by Robert Thier
‘This is impossible!’ I swiped my riding crop through the air, just barely missing Captain Carter’s head. ‘I’m sure I could do it if not for this infernal sidesaddle! I’m sitting on this thing like an oyster on a serving tray! How am I supposed to ride while staring off to the side? I have to see what’s coming ahead, don’t I?’
‘Yes of course, and you can. Just slip your one leg over the pommel, and-’
‘But then I’ll be sitting all twisted up! I’ll have a back ache the size of Yorkshire when I get off this thing. And besides, it’s unnecessary! Why should I twist myself up when I could just be sitting straight and looking ahead?’
The captain blinked at me, confused. ‘Well…because that’s not possible on a sidesaddle.’
And that really was the crux of the problem, I realised later as I trudged back through the snow towards the stable. I wanted to learn to ride, yes, but…like this? Arranged like a pretty bouquet of flowers, hardly able to see where I was going, unable to ride faster than a brisk trot?
No! A hundred, a thousand times no!
Snow began to fall as I approached the stable, obliterating my tracks. My mouth quirked up in a smile that didn’t really have much humour in it. How fitting. All traces of my brief foray into the equestrian world would soon be gone. As if I’d never been there in the first place.
‘Well, maybe it’s better this way,’ I sighed, patting my horse on the neck. ‘After all, I wouldn’t want to have to bother with a beast like you for the rest of my life, would I?’
In response, the nice little horsey tried to bite my fingers off.
‘Yes, that’s right. You’re a sweet, bloodthirsty monster. Should I see if I have an apple and a lump of arsenic for you?’
I reached the stable without loss of limb. Looking back, I sighed. The light snow falling outside had turned the world into a glittery wonderland. The thought of rushing through that beautiful place, uphill and down across the valleys…
‘Welcome back, Mr Linton.’
I didn’t even have to turn to know who it was. Even if it hadn’t been for that familiar, icy tone, only one man in the entire world would address me as ‘Mister’ while I was dressed in a lady’s riding costume.
‘Come here to gloat, did you?’ I asked, reaching up to unfasten the saddle. ‘Go ahead.’
‘Gloat? I do not waste precious seconds on such a senseless activity. It is enough to know I was right. I don’t need to indulge in frivolous pleasure by reminding others of the fact. Knowledge is power is time is money. Remember?’
‘I do.’ Huffing, I pulled down the heavy sidesaddle and wiped sweat off my forehead. ‘Which is why I’m sure you have some place to be. Aren’t there any important memos for you to read or contracts to review?’
I reached for straw to rub the beast down.
‘Stop.’
I froze. I didn’t mean to. There was just something about Mr Ambrose’s voice that said: first instinct = obey!
‘Let’s make a deal,’ I sighed, tightening my grip on the straw. ‘You leave me to my business, and I’ll leave you to yours.’
Soft footsteps approached from behind me.
‘This is my business. Drop the straw. The horse isn’t yet done for the day. It has work to do.’
I didn’t want to feel it. I really didn’t. But I couldn’t help it: a sting of jealousy swept through me.
‘Are you going riding with someone, Sir?’
With one of the hyenas?
The footsteps came even closer. Mr Ambrose appeared in my field of vision, looking impossibly perfect, self-possessed and powerful in black boots, a black tailcoat and grey riding breeches. How did he do it? The clothes looked well past their prime. They were probably just as old and moth-eaten as anything else he owned. And despite that - no, because of it - he looked more of a man than any I had clapped eye upon before.
‘Yes, as it happens I am going riding with someone,’ he told me.
Who? Bloody Hell, who?
‘Put a normal saddle on, will you?’
Relief flooded through me. It was a man!
But the question still remained - who?
His eyes met mine, and there was icy fire in them.
‘When you’re finished with the saddle - go get your trousers, Mr Linton.’
It took a moment for the meaning of his words to sink in. When it finally did, a slow but radiant smile spread across my face.
‘You…you don’t mean you’re going to…?’
‘Trousers, Mr Linton. Now.’
