Chapter Two
The next morning was not nearly as bad as she’d anticipated. Yes, her mouth was parched and her head throbbed until she downed a cup of water, but all of that was attributable to the long travels of the prior week. She didn’t dare tell anyone of her midnight assignation with the undressed man in the dining room. Or her subsequent humiliation of casting up her accounts while on all fours in the snow.
Hopefully this man mostly worked out of doors and she wouldn’t see him much. They, after all, had plans in place for altitude training and climbs in the mountain range before attempting to summit the Matterhorn in July—months away, but training was of utmost importance.
Justine and Ophelia helped each other pin up their hair and button dresses, and went down to breakfast, wondering what to expect from the Swiss chalet that opened expressly for their expedition. None of the other inns in Zermatt were open for another month at least. Lord Rascomb had explained, as they’d bumped on donkeys through the empty town, that the Alpine inns didn’t have a way to heat individual rooms adequately.
They met Prudence and Mr. Moon on the landing. While the couple greeted them, Justine could practically smell the unquenchable desire radiating from them. Mr. Moon was tall and thin, and very restrained, but even his reserve crackled with heat as he kept his eyes fixed on Prudence. And Prudence, her honey-gold hair normally pinned in a conservative chignon, was clearly hastily put up, letting portions of her coiffure sag and letting tendrils escape down her back—which Mr. Moon twirled around his finger when he thought no one saw.
But Justine saw. And she sighed. It wasn’t that she envied Prudence; she envied Mr. Moon. She wanted to be besotted like that. And it had just never happened. She’d tried to be, but polite friendship was all she could muster. Or flirtatious bluster, as she’d done last night. Which ended in driving away another suitor, given that she’d spent a good portion of their conversation casting up her accounts.
The light in the window was very faint, not at all the bright, cheerful morning she’d expected. But when peering out the small windows, she found it was because the sun had not yet made it over the mountaintops, or at least, not from where this hotel sat. A bit odd, but that was the way her flat-landed self had been raised, she supposed.
The dining room smelled of sausage and coffee, thankfully, not of cast-up apple brandy. That was a relief. Lord and Lady Rascomb were already at the dining table, holding court for the entire room. Another wish for herself, to have a life where she even vaguely resembled this handsome older couple who exuded calm happiness.
It was one of the reasons Justine preferred to spend time at Ophelia’s house than her own. Her parents were unfortunately mismatched. Her father was like her, which was why he had so much money, in Justine’s opinion. He couldn’t keep still, always working, always finding new ways to invest. Her mother, on the other hand, had spent a lifetime trying to understand him, or at least get along with him, and then bore a final girl child who couldn’t hide her similarities to her frenetic father.
As Justine came around the table, Ophelia sitting next to her father, Justine took the place next to her best friend. But her eyes widened as she saw her Swiss guard from last night sitting across from Lord Rascomb.
In the daylight, he was chiseled like the mountains that surrounded the valley they occupied. Even his nose seemed rough-hewn, as if he’d been marked out of rock, and never polished into full man-form. He wore what Justine considered undress for a man—an open shirt, uncollared, with no cravat to cover that expanse of skin where a notch cratered between his throat and his chest.
He had blue eyes that were deep blue, not the light sky-blue that Ophelia had, or the gray-blue that Prudence sported. They were blue like a flower, or a lake after a storm. Why was he sitting at their table? If he worked for the innkeeper, he should be shuttling plates or brushing down horses or unloading something very, very heavy.
He gestured with one arm, and Justine did not understand how the seams of his clothing did not shear away from the strain against the width of his shoulders. He glanced over at her, an eyebrow cocked as if asking what she was doing, sitting at the table.
“Mr. Vogel, let me introduce the rest of the team. My daughter, and leader of this expedition, Miss Ophelia Bridewell.”
He gestured to his daughter, his obvious pride swelling in his voice. It was one of Justine’s favorite things about him. He was generous with his daughters as well as his sons. He let all four of his children explore the world in their own ways, supporting them for their choices, not shoving them into pre-ordained pigeonholes whether it suited them or not.
Her own father would not have allowed Justine to lead an expedition to climb the Matterhorn. Then again, Justine was not really suited for leadership. She was there for cheering everyone along, and for dragging all of them outside for a second run whether they wanted it or not. She knew they had to be prepared for altitude, and that meant working their hearts as best they could at sea-level London. But organization was not her strong suit.
Then Lord Rascomb gestured to Justine. “And this is Miss Justine Brewer, also on the expedition. Miss Brewer, this is Mr. Karl Vogel, our lead guide on the expedition. He’s successfully ascended the Matterhorn once before.”
