Karl had made a mistake. He understood that, and there were few ways to fix what he had done by presuming the girl was a servant. How could he have made such an error? It was purely, he believed, because he had hoped she was a maid, for if she were, she would be within his reach. But since she was the daughter of a British man of consequence, Karl Vogel had no ability to touch her. She was a client.
She was also the most vocal against the idea of his judging who would climb, which he understood. Pride was a powerful beast, and the girl seemed to have much of it. Did she know that the mountains would eat her alive if she kept up her pride? That the snow did not care how carefully one's argument was constructed or how straight one's spine was?
Pride in the mountains was akin to death. And if they were to succeed, then he had to find a way to teach her humility. Not the kind of humility Jakob had advocated when they’d first discussed the possibility of guiding a mostly-woman-filled expedition. Jakob had recommended taking them over his knee, spanking them, and sending them home.
Though the thought of taking this girl over his knee made him light-headed. She was even more spectacular in daylight. Dressed now in a simple gown, the pink and blue confection hugged her curves, accenting a small waist and an ample bosom. The cut of the dress hinted at a high, tight, and round hintern that would fill even his generous palms.
So he offered an early run. That would make her humble enough, knowing that he was out there, working, while she slept late. By demonstrating that she was too small to keep up with the other women, and could not put in the athletic work that was required for even an attempt at the Matterhorn, the problem would solve itself. He would not have to declare who could climb and who couldn’t, as the specter of death and hardship would cause her and possibly the rest of the women, to stay away from the mountain.
But after he’d announced his morning run, he saw her face. The set of her jaw, the thinning of those apple-red lips. Her eyes bored into him, her gaze as weighty as a plow harness. He ignored it, feeling hopeful, as that kind of defiant stance was what pushed a person up a mountain. For every climb was difficult or painful. If it wasn’t, then it wasn’t truly a climb. It was a lark. An old woman’s amble.
The meeting adjourned, and Karl forced himself to look at the young Fräulein Bridewell for permission to leave. It was difficult to not look to Lord Rascomb, the Englishman whose robustness and bearing reminded Karl of so many other roving adventuring Englishmen he’d met.
Indeed, he had been successful twice in attempts on the Matterhorn. He dared not tell Lord Rascomb how many had been unsuccessful. That many, many slogs up the mountain had been aborted only a few hours up due to weather or snow. That both were unpredictable, and the mountain chose its own favorites.
What he found surprising was that these women had a focused exercise they conducted to ready themselves for the attempt. Some of the men who arrived were shocked to find they did not function as normal at this altitude. More sickened as they attempted even some basic mountain ascents. The altitude, like the mountains, was unforgiving. He commended Fräulein Bridewell on giving her team a long lead time, giving them an opportunity to learn the terrain, accustom their bodies, and watch the weather. It showed patience and dedication. Karl appreciated that about her, wondering if that was her wisdom or her father’s.
He caught himself watching Miss Brewer sway out of the room. She walked with angry purpose, and he was drawn to it like a bee to a flower. But he shook his head. This was not the time to be consumed by lust. There was much to do.
His Onkel Peter caught his eye, and Karl went to the wooden bar to speak with him.
“What did they talk about?” His Onkel asked in Bavarian. His hands never stopped moving, polishing the glasses that he then rehung above the bar.
“Planning climbs, that’s all,” Karl answered. “Shall I clear the plates?”
Onkel Peter nodded. “Then tend the goats. And don’t forget to mend the fences today, as well. I don’t want the goats escaping again. Frau Lieder wants my head for the nibbles of her laundry.”
Karl laughed as he cleared the tables. His aunt Greta was in the kitchen cleaning up with their one hired-on maid, Elke, who was washing the giant pots and pans Greta had used to cook breakfast for their guests.
“There,” Greta said, pointing to the only bit of space available on the countertops. “Thank you for clearing the plates, Karl. You’re a very good boy.”
He smiled and returned to the dining room to clear more. As he finished, he took a rag to wipe down the tables.
“Ach, my Karl, thank you. And will you be able to help with the guests at tea time?” Greta asked, her hands, like Peter’s, always in motion.
“Of course, Aunt,” Karl said, though between the goats and fences, he wasn’t sure when he would have time. But he would make time.
*
Justine didn’t know what to do with herself. She and Ophelia walked into the village, which was very small and very sleepy. But it was ringed by the fantastical-looking mountains, and a crisp blue sky. Snow carpeted the ground and crunched hard beneath their feet. It took them all of twenty minutes to explore, and the villagers looked at them with curiosity.
They passed the famed Monte Rosa hotel, where Whymper and his team had stayed. Where famed lady climber Lucy Walker lived in the summers with her father. As far as Justine knew, Lucy Walker had yet to attempt the Matterhorn, but she had climbed the other mountains in the range. If they were to bet, it was between them and Walker to be the first woman up the Matterhorn. There were a few other women climbers who might make a run on it as well. A few Americans. But Justine had never met any of them. It was strange how women kept themselves apart in such a venture. All of themsmarting from the lack of inclusion and the outright hostility from men climbers.
“What a warm welcome,” Justine said, as one older woman opened her door to examine them and then shut it again without a word or greeting.
“We must be quite the event,” Ophelia said.
“There isn’t anything else happening here,” Justine said. “I’m going to crawl out of my skin if I can’tdosomething.”
The nice thing about having been friends for such a long time was that Ophelia didn’t judge her. Ophelia smiled and looked at her fondly, as this was a typical complaint of Justine’s. And she knew it, too. Justine bounced on her toes as she walked, itching to move.
“You can always help me with the maps. We have several climbs to plan in the next few months.”
“I hate maps,” Justine groaned. There was something about them that made her brain blank like an empty page. No matter how much she concentrated, a map was as good as a landscape of an ocean to her.
“You could help our guide, Herr Vogel, with preparations.” Ophelia’s light blue eyes blinked in absolute innocence.
Justine narrowed her eyes.
