Chapter Ten

T ristan retreated to the bathtub. Nothing a good soak and a dram or six of whisky couldn't fix. He'd been so sure about Eleanor. He'd never been sure of any woman—not ever. Not any of his actresses or dancers. Not any of his noble dance partners at the chaperone-approved celebrations. Eleanor had been different than the other women he'd met. She was patient and smart, interesting and witty. And she chose the mountain over him. A stupid fucking mountain that she'd never climbed.

Granted, if he were honest with himself, he would have done the same. Chosen the mountain over her. But he'd been outdoors his entire life. It was his identity. The only thing he was good at besides shallow conversation. To be rejected so roundly hurt like the devil.

It wasn't as if she'd been traipsing around mountains her whole life. This was her first taste of it, and she was going to give him up before she even knew if she liked it?

Perhaps he was easy to give up. He'd thought she was teasing last night when she'd accused him of kissing her out of boredom, and he turned the question back on her. Was he not good enough for her? Would she have given up the mountains if he'd had a title? If he'd been Lord Berringbone, would that have been enough?

He took another sip of his whisky, letting it burn down his throat. How was he supposed to face her after this? How were they going to be roped together, side by side, when he knew that he ranked below a pile of rocks for her affection? Would she even be able to be professional, given her inexperience? Or would he be the object of her scorn, and thus the object of all four women's scorn?

He knew how female friendships worked, having been at close proximity to Ophelia and Bad News for so long. What one despised, the other despised even harder on her friend's behalf. He groaned. But he'd be damned if he gave up the expedition! He was here first! In fact, he was far more necessary to the mission than Eleanor. She'd taught them some lovely knots, yes, but now they all knew them, so her worth was already spent.

She should stay home, out of harm's way. Yes, that was really it. Not only was her staying home better for the propriety of the mission, it was also for her safety. He ought to tell Ophelia and get her to understand that Eleanor had no business going to Ben Nevis, because she had absolutely no business going to the Matterhorn. The logic was flawless.

The whisky glass slipped from his hand and shattered all over the floor.

"Oh, damn it all," he said, peering over the tub. That was good whisky.

"Are you well, sir?" called Matthias. Now that they were back in civilization, he had a valet. Sometimes handy, other times, nothing but a nuisance.

But drunkenly surveying broken glass in his bathing chamber definitely constituted a lovely time to have a valet. "Matty! I've dropped my tumbler! Can you come sweep it up?"

There was a subtle banging, and then, "I'll just get the implements to do so. One moment."

Tristan sunk lower in the tub, allowing his drinking hand to drift below the surface. The water had started to feel cool, but to that one arm felt very warm indeed. That's what it was like being around Eleanor. He'd only gotten accustomed to her, having spent the week in the woods with women. Had he been in the woods with different women, well, he'd probably think he was in love with one of them, instead.

Because if he'd truly been in love, or rather, had truly wanted to marry Eleanor, well, then, he'd be much worse off than he was at the moment. He'd be... drunk in a bathtub? Ah yes. Touché, self.

No, he was infatuated with her, nothing more. Swept up in the emotion and excitement of an adventure. Beginner mistake. Perhaps that's why the Alpine Society didn't admit women. They'd all end up in love with their climbing partners. That would be the real tragedy.

The best thing he could do was leave. Well, the best thing to do would be to get out of the bathtub without cutting himself on the scattered glass. Then, the leaving. Jot off to London, hole up in his bachelor's rooms, find an actress or a singer to occupy himself for the month until Ben Nevis. Simple. Lacking in humiliation. Imminently doable.

First step: where the fuck was Matthias and a broom?

*

"I can't believe he would do such a thing," Ophelia said to Eleanor, giving comfort and support where it could be given.

"Thank you," Eleanor said, trying very hard to find her voice when Ophelia and Justine had talked without pausing for breath for the last few hours.

They'd excoriated Tristan the entire time, listing the arrogance and hubris needed to assume a woman would choose a man over an adventure. But it wasn't that which bothered Eleanor. It wasn't his idea that she might choose him over the Ladies' Alpine Society. It was that he'd thought to make her choose at all.

She had believed Tristan saw her. The real her. Not Captain Piper's pipsqueak daughter. Not Mrs. Piper's dutiful daughter and companion. She had thought he'd seen her , Eleanor. The girl who had sat in dusty rooms down by the docks, tying knots blindfolded and behind her back for the amusement of Captain Smythe's wife when she came to pick up his wages while he was at sea. Or even the Eleanor who played by herself because her parents didn't want her associating with the girls of the merchant class, hoping they could elevate themselves socially. But not having access to noblemen's daughters, there were no peers to befriend.

