Silence is Golden: Volume 3 (Storm and Silence Saga)

by Robert Thier

  ‘True.’ The frown on his gnarled old face loosened a little. ‘So - what is it that you want?’

  I decided that it was no use beating around the bush. Uncle Bufford, like Mr Ambrose, was not an admirer of wasted time.

  ‘I’m going away on a trip, Uncle.’

  ‘Are you, now?’

  ‘I might be away for a while.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Yes.’

  For a few moments, silence reigned. Then he asked a question I would never have expected.

  ‘Will you be safe on this trip?’

  I had to work hard to keep my jaw from dropping. Uncle Bufford? Concerned?

  I hesitated. What to say? Finally, I settled on the truth. ‘Probably not.’

  ‘But you’re still going.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Uncle Bufford took his pipe out of his mouth and tapped it against his jaw. ‘Well, what did you come to see me for, then? Seems like your mind is already made up.’

  ‘I came because of Aunt Brank. I thought that maybe you could keep her from completely losing her mind over this.’

  He raised one bushy eyebrow. ‘Your aunt lost her mind decades ago. Why would I waste my time trying to do anything about it now?’

  ‘Err…all right. Point taken.’

  ‘You don’t want me to pay you an allowance for this trip, do you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good. Because you’re not getting one.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ve got all the money I could want.’

  ‘Do you, now?’ He gave me a penetrating look. But, to my immense relief, he didn’t ask why or from where. Those simply weren’t the kind of questions Uncle Bufford would ask. Where money was concerned, he tended to focus on questions like ‘How much?’ and ‘How soon?’ - but only if he was going to get a share.

  ‘Your aunt isn’t the only reason you’re here, are you?’

  Damn! I had forgotten how astute the old buzzard was.

  ‘No. She isn’t.’

  ‘So, who is the other one?’

  Who. Not what. Bloody hell, he really was too astute for my liking.

  ‘Ella.’

  ‘Ah.’ He nodded, sliding the pipe back into his mouth.

  ‘Will you keep an eye on her while I’m gone?’

  ‘I never leave this room. You know that. I don’t tolerate company - especially the company of women.’

  I raised an eyebrow. ‘I am a woman. You haven’t thrown me out yet.’

  ‘You are going away for an extended period, and you don’t want money from me. I am feeling slightly more lenient towards you at the moment.’

  Was that a smile playing around one corner of his mouth? His bloody beard was too thick to tell! I narrowed my eyes at him.

  ‘We’ve strayed from the subject, Uncle.’

  ‘Have we?’

  ‘Yes, we have. We were talking about Ella.’

  ‘You were talking. I was waiting for you to get to the point.’

  ‘The point is that I can’t leave without knowing that Ella will be taken care of. With the kind of marrymania Aunt is in right now, she might strike on the idea of offering Ella to this baronet as a replacement when she can’t get hold of me.’

  Uncle Bufford nodded, thoughtfully. ‘Exchanging one unit for a newer and more elegant model - that’s a deal I wouldn’t say no to.’

  I sent him a death-glare but didn’t follow it through with bodily violence. ‘I need someone to watch over her while I’m gone.’

  He raised one bushy eyebrow. ‘And you immediately thought of me?’ If I hadn’t known better I would have sworn there was amusement in his eyes.

  ‘Not really. In fact, I thought of thirty-seven other candidates first.’

  ‘Only thirty-seven? I’m flattered.’

  ‘But they all lacked one essential quality.’

  ‘I’m intrigued. What is this special quality that makes me so unique?’

  I took a step forward and fixed him with my best imitation-Ambrose stare. ‘The power to make decisions.’

  He gave another, slower nod. There was understanding in his eyes. Understanding and…respect? ‘That is true.’

  ‘You have the ultimate power to decide Ella’s future.’

  ‘Also true.’

  ‘So, what I am asking you is: don’t.’

  ‘You want me to never give your sister a chance at marriage? At a different life? A future of her own?’

  ‘No. I want you to not make any rash decisions. Wait until I am back before you decide anything. Give me a chance to speak with my sister.’

  His eyebrow rose a fraction of an inch further. ‘Really? And why can your sister not speak for herself?’

  ‘Because, although Ella is as beautiful as the Goddess of the Morning and as sweet as honey, she can be a bit of an idiot, sometimes.’

  Uncle Bufford considered this for a few moments. ‘True.’

  I regarded him warily. ‘So…will you do as I ask? Will you wait until I return?’

  ‘If a good marriage prospect presents itself-’

  ‘Even then! Especially then. Please, Uncle Bufford. This is important.’

  He grunted and looked down at his ledgers again. ‘I won’t start parenting at my age!’

  I had already opened my mouth to argue, when he added, gruffly: ‘But I won’t let her do anything foolish. I cannot abide foolishness.’

  My shoulders sagged in relief.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I also cannot abide women! Including you!’

  I smiled a secret little smile. ‘Yes, Uncle.’

  ‘They’re nothing but work and needless expense!’

  ‘Of course, Uncle.’

  I gave a curtsy and started to leave the room. I was already at the door when, from behind me, I heard a gruff voice murmur: ‘Be careful, will you?’

  *~*~**~*~*

  When I arrived the next morning at St Katherine’s Docks, Mr Ambrose was already there, overseeing a group of men loading crates and barrels on board his favourite vessel, the Mammon. The men looked exhausted. Mr Ambrose looked as fresh as frozen daisies.

  I saluted. ‘Good morning, Sir! Here I am, present and correct.’

  ‘And late.’ Fishing his watch out of his pocket, he let it snap open. ‘You should have been here twenty-one seconds ago, Mr Linton.’

