Chapter Seven
His father had told him he was a smart one, leaving Augsberg to help Onkel Peter in his venture. That he was listening to his family, listening to his brain, not the lust in his blood to join the Austrian army, where yes, he would find glory for all of a minute before dying horribly on a faraway battlefield for no reason other than some prince’s greed.
The morning after he had kissed Justine, had nibbled his way down her beautiful neck, and run his tongue along her elegant clavicle, he had congratulated himself on that same intelligence. He had not been lying that it had taken every ounce of strength he had to tear himself from her. But it was the right thing to do. An honorable man was a man of restraint. Of fortitude and reliability. And lingering in his mind was the threat to his livelihood should it become known that he had strayed too close to his pretty English client.
But as the weeks wore on, Karl did not feel smart. What he had learned were “snubs,”
auf Englisch , were his only direct communication with Justine. She no longer looked at him or spoke to him directly. They had switched from the two outings, one in the morning just the two of them, and then the later, easier group walk, to all-day big climbs of nearby mountains. Monte Rosa, Breithorn, Castor, Pollux.
At first, he could have sworn they were chosen because they were nothing but grueling. Fr?ulein Bridewell had said she would consult him about which excursions to take, but then, she informed him of her decision, rather than asking his opinion. It was his job to counsel and advise. It made him wonder if Justine had some hand in it, rendering him as useless as a pack mule. She had been upset that he’d turned her away that night, but what else was he to do? Ravish her with no thought to the consequences?
But the long mountain trudges were her penance then. If he had been consulted, he would have counseled towards something more pleasant, with better views.
Indeed, Fr?ulein Bridewell had insisted that she lead their marches, given that she was the leader of the expedition, and that they should go in their expedition order, which was another thing Karl thought was foolish. So regimented and strict in their thinking, the British. As the weeks had stretched, their different abilities and stamina changed. Being able to address this phenomenon seemed prudent, but Fr?ulein Bridewell would have none of it. She and Justine charged forward at the front, while he was relegated to the back with Lord Rascomb, who seemed to struggle with the steeper climbs.
Karl would have also counseled on eating well in the morning, carrying no meal as to move faster, and then eating when returning to the inn. This was how everyone did it. Every expedition he had worked with operated like this. And by the time those mountaineers reached the inn, Tante Greta’s food was nothing short of divine and holy.
But no. The English pushed a bag on Karl to carry, full of thermoses of tea and sandwiches. Sandwiches! Not even a proper cheese and meat and a slice of bread. But sandwiches. Sometimes even little cakes, and it made him frustrated more than he would admit, but he carried the damn pack up the mountain and down the mountain again.
By the time he was carrying an entire meal for the company, he knew this was punishment because he had spurned Justine. But hadn’t she understood why? He did this for her. He could not control that rutting instinct, and if she had any sense at all, she would understand that. Instead, she held it as a personal insult that he did not ruin her good name and impregnate her. Would her father really want some mountaineer’s babe in his daughter’s belly? No. This was the obvious, practical approach. But he hadn’t meant never talk to me , or treat me like your personal donkey .
Perhaps he shouldn’t feel so aggrieved. Perhaps it was his fault for taking her shunning so personally. This is what he’d advocated, wasn’t it? Some distance? She had certainly managed that. He no longer wanted to take her up to private meadows and trails that he alone traversed or take in the stunning views of the Zermatt valley only a local would know.
And then, to make matters worse, last week, her brother showed up. Mr. Francis Brewer was a mop-headed dandy who had no business being in the Alps. Swaying along on the donkeys coming up from Zurich, he heralded English rations that no one in Zermatt could have predicted. There were teapots and horribly stale flattened cakes made of oats, yet even more woolen clothing and extravagant party dresses and metal gadgets he had no idea what use they could be for. But Fr?ulein Bridewell treated him as if he were an arriving hero, and Justine welcomed her brother with open arms.
Karl wasn’t sure why it felt like surveillance, but it did. Her family could not have known how close he and Justine had been, and surely could not have had time to send her brother to interfere. But Karl found himself disliking Francis Brewer from the outset. And then came the late nights in the dining room, which interfered with Karl’s sleep, and he liked Mr. Brewer even less.
The cards slapped together as Mr. Brewer shuffled. “What do you say, a pfennig ante? Is that what they’re called here? Yes? A pfennig.”