My grin blossoming into a full-blown beaming smile, I saluted and scurried off. For once, I was happy to let myself be bossed around. In a matter of minutes, I was back in the stable. Two horses stood ready and waiting at the open doors. Mr Ambrose was already in the saddle of the white stallion that made a startling contrast to his austere dark wardrobe. My charming horsey was prancing around beside him, waiting for its next dish of bitten-off fingers.
I shut the door behind me. Mr Ambrose looked around. ‘Ah, Mr Linton. You are here.’
Our eyes met.
There was no need for words. No need for a please or thank you, or anything else. In that one look, we told each other more than other people did in a lifetime. He was here for me. He knew what I wanted. What I needed. And he was willing to give it to me. Despite this meaning he would have to give up the most precious thing he possessed: his time.
Oh dear.
I was in deep. Terrifyingly deep.
‘Quit standing there like a spare lemon, Mr Linton. Let’s go!’
‘Yes, Si-’
Before I could even finish the word, he’d given his mount the spurs, and it dashed out into the white wonderland, spraying up diamond dust with its hooves. The snowy stallion nearly disappeared into the sparkling white whirl, making it seem as if Mr Rikkard Ambrose flew across the land by his own power alone. Swallowing at the sight, I took my own horse by the reins.
‘Come on, beastie. We’d better go join him.’
And I stepped outside.
‘What are you waiting for?’ In a whirl of white. Mr Ambrose circled me and came to a stop beside me. ‘Up into the saddle!’
‘Yes, Sir!’
I was up in the saddle before the horse know what hit it. When it realised what had just been dumped onto its back, the beast pranced, whinnying in protest.
‘Hey! I’m not that heavy!’
‘The horse is intelligent, Mr Linton. It realises that you’re nervous.’ Mr Ambrose appeared beside me, grabbing the reins. Instantly, the beast calmed. ‘Show some confidence! Sit up straight.’
My first instinct was to give a biting reply. But I guessed that, as long as I wanted him to teach me, I more or less had to do what he said. Clamping my legs around the horse to get a tighter hold on it, I straightened my back.
‘No! Not like this. You’re stiff as a board, Mr Linton. Relax your back and your legs. If you clamp on like a limpet, the horse won’t be able to move freely. Relax.’
‘Oh wonder of wonders! God be praised! I’d never thought I’d live to see the day when you tell me to relax.’
‘Wipe that smirk off your face and concentrate, Mr Linton.’
‘Yes, Sir! Right away, Sir!’
‘Now, make sure your grip on the reins is not too tight and not too loose. Your arms and the reins should form one straight line. No! Not your whole arms, just your forearms. And loosen your hips. You have to move with the horse, and under no circumstances should you-’
As I sat there and listened, a strange feeling came over me. It was almost a premonition. Was I turning psychic? I suddenly had a firm feeling that Rikkard Ambrose was going to be a lot less patient a teacher than Captain James Carter.
So what, as long as he teaches me what I want to learn?
I smiled.
*~*~**~*~*
Time passed in a blur. After only a few lessons, I had passed from trotting around the yard to galloping across the snowclad meadows, hair flying in the icy air. Du
ring the next few days, Mr Ambrose and I raced each other around the manor house, rode into town, and every so often made trips into the solitary forest, watching the birds that had decided to stay and tough out the winter - all of course under the guise of helping me learn to ride. But now and again, when he would ride close to me or correct my position, his eyes and his hands would linger, and unspoken words would dance in the air with the snowflakes.
But the riding itself wasn’t even the best part: no, what I particularly enjoyed was watching the hyenas from a distance as they desperately (and fruitlessly) searched for their new, mysterious rival Miss Lillian Linton, all the while wondering why the heck Mr Rikkard Ambrose would spend all his priceless time riding around with his little bumpkin of a secretary when he had a covey of beautiful women at his beck and call.
Poor dears! Life was frustrating sometimes, wasn’t it?
Lady Samantha was a little more problematic. Apparently, the grandmotherly old lady had decided to take Miss Lillian Linton under her wing. And when she couldn’t find her for hours on end, she became nearly hysterical. I - that is, the male I - had to stop her several times from sending Captain Carter off to his regiment, to gather a search party and turn the whole county upside down.
