Improper Arrangements (The Improper Series)

by Juliana Ross

  “Yes. But Johann had a bad fall a few seasons back. Couldn’t find work as a guide. I knew he was good with languages—he can even make sense of my pathetic efforts to speak Romansch—so when I heard he was having difficulties, I asked around the village. The hotel is fortunate to have him.”

  “That was kind of you,” I said.

  “Call it whatever you like. Makes no difference to me.”

  “Is he going to bring us anything to eat or drink?”

  “I asked for tea. And some sandwiches.”

  “Thank you. Although I think I’ll simply have some tea.”

  “You’re not one of those women who just picks at her food, are you?”

  If only he’d seen me devouring my meal earlier. “Of course not, but I...I had a late lunch.”

  He said nothing, only arched a single, disbelieving eyebrow at me.

  “Very well. If you must know, it’s my gown. It’s rather, ah, unforgiving.”

  “You women and your bloody corsets. You look as if you’ll faint if you take a decent breath.”

  And then, oddly enough, his expression softened, and the hint of a smile curled round his mouth. “Did you wear that dress for me?”

  Maddening man. “I wore it to impress Mr. Keating, not you.”

  He leaned forward, crossing his forearms on the table, and fixed me with another one of his penetrating, unnerving stares. “You honestly didn’t know, did you?”

  “No, I did not. Believe me or not, it’s the truth.”

  “Oh, I believe you. Not least because your explanation is so ridiculous it must be true.”

  Just then, something occurred to me. “You called me Lady Alice.”

  “That’s your name, isn’t it? Lady Alice Cathcart-Ross?”

  “Yes, but I don’t use the title when I travel, and I’m certain I didn’t use it in my messages.”

  “I’m acquainted with your brother,” he explained. “That’s how I know.”

  “Of course. He was the one who recommended you.”

  “Yes. Your ambition to walk the High-Level Route. Not an undertaking that appeals to most ladies.”

  “My interests and inclinations have never been fashionable ones, Mr. Keating. I have my own reasons for wishing to walk the route.”

  “And they are?”

  “I’m a botanist. And an artist. Watercolors, mostly. I have a great interest in alpine flora, but the live specimens at Kew are limited, and the preserved ones are next to useless. I want to see them growing in the wild. I need to paint them where they grow.”

  “And having nothing better to do, and equipped with your father’s fortune, you decided a gold-lacquered trip through these mountains was in order.”

  “You know nothing of my life, Mr. Keating,” I snapped. “And your assumptions are incorrect. My work is very important to me—”

  “I can imagine,” he said wryly.

  “I doubt you can. Let me explain. I live independently, with the blessing of my parents, and have done so for quite some time. It’s a life that suits me. If I wish to undertake such a trip, for reasons that in my estimation are perfectly reasonable, who is there to gainsay me?”

  He flushed a little, high on his cheekbones, but his eyes met mine without hesitation. “No one, of course. I beg your pardon.”

  “Thank you,” I said, startled by his ready apology. “Now that we’ve discussed my reasons for making the journey, shall we discuss terms?”

  “Terms?”

  “Your fee, the equipment and provisions we’ll require. That sort of thing.”

  “I haven’t said I’ll do it.”

  “Why not? I’m very fit. I’m not given to complaining. I don’t expect lavish accommodations or fare. And I’m prepared to pay handsomely for your assistance.”

  “I’ve given up guiding. At least for the moment.”

  And then I remembered. His accident. “I see. You’re still not recovered from—”

  “It’s not that,” he said. “I’m perfectly well. As I believe I demonstrated to you earlier today.”

  Wretched man. “So why are you here? Why did you come if you hadn’t any intention of agreeing to guide me?”

  “An error in judgment on my part. One that I don’t intend to compound by agreeing to your request.”

  “Can you honestly say you have something better to do?” I asked, desperate enough to goad him.

