Chapter Ten
Julian looked aroundhis flat. He hadn’t accrued much in the months he’d been in London. Packing shouldn’t be too much of an ordeal. Travel would still be a nightmare, as he had missed the preferred crossing months. He would likely put off travel for a few more anyhow, but he wanted to be prepared.
It was January now, and the view out his windows was bleak. Fog and cold wrestled for dominance, and the wind wormed its way in between his collar and bare neck no matter how carefully he wound a muffler. He had not seen nor spoken to Ophelia in well over a month.
He tried very hard not to count the days, but every so often, the calculation came to him unbidden. She likely understood that their proposed Matterhorn escapade was off, didn’t she? They’d not explicitly stated so, but any right-minded person would understand his leaving in the middle of their Paris holiday meant they had severed all ties, including a professional one.
There was the option of dropping by Tristan Bridewell’s outfitter, but that made his stomach queasy. The man would ask why he’d run from Paris, and what was he supposed to say? There would be an explanation of an emergency, and given that he had no living family, what was the nature of his supposed urgent return to London? His investments? That was a laugh. Everyone knew he didn’t have two shillings to rub together. No, he would have to admit that the RGS has requested an interview to further his application for a grant to return to South America. It wasn’t a final interview and likely could have waited. But Julian was a coward, so he did a runner.
There was a knock at his door, the familiar pattern of his valet. As it turned out, Julian had grown fond of having a valet, if not for keeping him turned out looking his best with his subpar fashion, then for the news and conversation. Julian opened his door.
“This just arrived,” Nicholas said, thrusting a journal at him.
“What’s this?” Julian took it, instantly recognizing the Royal Geographical Society masthead.
“Look there,” Nicholas said, excitement evident in his face. “You made front page. Big article. They pay by the word? You must have done well by that one then.”
Julian frowned. He hadn’t penned in a new article in months. And as he read the first lines, his heart sank. It wasn’t his article, even though his name was there on the byline. It was Ophelia’s account of her Ben Nevis summit. It should have been printed by Anonymous, and instead was credited to him.
Every curse word he could think of in three languages ran through his mind. This was bad. If it were anyone else, he might consider this a faux pas easily fixed with a bottle of brandy or a night on the town. But not for Ophelia, who faced so many impediments that being printed even anonymously was a challenge.
“This isn’t mine,” Julian said, wanting to tell everyone that it was Ophelia’s work, but not wanting to out her as the author, since the journal didn’t allow women. “This should be written by Anonymous.”
Nicholas frowned. “You aren’t Anonymous?”
Julian shook his head. “I only handed in someone else’s work. Someone who didn’t want to be credited in print.”
Nicholas crowed. “But everyone wants to see their name in print!”
Julian gave the valet a tight smile. “Not everyone has the luxury of wanting such a thing.” He turned and went to the desk, eyes glued on the text. They hadn’t editorialized a thing. This was purely Ophelia, and she wrote so convincingly and lively of their travail. She had done well.
He sat to write a strongly worded letter to the editor, but then realized that it wouldn’t do. Instead, he would go himself, in person, to make this right. And collect any payment owed to Ophelia. Would he bring it to her himself? Or would he wait and hand it off to someone else because his cowardice was too great?
*
“What is it?I don’t like it when your face looks like that,” Ophelia said to Arthur, as he came in holding a handful of newspapers and pamphlets.
“My face looks fine,” Arthur said.
Ophelia glanced to her mother to monitor her expression. There was no use looking at Lady Emily. Her face was far rounder than normal, and it was difficult to focus on her head when her belly was so extraordinarily large.
“You have the Royal Geographical—” Ophelia stood to paw through the stack of papers Arthur held.
He pulled them up and over his shoulder, out of reach. “I do, but I have to say something before you get upset.”
Ophelia frowned. “Why would I be upset? Did they pull the article?”
“No,” Arthur said, dropping his hands once Ophelia withdrew her grasping fingers. “But I received a note today warning me to keep the journal from you until something had been fixed. I don’t pretend to know what the something is.”
Who would send Arthur a note about the article other than Julian? He was the only one who knew she penned the article. The man couldn’t be bothered to reach out to her, but he could send a note to her brotherabouther? The slow-building anger against Julian grew again in size. He abandoned her, left without saying goodbye, made her feel like an absolute wretch, and now something was amiss with her article and he told herbrotherto keep it from her? Would it not have been better to write to her and tell her what was happening? The man was such a coward. “Will you show it to me?”
Arthur handed over the blue-boarded bound journal. “Of course. But I will warn you that something is amiss.”
Ophelia snatched the proffered journal, smoothing her hand over the gold embossed seal. She opened it, reveling in the frontispiece, with the insignia of the RGS, stamped withOb Terras Reclusas.“For the discovery of lands,” Ophelia whispered, translating the Latin text. She turned the page, and while of course the first article was the opening address, as it always was, the next title below it was hers!
“I got top spot! Mine is first!” she squealed, paging to it, longing to see her words in print. But then she realized it wasn’t accredited to Anonymous. It was credited to Sir Julian Dunstan.
Ophelia sank down in her mother’s plush chair.
