by Robert Thier
The coach was waiting for us, freed of snow, all four horses ready and waiting, and Karim standing next to them like an extremely large, extremely bearded watchdog. He held open the coach door for Mr Ambrose, then slammed it shut so I had to open it again myself. Ah, the manners of a true gentleman…it was a wonderful thing to experience. Simply wonderful.
The moment the door shut behind us, Mr Ambrose slammed his cane against the roof. ‘To Battlewood!’
And despite the beautiful winter world around us, I couldn’t help feeling the name of the place would turn out to be an omen.
We rolled out of the yard, and, glancing back, I saw the landlord standing in front of the door, surrounded by a gaggle of servants and curious guests, wildly gesticulating after us. Over the rattle of the carriage wheel, I could just hear the words ‘Ambrose’ and… ‘air’?
Were they complaining about the cold air?
No. Not ‘air’ I realised with a sudden, chilling certainty. ‘Heir.’
Slowly, my eyes wandered over to Mr Ambrose, sitting stiff as a poker on the other bench. Not just a son, then. The son.
Silence reigned all around as the coach whizzed through the winter wonderland. Sparkling crystals of freshly fallen snow whizzed up into the air on either side, surrounding us with a glittering halo. Soon, the path we were travelling on was engulfed by a tall, proud forest, interspersed with beautiful clearings and glittering, frozen lakes. Game abounded everywhere, deer and rabbits poking their heads out of the trees right and left. Dear God… did all this country belong to his family?
Finally, the forest opened up and we rolled out onto a broad, snow-covered meadow on the other side of which stood a low stone wall. In its centre, a tall cast iron gate rose towards the sky. And in front of the gate, ready and waiting, stood old Elsby, a younger servant slouching against the wall behind him.
The moment they caught sight of the coach, Elsby took a deep breath and the young servant jerked up, as if right up until then, he hadn’t believed anyone was actually coming.
‘Move, boy!’ The old man gave his young companion a whack. ‘Get the gate open! And then run up to the house and tell Her Ladyship that our guests are here. Master Rikkard has come home!’
The gate swung open, and we rolled up the driveway. The coach came around a bend, and another. Finally, I caught sight of smoke rising in the distance. Chimneys! We were approaching the house. Slowing down, the coach rolled around a final bend and…
Oh, dear merciful Lord!
(Motherly) Love
What sort of house would you expect Rikkard Ambrose to have grown up in? Something massive and austere, maybe. Something like Empire House, where all the walls were bare grey stone and the only decorations were the skid marks of busy feet on the hard floor. But this…
Battlewood Hall was a palace. There simply was no other way to put it. A palace.
On either side of a portico held up by six tall Corinthian columns, the wings of the house spread out like those of a giant eagle. Colonnades ranged along both wings, interrupted only by the glitter of glass where a winter garden dared to boldly rise out of the snow, defying the winter’s cold with its lush green vegetation and beautiful, colourful blossoms. The wings of the Hall stretched around a wide courtyard, in the centre of which rose a sculpted fountain bigger than any I had seen in London. In summer, I was sure, it would have been spraying sparkling jets of water in every direction. In winter, laden with snow, it rose towards the sky like the world’s largest, most beautiful ice sculpture.
Figures were arrayed before the entrance. As the coach rolled closer, I could see that most were clad in the uniforms of footmen and chambermaids. The line of servants stretched for at least thirty yards. On the stairs in the shadow of the portico, I glimpsed a figure in a familiar pink dress, and beside her another, slimmer, taller figure with her raven hair falling in wild curls down her back.
‘Ho!’ with a rumble, Karim reigned in the horses and, driving a half-circle around the frozen fountain, came to a halt directly in front of the line of servants. White glitter sprayed up, giving several of the footmen a sugar coating.
One of the servants - presumably the butler - stepped forward to open the door of the carriage, but then he caught Karim’s look, and retreated quicker than Napoleon at Waterloo. Turban raised proudly, Karim marched to the door and pulled it open.
‘Sahib?’
‘Why, thank you.’ Giving him a broad smile, I slid out of the coach. ‘So kind of you.’
