by Robert Thier
‘Of course! What are sisters for? Let’s see what you’re making, shall we?’
Oops. Maybe this hadn’t been such a good idea after all.
Slowly, Ella raised the long, tube-like linen objects to the light. She looked puzzled for a moment - then smiled. ‘Glove fingers? Gloves! You’re making gloves! How wonderful.’
‘Errr…’ I cleared my throat. ‘Yes. Gloves. Absolutely.’
‘But they can’t be for you, can they? Whoever they’re for must have really big fingers.’
‘No, they are most definitely not for me.’
‘All right. Let’s see…Ah, there’s the problem. Your stitches aren’t regular enough, you see? You have to do it like that…and like that…and that.’
The next few minutes were spent in companionable silence while we sat and worked together - or, Ella worked while I made noises of applause and approval. Finally, we were finished, and Ella regarded our work with pride. But suddenly she frowned, and that confused expression returned to her face.
‘Wait a minute, Lill…if those are for gloves, where are the pieces for the front and back of the hand?’
‘Well, um…’
‘And why are there thirty-two fingers?’
I smiled to myself. ‘Let’s just say I’m hopeful.’
*~*~**~*~*
‘Away for weeks?’ Eve stared at me aghast. ‘But we wanted to stage a protest in Hyde Park next week! Don’t you remember? We’ve already started to paint the signs, and Flora has been working for months on building up the courage to ask her mother to let her come!’
‘I know, I know.’ I hung my head. ‘But I can’t make it. I promise, I’ll be back in time for our demonstration during the general election, but I have to leave for now. Something came up.’
‘What?’ Eve demanded. ‘What could possibly be more important than this?’
‘That’s what I’d like to know, too,’ Patsy chimed in. ‘How can you forsake us in our hour of need?’
‘I’m not. Honestly, I’m not. I’m just asking you to postpone your hour of need a little bit.’
‘And why, exactly?’ Patsy was relentless. ‘What is so important that you have to forsake your friends, your principles, all that makes your life worth living?’
Not all. There’s so much more you don’t know about…
‘I, um…have to take a little trip up north.’
‘A trip?’ I could almost see the steam rising out of Patsy’s ears. ‘You’re forsaking us for a holiday?’
‘No! Of course not!’ Whatever my journey north would be - a holiday wasn’t it. Mr Rikkard Ambrose would see to that. ‘I would never! It’s more…well…some important matter I have to take care of.’
Three pairs of suspicious eyes bored into me. Then, suddenly, Eve gasped, and her eyes widened in understanding.
‘Of course! A trip north. Why didn’t I see it right away?’
‘See what?’ Patsy demanded.
But instead of answering her, Eve turned to Flora. ‘Flora - in those books you like so much, what is the only reason girls ever travel up north to Scotland?’
Flora blinked, taken aback - and then, suddenly, her eyes widened, too. ‘Oh no!’
‘Oh yes!’ Triumphantly, Eve turned back to me. ‘Our Lilly is eloping!’
My mouth dropped open.
‘What?’ The word that came out of Patsy’s mouth was half harpy’s shriek, half blood-thirsty warcry.
‘Ooooh yes.’ Eve was practically hopping up and down with excitement. ‘Our Lilly has found herself a paramour, and she’s going to run off with him, and they’re going to travel all the way up the big north road to Scotland, you know, that little village right on the border called Gretna Green[2], where you can get married no matter where you’re from or how old you are, and your parents or guardians can’t do anything about it! And it’s gonna be a big scandal, and she’ll be infamous, and all of the people in the street will point at her and say “See? That’s the girl who ran away!” and we’ll be infamous, too, because we’re her friends! And her aunt will throw herself from the rooftop because of the shame - oh, that will be great fun! - and her uncle will forbid her to ever come into his house again, and it will all be so exciting!’
Flora’s eyes went even bigger. ‘R-really? Lilly is going to run away with a man?’
‘She’s been corrupted by the insidious influence of patriarchy,’ Patsy pronounced, sinisterly.
‘Oh! That’s so romantic.’
I had listened open-mouthed up to that point, but now it was high time to intervene.
