Justine listened as Ophelia crept around the room, changing her clothes and sliding into her own bed. It was much harder to undress without someone to help with the buttons in the back, but not impossible. Should she have waited for her?Gotten up to help? If she were a better person, yes. She would have.
But tonight, she didn’t want to talk. She didn’t even want anyone to look at her, even Ophelia, who had always been unfazed by her. Justine’s mind was churning through thoughts that couldn’t be articulated. The emotions were bland colors being mashed and turned by invisible gears, keeping her from any semblance of peace.
What it came down to was that outside of the Ladies’ Alpine Society, the only person who had ever seen her as strong and competent as she saw herself was Karl. She might not have an Oxford education or have travelled the world, but she knew enough that this was rare for a woman like her. Like Ophelia, Justine’s ambitions were not to be married and have a brood. If that happened, that was fine, but she had bigger dreams than perfecting her mending.
The experiences she’d had in Zermatt, of moving her body, of climbing over cold boulders and punching through soft snow, these almost felt like a fever dream compared to the contained life she was expected to lead in England. Unlike Ophelia, her family had no inherent social cache, and unlike Eleanor’s family, they didn’t aspire to it either. Her father wouldn’t care that much if she married a man without a fortune.
But would he tolerate a foreigner? A mountain guide at that? There was a vast difference between an English working man and a Swiss mountaineer. Justine worried her lip. And why did it matter? She wasn’t proposing marriage to Karl. She only wanted to return to their easy banter and teasing friendship. Why did it matter what her father thought about anything? Why was she so upset about this?
The self-loathing surged through her all at once and she threw her feather covers off. She expected to startle Ophelia, but her friend was already well into slumber. Justine couldn’t standit. What a positive ninny she had been. Everything was fine. So she didn’t know how to be teased, because she’d never been in this position before. But it was absolutely fine. Everything was fine.
Before she knew it, she’d gotten out of bed, pulled on her slippers and wrapped herself in her shawl. She would just go down to Karl right now and they could talk about it, and then tomorrow would be pleasant and perfect, and she would be able to sleep.
It was frigid cold in the stairwell, and she could feel the thin heat emanating from the dining room stove as she descended. What if he was asleep? A normal person would likely be asleep, since Ophelia was. But hadn’t their morning meet-ups proven that the man didn’t need rest? Still, she couldn’t turn back now, or she’d never sleep.
This was really for the good of the entire expedition, anyway. This way, any awkwardness would be dispelled, and off they would go climbing nearby mountains.
“Karl?” she whispered as she pushed the door open. “Are you awake?”
“Nein,” he answered, twisting round on his pallet. His body was limned by the firelight. His blond hair tousled and his bare foot sticking out from under the blanket. He stared at her, his lips parted, shocked. A moment later he recovered enough to say, “You cannot be here, Justine.”
“I had to, otherwise I wouldn’t be able to sleep.” There were so many alarms in her head clanging, telling her to go back upstairs, to wait until daylight, to wait until Lady Rascomb was present as a chaperone, but still Justine stepped forward. The whispering sound of her slipper on the wood floor was loud in the midnight dark.
“What could be so important?” Karl sat up, the blanket falling away from his torso, and the firelight illuminating the outline of his chest through the thin night shirt he wore.
He was beautiful. The way a pine tree was, sturdy and purpose-built. As if Karl could only exist in the mountains, and would melt away like snow in warmer climes. Another whispered step towards him.
“I’ve been told I need to act more appropriately with you. That we are too friendly. That this needs to be professional.” She wanted to look away from him when she said this, as if to hide. She was ashamed in some ways—but not for how she acted, rather, for how the world thought she ought to act.
The world told her to stop talking so much. To stop fidgeting. Stop laughing when she thought something was funny. They wanted her to lose all sense of herself and become an automaton in some curio shop.
But with Karl she’d been free. She could hurl her best insults and he would take them as they were, not dress her down for her lack of decorum. He’d taken her up steep trails where she’d huffed and puffed, and felt the sweat drip down her back in the most glorious of ways, and never once did he turn around and lecture her on her appearance.
And while it was specifically Lady Rascomb who had asked her to keep her distance, she did so because it was the expectation of Justine’s family, of a hierarchy back in England that kept her mouth laced tighter than her corset.
But she didn’t want this time in Zermatt to submit to that. She wasn’t wearing a corset most days, allowing her to breathe deeply as she hiked, sucking in thin air like any man was allowed to.
Karl said nothing in response to her, only watched her, waiting. So she stepped forward again. It wasn’t that she was bold, it was that there was something in her body urgingher forward, propelling her feet, her knees, and without any resistance left to herself, she sank to her knees in front of Karl.
“You should not be here,” he rumbled. His expression was open and vulnerable, as if he might tell her anything. Listen to her without filter and judgement.
“Why not? I don’t care what other people think.”
“Justine.” His voice caught, and she melted at that hitch and the way he said her name. “It isn’t other people. It’s me. I cannot trust myself.”
Her brows furrowed. The words sounded like rejection, but everything about his face and body screamed otherwise. “What is there not to trust?”
He ran his hands across his face and then through his hair, his breathing clearly measured and controlled, as if he were hiking up a steep grade. “I am a man, Justine.”
“I am well aware.” Oh, she had noticed.
“I want to do . . . man things . . . to you.” Karl frowned. “That is not good English, but I am having trouble thinking.”
Justine nodded. “I’m sorry. It is the middle of the night and you were sleeping.”
Karl scoffed. “I was not sleeping.”
“But you said—”