“No,”
Karl said, trying his best to be stern but not too inhospitable. He was tired. Another calf had arrived early this morning, and he’d been there to help things along. And then there were the goats, of course, and bottle-feeding the babies so they might milk the mother goats for the season. And then Tante wanted to make some cheese, even though it wasn’t one of the village cheese-making days. She sent him off to beg permission and obtain some rennet from a neighbor, because the English loved their cheese too.
Karl had been pushed and pulled, and all he wanted was to walk up a mountain without a pack laden with ridiculous foods. He wanted to stand on top of a crest or a ridgeline and stare out at the incredible sky and the sharp outlines of the peaks that surrounded him. The air was different there, sweeter somehow, and he wanted it. Alone.
Instead he was the expedition pack mule, and Mr. Brewer’s mark. But Karl had dealt with men like him many a time. One could not be a traveler and not encounter those who could smell another man’s card hand. But he had no desire to do so tonight. It was nearing eleven, and he would be up early again for animals, and then a hike where he would carry everyone’s midday meal, because heaven forbid any of these British people were hungry for more than a minute or two.
“Come now, we don’t even have to play for real money. We could play for pine cones or pebbles or whatever you have around here.”
Mr. Brewer shared his sister’s complexion and shiny brunette locks. On his sister, they cascaded down her shoulders in gentle waves. In Mr. Brewer, they were tightly curled and lay placed like eggs in a hen’s nest atop his head.
“You must forgive me, for I am very tired,”
Karl said, remembering with some satisfaction that this man was not born as an aristocrat, and therefore did not require any deference from him. They were both sons of merchants.
“What do you do around here for fun, then?”
Mr. Brewer threw his cards on the table and leaned back in his chair. “Where are the wine, women, and song of Zermatt?”
“We don’t have enough leisure time to facilitate such things.”
Karl put the chairs up on the tables, trying to indicate in another way that he’d very much like Mr. Brewer to leave.
“And I’m stuck here for two months?”
Mr. Brewer let out a groan of misery.
Karl could see the resemblance between the siblings once again, in their lack of formality and verbose nature. “Mr. Brewer—”
“Get out, Francis.”
Justine appeared in the doorway, her robe over her nightrail, her silky brown locks loose and gently curling.
“What are you doing down here like that?”
Mr. Brewer demanded of his sister.
“Trying to get you to respect our hosts. Go to bed.”
“You go to bed.”
“Francis.”
Justine stepped further into the dining room. “This is where Mr. Vogel sleeps. He cannot go to bed until you leave.”
“I had no idea—”
At least the man had the decency to look abashed.
“You didn’t ask. There is no gambling here, no painted ladies for you to woo, so go on. You’ll be hiking with us tomorrow, and you aren’t acclimated yet. You’ll be exhausted. Let us go up.”
Her voice was soft, an explanation, not a demand or even a command. Only some gentle information about what was expected of him.
“I say, I am very sorry, Mr. Vogel. I had no idea.”
He looked contrite as he swept up his cards into his hand and stood. “If I had but known—”
Karl waved away his apology. “All is forgiven, Mr. Brewer. I will see you both tomorrow.”
For the first time in weeks, Justine met his eye. She even gave a small apologetic smile. It did strange things to his heart, or maybe his stomach, or maybe both. He finished stowing the chairs on the table and set out his pallet next to the fire. Pleased by Justine’s gesture, he fell asleep before he had a moment to pine for her.
**
“My toenail is coming off,”
Justine announced, picking at the blackened tile that barely hung on to her foot.
“Mine came off two days ago,”
Ophelia said. “At least the blister on my little toe has turned into a callous.”
“Mine formed weeks ago,”
Justine countered, pulling off the black shingle that was purportedly once a toenail. It stung a little as she tore the last bit of skin from it. But the nail underneath was already growing, which was something. “So glamourous.”
“I had to take in the gowns that Francis brought.”
Ophelia brushed her hair until it shined. Not that it took very long.
“Mine feels like it was swimming around me, and I remember when I wore it last year it felt tight.”
She eyed the green dress. It had once been one of her favorites because it was so over the top. Frills and ruffles and pearlescent ribbons with tiny eyelets running through every hem. There were jet spangles running in patterns all over the bodice, and she fairly jangled as she’d waltzed.
Here, the dress felt foolish. Silly. Not that it was beneath her somehow, to wear the dress she once loved. No, it was more like she’d outgrown it. More akin to requiring a new pinafore at school because last year’s no longer fit.