Karim muttered something in a language I - and thankfully everyone else, too - did not understand. Ignoring him, I stretched, breathing in a lungful of fresh air and eying the staff who, in turn, were regarding me with wagonloads of veiled curiosity. I heard whispers, too low to understand but loud enough to send a shiver down my back.
The looks, the whispers - it all stopped the instant the door of the coach creaked behind me and Rikkard Ambrose stepped out into the open in all his chiselled, austere beauty. His face was as impassive as ever. He surveyed the scene in front of us as if he was looking at a cheap two-storey pub in the East End of London. Deadly silence reigned.
‘Who is in charge here?’ he demanded.
A man in a butler’s uniform that looked ten times as new and shiny as Mr Ambrose’s tailcoat tentatively stepped forward, clearing his throat.
‘Mr Elsby, as steward, is the highest-ranking member of the staff, My Lord. But I handle most of the day-to-day running of the house. I’m the butler. Hastings is my name, My Lord. Welcome home. May I introduce the staff to you?’
‘No,’ Mr Ambrose told him. ‘And do not call me “My Lord”.’
‘Um…’
‘Karim will show you where our luggage is kept. I expect everything to be in my room and unpacked in ten minutes maximum. There are some very important papers I must go through before noon. Understood?’
‘Y-yes, My Lor- Your Lo- Sir. Yes. Definitely, Sir.’
‘Adequate. Come, Mr Linton.’
And we strode past the line of now openly gawping servants, towards the portico. The two figures waiting in its shadow now moved for the first time, shifting, leaning forward. I looked up and, yes, it was indeed her. Samantha Genevieve Ambrose, the mother of Rikkard Ambrose and mistress of this house. Although the tall, raven-haired young woman standing beside the little lady in the pink dress looked far more like she was in charge than her mother.
His sister.
Mr Ambrose had a sister. And a mother. And a father, too, if things had worked the normal way when he had been brought into this world. It was still a difficult concept to wrap my mind around.
The marchioness stood there on the top step, trembling, hardly able to stand still. My heart ached for the mother clearly desperate to enfold her son in her arms. The instant we were past the servants, she rushed forward, down the steps, straight towards us, and threw her arms around -
- me?
Sweet, innocent little me! What had I done to deserve this? And what was I supposed to do now? I hadn’t been hugged by any creature that was remotely motherly since my own mother had died when I was five years old! Panic shot through me. What in God’s name should I do? How did one respond to a motherly hug? I hardly doubted that the response I gave when hugged by my friends - a pat on the back and a friendly jab with my parasol - would be suitable in this situation. Anyway, I didn’t even have my parasol, and I was being engulfed in all this warm, soft, motherly pinkness and…and… oh, what should I do? Where should I put my hands? And what, oh what had I done to deserve this?
‘Thank you!’ she sobbed into my peacock vest. ‘Thank you for bringing my son home.’
Oh. That. Right.
‘I have legs and a brain, Mother,’ came a cool voice from outside the cocoon of pinkness that engulfed me. ‘I can move without Mr Linton’s assistance.’
Letting go of me - Thank you, merciful God! I’ll start going to church again! - Lady Samantha whirled on her son and stabbed an accusing finger into his gut. ‘
What took you so long?’
‘I had business in town to conclude. I-’
Not letting him finish, she threw her arms around him, too, smothering his words with motherliness. ‘Oh, Rick, I…I can’t believe that finally…!’
He stiffened, disapproval practically oozing out of his ears. ‘Marchioness! You forget yourself.’
‘Don’t you marchioness me, boy! You are my son, and I am your mother. Oh, thank the Lord you’re finally back again! We’re going to hold a big ball in honour of your return. Everyone will know that the heir of Battlewood, my son, has returned.’
He tried to squirm out of her grip, but Lady Samantha seemed to possess supernatural strength when in mother mode. Her slim arms remained firmly fixed around him. ‘That’s really not necessary, Mother. I don’t think that-’
‘Poppycock! This house hasn’t seen a proper feast for over a decade! And who else deserves a celebration if not my only son? Besides, it’ll be Christmas soon. Who doesn’t celebrate Christmas?’
