Storm and Silence

by Thier, Robert

  I did not blush as easily as Ella, but my face might have just been a tiny bit red when I returned to Mr Ambrose’s office, the book in hand. Stopping in front of the large, dark wood desk, I held it out to Mr Ambrose. He waved me away.

  ‘Keep it. It is your responsibility now.’

  ‘But… you didn’t want me to look inside?’

  ‘I didn’t want you to waste time on idle curiosity. Remember: Knowledge is power is time is money.’

  ‘I would have gained knowledge if you had let me read it,’ I pointed out, my rebellious spirit flaring.

  He considered this, the coldness in his eyes for a moment replaced by thoughtfulness. Then something sparked there. Surely I was mistaken, but for just a fraction of a second, it looked almost like… humour?

  ‘True. You may take it home with you and study it in your leisure hours. I shall expect that you have fully familiarized yourself with it by tomorrow morning.’

  My mouth popped open in astonishment.

  ‘What?!’ I demanded. He wanted me to work even after I was out of here?

  He looked at me, not a trace of humour in his face anymore. ‘First you stand around with your eyes closed, now your ears don't seem to be working? I must say, I am quite disappointed in you, Mr Linton.’

  I straightened.

  ‘There is no call for that, I assure you, Sir. I shall have the book memorized by tomorrow, Sir.’ I don't think that anybody had ever managed to make the word 'Sir' sound so much like 'slug'. Mr Ambrose, though, didn’t seem to notice.

  ‘Then we can proceed immediately. Go to the current week.’

  ‘W-what?’

  ‘I am becoming tired of hearing that word, Mr Linton. Go to the current week in the book you are holding. It is an appointment book. It holds my appointments over the year, which is divided into months, which again are divided into weeks. You do know what a week is, Mr Linton?’

  ‘Yes, Sir. I do, Sir.’

  ‘How fortunate. Go to the current week.’

  Quickly, I flitted through the volume until I had found the appropriate page.

  ‘It is your task to enter and keep track of all appointments. If I forget, it is your duty to remind me in time.’

  I looked up, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘You forget appointments?’

  ‘No. In fact I have never forgotten a single appointment in my life. However, better safe than sorry.’

  ‘Is that one of your principles, like the knowledge-power-money thing?’

  ‘You could say so.’

  ‘Maybe I should start a list to keep track of all the wisdom you impart to me.’

  ‘What you should keep track of, Mr Linton, are my appointments. Now, can we return to the matter at hand?’

  ‘Yes, Sir! Of course, Sir!’

  He started rattling off dates at an incredible rate, detailing when and where he was to go exactly. The list went from various factories to places at the harbour, several banks, business associations and meetings. Whatever his business interests were, exactly, they were many and varied. I did my best to take all the dates down in a legible manner, and did pretty well, I think, until he dropped the bomb.

  ‘At three pm on Saturday, I shall be attending the opera.’

  I left a blot of ink on the page.

  ‘What?’

  He looked up at me with those cool, sea-blue eyes of his.

  ‘There is that word again. Are you particularly fond of it, Mr Linton?’

  ‘Don’t change the subject,’ I accused him. ‘You attend the opera?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You do not consider such a frivolous activity to be a waste of your time and money?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And why not, if I may ask?’

  ‘Because I own it.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I like to keep the management on their toes. And the ballet dancers as well.’

  I blinked. Had he just made a joke? His face told me otherwise. It was as stony as ever. But nobody could be that serious, could they?

  The opera…

  Suddenly, a thought shot through my mind. A very annoying thought in a green ball gown.

  ‘Will anybody be going with you?’ I enquired suspiciously.

  Like Miss Hamilton, for instance? Or the writer of the pink letters? Or… both?

  ‘Is that any business of yours, Mr Linton?’

  ‘It is if you want me to procure tickets for you.’

  ‘I see.’

  He thought for a moment, tapping with his fingers on the desk, looking away from me, out of the window and over the city of London. I waited with bated breath.

