Improper Arrangements (2 page)
Read Improper Arrangements Online
Authors: Juliana Ross
Dedication
To my husband
who has climbed many mountains for me
Acknowledgments
To my editor, Deborah Nemeth, thank you for making me a better writer, and for honoring me with your sage and insightful advice. You are an absolute delight to work with!
To Angela James, Carina’s Executive Editor, thank you for being the first person to say yes to my writing, and thank you for continuing to support my work. I would also like to express my gratitude to Angela’s wonderful team at Carina Press for their support and advice over the past several years.
To my literary agent, the incomparable Kevan Lyon, I offer my heartfelt thanks. Your belief in me is a constant inspiration.
To my circle of friends, both near and far—Denise, Jane D., Jane E., Jen, Kelly F., Kelly W., Liz and Rena—thank you for your love, encouragement and treats. Especially the treats.
Most of all I want to thank my family, in particular my sister, my husband and my children, for believing in me and never (well, hardly ever) complaining when I neglected you because I was busy with Alice and Elijah. You are everything to me.
Chapter One
Argentière
,
France
August
,
1866
I couldn’t look away.
We had stopped by the side of the road a few minutes before. Apparently something was amiss with one of the carriage’s wheels, or the fastening of an axle, or some such thing. I was glad of the respite, for I felt as if I’d been traveling for at least a year as we bounced and bumped along the narrow, rutted mountain roads.
When I’d first caught sight of the Alps—last Wednesday? Thursday?—I was entranced. I filled page after page of my sketchbook with penciled views captured hastily from the carriage window, mere placeholders for my memory until I had the chance to render them fully in ink and paint.
After a few days, however, I’d become rather inured to the splendor of my surroundings, and when the coachman started shouting I was fast asleep. My French was tolerably good, so I was able to follow most of what he said. Apparently there was a madman, and only a fool spits in the eye of death, and God did not give men wings for a reason. Since the coachman had scarcely said a word all day, this seemed to merit my attention.
“What is the matter?” I called out.
“Over there,
madame.
On the rock face to the right of us.”
“What of it?” There was only a wall of granite, such as I’d seen any number of times over the past few days, quite clear of vegetation apart from a few stunted conifers and scrubby patches of moss.
“Look up,
madame.
”
I did so, leaning out of the carriage window, and that was when I saw him.
High above us, at least a hundred feet from the ground, a man was climbing the rock face. That in itself wasn’t terribly unusual, for young men in the region, I’d been told, were fond of such pursuits. But he seemed to be alone and, moreover, was climbing without any kind of rope or safety harness, or at least none that I could see with the naked eye.
I scrabbled in my leather satchel, which had fallen to the floor of the carriage, and extracted my binoculars. I was right—he was climbing the rock face on his own, with no ropes to support him, and he was doing so in a state of rather shocking undress.
I adjusted the focus on the binoculars, just to make certain, but my eyes hadn’t deceived me: the climbing man wore nothing but a pair of breeches, or perhaps trousers cut off at the knee, and that was all. He had no shirt, not even a singlet, and his feet were bare.
“
Celui-là
,
il est fou
,” said the coachman. “Only a lunatic would try such a thing.”
It did seem the height of folly to climb such a height with so little regard for safety, but as I watched the man move up and across the rock face I found my initial horror giving way to admiration. There was a kind of grace to his movements, a considered decisiveness as he reached above, into the unknown, found something to grasp, pulled himself upward and then repeated the entire motion. It was so seamless, so fluid, that he might have been moving through water.
Eventually he reached the crest of the rock face, pulled himself over the top and disappeared into the forest above. I waited for him to reappear, but he seemed to be gone for good. Unaccountably disappointed, I turned my attention back to the coachman and his attempts to repair the carriage.
“It is no good,
madame.
The wheel is broken. We must wait for another carriage, or if you wish I can walk on to the village.”
The village in question was Argentière, several miles north of Chamonix. From there I intended to begin my walk along the famed High-Level Route to Zermatt. Assuming, of course, that I and my baggage were ever to reach our destination.
“How far is it?” I asked.
“A kilometer or two. No more.”
“Then I shall come with you. What about my trunk and my bags?”
“Your trunk is already padlocked to the rear of the carriage. As for your
bagages
, I will secure them in the compartment under my seat.”
