By the end of his turn about the woods, and the setting of the spring sun, he was satisfied with his decisions, and ravenous for dinner. He was the last to be dished up, and he greedily accepted the plate as he sat down next to his father.
“All well?” his father asked.
In between bites, Tristan answered, doing his best to slow down, knowing he’d get a stomachache later if he didn’t. “Of course. Needed to think.” Tristan watched as his father’s eyes slid to Eleanor.
“I see,” his father said, but let the matter drop.
Despite appearances, there was no real privacy here. Any conversation he might have with his father would be easily overheard by the women in their camp if the wind blew just right. He couldn’t risk a discussion here, but perhaps later.
On the last day of their excursion, Herringbone arrived. He was amiable and dressed far nicer than the lot of them, who had not bathed in a week. They all smelled of sweat, ropes, and labor, but it was good. There seemed to be an easiness amongst them that Tristan was glad for. The arrival of his brother threw all of those developments into fresh contrast. Especially that bit about cleanliness.
Still, as he was in the presence of ladies, theoretically, and not the harridans Tristan knew them all to be, Herringbone doffed his hat.
“It looks as if much progress has been made,” his brother said to the group.
His mother limped toward him, not bothering with her cane here. “Arthur, what are you doing all the way out here?”
Herringbone kissed their mother’s cheek and continued. “I’ve come to invite you all to a party, in your honor.”
“I love a party!” Bad News squealed.
Tristan rolled his eyes and was about to make a snide remark, but Eleanor elbowed him in the ribs. It was gentle, but still. He grinned. He knew that hitting was a good sign.
“I’ve already spoken to your parents, Miss Brewer, Miss Piper, and to your companion, Mrs. Cabot. You will have not only fresh baths awaiting you at our nearby Cloverbee Manor, but also your finest gowns. I’ve invited the best of the best from London and Bath societies, and we shall have a lovely few days of eating and dancing.”
Herringbone pulled himself up straight and beamed at all of them. The women smiled—Bad News actually clapped—but Tristan knew something else was afoot. Herringbone didn’t care for parties. But still. Two days of feasting after this week would be nothing short of decadent.
And sinking into a hot bath? That sounded like heaven too. If he had a tumbler of whisky, or even a nice dark wine, that would be the ticket.
“We finish here tonight, sleep, and then we’ll pack up and leave tomorrow morning,” Ophelia said.
“Just so, sister,” Herringbone said, easily deferring to Ophelia, which Tristan knew was so very difficult for his brother to do. He was the heir, the most important of the four of them. Even though their father coached them all that this was Ophelia’s project, it was sometimes hard to remember that neither Arthur’s nor Tristan’s interference was welcome or necessary.
Sometimes he wished Ophelia had been born a boy. An Oberon to her Ophelia. A king to her... drowned girl. She had such a spirit, it was rare in any gender, and to have the power a man had to go about the world as he wanted was a freedom sheneeded. He could only imagine how difficult it could be to have to smile as men derided her passions and ambitions. But she did so, at almost every ball.
Perhaps that was why Herringbone arranged this. It would be an occasion where none of these women would have to hide their pursuit or be made to feel ashamed of it some way. He stepped forward and clapped his brother on the shoulder.
Herringbone flinched, no doubt at how absolutely and thoroughly filthy Tristan was after running through the woods for a week.
“I wish you all good health, good luck, all that,” Herringbone said, stepping out of Tristan’s reach. Tristan grinned again. Herringbone’s valet would give him a proper dressing down for the handprint of dirt on his coat.
His big brother set himself back on his horse, no doubt to return to the train station. Cloverbee Manor wasn’t that far from here by train, so it would not be much of an inconvenience for anyone in their party to get there.
They all turned back to their work—hauling bags via a makeshift pulley over a tree branch. But none of them did well after that interruption. Even the very pleasant and hardworking Mrs. Cabot—Prudence—was distracted. Tristan started to pay attention to their chatter, only to find they were obsessing over what he too was thinking about: the bath and the food.
“Aren’t you wanting to know what your maids packed for dresses? Or what gentlemen will be in attendance for dancing?” Tristan prompted.
Bad News scoffed at him and rolled her eyes. “Sometimes Tristan, I think you can’t be as utterly daft as I believe you are, and I feel bad about it. Then, you say something like that, and I think, ah, I have the right of it after all. Tristan has the mental capacity of a wayward slug.”
Tristan pulled himself upright. “Come now, that’s not fair.”
Ophelia laughed. “Brother. Please. You’ve spent all week with us, seeing us in all our unholy glory. Haven’t you figured anything out yet?”
Tristan looked to Prudence and Eleanor for help. Neither of them came to his aid, and in fact, both looked to be suppressing smirks. “That’s precisely why I thought you’d be excited about dresses and company. Because you’ve been in the dirt.”
Eleanor actually snickered.
“Not you too?” he asked, even if he was developing an idea of why his words were so utterly absurd. They were as exhausted and hungry as he was. Thinking about putting on formal clothing was not appealing.
