Chapter Eleven

T ristan still tasted the bitter black coffee in the back of his throat. He was hungover, and it was loud, and the heavy urine smell of the train platform was nauseating. Not that he would admit such to his father or anyone. It was merely the tattered star on top of the last few weeks—which had been an epic display of debauchery that he was now not particularly proud of. Partially because while he'd meant to debauch women, had even found his way to a brothel with a few good friends, he couldn't manage to get his body to agree.

The women in very little clothing lounging about the brothel's parlor had absolutely appealed to him. But the thought of Eleanor twisted him into so many knots, he didn't want to so much as feel a feminine hand on his shoulder, let alone his cock.

So he'd drunk instead. And drunk. And drunk. Even Blakely noticed, and he wasn't the sort of bloke who noticed much.

The sound of the trains rattled his head, building up pressure, and while the steam might exhale on the train, it did nothing of the sort in his brain.

"Quite all right?" his sister shouted at him. Justine stood by, looking off in the distance, clearly bored.

He winced a response that he hoped was an affirmative. The porter had taken care of their trunks, so there was nothing for him to do but stand there like a complete idiot. His mother, along as the chaperone for the young women, straightened her gloves once more. They bunched up on her cane, a sensation he knew she disliked.

Their train would arrive shortly. Ophelia had told them all to arrive twenty minutes early, and then told them the departure time was earlier than it truly was, to make sure they were all accounted for. Tristan wanted to believe that trick was for Justine, who was chronically late, but it was likely more for him, who was more often chronically later than Justine.

Prudence and Eleanor arrived, their low-heeled boots clacking through the station. It was an early hour, but Eleanor looked refreshed and ready in a deep reddish-hued traveling costume. It made her hair look as deep and rich as the mahogany banisters at his childhood home. She looked him square in the eye, purposeful.

It made him stumble back a step, as if she'd struck him. He swallowed, tasting that burnt coffee flavor again.

"Mr. Bridewell. Good morning." Eleanor greeted him, and it seemed as if he'd swallowed his tongue. His tongue covered in fur.

"Miss Piper. Mrs. Cabot," he croaked. Mrs. Cabot looked at him with such pity, he thought perhaps she was a mind reader.

They went on to greet the rest of their party. The train screeched up at the station, the hiss of steam clouding the platform. The rest of them made idle chatter, discussing the stop in York for lunch, and what they'd all brought to keep them occupied during the journey.

Tristan hadn't brought anything for the train car. It honestly hadn't occurred to him. Thoughts of Eleanor had kept him busy the entire last month, and he'd done everything to distract himself from them, unsuccessful as he'd been. His mind felt like a slate that had been erased, but the chalk imprint of those moments on the garden balcony lingered, the image still hauntingly visible. His joy a hollow echo taunting him.

Eventually, they boarded the train. Tristan picked up a newspaper to eventually read, sitting across from his father. He felt the judgment from his father's gaze, but he cracked open the newspaper with flair, blocking his view.

Tristan read the first paragraph over and over again. He still wasn't sure what the article was about. His body buzzed with nervous energy, and his mind kept drifting to beautiful Eleanor, clad in her perfectly tailored traveling costume, sitting in the car behind them. There wasn't even a coherent thought he had about her—no lewd images, at least not ones he'd entertain in a public train car, no dwelling on past conversations or kisses—it was his inherent awareness of her that kept him agitated.

The train began to slow. They must be getting into York—the one stop for a meal on the long ride to Edinburgh. Tristan lowered the paper.

"Is it the news of Singapore, or the editorial on Mill's motion to give women the vote that has you so occupied?" his father asked.

"Pardon?" Tristan blinked rapidly, trying to cover the fact that he was so startled by his father's speech.

"I didn't dare interfere with your reading, but we have a few more hours to go. Might as well discuss the current events."

"On a full stomach," Tristan said, hoping he'd be able to glean something from the paper he'd stared at for five hours.

"Naturally," his father said. "On a full stomach."

Their quick meal of sandwiches wrapped in paper and hasty mugs of over-steeped and under-sugared tea was wildly unsatisfying. But the tea was warm, and that was something. Tristan stole glances at Eleanor, who seemed subdued. Was she nervous about climbing Ben Nevis? Was she sick from the rocking motion of the train? Or was she as aware of him as he was of her?