She'd been stuck in an odd place her whole life, and then she'd been swept up by Ophelia and Justine and Prudence, and there was Tristan: beautiful, shining, golden Tristan. A fairy tale prince.

A fairy tale prince who wanted her to give up the only place she'd felt welcomed. Once again, she'd become attached to a person who wanted her to be something she wasn't. To work for some unattainable status she couldn't do anything about.

Prudence put her hand on Eleanor's. "Would you like to go for a walk?"

It was hard to cut through Ophelia and Justine's well-meaning and persistent chatter, but Prudence was so much wiser than her years. Perhaps that's what America did to a girl. Eleanor nodded, and Prudence managed to cut through the conversation.

"Eleanor and I will take a turn around the gardens. Ophelia, can you please check with your father about departure tickets to Scotland, just to make sure Tristan didn't manage to get Eleanor kicked off the expedition already?"

Ophelia paled at the words and shot to her feet. "Of course. Oh, how clever you are, Prudence."

"And—" Justine stood.

Prudence interrupted her. "You might want to go with Ophelia. You're awfully observant. And persuasive to boot! If anything has gone amiss, I'm sure you can convince Lord Rascomb to keep Eleanor on our team."

The two women set off towards Lord Rascomb's study, while Prudence took Eleanor by the arm to the garden room, which opened into the fenced rose garden. Once the door closed behind them, Eleanor took the biggest breath of fresh air she could manage.

"You looked a little besieged," Prudence observed, her arm still through Eleanor's.

The sun was bright through the clouds, warming her cheeks despite the chill in the air. "Oh, shouldn't we get our bonnets?"

Prudence shrugged. "I think our sanity is worth more than a pale forehead at this point, don't you think?"

Eleanor smiled. "Of course. But this might be the first time I've been outside without a hat in ages."

Prudence gave her a little shove with her shoulder. "We're living dangerously."

The clutching sensation in Eleanor's stomach eased. The pebbled dirt crunched under her feet, and a sense of normalcy returned. "I'm not used to so much... talking."

Prudence smiled. "I grew up with my mother and her sister together in the house, so there was always chatter. I don't mind it, but I'm like you—sometimes I prefer my solitude. Especially if I need to think."

Eleanor let out a shaky breath. "Perhaps that's my difficulty. I don't need to think. I am feeling far too much to think."

"Also a very reasonable course of action."

They walked in silence amidst the thorny stalks of would-be roses. It was impossible to tell now what all the garden held. The clouds covered the sun, cooling the air even further. Eleanor began to wish for a hat again.

"It's only that—" Eleanor's voice cracked. She was grateful that Prudence didn't urge her onward, but rather waited for Eleanor to collect herself before she continued. "It's only that I got my hopes up."

Prudence let the words sit in the air before commenting. Eleanor liked that she had space to breathe when she spoke with Prudence. Things felt less... anxious, with her around.

"Hopes for what exactly? For marriage? Or for Tristan in particular?"

It was time for Eleanor to employ the casual gesture the Americans seemed to favor, and she shrugged. "I'm not sure. Perhaps him. Perhaps it was because I felt like he really knew me. Understood that I needed to be a part of something like this expedition. And then when he tried to take it away from me, it felt like a—a—" Eleanor faltered, tears threatening again. She blinked them back.

"Like a betrayal?" Prudence suggested.

"Precisely," Eleanor said. "Like he hadn't known me at all. For if he had, he would have realized that these few months with the Ladies' Alpine Society have changed me irrevocably. I'm working so very hard to be worthy of the trip, to be capable like Ophelia. To be strong like you and Justine."

Prudence tugged Eleanor closer. "Do you know, I feel the same way? That I have to work so very hard to be seen as worthy? I haven't the knowledge of knots like you do. I haven't the experience like Ophelia. I haven't the sheer willpower of Justine. I'm just little old me, Prudence, from Minneapolis, Minnesota. Not that I would recognize it. I haven't been there in years."

"But you are extraordinary, Prudence. Me? I'm just no one. From London. Do you know how many people are from London? Millions. I haven't been anywhere as interesting sounding as Minneapolis." The word stumbled on her tongue, but she liked saying it. The place sounded strange and wonderful and full of possibilities.

"Then, Eleanor Piper, you are one in a million. Or possibly more. I haven't the slightest idea of the population of London." Prudence's soft smile bolstered Eleanor.

Eleanor sighed. "How can you be so wise and motherly when you are my age? I wish I could be like that."

"You don't. Not really, anyway. I had to grow up far too fast and far too soon. But I wouldn't trade it. I'm twenty-five with a widow's freedom. What could be better?"