“Twice,”
Mr. Vogel corrected in a voice that should have sounded arrogant, but didn’t. It sounded factual, not hint of braggadocio she would have expected.
Lord Rascomb nodded and murmured his apologies for his inaccuracy, and proceeded to introduce Prudence and Mr. Moon, and when Eleanor and Tristan showed up, them as well. But the introduction rang in her head: lead guide. Lead guide. Mr. Karl Vogel, lead guide.
“Since we are all here,”
Ophelia said sometime later as empty plates were being cleared by a woman, and not the innkeeper’s nephew, “let’s begin our expedition meeting early.”
Justine looked up from her plate where she’d pushed a sausage around in circles, not thinking, only remembering and cringing. Their lead guide now knew that she didn’t sleep, she prowled around in the dark, alone, and couldn’t handle her liquor. Wonderful. Though it made sense now why he spoke such good English. The British were the ones who went after these mountains more than anyone else. At least, she thought so? Maybe the French, too. Or the Americans. It didn’t matter why Mr. Vogel spoke English. He did. And very well, too.
Ophelia began with the timeline. Lady Rascomb opened a valise that must have been set near her chair and began producing paper—the timeline written down. Maps of terrains. Climbs they would do before the Matterhorn. Weather patterns and requirements for them all to look for as spring melted into summer.
“At this stage,”
Ophelia said, looking at all of them, “there are two things we must do. The first is that we need to acclimate to this altitude. That’s why we are here so early in the season. Even if we do nothing but walk around Zermatt, we are acclimating. The second thing is to keep ourselves in good health. We still require our training regimes, our knot-tying skills. So, we will be venturing up nearby peaks to understand the tools we will need for our attempt. It will help with our rope skills, as well as build Mr. Vogel’s confidence in our abilities.”
Ophelia’s face was hard, and Justine knew the next part was something that made her angry. Ophelia’s anger was rare, but when it existed, it was white-hot rage. So whatever it was, Justine flinched. Justine’s temper was easier to flare, but also easier to cool.
Lord Rascomb cleared his throat. “You all know that I have utmost faith in you. Our summit of Ben Nevis was proof of that. However, many people don’t believe women have the stamina for climbing mountains.”
Justine laughed out loud. She couldn’t help it. The absolute nerve. She looked at Karl Vogel and crossed her arms. Had he never heard of giving birth? Marriage? Ask her mother what those were all about, and she would say stamina.
Lord Rascomb looked at Justine not with annoyance, but with pleading. “Therefore, Ophelia has agreed, and I have given my word and a monetary stipend to reinforce this, we will allow Mr. Vogel to be the final say on who climbs on the morning of our Matterhorn attempt.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Justine exploded. Now she leaned forward, elbows on the table, as rude as could be. Thank goodness her mother wasn’t here. She pointed at the blond ox, who sat calm as the Devil himself. “He has no idea of our capabilities.”
“But he will,”
Ophelia said. “Mr. Vogel will be helping us with our training and leading us on our associated climbs. I expect him to be fair and impartial, judging us not on our womanliness, but on our abilities.”
Justine’s head pounded again, almost as if outrage cued a hangover. “There is no man who can look past our womanliness.”
Lord Rascomb cleared his throat. “I’d like to think I don’t hold your abilities in account of your sex, Miss Brewer.”
She crossed her arms. “Fine. You don’t, but you're Ophelia’s father. But this man?”
She glared down the man who had put cold snow on the nape of her neck when she’d needed it. But also the bloke who hadn’t warned her about drinking spirits at high altitude.
“We cannot ask him to be impartial if we cannot be impartial, Justine,”
Prudence said from across the table, living up to her name. Why was Prudence as level-headed as Ophelia? “Let’s give him the benefit of the doubt.”
“If Lord Rascomb believes he is honorable, then I will trust him,”
Eleanor said. Of course she would side with her new father-in-law.
Justine narrowed her eyes at Tristan, waiting for him to ally himself with his father and now his wife as well. But Tristan wisely kept his mouth shut for once. He even lifted his hands in a give-up gesture as she stared him down. Finally, she looked back to Ophelia, who chewed the inside of her lip. She didn’t like it any, either.
“Fine,”
Justine blustered and stared down this Karl Vogel. This mountain of a man who held her fate in his hands.
Ophelia clasped her hands and put them on the table. “Then our final order of business is to discuss our upcoming week. You will have the rest of today off to walk and explore the village, which will acclimate you to the elevation. Tomorrow, we will start with our first run. Mr. Vogel, I cede the table to you.”