They boarded the train again, Tristan lingering to watch the last swish of wine-red disappear into the train car behind them. He turned to board the train, finding his father watching him.

"We are going to have a talk." The tone of his father's voice was clear; he would tolerate no arguments.

Tristan felt that same fear he'd had as a boy—the icy feeling of disapproval that seared him in ways he couldn't explain. He trudged up the steep train steps, trying to ready himself for what could only be a searing set-down.

His father's gaze had the weight of an iron anchor. The train lurched forward, trundling them towards Scotland. Tristan wondered how the machine could move when a force such as the Viscount Rascomb was onboard.

"You might as well come clean about it."

Tristan did his best to keep all the clever barbs he had in his mouth. "About what?"

"Ophelia has told me already."

"Really." Tristan knew this tactic. He'd employed it several times himself with his friends over the years. Usually it had to do with winnings from card games or who nicked the best bottles from his liquor cabinet. "What all has she told you?"

"That you are very likely in love with Eleanor Piper."

Oh, bollocks. She had told him. "I wouldn't say love. That's a bit extreme."

"But you'd requested to court her." His father narrowed his eyes.

Tristan shook his head, as if he could deny it. He wanted to deny it because he was embarrassed. It had been a foolish, impulsive desire, born out of an inappropriate passion. "Yes. I did."

"Is she compromised?"

Tristan's head snapped up. "Of course not! I would never!"

"You would never with Miss Turner, two years ago."

"That was different. She was an actress."

"And then the next one, I can't remember her name."

"Mrs. Fitzroy."

"Ah, yes. And I do believe I paid a bill for emeralds at the end of that affair." His father leaned back in the seat, still watching him closely. "Girls like Eleanor Piper won't settle for a bauble. Fathers like Mr. Piper won't settle for a bauble, either."

"I know that," Tristan said.

"And you understand that I cannot have you tomcatting around on this expedition. Your sister's entire future is at stake."

"I understand that. I was trying to do the proper thing, but—"

"But you cannot keep your hands in your own pockets? You know what will happen to every single drop of Ophelia's dream to become a mountaineer if she gets branded a harlot? Even by association?"

"I do, yes." Tristan had been trying very hard to protect that very thing, which is when everything went absolutely sideways.

"She'll lose all credibility. Not just the marriage prospects, but all of her writings that she has promised. It all goes away."

Tristan glared at his father. "I know."

"If you know, then why would you let your prick do the thinking?"

"What did I do?" Tristan flung his arms out, forgetting he was on a train momentarily and rapped the cold glass of the train car window with his knuckles.

"You kissed a girl and fell in love with her!" his father said, his face flushing temporarily red.

"I tried to make Ophelia remove her from the expedition. That way, I could properly court her, and there would be no issue about Scotland or the Matterhorn, or any of our preparations out in the countryside. Every woman's reputation would have been safe, if Ophelia had gone along with it." Tristan slumped back against his seat. "But then Ophelia got mad and demanded to know why I wanted Eleanor off the team, and then she told Eleanor what I'd asked, and then Eleanor broke the whole thing off! She chose the adventure over me. There. That's my humiliation. Would you like to rub my face in it a little more? I'm not sure I've got many more details for you to savor."

His father was silent. Tristan looked up, wanting to know the tone of his silence. His father turned his weighty gaze out the window.

"Do you not have another chastisement for me?" Tristan asked.

"No." His father heaved a sigh. "It makes a damned mess of everything. We'll have to work hard to build trust back up."

"I know."

"You asked the girl to pick which dream she wanted. The mountain or a marriage."

"Because I did not think she wanted the mountain in the first place." The shame that shot through him was foreign and altogether miserable. His father was silent, so he continued. "And she told me she wanted me."

"Everyone should be given a chance to follow their dream. Miss Piper included. Should you have a dream, as Ophelia has hers, as Arthur has his, as Portia had hers, I will give you all the backing you want."

Tristan felt the flush of shame for his lack of ambition. "I know."

"I know that it hasn't been easy for you, not being the heir."

Tristan shrugged. It wasn't that he wanted to be the heir. But sometimes, wasn't it nice to have a direction already laid out to follow? Instead of starting from nothing?

"But times are changing rapidly. While being a viscount is a heavy responsibility, I fear the job will only grow more difficult in the years to come. Arthur knows this. You, however, have the opportunity to start anew, free of the confines of the estate."