After stowing my smaller cases, he unhitched the horses from the struts of the carriage and secured their leads to a nearby tree. He fetched them a bucket of water each from a barrel that was secured beneath the vehicle, then strapped on their nosebags and left them to their dinner.
“
Allons-y
,
madame.
”
I had kept my satchel and my two smallest traveling cases, which contained my art supplies and valuables respectively, and the coachman was kind enough to take all of them in hand for me.
The road we followed was quite level, and not at all taxing. There was little traffic between Chamonix and Argentière, at least at that hour, for no carriages or wagons passed us. I soon learned the coachman’s name—Monsieur Durand—and that he had grown up in Argentière. After seeing to the repair of the carriage, he told me, he planned to stay with his sister overnight.
We hadn’t been walking for long when I heard the sound of someone approaching from behind. I turned to see a man walking toward us, and as he drew near I realized it was the man we’d seen climbing the rock face earlier.
He now wore a shirt, left open at the neck, with a pair of braces to secure his breeches. But he had no tie or waistcoat or coat, and his legs were bare. On his feet he had low boots, quite worn and scuffed, and he carried nothing but an empty waterskin.
He looked to be a handsome man, although his dark, rather scruffy beard badly needed a trim, and his hair was unfashionably long, falling in unruly waves to just shy of his shoulders. Were there no barbers in Argentière?
I determined not to speak, to simply smile—only a hint of a smile, mind you, nothing more than that—but then he drew close, so close he was but an arm’s length away, and I looked into his eyes.
His irises shone a pale, clear gray, so light they might have been silver, and were ringed with a narrow band of blue the exact color of India ink. In all my life, I’d never seen such unusual eyes. He stared at me intently, as if there were some corresponding aspect of my appearance that was just as distinctive as his strange, cold gaze.
“Good morning,” I offered.
“Good morning.” Another surprise—the inflection of his speech marked him as an Englishman.
“Was it you we saw earlier? Climbing the rock face?”
“It was.”
“I was so worried you might fall.”
“I hardly ever fall,” he replied, his expression so grave I couldn’t tell if he meant me to take him seriously or not.
“But you might have been killed.”
“Hasn’t happened yet.”
I offered him my hand, and there was a very awkward moment when it appeared he might refuse to take it, for he simply stared at my white glove and made no move to take my hand in his. But then he wiped his hand on his breeches and shook my hand decisively.
“Are you going on to Argentière? Would you care to walk with us?”
He answered with a nod, no more, and with that we continued our northward journey. The road opened up, the flanking cliffs giving way to grassy banks and hills of conifers, and we passed by a small farm, then another. We walked in silence. After a few minutes, I realized I could hear birdsong, the harmonizing rush of a nearby stream, even the soughing lilt of the wind as it hurried through the trees.
It was warm in the late morning sun, and after a few hundred yards I stripped off my gloves and unfastened the top button of my jacket. I had foolishly left my parasol behind, still packed in my large trunk, and my fashionably delicate bonnet offered little protection from the sun. I would soon have the freckles to show for it. It was nothing a little lemon juice couldn’t mend, however, and in the meantime I had the chance to admire the man who walked a few paces before me.
I stared at him, drinking in every ripple of muscle beneath his worn linen shirt, marveling at the unconscious, easy grace that imbued his every movement. And I wondered what sort of lover he would make.
It had been more than eight years since the disaster of my brief and entirely unsatisfactory liaison with my one and, so far, only lover. In the wake of that disappointment and near scandal, I had allowed my parents to pressure me into a disastrous engagement to a man I scarcely knew, an engagement that had been called off in the most public and humiliating fashion.
Jean-Philippe had cared nothing for my honor, using and discarding me like a soiled handkerchief. Lord Alfred had been little better, exposing me to the scorn and humiliation of society when he had cast me aside for another.
At the time, I’d sworn to myself I would never be tempted again—not by a man’s pretty words and certainly not by an attractive face or form. What real need had I of a man, after all? I had money of my own, a family that loved me enough to tolerate my eccentricities, and I was perfectly capable of satisfying my own carnal needs without having to seek out the attention of some sweating, fumbling incompetent.
Never again
, I had told myself. And yet...