He nodded and gave a side glance to Justine. She frowned. What did he mean by that?
“The training run for the expedition team will begin promptly at one in the afternoon. For those of you who wish to work more, I also begin my day at six in the morning. You may come with me before breakfast, if you wish.”
Justine narrowed her eyes. He didn’t look at her, but she felt the challenge in his voice. He got up and worked at six in the morning? Then she would be downstairs, dressed, and ready to go fifteen minutes before that.
*
Karl had made a mistake. He understood that, and there were few ways to fix what he had done by presuming the girl was a servant. How could he have made such an error? It was purely, he believed, because he had hoped she was a maid, for if she were, she would be within his reach. But since she was the daughter of a British man of consequence, Karl Vogel had no ability to touch her. She was a client.
She was also the most vocal against the idea of his judging who would climb, which he understood. Pride was a powerful beast, and the girl seemed to have much of it. Did she know that the mountains would eat her alive if she kept up her pride? That the snow did not care how carefully one's argument was constructed or how straight one's spine was?
Pride in the mountains was akin to death. And if they were to succeed, then he had to find a way to teach her humility. Not the kind of humility Jakob had advocated when they’d first discussed the possibility of guiding a mostly-woman-filled expedition. Jakob had recommended taking them over his knee, spanking them, and sending them home.
Though the thought of taking this girl over his knee made him light-headed. She was even more spectacular in daylight. Dressed now in a simple gown, the pink and blue confection hugged her curves, accenting a small waist and an ample bosom. The cut of the dress hinted at a high, tight, and round hintern that would fill even his generous palms.
So he offered an early run. That would make her humble enough, knowing that he was out there, working, while she slept late. By demonstrating that she was too small to keep up with the other women, and could not put in the athletic work that was required for even an attempt at the Matterhorn, the problem would solve itself. He would not have to declare who could climb and who couldn’t, as the specter of death and hardship would cause her and possibly the rest of the women, to stay away from the mountain.
But after he’d announced his morning run, he saw her face. The set of her jaw, the thinning of those apple-red lips. Her eyes bored into him, her gaze as weighty as a plow harness. He ignored it, feeling hopeful, as that kind of defiant stance was what pushed a person up a mountain. For every climb was difficult or painful. If it wasn’t, then it wasn’t truly a climb. It was a lark. An old woman’s amble.
The meeting adjourned, and Karl forced himself to look at the young Fr?ulein Bridewell for permission to leave. It was difficult to not look to Lord Rascomb, the Englishman whose robustness and bearing reminded Karl of so many other roving adventuring Englishmen he’d met.
Indeed, he had been successful twice in attempts on the Matterhorn. He dared not tell Lord Rascomb how many had been unsuccessful. That many, many slogs up the mountain had been aborted only a few hours up due to weather or snow. That both were unpredictable, and the mountain chose its own favorites.
What he found surprising was that these women had a focused exercise they conducted to ready themselves for the attempt. Some of the men who arrived were shocked to find they did not function as normal at this altitude. More sickened as they attempted even some basic mountain ascents. The altitude, like the mountains, was unforgiving. He commended Fr?ulein Bridewell on giving her team a long lead time, giving them an opportunity to learn the terrain, accustom their bodies, and watch the weather. It showed patience and dedication. Karl appreciated that about her, wondering if that was her wisdom or her father’s.
He caught himself watching Miss Brewer sway out of the room. She walked with angry purpose, and he was drawn to it like a bee to a flower. But he shook his head. This was not the time to be consumed by lust. There was much to do.
His Onkel Peter caught his eye, and Karl went to the wooden bar to speak with him.
“What did they talk about?”
His Onkel asked in Bavarian. His hands never stopped moving, polishing the glasses that he then rehung above the bar.
“Planning climbs, that’s all,”
Karl answered. “Shall I clear the plates?”
Onkel Peter nodded. “Then tend the goats. And don’t forget to mend the fences today, as well. I don’t want the goats escaping again. Frau Lieder wants my head for the nibbles of her laundry.”
Karl laughed as he cleared the tables. His aunt Greta was in the kitchen cleaning up with their one hired-on maid, Elke, who was washing the giant pots and pans Greta had used to cook breakfast for their guests.
“There,”
Greta said, pointing to the only bit of space available on the countertops. “Thank you for clearing the plates, Karl. You’re a very good boy.”
He smiled and returned to the dining room to clear more. As he finished, he took a rag to wipe down the tables.
“Ach, my Karl, thank you. And will you be able to help with the guests at tea time?”
Greta asked, her hands, like Peter’s, always in motion.