“Does it not feel odd to do this?”
Justine asked.
Ophelia twirled one of her strands of shiny gold hair and pinned it in place. Her dress was a new French silk frock, dark blue with white and pink roses climbing up the skirt and the bodice, with cream-colored lace on the sleeves and the low, swooping neckline. “To do what?”
“To pretend to have a formal dinner here. It seems excessive. And I feel bad for Frau Brunner. This isn’t what she normally cooks. To dress this way seems—”
“Odd.”
Ophelia finished her sentence, twirling up another golden strand. “You mentioned. And yes, it is odd, for us to go to other countries and try to make the other places Britain, instead of enjoying the decided not-Englishness they have.”
She slid on silk stockings for the first time in months. They were very fine things, and she knew how costly they were. Six months ago, she had drawers and drawers full of them, reveling in the different clocking patterns on the backs. Now, she couldn’t bring herself to even miss wearing them, despite their smoothness.
She stepped into the green dress, and without asking, Ophelia stood and helped her with the buttons.
“This is still too big,”
Ophelia said.
“If I take it in any more, I’ll have to start unstitching the bodice designs.”
Justine lifted her arms, where the spangles scratched the sensitive flesh on the underside of her bicep.
Ophelia considered. “Padding?”
Justine looked at her as if she were suggesting wearing live chickens under her frock. “Maybe we should get Eleanor in here. She’s a master at knots, maybe she can think something up?”
“Do you think a ribbon can help that much?”
Ophelia’s face wrinkled in concern.
“Might as well try. It is a better option than unstitching all those spangles.”
Eleanor arrived, cheeks flushed and hair mussed. Ophelia cocked her head to the side, her eyebrows drawing together. “Are you well?”
“Hm?”
Eleanor asked, somehow a bit breathless. “Now who needs what?”
Justine stood up, letting the gown sag away from her.
“Oh my. Yes.”
Eleanor considered the green gown that was now very much tent-like.
“I didn’t realize I’d lost so much weight. But the sleeves are tight on my arms.”
She raised her arm, demonstrating how the sleeves restricted her movement.
“They’ve always been like that,”
Ophelia said, slipping ear bobs on.
“Not this bad, surely.”
Justine raised and lowered her arms again, feeling the pinch of strained fabric around her biceps.
“It never mattered to you before.”
Meanwhile, Eleanor had pulled and stretched the fabric of the bodice in different ways, pulling at the waist, and then the loose bodice. “I think our best option is the window shade.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Justine said.
Eleanor worked her magic with some pins and the longest black velvet ribbon in the room. The three of the working in tandem, they used the extra fabric of the bodice to create an internal channel for the ribbon, then looped it around the front, allowing the skirts to billow out along the ballooned crinoline, but raise the green outer skirt and expose the white underskirt.
“Won’t I be uncouth, exposing my underskirt?”
Justine asked, already wary of what Lady Rascomb might say.
“They did it all the time in the fashions of yesteryear. I’m sure Mama wore things far more scandalous.”
Ophelia waved off Justine’s concern as she gathered up Justine’s jewelry from the table and handed it to her.
“I like this,”
Justine said, ignoring the jewelry and playing with the ribbon that raised and lowered her skirt, exactly like a window shade. “This is really fun.”
Eleanor smiled. “You are welcome. I have been thinking about it for when we climb the Matterhorn.”
Ophelia’s eyes locked on Eleanor, like a hunting dog realizing he’s scented his prey. “How so?”
“I noticed on Breithorn that we often end up holding the front of our skirts up as we walk, to avoid them getting trod under on steep grades. And even as we tramp through snow, the hems get wet and make our woolen skirts very heavy. What about if we implemented something like this for our walking dresses?”
Justine stared. “I think you are the smartest person I’ve ever met, Eleanor. And that’s saying something because I know Ophelia.”
Eleanor blushed, and it was easy to see why Tristan had fallen for her. Smart, unassuming, very clever, and her blush made her very pretty indeed. She smiled at her friend, and then realized why Eleanor had been out of breath. And why her hair was an absolute mess. Tristan had been mid-expressing his appreciation for his new bride when they’d summoned her. Because Eleanor was Eleanor, she came right away instead of finishing up and then arriving.
“Do you need help getting ready for dinner?”
Justine asked. “There isn’t much time left to dress.”
Eleanor blanched and looked at the clock sitting on the dressing table. “Oh dear.”
