Blakely found his way to their huddle. “I say—”
Ophelia waved away his commentary. She turned to her brother. “You announce the price to this crowd and the ones downstairs. I’ll organize the maids to open the ballroom and the footmen to carry chairs and stand guard for any house wanderings.”
Their mother smiled broadly at their cooperation. “I shall go speak with Cook about refreshments for such a crowd.”
It felt good for them to work in concert. This was how it was when they were on the mountains; why it fell apart in town, he didn’t understand. But they were back to it. Tristan clapped his hands to get the attention of the crowd as his mother and sister slipped out of the room.
Not long afterwards, the ballroom was full of patrons, a soup bowl was full of shillings, and Miss Eleanor Piper stood in front of a crowd of strangers with surprising aplomb. The ballroom had gas lighting—an extravagance that their father insisted uponafter he’d had the experience of gas lights in Parliament. Indeed, it was convenient this afternoon to turn keys on the gas-lit chandeliers as opposed to lighting hundreds of candles, which would be far more time consuming.
Tristan sat in the front row with the other members of the expedition, including his father. The second row sported Mr. and Mrs. Piper, Mr. and Mrs. Brewer, Francis, Blakley, Jacobs, and a few others. The clamoring strangers sat in the rows behind them.
Ophelia spoke to the crowd about the Ladies’ Alpine Society, Ben Nevis, the Matterhorn, and the efforts they would go to in order to prepare for each project. Beside her stood Bad News, Eleanor, and Mrs. Cabot.
“Now for why you came this afternoon. Miss Eleanor Piper will instruct us all in the art of knot tying, and specifics to what an expedition team such as ours will require. Miss Piper.” Ophelia ushered the other women to sit down in the front row, while Eleanor stepped forward.
She swallowed pointedly, but then collected herself. Unlike what most pictured when thinking of an adventurer, Eleanor looked sweet, almost delicate, with her hair piled on top of her head, dressed in a fashionable green and white day gown. She pulled her gloves off and laid them on a small table next to her. Lengths of various types of rope were carefully stretched out on the table as well. She cleared her throat, picking up one of the ropes. She talked of snowy conditions and dunked three of the lengths into different buckets of water, which a footman hauled away.
“One of the issues that came to mind after hearing details of Mr. Whymper’s ascent of the Matterhorn was the idea of splices.” Miss Eleanor Piper took two steps forward, taking two different lengths of rope from her display table. “A splice, as some of you may already know, is tying two lengths of ropetogether in a way that strengthens the line instead of weakening it. One might need to do this in the case of a break.”
Murmurs went through the crowd, no doubt familiar with the tragedy of a broken rope that killed the four men. Like the rest of the exhibition, Tristan had his own selection of ropes so that he might rehearse along with her. He hadn’t thought about a splice before, which was ridiculous. Nor had he believed that knotting two separate ropes together would ever equal or outweigh the strength of a single line.
“Not one in twenty sailors can do a decent splice,” a man from the back protested.
“Everyone knows once a line is cut, it’s done,” yelled another man.
Tristan turned to look at a young man who had scoffed, but who now got to his feet several rows back. He was well dressed, but not someone Tristan knew. Either new to London, or a scion of the merchant class, straining to climb into the aristocracy. He had light brown hair worn in a sloppy longer style. Tristan disliked him immediately and immensely.
“I’m not sure how I can possibly prove it to you,” Miss Piper said. “Unless you have a suggestion.”
The young man glanced around as if garnering support. “Why should anyone take your word for this? How many alpine ascents have you made?”
Eleanor put the ropes down on her table and folded her hands together neatly. “None.”
The young man scoffed, again looking ’round. “Then how would you know?”
“I’ve learned all of this at the hands of one of London’s best captains. My knowledge is from the sea trade, not mountaineering.”
“And you’ve been aboard ships, is that what we are to believe? You, miss, are a fraud!” He pointed his finger at her.
Tristan wanted to snap it off his hand. He moved to get to his feet, but a single look from Eleanor quelled him.
“Would you be a better tutor? If so, I invite you up to share your knowledge.” Eleanor gestured to her demonstration table.
“I would. I, too, grew up with the shipping trade. And I’d wager I had far more training as the eldest son than you ever had.” The man edged his way past the other seated guests, shuffling to the aisle.
“Your name, sir?” Eleanor still maintained a very calm, decorous manner.
Tristan had found, in his short life, that it was the inexperienced or incompetent who would screech and protest their proficiencies. The capable and qualified knew where their strengths lay and where they needed knowledge. Eleanor’s calm seemed very much like those old men they’d met in mountain huts—ancient, quiet, shockingly strong, and reliably competent.
“I am John Martell,” the young man said with a bearing that seemed to indicate all should know who he was.
Indeed, recognition flared in Eleanor’s eyes, and a snort came from Mr. Piper behind him. Must be a rival of sorts.
“Ah yes, Mr. Martell. I’m sure you know exactly who I am, then.” Eleanor gave him a very polite smile as she made way for him up front. The subtle bend in her tone seemed very much like she was laying a trap. “What sort of knot would you believe would work best for this expedition? Our very safety relies upon it.”
“First of all, I would recommend cotton rope, as it is far more comfortable on the skin, and much lighter weight.” He looked across the crowd with a smile, as if he were discussing how very silly Eleanor’s suggestions had been.
Tristan found himself balling his hands into fists with such ferocity that his knuckles ached. That smug bastard. He had no idea. But Eleanor politely stood by as he spewed his idiocy.
