by Robert Thier
Hey! I was counting negative numbers, and still walking! That meant they hadn’t jumped out to grab me! Yay! I was alive and free to rail against the injustice of patriarchy for another day! Huzzah!
Out of the corner of my eye, I had just caught a glimpse of them behind the curtain in passing: Dalgliesh’s golden hair, and the face of the other man, angular and darkened by sunlight. Obviously, they had not caught me looking. By now, I was nearly at the front door, and the curtain behind me did not rustle. No footsteps announced any unwelcome pursuers.
Except for two, that is.
‘Where can she have gone?’
‘I have no idea, Mrs Brank! One moment, she was there, right beside me, as happy as could be, and the next one she was gone!’
Oh, no, no, no! Please, God, not those two!
As usual, God had his ears stuffed with beeswax. The voices of my aunt and fiancé approached from behind at the speed of two galloping horses.
‘Oh, Mr Fitzgerald! I am so sorry! I should have known something like this was going to happen. Lilly has always been such a wilful child!’
‘Surely, Mrs Brank, you do not think she left by choice? I just announced our engagement, and she was clearly bursting with joy! Why would she wish to leave?’
Just then, the two of them brushed past me. I could see the expression on my aunt’s face. No matter her faults, my aunt knew me well. In answer to Mr Fitzgerald’s words, she gave only a tactful silence.
The exit wasn’t far ahead now. Only a few steps. I started counting positive numbers again.
Ten steps.
Nine.
Eight.
My aunt and Mr Fitzgerald reached the exit. I ached to catch up to them, to go faster, to run like the wind - but I knew that I couldn’t. I could still feel the steely gazes from behind the curtain on my neck and knew that the moment I started to move faster than average, they would see through my disguise, and grab me.
Nice and slow, Lilly. Nice and slow.
Seven steps.
Six.
Five.
Four.
It would be over soon. I just had to hold out a little longer. A tiny little bit longer. Outside, I could hear my aunt and my fiancé discussing my mysterious disappearance. In an effort to keep myself from breaking into a run, I focused on their voices.
‘I can’t believe she went out on her own, Mrs Brank - not considering the way I know she feels about me! Something must have happened, someone must have taken her! I should never have left her alone. As her betrothed, her safety is my responsibility!’
‘Um…yes.’ There was hesitation in my aunt’s voice. I could see she probably found the idea of my having to be forcibly dragged from Morty’s side because of my mad, passionate love for him not quite convincing, but thought it impolitic to point this out to him. ‘You are probably right. Maybe you should look for her.’
Three.
Two.
One.
‘You are right, Mrs Brank. I will!’
Out!
I blinked in the darkness of the night for a moment. When my eyes slowly became used to the gloom, I could make out the stocky form of Morty a little way away, gazing left and right in search of his lost future bride. My aunt was standing a bit closer to the door, only feet away from me.
Quickly, I turned to the left and headed down the street, away from the house.
Don’t let them see me, don’t let them see me, don’t let them see me…
‘Where could she have gone?’
‘I don’t know, Mr Fitzgerald.’
‘I can’t see anyo - oh, excuse me! Sir! Sir, have you seen a girl? About your height, with shoulder-long brown hair, and-’
I broke into a run.
*~*~**~*~*
If I’d had any hope that a night of searching through the wet alleys of London might cool Morty’s passion, that hope vanished the moment he showed up at our house the next morning. And by morning, I mean six o’clock. Ante meridiem.
I mean, honestly! Six am! Just because he thought the woman he loved had been kidnapped and ravished by a rake? The nerve of the man! I had to work, after all.
Of course, he wasn’t actually aware of that little fact, so from a purely logical standpoint I couldn’t really blame him for it. Still, at six in the morning, with my sleep-deprived eyes only half open and my hair a mess of brown lianas on my head, I wasn’t inclined to be particularly logical - or polite. As I stumbled to the door, still in my nightgown, cursing whoever was standing outside, ringing the doorbell like a madman, I was contemplating the use of brute force to shut them up.
