by Robert Thier
‘Yes, Si- Wait, what did you say?’
Big Day
‘No, not here, and not here either, damn and blast it! Where…ah - No! That’s not it either! Damn it all to hell!’
Trousers, shoes and shawls were flying through the air in a confusing cacofashiony of clothes. And yes, blast, I knew that wasn’t a real word! Right now, I didn’t care!
My sister Ella stood beside me, watching, mouth agape, as I disembowelled my wardrobe. I ignored her. Right now, I didn’t have time for her.
‘Blast, blast, blast! Where is it? I know I have it here somewhere!’
‘Um…Lill?’ Ella asked, cautiously.
‘Is it…No! Damn! That’s too dark! That can’t be it!’
‘Er…Lill? I was just wondering…Why do you have that many clothes in your wardrobe?’
‘Where did I put it? I know I put it somewhere, only where?’
‘It’s just, Lill, Uncle Buford only ever bought us two dresses each, and now you open your wardrobe and it’s full of clothes and, um, well, I don’t know how to put this delicately, but most of them look an awful lot like men’s clothes.’
‘Damn and blast! It isn’t in the wash, is it?’ I pulled my head out of the wardrobe, strode past Ella and was just about to pull open the door of the room we had shared ever since we were little, when a realisation struck me. ‘No, it can’t be in the wash. Aunt Brank would have found it, and then Hell would have broken loose. It has to be here somewhere!’
‘Lill? Did you hear what I said? There are men’s clothes in your wardrobe!’
‘Maybe I put it in the chest,’ I mused, tugging at my ear, lost in thought. ‘Or I could have stuffed it in the dresser…’
‘There’s not a man in there, too, is there?’
‘Or maybe I folded it and put it in one of the boxes up on the wardrobe…’
‘Oh God! Tell me there’s no man in there, Lill, please!’ Cautiously, Ella crept towards the wardrobe and peeked inside. All that greeted her was a tangled web of clothes. No lechers and rakes were hiding in my wardrobe, or if there were, they were hiding very, very well. But Ella seemed only partially relieved. Turning back toward me, she gestured at the trousers and hats strewn all over my bed. ‘What’s this? Why do you have them? Where did you get them? And most importantly, what do you do with them? They’re men’s clothes, Lill! Men’s clothes!’
‘I’ve noticed,’ I murmured, striding back to the wardrobe and starting to rummage again. In some part of my mind I realised Ella had been asking me some questions, but I didn’t have the time or patience to answer right now. I was on a mission.
‘Lill, did you hear me? Lilly, this is important! You have to answer me…and…tell…me…’
Ella’s voice slowly drained away as I pulled something from the back of the wardrobe and held it up, triumphantly. The very something I had been searching for.
‘Aha! I knew I had it here somewhere! Didn’t I tell you? I knew!’
‘Goodness gracious!’ Ella’s eyes were wide, staring up at the thing in my hands with awe and wonder. The men’s shirts, top hats and even the trousers were forgotten. ‘Where did you get that?’
*~*~**~*~*
I climbed out of the cab and handed the driver his money.
‘Here you go.’
‘Thanks, Miss.’
He nodded, and drove off. I stood for a moment, looking after him. Ordinarily, I would not have driven to work in a coach. Ordinarily, I didn’t waste my money on things like that when it wasn’t far, especially not if you were the proud owner of a brand-new velocipede. But in this case…
Smiling, I turned and marched towards the front doors of Empire House. It wasn’t quite as easy to march in my current attire as it usually was when I got to work, but nevertheless, I managed it.
Mr Ambrose was standing before the front doors, facing away from me. He seemed to be having a spirited discussion with Karim, who was standing beside the miserable little chaise and irritable grey horse that were Mr Ambrose’s preferred means of transportation.
‘…and I tell you, Sahib, you cannot do this,’ Karim was just saying when I came into earshot. ‘This is a wedding of Royals! Kings and queens, and other people with long arms and short tempers! You cannot ride to a Wedding of Royals in this coach!’
‘And why not?’ Mr Ambrose demanded. ‘What’s wrong with this coach?’
‘It’s…’ Karim began - and then he caught sight of me. His mouth dropped open.
