“Don’t try to make me smile, I’m not going to do it.”
“Not going to do what?” Arthur asked, strolling into the drawing room.
“Smile,” Ophelia said, already feeling the twitch to do so.
“Both Lucy Walker and Meta Brevoort are attempting the Matterhorn,” her mother explained.
“Ah,” Arthur said. He did not share the love of the mountains with Ophelia and Tristan, but he’d been on plenty of enjoyable climbs with them as a family. His sense of duty was extreme, and he insisted that as the heir, he could not risk his life for a bit of rock.
“What brings you to the drawing room in the middle of the day, darling?” Lady Rascomb asked.
“A question for Ophelia. I’ve already checked with my wife, and she is happy to oblige—”
“Is she feeling better?” Ophelia asked.
Arthur’s mouth cracked wide. “Somewhat. She’s still having the, er, you know, illness. But the doctor is coming next week to confirm our suspicions.”
“That it’s not the flu?” Ophelia asked, hoping to lighten her own spirits.
“Precisely. That we will be starting our own family.” His chest puffed out, the picture of paternal pride.
The swell of warmth in her brother made her own heart ease. It did mean that in nine months or so, she and her mother would have to find a new place to live, but Arthur having children felt correct. He had always dreamed of his own family, and wanted the life promised by his station.
How wonderful that must be,Ophelia thought.To fit so well and precisely into one’s own life.
Her mother was up hugging him—an unusual event, but this would be her first grandchild from someone besides Portia. She’d gotten the earliest start, after all.
“I’ll have to begin making baby clothes. Oh, this is quite exciting.”
His news was welcome, but it was only a brief respite from the crushing blow of the letter from Lucy Walker. It wasn’t that they competed—except that they did—as they encouraged one another in climbing and adapting to a world that might not be so accepting of them. Lucy managed it by living with her brother, and being the perfect hostess at their home in Liverpool, so no one could criticize her time in the Alps.
But what would Ophelia do?
“Thank you, Mama, but that is not why I came in.” Arthur cleared his throat.
“Yes, your business. I apologize for distracting you.” Her mother returned to her seat and her embroidery hoop.
“I was speaking with Lord Fairport,” Arthur said, turning now to look down at Ophelia.
“Please sit, Arthur. When you speak to me from your great height, it feels like you are purposely trying to lord over me.”
“Well, I am the lord,” he quipped, taking his seat.
“Yes, well, no one will forget if you sit.” Ophelia tried to get her mind around Lord Fairport. He was perfectly respectable, as far as she knew. There was nothing about the man to excite her or anyone else, for that matter. He was unseasoned porridge. It would do when one was hungry, but unappetizing still.
“Lord Fairport has asked to see more of you. I thought we ought to invite him to dinner.” Arthur’s expression was one of hope.
So many people with their hope. Her mother, Arthur, Lord Fairport. “May we also invite Sir Julian?”
Arthur blinked. “Of course. May I ask why?”
“He is in the Royal Geographical Society with Lord Fairport and has socialized with him on a number of occasions. I would like to see how he speaks with him. I consider Sir Julian a friend who would have my best interests at heart. It would be nice to hear his opinions on the matter.”
“We will have to find another woman to balance out the numbers.”
“Why? The numbers are exactly even with Sir Julian in attendance.”
Arthur shook his head. “While Lady Emily would adore hostessing such a prestigious dinner, she is not capable of being in a room with, er...”
