Improper Arrangements (The Improper Series)

by Juliana Ross

  “Where?”

  “There’s a dressing room in the back. Do you need help?” Surely he must be teasing.

  “No, thank you,” I answered with cloying sweetness. It was that or slap his face.

  I was still fastening my bodice when a knock came at the door.

  “Forgot to tell you—I need one of your petticoats. So Guérin can shorten it.”

  It took me a minute to pull aside my skirts and unfasten the tapes of my bottommost petticoat, a plain white cotton affair, its flounces trimmed with simple crocheted lace. I handed it over, standing modestly behind the door, and resumed dressing. When I was quite sure that all was in order, my garments neatly arranged, my hair smooth and tightly pinned, I emerged from the little room.

  “Impressive. A woman who can dress herself, and does so in less than an hour.”

  “I told you before, I can take care of myself. Are we done here?”

  “Nearly. Now I need to take a closer look at your boots.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake. They’re boots. They fit well, they’re comfortable—what concern could you possibly have?”

  “Humor me.”

  I pulled back my skirts, extending my right foot as I did so. “Will that do?”

  He crouched low, peering closely at my boot. “These won’t last more than a day on the route. The soles are thin, the laces are even thinner, and there’s no support for your ankles. You can’t wear these.”

  “But they’re so comfortable, and they fit me so well—”

  “You’ll have the worst blisters of your life after a few hours, if not a twisted ankle.”

  “What do you suggest I wear?”

  “Something closer to this.” With a thump, he set his foot next to mine. His boot was enormous and terrifically ugly, with thick leather soles and a metal plate covering the toe. “Guérin’s brother is a cobbler. He may have something available in your size.”

  The other Monsieur Guérin’s establishment was just next door. As I feared, they did have several pairs of boots that looked as if they might fit.

  I sat on the little shop’s lone chair, but before I could lean forward to remove my boots Elijah knelt in front of me and took one of my feet in hand. He unlaced my delicate little boot and slipped it off my foot.

  His palm cupped my heel, his fingers fanning around my ankle and calf, and as the heat of his touch sank through my fine wool stocking and warmed my skin I was reminded, quite unwillingly, of what had transpired between us almost exactly twenty-four hours before.

  If I had chosen to study physiology rather than botany, I would have been entirely fascinated by my body’s reaction. How was it that his hands on my ankle should affect me so? My breathing was labored and shallow, my mouth was dry, my hands were damp, and that most private area at the junction of my legs had begun to ache in a way that was extremely distracting.

  Naturally I beheld no evidence that Mr. Keating was affected in the slightest. His hands were steady and cool, his manner of respiration was normal, and his brow was quite clear of perspiration.

  He fitted one of the new boots to my foot but removed it almost immediately. Tried a second but still seemed doubtful. Then a third, which fit so well that he drew forth my other foot.

  Again I endured the beguiling torture of his touch as he fitted my foot to the boot and laced it.

  “How is this? Take a few steps. Do they feel comfortable?”

  “Quite,” I squeaked.

  “They seem to fit well. You must tell me if they pinch. A bad blister will end this endeavor faster than almost anything else.”

  “Mphh,” I said, my voice still eluding me, but he didn’t seem to notice.

  The boots were by far the most inelegant item of footwear I’d ever worn, but they were reasonably comfortable, and not nearly as heavy or clumsy to walk in as I had feared. I moved around the shop in them a bit more, using the time to regain some measure of composure.

  Would it be so every time he touched me? Every time he took my elbow to help me up a path, or steadied me with a hand at my waist? I had to learn to control my reaction to him, and learn quickly, else risk spending the entire journey in a stupefying haze of unrequited lust.

  We then returned to Guérin the tailor, as Mr. Keating was keen that I procure a proper hat for the journey. A horse wearing blinders, he told me, could see better than a woman wearing a bonnet, and it was also important that my face be shielded from the harsh summer sun.

  “I do have a parasol,” I protested.

