The only thing he could do in response to that thought was to heave a sigh of such magnitude his lungs ached. “I thought she did.”
“But?”
“But the look on her face when Ophelia told her she would be kicked off the expedition—I don’t think she’ll ever forgive me.”
“Did you tell her that was the cost of your courtship?”
Tristan shook his head. “I did not make that clear. I thought that if we were courting and Eleanor wasn’t on the expedition, her father would still support our venture. But if I ruined her, then he might not only pull his funding from us, but also not give her the dowry she deserves.”
His father nodded. “That’s possible. But it wasn’t up to you to make that choice. It was hers.”
“I know.”
Knowing he’d made his point, his father turned his gaze out the window, at the bleak countryside rushing by. Tristan did the same. It made him feel queasy, seeing the scenery rush past at such an appalling speed. His leg stopped jumping.
“Perhaps after this attempt at the Ben,” Tristan said, not wanting to finish his thought because he had no idea what he planned.
“After the Ben,” his father agreed, not needing a full plan to be supportive.
Tristan felt better. And warmer. And stronger. Perhaps hewasmore like Portia, and less like Ophelia. He didn’t need big, giant, life-changing ambitions. He could have smaller ones that included the revolutionary ideas of being happy, and finding someone he could grow old with. Or climb a mountain with, forthat matter. He considered it. Perhaps Eleanor had a passion like Ophelia. Perhaps he could support Eleanor’s dream, if she had one, the way he supported Ophelia’s ambition.
The idea of it appealed to him, and then he thought of telling such an idea to Blakely, who would tell him how he was the man, and how he needed to be in charge. But what if Tristan wasn’t good at being in charge, and rather, was really good at carrying out other people’s ideas? That was a talent, wasn’t it?
He was fairly certain Eleanor would prefer a man like that—a man who didn’t have to be in charge every minute of every day. Where the marriage could be a partnership, and not him charging ahead, expecting her to keep up, never looking at what she needed. It certainly wasn’t that he would turn into a milksop over night. He had plenty of ideas of his own. And definitely certain places where he would take charge. He just needed to convince her to take a chance on him.
*
Scotland was darkand wet and miserable when they arrived.
“I thought this was supposed to be Scotland’s summer,” Justine grumbled, putting her shoulder against the wind. A carriage was waiting for them, and they huddled together as they moved through the station, porters rushing back and forth to get all of their trunks.
The amount of luggage for their party was comical. Not only did each person have a trunk of personal items, there was an entire trunk of ropes, and an entire trunk of sewn-up sleeping blankets, tents, and other camping essentials. They weren’t sure of the conditions at the base of Ben Nevis, since the English army had pulled out of Fort William over a decade ago.
Ophelia and her father corresponded with several men who knew the mountain, but they’d been evasive about theconditions and available amenities. So they overprepared, which Eleanor appreciated.
The rain was cold, coming in at her face sideways. She kept herself shielded, but when she heard, “Allow me,” she glanced over.
Tristan was beside the carriage, handing them up, as the drivers and porters secured the luggage. It was the first time they’d been so close since the morning after the ball. He’d left for London without telling anyone, and Eleanor had somehow felt abandoned. Not that it was a new sensation, but rather disappointingly familiar. Nor had he been present much at the Ladies’ Alpine Society salons. Ophelia told her that he had to be threatened into coming to the planning meeting. Eleanor had assumed it had been because of her. Even the way he’d stared at her at the train station this morning had that same tinge of disapproval.
But now, in the rain, instead of sulking and averting his gaze, this time he looked at her with a new clarity. His Tristan-ness had returned.
Eleanor felt taken aback. His blue eyes were so arresting, she couldn’t help but meet his gaze. Her lips parted, wanting to say something, anything, but nothing came out. Cool raindrops fell on her lips instead, which she licked off. His eyes flickered down, watching her mouth, and she suddenly felt embarrassed.
He smiled at her, a polite one, not one of his stunning, all-encompassing smiles, and she stepped into the carriage. He handed up Prudence and closed the door, leaving the four girls and Lady Rascomb crammed into the conveyance.
“I’m exhausted,” announced Justine.
The smell of wet wool and felt filled the small space.
“I think we all are,” Prudence said, and even though her tone was soft, it still felt like a rebuke. They sat in silence. Long minutes later, the carriage lurched forward, and all the womenswayed with the motion. The small window was streaked with rain.
They reached an inn somewhere near Edinburgh. When they got out of the carriage, the coachman attempting valiantly to use an umbrella to keep them dry against the pelting cold rain, it was so dark that it seemed they were miles from another building. A doorway opened, spilling light into the mud, and a shadow dashed out to the carriage.
“I’ll get the girls inside, thank you.” Lady Rascomb took the umbrella from the coachman and ushered them all out, instructing them to dash across the mud and find safety inside.
A round woman with skirts practically belted at her chin ushered them inside. She wore a mob cap, and Eleanor couldn’t figure out if it was part of an older style or perhaps worn at night here in Scotland. But it largely covered the woman’s brown and silver hair as she ushered them in, dripping wet and shivering.
“There’s another carriage on the way,” Ophelia said. Lady Rascomb limped inside last, shaking out the umbrella and leaning it against the doorframe, as if she were a maid and not a viscountess.