  “I’ve a book to write, among other things. And I’ve no desire to spend the next fortnight playing nursemaid to you and a platoon of servants and porters.”

  “I have no servants—at least, none here in Argentière. I was expecting we’d make the journey alone. Just the two of us.”

  “Are you mad? After what happened earlier?”

  “What does it matter now? We agreed it was a mistake, and we’ll leave it at that.” I fixed him with my sternest look, the one I used on my father and brothers when they tried to stand in my way. “I didn’t come all this way to settle for second-best, and Tom says you are the best.”

  “That’s kind of him. But untrue.”

  “You’ve climbed the world’s highest mountains—”

  “Not all of them.”

  “—and according to Tom, no one knows more about these mountains than you.”

  “I’m not the only guide in this region. Surely he gave you other names.”

  “I’ve written to them. But you’re the only one to have responded so far.”

  “Out of curiosity, who were they?”

  “It’s none of your concern.”

  “Humor me. Who are they?”

  “Very well. Arthur Warburton, Tomas Mueller, Anders Rossi and—oh, I can’t recall his Christian name—a Monsieur Valent.”

  “It’s Jean-Marie. A ruffian of the first order.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “He has a bad reputation for swindling his clients. I can’t believe Tom gave you his name.”

  “And the others?” I asked, not altogether certain that I wanted to know.

  “Warburton’s a decent enough climber, but a bore. Obsessed with his digestion. Mueller? Your typical Swiss busybody. Will insist on porters and a maid for you. A stickler for propriety.”

  “What about Anders Rossi? You mention him in your book.”

  “Unsuitable.”

  “Isn’t he your friend?”

  “He is, and he’s a fine mountaineer. But Tom was an idiot to include Anders on the list.”

  “Because he’s ill-mannered?”

  “Because he’s a lech,” Mr. Keating said flatly. “Will slither into bed with you at the first opportunity.”

  “Humph,” I said. “I’m not certain you’re qualified to be the arbiter of such things.”

  “At least,” he whispered, leaning forward, “I asked first. Was certain that you wanted it as well. I can’t promise the same can be said for Anders Rossi.”

  “But that was everyone,” I said, not even bothering to hide my chagrin. “I know of no one else who can take me.”

  “Don’t look like that.”

  “How else should I look? What am I going to do now? To have come all this way, and now...”

  I had never been prone to displays of excessive emotion, but the disappointment I felt at that moment pushed me to the brink. Hot tears pricked at my eyes and I had to blink hard to hold them back. Fortunately he said nothing, though I did hear him sigh deeply.

  “It’s not simply the case that I have a book to finish. If that’s all it were, I would be happy to guide you.”

  “Then why—”

  “I’m wary of entanglements. This...this attraction between us. It’s powerful. The more time we spend together, the more likely it is that we’ll end up in bed again. Or not in bed, as the case may be. And I can make you no promises, can offer you nothing.”

  “But I feel the same way, Mr. Keating. I have chosen to live as a free and independent woman. I have no wish to marry, I assure you. And I have no interest in a love affair. All I
want is your assistance as a guide. No more.”

  “That’s what you say now.”

  “And that’s what I’ll say a week from now. I am prepared to set aside what happened between us earlier. Surely, Mr. Keating, you can do the same.”

  “Call me Elijah. Or Eli.”

  “Very well. Elijah—will you help me?”

  He fixed me with a stare, his remarkable eyes taking in every aspect of my appearance, missing nothing, seeing all. Would that he could see the truth of what I had just said to him.

  “Then let me think on it. Perhaps I can find someone,” he said, his voice suddenly gruff. “Let me...let me think on it.” He pushed back his chair and stood.

  “I’ll let you know what I decide. Good day, Lady Alice.”

  Chapter Five

  I had been abed for the better part of an hour, and was about to set my book aside and douse the lamp, when a brisk knock sounded at my door. I slid out of bed, wrapped a shawl around my shoulders and hurried into the sitting room.

  “Who is it?” I called out softly.

