Chapter Four
“Sir Julian, thiswas a marvelous talk. Thank you so much for making time in your busy schedule for us,” Mrs. McManus said. The excessive gauzy veil that adorned her bonnet waved as she bobbed her head, threatening to be sucked down into his throat as he breathed.
Julian dodged the silk as best as he could in the breeze and thanked her. “The Garden Club is the most attentive audience I believe I’ve ever had, madame. You have honored me.” And the money didn’t hurt, either. He’d be happy to make this a regular occurrence.
There was a crowd of ladies surrounding him now. “A word, Sir Julian, if I may.” A woman who had beautiful blue eyes and thick white glossy hair tidied away as if the color were a fashion choice and not a sign of aging pushed past Mrs. McManus. “While you spoke at length about flowers, do you think it would be possible to tell me about the viability of thick vines in a climate such as ours here in England? I have a greenhouse that could use some vigor.”
There was something in the sparkle of her eyes that made Julian think that perhaps when she spoke of a thick vine’s vigor that she was not speaking of plants. But Julian gamely spoke of the flora he encountered, and even withdrew his sketchpad from his valise to show her.
More encounters continued, and someone served him tea and then alternated slices of lemon cake and plum cake as he socialized. It was fun to discuss his adventures. And while most of the women were upwards of sixty, some were decidedly not, and almost to a person, they placed a soft, gloved hand on his forearm.
After most of the clamor subsided, someone snatched his empty cup and plate from his hands. He sighed, coming down from the fervor of the afternoon.
“Quite the accomplishment, Shoulders,” a woman purred from behind him.
He turned toward the low voice and saw a woman dressed in a dark green day gown embroidered with beads and black lace. Her dark brown hair was dressed in curls and pinned artfully around. Her bonnet was barely a head covering and more an adornment made of feathers and lace and beads to match her dress.
“I beg your pardon?” Julian asked. She was stunning, likely in her forties, he judged, and with a dress like that, perfectly wealthy on her own terms. Her movements, from the shift of her hips to the languid gesture of her hand, were silky and confident, like the water of the Amazon just before the rapids.
“You had both Mrs. Breton and Mrs. Rielgud vying for your attentions. Those two rarely agree on anything.” She walked toward him and became lovelier still. It was the sort of dark beauty that was not objective, rather factual. Her comeliness partly came from her manner of dress, posture, and overall style, but her features were well formed and even.
“They did not need to agree, nor did they seem to talk to each other. They both spoke with me directly,” he protested, pushing papers back into his valise. It was time to leave, and something told him this woman would insist on walking out with him.
“They both liked you. An exceedingly rare event. Their tastes in men are typically opposite. Breton favors the fine, well-spoken gentleman, whereas Rielgud prefers the strapping sort of ruffian who could toss her over his shoulder. Of which, you do meld both types exceedingly well.” She came to stand next to him but refrained from touching him.
“I know there is a compliment somewhere, but strangely, I don’t feel complimented.”
She smiled. “Then you have the unique experience of a man pursued as a woman is pursued. The difference being that if we get you in a room alone, you’ll be able to fend us off.”
“Us? Do you include yourself in the ranks of these would-be wooers?”
She met his eye, and there was a spark between them. “I could be persuaded to throw my hat into the ring. However, I have one rule for competitions.”
Julian gestured to the door, but she didn’t budge.
“I don’t enter contests that I can’t win.” She sashayed in front of him, and whether it was a move of dominance or one of coquettishness, Julian couldn’t say. But he was intrigued and flattered, and suddenly all those polite hand touches from the other women evaporated from his skin, replaced by the searing words of this one.
*
Ophelia threw theletter down and did her best to not curl up in a ball like a child.
“What is it?” her mother asked, picking up the letter.
“Read it,” Ophelia said, desperate to not cry.
Her mother scanned the beautiful feminine calligraphy of Lucy Walker’s penmanship. “And I hope that with this hasty band, I shall best my rival and arrive to the summit first of my sex. Oh.” Her mother sighed, putting down the letter.
“It’s over,” Ophelia said. “My dream is done.”
“They might not summit,” her mother said, a tone as hopeful and as disbelieving as she was.
“It’s Lucy Walker, Mama. And she’s up against Marguerite Brevoort, that’s why she had to be hasty. She found out Mrs. Brevoort was in Zermatt to hire guides.”
“But even Miss Walker has been turned around before,” her mother pointed out.
Ophelia raised her head and looked at her. “Mama. If both of them will attempt, the conditions are good. And Lucy Walker got Melchior Anderegg as one of her party. He has more summits than most have fingers.”
Her mother smiled and that irritated Ophelia. “Are you saying more summits than most, or that most people have fewer than ten fingers?”