Tristan did his best not to wince. This was the speech he hated the most. The how lucky you are, Tristan, speech. Where his future was shiny and bright and open. And not a yawning pit of nothingness that he stared down every time he heard this.

"But perhaps you are more like Portia, and less like Ophelia and Arthur?" His father kept up his gaze out the window. "All Portia wanted was a family. She married a man she loved, living in the house of her dreams. Her ambition was simple. Perhaps that is more akin to what you want?"

Tristan shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He didn't know what he wanted. Not until he'd met Eleanor. And then he wanted her, by whatever terms she'd have him. But then, those terms weren't acceptable to her, so here they were.

His father continued when Tristan didn't answer. "I thought because of your dalliances that you were not a man who wanted a family. But now I'm not so sure."

A family? That seemed a leap of logic. "I believe that doesn't work with what I've been branded as."

An amused look graced his father's face. "And what is that?"

"Feckless. Irresponsible. And of course, devilishly handsome." He couldn't help tacking the joke on the end. The bravado he used, the only positive thing anyone ever said about him. Herringbone was the smart one; Ophelia was the driven one; Portia was the nice one. Tristan was the good-looking one. What did he have when the only asset he had was skin-deep?

Unexpectedly, his father frowned. "That's not what people say."

"It is. I've heard all of those," Tristan assured him. "Especially that last bit."

"It isn't a bad thing to be an attractive man."

"Indeed, it has served me well." Tristan looked out the window. "But what else am I?"

"You're the son of a viscount is what else," his father said, his tone sounding insulted.

Tristan nodded. Another tick of a box that had nothing whatsoever to do with him. His looks, the circumstance of his birth. He was lucky, not good.

"Not that I would ever condone this sort of compliment hunting for anyone else, but," his father said, staring him down as if they were adversaries, "but you are generous and thoughtful towards your sister, which not all men could be. You are excellent at putting aside your ego and letting her shine. You are strong, loyal, and determined."

"Determined?" Tristan laughed. "I could hardly say so. What have I done in my life that was determined? I have no ambition, I have no career or legacy to show for my twenty-six years on this earth."

His father looked down at his hands. "You saved your mother's life. And that only could have happened if you coupled your strength and determination. I'm not sure I could have saved her as you did."

Tristan scoffed. Who would not go to the end of one's strength to save their mother? Who would not risk it all for the person who loved them without conditions? "Anyone would have done what I did."

"Anyone might try, but not many could. You have a special streak of stubbornness that others don't. I've seen it in the mountains more than once. But that day—" His father choked, emotion winning out.

Tristan shifted uncomfortably. He didn't like thinking of that day—when his mother was caught in an avalanche. When they almost died. When she became crippled and he robbed her of the ability to climb a mountain forever. "If I'd been better, she'd walk without a cane."

His father shook his head, regaining his faculties. "No, if you hadn't done so well, she wouldn't be here at all. The cane is her blessing, not her curse."

Tristan hung his head. His father hadn't been there. Hadn't seen Tristan's fatigue. Hadn't seen when he'd had to stick his hands in his armpits because his fingers felt like ice. If he'd been stronger, if he'd been better, his mother would have been out sooner, they could have gotten down the mountain sooner, they could have gotten to a physician sooner, everything would have been better, and her leg wouldn't have been so mangled.

"The snow is what broke her leg. No matter what you did, her leg would be broken. But what you managed made sure it didn't kill her. You performed an extraordinary feat, and I thank Providence for you every day."

"It's not enough," Tristan said. "I'm not enough."

"It may feel that way sometimes. I've certainly felt that during seasons of my life. Especially when I became a father."

Tristan looked up. "What are you saying? You're a wonderful father. Every single one of my friends wished they belonged to my family and not their own."

"I've worked very hard to be a good father, and it wasn't easy. Fortunately, you all have been exceptional, most of the time. But I think that's how I failed you. The others didn't need guidance for their lives. Not really. But you seem to need more than the others, and I don't know how to give it."

"That's not true at all," Tristan protested. "You haven't failed. It's me. What am I supposed to be doing? I haven't a clue. I don't have a head for numbers, or writing articles like Ophelia. It's too much of a chore for me. I'm not good for much other than hauling bits and bobs up a mountain."