“We can help you dress,”
Ophelia said.
Justine noticed Eleanor’s brief hesitation before she invited them back to her room. On they traipsed, and luckily discovered that Tristan had dressed and wandered over to Francis’ room.
“Did I not get an invite?”
Prudence popped her head in Eleanor’s room. “I heard the commotion.”
“Look at this!”
Justine said as Ophelia waved Prudence in. Justine accordioned up her overskirt as Prudence admired it. “Eleanor thought of it!”
“Phenomenal. But I feel like you all know something I don’t,”
Prudence said. She was already dressed in a scarlet red gown with pink spangles sewn in with white thread. Her skirts were not as wide, but rather made up for the width by the longer train in the back.
“For when we go up the Matterhorn!”
Justine said, but Prudence did not seem as impressed as she ought to be.
“Instead of holding up our skirts with our hands,”
Ophelia explained. She stuck a pin into Eleanor’s hair, and then another. “We don’t have to worry about stepping on them, or getting the hems soaked and weighing us down.”
Prudence made an appreciative noise. “That is clever, Eleanor! Show me again.”
Justine pulled the ribbon at her waist that pulled up the skirt and tied it, as if she would keep it that way for a long while. She swanned about the room, the skirt remaining just as she’d left it. She stopped short in front of Prudence and untied her tiny knot at the waist, and the overskirt dropped back down.
Prudence applauded and Justine curtsied.
“Eleanor, that’s brilliant. It really is.”
“That’s what I said,”
Justine added.
Eleanor blushed in the mirror, and Ophelia finished pinning her hair.
“Let’s get down to dinner.”
Ophelia patted Eleanor on the shoulders, and Justine fell into step beside Ophelia.
“Maybe tomorrow we could make a first run at those for the skirts,”
Justine said.
Ophelia nodded. “I was thinking after dinner, and then try them out tomorrow.”
“What if they don’t work? I don’t want to be halfway up a mountain and decide the skirts are terrible.”
The smells of the dining room wafted up the stairwell. The aroma of beef and roasted potatoes, something with honey in it, made Justine’s stomach grumble.
“Good point. Maybe we delay tomorrow’s climb in favor of working on our equipment.”
Ophelia sniffed the air. “My word, that smells like home.”
Justine grinned. The best way to Ophelia’s heart was through a well-roasted, wine-soaked slab of beef. “Doesn’t it? I’m so hungry. I’m always so hungry.”
“It’s the mountains, it’s the exercise,”
Ophelia listed, before stopping dead in her tracks. “I smell sticky toffee pudding.”
“What?”
Justine stopped too, sniffing the air. She’d always been jealous of Ophelia’s excellent sense of smell. “Impossible.”
“I’m going to eat myself unconscious,”
Ophelia said, almost giggling, which made Justine laugh.
“Race you. First one down gets extra pudding.”
Justine took off down the stairs, bowling over Prudence and Eleanor, Ophelia shrieking behind her. Justine’s feet bounced down the stairs as fast as she could go. The crinoline cage of her skirts swayed, knocking against her knees as she tore down the staircase.
At the bottom of the stairs, Karl stood with his arms folded, nodding as he was in deep conversation with Tristan.
Justine tried to slow down, tried to adjust her speed, but her feet were on a streak of their own, but she stopped as quickly as she could. And Ophelia slammed into her back, throwing her forward on the landing. But she caught herself against the banister, even as the air went out of her lungs.
“Ungh,”
she managed. “You all right, Fee?”
Ophelia grunted and pushed away from her.
Both of their crinoline cages swung back into shape.
At the bottom of the stairs, the men turned to look up at the commotion. Karl wore tight black trousers that men favored this close to Eastern Europe. His coat was longer, hitting at mid-thighs, with elaborate brass buttons going down the front. He’d clearly freshly bathed and shaved. His shoulders seemed somehow bigger in that coat, and he seemed as if he could pick her up, toss her over his shoulder, and march away.
His blue eyes were magnets for hers, and she was being drawn into a whirlpool that she’d happily drown in.
“My goodness!”
came the rushed gasp from Eleanor.
“Are you all right?”
Prudence asked, examining both her and Ophelia.
Eleanor straightened Justine’s gown, since Justine was just open-mouthed staring at Karl, his straw-colored hair neatly combed back, and not flopping over his eyes.
“Fine,”
Justine said.
