Eleanor straightened Justine’s gown, since Justine was just open-mouthed staring at Karl, his straw-colored hair neatly combed back, and not flopping over his eyes.
“Fine,” Justine said.
“I suppose that’s why they say no racing inside,” Ophelia said with a light laugh. The Ladies’ Alpine Society descended the rest of the stairway with far more decorum. Eleanor and Prudence went to their husbands and while Ophelia drifted toward her father and mother, Justine stood close enough toKarl that she could smell the fine, clean scent of him. No sweat, or hay, or animal. He wore a light cologne that combined with his tight trousers and flared coat made her want to throw herself at him again.
She opened her mouth to greet him, or say anything at all, but the dining room door swung open, capturing all of their attention.
“Dinner. Is. Served,” Herr Brunner announced from the doorway, his English clear, though accented.
The Bavarian man smiled broadly at them, pleased with himself, and no doubt pleased with the rich smells emanating from the kitchen.
“Get straightened up, dears,” Lady Rascomb said before entering the dining room with her husband. “We will be taking a photograph this evening.”
“I beg your pardon?” Justine said.
“You are welcome,” her brother said, dipping down to reach her ear. Every single one of her siblings got to be tall except her. Life wasn’t fair.
“You brought a camera here?” Justine asked. “I didn’t even know you had one.”
“My newest obsession,” Francis said. He always seemed steadier than he actually was, but that was because he was always with Tristan. Between the two of them, Francis had been the more level-headed. But since Tristan married Eleanor, Francis became unmoored and flighty. “Besides, with a photo of you all dressed like you were dining in Mayfair, along with an article from Ophelia about the mountain-climbing aspect, and every journal from here to Boston will want it.”
The public did love a photo of rich women dressed in their finery. But would they respect Ophelia’s words that went with it? Justine had her doubts. Still, it was worth the effort.
“Then does my dress look good for your camera? I don’t want to look rumpled.”
He eyed her, making a face. “Did I bring the wrong dress? It looks too big for you. No matter, we’ll hide you in the back so no one can tell.”
Justine made a face at him. “I’ll be front and center, right next to Ophelia, thank you.”
“Come on,” Francis said, offering his arm.
They may have dressed for dinner like they would in Mayfair, but they did not observe the rules of entering a dining room according to rank. The girl Justine often saw around doing various chores was in the dining room, wearing a traditional Alpine dress. It made Justine think of the children in the cheesemaker’s shack, peering down at her from the loft. How old until they took work? How long did childhood last up here in the mountains?
Watching the girl filling wine glasses, Justine realized that just past her gaze was Karl. And he stared back at her. It was so strange to admit that she missed him. How could she miss him? She saw him every day. But she missed the easy conversations, even the drudging walks with him. She missed the freedom that she’d had to be herself.
And she begrudged the limits. She begrudged this English dinner and the confines of her life. Francis would no doubt report back to her parents that she was being a docile, good girl, climbing her silly mountain.
Francis fooled with a tripod, atop which a camera perched. “Everyone! I’d like you to crowd around for a photograph.”
The room buzzed with compliance, even though they’d all seen the camera sitting there as they’d entered the dining room. Before Justine realized it, Karl had squeezed in next to her, his thigh flush with hers. She didn’t dare look over.
Her hand rested on the table, and his was next to hers. As everyone else squeezed in around them, Francis barking orders of who sat where, Justine raised her pinkie finger off the table. She had no clear purpose in mind, just a hope, a need, a wish. Her exploratory gesture was met with Karl’s little finger. His answer to her question. That together they were something more. A force so inviolable and inescapable that fighting against their inevitable collision was a Sisyphean exercise. They didn’t speak, just stared straight ahead, their hands hidden from the camera by the array of wine and water glasses.
“This will take a moment, so please remain absolutely still with no talking,” Francis said.
Justine couldn’t have talked if she’d wanted to. She was frozen in this moment, her finger linked with his. This connection with Karl reciprocated, her pining felt and acknowledged by him in this one small gesture.
“Wonderful, everyone! Thank you so much.” Francis applauded them, and everyone moved back to their original seats. Justine looked at her empty bread plate as the heat of Karl dissipated once he’d left her side.
“Justine?” Ophelia asked, noticing her sudden and unlikely quiet.
“I—I’m fine. Sudden dizziness, that’s all. It will be over in a moment, I’m sure of it.” Justine gave a winning grin, and though Ophelia wasn’t convinced, she let her line of questioning rest.
Something burbled inside Justine. Something bigger and more important than anything she’d ever felt before, and she didn’t know what it was or what it meant.
**
Chapter Eight