"Plenty of men are trying to explore the remotest points of the earth these days. Perhaps you can attach yourself to those men. Help haul their bits and bobs. And soon you'll have even more training. You'll have done the Matterhorn. Only a handful of men living can claim that."

Tristan frowned. "But that's not a job. I can't say, ‘Here, Eleanor. I've a life waiting for us. I'll be climbing mountains, risking my life for another man's glory. See you in six months. Have fun in London, all alone.'"

His father seemed amused again. "That doesn't seem like much of a selling point, I admit."

"See? I can't very well offer for her when I've nothing to show for myself."

His father's eyes rounded, and Tristan realized what he'd said. He hadn't meant to; it just came out.

"You want to marry Miss Piper?" his father asked.

Tristan's leg began jiggling out of control. It was a nervous habit he'd managed to suppress over the years, but sometimes it still happened, no matter how much he tried to stop it. "I'm not sure."

"She's a lovely girl."

Tristan nodded. "But she's not aristocracy."

"That might matter for some, but does it matter for you?"

Tristan felt like this was a trick. "Does it matter for you?"

"If you were wanting to marry a widowed dancer, then perhaps. I would worry about social climbers or fortune hunters. But Miss Piper has a respectable dowry. She doesn't need our wealth."

"But what about social climbing? Isn't that obvious? I've heard that's what Mr. Piper has been after for quite some time."

"They aren't gaining anything by marrying a second son. They'll be closer, of course, and any offspring you have might one day marry into nobility, but it isn't as if you are a viscount in your own right."

Tristan blushed. "No, but I went to school with the boys who will be."

His father nodded. "Do you think that matters to Miss Piper?"

Tristan thought for a moment. "I don't think so."

"Does she feel the same about you as you do about her?"

The only thing he could do in response to that thought was to heave a sigh of such magnitude his lungs ached. "I thought she did."

"But?"

"But the look on her face when Ophelia told her she would be kicked off the expedition—I don't think she'll ever forgive me."

"Did you tell her that was the cost of your courtship?"

Tristan shook his head. "I did not make that clear. I thought that if we were courting and Eleanor wasn't on the expedition, her father would still support our venture. But if I ruined her, then he might not only pull his funding from us, but also not give her the dowry she deserves."

His father nodded. "That's possible. But it wasn't up to you to make that choice. It was hers."

"I know."

Knowing he'd made his point, his father turned his gaze out the window, at the bleak countryside rushing by. Tristan did the same. It made him feel queasy, seeing the scenery rush past at such an appalling speed. His leg stopped jumping.

"Perhaps after this attempt at the Ben," Tristan said, not wanting to finish his thought because he had no idea what he planned.

"After the Ben," his father agreed, not needing a full plan to be supportive.

Tristan felt better. And warmer. And stronger. Perhaps he was more like Portia, and less like Ophelia. He didn't need big, giant, life-changing ambitions. He could have smaller ones that included the revolutionary ideas of being happy, and finding someone he could grow old with. Or climb a mountain with, for that matter. He considered it. Perhaps Eleanor had a passion like Ophelia. Perhaps he could support Eleanor's dream, if she had one, the way he supported Ophelia's ambition.

The idea of it appealed to him, and then he thought of telling such an idea to Blakely, who would tell him how he was the man, and how he needed to be in charge. But what if Tristan wasn't good at being in charge, and rather, was really good at carrying out other people's ideas? That was a talent, wasn't it?

He was fairly certain Eleanor would prefer a man like that—a man who didn't have to be in charge every minute of every day. Where the marriage could be a partnership, and not him charging ahead, expecting her to keep up, never looking at what she needed. It certainly wasn't that he would turn into a milksop over night. He had plenty of ideas of his own. And definitely certain places where he would take charge. He just needed to convince her to take a chance on him.

*

Scotland was dark and wet and miserable when they arrived.

"I thought this was supposed to be Scotland's summer," Justine grumbled, putting her shoulder against the wind. A carriage was waiting for them, and they huddled together as they moved through the station, porters rushing back and forth to get all of their trunks.

The amount of luggage for their party was comical. Not only did each person have a trunk of personal items, there was an entire trunk of ropes, and an entire trunk of sewn-up sleeping blankets, tents, and other camping essentials. They weren't sure of the conditions at the base of Ben Nevis, since the English army had pulled out of Fort William over a decade ago.