‘Now wait a minute, everyone.’ I raised a hand. ‘I most certainly don’t plan to-’
‘Romantic? No, it’s not!’ Patsy talked right over me, rounding on Flora. ‘How can you say such a thing? Lilly is forsaking her friends, her life’s work…and for what? For a man?’
‘For love!’
‘Love! Bah!’ Patsy gave a snort like a knight’s charger. ‘Love is nothing but an illusion, a myth perpetuated by the patriarchy to gain women’s willing cooperation for the slavery that is marriage! Oh, that I have to watch my best friend fall into that most insidious of masculine traps…’
‘I’m not!’ I protested. ‘I swear I’m not!’
‘…I can hardly bear the shame,’ she continued, completely ignoring me. ‘It is a black day for the feminist cause. A black day indeed.’
I tried a few more times to convince them that I was not being swept off my feet by a ravishing rake and carried to an impromptu altar in the wild north of Scotland - but to no avail. Patsy simply didn’t listen, continuing to bemoan the loss of her best friend and the blow that was to the feminist cause. And as for Eve and Flora - they looked so crestfallen whenever I tried to convince them that I was not, in fact, eloping with my secret paramour, that I didn’t have the heart to disabuse them.
Why try, anyway? I couldn’t very well tell them the truth. Tell Patsy that I was going north with a man who regularly paid me money for accompanying him and had taken me for a nice little visit to a whorehouse yesterday? Yep, that would be just great. Mr Ambrose wouldn’t survive the day. I could see the headline now: Businessman stabbed to death with sharpened parasol. Investigation ongoing.
So why not just let them believe the horrifyingly romantic hogwash? They would realise the truth as soon as I came back without a ring on my finger.
Unless…
I stomped down on that thought before it could go anywhere. Unless nothing! Nothing whatsoever! I didn’t have time to think about unless. I had work to do.
After a day filled with packing and organising, I said my final goodbyes to my family and friends that evening. Patsy was still outraged, but instead of punching me, she simply tried to hug me to death. Eve and Flora did a lot of giggling and squealing, and insisted on giving me an endless stream of wedding advice - quite impressive, considering that neither of them was actually married. Ella cried and clung to me and made me promise to write as often as I could buy, borrow or steal paper and ink. My other sisters, Gertrude, Lisbeth, Anne and Maria, were far less effusive in their affections for me, the former two because they didn’t like to show them, and the latter two because they didn’t have any. Aunt Brank gave me another ‘why aren’t you gone already?’ look, and dear old Uncle Bufford…
Well, he didn’t actually come out of his upstairs study, so I had no idea what his reaction was. But I’m sure he gave at least a friendly grumble into his beard. The two of us had started to get along quite well since I’d informed him I didn’t need him to pay me an allowance anymore.
Finally, I went to bed, expecting to get a good night’s sleep before my big trip tomorrow - but no such luck. The moment my head touched the pillow, a million pictures, possibilities and unanswered questions started to rise up inside me.
Mr Ambrose opening his watch, a noble family’s crest engraved upon the lid…
Mr Ambrose and Lord Dalgliesh shaking hands like they wanted to break each other’s bones…
&
nbsp; The Ambrose family name in an edition of Burke’s Peerage…
Years and years of letters from Mr Ambrose’s mother - all unanswered.
There was too much unanswered all around. Questions, especially. Why this distance between Mr Ambrose and his family? Where did the enmity with Lord Dalgliesh stem from? What in God’s name was the name of the very much self-made businessman Rikkard Ambrose doing in Burke’s Peerage? And, most importantly: what would happen once Mr Ambrose and I were ensconced in the carriage, all alone, huddled close together on our way up north?
The mere thought made my heart dance a galop.
One thing was for sure: the north held answers. About Mr Ambrose. About me. And maybe, just maybe, about the two of us together.
That was my last thought before, finally, darkness claimed me and I drifted off to sleep.
The next morning, I got up on tiptoes at the ungodly hour of five a.m. and was about to sneak downstairs so I wouldn’t wake anyone - only to find Ella and my three best friends all waiting to ambush me at the back door. Phew, was I glad I hadn’t changed into my tailcoat and trousers yet!