“Of course, Aunt,”
Karl said, though between the goats and fences, he wasn’t sure when he would have time. But he would make time.
*
Justine didn’t know what to do with herself. She and Ophelia walked into the village, which was very small and very sleepy. But it was ringed by the fantastical-looking mountains, and a crisp blue sky. Snow carpeted the ground and crunched hard beneath their feet. It took them all of twenty minutes to explore, and the villagers looked at them with curiosity.
They passed the famed Monte Rosa hotel, where Whymper and his team had stayed. Where famed lady climber Lucy Walker lived in the summers with her father. As far as Justine knew, Lucy Walker had yet to attempt the Matterhorn, but she had climbed the other mountains in the range. If they were to bet, it was between them and Walker to be the first woman up the Matterhorn. There were a few other women climbers who might make a run on it as well. A few Americans. But Justine had never met any of them. It was strange how women kept themselves apart in such a venture. All of them smarting from the lack of inclusion and the outright hostility from men climbers.
“What a warm welcome,”
Justine said, as one older woman opened her door to examine them and then shut it again without a word or greeting.
“We must be quite the event,”
Ophelia said.
“There isn’t anything else happening here,”
Justine said. “I’m going to crawl out of my skin if I can’t do something.”
The nice thing about having been friends for such a long time was that Ophelia didn’t judge her. Ophelia smiled and looked at her fondly, as this was a typical complaint of Justine’s. And she knew it, too. Justine bounced on her toes as she walked, itching to move.
“You can always help me with the maps. We have several climbs to plan in the next few months.”
“I hate maps,”
Justine groaned. There was something about them that made her brain blank like an empty page. No matter how much she concentrated, a map was as good as a landscape of an ocean to her.
“You could help our guide, Herr Vogel, with preparations.”
Ophelia’s light blue eyes blinked in absolute innocence.
Justine narrowed her eyes.
Ophelia shrugged. “He’s probably very busy and could use your help.”
“What. Are you talking about?”
“Did you notice what a fine-featured man he is? That chin. That nose. Those eyes.”
“He does have all of those facial features, yes, I noticed he wasn’t missing any.”
Justine crossed her arms.
“I thought they were very nicely put together. And well-formed.”
“Good,”
Justine shot back, knowing very well that Ophelia was trying to distract her boredom. “Then you can arrange a courtship.”
“For you? Justine, I’m so surprised,”
Ophelia said with no hint of malice.
Justine’s boot crunched over a puddle that had melted and then re-frozen. The ice was delicate and the shattering noise was exquisite. Justine loved that sound. But still, Ophelia was being unreasonable. “What?”
“He tried very hard not to stare at you at breakfast,”
Ophelia said. “So much so that he barely looked at you, even when you threw your big fit.”
“I did not throw a fit.”
Justine knew that her emotions lived more near the surface than others’. She knew there were times when she seemed out of sorts while everyone else was calm. But it wasn’t that she was emotional for no reason. There was absolutely a reason: having some man evaluate who could and could not climb was practically guaranteeing they would never step foot on the Matterhorn. “But it’s a stupid rule, and you know it.”
“It is, and I agree. But it was the only way any guide would take the risk.”
Justine fumed. She knew the guides had been under particular scrutiny since Edward Whymper’s successful summit of the Matterhorn, and Lord Douglas’s subsequent death, falling while on the descent. The two men who had guided, a father and son, were sued by the families of the three British men who died, and were salaciously accused of negligence. Or, which some considered to be worse, that the younger guide cut the rope on purpose, severing himself from the men who had fallen. Whether it was to save himself or purposeful murder didn’t matter. The blight on their reputation was the same.
That faithful ascent, only four years prior, had shaken the mountaineering world. Justine had attended the London Alpine club meetings, despite the fact that she was unwanted and hissed at. She’d hissed right back at them, the cowards. That was before they started to outright bar her entrance.
“Shall we head back to the inn?”
Ophelia asked.
Justine looked up, realizing that they’d made an entire loop of the village. There weren’t much but the houses of the few families who lived here, two inns, and snowy piles of lumber that awaited the spring. “I suppose. Not much else to do.”
“I need to plan the next climb—but I need some information from Mr. Vogel first. His insight would be most welcome. Would you like to come with me?”
Justine set her jaw. “No matchmaking. And I’ll come because I’m bored, not because I want to see what Mr. Vogel is doing.”
“Quite,”
Ophelia said, her mouth twitching.
Justine tried to be annoyed. She wanted to be annoyed. But she really did want to see what Mr. Vogel was up to. Even if he’d seen her at her worst. Even if he held her fate in those large, calloused hands.