He’d descended as fast as he could, scrambling and sliding, a frantic mess, pawing through the snow with wet gloves and frozen hands until he reached her. She was still breathing. Excavating her was agony. Fortunately, the avalanche had been loud enough that his father had sent the rest of them down, called for a stretcher, and headed back up. Between the two men, they got her out and carried her on their backs until they met the stretcher most of the way down the mountain.
Her leg was broken in a most obvious and horrific way. It was clear that despite the best efforts of a gentleman physician who happened to be staying at the same inn, she would never walk unassisted again.
It was deep guilt that Tristan carried with him—to be the person who took his mother’s first love away from her. She would no longer watch a sunrise from a mountaintop. No longer could she see the world unfurl around her in every direction. The feeling of accomplishment that accompanied a summit. The sweat drying in the cold, unobstructed wind. It had been her girlhood, her connection to a doting father who had passed, a way she spent time with her husband and her family, and what did Tristan do? Snatched it out from under her with his carelessness.
Indeed, he was not so unaware of himself to not realize that he harbored some of the same fears about this expedition. That he’d have to be particularly vigilant to not damage the young ladies on this trip, either his sister or someone else.
He took in a deep breath and walked his horse over to a tree where he could have time to graze in the shade. Just as he’d done when he was a child, he climbed over the entryway stones and entered the fortress ruins. This place had once been a haven and a home. Moss covered some of the stones, others were covered in mud. It made him think of legacies, and how he was left out of his family’s.
Primogeniture was a blasted rotten way to rule a country. Tristan folded his arms against a chill breeze. It deprived him, a second son, but it also deprived his sisters, Portia and Ophelia. Of the four of them, Portia was clearly the smartest. She had a better head for numbers than either Herringbone or himself. And as an adventurer? He loved it, but it wasn’t as all-consuming as it was for Ophelia.
During the trip to Mont Blanc, as their mother recovered the following evening, Ophelia had told him in a fit of passion that she would happily die on a mountain rather than in a bed. There was nothing she wanted more in the world than to be at the top of these grand cathedrals of stone. It had discomfited him at thetime. No one wanted to hear a young person speak of death, especially not after his harrowing venture on the mountain with his mother.
But Tristan knew she meant it. She wasn’t the sort to die of old age. She’d rather fly into one of the Matterhorn’s glacier fields like poor Lord Douglas. If she wasn’t careful, she’d get her wish. All the more reason to emphasize safety and caution, since Ophelia didn’t possess any. And who was Tristan? Not the heir, not the brains, not the adventurer... he was the other one. The boy with the charming smile. Fun to have a drink with. A good storyteller when enough port was available. Not particularly good at anything, nor particularly passionate.
He picked up a stone and threw it into the forest, over the arched doorway, startling his horse. In response, the beast eyed him, as if to scold him. What was he supposed to do with his life then? Support his family, yes, but what would he do? Help Herringbone with the estates? How? Get married and have babies? Who wanted a second son when estates were being parted out, no longer the generators of exorbitant wealth?
Picking up another stone, he looked at the horse, who stared him down with a steady glare. “Fine,” he muttered, tossing it to the slick stone floor. He’d unpack and start setting up camp. The carriages would arrive in a few hours, and the ladies would like a place to have a decent cup of tea from the hamper after their journey.
*
Getting to knowPrudence Cabot was definitely the highlight of the carriage ride from the station to Berringbone Hold. The rail journey had been loud, mostly. Cold, as well. Eleanor had traveled via rail before, but it had been with her mother and attendants. They’d been well-stocked with hot water bottles,warmed bricks, and nibbles of scones and cakes to keep their stomachs settled amidst the jostling of the railcar. This journey had been much different. They were chaperoned by Lady Rascomb herself, while Tristan and Lord Rascomb went into a separate car.
The carriage ride, however, was cozy with the four young women together in one carriage and Lord and Lady Rascomb in another. Tristan, disappointingly, opted to ride his own horse, so there was no excuse to talk with him.
Yet Prudence Cabot was interesting. Eleanor had never spent so long talking with an American, and she found the flattened vowels and incessant smiling charming. They were all of an age, Eleanor being the oldest by a few months. Prudence was next, then Justine and Ophelia were within weeks of each other. But it was odd to be the oldest and have the least amount of experience with the world.
It would be easy to feel shame about such an instance, whereas Prudence had not only been married, but widowed, and had the experience of running her husband’s company. And now! She’d traveled across the Atlantic and was traipsing through foreign countries. The freedom seemed dizzying.
Yet Prudence was easy to be around—she exuded warmth without a need to impress. She was pretty in an unaffected way—no ringlets or braids decorated her coiffure, her gowns were simple, yet well tailored. She seemed to be exactly what she portrayed herself to be, which was refreshing. Her gray eyes were wide and watching, and she already had small lines around her mouth from smiling.
Eleanor found an urge to categorize Prudence. Was she descended from the English? Or perhaps the Scots? Even German could be found in her features. But she supposed that was part of the charm of the Americans. They escaped the categories.
“I’m not sure what to expect this week,” Prudence said, voicing the fear Eleanor also had.
Justine and Ophelia looked at each other with delight sparking in their eyes. “No corsets.”
Prudence seemed delighted, but it frankly frightened Eleanor. Shelikedher corset. It held her, kept her upright. She had come to depend on her corset like an invisible governess in the corner, whisperingstand up straight!
“There must be more than that,” Prudence said with yet another wide, disarming smile. Eleanor found herself smiling back. Oh, that habit would be difficult to break. By the time they finished this country excursion, Eleanor would be grinning at everyone like a deranged fiend.
“Oh, there will be,” Ophelia assured her. “Papa has made a grueling schedule. As it needs to be, in order to get us all into shape.”
Eleanor enjoyed watching Justine’s very expressive face go from enjoyment to curiosity to disgust. “Grueling?” Justine asked.
Ophelia turned to face Justine, as they sat on the same side. “Utterly.”
“I imagine it must be,” Eleanor said. “It is, after all, the peak of human achievement.”
Justine giggled. “Oh, did you not intend that pun? Peak?”
Eleanor did her best not to blush. The pun hadn’t occurred to her, and Justine was so very quick.
“Eleanor is quite right,” Prudence said, giving yet another smile. Really, did she never stop showing her teeth? “The Matterhorn has claimed the lives of many men. Let’s be the group that proves the mountain only eats the males of our species.”
“Hear, hear!” shouted Justine, making Eleanor wince. “Prudence, I knew I liked you.”
It seemed strange to be on such intimate terms with these women so soon, but Ophelia had insisted they needed to be close in order to function as a team. So they dropped all courtesy and used first names to show familiarity. Eleanor hadn’t minded, but it just felt odd. Like a new pair of leather shoes that needed to be stretched.