  “Which will blow away at the first strong gust of wind. And that bonnet of yours is useless. Just frills and lace. There’s nothing to it.”

  A wide-brimmed, closely woven straw hat, similar to what I’d seen worn by local women, was soon unearthed from the back room of the shop. With that accomplished, it was time to return to the hotel. I had hoped for a few hours of respite, but Mr. Keating insisted on seeing what I proposed to pack for our little expedition.

  “We’ll be traveling light, but I suspect you and I have different notions of what constitutes ‘light,’” he explained.

  “I haven’t yet selected what I want to bring with me.”

  “Then you can do so now.”

  He seemed content enough to wait in my sitting room, making notes in a small book, unconcerned by my comings and goings. At last I was ready, and beckoned him into the bedchamber, where I had set everything out on my bed.

  He was silent a moment, then he looked to me and smiled. “Well done. I wouldn’t have thought it possible.”

  “I tried to be conservative in my estimate of what I shall need. Do you honestly think it will suffice?”

  It was an extremely modest selection of garments and supplies. Three sets of undergarments and stockings, around which I had modestly folded my nightgown, a thick shawl, my hairbrush, a packet of hairpins, several handkerchiefs, a small linen towel, a toothbrush, a tin of tooth powder and a bar of soap. And of course there were my art supplies, removed from their wooden case so they might be tucked in among everything else: my watercolors, charcoal, pencils, brushes, a sheaf of paper and my traveling easel.

  “It will do,” he said as he returned to the sitting room. He retrieved his hat, tucked away his notebook and pencil and went to the door. “I’ll take my leave of you now. I have a small rucksack that you can use. I’ll have it sent over. And Guérin has promised to deliver your gowns before nightfall. Can you be ready for eight o’clock tomorrow morning?”

  “I can.”

  “Until tomorrow, then.”

  * * *

  The remainder of my last day in Argentière passed quickly. I wrote letters home to my parents and siblings, carefully worded so as to cause no concern. They would, naturally, be thrilled to hear that E. P. Keating was acting as my guide. And doubtless they would be horrified, in equal measure, if they knew we were traveling without benefit of a chaperone, servants and porters. Pistols at dawn might well be a thing of the past, but I didn’t care to learn how my father or brothers would react if they ever learned of my and Elijah’s disregard for propriety.

  I had a bath—there was a lovely bathroom just down the corridor, equipped with a huge copper tub and piped-in hot water—and washed my hair, then ate a light supper at the desk in my sitting room, since I’d packed away all my fine things in my trunk.

  As promised, my two gowns were delivered to my door not long after supper. Poor Monsieur Guérin must have spent the entire day laboring on them, and to such ill effect. They looked positively ridiculous, the hems stopping a good six inches shy of the floor, their skirts pitifully deflated. Yet I had to admit they were very comfortable. I particularly liked the way the tailor had re-set their sleeves, enlarging the armholes so I might move with greater ease. I could even raise my arms straight above my head, something that was impossible with the low-set shoulder seams in an ordinary gown.

  Tucked in with my shortened petticoat was a pair of pantalettes. Made of dark grey wool instead of the cotton or lin
en I would have expected, they resembled my drawers, only longer, and were prettily finished at the hem with loops of blanket stitch.

  Another knock at my door heralded the arrival of the promised rucksack. Though not as large as some I had seen being worn by fellow travelers, it comfortably held all my things with the exception of my little easel. Perhaps there would be some way to fasten it to the outside so I would not have to carry it in my hands.

  As I packed, I wondered yet again why Elijah had consented to guide me. I couldn’t believe he was doing so out of sympathy for my predicament. Most likely he had reasons of his own, as yet unrevealed. He might simply be struggling with his book and in need of a short holiday to refresh his imagination. Or he might be curious as to what would inspire a woman to travel so far and risk so much.

  What had inspired me? Was it as simple as watercolors of rare and fragile flowers? Or was it the desire to spend a week in the company of the most fascinating, complex and unknowable man I had ever met?

  I very much feared it was the latter.

