Julian peered around the corner of a four-staked tent that would absolutely not work in Alpine conditions, to see Mrs. Bridewell’s face. She looked odd, somehow not like herself, but he couldn’t place it. As he stepped further into the shop, she emerged with an expression that was not as welcoming as her husband’s.
She folded her arms in front of her and stood next to Tristan. “Good to finally see you,” she said, the invitation to explain himself laying in every clipped syllable.
“Yes, and you as well.” Julian clasped his hands behind his back, unsure of himself under the scrutiny of Ophelia’s sister-in-law. “I, er, I was wanting to, of course, offer felicitations on Lord Rascomb’s new arrival.” He felt warmth creep up his throat and into his cheeks.
Tristan nodded happily, but Mrs. Bridewell showed no emotion.
“And, I’ve been so busy this winter, interviewing a, well, ah, that’s not important, is it?” Julian’s throat was dry. “What I would like to say is that I only yesterday received Miss Bridewell’s letters.”
“Did you?” Mrs. Bridewell said, her expression clearly waiting for more explanation or apology or something. Oh drat, had he cocked this up so badly? Yes. Yes, he had.
He licked his lips, wincing as he tried to prepare his next verbal volley. “I have written to her, in duplicate of course, one letter to Augsburg, one to Zermatt, just in case the post doesn’t catch her in time.”
“Catch her in time for what?” Tristan frowned.
“To tell her to not expect me for the Matterhorn ascent, of course.” Julian scanned their faces. Both of them looked properly shocked. That was not a good sign.
Mrs. Bridewell recovered first. A frown would be an understatement. Her face creased into an anger he had only seen in the most extreme situations. “You are abandoning her again?”
Tristan heard the spitting tones of his wife and immediately popped his hands up as if he were refereeing between them. “Now, let’s hear him out. Not everyone is suited for such an endeavor.”
“I’m perfectly fit,” Julian asserted, his hackles rising in response to Mrs. Bridewell’s volley. “But I am not obligated to go on her expedition.”
The slow turn of Mrs. Bridewell’s head reminded Julian of a raptor focusing on its newfound prey in the grasses. “Obligated? To go on an expeditionyouproposed? That she has spent months planning to make it easyfor you? And when no funds that you promised from the RGS came in, she renegotiated her dowry to facilitate this,for you. Butyouaren’t obligated?”
Thoughts and emotions tumbled through Julian’s mind. Her dowry? He shook his head. “Lord Fairport is marrying her without a dowry?” That made no sense. The man had been salivating after it.
“My brother convinced him to stay the wedding until after the Matterhorn expedition.” Tristan tried to bodily move his wife towards a chair that sat in the corner, but she would not be budged. She glared with her full force at Julian.
A crystal bubble formed in his heart. This tiny, iridescent precious pearl of information began to bump around in his chest. He recognized it: hope.
“Get your hands off me, Tristan. I swear to the Lord Almighty if you touch me again, I will take one of those blasted tent stakes and absolutely wreck this shop,” Mrs. Bridewell spat.
Tristan snatched his hands away, but continued a soft-faced pleading. “My love, the baby, though. You are very emotional right now, and it’s not something—”
The look of pure hatred that flashed on the woman’s face combined with Tristan’s whisperings about a baby made it instantly clear why they would not be on the expedition. And also explained why his presence was so hated. Mrs. Bridewell had clearly wanted to go; when else would an opportunity come for her?
And now here was Julian throwing that opportunity away. Her points of inconveniencing Ophelia also hit the mark. He’d spent the past months wishing he could bury his head in the sand... of another country entirely.
He’d put all of this squarely on Ophelia’s shoulders, for wanting more of him. But this was his fault. Spending so much time alone had given him the privilege of absolute privacy at all times. As soon as someone asked for more than his surface level, he ran. Literally booked the next train home. Shit.
But there was no way to change it now. If he suddenly turned down the offer to survey silver mines, then what kind of career did he have? Was he really willing to turn down a decade worth of work to chase after a girl who was far too young for him anyway?
What a terrible time to have such an epiphany.
“Will you please just sit down? Eleanor.” Tristan pleaded with his wife as all these revelations fell around Julian’s head.
“Letters are the very least you could do. Even though we all know you should do more,” Mrs. Bridewell shot at him as she allowed herself to be herded into the back corner’s chair.
Julian fiddled with his hat, realizing he was clutching it tight enough to ruin the brim. He had obligations before Ophelia, of course. His career. His monetary solvency. These had to be priorities first. He had to think of his future. But what was his future when he was entirely alone?
“I have another appointment,” Julian called to the back of the small shop, trying to leg it out of there as fast as he could. Because, when was he not? But the other appointment was true. “I still have a matter to discuss with you, Mr. Bridewell, but perhaps another time.”
Tristan waved him off, still herding his angry wife.
“Yes, good to see you! I’ll be off!” Julian said, escaping the store. His actual real appointment that was not at all made up was at the RGS printers. There was much groveling to be done, promises from Mr. Bates to extract, and likely a bribe to be paid to Mr. Murray.
Later, after the sun had set, he plodded home in the twilight, where Nicholas accosted him with his post.
