“I’ve been focusing on other aspects, Tristan,” Ophelia hissed back.
“If you cannot delegate, then you have no business—”
“You don’t know what I have been doing because you’re either not here or—”
“Bridewells! Bridewells!” Bad News stepped between them. “It doesn’t matter at this moment. We have all the attendees we’ll receive this evening. Let’s get started. And don’t bicker in front of the teacher.” Bad News winked at Miss Eleanor, and it made Tristan furious.
Bad News flirted with everyone and everything. The silly chit would flirt with a gas lamp if she were bored enough. Meanwhile, Tristan was doing his absolute best to be a gentleman. It was enough to drive him to the back of the room and indulge in his hip flask.
Eleanor flushed—perhaps with pride, if Tristan had to guess. He would wager that she’d never before been praised for her unique talent. If that wasn’t just like Ophelia to find someone’s weakness and draw it out for her own purposes. She was cunning, his sister. Pushing aside his resentment of Bad News, he let pride in his sister flush through his veins.
“And Eleanor.” Ophelia grabbed the girl by her wrist, making Tristan wonder what it might feel like, how small her wrist mightfeel beneath his own hand. “Please return those pamphlets and journals I let you borrow. We have a new member of the Society, and I want to make sure I reel her in.”
Tristan tried to keep himself from grumbling and flung himself into one of the seats. Ophelia clapped her hands to get everyone’s attention.
The rest of them stopped talking and took seats obediently. These salons were meant to educate the public about their hope to climb the Matterhorn in a few years, to educate them on the perils and trials they would face and how they would overcome them. It was also a way to make them pay for a subscription to the writings they would publish during the adventure, and hopefully open their pockets even further to help pay for all the preparations still needed.
Three men had lived after conquering the Matterhorn, requiring something like fifteen attempts: Edward Whymper, an illustrator, and the two German guides. How many attempts would it take them? And how could they even get this motley group of woolen skirts to Switzerland to try?
Tristan had no doubts about Ophelia. His sister was remarkably stubborn, and she had proven herself when the family went scrambling up mountains in France over the last few years. People applied the wordstubbornto all manner of beasts and people, but the definition didn’t come to its pinnacle until Ophelia. She would die with snow in her boots rather than walk down a mountain without reaching the top. And Bad News? Best to not underestimate that one. Tristan didn’t know the true extent of the girl’s powers, nor did he want to. She was Bad News for a reason.
But Miss Eleanor Piper. If they took this soft beauty up a mountain, they might kill her. Half of Edward Whymper’s team died, and those were seasoned climbers. And men, of course. Could Miss Eleanor overcome her staid, proper upbringing tobecome a physical creature that could conquer a mountain? Not many Englishmen could—could many Englishwomen? Any risk they took gambled their lives—individually and as a group.
But his father had several exercises for them to engage in over the next few months: the intensive at Berringbone Hold, and then the trial expedition in Scotland. Climbing Ben Nevis wouldn’t be easy in the least. It would be cold and wet and foggy, all conditions they might find on the Matterhorn. It was the closest they could get to a test before leaving for the Continent.
“This is Miss Eleanor Piper, everyone,” Ophelia announced, straightening her shoulders as Tristan had told her repeatedly that she must do if she expected to get anywhere as a public speaker. “As you know, safety on a mountain relies on the strength of your ropes. Your ropes are only as strong as your knots. So let us welcome Miss Eleanor, who will no doubt keep us safe.”
Tristan raised his hands for a lazy clap, feeling awkward about applauding someone in a crowd of less than ten people. He hoped he could focus well enough to learn what she had to teach—if anything. He was already strong in his basic knots. He’d been up several mountains, and been in peril many times. Including the times when Vera took to her dramatic opera roots and threw a vase at his head.
*
“Everyone should havea length of rope to practice along with Miss Piper,” Miss Ophelia said, scurrying around, handing out the lengths to those who hadn’t gotten them yet. Once the task was done, Ophelia sat down in the settee next to Miss Justine.
There were so many eyes looking at Eleanor. Honestly, must everyone have two of them? Heat crept up her cheeks, and she began toglow,as her mother would say, under her arms. Sheswallowed and gripped the length of rope. This was her comfort, more than any doll or blanket or book.
“Hello everyone, I am Miss Eleanor Piper.” She gave a short curtsy bob before realizing she had already been introduced. “I’m the daughter of Mr. Bruce Piper, owner of Piper Shipping & Co. I learned all of my knot-tying skills from one of his esteemed captains, Captain Smythe. While knots are employed in various professions, the ones I know pertain to sailing and the hauling of cargo.”
Eleanor glanced across the room. Tristan Bridewell was giving her the most bored expression, even if his eyes were pretty and blue. She probably wouldn’t say anything new to him, and he was likely finding her gauche and beneath him. But her father was here, so that must have more than made up for her presence. That was what they wanted, and he’d been very clear about it in the ballroom—they needed funding.
“You likely already know some basics, like a square knot,” she folded the length of the manila rope over itself and through. “This is a basic knot that is very intuitive for almost everyone. But it can showcase for us why it’s important to dress out your knot.”
She caught confusion in Justine Brewer’s eyes.
“What I mean by dressing out your knot,” Eleanor explained, “is to carefully keep each line of the rope in clear view. No twists or sloppiness. The twisting of the rope can degrade the strength itself.”
There was a masculine grunt from the back. Was that Lord Rascomb? Or her father? She glanced over to her father. His burgeoning belly was relaxed against his thighs, but he had a dreamy look on his face, his rope held loosely in one hand. Eleanor straightened. He seemedproudof her.
“Ow!” Miss Justine shrieked, sticking a finger in her mouth. “I think I have a splinter.”
“Why are we not using cotton ropes, Miss Piper?” Lord Rascomb asked.
Eleanor felt her cheeks heat. Cotton was probably better for practice knots, and indeed, what she used at home. But she hadn’t had enough available at such short notice. Manila was the next best thing, and indeed, what she believed they should use on a snowy expedition. “My apologies. Perhaps this was a poor idea.”
Ophelia shot to her feet. “No, this is a wonderful idea. And we likely won’t be using cotton rope on expedition, will we, Papa?”
Rascomb shook his head. “We have some hemp, but I’m worried about rot.”
“Manila is a good flexible fiber,” Eleanor said. “Next time, I can bring cotton rope.” It came out of her mouth before she had time to think. Was she really proposing to teach them on another night? This couldn’t be interesting or even lucrative for them. This felt like utter failure and she dared not meet her father’s eyes. “Perhaps if you tell me what scenarios you think to encounter, and I can figure out the best types of knots to show you.”