‘There! You see?’ Mr Ambrose sounded as satisfied as it was possible for him to be. ‘You can’t think of a single argument.’
‘Sahib! There! She…she…’
‘What do you mean, she? The Queen? What’s the matter with the Queen?’
‘No! Not Queen, Sahib! She!’ He raised a trembling arm to point in my direction. Mr Ambrose turned to face me - and froze.
Another man might have cursed or jumped. Mr Ambrose did neither. He just froze. His face became stonier than stone, his eyes icier than ice. They raked over me, taking me in from head to foot, and not just me, but particularly what I was wearing.
I twirled, showing off every aspect of the swirling dress. It was magnificent, if I do say myself. I would have to say so myself, because Mr Ambrose certainly wasn’t going to. Coloured in dark red and mocha, it perfectly complemented my chocolate brown hair and eyes.
‘What,’ Mr Ambrose demanded, his voice as cold as the nose of a dead polar bear, ‘is this, Mr Linton?’
‘You’ll have to refrain from calling me “Mr” while I wear this,’ I advised him, cordially. ‘People might look at you oddly if they hear.’
‘Answer my question!’ With a harsh swipe of his hand, he gestured at the masterpiece of haute couture which somehow actually managed to make it appear as if I was halfway well-endowed upstairs, and not so much at the backdoor. The miracles of modern fashion… ‘What is this supposed to be?’
I blinked up at him innocently. ‘Why, it’s called a dress. You might not have heard of them, Sir, they’re a sort of clothing a group of people commonly known as “women” usually wear-’
‘Don’t play dumb with me, Mr Linton! Why are you wearing…this?’
‘You told me to come in my best clothes. This is it.’ Smiling, I did another twirl. Under normal circumstances, I would have rather eaten dead rats than twirled for a man, but these weren’t normal circumstances. The non-expression on Mr Ambrose’s face was worth every bit of the twirl! ‘I purchased it a while ago, intending to save it for a special occasion, and…well, this is a royal wedding.’
‘I pay you to appear in men’s clothes, Mr Linton!’
‘During office hours.’ I gestured at the street behind me, where hundreds of people were walking, riding and cycling, all in one direction: towards the wedding. ‘Does this look like the office to you? In fact, as the Queen’s wedding day, isn’t this an official holiday?’
Mr Ambrose looked at me for a moment, doing his best to freeze me with his gaze. But I had been in his employ for some time now and had grown amazingly freeze-resistant.
‘Well?’ I raised an eyebrow. ‘Is it?’
One more moment of silence, then: ‘It is.’
Oh, I just loved it when his voice sounded like frostbite.
‘Very well, then.’ With a smile, I offered him my arm. ‘Shall we go?’
He stood there for another moment, struggling with himself. With my outstretched arm, I nudged him in the ribs. ‘Come on. It’ll be like old times.’
‘I have no idea what you mean, Mr Linton.’
Really? How about a certain trip to Egypt last year during which you had me pretend to be your wife, danced with me in the fanciest hotel in Alexandria and then took me up to my room and started tearing my clothes off?
‘Of course not, Sir.’
‘But we shall go.’ He took my arm and steered me towards the chaise. ‘We have wasted enough time already.’
‘Ah, yes. But before we go…’ I turned my eyes on Mr Ambrose
’s massive bodyguard. ‘Karim?’
The bearded mountain looked stunned that the atrociously female creature in front of him had actually dared to address him. Finally, he managed a ‘Yes?’
‘Get rid of that puny little chaise and call us a real coach, will you?’ I gave them both a smile. ‘After all, you wouldn’t want to show up at the Queen’s Wedding in that old thing when you have a beautiful lady on your arm, would you?’
*~*~**~*~*
By the time we reached our destination, my mood wasn’t quite as sunny anymore, for a very good reason.
‘Ah.’ Stepping outside, Mr Ambrose gazed around the square. ‘The perfect day for a royal wedding.’
I followed him outside and immediately was engulfed by a torrent of icy rain. Even when I had managed to open my parasol, it offered scant protection against the downpour. Thunder rolled in the distance.
‘Y-you have a d-damn f-funny idea of the p-perfect wedding d-day,’ I chattered.
