“Because it is only natural to assume that when someone invites you to the country it is to stayinsidea house and not beside it!”
“But to be acclimated to such difficult physical work will require me to sleep outside, under the stars,” Eleanor protested.
“We are not so beneath them that we must be kept outside like livestock!” Her mother sniffed, as if she were receiving a snub in public.
“We shall all be outside. If it is good enough for the viscountess, it is good enough for me.” Eleanor tried to modulate her voice to sound respectful, but she wasn’t sure if it had worked. Her mother had been saying the same thing for the past week, ever since she’d heard what would really be required ofEleanor. It wasn’t like her mother would be going and sleeping in a blanket bag, either. She’d be snug and warm at home in her own feather bed.
Her father pointed at her and snapped his finger. “Exactly so. I’ve always said you had quite the head on your shoulders. Dear, if you want her to snag the heir, she has to prove she can fit into his family. What better way than let her tag along on this outing?”
Eleanor blinked. This was an adventure, not a marriage proposal. And Tristan wasn’t even the heir.
“Haven’t you been paying attention? The heir isn’t on the trip! He stays home!”
The footman placed the pudding in front of Mama and backed away slowly.
“Eleanor, is that true?” Her father looked across the table at her, lines burrowing deep in his forehead.
“Yes. Lord Berringbone doesn’t even attend the salons. He’s busy with his own affairs.”
“Then who is that chap with the shiny hair who moons after you?”
Eleanor blushed and looked at her hands. “I’m sure I don’t know who you mean.”
Papa scoffed. “Oh please, he mopes about like someone’s taken away his puppy when you’ve turned your attention on another man—whether it is at a ball or at these salons. I know! I’ve watched him! He’s Rascomb’s son.”
“The man you are referring to is Mr. Tristan Bridewell,” Eleanor managed, still pleased and embarrassed all at once that Tristan might be paying extra attention to her.
“He’s the second son,” Mama explained, halfway through her pudding. “The spare.”
Eleanor winced. She didn’t know why, but she didn’t like anyone calling Tristan the spare. He wasn’t the spare to her. Hewas essential. And she knew that he was absolutely a necessary part of this expedition. Even if his knots were still too rushed and sloppy.
Papa grunted his thinking grunt. “A second son, eh? No title, but your children might be able to snag one, if you get enough of my money.”
“What is so important about a title?” Eleanor asked, finally exasperated by her parents’ machinations.
“It’s automatic power. Respect. Authority.” Her father stared her down, all humor drained from his face. “Those are things money cannot buy. No matter how hard I work, no matter how much we earn, the government can turn ’round and take it. Because we are no one. But to have a title! Then you are part of the land itself. You have become the conquerors, and all that is yours stays yours.”
“Who would take things from you?” Eleanor cried, so frustrated. Why must her parents invent hardship?
“These are things you needn’t worry about, girl,” Mama soothed. But there was a glance between her parents that shared information that Eleanor wasn’t privy to. “You shall go on this odd outing with our blessing.”
*
Tristan had riddenfrom the train station on his own horse. The idea of being stuck in a carriage with that number of skirts and petticoats for three hours was stifling. And sitting so near Eleanor yet having to share conversation with Bad News was too much for one man to bear. As it was, he’d sat in a different compartment with his father, leaving the ladies to chat amongst themselves, if they could, given the loud rattle of the train.
Part of the trade was that his horse was laden with a number of supplies, and a groom came along with him. They still hadservants attending to them—but most of the servants would be staying at an inn at the nearest town and brought in by carriage every morning. While the company dealt with equipment and techniques and training, the servants would cook food, find water, and tidy the campsite.
Neither Ben Nevis nor the Matterhorn would require camping on the mountain itself. But they would need to have a camp set nearby. Ascension would require waking at likely three or four in the morning to assure they could be down again before nightfall. Therefore, they needn’t practice upkeeping their own campsite.
Tristan got to the site of the ruins in the early afternoon, well before the carriage. It was a beautiful day, the air chilled, the nip of spring still biting, but with the promise of lovely days and sunshine to come. The rolling hills of the countryside were green, and the birds in the trees were active and loud, even in his presence. The sheep that sometimes grazed here were elsewhere at the moment, but they would surely appear at some point during their trip.
The ruins were unchanged. One full wall stood in half-repair, the wall opposite not as well-formed. The rooms where people had lived and eaten and danced were obvious from the large stone foundations. One arched doorway stood closest to the trees. Tristan’s mother claimed it was once the gateway to the herb garden—the domain of the mistress of the house.
He loved the days and nights they’d spent here. When he was young, they would all come out, eat hamper picnic dinners and frolic in the trees and the stones. It was idyllic and wild, the fantasy of so many people, but for them, a reality. The only reason they had such freedom was his mother.
Lady Rascomb was a daughter of an eccentric earl who loved exploration, and it was that feeling of inherent freedom that attracted Tristan’s father—at least, the way his father told thestory. According to his mother, it was her ample dowry and her ample bosom that caught his eye. But she had been dragged along with her father to the ends of the earth, spending time aboard boats and skis, trekking in all climes. They’d lost her mother in childbirth, and the earl refused to part with her, regardless of her age or her gender.
Lady Rascomb was a unique spirit, and she seemed happy to pass the torch on to her children. The avalanche a decade earlier had brought her outdoor life to a halt. Tristan still felt guilty for it. He’d wanted to stay longer on the mountain, push harder, explore more. While his father and siblings had gone down the mountain, his mother stayed up with him. Mont Blanc was impressive in its own right, but the French never wanted to climb it when snow was present. Which meant they only climbed it during a two-week window mid-summer. That wasn’t convenient for the Rascomb schedule, and so they climbed earlier—in June. But it had gotten warmer earlier that year. And on the descent, his mother first down the mountain, Tristan trailing, he’d accidentally triggered an avalanche. One misstep, and the next thing he knew, his mother was swept away by a sheet of rotten snow.