  ‘Yes,’ he said finally. ‘I think somebody will be going with me. Procure two tickets for the opera.’

  Somebody? Somebody? Was he torturing me on purpose? Did he know that I was dying to know? There wasn’t the slightest indication of it on his face. But then, when was there ever any indication of anything on his face? He was as easy to see through as a brick wall and just as friendly.

  ‘Anybody in particular?’ I asked, and immediately regretted it. After all, he shouldn’t be thinking I was… interested in him in any way, which I clearly was not.

  He swivelled around and fixed me with his cool gaze again. ‘Why do you ask? Do opera tickets have to bear names nowadays?’ If it hadn’t been Mr Rikkard Ambrose, I could have sworn there was a hint of sarcasm in his voice. Blast it! Blast me! And blast the opera! Who needed Mozart and Meyerbeer anyway?

  I hid my face behind the appointment book and wished it were larger. ‘Just curious.’

  ‘Undoubtedly.’

  ‘Any more appointments, Sir?’

  Mercifully we moved on from the subject of opera, and he kept me busy enough writing down more appointments that I didn’t even think too much about Miss Hamilton. When I was finally finished with the thirty-sixth appointment, he nodded curtly.

  ‘Give me the book and let me see.’

  Handing him the book, I waited for his judgement. I knew my handwriting wasn’t very good, and he had talked with the speed of a Spinning Jenny.[42] His face was, as ever, indecipherable as he studied the page, giving me no clue as to what he might be thinking. Finally, he closed the book with a snap.

  ‘Adequate,’ he said. ‘You managed to take it down without leaving anything out, which is more than I can say of my last five secretaries.’

  It took me a moment to realize that this had actually been a compliment. When I did, a ridiculous grin spread over my face. What was wrong with me? Why did his approval give me this warm, fuzzy feeling inside, like drinking hot chocolate on a cold winter morning?

  Except hot chocolate didn’t stare at me so disapprovingly. Not ever.

  ‘If you’re quite done exhausting your facial musculature needlessly, Mr Linton, then perhaps we can move on with work?’

  ‘Yes, Sir! Just as you say.’

  ‘Put this away again.’ He handed me the appointment book. ‘Remember, you’re responsible for it.’

  Still exhausting my facial muscles in what I thought was a definitely not needless expression of satisfaction, I hurried back into my office. As I bent to open the drawer, the appointment book slipped out of my hand and fell to the floor, opening at the previous week. Picking it up, I saw that the week was covered with appointments: Mr Ambrose must have left his office without telling me. All the appointments were written down in a familiar neat and precise hand.

  He had been keeping track of his own appointments! It had been silly of me not to think of this, really. After all, it was a secretary’s job to take care of appointments, so why had it not been part of mine?

  The answer was evident: because he didn’t trust me to handle them! Had he been afraid that - silly, overexcited female that I supposedly was - I would send him to a brothel-house in the east end instead of the Bank of England? A storm of indignation began to brew in me, and the barometer of my temper slowly rose. But then I suddenly remembered that now he had entrusted me with the a
ppointment book.

  Did this mean he was finally coming around? Was he beginning to accept me? Maybe soon I could drop this ridiculous charade of pretending to be a man, and he would stop calling me ‘Mr Linton’.

  An image flashed in front of my eyes: I, entering the big hall downstairs, in an undoubtedly feminine dress, my head held high, going up to work for one of London’s most powerful businessmen. The first ever lady to earn her own way in this world…

  ‘Mr Linton!’

  Blast!

  Just like that, a cold voice from the neighbouring room shattered my daydream. Quickly, I put the appointment book away and made my way back to my employer’s office. Not quickly enough for his taste, though, apparently.

  ‘What did I tell you, Mr Linton?’

  I straightened, knowing exactly what he wanted me to hear.

  ‘That knowledge is power is time is money, Sir!’

  ‘Which means you have to be what…?’

  ‘Quick and efficient, Sir!’

  ‘Indeed. Now go to your desk, get notepaper and a pen.’