Mr Ambrose opened his mouth - presumably to start listing people who didn’t, beginning with him - but was cut off when his mother pulled him into another hug.
I was so busy staring, I didn’t realise someone else had approached me until that someone cleared her throat. Glancing up, I noticed the tall, proud, black-haired girl standing in front of me with a chagrined expression that she clearly had to work hard to maintain.
‘Mr Linton, is it? Mother told me what you did,’ she murmured. ‘How you helped her get through to my brother. I’m sorry if I came off a bit…gruff during our first meeting back in London.’
I smiled at her. ‘No problem. Confident, strong-minded women are the future of this world.’
She blinked. ‘You really believe that?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘What a refreshing change to meet a man with sense for once. You and I,’ she declared while, behind her, her brother was trying to pry free of the tentacles of the Pink Mother Kraken, ‘are going to be great friends.’
Turning to the servants she clapped her hands. ‘All right! Have the doors opened, Hastings. Everyone inside. Mr Linton, let me introduce you to the staff, since my brother thinks himself too high and mighty to bother.’
We started up the stairs, surrounded by a gaggle of servants. I glanced back once at Mr Ambrose, who still seemed to be wrestling with an overdose of motherly affection, and wondered whether I should go rescue him. But he was a big boy. He could take care of himself. Probably.
‘Well now…let’s get the introductions out of the way - first of all my own, since I neglected introducing myself the first time we met. My name is Lady Adaira Louise Jannet Melanie Georgette Ambrose. But since I don’t want to give you a headache, Lady Adaira will be fine. Now, as for the staff…Elsby and Hastings you’ve already met, I believe. This is Sally, along with her fellow housemaids, Ethel, Grace, Edna and Mabel. Then we have the parlourmaids, Ada, Cora, Jennie and Daisy; the chambermaids, Kathryn, Eva, Jennie - not to be confused with the other Jennie! - and Frances; the footmen, Jack, Oscar, Willie, Roy, Reginald and Allen; the second footman, Albert; the first footman, Floyd…’
Soon, my head started buzzing with names, and I didn’t even try to pay attention anymore. It was hard enough to hold on to any of their names, let alone all of them. What did it matter if I was a little inattentive in regard to the servants? It wasn’t as if this was life and death situation, right?
Boy, was I ever wrong.
‘…and this is Marsden, who will be attending to your personal needs.’
Screech! Halt! Complete and utter brain stop! What did she just say?
‘Um…’ I cleared my throat. ‘Attending to my personal needs?’
She gave me a smile. ‘Yes. While you’re our guest, he’ll be your valet.’
‘My valet. As in…the man who will help me dress every morning and undress every evening?’
‘Yes.’
I glanced at Marsden, an older, friendly-looking man with a bald spot on his head and a slightly vague smile on his face. I didn’t think he was prepared for what would pop out when he helped me undress in the evening. And to be honest, neither was I!
‘I, um…don’t think that will be necessary, really. I, err…am very self-sufficient. Besides, I am not really a guest. I am part of the staff myself. I should stay in the servants’ quarters.’
‘Aww! Do you hear that?’ Suddenly, Lady Samantha was beside me, squeezing my hand. ‘Such a nice, modest young man! Wherever did you find him, Rick?’
Mr Ambrose muttered something that sounded suspiciously like ‘in the madhouse.’ His mother ignored him, instead smiling up at me.
‘Really, Mr Linton, you must think of yourself as a guest. Without you, this reunion would never have happened.’
‘Very true,’ came Mr Ambrose’s cool voice from behind us. Everyone ignored him.
‘I won’t hear of you staying anywhere else but with the family,’ Lady Samantha was telling me, patting my hand. It made me feel oddly warm and squishy inside. ‘I won’t force Marsden on you if you’re used to getting along on your own, but you’ll be in our second-best guest chamber, right next to Rick.’
Oh? So I’ll be right next to Rick, will I?
I smiled. ‘That sounds like an excellent arrangement.’
Behind me, Mr Ambrose muttered something too low to understand. Maybe it was better that way.
*~*~**~*~*
Once I’d seen my room, I decided that fate had to be in a good mood right now. It was a palatial place with a king-sized four-poster bed, damask curtains, wood panelled walls decorated in gold and silver, and, most important of all: a connecting door to the rooms of Mr Rikkard Ambrose. Without a lock.
