“Thank you. I have no doubt it will be of great benefit.” Eleanor hugged it to her chest. Any distraction from Tristan would be welcome.
She’d hated seeing his perfect golden mane at the last meeting. He was surly and rude, not bothering to greet any one of them, let alone look at her. It made her heart sink.
Mistakenly, she’d hoped there was a way out of this mire with everything she wanted. They could have a secret courtship, and if they suited, they could marry between the Ben Nevis climb and the Matterhorn. There was so much time between the two that it wouldn’t be seen as scandalous in the least.
And she would marry him as long as he promised that she would be climbing the Matterhorn. If only the guarantee were there, she could take the leap. Perhaps they could put it somehow into a contract. But his face had made it clear; there was to be no reconciliation. His regard was clearly lost forever. And she’d done it to herself. It was a modern world, and she was the architect of her future, for better or worse.
Her father had asked her once, in the morning after Lord Berringbone’s ball, if he should expect to hear from Tristan. Eleanor hadn’t managed to keep her tears to herself at thatmoment. Her father had given her a pitying tap on the shoulder with a bit of a squeeze. The height of his paternal affection. It was the best he could do, and she knew it.
“Well,” her mother breathed, as if nothing more could be done about any problem in the world. “I must be off to my garden group. It meets in less than an hour, and I’m sure I look ghastly from this horrid display of emotion.”
“Your garden group is an excuse for ladies to drink alcohol out of doors in the afternoon,” her father grumbled.
“Yes,” her mother agreed. “And I quite like it.”
They left, doddering down the hallway, bantering back and forth as they’d always done, so wrapped up in each other that there was no room for Eleanor. Their sudden absence gave her a pang of loneliness. She’d hoped to find her person that would be the answering partner to all her witticisms. But at twenty-five, with an adventure pending, it wasn’t likely.
That must be the thing about growing up: learning to put certain things behind oneself. Understanding that some doors close forever, whether one is ready for them to or not.
Sometime later, a maid delivered a large box. Inside was a beautifully tailored traveling costume in a dark mauve. It was sleek and serviceable, not garish, but would set off her complexion wonderfully. A small felt hat was nestled in the box, a matching color. It would be the envy of her friends. Eleanor smiled. Her parents were strange, but they did support her. They tried their best.
Chapter Eleven
Tristan still tastedthe bitter black coffee in the back of his throat. He was hungover, and it was loud, and the heavy urine smell of the train platform was nauseating. Not that he would admit such to his father or anyone. It was merely the tattered star on top of the last few weeks—which had been an epic display of debauchery that he was now not particularly proud of. Partially because while he’dmeantto debauch women, had even found his way to a brothel with a few good friends, he couldn’t manage to get his body to agree.
The women in very little clothing lounging about the brothel’s parlor had absolutely appealed to him. But the thought of Eleanor twisted him into so many knots, he didn’t want to so much as feel a feminine hand on his shoulder, let alone his cock.
So he’d drunk instead. And drunk. And drunk. Even Blakely noticed, and he wasn’t the sort of bloke who noticed much.
The sound of the trains rattled his head, building up pressure, and while the steam might exhale on the train, it did nothing of the sort in his brain.
“Quite all right?” his sister shouted at him. Justine stood by, looking off in the distance, clearly bored.
He winced a response that he hoped was an affirmative. The porter had taken care of their trunks, so there was nothing for him to do but stand there like a complete idiot. His mother, along as the chaperone for the young women, straightened hergloves once more. They bunched up on her cane, a sensation he knew she disliked.
Their train would arrive shortly. Ophelia had told them all to arrive twenty minutes early, and then told them the departure time was earlier than it truly was, to make sure they were all accounted for. Tristan wanted to believe that trick was for Justine, who was chronically late, but it was likely more for him, who was more often chronically later than Justine.
Prudence and Eleanor arrived, their low-heeled boots clacking through the station. It was an early hour, but Eleanor looked refreshed and ready in a deep reddish-hued traveling costume. It made her hair look as deep and rich as the mahogany banisters at his childhood home. She looked him square in the eye, purposeful.
It made him stumble back a step, as if she’d struck him. He swallowed, tasting that burnt coffee flavor again.
“Mr. Bridewell. Good morning.” Eleanor greeted him, and it seemed as if he’d swallowed his tongue. His tongue covered in fur.
“Miss Piper. Mrs. Cabot,” he croaked. Mrs. Cabot looked at him with such pity, he thought perhaps she was a mind reader.
They went on to greet the rest of their party. The train screeched up at the station, the hiss of steam clouding the platform. The rest of them made idle chatter, discussing the stop in York for lunch, and what they’d all brought to keep them occupied during the journey.
Tristan hadn’t brought anything for the train car. It honestly hadn’t occurred to him. Thoughts of Eleanor had kept him busy the entire last month, and he’d done everything to distract himself from them, unsuccessful as he’d been. His mind felt like a slate that had been erased, but the chalk imprint of those moments on the garden balcony lingered, the image still hauntingly visible. His joy a hollow echo taunting him.
Eventually, they boarded the train. Tristan picked up a newspaper to eventually read, sitting across from his father. He felt the judgment from his father’s gaze, but he cracked open the newspaper with flair, blocking his view.
Tristan read the first paragraph over and over again. He still wasn’t sure what the article was about. His body buzzed with nervous energy, and his mind kept drifting to beautiful Eleanor, clad in her perfectly tailored traveling costume, sitting in the car behind them. There wasn’t even a coherent thought he had about her—no lewd images, at least not ones he’d entertain in a public train car, no dwelling on past conversations or kisses—it was his inherent awareness of her that kept him agitated.
The train began to slow. They must be getting into York—the one stop for a meal on the long ride to Edinburgh. Tristan lowered the paper.
“Is it the news of Singapore, or the editorial on Mill’s motion to give women the vote that has you so occupied?” his father asked.
“Pardon?” Tristan blinked rapidly, trying to cover the fact that he was so startled by his father’s speech.