Eleanor nodded. Soon, she would be considered on the shelf. And she would have the freedom of a lifelong spinster, as long as her parents agreed to it. But she hated being at the behest of others. Prudence had no one to answer to but herself.

"Listen," Prudence continued. "We have a few more days here in the country to relax and prepare without anyone saying, ‘Where are your corsets?' or ‘Why are you running?' so we ought to enjoy it while we can. Maybe we can even sneak some extra desserts while we're at it."

Eleanor laughed. Tristan frowned at them all when they ate scones. He wanted less weight—less weight on the packs, less weight on their persons. He explained that it was all the physics of going up the mountain. The less to carry, the easier it would be on all of them. Eleanor understood the point. But now she wanted to be like Justine and eat an extra scone while staring Tristan down, if only to spite him.

"I would eat three scones every day if I could manage it. If only to see the look on Tristan's face when I slathered cream on them," Eleanor confessed.

"That's my girl!" Prudence said with a laugh. "But for now, what would you like to do? We have some time before Ophelia and Justine are free."

"Would you mind if I taught you some knots? It's oddly relaxing for me." Eleanor knew she was a strange person, and that might put Prudence off. But instead, Prudence accepted with a nod.

"I would love to know more. Let's get our practice ropes and order some tea. All will be right with the world."

*

London was miserable. Certainly, there were Tristan's usual haunts and games. But he hadn't the focus for cards or gambling. Even Jacobs took his money one night. He drank too much, and his morning runs were nothing but the smell of spirits coming up through his pores.

He avoided the last few sessions of the Ladies' Alpine Society salons, which earned him beleaguered looks from his mother and outright disdain from Ophelia. His father said nothing. It made him wonder if the man knew. His father was by nature reticent and might not broach a subject for years if he deemed it uncomfortable. Tristan kept his head down, but still attended the weekly family dinners.

He also attended a few parties and balls, but only the ones he was fairly certain the Pipers would not be able to secure an invitation to. These were parties of the rich and the titled. He saw Lady Emily and her cousin, Miss Sophia Perkins. Miss Perkins was very pretty, and he didn't mind dancing with her one bit. Her interest was obvious. And he was fairly certain that she was more than game for a rendezvous in a dark library or garden maze.

But he never asked.

Lady Emily tried to discuss Eleanor with him during one of the assemblies, but stopped when she could see Tristan's reluctance. He didn't dance with Lady Emily again after that. He didn't want the reminder. Nor did he want the shame of thinking of her encouragement. If it hadn't been for her, Tristan would have never thought to throw caution to the wind and ask to court Eleanor. It was a truly ridiculous idea. A merchant's daughter? Not to mention the complete lack of responsibility it was for a man who had a hobby of climbing treacherous mountains to have a wife back at home. No, he needed to remain unattached. That was clear.

As long as he supported his sister's climbing career, which he intended to do for as long as possible, then he should not have attachments. It wasn't fair to keep someone waiting for months on end, wondering if he'd lived or died.

Ophelia called for another expedition meeting two weeks before they were set to depart for Scotland. Tristan contemplated not attending, until his father pulled him aside after the weekly meal and explained that he needed to participate in the planning, or he would be struck from the expedition.

Chastened, Tristan appeared on the Thursday as directed. He sat in his mother's drawing room, waiting for the rest of the company to descend. He was met first with thin and angular Mr. Leopold Moon, the young financier who was tracking the finances and investments of the expedition. The man was like a walking letter opener. He was sharp and pointed, and while normally that didn't bother Tristan at all, right now he was feeling much too raw to risk a cutting remark.

Tristan selected one of his mother's books to leaf through as they waited for the rest of the company to materialize. Ah, drat. It was sonnets. He really didn't care for sonnets at the moment. They were too curly for his taste. There was something about the Bard's poetry that felt like a curlicue, or something else equally baroque. He couldn't exactly put his finger on what made it so challenging to like them, but he was fairly certain the shape of it in his mind was enough.

Eleanor entered with Prudence. They seemed thick as thieves now, laughing and talking. Eleanor stopped short when she spotted him.

It gutted him to see her. She was stunning, with rosy cheeks and her hair shiny and lustrous. There was something else about her as well, that he couldn't quite place. She was clearly doing well without his interference. Pride pricked at him. He was barely getting through his days, and she was happy and hale, giving no thought to his suffering.

He should have known, really, that any woman allowing herself to be kissed out in the woods wasn't the type to be respectable. Even if he had been the one to initiate the kiss. He had, hadn't he? His very ego depended on him having some semblance of control, so he definitely must have been the person to start the kissing. Both times.

