Chapter One
1869, Zermatt, Switzerland
Justine Brewer didn’t mind a lot of things. She didn’t mind the cold; she didn’t mind her friends being so in love that they draped themselves endlessly around their sweethearts. Or overhearing their whispered saccharine sentiments so often that it made her teeth hurt.
But what she did absolutely mind was being forced to sit still for three days straight: from the ferry across the Channel to the train from Calais to Paris, the train from Paris to Strasbourg, the train from Strasbourg to Zurich, and the donkey ride from Zurich to Zermatt. She was going to crawl out of her bloody skin.
As it was, she already wished she were climbing the mountain herself instead of being strapped onto the back of a donkey like piece of luggage, feeling the cold and observing how the snow gathered on rocks and trees, until finally—finally!— the valley unfurled, and beyond was the stately, snowy, scooped-out peak of the Matterhorn. It loomed above all other peaks, and on the cold, clear day, it glowed with its hard bright-white angles.
The donkeys ambled down into Zermatt, the church steeple at the far end lording over the shadowed valley, a pale echo of the mountain beyond. The town itself was not large, but well established. The snow crusted on the rooftops of the wood-and-slate Alpine houses, which were utterly unlike English cottages. They all possessed a tightness and squareness, each window and shutter at right angles. Not a single board leaned even a centimeter out of place. There were few people out in the streets, all wrapped tightly in woolen scarves and hats, barely anything but eyes showing against the chill air.
When they finally arrived at their inn, Justine was too impatient to wait for someone to help her down off the donkey.She slid off herself and threw the reins haphazardly. But oh, that air! Nothing had ever tasted as good as this air—crisp and fresh and cool, she felt like she could drink it. She was even more anxious to run, to feel that air deep in her lungs, to replace all the fetid air of the three days’ worth of enclosed trains.
In front of her, Ophelia and her father, Lord Rascomb, dismounted. Another train of donkeys pulled up behind them, hauling all the luggage and climbing equipment they’d brought from London or picked up along the way. One step closer to the top of the Matterhorn. If she weren’t positive Ophelia would get annoyed with her for wandering away, she would have gone on a walk around right then. She stamped on the snow, hearing the cold crunch of it under her boots.
“Fräulein,” a man said to her, indicating the way into the hotel.
The building was freshly built, the light-colored boards still smelling of trees. The rugs were new, and Justine thought about how much melted snow these would absorb over the years. Her carpetbag was already waiting at the front desk, along with Ophelia’s.
“Güete n’Abu,” the man at the desk said. He was older, perhaps in his sixties, with frothy snow-white hair and a round face. His cheeks were pink, which contrasted with the bright blue ice-chip color of his eyes. “Ich bin der Herr Brunner.”
“Good afternoon,” Justine said, not understanding a word that was spoken. Instead, she looked around, waiting for Lord Rascomb to speak with the older man. There was a staircase that obviously went up to guest rooms, and another doorway that gaped open. Through it, she saw tables and chairs. She pointed, then mimed bringing a fork to her mouth. “For eating?”
The man’s eyes brightened and he nodded. “Ja, fürs Essen.”
It looked pleasant enough. Simple accommodations, but that’s all they needed. She was looking forward to her simple dresses, the solitary runs, and this delicious crisp air. No dances, no balls, no dinners. Just mountains.
Lord Rascomb approached, pulling letters out of his coat pocket. The men spoke in German, which Justine ignored and instead looked about at the potted plants and the red and yellow painted designs on the exposed beams above her head.
Ophelia joined her. Justine pointed upwards. “The English never decorate a ceiling.”
“Untrue,” Ophelia said, sniffing.
“All is well?” Justine asked.
“I should like a bath, that’s all,” Ophelia said.
Justine didn’t respond because she didn’t need to. They’d endured the hell of puberty together, their first menses—for Justine’s first blood came as she shared a bed with Ophelia and would have been the most mortifying event in the world had Ophelia not been so drattedly kind about it. And while Justine had received the taunting of Ophelia’s older brother, Tristan, now thankfully wed and thoroughly besotted with Eleanor, it wasn’t as if Justine hadn’t given as good as she’d gotten. Until Tristan had told Justine’s nickname to his influential friends and it became the work of the scandal sheets.
But it didn’t matter to Justine, and Ophelia stuck by her through it all, even though other girls told Ophelia to cut ties with Justine because of her reputation. Ophelia always told them that Justine was an innocent. In the matters of men? Yes, absolutely. In the matters of other mischief? Perhaps not. And her older brother Francis, Tristan’s schoolmate, was of no help whatsoever. He didn’t defend his little sister at all.
It didn’t help that no matter what kind of gown Justine wore, her slim waist, short stature, and buxom endowments made her look as if she were hoping for a tumble in the hay.The only true resistance to this presumption was to laugh at them. And she did. She had gotten used to needing to be unkind, needing to be loud and forceful. And, in one particular horrifying instance when she was at her debut, being verywell seen, so no man could carry her off.
“I like the red bird motif,” Justine said, still staring at the Alpine ceiling. “It’s cheerful.”
“It’s bloody,” Ophelia said.
Justine looked to her friend. Anxious indeed to be so judgmental. It wasn’t like her. Justine was about to say something, when there was a thunder on the stairs and the rest of the Ladies’ Alpine Society came tearing into view.
Eleanor flung herself on Justine, while Prudence embraced Ophelia.
“We’ve missed you!” Eleanor squealed. Their quiet and withdrawn knot-tying genius Eleanor was capable of squealing? Marriage had loosened her.
“Who are you, and what have you done with Eleanor?” Justine admonished. But Eleanor moved aside, and Tristan moved in for a hearty embrace, something he had never done before. Puzzled, Justine suffered his affection.
“Bad News,” Tristan uttered the nickname he’d bestowed.
“Arsehole,” she said, the only name he’d ever earned.