As for the good captain himself - he didn’t make any more overt attempts to capture my attention, like the riding lesson. It made me hope, for just a moment, that he’d given up. But then I would walk past him in my lady clothes, and his eyes would follow me intently, and I realised I’d been wrong.
He hadn’t given up. And, for the first time in my life, I found myself wondering how to let down a man gently. Up until now, I had been more interested in ramming them head-first into the ground. How did one do it? Was it possible?
Note to self: think about this in greater detail when you aren’t having this much fun.
I was on another morning ride with Mr Ambrose when it happened. We had just passed a little hunting cottage that looked charming with its roof and chimney all covered in sparkling snow, and were about to turn back, when Mr Ambrose pulled on the reins and brought his stallion to an abrupt halt.
‘What is it?’ I asked. ‘Do you-’
His hand shot up, silencing me in one single, swift motion. And then I heard it: soft thuds in the distance. Hoof beats. Hoof beats that were approaching fast.
‘What’s the trouble?’ I whispered. ‘It’s probably just one of the other guests.’
A minute shake of the head. ‘No. None of the others were out when we left. We rode hard, and in a straight line. No one could have overtaken us. Whoever it is, it’s a stranger.’
In a flash, his hand darted into his tailcoat. When it came out again, it was holding a gleaming gun, cocked and ready for action. With enviable ease, he turned around his horse one-handed and, cantering off the path, hid behind a clump of trees. Following, I hissed: ‘Don’t you think you’re being a little over-cautious? We’re on your own family’s land. Why wouldn’t you be safe with your family?’
‘As Brutus said to Caesar on the Ides of March.’
I stared at the back of Mr Ambrose’s head. Brutus stabbed Caesar to death. He couldn’t honestly mean that…No, that wasn’t…
Was it?
Good Lord, what had happened between him and his father? What could possibly cut any family in half like this?
The question was driven from my mind a moment later when the hoof beats came around a bend, and a figure appeared in front of us that more than justified Mr Ambrose’s precaution. I gasped.
The man was a wreck. His clothes might have been good quality once, but that was before a factory chimney had vomited all over them. That’s what it looked like, anyway. He was covered from head to toe in soot. Several places were charred and bloody - and not from a fall or other accidents. I’d been with Mr Ambrose long enough to recognise the signs of punches and knife cuts. A slash went down all the way over the left side of his face to his chin, narrowly missing his eye.
In his left hand, the man clutched a rifle.
Maybe - just maybe - Mr Ambrose hadn’t been overreacting after all. I supposed we were about to find out.
‘Stay here,’ Mr Ambrose commanded in an icy whisper. Raising his revolver, he took a firm grip on the reins.
‘Gee-up!’
In a swirl of white, he darted out onto the forest path, gun already aimed and ready to fire. The stranger’s horse shied and nearly hurled him to the ground. With a yelp, he grabbed onto his horse’s neck, desperately holding on. The rifle in his hand came up.
‘Drop that. Now.’
There was no room for debate in Mr Ambrose’s icy voice - and no room for doubt about what would happen if he wasn’t obeyed. The man’s hand froze, rifle half-raised.
‘I don’t like to repeat myself. Drop. Now.’
The rifle clattered to the ground.
His revolver aimed directly at the man’s heart, Mr Ambrose slowly directed his horse forward, until he was only a few yards away from the stranger. ‘Who are you, and what is your business here?’
The stranger licked his dry, dirt-encrusted lips. Wild eyes flickered from Mr Ambrose to me, and back to Mr Ambrose.
‘I’m looking for someone.’
‘Indeed?’ Mr Ambrose cocked his head. ‘And who might that be?’
‘A Mr Rikkard Ambrose. I’m looking for Rikkard Ambrose. Where can I find him?’
Taking Ice to Newcastle
‘I need to see Mr Ambrose immediately,’ the wounded man demanded. ‘Please, do you know where I can find him?’
‘I might.’ Mr Ambrose didn’t lower the gun. ‘What do you want with him?’