‘Yes?’ I yanked the door open. ‘Who is it and why are you making such a rack-’
I got no further. An instant later, I was engulfed in a crushing hug. Something small and cuddly had thrown itself at me. Did we have a monkey waiting outside the door?
‘Oh my God! Thank you! You are safe, Lillian my love! You are safe and well!’
No. It wasn’t a monkey. It was a Morty.
He tried to kiss me, and I ducked to the left. He tried to kiss me from the other direction, and I ducked to the right. Some distant part of my mind that wasn’t completely sleep-deprived had time to admire how quick my reflexes were at six in the morning.
‘Oh Lillian, my love! I was so worried! So terribly worried! I’d like to hold you and never let go again!’
‘Yes, Morty, I can feel that. Say…you wouldn’t mind loosening your grip a little, would you?’
‘What?’
‘Loosen. Your. Grip!’
‘Oh. If you think I should. I…’ Morty’s eyes went wide. Only now did he seem to register that I was wearing nothing but a nightshirt, and he, to put it delicately, was hugging me very, very closely. He let go as if he’d been burned and jumped back at least three feet.
‘Oh. Um… I’m so sorry, Lillian, my love! So terribly sorry! It won’t ever…I mean…I will never again…I didn’t mean to…’
His stuttering went on until my aunt made her way down the stairs and shooed me off into mine and Ella’s room to dress. Knowing that my aunt would be up to drag me down by my hair if I didn’t hurry, I enlisted Ella’s help in squeezing into my dress and was back downstairs in a couple of minutes.
The good news was: Morty was so embarrassed by having hugged a girl in her nightdress that he kept his hands off me during the entire breakfast. The bad news was: he definitely had not changed his mind about the engagement. Between the embarrassed looks he sent my way, there still were at least a dozen hot looks of passionate longing. There really was no way around it: the man was head over heels in love with me. He was so happy to see me safe and well, he didn’t even ask where I had disappeared to last night.
My aunt, however, had no such inhibitions.
‘Lillian?’ Leaning over to me, she spoke in a low but unmistakably no-nonsense voice. ‘Where did you disappear to last night?’
Having Mr Ambrose for an employer really had been enormously educational. It had taught me the value of the world’s most underestimated rhetorical device.
Silence.
‘Lillian? Answer me!’
And more silence.
‘Answer me now!’
And just a little bit more to annoy her. Ha! I knew how to be silent. I had learned from the master of masters.
‘Very well.’ The gaze my aunt shot me through narrowed eyes told me she didn’t particularly appreciate Ambrosian rhetorical tactics. ‘Be a stubborn little girl about last night, if you will. But today you will behave like a lady, understood? Mr Fitzgerald will expect you to spend the day with him - and that you will do! No buts, understood?’
‘Yes, Aunt.’
I would give her no buts - however, that didn’t mean I was going to do what she said. I was an excellent liar. Always had been. What can I say, it’s a natural talent.
Besides, I really had to get to work. So, just before breakfast ended, I excused myself, saying I had to go to the powder room. My aunt threw me a suspiciou
s look. But what could she do? She could hardly demand to go with me in front of her future nephew-in-law.
I was thorough. I went down the corridor to the powder room, banged the door in an audible manner, and only then snuck back up the corridor and out the back door into the garden. Minutes later I emerged from the garden shed and, stepping out onto the street, started on my way towards Empire House, 322 Leadenhall Street.
Work that day was nothing to write home about. Not that Mr Ambrose would have granted me time off to write home about it even if it had been. I slaved all day on those balance sheets of his, and when the day drew to a close, he wanted me to take the rest home, to work through in my free time.
‘Not on your sweet life!’ I shook my head, retreating a few steps. ‘I sweat all day for you in the office! I’m not going to do it at home!’
‘It would show an admirable work ethic,’ he pointed out coolly.
‘But you wouldn’t pay me extra, would you?’
‘Of course not. That’s why it would be admirable.’
‘You can take your admirable work ethic and stuff it up your-’
And I said a word that made him send me a very frosty look.
