“Of course. You deserve to know.” Ophelia took a fortifying sip of tea. “Although could we ring for sherry or brandy? This sort of story seems to demand it.”
Thankfully, Sir Julian did not seem scandalized by her request in the least, which she thought he might be. An unmarried woman, asking to drink with him? It was uncouth. But this was an extraordinary time, and required extraordinary measures.
When Ferris arrived and Ophelia requested brandy, he gave her an odd look and departed. But when he returned, he was very much at ease. Likely her mother had informed the butler as to what conversation was pending.
“Well,” Ophelia said, cradling the snifter, not even taking a sip as of yet.
It was Sir Julian who posed the toast, raising his own snifter. “To your father, ever the motivator and visionary of extraordinary deeds.”
A lump formed in her throat. “To my father.” They sipped at their drinks, the Calvados bringing her back to the evenings in Zermatt, after their long preparatory climbs up other peaks. When they were hopeful and excited.
“We did as Whymper had done, using his successful route as our template. After stashing gear at a small church at Schwarzsee—how much do you know of the geography of the Matterhorn and its surroundings?”
“Very little, I’m afraid. My mind is stuffed full of the mountain ranges on the other side of the Atlantic.”
“Then it does not matter much if I refer to the precise locations,” Ophelia said, sipping again at the brandy.
“I wouldn’t know the difference,” he agreed. There was a lull, and his face softened as he searched hers with those coal-black eyes. “I believe you might be stalling, Miss Ophelia.”
She smiled at him, pained with his accuracy. “Indeed I am. I was expedition leader. All of these events were my calls to make.”
“Yes, but you cannot take responsibility for the weather, nor the mistakes of your team.”
“No,” Ophelia protested. “I know that. But—” she sighed. “I shall start again.”
Sir Julian sat back and crossed his legs, looking very much at his leisure.
“My plan all along was to keep our risks to a minimum. We would not try to reinvent a route or waypoints. Our only innovations were to those items that were peculiar to our group and our weather.”
“And what was peculiar to your group?” Sir Julian asked, his brows furrowed.
Ophelia couldn’t help but look at him as if he were daft. “We were majority women. We wore our long woolen skirts. Our upper body strength is less developed.”
Sir Julian nodded. “But I will wager you had the same experience as others who had attempted this climb.”
“Some yes, some no. But by the time we attempted the Matterhorn, we’d climbed most of the mountains in the range, including Mount Rosa and Breithorn, which are difficult treks themselves.”
“So you had the preparation, the experience, and the knowledge.”
Ophelia squirmed. “Of course we did. I made sure we arrived in Zermatt months earlier than other expeditions, knowing full well that we required the altitude and training that only the Swiss Alps could offer. It was no accident, and I certainly would never purposely endanger the lives of those I love.”
Sir Julian nodded, his body relaxed, and that made her relax as well. She sipped her brandy. “Everything seemed to be going rather well. We camped overnight on the Hörnli Ridge, a rocky shoulder that sits directly in front of the Matterhorn. The ridge extends to base of the mountain, and is quite treacherous. We slept there and woke early, hoping to ascend to the top by the early afternoon, but it wasn’t to be. We were stopped where Whymper first camped as well. It’s most of the elevation needed to make the summit, but it was getting too late in the day to make the peak and return down safely.”
“So you took refuge? This sounds deeply pragmatic so far.”
Ophelia shook her head. “No, and I’ll thank you to not interrupt me.”
“My apologies,” he murmured, his dark eyes fixed firmly upon her.
“It was the chimneys. The chute was covered in ice, and it had turned Whymper and others around on the mountain before. But, with our ropes and our guide, I thought we could end our day there, as we still had some light. My plan was to camp just above it, hoping to make the summit early the next morning and descend, arriving back at the church where we had cached our change of clothes and food by noon.”
Ophelia sipped at her brandy, not wanting to relive this next part, the piece that was so indelibly imprinted in her heart. “The guide, myself, and Justine Brewer had made it to the top of the chimney. Each of us had to negotiate different routes on the icy chute given our different sizes and reach. It was then my father’s turn to climb it.”
Sir Julian leaned forward in his seat, putting down his brandy snifter. Ophelia felt she had no choice but to mimic him. The moment made her ill. Nausea gripped her, but she pressed on, knowing she must continue to tell the story in order for her sickness to ease.
“We all had these spikes we’d devised on our shoes, in order to aid us in the icy sections. My father used them to drive into the ice sheet, held in the grips of the rope being monitored by our guide. And then, he—slipped.” Ophelia shrugged. Something so fallible, easy, and common could kill a man. “He lost his footing and pendulated into the wall of the chimney. The sound—” she choked on the memory, her stomach threatening to rebel. “I can never forget the sound of his head hitting the rock wall. There is nothing like it.”
Sir Julian reached across and gripped her hand. The softening callouses comforted her. “And this is where he died?”