Ophelia and her father corresponded with several men who knew the mountain, but they'd been evasive about the conditions and available amenities. So they overprepared, which Eleanor appreciated.

The rain was cold, coming in at her face sideways. She kept herself shielded, but when she heard, "Allow me," she glanced over.

Tristan was beside the carriage, handing them up, as the drivers and porters secured the luggage. It was the first time they'd been so close since the morning after the ball. He'd left for London without telling anyone, and Eleanor had somehow felt abandoned. Not that it was a new sensation, but rather disappointingly familiar. Nor had he been present much at the Ladies' Alpine Society salons. Ophelia told her that he had to be threatened into coming to the planning meeting. Eleanor had assumed it had been because of her. Even the way he'd stared at her at the train station this morning had that same tinge of disapproval.

But now, in the rain, instead of sulking and averting his gaze, this time he looked at her with a new clarity. His Tristan-ness had returned.

Eleanor felt taken aback. His blue eyes were so arresting, she couldn't help but meet his gaze. Her lips parted, wanting to say something, anything, but nothing came out. Cool raindrops fell on her lips instead, which she licked off. His eyes flickered down, watching her mouth, and she suddenly felt embarrassed.

He smiled at her, a polite one, not one of his stunning, all-encompassing smiles, and she stepped into the carriage. He handed up Prudence and closed the door, leaving the four girls and Lady Rascomb crammed into the conveyance.

"I'm exhausted," announced Justine.

The smell of wet wool and felt filled the small space.

"I think we all are," Prudence said, and even though her tone was soft, it still felt like a rebuke. They sat in silence. Long minutes later, the carriage lurched forward, and all the women swayed with the motion. The small window was streaked with rain.

They reached an inn somewhere near Edinburgh. When they got out of the carriage, the coachman attempting valiantly to use an umbrella to keep them dry against the pelting cold rain, it was so dark that it seemed they were miles from another building. A doorway opened, spilling light into the mud, and a shadow dashed out to the carriage.

"I'll get the girls inside, thank you." Lady Rascomb took the umbrella from the coachman and ushered them all out, instructing them to dash across the mud and find safety inside.

A round woman with skirts practically belted at her chin ushered them inside. She wore a mob cap, and Eleanor couldn't figure out if it was part of an older style or perhaps worn at night here in Scotland. But it largely covered the woman's brown and silver hair as she ushered them in, dripping wet and shivering.

"There's another carriage on the way," Ophelia said. Lady Rascomb limped inside last, shaking out the umbrella and leaning it against the doorframe, as if she were a maid and not a viscountess.

The woman nodded. "I figured as much. I'm Mrs. Gordon, owner of this here establishment. We've the whole place for you tonight. If you like, I can show you up to the second-floor parlor. That's where I've put all you ladies, as it's far warmer up there."

"Please," Lady Rascomb said, gesturing for her to lead the way. Somehow, she was in complete control of all her limbs, whereas Eleanor and the other girls were shivering with the cold. Eleanor had to keep her teeth clamped shut to keep them from chattering.

"I've got stew and fresh baked bread at the ready. We'll get you settled in, and I'll have Beverly bring up trays."

The steps were wooden, but a well-worn rug was tacked along them, which Eleanor was grateful for. Her traveling boots were muddy from the dash in the rain, and the polished floor was slick. Up another staircase was their floor, with a lock on the main parlor, and individual rooms off of that.

The rugs behind them were wet from their passage, a trail of sodden fibers. Eleanor did not envy whoever must clean them.

"The rooms all have keys in them for you, and this door locks from the inside. I have a key to it as well, but no one else. It keeps the gentlemen at bay." Mrs. Gordon gave them all a sharp look as if any one of them might arrange a clandestine meeting. "Lady Rascomb, I give you the key to the main door, and thus you can be responsible for all your charges."

Lady Rascomb accepted the large brass key, and Mrs. Gordon eyed Justine, despite the fact they were all wearing full-length sodden traveling gowns. "Not to worry, Mrs. Gordon. I will keep the girls safe."

"See that you do, if I may be so bold as to give advice. This parlor here is the only one of your rooms with a fire. I have bed warmers for each that I will bring up at nine o'clock on the dot, not a minute later. If I may, I'd suggest you lay out your wet clothes to dry on the racks, and enjoy your dinner out here in your dressing gowns. You'll warm up faster and won't be as likely to catch cold."

