
Eleanor looked upto the fourth step of the Rascombs’ front staircase where Tristan stood with his father. They were demonstrating how to tie into a rope, using the figure eight noose Eleanor had taught them, and it was very hard to pay attention as Tristan stood in only his shirtsleeves, so that the view of his waist wouldn’t be obscured. Her cheeks colored, and she looked down.
This was why women didn’t climb. Who would allow their daughters to gaze so unashamedly on the male form? Eleanor tried to think of Tristan as a classical statue instead. Many of those stood around London and in museums. If she was allowed to appreciate that beauty, then learning about the safety provisions that might prevent her death was entirely appropriate.
“As you walk up the mountain, you will have your hands free to use your walking poles, or what have you. And on descent, you will be able to use your hands to steady yourself. Please try to stay upright at all times. The lives of your fellow mountaineers depend on you.” Ophelia stood on the bottom step of the staircase, addressing them all. Her brother and father descended and moved to their places in the order of climbing.
Oh, she liked that, being called amountaineer.She could just picture Mr. Fulk sneering the word at her. The mountaineers stood in a line, spaced out by a few feet, wrapping through the black-and-white checked foyer with the heavy hemp rope snaking alongside them. Ophelia was first, naturally, and behind her was Justine. Tristan tied into the rope as the third member of the team, then Eleanor fourth, Mrs. Cabot came fifth, andLord Rascomb was sixth. Two men, four women. Mr. Moon was up in the drawing room, likely enjoying tea and cakes and thinking about how absolutely mad they all were.
She watched as one by one, the party tied into the solid hemp rope with the figure eight noose she’d taught them. Then it was her turn, noting to speak to Tristan about changing out the hemp rope for a sturdy manila rope. Hemp was excellent for many things, but it had a tendency to rot in wet conditions. While it was commonly used aboard ships, it was also regularly painted with tar to protect it from the saltwater spray.
Their first goal was an ascent of the volcano Ben Nevis, in Scotland. She’d never been there, and certainly not to Switzerland, but she doubted either place would be exceptionally dry. She wouldn’t want to risk rope rot, not when she knew better. And it turned out, Tristan was the one to speak to about equipment. So she must speak to him. For purely safety reasons.
“We are going to practice going up as a team first, then we will get into harsher scenarios. Everyone ready?” Lord Rascomb boomed.
Ophelia’s face was shining with anticipation. Clearly this was her passion, her one true love. Eleanor envied that certainty. Ophelia knew that there was no other place she’d rather be. But Eleanor? What did she want? A tepid marriage? The agony of childbirth? But why would she think it was so awful, when the rest of the world seemed to celebrate those very things? Because it didn’t seem like enough to her. But what enough meant, she had no clue.
“Am I to just go?” Ophelia turned and asked her father.
“Is that a bit of vocabulary we should discuss?” Justine asked, turning as well.
There was enough slack in the rope that their movements didn’t impact her or Tristan. Still, Eleanor felt the itch to move. She closed her eyes and whispered, “Just go, for heaven’s sake.”
Tristan snorted and glanced back at her.
Oh. She hadn’t said that as quietly as she thought she had.
“What about a one-word description of what you are about to attempt?” Rascomb suggested gently.
Ophelia thought for a moment, turned back around and announced, “Climbing!” And began a slow ascent of the staircase.
It was a bit silly, to stand in a fine entryway in Belgravia Square with marble accents, roped up as if they were defying God’s wrath, but if such rehearsal would help them in the end, Eleanor would do it.
They practiced ascents and descents, falls and group rescues. All seemed so theatrical, not at all what such peril would be like in the real world. But then, not a bit of it felt real. And that seemed ominous to her. The danger proposed was quite true. So why did it feel like a game?
“Refreshments will be served in the drawing room,” Ophelia said, unknotting herself from the heavy rope, once Lord Rascomb pronounced them finished for the afternoon. “Tristan, Eleanor, perhaps this is a good time to discuss whatever concern you had regarding our equipage?”
Eleanor nodded, picking at the knot around her waist, fumbling with the heavy fibers. Ahead, Justine huffed and puffed, unable to undo her figure eight. Frustrated, she sucked in her gut and slid the rope down her body, wriggling free of it as if it were a petticoat. Eleanor was shocked on a number of levels—what did Justine think she was doing leaving a rope knotted like this? And why did the rope not cinch as it was supposed to? Tristan eyed the knotted rope lying on the stairway, shakinghis head at Justine as she abandoned her place and went to the drawing room.
Mrs. Cabot moved silently behind Eleanor, giving her an encouraging smile as she ascended the staircase. Eleanor pondered her as she went. She seemed of the same age as Eleanor, even if she were already a widow. But at her stagnant age of twenty-five, it was not all that surprising. She’d heard shocking tales of the American frontier. And unlike the Americans gossiped about in Society, Mrs. Cabot had not spoken to Eleanor other than to say, “How do you do.”
Her beautiful honey-blonde hair, darker and redder than the flaxen Bridewell trait, was something that Eleanor would have given her dowry for. She watched Tristan’s gaze as Mrs. Cabot passed him, wondering if he would notice her.
A silly part of Eleanor was relieved when Tristan didn’t bother to look up at the trim figure of the newcomer. Given that Ophelia and Justine were bosom friends, it made sense that she and Mrs. Cabot would pair off as well. But what did she have in common with an American widow? But then, they hadn’t had time to have a proper chat. Perhaps in the months to come.
Tristan wasn’t yet untied, but he went over to Justine’s mess and began the task of unpicking the knot. “Your concerns, Miss Piper?”
Eleanor’s eyes snapped to his form. Yes, she had concerns. Standing next to him for seven hours as they ascended a mountain might be one of them. No, no it would not, because he was unattainable—any man who looked like that would be. “Ropes.”
He looked up at her, snaring her with his cornflower blue eyes. “Ropes? Yes. We have many.” Once he looked back down at the knot, she could think once again.
The heavy rope around her waist helped ground her, and now that she had slack from behind, she was able to work on untying herself as well.
“I mean that the hemp rope as the actual climbing rope is a poor choice.”