  Wondering what the heck he wanted me to do now, I fetched the required items and returned, receiving no admonishment this time.

  ‘I have a business letter to write,’ he declared when I had taken up my station beside his desk, a notepad in hand. ‘Obviously, you are not what I wish for in a secretary and have very limited abilities, but my handwriting is not elegant enough for official letters, and I need somebody to do this. It might as well be you.’

  I tried my best not to look at him. Having just seen a sample of his handwriting, I knew there was nothing whatsoever wrong with it. In fact, his clear, precise script was one of the most beautiful hands I had ever seen. A smile tugged at the corners of my lips, and I hid behind the notepad. I had been right. He was beginning to accept me, even if he’d rather die than admit it.

  ‘The letter is to a very important business partner of mine,’ he warned. ‘Make one mistake, and I shall be very displeased.’

  I couldn’t help remembering what had happened to the last guy that had ‘displeased’ him: hauled off by Karim into the misty alleys of London, never to be seen again. But surely he wouldn’t do something like that to me simply for making a mistake in a business letter, would he?

  Um… would he?

  He went off before I had a chance to ponder this further. If I’d thought his listing of appointments had been fast, it was nothing to how he raced through that letter. He seemed to have it all perfectly written out in his head already, and was just reading off a wall in front of his inner eye. Not once did he stumble or think in enumerating figures, trade routes, factories and a million other things I had never even heard of before.

  By the time we had finished, I had filled five pages and my hand was screaming for a relaxing bath in hot water. With my left hand, because my right one was on strike right now, I picked up the handwritten pages and offered them to Mr Ambrose.

  He let his cold gaze wander over them. I held my breath again.

  Please, God, no mistakes, no mistakes, no mistakes…

  ‘Passable,’ he allowed.

  Thank the Lord! It had to be faultless. If there had been any mistakes, I was sure he could not have resisted pointing each one out to me before dismissing me for failing in my duty.

  ‘Try to remember next time that you are a human being writing, not a hen with inky feet running all across a sheet of paper,’ he added.

  I pursed my lips, suppressing the urge to go for his throat.

  ‘Any other constructive criticism, Sir?’

  ‘No, that is it for now.’

  He grabbed a piece of paper and scrawled something which he then handed to me. ‘Here. Address the letter to this address and put it out on Stone’s desk. Stone will take care of posting it.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  Taking the letter from him, I hurried back into my office and did as I had been told. Inside of me, conflicting emotions were fighting a fierce battle. The appointment book, the letter… was he beginning to trust me, or was I reading too much into this?

  Yes, a nasty little voice inside me said. You are.

  Bloody hell! But I wanted so much for him to trust me!

  You may want anything you like - that doesn’t mean you’ll get it.

  After his parting words last time we had been at work together, when he had practically threatened to find an excuse to get rid of me, I had been plagued by anxiety. I remembered so well our words before we had parted.

  ‘I have my own empire and consequently must deal with my own espionage and fight my own wars, Mr Linton. Right now, a war is coming.’

  ‘A… war? Over one piece of paper?’

  ‘Yes. A war. Possibly the biggest I’ve ever fought. I don't want you to be caught in the crossfire. I cannot have a girl being in danger!’

  But did these words still count? Somehow, after what had happened today, I felt a strange mix of hope and fear inside me.

  But it’s fear that’s the biggest part, isn’t it?

  Bloody hell! Sometimes I really wished that inner voice of mine would shut up! I needed this position, more than ever now, and not just for myself. I didn’t know how things were going to go with Ella, but there was always the worst possibility of all: that she would end up alone and disgraced, forsaken by her family and her so-called lover, and maybe even with child. Things like that had happened before. Now and then you read about such a scandal in the papers. Young love run mad…

  If it came to that, I would be there to save her, with enough money to take care of her. That, I had sworn to myself.

