“Top of the list,” Ophelia said, her entire posture straightening with pleasure. The woman really liked her lists. “Ropes.”
Justine nodded and opened the first trunk, where the ropes lay on top. They were on top for a number of reasons: sothey could not be torn or cut by any other object, but also so that when Ophelia did her checks, they could go in order. It honestly made Justine want to scream. But this was her very closest friend in the entire world, so she endured it, letting her mind wander between items.
Of course, today it only wandered to Karl. She’d had to put distance between them. Lady Rascomb, who was their official chaperone, made a point that while they were in mixed company, they were also out of doors and moving the entire time, which made it tolerable to spend time with Karl. There was no chance for them to become overly familiar. Technically, there had been no violation. But that was a semantic trick. For it was obvious that Justine was mooning over Karl. Obvious to the whole lot of them, and they were not the most observant bunch.
The idea thatTristannoticed, of all people, made it clear she was being ridiculous. Tristan might as well have walked through life with his eyes closed for all he spotted.
Ophelia started running the first rope through her hands, and Justine took the second. They looked for any fraying or decay, any pests that might have found a place to nibble, and overall integrity. It was a visceral way to ensure they would all make it down the Matterhorn alive.
The death of Lord Francis Douglas on the first successful Matterhorn ascent haunted Ophelia. Justine was well aware of how the Bridewell family saw the parallels between themselves and Lord Douglas. It had been a rope mishap that caused four members of the expedition to fall off the side of the mountain. The local guides, a father and son that Karl had mentioned once in passing that he knew, were still being harassed by not just newspapers but by solicitors. Many wanted to believe the guides had murdered the men, regardless of having no reason to do so.
The Bridewells had discussed the case at length amongst themselves, a lecture Justine had been privy to, given how many evenings she stayed at their townhome in London.
After each woman had checked their ropes, the got up to swap piles and check the other’s work. “Four eyes are better than two,” Ophelia said brightly, which is what she said every time they did this dance.
The Bridewell analysis had been that the original Matterhorn party suffered from too much joy. Overcome by their accomplishment, they did not pay close enough attention to their gear, did not have systems in place to check one another, and thus did not realize that one of the ropes that was supposed to keep the men tied together was in fact a weak supply rope, not meant to hold of the weight of several men.
The party had been roped together, which was standard practice for mountaineering, the idea being that if one climber slipped, the others could gain traction and haul the dangling man up. But in the difficult conditions of the Matterhorn, the boulders and icy haze kept the expedition from seeing one another, and the first or second man slipped off the edge, dragging the others along until that weak tether rope snapped around the side of a boulder, saving the last three men from certain death.
The two guides and Edward Whymper, whose journals and sketches permeated every newspaper across the world, survived. Ophelia was determined that would not be their fate. Her belief not in her own hard work, but in her attention to detail, would keep them from harm.
Justine believed in Ophelia. She had no opinions so lofty, and was happy to agree with the Bridewell conclusion. She even endured these equipment verifications so that Ophelia would not be alone in her perseverance.
The ropes inspected and deemed adequate, Ophelia checked the box on her list.
“Do you think it’s inappropriate to be friends with a man?” Justine asked before Ophelia could announce the next item, which was always slings.
Ophelia blinked, her mouth still open, ready to continue on with their task. But, in deference to Justine’s question, she put down her paper and closed her mouth, thinking.
“No. I think men and women can be friends without physical attraction being a part of a conversation.”
“So there’s nothing problematic with me being friends with Mr. Vogel?” Justine asked, not daring to look Ophelia in the eye, because she had a feeling she already knew what her friend was going to say.
“That is not at all what I said.” There was Ophelia’s frowny silence, when she was thinking, gathering all the facts and data in her head, as if she were her own beautiful machine, whirring and clicking away like the most perfect automaton. “You and Mr. Vogel do seem to have attraction for one another, which changes the dynamics. But I suppose if neither of you acts on such attraction, there is nothing wrong, and a friendship can be pursued, as long as it is kept at a formal remove.”
“How far of a remove?” Justine asked, getting out the slings. There were sixteen of them, and three spares. All had been fabricated by the same seamstresses that sewed sailing cloths, and all had been designed originally by Eleanor, with her profound knowledge of knots, and then perfected by Lord and Lady Rascomb, Tristan, and Ophelia. Justine had been grateful to be left out of that project. Her only reasonable input could have been the color, which no one thought was important in the least.
“Not permitting him to use your first name, nor using his,” she said pointedly. She took up one harness and beganinspecting the seams, the stitching, looking for fraying. After the visual inspection, they pulled on different lengths, as if to mimic a fall, to test their integrity. Each group of slings had initials embroidered, so that each person would not lose them. This was also checked off on Ophelia’s list.
“What if I cannot bring myself to return to calling him Mr. Vogel? What if I liked our friendship when it was as familiar as that? I have called Tristan by his first name since we were children.”
“You were children,” Ophelia pointed out. “Which is entirely different. And there was no amount of tutoring that would have ever made you call Tristan Mr. Bridewell. You invented other clever names instead.”
Justine chuckled. She’d had fun inventing new ways to torment him. Which didn’t help at all with her new conundrum. She’d never liked Tristan the way she liked Karl. Tristan had been an annoyance, an unwelcome presence to her time with Ophelia. Karl was something different entirely. “But how does one go back? It’s like trying to put perfume back into the bottle.”
Ophelia opened and closed her mouth several times as she checked Justine’s work. “I don’t know.”
That was as honest as Ophelia could be, Justine supposed. She dropped the subject and they continued the task at hand. After the fabric-related items, they examined the metal hooks and cleats they’d either had made custom for them or scavenged from other uses. Everything was oiled and in working order. Once the list boxes were thoroughly ticked, it was time to dress for dinner.
Wordlessly, they helped each other into their better gowns—nothing as ostentatious as dressing for dinner in London, but they did still keep with the tradition in their own fashion. Justine helped with Ophelia’s hair, and then they switched.
Down at dinner, Justine found herself unable to contribute to conversation, which was so unlike her that everyone commented. It was yet another embarrassment, but Justine didn’t feel it as keenly as she’d felt the previous night’s teasing. Tonight, she was sad. She didn’t want to be sad, and indeed, felt foolish for being so, but she had never been good at examining her feelings and keeping them to herself. She just felt them, and they leaked out of her just as easily as tears.
She did her best to not look at Karl, so she didn’t know if he was paying any attention to her, which was for the best. She didn’t want to make the Ladies’ Alpine Society seem foolish, like any one of them was so scandalous as to run away with a foreign mountain guide. Of any of their accomplishments in Switzerland, that would be what London newspapers would choose to print. Never mind being the first women to summit the Matterhorn, one of them had lost her head with a Swiss goatherder.
After dinner was over, Prudence took her aside and apologized for the teasing. “We were just happy to see you infatuated,” her friend explained. “You are always so lively, but to see you like this was transcendental. You glowed. And now you don’t. I’m sorry.” Prudence squeezed her arm. “I know it isn’t the same hearing it from me, but I would love to see you happy again.”
“Thank you,” Justine said, trying a weak smile. Instead of lingering to chat, Justine excused herself to bed. By the time Ophelia came up, Justine was already in her nightrail, on her side, facing the wall, pretending to sleep.