‘Indeed?’
‘Bloody hell, yes, indeed! What is so perfect about everyone getting soaked?’
‘Simple: everyone hurries up to get home and not too much valuable time is wasted on a superfluous ceremony.’
‘S-superfluous? What’s superfluous about a wedding?’
‘If two people decide it would be enjoyable to be chained to one another for the rest of their lives, that’s their affair. But I do not see why they have to bother me with it and make such a fuss.’
Ignoring the rain as if it weren’t there, Mr Ambrose strode off across the square. ‘Are you coming, Mr Linton, or do you intend to laze about here all day?’
‘C-coming, Sir!’
Even through the torrential rain, I could clearly see the multitudes of people that had gathered outside of St James’s Palace. The fact that they were being drenched didn’t seem to quench their enthusiasm the least little bit. They were chanting the Queen’s name, and that of her bridegroom, although I heard at least a dozen versions of his funny-sounding German last name, none of which were probably correct.
I don’t know how we would have gotten through there if it hadn’t been for Karim. The huge Mohammedan strode ahead, one hand on his sabre, and as soon as people caught sight of him, they stumbled out of the way. Even the Queen’s guards retreated so fast they nearly lost their giant fur caps. Only one remembered his duty to Queen and country and dared to step in the way of the bearded mountain.
‘Name, Sir?’
Karim gave him his most sinister look, which, if it comes from a seven-foot man whose black eyes and crooked nose are practically the only thing you can see of his face because of all the beard growing everywhere, is pretty sinister indeed, let me tell you. But when it still proved insufficient to make the guard retreat, he growled: ‘Karim.’
‘And are you invited, Sir?’
‘No.’ Karim pointed over his shoulder. ‘But the Sahib is.’
‘The Sahib? Who… Oh.’
The guard caught sight of Mr Ambrose striding towards him. What little was visible of his face beneath the fur cap paled significantly.
‘Mr. Ambrose, Sir. So you could come after all.’ He gave a salute. ‘We are honoured, Sir.’
‘Yes, you are.’ Mr Ambrose strode past the guard without giving him a glance. Divesting himself of his wet coat, he thrust it at a butler waiting in the entry hall. ‘Let’s get this over with. Where is the Queen?’
‘Um…Her Majesty is preparing herself, I believe, Sir.’
‘What does she need to prepare herself for? She’s had three months of engagement time for that.’
The butler cleared his throat delicately. ‘I couldn’t say, Sir.’
‘Well, where is this whole thing going to happen?’
‘In the Chapel Royal, Sir, but - Wait! Wait, Sir! You can’t go in there yet!’
‘Don’t bother.’ In passing I patted the butler on the shoulder. ‘It’s not worth even trying.’
The poor man stared at me, his eyes widening in shock - then his gaze snapped back from me to Mr Ambrose. He looked back at me again, once more at Mr Ambrose, and again at me.
His mouth dropped open.
‘Yes,’ I answered his unspoken question. ‘I really am with him. Poor taste, I know.’
He flushed. ‘Miss…I…um…I didn’t mean to appear inappropriate. I’m sorry, if…’
‘Don’t worry about it. Only, could you perhaps find me a towel?’ I shook myself, sending droplets flying in all directions. ‘I don’t think it would be very appropriate to be wet all the way through a royal wedding.’
‘Yes, Miss. Of course, Miss. And…’
‘Yes?’
‘May I ask your name, Miss?’
‘Linton. Miss Lillian Linton.’
‘Welcome to St James’s Palace, Miss Linton.’ The butler sent a dubious glance after Mr Ambrose’s rapidly retreating back. ‘And, um…the best of luck.’
I smiled at him. ‘A towel would do.’
‘Coming immediately, Miss.’
The butler bustled off, and I rushed across the entry hall, after Mr Rikkard Ambrose, dripping rainwater on the red carpet.
Yes, you heard correctly. Red carpet. In the entry hall. That wasn’t the only thing that was red: the walls were too, and gold besides. The ceiling was the only white surface anywhere within fifty feet. Crystal chandeliers hung from above, glittering in the light of hundreds upon hundreds of candles. The serious faces of late monarchs, Royal Navy admirals and various archbishops stared down at us disapprovingly. And Mr Rikkard Ambrose strode through all that splendour as if it weren’t even there. His strides were so long even Karim had trouble keeping up. I had to run to catch up to them.
