“What do youmean Mr. Alistair isn’t at home?” Tristan demanded. The morning was bitingly cold. He rubbed his hands together, as his leather riding gloves didn’t keep out the pervasive damp chill.
The wizened old man squinted at him, as if he must be hard of hearing. “Mr. Alistair has been called away.” This time the old man spoke the words slowly. “There’s an illness in the family. I don’t know when he’ll return.”
Tristan took the news like a blow on the chin. “Did he not leave us a note? No correspondence?”
The old man stared at him some more. “If he did, I would’ve given it to you straight away.”
“Of course,” Tristan said, backing away from the steps of the small house. “Thank you. I apologize for disturbing you.” Tristan set his jaw. What were they supposed to do now?
Mr. Alistair was supposed to be the Scottish aide-de-camp. When he didn’t show up for their morning meeting or respond to notes, Tristan was dispatched to fetch him.
But now what? There was nothing for their expedition. No transportation, no mountain experts, no supplies. They’d have to start from scratch and blunder through themselves, and hopefully not be taken for all their money by some Scot with a grudge against the English. Though it seemed they all had a grudge against the English.
Tristan swung back up on his horse. Normally he would return and report his findings to Ophelia. But they were in a strange country, and women couldn’t be wandering around sorting this. He turned his horse and rode to Edinburgh. Surely he’d find an outfitter hoping to land a company such as theirs.
He spent all day walking the streets, popping into shop after shop, asking questions, and looking for maps with no luck. It was well past time for an evening meal, and Tristan was starving and soaking wet. Defeated, he returned to the inn—not far from Mr. Alistair’s humble abode and where he started his odyssey. Indeed, it had been on Mr. Alistair’s recommendation that they’d taken over the small establishment. The London Alpine Society had referred Tristan to Mr. Alistair last year, when they’d begun to plan this absurd trip. Their correspondence had been filled with attention to detail, planning expertise, and knowledge of local terrain. They could not have asked for a better guide. And now that guide had vanished!
They had to find somebody new, somebody trustworthy. Some families had Scottish heritage and contacts, but theirs was not one of them. They were Southerners, through and through.
He hated being the bearer of bad news. He handed his horse off to the stableboy at the inn and found the rest of the expedition assembled in the downstairs public dining area, waiting for him. Ophelia’s eyes darted behind him, looking for the lost Mr. Alistair. Her mouth thinned into a grim line that matched his own. He caught his father’s eye next and shook his head. His mother caught the movement and excused herself.
Eleanor was seated next to Ophelia, and it was easy to let his eyes drift over to her. She looked soft and cozy in a brown and yellow woolen gown, a small scarf covering her neck for warmth. He wanted to scoop her up and cuddle in front of the big fireplace, listening to her stories of the sailors that wandered through her father’s office.
But the warning in her eyes, the guarded mistrust, kept him at bay. He took a seat next to his father, and Prudence poured him a cup of tea.
“Tristan, would you like to share your news?” Ophelia prompted.
He sipped the malty black brew, which he rather liked, truth be told. It was heaven for an exhausted man. “Our Scottish guide is in the wind.”
“When will he return?” Ophelia asked, beating their father to it.
“Unknown. Family illness elsewhere. No note or instruction was left for us.”
His father grunted, no doubt mentally flipping through the names of men who might have contacts up here. But those would all take letters of introduction, which meant time. They wanted to climb Ben Nevis when it had snow on it, as the Matterhorn surely would regardless of the time of year they climbed. If they waited too long, the snow on the Scottish peak would melt and they would get bogged down in mud.
“Does anyone have a connection here in Scotland?” Ophelia looked around, hopeful.
None of the young ladies said anything. It was a moment Tristan wished for another man at the table. A man could network more easily, go to places of business and make inquiries, arrange for travel and provisions. As it stood, it would end up all on his shoulders. Already, Tristan was starting to feel resentful. What would they do without him to do the drone’s work while they sipped on their nectar?
His mother entered the room, conferred with Ophelia first, then briefly with his father. Tristan narrowed his eyes. She had a triumphant look about her.
“Mama, I think you should be the one to announce the news,” Ophelia said.
It was right at that moment that Tristan realized what good graces truly were. That this sort of elegant sharing of authority is what young ladies were trained to do when they knew they would marry into nobility. His mother was every inch a noble lady, and he felt confident that Ophelia would do well, too, should she concede to a traditional life.
“I’ve spoken with Mrs. Gordon, and it turns out that young Beverly is from the Highlands. One of her brothers runs a small carriage service and can arrange for transportation in Fort William. Young Beverly also says that her father and uncles know Ben Nevis well and have climbed it many times. They would be able to guide for us, or even suggest the best routes for this time of year.”
Tristan frowned. All this had occurred where? A conversation in the kitchens? After he had spent hours being rained on, and splattered in mud? “How are we to know that young Beverly is telling us the truth?”
“Mrs. Gordon vouched for her. And it is well known that her brother runs the carriage service. It was mentioned to me upon arrival, long before they knew we were in need of aid.” His mother gave him that look that made it seem like she could read his mind. He didn’t like it.
“This sounds like an excellent solution,” Prudence said. “Thank you, Lady Rascomb, for your quick thinking and versatile conversation skills.”
“This isn’t the first time I’ve been in a tight spot, climbing a mountain in a foreign country.”
His father patted his mother on the hand, congratulating her. Tristan still felt like he had a hornet flying ’round his head. This was too easy. This was—well, it didn’t include him. And a realization hit as he scooted his chair back, ready to storm away in a huff: it didn’t matter if he topped out the Ben or not. He’d wanted to be included, to be valued and wanted. He wanted tobe necessary. His mother had solved the problem in her usual elegant way, instead of his way, spending a frustrating day pounding on doors all over Edinburgh.
Instead of being angry, he should be grateful. And proud. His mother was so capable, regardless of a cane or a limp. Then shame seeped in. Shame that he’d thought she wasn’t this capable. That somehow, that avalanche had robbed her of everything. But it hadn’t. She was here, in Scotland, with them. She was cheering them on, celebrating their successes, and helping when there were issues.
