Chapter Six
Julian felt muchbetter about visiting the Rascomb residence now that he’d cleaned up. Delphine hadn’t sent him a note in the week since he’d last seen her, and that felt right somehow. He was not opposed to accompanying her wherever she wished to go, but it was clear that she had held certain assumptions about him that were patently untrue.
There was the idea of the intrepid explorer permeating popular thought these days, helped along by men like Sir Richard Burton. But Julian was nothing like him. First, his exploration was more akin to surveying rather than the ephemeral idea of “truths” and the metaphysical grandeur men like that sought. They were two for a ha’penny at RGS, and Julian steered clear.
As he entered the drawing room, both of the expected women looked down and ill at ease. He didn’t know if he should inquire or not. He decided to pretend as if all was well, at least for the moment, in hopes of finding any clues as to what had them both feeling uncomfortable. Perhaps, and most likely, he assured himself, it had nothing to do with him whatsoever. Certainly not his morning walk home from Delphine’s. They would not have noticed his level of dishevelment, surely.
After perfunctory greetings were made, Julian tossed in a gambit. “Have you worked on your article, Miss Ophelia? I am happy to say that I’ve made friends with one of the editors, and I think he’ll trust my judgement if I hand off your work. It’s no guarantee, but it’s better than sending it in blind.”
Ophelia’s eyes flashed wide for a moment. “Yes, I do. I’d quite forgotten. Please excuse me for a moment, I’ll go fetch it for you.”
“Lady Rascomb,” he turned his full attention on her. “How do you fare this fine day?”
She glanced at Ophelia’s retreating form, and Julian’s heart sank. It had been years since his mother had passed, but he knew the signs of a scolding.
“Sir Julian, please take greater care of your reputation. Should you be so bold as to parade about London in your evening clothes every morning, my daughter shan’t be able to take you up the Matterhorn. You’ll be too great a risk to the reputation of an unmarried woman, and no married man would allow you to take his wife!”
Julian sat back, stunned. “But it—”
Lady Rascomb held her hand up, quieting all his protestations. “It does not matter what you are about to say. This is not about facts or truths. This is about perception, which is all Ophelia has left. Climbing the Matterhorn may be a lark to you, but it is what is keeping her going. I beg you not to ruin it.”
“This surely has nothing to do with—”
“This has everything to do with the widow DeMarius. She was scandalous before she married the earl, and even more so now. You are a grown man, and may do as you wish. But know that you have intertwined us with your life, and we will suffer the consequences of your actions. If that occurs, I will shut my doors to you to protect my daughter.”
Julian sat back, stunned. The idea that he could lose the regard of Lady Rascomb hurt more deeply than he could have imagined. And ripping Ophelia out of his life—he was the weed in this flowerbed, he realized. He was disposable, an interloper. Heat flared all over his body, embarrassment and shame running fast and deep through his veins. “I assure you that was not my intent.”
Ophelia returned, handing him her article. “Here you are. I have noted that it is written by Anonymous, and it should stay that way. If there are any identifying marks, it could be assumed my brother wrote it, and it would be acceptable to put his initials, if needs must. But I’d prefer it to remain as it is.”
He took it and folded it over once, sticking it in his pocket.
“Will you not read it?” Ophelia asked, her voice bereft of the confidence with which she normally spoke.
“Of course I will. At home.” He stood, unable to withstand that disapproval in Lady Rascomb’s expression. “As it is, I must be going.”
“But you’ve just arrived,” Ophelia protested. A line between her brows deepened. He’d not noticed it until now, and he had an urge to reach out and press that line with his finger until it smoothed.
This room was suddenly filled with conflicting emotions, and somehow, it felt like the morning he’d realized Maria had left him all over again. Everything felt wrong and strange, and he couldn’t breathe.
“Lady Rascomb reminded me of tasks I need to accomplish before the day is out. I shall stop in again soon.” He gave a curt bow and left, thundering down the steps as if an avalanche nipped at his heels. At least in an avalanche, he’d know when he would be suffocated.
*
“Lady Emily!” Opheliaturned in her seat. She was the only occupant of the drawing room this morning, as her mother was not feeling well. Instead of sewing, Ophelia was reading letters. She’d just gotten a lengthy one from Justine, and while she adored her letters, it made her miss her friend even more acutely.
Lady Emily was still wan and terrifyingly thin. She padded in, almost uncertain. Ophelia half-stood, unsure if her sister-in-law would lose her footing. But Lady Emily made it over to the sitting area.
“It’s good to see you up and about.” Ophelia had the urge to find a blanket to drape over her, as if she were an invalid, but she refrained, not knowing how Lady Emily was feeling.
“It’s good to be seen,” Lady Emily said, managing a thin smile. “I have been abed far too long.”
“Arthur has said it has been awfully difficult for you.” Ophelia wanted to save her from the embarrassment of knowing that Arthur had informed them of how many times she’d managed to cast up her accounts in one morning.
Lady Emily nodded, her eyes closed, as if it hurt to move her head. “No one told me carrying a child could be so trying. I knew that it could, but I didn’t think it would happen to me.”
Ophelia tried to murmur sympathetically, but she felt that her pitch wasn’t quite right. She had no intention of performing this particular obligation, but it was polite to empathize nonetheless. “It does seem strange that something so terrible is the norm, isn’t it?”
Lady Emily gave her a strange look, so Ophelia opted to change the subject.