  Chapter Six

  He came for me at eight o’clock on the dot; I’d already been ready for an hour.

  Rather than greet me properly, he indicated with a twirl of his finger that I should turn in a circle. “Good. Much better than the getup you had on yesterday.”

  His own clothing would not have been out of place in the breakfast room of my father’s country house: a linen shirt, woolen waistcoat, Norfolk jacket, moleskin trousers and sturdy boots. Simple attire for a complicated man.

  He’d let his rucksack slide from his shoulders to the floor when he came in. While it was at least twice as large as mine, and likely twice as heavy, it seemed impossible that all we needed could be packed into two bags.

  “Is that all we’re taking? Only the two rucksacks?”

  “We’re not leaving civilization behind. I’ll buy provisions as we go, and there are refuge huts and pensions in the villages. We won’t be sleeping rough.”

  “I see. Very well. Oh, I almost forgot. I didn’t have room for my easel. Do you have a strap I can use to fasten it to my rucksack?”

  “No need, I’ve room in mine. Hand it over.”

  After moving a few items around in his pack, he tucked my easel safely inside. “Are you ready? Then let’s be on our way.”

  He carried the rucksacks downstairs and waited patiently as I settled my account with the concierge and arranged for my trunk to be put in storage. Then we were outside, standing in the bright morning sun, and he was fitting my rucksack on my back.

  “Tell me at once if your back or shoulders are sore. I’ve tried to tighten the straps to suit you, but this pack was made for a man, not a woman as tiny as you.”

  “It feels fine,” I assured him truthfully, for he had somehow arranged the straps so the pack and its contents felt nearly weightless.

  In minutes we had left the village behind. The start of our journey was easy, following a level route along well-trod woodland paths. If I hadn’t known otherwise I could have sworn we were in England.

  “We have about eight miles to cover this morning,” he said after we’d been walking for about a half hour. “After we reach Le Tour we’ll head uphill to the Col de Balme, another two miles or so. Once we’re through we’ll be in Switzerland.”

  “What does col signify?”

  “It means a gap in a ridge, or a pass between two mountain peaks. You’ll see when we get there.”

  We walked on in silence, apart from the occasional warning from Elijah to watch my step when a tree root or rocky outcropping protruded from the path. We passed through Le Tour without stopping, though Elijah did pause to refill our waterskins from the public water fountain, or buvette as he called it. From there we followed a path that led steeply uphill to the Col de Balme of which he had spoken earlier.

  The path had grown busier, with parties of climbers passing us in both directions. My unusual garments, or perhaps merely my presence, drew a few surprised looks from the men we encountered, but that was all. At no point since leaving Argentière had I seen another female climber or walker.

  As we drew level with the cleft in the mountains that was the Col de Balme, Elijah encouraged me to stop and take in our surroundings.

  “Look south, back the way we came. We’ve come far enough that you can see the entire Mont Blanc massif—see how each of the aiguilles is distinct from the others?”

  “Have you climbed all of these mountains?”

  He laughed at that. “No, that would take a lifetime. I’ve climbed a fair number, though. And some more than once.”

  “Which is your favorite?”

  “You’ve read my book, haven’t you? It’s all there.”

  “I know. I wondered only if your opinion has changed.”

  “No, it’s still the Aiguille Verte. Hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life.”

  “Why?”

  “Why was it the hardest?”

  “No. Only...why? Why did you climb it?”

  “I suppose because it was there to be climbed. Other men, men I admired, had tried and failed. I thought I could succeed, and I did. It’s really as simple as that.”

  “Was it worth it? All that effort and pain?”

  “Yes. Absolutely it was. To see the world at my feet, to know I stood as high as any man was ever likely to stand—”

  “Aren’t there mountains in the Far East that are higher?”

  “God, yes. Some of the Himalayan peaks are twice the height of Mont Blanc. But I doubt anyone will ever climb them.”

  “Why not?”

  “The air is too thin to breathe. It’ll kill you if you go too high. Not even the native porters will risk it.”

  “Do we have time for me to sketch this view? I won’t take long.”

