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desiring to avoid a tragedy that would wound us all, my love.”
    “Is the crossing into Italy as formidable as they say?” Georgiana asked. Her voice and expression showed exhilaration at the concept and not a shred of fright, music and Mr. Butler forgotten.
    “Oh, indeed it is,” her cousin answered in an ominous tone, winking sidelong at Darcy, who frowned. “The pass of Saint Bernard through the Valais Alps to Aosta is roughly fifty miles of narrow winding pathways overlooking plunging gorges and rising to elevations over eight-thousand feet. All around you are towering snow-clad mountains touching the heavens. It is breathtaking to behold! God at His greatest display of artistry. One must be hardy to cross and incredibly brave.”
    “You have crossed it yourself, Herr Oeggl?”
    “I have, twice I am proud to say.”
    “An adventurous soul is my son,” Baron Oeggl declared.
    “I am Austrian. And Austrians climb mountains fearlessly, yes, Mutter, sein ?”
    “So I am continually informed,” Mary agreed dryly.
    Herr Oeggl grinned. “You shall see, lieblich cousin, that the Great St. Bernard is a marvelous adventure. We shall tread the road bloody Napoleon crossed with his army of 60,000, descending into an unaware Saint-Rhemy with war chariots and gun carriages. He was branded a fool to attempt crossing in May while the heavy snows blocked the pass, but fool or tactical genius his ploy succeeded. History is plentiful along the pass.”
    Lizzy shivered. “One hears such tales of woe related to that pass. Are you sure it is wise to take that way?”
    “It is the closest and well traversed, Cousin. Thousands of people travel that way each year. One must be diligent and prepared, naturally. That is why we will not depart until well into June, for one thing, and we will move slowly with guides.”
    “And you will shelter at the hospice for a day or more of rest,” Darcy ordered.
    “Goodness knows I will need the hiatus.” Lord Matlock stretched his legs as if already imagining the ache from an arduous ride.
    “The monks who honor Bernard of Menthon by maintaining the hospice will treat you well, my lord. The food is hot and satisfying, the fires raging, and the travelers constant through the pass. The monks and their dogs also patrol the trails for unsavory folk bent on thievery. That is no longer the concern it once was.”
    “I hear the dogs of St. Bernard are as big as mastiffs. Is this true?”
    “It is, Cousin,” Jurgen, youngest son of Herr Oeggl replied, leaning forward in his chair and holding his hand shoulder level. “Like small horses they are, but gentle. They gaze at you with their enormous brown eyes and compassion touches your heart. You can see why they love rescuing stranded people, risking their own lives selflessly to aid humans. It is beautiful.”
    “My son is a lover of animals.” Herr Oeggl smiled fondly. “He wishes to join the monastery I believe and devote himself to breeding the St. Bernards. Hence his interest in this journey, unlike my lovely nieces who want to shop in Milano.”
    “Milano designers and fabrics are unlike anywhere else, except perhaps Florence.” Romy sniffed. “It is worth any hardship for fashion.”
    “Well,” countered her sister, Viveka, “Milano excites me as well, but I am also intrigued by the reputed brilliance of spring wildflowers that cover the meadows, the lakes and waterfalls, and any other vistas along the pass. I will be bringing my paints and pad, praying for flat terrain.”
    “Painting while riding? You are talented to attempt it. You must show me how.”
    “My pleasure, Miss Darcy, if you teach me how to play the harp as brilliantly as you.” She squeezed the blushing Georgiana’s hand.
    “Not to put a damper on the youthful enthusiasm, but I am happy not to be making the trip; enormous dogs and stunning landscape are not enough to tempt me.”
    “Why, Dr. Darcy”—Lady Matlock laughed—“after your adventures a steep