  “Eli. Open the door, Lady Alice.”

  I did as he asked, and he strode past me into the room without so much as a hello.

  “I’ll do it,” he announced abruptly. “But I’ll hold you to your promises. No complaining and no outlandish demands, or I’ll march you downhill to the nearest village and leave you there. Understood?”

  “Quite. As I said earlier—”

  “I can only spare a week. That will get us as far as Arolla if we keep up a decent pace.”

  “That is perfectly acceptable. As for your fee—”

  “Twenty francs a day is the going rate. That will do.”

  “Are you certain? That seems very modest for someone of your experience. I am more than prepared to—”

  “I’m not seeking to profit from this, only to cover my expenses. Now, if you’re done talking, I have things to do tonight.”

  “I beg your pardon. I am grateful, you know—”

  “Yes, yes. We’ll need to get you outfitted properly. Can you meet me downstairs tomorrow morning at ten o’clock? The village shops will all be open by then.”

  “Ten o’clock it is.” I held out my hand for him to shake and was shocked once again by the surge of awareness that shot up my arm. Fortunately Elijah appeared unaffected, although his eyes did briefly sweep over my nightgown-clad figure.

  It was indecent of me to greet him dressed in such a manner, but then we had already lowered the bar quite considerably as far as standards of decency were concerned. I was very glad indeed that I had worn my most comfortable and enveloping nightgown to bed that evening.

  “I shall see you in the morning,” he said, and walked to the door. “Good night, Lady Alice.”

  “Please call me Alice,” I asked. “It feels as if you’re speaking to someone else when you use my title. And it’s only an honorific—it doesn’t really signify.”

  “Then good night, Alice. Sleep well.”

  * * *

  As I lay in bed that night, bereft of sleep and the oblivion I craved, I tried and failed to eject Elijah Philemon Keating from my thoughts. For several years, ever since I’d first read Between Earth and Sky, I’d carried an image in my head of its author. The only photograph I’d ever seen of E. P. Keating had been an interior plate that depicted a bearded man in the simple countrified attire of a climber, a man who might have been any age between twenty-one and sixty-one. To me he’d been a fraternal figure, an older and more settled version of my brother Tom. An unthreatening and gentle sort of man who would delight in recounting wonderful stories of the exotic worlds he’d visited and the thrilling adventures he’d experienced.

  The real man could not have been more different. He was moody and taciturn and, I suspected, wholly lacking in sensitivity. I would receive little sympathy from him if my feet hurt, or if the sun burned my nose, or if I found the path before me wearisome.

  But he had a sense of humor underneath the veneer of gravity he wore like armor, and he was—this I knew from reading his book—a learned and interesting man. What might he tell me of the far-off lands he had visited, the wonders he had seen and the people he had met? I could learn a great deal from Elijah Philemon Keating.

  The attraction between us was a problem, but not an insurmountable one. We were, after all, both rational people. I knew I was capable of controlling my baser instincts, and I believed he could and would do the same.

  It was simply a matter of self-control.

  * * *

  I woke early the next morning, fast asleep one moment and then wide awake the next, keen as mustard to embark on my adventure. After ringing downstairs for my breakfast, I dressed myself and set about making a list of the items I would take along and those I would pack away in my trunk. I hadn’t yet decided where I would go after arriving in Arolla, so my trunk would have to remain in storage at the hotel until I sent for it.

  My excitement was only heightened when, just shy of nine o’clock, a footman delivered a message from Elijah.

  Forgot to ask last night: when we meet this morning, bring your two plainest gowns as well as the boots you intend to wear.

  —E.P.K.

  That was straightforward enough. I’d had three simple, front-fastening gowns made for my travels, knowing I would need to dress myself without the aid of a maid more often than not. I was wearing one of the gowns, so I pulled the others from the wardrobe and folded them into my satchel. My boots were already on my feet.

