Ophelia shrugged. “He’s probably very busy and could use your help.”
“What. Are you talking about?”
“Did you notice what a fine-featured man he is? That chin. That nose. Those eyes.”
“He does have all of those facial features, yes, I noticed he wasn’t missing any.” Justine crossed her arms.
“I thought they were very nicely put together. And well-formed.”
“Good,” Justine shot back, knowing very well that Ophelia was trying to distract her boredom. “Then you can arrange a courtship.”
“For you? Justine, I’m so surprised,” Ophelia said with no hint of malice.
Justine’s boot crunched over a puddle that had melted and then re-frozen. The ice was delicate and the shattering noise was exquisite. Justine loved that sound. But still, Ophelia was being unreasonable. “What?”
“He tried very hard not to stare at you at breakfast,” Ophelia said. “So much so that he barely looked at you, even when you threw your big fit.”
“I did not throw a fit.” Justine knew that her emotions lived more near the surface than others’. She knew there were times when she seemed out of sorts while everyone else was calm. But it wasn’t that she was emotional for no reason. There was absolutely a reason: having some man evaluate who could and could not climb was practically guaranteeing they would never step foot on the Matterhorn. “But it’s a stupid rule, and you know it.”
“It is, and I agree. But it was the only way any guide would take the risk.”
Justine fumed. She knew the guides had been under particular scrutiny since Edward Whymper’s successful summit of the Matterhorn, and Lord Douglas’s subsequent death, falling while on the descent. The two men who had guided, a father and son, were sued by the families of the three British men who died, and were salaciously accused of negligence. Or, which some considered to be worse, that the younger guide cut the rope on purpose, severing himself from the men who had fallen. Whether it was to save himself or purposeful murder didn’t matter. The blight on their reputation was the same.
That faithful ascent, only four years prior, had shaken the mountaineering world. Justine had attended the London Alpine club meetings, despite the fact that she was unwanted and hissed at. She’d hissed right back at them, the cowards. That was before they started to outright bar her entrance.
“Shall we head back to the inn?” Ophelia asked.
Justine looked up, realizing that they’d made an entire loop of the village. There weren’t much but the houses of the few families who lived here, two inns, and snowy piles of lumber that awaited the spring. “I suppose. Not much else to do.”
“I need to plan the next climb—but I need some information from Mr. Vogel first. His insight would be most welcome. Would you like to come with me?”
Justine set her jaw. “No matchmaking. And I’ll come because I’m bored, not because I want to see what Mr. Vogel is doing.”
“Quite,” Ophelia said, her mouth twitching.
Justine tried to be annoyed. She wanted to be annoyed. But she really did want to see what Mr. Vogel was up to. Even if he’d seen her at her worst. Even if he held her fate in those large, calloused hands.
*
Chapter Three
Goats were first on his chore list, only because the longer they were ignored, the louder they became. Tante Greta was sensitive to goats’ incessant bleating, so he did his best to keep them happy. He’d mucked out their enclosure, put down fresh hay, and checked each animal for overall health, which mostly meant leaning against the fence and letting the curious animals work their hungry lips around his clothing.
He’d taken off his outer coat and laid it across the fence rail. Still, the cool sweat made his shirt stick to his back. The goats nibbled at his fingers and then investigated the cotton shirtthat Karl pulled at. While he was in the pen, he checked the fence beams, pulling and pushing at them to test how well placed they were, and if they would stand up to a determined goat.
He tidied away the implements and patted the goats on their heads before leaving the pen. Next up were the fences at the edge of the grazing pasture. He swung by the shed behind the inn, and that was where they found him.
“Mr. Vogel,” Fräulein Bridewell greeted. She wore a plain bonnet, but still far more lace adorned it than graced any of the women in the valley here.
Karl winced and shut the shed door. “Guten Morgen, Fräulein Bridewell.” Then he noticed the girl behind her. “Fräulein Brewer.”
The cool air had pinked her cheeks. She looked in perfect health, even if she was staring at him with murder in her eyes. It made him grin before he remembered that he should not show too much interest. He tempered his expression and hefted the long-handled hatchet over his shoulder. “I must repair a fence before the light leaves. If you have need of something, perhaps you will walk with me?”
“Thank you, we’d be glad to accompany you.” Fräulein Bridewell glanced over her shoulder to Fräulein Brewer, who rolled her eyes with such drama, he’d think he was transported to the theater in Munich.
Karl turned, smothering another smile as he led them up the trail. The snow was thin and crusty from the wind and sun. There would likely be one more snowfall before summer, but the valley did not receive as much snow as the surrounding mountains. The town was protected by its geographical arrangement, not that Karl needed to persuade anyone of the natural idyll Zermatt possessed. Indeed, its virtue in his mind was that it was difficult to get to, making any traveler morepredisposed to fall in love. It was the reward at the end of a harrowing trail, not unlike reaching the peak of an Alpine ascent.
They trudged behind him, and he was pleased that their breathing sounded even as they continued up the side of the valley.
