“We have a proper dinner, by the looks of it.” Lady Rascomb smiled at all of them. How she could be in such good humor, with grace and politeness, despite the obvious pain she was in, was beyond Eleanor’s understanding.
Another light brush against the door, and Ophelia hurried over to open it. The girl came back in with the tray once again laden. She set out bowls of stew, a board with fresh sliced brown bread, a pot of honey, and a crock of butter. There was a small basket of apples and a knife to cut them with.
“It may not look like much, but I tell you, it’s the best you’ll have.” The girl looked down at the floor.
“It smells wonderful,” Prudence said, bestowing a bright smile on the girl.
Hearing Prudence’s accent, the girl’s head snapped up. “You’re an American!”
Prudence chuckled. “That obvious?”
“I’ve cousins that went years ago. They send letters back, but I’ve been dying to know how it really is.”
“I’m happy to answer whatever questions you might have,” Prudence eyed the table. “But perhaps it could wait until after dinner?”
The girl nodded, her excitement palpable as she gripped her tray and nibbled her lower lip. “Of course. My apologies, ma’am. Ladies.” The girl curtsied again and left the room, closing the door ever so softly.
None of them stood on ceremony, and they fell upon their meal as if they hadn’t eaten in a week. They washed down the hearty stew, dotted with large chunks of potatoes and carrots with ale, and sopped up the bottoms of the bowls with hunks of brown bread smothered in butter and honey.
By the end, all the girls were reclining on the couch. Lady Rascomb cut the apples into pieces slowly, handing them down the line so that each girl got a slice to dip into the remnants of the honey at a leisurely pace.
“Do you think the men got this good of a meal?” Prudence asked, her eyes glazed over as she licked honey from her fingers.
“I think it was exactly the same,” said Ophelia, staring into the fire. “That’s what we’ve requested for this entire trip. The same for us as for them.”
Eleanor thought of Tristan, one floor below her, in his shirtsleeves, collar off and shirt unbuttoned. The fire would light up his golden features, playing with the shadows of his perfect cheekbones and tender pink lips. Just as he’d looked around the fire at Berringbone, so at ease, so perfectly fit into the landscape.
“But we aren’t the same, Ophelia. We’re women. They’re men. We’re different. Shouldn’t we have different accommodations?” Prudence asked.
“That’s just it, Prudence.” Ophelia leaned back, propping her head up with her hand. “That’s how men belittle women. Wehave to prove we can do it as they do it, for any variance causes them to judge us even more harshly.”
Justine sprang forward, an unexpected fierceness on her face. “And which of us will determine what women need? You? Me? Eleanor? Because we are individuals. I need less than any of you. Any of the men, as well.”
Shocked by Justine’s outburst, the room fell silent. Eleanor watched as color bloomed on Justine’s cheeks, and she sat back with her arms folded. It was then that Eleanor realized something so bloody obvious that she felt like an idiot for not knowing it sooner: everyone dealt with adversity differently.
Eleanor hung back and became quieter. Justine planted herself in the middle and challenged whatever was to come at her head-on. Prudence massaged and comforted. Ophelia became more and more rational. And Tristan ran away.
And yet, they were about to go climb a mountain that was chock full of adversity. She’d learned only a little about it so far, trusting Ophelia and Lord Rascomb in their planning. The last thing Eleanor wanted to do was doubt the abilities of their expedition, but would they be able to overcome themselves on this adventure? Let alone the mountain and the weather.
“I daresay I’m tired after such a long train ride,” Eleanor said, giving a weak smile to them all. “Early to bed for me.”
“‘Early to bed, early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise,’” Prudence said, unfolding her legs from underneath her.
“I beg your pardon?” Lady Rascomb said.
“Benjamin Franklin. It’s one of his sayings. You must have heard it at some point.” Prudence scanned their faces.
“It does sound dreadfully American,” Ophelia said, hiding a giggle. Eleanor twisted her lips to hide a smile. The idiom did sound a bit overzealous.
“I don’t see how it all depends on when one sleeps,” Justine protested. “It’s a bit limited, don’t you think?”
Prudence put her hands on her slim hips, her expression teasing. “Well. I can tell none of you every grew up on a farm.”
“Is that the only way to be healthy, wealthy, and wise?” Lady Rascomb asked, as if she might be affronted.
The teasing eased the tension from Justine’s outburst, and soon they slipped off to their rooms, one by one, tucking themselves into bed.
Chapter Twelve