“I suppose that’s why they say no racing inside,”
Ophelia said with a light laugh. The Ladies’ Alpine Society descended the rest of the stairway with far more decorum. Eleanor and Prudence went to their husbands and while Ophelia drifted toward her father and mother, Justine stood close enough to Karl that she could smell the fine, clean scent of him. No sweat, or hay, or animal. He wore a light cologne that combined with his tight trousers and flared coat made her want to throw herself at him again.
She opened her mouth to greet him, or say anything at all, but the dining room door swung open, capturing all of their attention.
“Dinner. Is. Served,”
Herr Brunner announced from the doorway, his English clear, though accented.
The Bavarian man smiled broadly at them, pleased with himself, and no doubt pleased with the rich smells emanating from the kitchen.
“Get straightened up, dears,”
Lady Rascomb said before entering the dining room with her husband. “We will be taking a photograph this evening.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Justine said.
“You are welcome,”
her brother said, dipping down to reach her ear. Every single one of her siblings got to be tall except her. Life wasn’t fair.
“You brought a camera here?”
Justine asked. “I didn’t even know you had one.”
“My newest obsession,”
Francis said. He always seemed steadier than he actually was, but that was because he was always with Tristan. Between the two of them, Francis had been the more level-headed. But since Tristan married Eleanor, Francis became unmoored and flighty. “Besides, with a photo of you all dressed like you were dining in Mayfair, along with an article from Ophelia about the mountain-climbing aspect, and every journal from here to Boston will want it.”
The public did love a photo of rich women dressed in their finery. But would they respect Ophelia’s words that went with it? Justine had her doubts. Still, it was worth the effort.
“Then does my dress look good for your camera? I don’t want to look rumpled.”
He eyed her, making a face. “Did I bring the wrong dress? It looks too big for you. No matter, we’ll hide you in the back so no one can tell.”
Justine made a face at him. “I’ll be front and center, right next to Ophelia, thank you.”
“Come on,”
Francis said, offering his arm.
They may have dressed for dinner like they would in Mayfair, but they did not observe the rules of entering a dining room according to rank. The girl Justine often saw around doing various chores was in the dining room, wearing a traditional Alpine dress. It made Justine think of the children in the cheesemaker’s shack, peering down at her from the loft. How old until they took work? How long did childhood last up here in the mountains?
Watching the girl filling wine glasses, Justine realized that just past her gaze was Karl. And he stared back at her. It was so strange to admit that she missed him. How could she miss him? She saw him every day. But she missed the easy conversations, even the drudging walks with him. She missed the freedom that she’d had to be herself.
And she begrudged the limits. She begrudged this English dinner and the confines of her life. Francis would no doubt report back to her parents that she was being a docile, good girl, climbing her silly mountain.
Francis fooled with a tripod, atop which a camera perched. “Everyone! I’d like you to crowd around for a photograph.”
The room buzzed with compliance, even though they’d all seen the camera sitting there as they’d entered the dining room. Before Justine realized it, Karl had squeezed in next to her, his thigh flush with hers. She didn’t dare look over.
Her hand rested on the table, and his was next to hers. As everyone else squeezed in around them, Francis barking orders of who sat where, Justine raised her pinkie finger off the table. She had no clear purpose in mind, just a hope, a need, a wish. Her exploratory gesture was met with Karl’s little finger. His answer to her question. That together they were something more. A force so inviolable and inescapable that fighting against their inevitable collision was a Sisyphean exercise. They didn’t speak, just stared straight ahead, their hands hidden from the camera by the array of wine and water glasses.
“This will take a moment, so please remain absolutely still with no talking,”
Francis said.
Justine couldn’t have talked if she’d wanted to. She was frozen in this moment, her finger linked with his. This connection with Karl reciprocated, her pining felt and acknowledged by him in this one small gesture.
“Wonderful, everyone! Thank you so much.”
Francis applauded them, and everyone moved back to their original seats. Justine looked at her empty bread plate as the heat of Karl dissipated once he’d left her side.
“Justine?”
Ophelia asked, noticing her sudden and unlikely quiet.
“I—I’m fine. Sudden dizziness, that’s all. It will be over in a moment, I’m sure of it.”
Justine gave a winning grin, and though Ophelia wasn’t convinced, she let her line of questioning rest.
Something burbled inside Justine. Something bigger and more important than anything she’d ever felt before, and she didn’t know what it was or what it meant.
**