Chapter Twelve
Ophelia did notthink about Fairport. His existence was of little use to her, especially now that she would not have to marry him for months yet. Instead, she threw herself into planning her second assault on the Matterhorn.
She had not heard from Julian, whose absence perplexed Lady Rascomb. In response to her mother’s probing, Ophelia said, “He’s probably met a woman.”
It was something Ophelia had imagined with a punishing regularity. That being in the arms of a novice in Paris had made Julian yearn for the practiced attentions of Lady DeMarius. No doubt he’d been availing himself of her since his return. He hadn’t even the time to clear up the debacle of her article being printed under his name. That slight would just go on unacknowledged. But Ophelia knew. The knife was still thrust in her, still bleeding.
Despite the pain, she still included him in all her mountaineering plans. He had never said he wasn’t going. And he was the reason she was attempting the deadly mountain a second time. Technically, this was true. His interest is what gave her the excuse. She would go whether he went or not. At least, if they’d the money.
Yesterday she’d gotten a letter from Prudence, offering apologies and well-wishes, and explaining that she and Mr. Moon would not be able to reach Europe in time for climbing season. Their boat was still well past India, and even if they were to get on a boat that very day, they still wouldn’t be able to make the expedition.
It was disappointing to have one of the original members of The Ladies’ Alpine Society unable to go, but Prudence offered a donation to the expenses of the trip. That helped make it sting less.
After all, the largest issue at this point was funding. Technically, her dowry wasn’t hers, it was the estate’s, so she couldn’t use it without Arthur’s permission, but he seemed possibly amenable. Currently, it was tied to the marriage contract with Fairport, but she wasn’t sure if it was a monetary amount, or an account number listed, or lands. She had written out a request to use the dowry as her funding, but had not yet heard back from Arthur on the subject. She didn’t dare ask for anything like this verbally, knowing there needed to be some kind of paper trail associated with it.
Ultimately, if the contract was not settled because she’d insisted on a delay, then it would mean the money was still available. Which could explain the subsequent amount of fretting from Fairport. He was like a child, whining about whether or not she loved him. She knew it was pretense, for she had no illusion that he loved her. But it could be that he loved the promise of her dowry. And she had better uses for it.
Eleanor arrived for an early morning call, which was fine, as Ophelia had not yet finished her letter writing for the morning. Once she started examining topography versus the numerous accounts of other successful ascents of the Matterhorn, she would not relish an interruption.
“I have to be home by eleven,” Eleanor explained.
“I see,” Ophelia said, but her eye was caught by a strange mark on her map of the Matterhorn. It stayed laid out all day now. There was no sense in tidying it away. And was that a new pathway? Could that bypass the columns that had injured her father? Oh, no. It was, in fact, a crumb.
“But I had to tell you, because I owe it to you. I’m afraid you’ll be quite cross with me.” Eleanor hadn’t touched her tea. Ophelia looked at the tea, looked at Eleanor. She did look different. Almost, puffy somehow.
Ah. “You’re pregnant,” Ophelia said. The news struck her with a surprising disappointment. Another member off the team.
Eleanor gasped. “Who told you? I swear I only figured it out myself.”
“No one, but it’s the only thing that makes sense.” Ophelia wanted to be excited for them, but she was selfish. So very selfish. It meant that Tristan and Eleanor would not be climbing with her this summer. It meant Eleanor was embarking on a life that Ophelia could not—would not?—follow.
“The timing is not ideal,” Eleanor admitted.
Ophelia softened, reminding herself that Tristan and Eleanor had both been wanting a family. It wasn’t right that she was making Eleanor feel bad because she’d gotten what she wanted. “The timing is fine.” Ophelia leaned across the small table to put her hand on Eleanor’s wrist.
“Tristan is over the moon about the baby, but he feels terrible about the trip.”
“Don’t worry. I have Justine and Karl to go with me. And Tristan can feel free to gift me the very best and latest equipment as recompense.”
“I’m so glad you aren’t angry with me.” Eleanor stood.
Ophelia stood, shook her head, and stepped to embrace Eleanor. They’d been through so much together. “I couldn’t be angry. I’ll be an auntie.”
Eleanor squeezed her back with a sudden ferocity. “But you get up there, Ophelia. Just because I can’t be there doesn’t mean I don’t think you should go. I know there will be some who say you shouldn’t go just because Tristan won’t be there. But you go, Ophelia. Conquer that mountain. Do it for me.”
Taken aback by Eleanor’s outburst, Ophelia nodded in agreement. “I’ll get there,” she promised.
“Now, I have to get home, because I swell very badly if I’m out for too long.”
Ophelia laughed and pushed her along. “Then go, go! I don’t want Tristan to come yelling at me for making his wife puffy.”
“He’s a terror,” Eleanor said with a wide grin. As if amiable Tristan could ever be one.
After her friend left, it was harder to return to her correspondence. She had news of Eleanor, which she would not share until Eleanor gave her permission. And it made her think again of her expedition. If Prudence, Tristan and Eleanor were out, who else was in the party? Justine, Karl, herself, and Julian.
But four was a good number. Enough to take care of problems that might arise, but not so many that the problem could scupper the entire expedition.
After Eleanor’s departure, the afternoon passed slowly. Even Lady Emily lumbered down, now finally in what had to be her last weeks of pregnancy. Ophelia had thought it would have happened already, but apparently, the babe was comfortable where it was.