Eleanor longed to get out of her wet clothes, take off her sodden boots, and unpin her hair. The day had been long, and while she hadn't moved her body much, the jolting noise of the train had exhausted her.

"Thank you for the sound advice, Mrs. Gordon. We look forward to the dinner trays." Lady Rascomb walked Mrs. Gordon toward the door, effectively ending the interaction.

The innkeeper left the room, and with it, all the girls sighed. Immediately Eleanor began picking at the buttons of her traveling costume. Her nails were bluish purple, and not at all adept at getting her free of the wet clothes.

They'd managed to get their wet outer clothing off when there was a knock at the parlor door and the porter delivered their trunks. Lady Rascomb assigned rooms, and the porter pulled the trunks to the appointed doorways. When the man left, Justine flopped onto the settee and pushed off her boots, groaning.

"I love you all very much, and as such, I'm taking off everything," Justine announced.

"That's why you have a reputation, Justine. I understand what you mean, but you can't just say whatever's in your head," Ophelia chastised.

Justine groaned again in response. They picked at each other when they were tired, Eleanor noticed. Justine grew more flamboyant, and Ophelia grew more judgmental. What did Eleanor do, she wondered? What was her tic?

Eleanor opened the trunk in her room. They were to stay here for a week, resting, gathering information about weather, obtaining a guide, and arranging for transportation to the Highlands. She wondered if they would get to see some of Edinburgh's sights, given how much time they had. Would they visit the castle? Holyrood Palace? Surely, for someone like Eleanor, who had not traipsed around France or Italy or America, they might indulge her here in Scotland?

Eleanor was cold in her little room, with its small cot-sized bed, nightstand, and dressing table. She stripped off her dress and her boots and, with relief, peeled off the woolen stockings. There was something immensely freeing in removing those. She took out the pins in her hair, running her fingers along her scalp, finding sensitive spots to gently massage. Digging around in her trunk—which she promised herself she would unpack later—she found her nightdress and dressing gown.

Clean clothes felt like heaven. She finger-combed her hair and walked out into the parlor, braiding it as she went. Prudence was already there, ensconced in a book. Refreshed in her dry clothes, Eleanor felt the inn was taking on the cozy atmosphere of a vacation. There was a knock at the parlor door, which made Eleanor exchange looks at Prudence. Did they dare risk the wrath of Mrs. Gordon by opening it?

"Dinner," a young voice on the other side of the door called.

Prudence snickered, and Eleanor hopped up. Why was she so hungry? She hadn't done hardly anything but sit on a train, and yet she was hungrier than the nights they'd spent out at Berringbone Hold. It was a different sort of hungry after a jostling train ride. One born out of a desire for warmth, for comfort, for ease.

A young woman barely out of childhood bustled in with a large tray. She set down the tray and without a word efficiently put together a table that had been sitting in pieces against the wall. Eleanor hadn't even noticed it.

Once the table was erected, it was set, complete with linens and proper place settings. Eleanor watched, completely speechless. She'd never seen anything like it in her life. Such efficiency in this little inn.

The expression on Prudence's face, wide-eyed, with a downturned mouth, conveyed her surprise as well.

"I'll be back up in a moment with the stew and the bread." The girl curtsied as efficiently as she'd done everything else and hurried from the room. She must be the Beverly that Mrs. Gordon mentioned.

"Is that dinner?" Justine called, emerging from her room in her shift.

Ophelia drifted out of her room at the same time, then noticed Justine in her shift. "Honestly, Justine. You must put on a dressing gown or at least a wrapper. I can see right through that."

Justine rolled her eyes. "Who's going to see me? I didn't put anything on because no one is around to see but you all, and none of you count against propriety."

"It isn't the done thing, Justine," Ophelia reminded her. Ophelia was wearing a dressing gown that cinched around the waist, making her the picture of nighttime modesty.

Justine groaned. "One of these days, I will do something that actually is shocking. Something that really ought to ruin my reputation, and then you'll see how very modest I've been my entire life." She stomped back into her room.

Lady Rascomb emerged, looking lovely and proper. Her long pale-golden hair was brushed out, cascading over her shoulders. Her loose dressing gown flared at the waist, concealing any nightdress or shift she might be wearing underneath. Even the cane, which she leaned heavily on, did not detract from her regal promenade to the fireplace.