‘Language, Mr Linton!’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Will you do the work at home or not?’
‘No, Sir. Besides, I could not, even if I wanted to. I have a situation at home.’
‘Oh?’
‘I…’
I hesitated for a moment. For some reason I didn’t want to tell him.
‘Out with it, Mr Linton!’
‘I…am engaged.’
‘Indeed?’
‘To a man!’
‘How shocking.’
‘Don’t laugh at me!’
‘Do I look like I’m laughing?’
No, of course he didn’t! Damn him!
Mr Ambrose cocked his head. ‘Off with you, then. Enjoy your time with your fiancé.’
Rikkard Ambrose really was a cold bastard. He knew how to inflict a maximum of icy dread into my day with just a few simple words.
*~*~**~*~*
Morty was in love. Really, madly in love. With me.
I hadn’t counted on how much more difficult this would make things. My previous suitors had wanted me for my family’s good reputation, or had just been after a woman with two legs, two arms and a hole for popping children out of at regular intervals. Having to deal with a man who wanted me, and me only, was another kettle of fish altogether. I didn’t know how all those romance heroines stood it! Why didn’t they start to vomit in the first chapter?
Men in love, it appears, are a whole lot more difficult to get rid of than greedy or lusty men. In the latter case, a good stomp on the foot will probably do the trick. Men like that leave you alone and go off in search of easier prey. But a man in love - he won’t notice how many times you tread on his foot. He just thinks what he’s feeling down there is displaced heartache.
I didn’t realize how bad it had gotten until I received the first letter. I was sitting with my siblings at breakfast one morning, and was in a marginally better mood than usual: in a rare exception, neither my aunt nor Morty had made an appearance. I was just digging into my gruel with unusual gusto when Leadfield limped into the room. It took him about a decade to shuffle from the door to the table, but finally he managed it and presented me with a silver tray on which lay one single, solitary letter.
‘For you, Miss.’
‘For me?’ Frowning, I picked the mysterious object up. No one ever wrote me letters.
‘Yes, Miss.’
‘Hmm.’ Picking up a knife from the table I sliced open the missive. The moment I did, the scent of violets assaulted my nose. I coughed and ripped the letter open the rest of the way. What the hell…?
My dearest Lillian,
It tears at my heart that today I cannot join you at the breakfast table. The time away from you is like torture. Urgent business matters have called me away, and with every mile that I put between me and you, I curse the puny affairs that have made my absence from your side a necessity. I promise, the moment they are concluded, I will hurry back to you, my love. This evening, I shall be back at your side, ready to weep on your bosom from the joy of your presence and…
It went on like that for a good three pages. I didn’t read it, though. I’d had more than enough by the time I had reached ‘weep on your bosom’.
Weep on my bosom?
I wasn’t even exactly sure whether I had a bosom. Chest, maybe, but bosom? I had never been particularly well-stocked in the upstairs department, if you get my meaning. But whether or not I had a bosom, no man on this earth was ever going to get the chance to weep on it! Yuck!
Mr Fitzgerald returned that evening, and though I managed to keep him from either weeping on or kissing me, he used such fiery language to assure me of his everlasting love that it was almost as horrible as ending up tear-soaked. Over the next few days, it got increasingly difficult to escape his loving clutches to get to work on time, and the looks Mr Ambrose threw me when I walked into the office grew progressively colder.
Finally, I decided something had to be done.
‘Morty?’
‘Yes, Lillian my darling?’
We were strolling through Green Park. Or rather, he was strolling. I was stamping, grinding my parasol into the ground with every step.
‘I’m not your darling!’
‘Pardon, Lillian my darling?’
‘Or at least I don’t want to be!’
He smiled and nodded, gazing adoringly at my face. He hadn’t heard a word I’d said.
‘Morty, listen to me! This engagement was a mistake! I don’t love you!’
He laughed.
I’m not joking. He laughed.
‘Lillian, my love! You do make the most amusing jokes!’
