Chapter Seven
The hotel lobbywas positively baroque, filled with chandeliers, thick carpets, and young French porters who winked at her if her gaze lingered on them too long. Ophelia had let Eleanor and Tristan make the arrangements, passing them along to Justine and Prudence via letter.
She’d even invited Julian, who said he would come to meet Karl, as he would be their climbing guide. After the awkward dinner a few months ago, Julian had kept himself mostly away, sending notes of apology. Ophelia’s mother had come back around to bestowing her motherly smiles upon him the few times he’d visited. But Ophelia missed that familiar friendship they’d developed, swapping stories of their derring-do over tea and biscuits.
She’d hoped that this time in Paris, amongst all of them, would bring him back to her. The way their easy friendship had been.
A jostling at the doors caught Ophelia’s attention. When she looked up, she couldn’t help but smile. Justine pushed her way past the porters, not allowing Karl to protect her with his elbow. She caught sight of Ophelia and ran—ran!—through the lobby, her long skirts swishing like mad.
“Winter in Paris! Ophelia, you brilliant, beautiful buxom friend of mine!” Justine threw her arms around Ophelia, gushing over her.
Ophelia gripped her friend tightly, not caring if she ought to be embarrassed by how much she missed her friend. She inhaled Justine’s unmistakable scent, one that had comforted her since their finishing school days. Justine was different now, of course, her scent different, her body rounder from finally eating enough, but still, completely Justine. Ophelia opened her eyes to see Tristan and Karl Vogel shaking hands and making uncertain eye contact.
Then Eleanor threw her arms around both of the women. “My turn too!”
They stuttered around in circles of missing each other and cries of how lovely each of the others were.
Justine wiped her eyes as she pulled back. “Do we know if Prudence will be here?”
“I had word that she and Mr. Moon will arrive tomorrow.” Ophelia looked over Justine’s shoulder and smiled at Karl Vogel, their once-Matterhorn guide, and now Justine’s patient husband.
“Mr. Vogel,” she said, affection in her voice that surprised even her.
“Please, you must call me Karl, for I know you by your first name because Justine won’t stop talking about you.”
Both Justine and Ophelia giggled, knowing that had been a general complaint about them for years.
“Well, come on then,” Eleanor ushered them all. “The porters can take the luggage upstairs. Let’s go find us some refreshment.”
“Not quite yet, we are missing one of our party.” Tristan gazed around the room, and it made Ophelia want to gnaw on her lip, if only she were allowed to do so.
“Ah, there he is!” Eleanor pushed up on her tiptoes, still not matching her husband’s height.
Ophelia scanned the crowd from her toes, using Justine’s shoulder as a bolster, and spotted Julian entering the building.
“There you are,” Tristan called out as Julian approached.
Julian kept his hands in his pockets, a casual man with his bowler hat on, strolling through a hotel lobby. It should have been utterly normal, but Ophelia was strangely affected by the sight. She slammed down her heels, and Justine looked at her with an expression of curiosity.
“Is there...?” Justine trailed off, examining Ophelia, then looking to Sir Julian. Abruptly, she left Ophelia’s side, pushing through their crowd to be the first to greet Julian. Her hand was out, as rude as any American. “I’m Justine Vogel, Miss Ophelia’s best friend. And you are?”
He smiled at her, thank heavens; Ophelia was able to breathe again.
“Sir Julian Dunstan, at your service.”
Karl Vogel came up behind his wife. “And you are looking to climb the Matterhorn, yes?”
“If you are amenable to helping me do it, then yes.” Julian searched the crowd until he saw Ophelia. His shoulders relaxed when their eyes met. Funny, because Ophelia felt less relaxed with him around.
They all circled each other, and Ophelia tried to pay attention to the others and not Julian. But she couldn’t help it. The memory of that awful dinner still sprang to life sometimes, bringing with it the imagined thought of Julian kissing the bespangled Lady DeMarius. Of his powerful hands roaming her bespangled hips. Which had been both a revelation and a betrayal. The very idea of it hurt as viscerally as any tumble down a mountainside she’d ever taken.
She again pushed the thought aside. Julian was here, with her, and he had announced to both Ophelia and her mother that he had secured some funding through his connections at the Royal Geographical Society. They wanted a comparative essay from him, about how climbing in the Alps was obviously better than climbing any mountain in South America. Julian could roll his eyes all he wanted, but Ophelia would take the cheque any day.
After all, more than anything, Ophelia wanted to climb the Matterhorn next year, and if going with Sir Julian would allow her to do so, then he needed to meet their guide, Karl. But now they were all here. And Ophelia had to see him.
Their troupe finally organized, Eleanor herded them out the door to a nearby restaurant that she was assured was simply the best. Julian waited and fell into step with Ophelia. Justine watched closely, but when Ophelia gave her the look that showed his company was welcome, Justine abandoned her friend for her husband’s arm and kept two paces ahead.
“I’m happy to see you here, Miss Ophelia,” Julian said, returning to formality.
