Her mother embroidered a pillowcase. She didn’t bother to look up. “You’ve had your share of hardships on a mountainside, too.”
“Yes, but not like this! I always knew Zermatt was there, just a day’s hike away. This is different!” She gestured toward Sir Julian, who looked pleased with himself and comfortable as he snacked on a scone smothered in apricot jam. “Sir Julian was in the middle of a mountain range, abandoned by his team, and uncertain of where the next settlement was, let alone if they were hostile.”
“But I had plenty of food, Miss Ophelia. That was the key. I was content to sit in my snow cave overnight, knowing I could eat comfortably.”
Ophelia looked at the man she now regarded fondly, slumping back into the sofa. “Someday, I want you to take me out there. I want to see these Andes mountains and their odd rounded peaks.”
Her mother chuckled.
“What, do you object?” she asked.
Lady Rascomb shook her head. “It is not my place to object anymore, Ophelia. It is your brother’s. Or, should you choose one, your husband’s. And I should say, given the talk of Sir Julian in the newspapers, a husband would greatly object to you running off to the Andes with ‘London’s Most Eligible Explorer.’”
Sir Julian groaned. “You saw that, did you?”
Ophelia clapped her hands and laughed. “What did it say? No one showed me.”
Lady Rascomb raised her eyebrows, peering over her needlework. “That Sir Julian’s appeal was not in deep pockets but rather his broad shoulders.”
Ophelia squealed in delight. “That’sfantastic.” And it was. He absolutely did have very appealing broad shoulders, as if he were able to carry anything—or anyone—where they needed to be.
“Does no one respect me for my intellect?” Sir Julian protested, finishing off his scone.
Ophelia laughed, tossing a sugar cube at him. “Now you know how it feels.”
“I’m more than a pretty face. Er, I suppose I mean shoulders.” Sir Julian tossed the sugar cube back at her.
“How will you deal with the incoming female horde? Plead your unexciting perseverance? Your dry attention to topographical measurements? Your ability to do complex calculations in your head?”
Sir Julian straightened up and pulled his jacket round himself, puffing out his chest. “Those qualities are all very attractive to my female admirers.”
Ophelia pelted him with the sugar cube again, smacking him directly in the broad left shoulder.
“Fine, fine, they aren’t. But once they see my unimpressive bank account, they shall depart forthwith.”
“Only a very foolish woman would take into account your bank register. What you offer is far better than a flat in a fashionable postal district.” Ophelia meant it, too. If only he’d been in London, she would have been after him for her Matterhorn expedition.
“Your flattery does not fall on deaf ears, Miss Ophelia, and I thank you for it. I shall remind the papers to print that, instead.” His powerful thighs strained at the tweed trousers, and Ophelia had a sudden wonder that if the gossips rags were so fond of his shoulders, had they not discovered his extraordinary thighs? It seemed remiss of them, if they intended to catalogue his pleasing body parts.
There was an easy silence, and Ophelia took it upon herself to pour more tea for all three of them. Sir Julian took the sugar cube lodged in a crease of his tweed coat and plopped it into his cup, giving her a look of satisfaction as he did so. She laughed.
“Oh, and—” he pulled a folded newspaper from the inside pocket of his coat. “I almost forgot. The latest from the RGS. You’ll note the article here on the front page.”
Ophelia snatched it from him and scanned it. Julian’s narrative style was stunningly straightforward, so unlike the other stories of adventures found in the papers. She’d helped him with it, rearranging paragraphs, asking him to put more sensory details in to help the reader feel immersed in the mountains. As she read, she was thrilled to find he’d taken her suggestions. Not as good as having a published article herself, but still. Her suggestions found their way to print by the RGS.
“Thank you for showing me. May I keep it?” Ophelia asked, hugging it to her chest.
“Of course, that’s your copy.” Julian stirred the sugar dissolving in the tea. “I would have liked to put your name on there as well, but the RGS has a standing policy to not allow women anywhere near their doors or their printing press.”
“May I see?” Lady Rascomb reached out to her.
“Don’t I know,” Ophelia grumbled, handing the paper to her mother. “I have an article that would be so well suited for RGS, about our Ben Nevis run, and how it prepared us for the Matterhorn. I’ve sent it everywhere I can think of, but it’s too much for the ladies’ magazines, and it’s written by a woman, about women, so none of the men’s magazines will print it either.”
Ophelia swished her spoon in her tea, letting the milk swirl in its pleasing patterns. She normally drank her tea black, but she’d found that she enjoyed watching the liquids entwine around one another, until their individual identities dissolved into one.
“Have you thought about removing the gendered pronouns, and not mentioning you happen to be women?” Julian raised his eyebrows at her, looking more mischievous than intrepid.
The thought struck her. She could replace their names with initials, erase any mention of a Miss or a Missus, erase the paragraph about skirts, and the article would remain intact. “That is very possible.”
