He cast his eyes about the room, his brain suddenly unhelpful in this endeavor. “Music,” he said.
She thought about it. “Do you think music creates the same joy as the love of a child?”
“Well,” he said, drawing out the word as he thought. “I have only listened to music. I’ve never had a child. Given birth, or otherwise.”
She grinned at him. It dazzled him when she did that. She was beautiful not smiling, but when she allowed her earnest joy to surface on her face, the transformation to goddess was instantaneous. It stopped his breath.
“I suppose the scientific inquiry is limited to those who have had children, and given the existence of a person whose feelings could be hurt, the answer must always be no. It seems this line of reasoning is not going to solve anything.”
Julian nodded, putting down his teacup. But it covered the north side of the mountain—rather the most treacherous-looking approach—and Ophelia shoved it aside.
“Children, how are we doing?” Lady Rascomb returned to the room, escorting a footman, carrying the late Lord Rascomb’s expedition journals.
It was his turn to grin. “It’s been a long while since anyone called me a child.”
“That is the inequity that shocks me the most,” Ophelia said, straightening up again. “Well, one of many, I suppose.”
Her mind whirred and clicked at dizzying speeds. It was fascinating to watch as she spoke and thought simultaneously. “Yes?”
“I am an unmarried woman, and despite being eight-and-twenty, am still considered almost a girl, though most call me a spinster. But you, as an unmarried man, have been considered adult since... since when would you say?”
He thought. “I suppose since my father died and I inherited at age fifteen?”
Ophelia threw her hand at him, as if his experience was the exact proof she had been looking for her entire life. “There. Mama. We should be equals.”
“Yes,” her mother said, gesturing to the footman to put the stack of books on the chair, nearest to Julian. “As you are planning another death-defying expedition that pushes people to their absolute limits, calling you children, as if you were in here playing with blocks, is funny.”
Ophelia gave her mother a sly smile.
“Sir Julian, feel free to look through my husband’s papers. I don’t know if you’ll find anything you need, but I trust you to keep his works safe.” Lady Rascomb rounded the edge of the sofa with her cane and sat next to Ophelia. Looking at her daughter, she asked, “How are things looking?”
“I can’t decide if we should go the same route or try the Italian route.”
Julian had opinions, but he didn’t dare voice them, and he was pleased to hear that he wasn’t an idiot for thinking about a different route. He enjoyed Ophelia’s clear revelry in all the minutiae of the planning. They would obviously be staying in the inn they’d gone to before, as her best chum had married into that family. But there were debates about guides and routes, equipment and timing.
Technically, Julian didn’t have to be there for any of this. He’d told her to take him, and thus put all responsibility in her hands, and it was a year off, besides. There was no reason to be having bi-weekly meetings, but it thrilled him to see her like this, her glossy blonde hair falling out of its pins as she peered over yet another map.
The resemblance to her mother was palpable, but he no longer thought of her as a younger version. Ophelia possessed a tenacity more like her father.
The grandfather clock in the corner dinged, and Julian checked his own pocket watch against it. “I fear I’ve overstayed my welcome.”
Ophelia scrunched up her nose. “Must you go?”
“Sadly, I must.” He looked forward to meeting Lady DeMarius at the opera, the hint of musky perfume and heightened banter luring him in. It was very different from the scene he’d been enjoying all afternoon with Ophelia. He told himself it was because Ophelia was but a girl to him, despite her protestations of being eight-and-twenty, and Lady DeMarius was an age-appropriate woman for him. Was it also that as a widowed aristocrat, Lady DeMarius held the promise of sexual favors, while Ophelia was a wide-eyed virgin?
He cursed himself for even entertaining such a lewd thought. His mentor’s daughter deserved more respect than his crude evaluations. Lady DeMarius offered scintillating company, and they would be at the opera, in her private box. It was an opportunity for him to luxuriate in the wealth he himself did not possess, but could appreciate.
Well, wealth in London banknotes. He had other wealth, but not the sort that was so easily converted into goods and services here. Not without finding a jeweler he could trust. In the places he’d ventured, far from the European-style towns that had sprung up all over the South American continent, rubber was quickly outpacing any other resource. He’d been given jewels in exchange for a week’s worth of labor in some places. But in others, he’d witnessed horrific acts against the indigenous people of the Amazon. From the first time he encountered them to the last, some tribes were almost wholly wiped out from the growing rubber plantations.
He’d written letters of complaints, but they were falling on unwilling readers. How could one protest the injustice when there were vast amounts of money to be made? He was but one man. And not a powerful one, at that. It made him wish that his mentor was still alive to throw his influence behind Julian’s account. That might have had an effect. But this new Rascomb didn’t have the same reach as his father. He was a fine fellow, but Julian could already see the difference in institutions like RGS when they lacked members with the moral backbone of a man like his friend.
Once out of the Rascomb townhouse, he had the distinct displeasure of a blustery summer day. He gripped the brim of his hat as a gust of wind blew by. He could already feel the difference in his legs and back in this new, cushioned life. He was getting softer by the day. At least, unless Ophelia Bridewell started up his training regime as she had already threatened to do. He smiled at the thought. She was an extraordinary person. With her exterior beauty, he did not understand how she’d not been snapped up by some lord or another already.
Her unusual passion, while unconventional, was certainly not scandalous. And her status as the daughter of a viscount gave her a respectability that would allow her mildly odd behavior to be overlooked. His thoughts brought him to Lord Fairport, and that quickly dampened his spirits. The man was not worthy of her. Not even close. He would ignore her passion, convince her to stay home, and she would dwindle in his house, become a shadow of the phenomenal creature she was.
Since her father had been his mentor, would it not be his duty to become her mentor in return? He would protect her as best as he could, given his lower status and lack of pound notes. But he had access and influence unique to his role as an explorer. The trouble was, how could he persuade anyone that a match with Fairport wasn’t a brilliant idea? A wealthy, titled man who appeared respectable and did not indulge in the vices of many other Peers: he had no known mistress, did not overindulge in drink or gambling. Though, just because it wasn’t widely known did not mean the man didn’t indulge. Yet, telling somebody the man was boring was not news, and certainly not a reason to reject a suit from him.
Strange how his conversations with Miss Ophelia made him feel more the important explorer of the world than all the speeches and articles he’d so far done. Like the ten years of gathering data and mapping the smaller ranges of the South American continent was a real contribution, and not a way for him to just escape London.