‘I’m serious, Morty! I don’t love you! I don’t want to marry you! I don’t want to marry anybody! I’m perfectly fine by myself, thank you very much!’
He laughed again. ‘Getting pre-wedding jitters, are we? Don’t worry, Lillian, my darling.’ Leaning over, he pressed a kiss on my cheek. ‘I know you love me. I’ll be strong enough for the both of us, and soon we’ll be a happy family.’
‘How…wonderful.’
Waste Disposal Squad in Action
How am I going to get rid of him? How am I going to get rid of him? How the hell am I going to get rid of him?
This was the only thought running through my head, again and again, when I made my way to work on Friday. I was getting desperate. I mean, I suppose I could always let myself be led to the altar, and when the priest asked me, ‘Wilt thou have this Man to thy wedded Husband, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony?’ answer with a big, fat, resounding: ‘No!’
But to be honest, I didn’t know whether anyone would listen to me. I was still a minor. My aunt and uncle could decide practically everything for me. Could they decide whom I was to marry, too?
Part of me was afraid that, yes, they could.
I had to find a way to get rid of Morty! I simply had to! I had no intention of marrying any man. And if I did, it certainly wouldn’t be a man like him. It would be a man like -
I cut that thought off before it could go any further. Now wasn’t the time for silliness. Now was the time for deep thought.
‘Lillian, my love!’
Correction: Now was the time for running! The voice from behind me froze the blood in my veins and set my heart hammering. He was behind me! If he caught up to me, I’d never get to work! And then…well, I wasn’t quite sure if Mr Ambrose would ‘fire’ me, because I wasn’t sure you could apply such a hot word to Mr Rikkard Ambrose. But he would definitely freeze me.
I hastened my steps. I just had to get around that corner! Maybe…
‘Lillian, my darling! Stop! It’s me, Mor-oomph!’
I was halfway to the street corner before I realized that Morty’s footsteps were no longer followin
g me. His voice, too, had cut off abruptly. Knowing I might regret it, I stopped to listen.
No ‘Lillian, my love!’
No ‘Lillian, hand over your bosom so I can cry tears of happiness on it!’
No nothing.
Slowly, very slowly, I turned. In the whole street, there was no sign of Morty. There wasn’t any sign of anyone. And yet, in the moments before Morty’s voice had cut off, I could have sworn I had heard a second, heavier pair of footsteps.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a motion, and whirled. But the mouth of the alley I whirled towards was empty. Strange. For one moment I thought I had seen a shadow moving into it. No…not moving, exactly. Being dragged.
An involuntary shiver ran down my spine.
Stop imagining things! I told myself. And get to work!
Mr Ambrose did not freeze me. But he wasn’t very warm and chummy, either. We still hadn’t worked through the balance sheets, and his mood was getting icier with every penny of taxes that was added to the total. That day, I went home exhausted and thoroughly depressed at the thought of the weekend ahead. True, my dear employer worked me like a carthorse, but at least he wasn’t prone to frequent and flowery confessions of love. I shuddered at the thought of having no office to escape to for two whole days. I knew what awaited me instead: forty-eight hours of Morty around the clock.
Only…
When Saturday morning dawned and we all sat down to breakfast, Morty didn’t show up. Neither did he show up for lunch, or our usual stroll in the park to which my aunt in her cruelty had condemned me. When, after an hour of feeding the ducks, he still hadn’t put in an appearance, I shrugged and returned home.
‘What are you doing back here so early?’ my aunt snapped. ‘And where is Mr Fitzgerald?’
I shrugged again. ‘He wasn’t there.’
‘What do you mean, he wasn’t there?’
‘I mean that he was in absentia. Skiving off. Not present.’
‘Don’t take that tone with me, young lady! Go dress for dinner! He must be here for dinner, and I’m sure he’ll explain everything then.’
But he didn’t appear for dinner either. I didn’t dare to hope yet when I went to bed that evening, but when Sunday morning came and there still was no sign of him, hope would no longer be denied and fought her way into my consciousness.
