He arrived at his flat, signaling Nicholas when he entered that he would require a shave and help dressing that evening. Mrs. Talbert asked about dinner, and he requested a light repast early enough to make the opera on time. Perhaps if things went well with Lady DeMarius, he could enlist the widow’s help with Lord Fairport. She appeared to be a very clever woman.
*
“But do youlike him?” Eleanor pushed her teacup around the saucer, creating an excruciating screeching sound.
Ophelia wanted to stop her, but for some reason, felt paralyzed by politeness. How to tell a friend that her behavior was driving one absolutely insane from noise? Finally, Ophelia reached out and put her hand over Eleanor’s, stopping that horrific sound of porcelain on porcelain.
“I apologize, Eleanor. I cannot think while that screech is occurring. What are we discussing?”
Eleanor didn’t bother looking sheepish, as she might have years ago when they first met. The Eleanor Bridewell of London didn’t look at all like the Eleanor Piper of Ben Navis. She was far more stylish, and far more self-assured. She no longer flinched at perceived slights or cowered when attention was brought to her.
Not that she was brash or loud, but the comfortable love that she and Tristan shared was easy and obvious. If Ophelia believed for one moment that she might be able to have something like that, she would have been envious. But she was happy most of all for Tristan, who came into his own when he found Eleanor. He didn’t mind not being the heir, didn’t mind finding a profession—if one could call a mountaineering outfitter an actual profession.
They sat out in Eleanor’s garden, enjoying the late summer afternoon sunshine. “I was asking if you actually liked Lord Fairport.”
“Oh. Him.” Ophelia looked over at a cluster of purple flowers dotting the rosemary bush. “He’s a fine enough dancer.”
Eleanor’s shrewd expression would not be deterred. Ophelia knew she must continue speaking on the topic or else Eleanor would ask repeatedly.
“He has inoffensive breath.”
Eleanor stared her down. “What do you think Justine would say right now? Have you written to her about this?”
No. Because she’d written to Justine of what consumed her: another trip to the Matterhorn. Lucy Walker and Meta Brevoort be damned. It didn’t matter if Ophelia’s name was in a history book. She wanted that summit. She wanted to stand atop that pile of rock and scream her own name.
When Ophelia didn’t verbalize any of this, Eleanor leaned forward. “I’ll tell you what she’d say. Something to the effect of ‘Having nice breath and not stepping on your toes is hardly marriage material.’”
“I just don’t like thinking about it,” Ophelia confessed, looking down at her teacup. The dregs swirled in there, and it made her wonder what a fortuneteller would see in the pattern.
Eleanor narrowed her eyes. Sometimes she could be too insightful. Tristan even said so. “What are you thinking about, then?”
“I’m planning another trip. Another expedition.” She wasn’t ready to tell the world about it, not even Eleanor, but needs must.
“When?” Her voice sounded possibly interested? Definitely not damning, which is what Ophelia had expected.
“Next summer. With Sir Julian.”
“Sir Julian?” Eleanor asked.
“Surely Tristan has told you about him,” Ophelia said. But, had Tristan met him? She wasn’t sure. To Ophelia, his frequent visits to the house permeated every aspect of her life. As if he’d brought with him some of the South American sunshine, the heat and color that the Amazon was known for.
“No, he has not. Tell me about him. And the trip.”
There was something in Eleanor’s voice that Ophelia didn’t understand, but that was fine. She could speak on this topic for a year without stopping to sleep. And so she did. About how Sir Julian was a friend and correspondent of her father’s, about his regular social calls, about him asking her to take him up the Matterhorn.
Eleanor sat back in her chair with an unreadable expression. “And who all do you plan to take to the Matterhorn?”
“So far, just Sir Julian and I. Though the idea of engaging the rest of the Ladies’ Alpine Society has occurred to me. I am not ready to extend invitations, as the planning is not complete.”
Eleanor smiled. “I’d be willing to go again. To finish what we started.”
Ophelia inhaled the sweet summer air. “I’m so glad.” Another weight lifted from her chest. They didn’t hate her. Or blame her for their injuries. They said they didn’t, but words were not always truthful. On the way down from the Matterhorn, both Eleanor and Prudence were injured, an additional piece of guilt that laid on Ophelia every time her mind was quiet.
“But in the meantime, there are other issues to contemplate. Like a suit from Lord Fairport.”
Ophelia grimaced. “But I hate the idea.”
“Of Lord Fairport?” Eleanor’s eyebrows shot up.