‘I haven’t got time for this!’ His hands clenching into fists, the stranger moved to dismount - until Mr Ambrose’s revolver swivelled to point directly at his head.
‘Make time.’
The man swallowed.
‘M-my name is Godfrey Baker. I am an assistant manager at one of Mr Ambrose’s mines at Newcastle.[5] I have to see him! One of his mines-’
‘There was an explosion.’
Mr Baker blinked. ‘How did you know?’
Eyeing the soot-stained clothes of the other man, Mr Ambrose slowly lowered his gun. ‘Let’s just say I am perceptive. But if there was an explosion, what do you need Mr Ambrose for? The manager should be able to manage the situation. That is why he is called manager.’
‘Um…yes, Sir. Except, the late Mr Gibbons isn’t managing much of anything anymore, unless you are talking about lying very, very still in a wooden box. And, um…there’s also this slight other problem…’
‘The workers.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘They’re striking.’
‘Yes, indeed. You are very perceptive, Sir.’
Nudging my horse forward, I approached Mr Baker and eyed the cuts and bruises on his face. ‘From the looks of it, they’ve been striking pretty hard.’
He gave me an exhausted smile. ‘Indeed, Mr…?’
‘Linton. Victor Linton. Private secretary to Mr Rikkard Ambrose.’
‘What? Please, tell me, where can I find him? Where…?’
The man’s voice trailed off, and his eyes slid back to Mr Ambrose, widening in a silent question. Mr Ambrose gave a curt nod.
Baker groaned. ‘Forgive me, Sir. I’ve never had the pleasure of making your acquaintance, but still, I should have realised. I’m not at my best today. I rode all night and all day to reach this place, and haven’t had a decent meal in…well, I don’t even want to think about it.’
‘Then don’t. We don’t have time to waste in any case. Your credentials?’
The man pulled a singed piece of paper from his pocket and handed it over to Mr Ambrose, who studied it briefly and returned it.
‘Adequate. What happened?’
‘Well, as you guessed, Sir, there was an explosion at one of the mines. You know the rumours that have been going around among the workers, about you cutting funding for safety precautions?’
‘Yes. Like I told the manager, completely ridiculous. As if I would ever spend money on something like that in the first place.’
For a few moments, Mr Baker unsuccessfully searched for a polite reply. When he had opened and closed his mouth three times without anything coming out, I decided to help the poor fellow out.
‘You were talking about rumours…?’ I prompted.
‘Ah, yes. The rumours. Of course.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Well, after the explosion, the rumours, well, um…exploded. People believe what happened is your fault, Sir. And quite a few people died in this incident.’
‘Indeed?’
‘Yes, indeed, Sir. And now the miners are rioting, and-’
Mr Ambrose held up one hand. Baker shut up and closed his mouth.
‘Mr Linton?’
I snapped to attention. Not an easy thing to do while sitting on a horse, but I managed. ‘Yes, Sir?’
‘Return to the house. Pack our things, and a few supplies. Meet me back here in ten minutes.’
‘Yes, Sir. Um…should I give our apologies to your mother?’
‘You can give her yours, if you wish. I’m keeping mine.’
With that, Mr Ambrose removed me from his cognition, and turned his intense, sea-coloured eyes on Baker, unleashing a barrage of questions. As I turned my horse and galloped away, their voices faded behind me. It didn’t take long until the house came into view in front of me. A small figure in a pink dress was standing at a downstairs window.
Poor Lady Samantha. I’m sure a miner’s rebellion wasn’t exactly part of her Christmas plans.
True. But right now I had other, much more pressing concerns. With his usual effortless, elegant callousness, Mr Rikkard Ambrose had dropped a nice, big problem into my lap: Mr Linton could make his excuses and ride off with Mr Ambrose. But what about Miss Linton? I had a feeling that, if a smiling Miss Linton were to approach Lady Samantha and say: ‘Hello? I’m sorry to be rushing off in such a hurry. It’s just, there’s a violent uprising in a mining town a few dozen miles away, and I have to go with your son to expose myself to deadly danger and potentially get my head bashed in’, the response might not be very positive.
What to do?
Well, you can always leave without saying anything.