A fact which he, happily, hadn’t noticed so far, being far too busy with aggressively not answering his mother’s questions about life in London.
Fifteen years!
I couldn’t imagine being a mother. But if I were, and if my child were away from me for that long…
I shuddered.
What on earth could have happened?
I had no idea. But I knew this much: it had been something bad. I saw it every time tears glittered in Lady Samantha’s eyes or she stumbled over words and suddenly broke off in the middle of a sentence. I saw it every time her daughter bit her lip in anger and held back irate comments. And I saw it in the big, empty hole that was left by the person who wasn’t even there to greet Mr Ambrose: his father.
Lady Adaira and her mother did their best to conceal it, dragging him into the drawing room and peppering him with endless small talk, which he icily ignored, but after an hour or so it was becoming painfully obvious that his father had no intention of coming down. Mr Ambrose didn’t demand to know what was going on, didn’t question the servant about whether his father was out riding - but he did stand up and march to the window that overlooked the stables. Sure enough, there, in front of the place where both horses and coaches were kept, lay smooth, untouched snow. And it hadn’t snowed since last night. Nobody was out. His father was in the house.
The muscles in Mr Ambrose’s jaw tightened.
Hours dragged by. We sat in tense silence, waiting for a royal summons. I exchanged nervous glances with Lady Samantha while Lady Adaira muttered unladylike things under her breath, and Mr Ambrose got colder and colder, harder and harder, with every passing minute. Finally, Hastings the butler descended from upstairs and, approaching Mr Ambrose, bowed.
‘His Lordship is ready to receive you now, Sir.’
‘Indeed?’ Mr Ambrose’s face didn’t show a spark of emotion. It was a mask of cold stone, with not a crack anywhere in sight. ‘But I am not. Pray tell his Lordship that I shall be ready to receive him in half an hour. I shall await him in the small green drawing room.’
And with that, he turned and strode away, leaving the butler standing open-mouthed.
My fingers clenched into a fist, and I couldn’t suppress a grin. Bravo! Show him!
My warm glo
w of pride lasted about as long as it took me to glance at Lady Samantha’s face.
The day didn’t exactly get better from there. Mr Ambrose didn’t show up for lunch, and neither did his father. In a weird way, it made sitting at the huge table in the dining room feel almost like home: all the ladies gathered around the table, with the male population of the house off stewing in their rooms somewhere.
More time passed, and dinner arrived. Once more, the three of us gathered around the table, trying desperately not to stare at the empty seat at the head - that is, until Mr Ambrose strode in and sat down in it.
‘That is father’s chair!’ Lady Adaira exclaimed.
Mr Ambrose met her eyes, coolly. ‘He doesn’t seem to be using it, does he?’
‘Yes, but-’
‘Besides,’ Mr Ambrose continued, his gaze hardening, ‘are you so sure the chair truly belongs to him?’
He held her gaze for a moment - then she looked away.
What was that all about?
I was dying to ask, but didn’t dare.
Dinner was - surprise, surprise - a rather tense affair. Mr Ambrose sat there, practising his master craft of silence, while we raw beginners sat around and somehow, while saying not a word, didn’t manage to be nearly as silent as he was. Every breath he took seemed to suck sound and warmth from the air, and Lady Samantha was looking more miserable with every second.
I didn’t understand this! From the bits and pieces I had heard, whatever had happened to separate the family, it hadn’t been Mr Ambrose’s fault, had it? This was so infuriating! I wanted to go up there and shake some sense into the old man who didn’t swallow his pride to welcome home his son.
Plus, if the marquess thought that Mr Ambrose would be the one to swallow his pride, he hadn’t reckoned on two things:
1. The size of Mr Ambrose’s pride relative to that of his throat.
2. The infrequency with which Mr Ambrose opened his mouth for any reason, including swallowing.
‘It has been a long day.’ Shoving away his plate, Mr Ambrose rose to his feet. ‘And I still have much work to finish. If you will excuse me, Mother, Lady Adaira, Mr Linton.’