I would never give up my independence, never allow anyone to take control of my life. But the idea of taking a lover was tempting. Not the stranger who walked at my side, of course; I knew nothing of him, not even his name. But I might find someone suitable in Lausanne, or even Paris. Though I would have to consider the risks involved, specifically the possibility of my falling pregnant...
Lost in my thoughts, I noticed too late that the road had become uneven, its surface eroded by a recent rainfall. My skirts caught on an exposed spike of granite, my arms flailed about in a most undignified manner, and I stumbled forward wildly. Before I could land in the mud, strong arms caught me and held me tight. I took a moment to catch my breath, and then I looked up. To my everlasting relief, it was the climber’s arms that encircled me, and not the beefy limbs of Monsieur Durand.
I took hold of his forearms, the better to right myself, and awareness surged through me. I stumbled again, the shock of it making me clumsy, and was rewarded when he drew me close and steadied me once more.
When I’d taken my painting tutor as my lover, I’d done so because I thought I desired him. I could still remember, with perfect clarity, the peculiar mixture of nervousness, anxiety and breathless anticipation I’d felt in Jean-Philippe’s presence. If only the actual lovemaking that followed had not been such a deflating and ultimately disappointing experience.
But this...
this
was desire. There was no mistaking the spark that passed between us, a current of attraction that rushed through my veins and pulled the breath from my lungs. Rational thought deserted me. My mouth was dry, my palms were icy and the roar of my heartbeat drowned out the music of birdsong and dancing streams.
“Thank you,” I said to the climber. “I feel quite steady again.”
He released me, his hands falling to his sides. He stepped back, his feet sure on the roughened road, and turned away. I longed to say something more, but I stopped my mouth. Discretion was all.
As we moved on he remained close by, ready to rescue me again, and I was certain I could feel the keen focus of his regard as we walked. Did he desire me as I desired him? Or did he see nothing more than a plainly dressed Englishwoman, tolerably pretty apart from a sunburned nose, who for some perplexing reason was making calf eyes at him?
“We are nearly there,
madame
,” Monsieur Durand said. “Your hotel is just ahead, on the left.”
“Do you think you’ll be able to retrieve my luggage today?”
“Certainly,
madame.
But first I must go to the, ah, the
forgeron
...I am not sure of the word in English...”
“Blacksmith,” said the climber.
“Yes. The blacksmith. My cousin. He will be able to help me. Perhaps even repair the carriage.”
“By all means. Please go ahead. I can manage on my own.”
I moved to retrieve my cases from Monsieur Durand, but before I could do so the climber stepped forward and took them.
“
Je vais l’amener à l’hôtel.
Ne vous inquiétez pas
,” he said, his voice low and certain.
“Are you certain?” the coachman asked, turning to me.
“Of course,” I assured him. “And the hotel is only a few hundred yards away.”
“Very well. I will try to return your
bagages
this afternoon. Good morning.”
At last the climber and I were alone. Neither of us said a word as we walked to the Hôtel de la Couronne. It was a small establishment, far less grand than the hotels in Chamonix, but charming nonetheless, with boxes of pale pink geraniums hanging from every windowsill and elaborately carved woodwork adorning the foyer.
I introduced myself to the clerk at the front desk and furnished him with my travel documents.
“May I ask how long you expect to stay, Madame Cathcart-Ross?”
“I’m not yet certain. I’ve yet to engage a guide for the High-Level Route...I think two days, possibly three. May I let you know later? Once I’ve completed my arrangements?”
“Of course,
madame.
If you require any assistance with your search for a guide, you need only ask.”
“Thank you. Is everything in order?” I asked, impatient to be done.
“Yes,
madame.
Here are your keys. Your rooms are on the second floor. Do you require any assistance?” The clerk looked across the foyer to the climber, who stood with my cases at his feet.
“No, thank you. But my remaining baggage should be arriving later today. Please have it brought up to my rooms.”
And now was the moment. Key in hand, I approached the climber, wishing there were some way to delay the inevitable.
“Thank y—”
“I’ll bring these upstairs.”
That was unexpected. Could it be that he, too, felt the thread of attraction that wound between us? “Oh, I see. Thank you.”
Up a flight of stairs, then another, then along the corridor to my rooms. The interior of the hotel was cool, but maddening drops of perspiration beaded at my temples and between my breasts. I prayed I didn’t look as disheveled and travel-worn as I felt.
