Despite his Onkel’s bidding, he peeked into the dining room to see how things were going, and to see if a translator was needed.
Frau Erhart was tending to Frau Bridewell. The Zurich doctor was peering over Lord Rascomb. Ophelia and Lady Rascomb looked at him with heartbreaking hope in their faces. Tristan stood with his hand on his wife’s shoulder, but stared back at the bed where his father lay. His allegiance torn.
Karl raised his eyebrows at Tante Greta, whose serious expression morphed, and she mouthed the wordsapple cakeat him, in case he was hungry. Yes he was, and he could eat an entire apple cake on his own, probably two. Instead, he shook hishead. Tante Greta needed to focus on the guests there, keeping them fed and warm.
But as he looked around, he didn’t see Justine. Nor Herr and Frau Moon. Even if she hadn’t wished for his honorable attention, he wanted to lay eyes on Justine to make sure she was well. After all, as a guide, it was his responsibility to check on his client. And perhaps she would tell him how the climb had felt from her perspective. How the ascent felt, what she saw, the downclimb, and how the rest of the way from Hörnli to Schwarzsee had been.
He backed out of the dining room and picked out the key to room number four from behind the desk. It was upstairs, and there was a bathing room down the hall. It only had cold water and a drain, but it was enough for him. That was all he wanted before he allowed himself to fall into oblivion. The last image in his mind was Justine’s face as they hauled Frau Moon up and over the ridge. Her expression set in absolute belief of their abilities. Of his.
**
Justine awoke, heart pounding. She’d been falling down into a bergschrund—the gap between the rock of a mountain and a glacier. There was a knocking at the door. Perhaps that had woken her, and not the fear of hitting the icy ground and dying a miserable cold death, all alone.
The bed next to hers—Ophelia’s—was empty. The bed was still made up from before they’d left for the Matterhorn. It had only been three days, but it felt like a lifetime. Justine staggered to her feet and threw on her dressing gown. When she opened the door, the young maid stood there, holding a breakfast tray.
“Good morning?” Justine croaked out, blinking hard to adjust to being awake.
“Guete Morge,” the girl said, making a gesture with her head that took Justine a moment to realize she was asking to be let into Justine’s room. She lifted the tray. “Z’Morge?”
Belatedly, Justine moved aside to let the girl pass. But no further attempts of conversation were made as she placed the tray on Justine’s bed and left. Justine looked at the time—already nine in the morning. She’d slept over twelve hours. Her stomach growled, as if to protest the time she’d wasted sleeping instead of eating. There hadn’t even been dinner last night—at least, she didn’t think there had been. She’d cleaned herself up, and then gone straight to bed after delivering the syrup of Althea to Prudence.
After she ate breakfast in her room and dressed alone, she wandered downstairs. The sun was bright and cheerful. Peering outside, she saw the crisp green grass, the endless blue sky and the mountains, standing guard as they’d always done. A murmur of voices came from the dining room.
Cots had been laid out on either side of the bed that housed Lord Rascomb. He looked peaceful now. Smaller, sunken, though his color was looking better. Ophelia sat on one side of the bed in a chair. She had cleaned up and was wearing a fresh dress. So at least she’d taken care of herself in some ways. Lady Rascomb sat in the chair next to her, her portable writing desk on the table. The viscountess had a stack of sealed envelopes and was penning yet another.
Tristan napped against the wall, and Eleanor sat beside him, sipping at a cup of tea. At a table farther away were the remnants of their breakfasts, empty plates and silverware, stacked up and ready to be whisked into the kitchen.
They were quite the scene. She assumed Prudence was upstairs in her room with Mr. Moon. Frau Brunner bustled out with a pot of tea on a tray, complete with cake, ready to be sliced. She set it on the table, gesturing and saying a halting, “Please.”
She picked up the stack of dirty dishes and hurried back into the kitchen. The young girl came in, carrying a stack of trays from upstairs. Justine felt very much in the way. So after greeting everyone, she slipped outdoors.
The air made her feel better, and the sun on her skin even more so. She wasn’t made for a sickbed vigil. But she wondered about Francis, and where he was. Karl was likely around here some place. Probably just as busy as the maid and Frau Brunner. She swallowed hard, once again ignoring the lump in her throat when she thought about how easily ignored she was.
It was a silly thing to feel anyway. Because out of everyone, she was fine. Absolutely fine. And she would figure out something to do to occupy herself. Somehow.
Later in the afternoon, after a short walk around the village, she returned to the inn and tried to offer to help Frau Brunner. It didn’t work. She was waved away. Visiting Prudence wasn’t any fun, as Mr. Moon refused to leave her side and frowned at Justine the entire time, as if she were somehow leaching all the healing energy from the room.
The dining room was awful, and no one spoke. So she ate dinner in her room alone. The next day was the same, but this time, she found Francis outside the front door of the inn, smoking. He said nothing other than awkward inquiries into her general health. Justine suggested he join her on a walk in town. As they meandered, he told her about running around Zurich trying to find the doctor. Justine gave him a halting story of their time on the Matterhorn, but when she got to the part of how Lord Rascomb got injured, he shuddered and stopped her, saying he couldn’t stand the idea of it.
But as days passed, her dreams replayed that moment of Lord Rascomb’s head hitting the rock, the sound turning her stomach every time, and also the sound of Eleanor’s feet scrambling as she slowly slipped off the ridge, pulling Prudencewith her. Sometimes, the dreams made up new versions of the experiences she’d had. That the rock fall that had hurt Tristan’s arm was a boulder and knocked him down the mountain, tumbling head over feet. Sometimes, she was hauling Karl up on the rope, but just as he got to the ledge, he let go on purpose, falling deep into an unending chasm.
Every morning, she awoke gasping in fear, wanting to scream, but not wanting to alarm anyone. Her feet were back to normal size, and she no longer felt the lingering fatigue of their attempt. She hadn’t seen Karl anywhere, but she also hadn’t dared search for him in the barns or along the fence line. She didn’t know where he would be.
It was lonely. She sat with Ophelia and tried to comfort her, but all the Bridewells had walled themselves up together, all grim and stoic and strong, never moving from Lord Rascomb’s side. Even Francis had a purpose that did not include her. He travelled between the inn and Zurich, the messenger and go-between. He took letters, conducted business via telegraph, returning with new concoctions and advice from other doctors.
So Justine wandered in the hills around Zermatt. She tried to read, but couldn’t concentrate. She visited with Prudence and Eleanor, taking afternoon tea with them, and trying to join an impromptu sketching class taught by Mr. Moon, who, it turned out, was a gifted artist.
They were returning to the inn from an out of doors session when Prudence stopped her. Mr. Moon carried all their sketchbooks and pencils.
“We are making plans to travel,” Prudence said. It had been a week since the healer-woman had made Prudence’s shoulder make that wet, sucking pop noise.
“Travel?” Justine asked.
“Return to England,” Mr. Moon clarified. “There’s no use for us to stay here. We’d be happy to have you along, if you like.”
Justine frowned. “But Lord Rascomb—”
“Doesn’t need us,” Prudence said, putting her hand on Justine’s arm. “Ophelia doesn’t need us. She has her family, and they are more than capable.”
