Eleanor was shocked at the language, looking to Lord Rascomb to see if he would reprimand his daughter. But his face was as placid as if Ophelia had curtsied to the queen.
“I told you we could do it, you arse-faced fart machines!” Ophelia yelled.
Justine doubled over in laughter.
Prudence walked over to the edge facing south and yelled wordlessly, just as Ophelia had. And then, in the most American way possible, she screamed, “Fuck you!”
Despite the fact that Eleanor had grown up very nearly on the docks of the Thames, she had not said these types of invectives in her life. Still, she felt compelled to join the other women.
As she came up, Prudence grabbed her hand, and then Justine’s. Soon, the four of them were linked, and Eleanor felt that urge to scream. She hadn’t understood it at first. But now, there was a power to them, standing side by side. So she let it out. She screamed. She screamed her frustration and confinement. Her invisibility and undesirability.
And then the words came, unbidden. Those years of hearing the rough words of sailors from every nation, sometimes in English, sometimes in the rough or melodic languages of their homelands. “I hope the world scars you and your brethren, you stupid maggots burrowing in piles of your own shit and monkey piss!”
She said it, picturing every man that had told she couldn’t do something. Every woman who judged her as lacking because she couldn’t paint or draw. Every stitch in the fabric of society that kept her from the joy of using her own two legs, and making her believe that was best.
There was silence as the wordpissechoed in the valleys below. The other women stared at her. It was quite a long obscenity compared to the rest of them. And then the others broke out laughing. They hugged each other.
Lord Rascomb began to sing a song they’d heard at the inn, a folk song that sounded ripe for dancing. Ophelia joined in, looping her arm through Justine’s and twirling around, taking them back to the middle of the peak.
Prudence swung her around, and they danced an impromptu jig, laughing, singing the tune as Lord Rascomb clapped to keep the beat. Soon, she was twirling with Tristan, and it felt like love was bursting out of her every pore. It was beautiful. And Eleanor felt so alive, and big, and free.
*
Tristan had climbedmany mountains. French ones, German ones. This day on the Ben was far from difficult, but it was clearly his favorite. Mostly because of the company. It was sheer delight to watch his sister and her friends experience this joy of accomplishment. The conditions had been ideal, and lacking the extra weight of packs, they were free to scamper up unburdened.
Eleanor was glowing. Whether it was a trick of the light filtering through the clouds, the exhaustion from the climb, he didn’t care. She was perfect and looking at him as if she belonged to him. And he dearly wanted her to. This wasn’t the right moment, with everyone gathered there, and every word carried across to each other and down the mountain, but soon he would ask her not for courtship, but for an engagement.
During the climb, his mind had cleared. If they announced a long engagement when they returned to London, complete with reading of the banns, all scandal would dissipate. While scandalmongers might claim Tristan was after her dowry, it wouldn’t matter.
All the doubts he’d felt before about whether or not he could commit to marrying her, or marrying anyone for that matter, had seemed foolish when examined. Because he came to realize that marriage not a pretty thing to be put on a shelf and admired. It was a living commitment, and like contracts that were amended and signed, so too was a marriage a dynamic agreement that moved and stretched as each person aged and became more than they were before.
They could be together as his parents had, adventuring the world together as experienced partners, not a man leaving his wife in London, nor as a man dragging his wife to accomplish his dreams. Tristan would be delighted to help her accomplish her dreams, because his dream was simply to live free. And being with Eleanor made him feel free.
If he had changed so much in his years from the boyhood trickster, why would he not imagine he would continue to change? And Eleanor as well. She had blossomed in the months since Ophelia found her at that party. She’d given classes to experts, spoken in front of crowds, danced with nobility. And now—climbed a mountain. Not just any mountain—the Ben. The highest peak in Great Britain. One would have to travel to Scandinavia to find another peak this high. And here they were, dancing on top of it.
God, he wanted to kiss her. But he didn’t. Instead, he picked her up and swirled her about, her heavy wet skirts shifting awkwardly around her legs, slapping at him.
She whooped loudly as he did. He put her down, and she held his arms, not letting go.
“We did it,” she whispered.
He let his forehead lower to hers. “We did.”
Ophelia jerked Eleanor’s arm away from him and engaged her back into the twirling jig. Finally, his papa stopped his singing and the girls stopped.
“We’ve got to save some of that energy for the way down,” he said.
Ophelia caught her breath, and Tristan watched her change from the exultant girl to their pragmatic leader once again. “Quite right. Last drink of water, then we’ll head down.”
The canteen was passed around once more, and Tristan drank last, emptying it, savoring the cold, metallic-tasting water trailing down his throat. He thought of being back at the inn, ensconced in front of the large fireplace and cradling a dram of whisky. Not a bad ending to a day.
“Come on, then. Let’s go pick up our rope. It won’t take nearly as long to get down as it did to climb up.” Ophelia led the charge, picking her way down. Tristan knew he’d be the one to carry the rope while his father would shoulder the now-empty rucksack that Tristan had hauled up when it held their breakfast. As it should be. The torch was passing, and despite not inheriting his father’s title, Tristan was stepping into his role as a husband. Perhaps one day as a compassionate father.
“Do you know how to glissade?” Prudence asked.
“That sounds like something that happens in a ballet,” Tristan said.
“You should know,” Justine snorted.