‘Where are we going?’ I demanded.
‘The Chapel Royal, Mr Linton.’
‘Um…are we allowed to simply go in there?’
‘I don’t believe so, no.’
‘But you’re going to do it anyway, aren’t you?’
‘Yes.’
We were marching through a long corridor now. At the end of it, a set of double doors awaited us. Mr Ambrose pushed them open and strode inside as if he owned the place. Maybe he did. How was I to know if the British monarchy was in debt or not?
Beyond the doors lay not a church, nor a cathedral - the modest name ‘chapel’ was clearly well deserved. But although the room wasn’t very large, its sumptuous décor, high, arched windows and dark, partly painted, partly wood-panelled walls told everyone who saw it that this was a place only for royalty.
To my relief, we weren’t the first ones to enter. A small crowd of people, including an elderly man in black and white robes who was clearly a priest, were already gathered beneath the windows at one end of the room.
‘Ah. Welcome, welcome!’ Catching sight of us, the priest strode towards us, arms outstretched. ‘Come in, Sir, Miss. What a joyous occasion. Such a happy day deserves to be celebrated, does it not?’
‘No, it does not.’ Taking off his top hat, Mr Ambrose clamped it under his arm. ‘But I presume it is going to happen anyway.’
‘Err…well…’
The poor priest looked as if he had been thrown a little off track. Taking pity on him, I smiled and curtsied. He hurriedly bowed back to me.
‘Please!’ He turned to the other people in the room. ‘Is there someone present who can introduce me to this lovely lady and her, um, formidable companion?’
‘Allow me.’ A portly admiral stepped forward, and the introductions began. By the time everyone in the room had met everyone, my head was buzzing with names. It wasn’t buzzing loudly enough, however, to keep me from noticing the fact that whenever we came to the part where Mr Ambrose said, ‘And this is Miss Lillian Linton’, and another person realized that I was in fact not there alone, but that I was Mr Rikkard Ambrose’s date for the evening, the looks I received went from shock to utter incredulity and instant loathing. The latter expression was particularly prevalent on the faces of a few young ladies in the room, and most of the moth
ers with unmarried daughters.
Shortly after, a servant appeared with my promised towel, and I started to rub my hair vigorously, determined to squeeze out every little bit of moisture. I saw a few of the other ladies eyeing my towel. I wasn’t the only one whom the rain falling outside had taken by surprise. So when I was finished, I held out the towel to a particularly wet old French duchess.
‘Would you like to have it?’
She looked at me for a moment or two as if I had mouldy spaghetti growing out of my nose. Then she made a noise like ‘Pfuit!’ and turned away.
‘What’s wrong with the towel?’ I demanded of the empty air. ‘It still has some dry patches! And my hair doesn’t smell that bad.’
‘I presume it is not the towel of which she does not approve,’ came Mr Ambrose’s cool voice from right next to me. ‘But the idea of rubbing her hair into haystack style in the middle of the Chapel Royal.’
‘Haystack st…! You really know how to compliment a lady, you know.’
‘Yes, I know. Do you have a comb with you?’
‘Why on earth would I bring a comb to a royal wedding?’
‘I thought so. Well, no matter. Hold still.’
‘Hold still? Why…’
My voice drained away as I suddenly felt fingers sliding through my damp hair. Gentle, firm fingers, straightening strands with disturbing ease. I tried to say something, tried to tell him to get his hands off my hair - but my voice suddenly didn’t seem to want to work anymore. It lounged in a beach chair somewhere on a sunny shore on the Cote d’Azur, sipping a fruity drink, accompanied by my higher brain functions and sense of propriety.
His fingers slid through my hair with a surety and confidence that made my spine tingle and my knees want to give out. It reminded me too much of other times he had touched me - times on that mad, passionate trip to Egypt when our carefully erected boundaries had broken down and I had done things with him that no feminist should ever do with any man - particularly not with a cold-hearted chauvinist bastard such as Rikkard Ambrose.