  He was waiting when I went downstairs an hour later, standing at right angles to me as I descended the final run of steps, and despite our mutual determination that ours would be the model of a platonic relationship, I couldn’t help but admire him.

  He was dressed neatly in a dark brown coat and trousers, his waistcoat a lighter shade of tan. He’d removed his hat, a wide-brimmed affair made of what looked like felted wool, and I was again struck by the unconventional way he wore his hair, falling nearly to his shoulders in one single, waving length. Did he leave it long because it suited him, or because he couldn’t be bothered to visit the barber?

  He turned and saw me. No condescension, no flash of humor at my expense animated his features. Instead, a wariness of sorts. As if he feared what I might do to him as much as I feared his effect on me. We were well matched, then.

  “Good morning, Mr. Keating.” As we were in public I thought it best to address him on formal terms.

  “Lady Alice. Are you ready? Have you brought your gowns and boots with you?”

  “I have. Why do I need them?”

  “We’re going to the dressmaker’s—the tailor’s, really. But Monsieur Guérin is more than capable of altering your gowns so they’ll be suitable.”

  “They’re already suitable. They fasten up the front—”

  “That’s well and good, but I’ll wager they still need to be altered before they’re suitable for our journey.”

  Monsieur Guérin’s shop was a small establishment on the far side of the village, which is to say that it was only a few hundred yards distant. As we entered, a middle-aged man came forward and greeted Elijah with an alarming degree of familiarity, kissing him on one cheek and then the other. They spoke in rapid French, too fluent for me to follow, so rather than wait like a supplicant I went to examine the bolts of cloth that were displayed on a bank of shelves that spanned the shop’s back wall. Nothing very interesting, certainly no fabrics that would have passed muster in a smart London dressmaker’s, but the rustic woolens had a certain charm to them all the same.

  “Lady Alice?”

  “Yes?” I answered, turning to Elijah. “Are you ready for me?”

  “Are your gowns in that satchel? Toss it here, will you?”

  Since we were in a shop, and not engaged in a game of shuttlecock, I approached Elijah and the tailor, set down my satchel on the table behind them and extracted my gowns.

  “Here you are. As I said, they are already quite suitable for
traveling.”

  “They’re the same as the one you’re wearing now?”

  “In all but their color.”

  “Then they’ll need to be altered.”

  “What is wrong with them?”

  He took me by the elbow and propelled me across the shop to a corner, brightly lit by windows set high in the wall, where a low platform stood in front of a full-length mirror.

  “Stand on this,” he commanded.

  “You haven’t answered my question. What is wrong with my gowns?”

  “They’re too long, to begin with. They need to be shortened—at least six inches. Perhaps eight.”

  “But that’s indecent—”

  “And their skirts are too full. Guérin here will remove some of the fabric.”

  “How will my crinolette and petticoats fit?”

  “They won’t. You weren’t planning on walking through the Alps looking like an upended teacup, were you?”

  “I’ll look ridiculous.”

  “You’ll look sensible. Far more important, in my opinion.”

  “I can’t wear a gown that exposes my lower limbs. Even in a foreign country.”

  “Foreign country or not, I won’t allow you to wear something that will put you in danger. If you’re so concerned about people seeing your lower limbs, Guérin can fashion a set of pantalettes for you. Just like the ones you wore as a little girl.”

  I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, reaching for calm as I exhaled. I would not, could not, let this man provoke me.

  “So you can breathe in that thing.”

  What was he talking about now? “I beg your pardon?”

  “Your corset. It’s loose enough that you can breathe properly. I approve.”

  I said nothing. To respond at all would only encourage him.

  Monsieur Guérin, fortunately, had a more accommodating disposition than Elijah. He apologized often for his familiarity, and his hands were gentle as he pinned up my hem and made mysterious markings in chalk at the shoulders, collar and waist of my gown.

  At last he was done. “He’ll need the gown you’re wearing,” Elijah informed me. “You can change into one of the others, and leave the one you don’t wear to be altered as well.”