  Angrily, I stepped out into the hallway and slammed the letter onto Mr Stone’s desk. I shouldn’t think like this! I shouldn’t give up hope. There was still time to discover a way to scare off Wilkins. Yet with every second that passed, I felt the darkness circle closer around my little sister. I needed this job! I had to keep it!

  But it’s not really up to you, is it? It’s up to that stone-faced bastard in the office over there. Do you think he’ll ever really accept you for who you are?

  Well, there was one way to find out. One way to see whether his earlier doubts about me had been laid to rest.

  Swallowing my apprehension, I returned to his office and made a little bow, which he didn’t seem to notice.

  ‘Letter deposited as ordered, Sir.’

  ‘I see. Then I have another task for you. I-’

  ‘Sir?’

  He looked up, and I might actually have detected a miniscule morsel of surprise on his face. Surprise that anyone, even such a despicable creature as I, dared to interrupt him.

  ‘Yes, Mr Linton?’

  ‘I have a question, Sir.’

  Carefully he put down his papers and intertwined his fingers, regarding me over them like a sharpshooter taking aim.

  ‘Indeed? Well, then fire away.’

  I swallowed.

  ‘Have we found out where the stolen file is, yet, Sir? When are we going after it?’

  Mr Ambrose’s intertwined fingers clenched hard.

  ‘We?’ His cool voice had a dangerous undertone - and overtone and middle tone, if I was being absolutely honest. ‘We have not found anything nor will we find anything, because in we, a you would be included, Mr Linton. And you will have no further part in the search for the missing documents. I thought I already made that abundantly clear.’

  This was what I had been afraid of.

  ‘Not clear enough for me,’ I shot back, matching his cold tone with fire. ‘Why shouldn’t I help?’

  ‘Because you will only be a liability. Keep to office work, Mr Linton, and leave the darker parts of this life to real men.’

  The words hit me like a fist in the stomach. I didn’t know exactly why - I mean, he was right, of course, that underneath the trousers I was still absolutely female. It wasn’t the words so much as the way he said them - real men, as if men were something special, something stronger, something better than women.


  So this was how things stood. Nothing had changed. He was prepared to keep me, to let me work for him, but not as he would let another work for him. He was being charitable to the poor, mad girl who wanted to earn a living. Rage welled up inside of me!

  ‘There is no need to concern yourself in any case,’ he continued. ‘Clues have been discovered as to the whereabouts of the mastermind behind the theft. Warren and his men are out on the streets searching for his hideout as we speak. They will soon discover it and this will be taken care of.’

  ‘Why won’t you let me help?’ I demanded. ‘You did last time, in the search for Simmons.’

  ‘That was different.’

  ‘Different how?’

  His eyes took on a whole different level of coldness. They seemed to be staring off into icy distances, over the endless expanse of the Arctic, or some similarly desolate place I couldn’t even imagine.

  ‘That, Mr Linton, was before I found out who is behind this.’

  ‘Well, who is it then? Who is this mystery man you are so scared of?’

  His eyes snapped back from the distance onto me, flashing.

  ‘I am not scared, Mr Linton. I am cautions. There is a difference.’

  I bit back a comment. Men and their egos. ‘Very well, then. Who is this man you are so cautious of?’

  Silence.

  ‘Why won’t you tell me?’ My voice grew louder as my anger rose.

  Silence.

  ‘Will you at least tell me what’s in this file that is worth killing for?’

  Silence.

  ‘Will you tell me anything at all?’

  Silence. Really extraordinary silent silence.

  He sat there, glowering, and I stood in front of him, fuming. How quickly things had turned from a relatively companionable work mood into a fierce battle.

  ‘Um… excuse me?’

  Both our heads jerked towards the door. We had been so consumed by our argument that neither of us had noticed how Mr Stone had poked his head into the room. He was nervously playing with his bow tie, his eyes flicking from one of us to the other.

  ‘I am deeply sorry to disturb you, Mr Ambrose,’ he hastened to assure his employer, ‘only I needed to deliver this memorandum.’ He held up a piece of paper. ‘I knocked twice, but you probably did not hear me over all the… err… shouting.’