‘You didn’t really think we’d let you slip away without a last goodbye, did you?’ Ella demanded, tears shimmering in her eyes. Throwing her arms around me, she pulled me close. ‘Safe journey, Lill! Do you have everything? Warm woollens? Something to eat on the road? Your gloves?’
‘My glo - oh.’ I cleared my throat. ‘Oh, yes. I have my, um, gloves.’
‘Well, whoever they are for, I hope they fit well.’
I felt my ears grow hot. ‘I certainly do so, too.’
‘And when you’re back, you’ll tell me everything, all right?’
‘Well…maybe not everything.’
Patsy chose that moment to shoulder Ella aside and enfold me in a vice-tight grip. ‘It’s not too late! You can abandon that fool of a man and come to your senses.’
I gave her a sad little smile. ‘No, I don’t think I can.’
Patsy gave me another hug, and a grim pat on the back. ‘Nice knowing you.’
Next I was engulfed by the squealing whirlwind that was Flora and Eve. It went on like that for quite a while - Patsy uttering curses against the patriarchy, Ella sniffling into her handkerchief, and Eve and Flora showering me with their best wishes for my health and happiness, which earned them a few confused looks from my little sister. I hugged everyone at least three times, and when I finally had gotten Patsy to let go of me, I hurried down the street, trying to tell myself that, no, those were not tears threatening at the corners of my eyes. It had simply rained on my face at some point during the day, and I hadn’t noticed up until now.
*~*~**~*~*
Ten minutes later, I stood in Smithfield Market in Clerkenwell, London, beside the most rickety, uncomfortable, and, most of all, cheapest rental carriage within the entire United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland. In front of the coach stood a team of four horses, led by the irritable old nag that had drawn Mr Ambrose’s chaise since I could remember. I had changed in the garden shed before setting out, and now wore my usual tailcoat, pinstriped trousers and peacock vest. And I was stomping my feet, profoundly wishing I was wearing more. It was freezing outside, the winter chill biting into me from all sides, snow and slush spattered all over my trousers.
And do you want to know why I was out here, freezing my butt off? Why I wasn’t already in the coach and on my way?
Yep, that’s right: Mr Ambrose was late. Mr Rikkard ‘knowledge is power is time is money’ Ambrose was late!
‘Blast him!’ I managed to get out through my chattering teeth. ‘Blast him all the way to hell and back! All this because he is afraid of his mo-’
‘Yes, Mr Linton?’ came a cool voice from right behind me.
I shut up.
I swallowed.
Slowly, I turned around and faced him. He was standing there, not a speck of snow on his impeccable black trousers, his cold eyes glinting as if he were the Prince and Supreme Ruler of this frozen world.
‘You’re late,’ I told him.
Reaching into his pocket, he let his watch snap open. ‘Six a.m. precisely. Your watch must be fast. Kindly correct this deplorable imprecision.’ And without another word, he stepped past me into the coach. A set of heavy footsteps approached, and there was Karim, Mr Ambrose’s personal bodyguard and beggar-deterrent. The huge Mohammedan gave me his customary greeting - a sinister look and a growl - and swung himself up onto the box, gripping the reins.
‘What are you waiting for, Mr Linton?’ Mr Ambrose called from inside. ‘The road awaits!’
Squaring my shoulders, I straightened, and stepped towards the carriage with a smile. You have no idea. The road isn’t the only thing that awaits you…
South and North
‘So…where does this family of yours live, exactly?’
‘In the North.’
I gave him a look. ‘I had surmised as much from the fact that we’re travelling on the Great Northern Road.’
‘Indeed?’
‘Yes, indeed, Sir.’
I waited for more. Nothing came. Nothing but the pictures my own imagination could conjure up. In the beginning, from the moment Mr Ambrose had first hinted he came from the North, I had always pictured some ice-cold, windy Scottish castle on top of a cliff, with no glass in the windows, and an underground vault filled with a life’s worth of hoarded treasure. However, when I had voiced these theories, Mr Ambrose had looked at me as if I were a particularly repellent cockroach and informed me coolly that he had not and did never intend to live in Scotland, that he was a one hundred per cent English gentleman and did not appreciate my suggesting anything to the contrary.