His body tightened in response to the memories of her. The feeling of that soft skin pressed against his. The silken texture of her lips on his. The gripping of her fingers on his chest. He swallowed and turned his attention back to the sonnets. The damned curling sonnets.

He glanced up at her. She was sitting next to Prudence on the sofa near the door. Likely because it was on the opposite side of the room from him. But it gave him a direct line of sight to her. Or perhaps she wanted to look at him, and examine his obvious distress.

Ophelia entered with his mother. Thank goodness. That meant the meeting would start soon. For wherever Ophelia was, Justine was not far behind. Tristan concentrated on his sonnets. His mother approached.

"Shakespeare, is it?" she asked.

Tristan made a very enlightened noise.

"I thought you hated Shakespeare." His mother tilted the book with her finger so she could see what he was reading.

"Only the sonnets," he said.

"Which," she observed, "is precisely what you are reading. How interesting."

"I enjoy pain." Tristan watched as Justine entered and flounced towards Ophelia. All the while he studiously avoided looking at Eleanor.

"Clearly." Tristan watched as his mother's gaze drifted to Eleanor, who was as pointedly not looking at him as he was not looking at her. "Tristan, perhaps—"

"Please, Mama." He closed the book. His father appeared, which signaled the start of the meeting and would prevent a humiliating conversation.

She held up her hands, her cane dangling from her thumb, indicating she would let him be for the moment. Tristan wished the whole thing with Eleanor could be erased from his memory. As if it never happened. What was worse was that nothing did happen. Flirtation and a few kisses did not a love affair make. So why was it so damned difficult to get back to some semblance of normalcy?

Ophelia stood and called their meeting to order. They discussed Scotland, as it was now only two weeks away. There was inventorying of equipment to do, the last checks for each item to ensure they were still in pristine condition. Ophelia handed out a packing list for each of them.

Tristan looked his list over, frowning when he looked at the clothing section. "Fee, why did you include petticoats, and what is this? Rags? Rags for what?"

Justine tittered. He shot her a look. That was something that hadn't changed.

"This is a standard packing list for our expedition. Since we are six in number, with the majority female, I standardized our list according to our needs. You may not take petticoats as you so desire." Ophelia spoke as if she'd practiced this speech. She likely had.

"This is not how other mountaineers pack." He couldn't resist a parting shot.

"We are not other mountaineers. We are these mountaineers," Ophelia shot back, gesturing to herself and the other women seated next to her. "May we move on? Or do you need more clarification of the packing demands?"

Tristan grumbled his assent, knowing he'd lost face. Frustration boiled inside. He felt stepped on. He felt dismissed.

Ophelia prattled on about a few more details. Mr. Moon stood and reported on the finances and the investments. Tristan didn't bother to listen. It wasn't anything he cared about. Second son, and all that. He was the drone in this hive of bees.

"Are we done?" Tristan asked, straightening himself from against the bookshelf.

Ophelia frowned at him. "I suppose so. But I'd like to remind everyone to keep up their skills and fitness levels. The weather reports are showing that Scotland is experiencing a rather cold spring. We may have a bit of a slog ahead of us."

Tristan crumpled the packing list and threw it at the fireplace, stalking out of the room. Why did he sign up for an adventure like this, when he could be a part of a real expedition? He was a member of the Alpine Society, something that only his father could boast being a part of. Those were the real explorers. The real mountaineers. Instead, he was babysitting his sister and her frilly debutantes.

He walked directly to Blakely's flat, not far from his own. The man was just getting up, but ready for mischief.

*

Eleanor checked over the trunks. She had run through her packing list and the trunks three times. Her heart beat faster at the thought of tomorrow's journey. Tomorrow would be the farthest she'd ever been from home. And also the farthest she'd been from her parents. And the start of a new piece of her life that was hers and hers alone.

"I don't understand," her mother's voice carried down the hallway. "Haven't they been working towards this for months? Why would it take so long in Scotland to climb that silly hill?"

Her father's grumbly voice didn't carry through the walls as clearly, but he made some kind of response. They both appeared in her doorway shortly.

"I didn't realize you would be gone so long," her mother said, carrying a handkerchief in her hand, as if she might actually have been crying. Had she?

"I gave you the itinerary weeks ago," Eleanor said. "Ophelia is very thorough."

Her mother waved her hand in dismissal. "Oh! It was so long, I couldn't be bombarded with so much information all at once! Nor do I feel that it's fair for you to ambush me with this kind of extended vacation." She sniffed and dabbed with her handkerchief.