"We have a proper dinner, by the looks of it." Lady Rascomb smiled at all of them. How she could be in such good humor, with grace and politeness, despite the obvious pain she was in, was beyond Eleanor's understanding.

Another light brush against the door, and Ophelia hurried over to open it. The girl came back in with the tray once again laden. She set out bowls of stew, a board with fresh sliced brown bread, a pot of honey, and a crock of butter. There was a small basket of apples and a knife to cut them with.

"It may not look like much, but I tell you, it's the best you'll have." The girl looked down at the floor.

"It smells wonderful," Prudence said, bestowing a bright smile on the girl.

Hearing Prudence's accent, the girl's head snapped up. "You're an American!"

Prudence chuckled. "That obvious?"

"I've cousins that went years ago. They send letters back, but I've been dying to know how it really is."

"I'm happy to answer whatever questions you might have," Prudence eyed the table. "But perhaps it could wait until after dinner?"

The girl nodded, her excitement palpable as she gripped her tray and nibbled her lower lip. "Of course. My apologies, ma'am. Ladies." The girl curtsied again and left the room, closing the door ever so softly.

None of them stood on ceremony, and they fell upon their meal as if they hadn't eaten in a week. They washed down the hearty stew, dotted with large chunks of potatoes and carrots with ale, and sopped up the bottoms of the bowls with hunks of brown bread smothered in butter and honey.

By the end, all the girls were reclining on the couch. Lady Rascomb cut the apples into pieces slowly, handing them down the line so that each girl got a slice to dip into the remnants of the honey at a leisurely pace.

"Do you think the men got this good of a meal?" Prudence asked, her eyes glazed over as she licked honey from her fingers.

"I think it was exactly the same," said Ophelia, staring into the fire. "That's what we've requested for this entire trip. The same for us as for them."

Eleanor thought of Tristan, one floor below her, in his shirtsleeves, collar off and shirt unbuttoned. The fire would light up his golden features, playing with the shadows of his perfect cheekbones and tender pink lips. Just as he'd looked around the fire at Berringbone, so at ease, so perfectly fit into the landscape.

"But we aren't the same, Ophelia. We're women. They're men. We're different. Shouldn't we have different accommodations?" Prudence asked.

"That's just it, Prudence." Ophelia leaned back, propping her head up with her hand. "That's how men belittle women. We have to prove we can do it as they do it, for any variance causes them to judge us even more harshly."

Justine sprang forward, an unexpected fierceness on her face. "And which of us will determine what women need? You? Me? Eleanor? Because we are individuals. I need less than any of you. Any of the men, as well."

Shocked by Justine's outburst, the room fell silent. Eleanor watched as color bloomed on Justine's cheeks, and she sat back with her arms folded. It was then that Eleanor realized something so bloody obvious that she felt like an idiot for not knowing it sooner: everyone dealt with adversity differently.

Eleanor hung back and became quieter. Justine planted herself in the middle and challenged whatever was to come at her head-on. Prudence massaged and comforted. Ophelia became more and more rational. And Tristan ran away.

And yet, they were about to go climb a mountain that was chock full of adversity. She'd learned only a little about it so far, trusting Ophelia and Lord Rascomb in their planning. The last thing Eleanor wanted to do was doubt the abilities of their expedition, but would they be able to overcome themselves on this adventure? Let alone the mountain and the weather.

"I daresay I'm tired after such a long train ride," Eleanor said, giving a weak smile to them all. "Early to bed for me."

"‘Early to bed, early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise,'" Prudence said, unfolding her legs from underneath her.

"I beg your pardon?" Lady Rascomb said.

"Benjamin Franklin. It's one of his sayings. You must have heard it at some point." Prudence scanned their faces.

"It does sound dreadfully American," Ophelia said, hiding a giggle. Eleanor twisted her lips to hide a smile. The idiom did sound a bit overzealous.

"I don't see how it all depends on when one sleeps," Justine protested. "It's a bit limited, don't you think?"

Prudence put her hands on her slim hips, her expression teasing. "Well. I can tell none of you every grew up on a farm."

"Is that the only way to be healthy, wealthy, and wise?" Lady Rascomb asked, as if she might be affronted.

The teasing eased the tension from Justine's outburst, and soon they slipped off to their rooms, one by one, tucking themselves into bed.