The other man’s bushy white eyebrows moved like lazy caterpillars sunning themselves. “That so? For Miss Eleanor? Hm. What be your qualifications?”
“I’m er,” Tristan stammered. What were his qualifications to be a husband? The accident of his birth? “I’m good in a crisis.”
The old man nodded.
“And I’d climb the tallest mountain for her,” Tristan said, as if that were a decent argument for marriage. “Or with her, if she wanted to go.”
“Good enough for me. Come on, I’ll help you with your suit. I’ve known ol’ Bruce for longer than he knowed himself.” The old man clapped a hand on Tristan’s shoulder and propelled him up the rickety wooden stairs.
Tristan knocked on the door at the top at the old man’s urging.
“Come in,” Mr. Piper yelled through the door. “Damn it all, Smythe, I’m behind as it is. What now?”
Tristan opened the door, entering with the old man at his back. The room was sparse. Mr. Piper was at a desk of moderate size, though considering the piles of papers stacked at all angles, a bigger desk was likely needed. In the other portion of the room sat a worn sofa with a number of clumsy needlepoint pillows flung about. Across from it was a low table with a washing up stand. Tristan surmised that some nights, Mr. Piper slept at the waterfront.
“You,” growled Mr. Piper. “Smythe, how dare you let this man cross my threshold? He’s been the cause of the utter downfall of my daughter. He almost gets her killed, and when she is vulnerable, he takes advantage of her!”
Well, that was good to know that Eleanor had told her parents. Made his position a bit awkward, yes. There was no denying his actions, and no explaining them either, not to a man like Mr. Piper.
“Mr. Piper, with respect,” Tristan said, his hands raised.
The man stood, and with his fervor, a pile of papers toppled to the floor. “If you had an ounce of respect, you wouldn’t be here! And Eleanor wouldn’t be laid up at home, recuperating from an injury you caused her!”
That barb stung a bit. He didn’t cause anything. “A snow cornice is a dangerous formation that—”
“I don’t want to hear your ridiculous excuses! Get out!” Mr. Piper roared, throwing an inkpot at him.
Tristan ducked, hearing it clatter to the floor behind him.
“Now, Bruce,” the older man said.
“Don’t you do it, Smythe. Don’t you talk me in circles about this. I know a degenerate ne’er-do-well when I see one!”
“Is he not the son of a viscount? That’s good business there, to be associated with the nobility. Surely, it is no balm to ye, when ye were expecting a grant from our queen. But it is a step closer than ye were before.”
“They pretend to fine manners, but look where it got my Eleanor! I could kill you for this, Bridewell!”
Smythe gestured at Tristan to stay put. “The boy is a blighter, that’s true. But he tells me he loves Eleanor. And that’s not a thing you could ever buy for her.”
Piper stood still, his hands still balled in fists. “S’that true?”
Tristan nodded his head, then feeling stupid for not speaking, he assured him that way as well. “Absolutely. Yes. More than anything. More than my own life.”
“Eleanor says you saved her in the mountains. That if it hadn’t been for you, she would have perished there from the winds and the cold. Is that true?”
Tristan hadn’t thought about it, didn’t want to contemplate Eleanor being at risk alone, as he’d already resolved to be by her side. “I suppose it is.”
Piper stared at him, then sat down and wrote a letter. When either Smythe or Tristan attempted to speak or ask a question, Piper silenced them. Finally, he melted a bit of wax, sealed it with a ring and handed it off. It felt all a bit medieval to Tristan, but all he’d hoped for was an audience and he’d gotten that, so he felt he ought to keep his mouth shut.
“Deliver that to my wife at my house. It says you may see Eleanor. Says I’ve approved your marriage. Says you’re a damn lucky prat that I don’t kick in your teeth and dump you in the ocean.”
Tristan took the letter and, glancing at Smythe, who gave him the nod to leave, he bowed. “Thank you Mr. Piper. This is—”
Mr. Piper growled at Tristan’s groveling for his efforts, but that was more than enough. Tristan flew down the stairs and ran to his own hack. He delivered the letter and sat in the front entrance of the Pipers’ grand in-town house. He tapped his toes on the cold marble foyer floor. Finally, he was summoned to the upstairs drawing room, nearer to Eleanor, nearer to wedded bliss, nearer to purpose.
*
Eleanor had beenclear about the marriage contract. She’d insisted on being a part of negotiations, despite the lawyer constantly protesting her presence. In the contract, it stipulated that Tristan could not forbid her activities with the Ladies’ Alpine Society. It also had a clause paying Mr. and Mrs. Piper damages should Eleanor become injured during a husband-approved expedition.