Eleanor smiled at her histrionic mother. This was her way of saying Eleanor would be missed. "We need to be closer to the mountain so we can observe weather patterns. Not to worry, we are meeting up with a local man who knows the area. The Bridewells have been corresponding with him for months. He'll be another member of our expedition."

Her mother sniffed in disdain.

Her father looked between his wife and Eleanor, and then took the opportunity to change the subject. "I'm impressed you'll be on the Special Scotch Express! What an achievement! London to Scotland in one day. My, oh my, that's technology! Industry! Innovation!"

She loved that her father would rather talk to fill the void of his wife's emotions than actually display any of his own. "It is. From Edinburgh, we'll travel to the Highlands. Then a few days to acclimate and adjust our equipment, if necessary. It's a decent plan."

"Do you feel ready?" her father asked, real concern showing in his eyes.

Eleanor almost felt like squirming under this much attention from her parents. So unusual. But she also rather enjoyed it. Her waist was trimmer, her arms more shapely. She'd finally figured out the burst of joy and energy one might find at the end of physical exertion. "I do. I'm stronger than I've ever been. It's remarkable how much more capable I feel than I did a few months ago."

Her father looked at the ground and shuffled his feet, clearing his throat. She suspected it was to avoid showing the tears in his eyes.

"I always wanted to do something like this," her mother said.

Both Eleanor and her father rounded on her.

"Why are you both looking at me like that? Of course I did. Something big and extraordinary. Make my mark on history."

"Like climbing a mountain?" Eleanor asked.

"If it had been presented to me, I would have taken it. The best way to get out of Kent was to marry your father. So I did. It was the biggest adventure offered." Her mother gave her father a doe-eyed look of flirtation.

A bittersweet twinge filled Eleanor's heart. That was how love was, or at least, what she'd thought it was.

"Well." Her father cleared his throat and turned back to Eleanor. "I hope you have everything prepared."

Eleanor surveyed her trunks again. "I believe so. I've gone over the luggage three times."

"Well, just in case you need something to distract you from your companions," her father said, fishing something out of his coat pocket. "Here is something I thought might be diverting."

Eleanor took the brown paper package from her father. It was clearly a book, but when she ripped the paper open, she couldn't help the quizzical look on her face. " The Ingoldsby Legends ?"

Her father shrugged. "It's a new edition. Besides, it was that or a biography of Mary Queen of Scots. This one seemed more optimistic."

"Thank you. I have no doubt it will be of great benefit." Eleanor hugged it to her chest. Any distraction from Tristan would be welcome.

She'd hated seeing his perfect golden mane at the last meeting. He was surly and rude, not bothering to greet any one of them, let alone look at her. It made her heart sink.

Mistakenly, she'd hoped there was a way out of this mire with everything she wanted. They could have a secret courtship, and if they suited, they could marry between the Ben Nevis climb and the Matterhorn. There was so much time between the two that it wouldn't be seen as scandalous in the least.

And she would marry him as long as he promised that she would be climbing the Matterhorn. If only the guarantee were there, she could take the leap. Perhaps they could put it somehow into a contract. But his face had made it clear; there was to be no reconciliation. His regard was clearly lost forever. And she'd done it to herself. It was a modern world, and she was the architect of her future, for better or worse.

Her father had asked her once, in the morning after Lord Berringbone's ball, if he should expect to hear from Tristan. Eleanor hadn't managed to keep her tears to herself at that moment. Her father had given her a pitying tap on the shoulder with a bit of a squeeze. The height of his paternal affection. It was the best he could do, and she knew it.

"Well," her mother breathed, as if nothing more could be done about any problem in the world. "I must be off to my garden group. It meets in less than an hour, and I'm sure I look ghastly from this horrid display of emotion."

"Your garden group is an excuse for ladies to drink alcohol out of doors in the afternoon," her father grumbled.

"Yes," her mother agreed. "And I quite like it."

They left, doddering down the hallway, bantering back and forth as they'd always done, so wrapped up in each other that there was no room for Eleanor. Their sudden absence gave her a pang of loneliness. She'd hoped to find her person that would be the answering partner to all her witticisms. But at twenty-five, with an adventure pending, it wasn't likely.

That must be the thing about growing up: learning to put certain things behind oneself. Understanding that some doors close forever, whether one is ready for them to or not.

Sometime later, a maid delivered a large box. Inside was a beautifully tailored traveling costume in a dark mauve. It was sleek and serviceable, not garish, but would set off her complexion wonderfully. A small felt hat was nestled in the box, a matching color. It would be the envy of her friends. Eleanor smiled. Her parents were strange, but they did support her. They tried their best.