Of course I didn’t believe a word. The man had to be Scottish! He had to be! He hadn’t bought new underwear in over ten years. If that didn’t scream ‘Highlander’, I didn’t know what did.
Still, it was a sensitive subject, so it might be best to proceed with caution.
‘Okay, let’s start crossing off possibilities,’ I murmured. ‘Do your parents live in a castle?’
‘No.’
‘A palace?’
‘No.’
‘A townhouse?’
‘No.’
‘A henhouse?’
No answer.
‘Ah. So a henhouse it is, then.’
Mr Ambrose raised his gaze from the papers he had been studying. ‘They do not live in a henhouse, Mr Linton. They live in…’ A muscle in his cheek twitched. It was over and done with in a fraction of a second, but I saw it all right. Oh yes, I did. ‘…in a manor in the country.’
I casually leant closer, and enquired, ‘In which part of Scotland?’
A moment of silence.
A long one.
‘Mr Linton?’
‘Yes, Mr Ambrose, Sir?’
‘You know perfectly well that they do not live in Scotland! For the last time, I am not Scottish, and neither are they, and the same applies to my grandparents and their parents before them.’
I raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s what you say. I still doubt it’s physically possible for anyone to be as stingy as you are if they don’t have at least a drop of Scottish blood running through their veins.’
‘I resent that implication, Mr Linton.’
‘Indeed, Sir?’
‘It is perfectly possible for an Englishman to be as frugal, prudent and economical as any Scotsman.’
‘If you say so, Sir.’
With a cool look, he returned to studying his papers. I, for my part pulled out a book I had acquired as a little light reading for the journey: The Stingy Scotsman - One-thousand Hilarious Jokes. It really was hilarious reading, particularly if, like me, you had a pencil with you, and busied yourself replacing the words ‘a Scotsman’ with ‘Rikkard Ambrose’.
This led to some quite interesting results…
What is Rikkard Ambrose’s recipe for tomato soup? Heat a quarter gallon of water, and then fill it into red bowls.
; Or how about this one:
Rikkard Ambrose accompanies a friend to the doctor. The doctor tells him, ‘Your friend needs fresh sea air to get well again.’ Mr Ambrose is very concerned, so the very next day, he gifts his friend with a free treatment: a full-time, unpaid job in his fishmonger business.
Another one on the great value of a wonderful friendship:
Mr Rikkard Ambrose’s friend is dying. Rikkard Ambrose kneels beside his bed and gently takes his hand. ‘Anything I can do for you? Any last requests?’ His friend points towards the table next to the bed, where a meal is prepared. ‘J-just one bite of that cake….please…’ Mr Ambrose shakes his head, sternly. ‘Now, really! You know very well that’s for the funeral reception. I can’t waste money buying another one.’
Or, a sweet, romantic one:
Why would Rikkard Ambrose love to marry on February 29? Because then he’d only have to pay for an anniversary gift every four years.
And my current favourite:
At an auction, a wealthy lord announces that he has lost his wallet containing £10,000 and will give a reward of £100 to the person who finds it. From the back of the crowd, Mr Rikkard Ambrose calls, ‘I bid a hundred and ten!’
‘Something funny, Mr Linton?’
Glancing up, I saw Mr Ambrose was staring at me - and only then did I realise I had been giggling.
‘Um…no, Sir. Nothing. Nothing at all.’
‘Indeed?’
A blast of cold wind hit the carriage, and I drew my tailcoat tighter around me. Bloody hell! This carriage was about as warm and comfortable as a can of sardines. But I should be glad that Mr Ambrose agreed to rent a carriage with a roof for the journey. It had taken quite some time to convince him that being caught in the middle of a snow storm in an open chaise wasn’t a good idea.
Well, as long as it was cold, why not use it to my advantage?
Putting aside my book, I rose. Mr Ambrose showed no sign of noticing that I was moving until I settled myself down on the other bench, right next to him.
‘Mr Linton!’
‘Yes?’
‘What are you doing?’
‘Keeping warm, Sir.’
