“Indeed. And he is now dry.” Ferris kept his expression neutral, but Ophelia knew he was teasing. At least Lady Emily had let them keep their butler of all these years.
“Show him in, and refresh our tea and add some of that plum cake, please. I would wager Sir Julian has not had good English cake in some time.”
“Who is Sir Julian?” Ophelia asked as Ferris left to retrieve the man. When he appeared on their doorstep the day before, he hadn’t seemed like anything more than a wretch, soaked to the bone, with unseemly scruff obscuring his face. He’d mistaken her for her mother, which was a compliment. Her mother had many admirers throughout the years, and Ophelia was sure he had been one of them by the way he’d spoken. Ophelia was not as good with recognizing emotions as she was embroidery, but given Justine’s proclivity for suitors, she’d trained herself to notice the symptoms of that sort of male admiration.
“His father was a friend of your father’s, and then after he died, Sir Julian also became a friend. They’ve corresponded for years. Your father helped him get the commission to map the South American mountains for a collection of mining interests. Of course, your father convinced him to conduct topographical surveys as well.”
The idea of her father encouraging someone to do more, create more, lit a candle in Ophelia’s heart. A small remembrance that she hadn’t previously known. Of course he’d pushed someone to think more broadly than was expected.
“He was of a younger crowd and idolized your father. As many did.” Ophelia’s mother put down the mending and stood, wincing as she put weight on her foot. “All this sitting is doing me no favors.”
“We can walk more.” Ophelia stood and smoothed out her gray and lavender gown. “Since we are officially out of mourning.”
By rights, they were, and Lady Rascomb could remarry if she wished. But instead, Lady Rascomb wore black, even though she prodded Ophelia to go to half-mourning.
“Sir Julian Dunstan,” Ferris announced.
The man who entered the drawing room looked wholly unlike the man from yesterday. His face was smooth, his clothes were well-tailored and tidy, and his bearing was upright and polished. “Lady Rascomb, Miss Ophelia Bridewell, I am at your service.” He gave a gallant bow.
He had been striking yesterday, but he was handsome now, with dark hair, almost black, that accentuated the darkness of his coal-black eyes. He was thin at the waist but broad at the shoulders, and moved with the same practiced purpose as her father. His skin was tanned in a way Englishmen were not supposed to be, but she supposed the South American sun had something to do with it.
“Sir Julian, thank you for calling. I was profoundly upset to deliver such horrid news to you while standing in our doorway yesterday.” Lady Rascomb gestured to the chair opposite her.
He unslung a wide strap connected to a leather tube that he’d carried across his body. “My sincere condolences to your entire family. I am much aggrieved to hear such news. I had wondered why I hadn’t heard from him in so long, but I knew of the Matterhorn attempt and hoped it had been all the traveling that kept him from responding to me.”
The mention of their failed attempt to scale the Matterhorn made Ophelia burn with shame. She wanted to look down, but she forced herself to meet his eye. It was her failure. Her responsibility as expedition leader included being blamed for the death of her father, even if it had been his loose footing on an ice wall that had caused his injury. They’d done everything they could, and even the physician from Zurich had said that the cold conditions had helped keep him alive.
Despite the months he had lingered, and few moments of consciousness, he had died of pneumonia the winter after the climb. Tristan, Ophelia’s other brother, had tried to make her feel better, as he’d blamed himself for years for the accident that injured their mother. But their mother lived. There was no penance she could make for her father’s death. And she had to suffer the humiliation whenever someone mentioned her hubris.
But Sir Julian didn’t seem to want to mock or shame her. “I thought you’d like to see the maps I’ve made. Lord Rascomb was the one who got me interested in the science of topographical mapping. It’s terribly challenging and requires a great deal of maths, but it is extremely useful. Integrating the data is even more difficult and painstaking. It took me far longer than I’d anticipated, but it was Lord Rascomb who helped me persevere.”
Ophelia loved a map. She scooted to the very edge of her chair. Topographical maps were a new way to visualize every peak and valley. While initially difficult to read, the more accustomed one became with seeing elevation charted, the quicker one understood it. If only every mountain had a topographical map made, life would be so much more interesting.
“Please,” Lady Rascomb said.
He uncapped the leather tube and pulled out rolls of paper. They were unwieldy, but eventually through much awkward wrestling and paper crinkling, they were spread flat, held down by a teacup, a teapot, and his hands.
And his hands were nice. There was something about their decidedly ungentlemanly ruggedness that seemed correct. Proper, in the way her family was unusual and valued such physical competence. Sir Julian’s hands weren’t English proper, but rather mountain proper. As if declaring his ability to pitch a tent or make a fire, or haul a person up a rope.
“These are surprisingly beautiful, Sir Julian. I commend you.” Lady Rascomb leaned over the table, looking closer at the drawing.
Ophelia took an opportunity to look as well, noting all the red, razor-thin lines that denoted an elevation change. “This must have taken ages.”
Sir Julian looked up at her with pride evident in his almost-too-perfectly proportioned face. “Indeed. Thank you for noticing, Miss Ophelia.”
“I have not seen many topographical maps, but I understand the theory of them,” Ophelia said.
“I sent my data and measurements back over the years to the Royal Geographical Society, so they may make their own maps, but it was your father who insisted I draw my own, in order to double check the accuracy of my numbers. Fortunately for him, I’ve always been good with numbers.”
She felt as if she were looking down on the three of them, peering over this map. As if she were outside her own body, not wanting to feel that new wave of grief, encountering her father’s influence over this man.
“I am by no means an expert, but this looks excellently drawn.” Ophelia’s mother smiled at him in the way Ophelia recognized as maternal doting.
Sir Julian beamed, as any child would. It made Ophelia wonder where his parents were.
“I should get these off to the Royal Geographical Society. Not that I’m looking forward to showing them to anyone there. They won’t be near as kind as you two.”
“They should at least recognize your hard work,” Ophelia said, doing her best to be as sisterly as she could. But when he looked back at her, he didn’t have a brotherly look on his face. Nor anything else. Not the warmth he showed to her mother, but as if she were a stranger. Which, she supposed, she was.