  “Go ahead.”

  It was only a simple sketch, in pencil and charcoal, but with a touch of color here and there it would make a fine memento of this moment. Perhaps I would give it to him at the end of our time together.

  On we continued, across the pass into Switzerland, then downhill through more woods until the trees dwindled and the path opened to a meadow blanketed with the vivid blooms of wildflowers. We stopped there for lunch, and after I’d eaten my fill of the dark rye bread, cured sausage, cheese and dried apricots that Elijah produced from his rucksack I took out my watercolors and quickly painted the shell-pink Dianthus alpinus I’d spied growing not five feet away.

  “I don’t want to hurry you, but we need to be moving on if we want to reach the hotel by the evening,” he said as I was finishing.

  “A hotel? Really?”

  “It’s nothing grand, mind you. But you’ll be sleeping in a proper bed tonight. And have a hot supper. But not if we sit here all day.”

  The mere thought of it was enough to get me on my feet again. Beyond the meadow the path sloped downhill very steeply, so much so that I had to watch every step or risk a fall. When I did look up I was astonished to see that we were surrounded on both sides by the immense, pearlescent flanks of glaciers.

  We passed a small hut, which Elijah explained was a climbers’ refuge, and not long after came to a steeply slanting rock face that could only be crossed with the aid of a fixed rope. Elijah went first, walking backward as he held the rope taut for me with one arm, his other at the ready to catch me if I fell.

  Without the rope I would not have been able to cross the rock, so sharply tilted was it beneath my feet. I was trembling as I took one hesitant step, then another, but was it fear of falling that unnerved me? Or fear of what would happen if I stumbled and he were forced to gather me in his arms?

  Fortunately I reached the far side of the rock face without incident. Soon the path began to climb again, uphill but gently so, through meadows bright with flowers and under a cloudless sky that grew bluer the higher we climbed. Just as I was beginning to wilt in the late afternoon sun, Elijah caught my attention by touching my shoulder and pointing to a building in the middle distance.<
br />
  “That’s the Hôtel du Col de la Forclaz, where we’ll be staying tonight. Assuming they have a room to spare.”

  As he’d predicted, the hotel was bursting at the seams with walkers and climbers taking advantage of the beautiful weather. Fortunately Elijah knew the proprietor well, and for the sake of an old friend the man allowed us to share a single room, though not without a certain amount of eyebrow wagging at my expense.

  But a bed was a bed and I was too tired to be indignant. “What shall we do for supper?” I asked wearily.

  “They have a dining room. It won’t be elegant, but the food here is usually good.”

  It was good, a filling stew of sausage, leeks and potatoes, with chunks of rye bread to wipe out the bowl. We ate at a communal table, shoulder to shoulder with a score of men, many of whom seemed to know, or know of, Elijah.

  The other diners were obviously curious about me, yet no one so much as asked me for the salt. Their rectitude was puzzling until I noticed, to my horror, that Elijah was looking daggers at our fellow guests. As soon as I’d swallowed the last piece of bread from my supper he grasped my arm, hauled me to my feet and marched the two of us toward the stairs.

  “Good heavens, Elijah—what is wrong with you?”

  “They were staring at you.”

  “I told you the alterations to my gowns would be a problem. If only—”

  “It isn’t the way you’re dressed. It’s you. A beautiful woman in a place like this...they were slavering over you.”

  “I doubt that very much. They were curious, that’s all.”

  “Curious, my arse,” he grumbled.

  Our room was on the top floor, tucked under the eaves, and so tiny there was barely enough space for a single bed, a rickety washstand, our rucksacks and the two of us. The only light in the room came from the candlestick Elijah had used to light our way.

  “Take out what you need for the night,” he said, “and I’ll put our packs under the bed. Don’t worry,” he added, noting the dubious look on my face. “You’ll be sleeping on the bed. I’ll be on the floor.” He illustrated the truth of his words by extracting a groundsheet from his rucksack, which he folded into a narrow and rather thin pallet.