  ‘Not according to my watch, Sir.’

  ‘Then your watch is slow. Correct that fault, Mr Linton.’

  ‘Yes, Sir!’ I promised, secretly vowing to myself to pinch his watch sometime soon and put it back twenty-one seconds. Curiously, I let my gaze drift over all the men who were hard at work lugging stuff onto the ship - a lot more than any sensible man would need for a journey, let alone someone as frugal as Mr Ambrose. Besides, most of what they carried weren’t travel bags or trunks. They were crates and barrels.

  ‘What’s all this?’ I gestured to the men and their burdens.

  ‘Items.’

  I rolled my eyes. ‘I had already noticed that, Sir. Items for what?’

  ‘For sale. Since we are going all the way to South America, we might as well take some wares to trade. No reason not to make a little profit on this trip. It will probably be the only money we will make on this foolish excursion.’

  ‘Where will we be selling?’

  ‘In Argentina. I am expanding my business there. There is a lot of wealth in the country, but little industry. An ideal market for industrial goods.’

  The last few crates were carried on board. A sailor appeared at the railing and waved to get our attention.

  ‘Mr Ambrose? Mr Ambrose, Sir? We’re ready to cast off!’

  Mr Ambrose gave the man a curt nod, and he disappeared. Half turning towards me, my employer cocked his head. ‘You have the file with the English translation of the seventeenth-century manuscript?’

  I padded my pocket. ‘All here, Sir.’

  ‘Adequate. I put you in charge of deciphering the directions, Mr Linton. I will have enoug
h to do planning the sale of the wares and commanding the ship.’

  ‘Commanding the… Do you mean to say you plan to be at the helm yourself?’

  ‘Of course!’ He turned away and marched off towards the ship. ‘You don’t think I’d waste money on a captain, do you?’

  ‘No, Sir. Of course not, Sir.’

  ‘Hurry, Mr Linton! We haven’t got a minute to lose.’

  ‘I thought a sea journey like this takes weeks and weeks, Sir?’

  ‘All the more reason not to waste any time now!’

  ‘Yes, Sir!’

  The moment we stepped on board, he called: ‘Haul in the gangplank!’

  Never in my life had I seen any captain’s orders being obeyed that fast. In a matter of minutes, the sails were set, and we were moving towards the exit of the dock, the Thames awaiting us ahead. When we had just slipped out of the dock, I noticed two vessels veering off and following us.

  ‘What are those?’ I demanded, pointing.

  Oh God! Please don’t let it be Lord Dalgliesh!

  Mr Ambrose didn’t seem concerned, to judge by his expression. But, he being Mr Ambrose, his expression didn’t really mean much of anything. It wasn’t until he spoke that I was put at ease.

  ‘The Midas and the Croesus, Mr Linton. They will be accompanying us to Argentina.’

  Midas? Croesus? With names like these, it wasn’t very hard to figure out who those ships belonged to. I stared at Mr Ambrose.

  ‘You own more than one ship? You have three?’

  He returned my gaze, coolly. ‘I have a fleet of ships, Mr Linton. These are by no means the largest - although, after the Mammon, they are the fastest.’

  I swallowed. Sometimes, I tended to forget the kind of wealth he commanded. I glanced back at the Midas and the Croesus, and couldn’t help notice that, for merchant vessels, they were unusually well armed.

  ‘Do you expect any trouble with pirates?’

  ‘No. No pirates.’

  I had become quite skilled by now at interpreting the things Mr Ambrose didn’t say.

  ‘But you are expecting another kind of trouble?’ The kind that requires cannons and guns to survive?

  All I got in answer was silence, and the lapping of the waves against the bow. I waited. Nothing came. Mr Ambrose stood on deck, so stiff and hard you might have suspected him of wanting to become the Mammon’s figurehead.

  Oh, well… Why should I care if he didn’t want to talk? Whatever trouble awaited us in South America couldn’t possibly be worse than a gaggle of suitors and potential grooms, right?

  No.

  Wrong. So very wrong. But I didn’t know that back then.

  Welcome to Argentina

  The sun burned down on my face with an intensity that made it very clear I was no longer in England, or anywhere near its shores. And what was I doing? Lying in a hammock, enjoying the warmth on my skin?

  Not bloody likely!

  ‘Faster, Mr Linton! Haven’t you ever tied a stopper knot before?’

  ‘Much as it might surprise you, Sir,’ I grunted, tugging at my hand with all the force I could muster, trying desperately to free it from the tangle of rope around my fingers, ‘sailing knots are not considered an essential part of the education of an eligible young London lady!’

  ‘You don’t say.’

  ‘Will you just keep standing there annoying me, or are you going to bloody help?’

  ‘I thought I was going to just focus on the annoying. But since you evidently won’t get the work done alone…’

  Letting his words trail off, he stepped forward and gripped the entangled knot of rope and fingers that held my hands captive. Strong, elegant, long fingers closed over mine. I wanted to shout a warning, wanted to threaten him with bodily harm if he accidentally ripped one of my fingers off - but before I could get a word out, the knotted rope fell apart and slipped to the ground.

  I stared at my freed hands.

  ‘How did you do that?’

  ‘Practice, Mr Linton. Try again.’

  ‘Why do I have to? You have plenty of sailors on board.’

  ‘Yes. But if you know how to sail, I will have to pay one less crew member on our next voyage.’

  I threw him a disgruntled look. ‘You really are the most abominably stingy skinflint in the history of mankind, aren’t you?’

  If there had been such a thing as expressions on the stone face of Mr Rikkard Ambrose, one might almost have said he looked pleased.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That wasn’t a compliment!’

  ‘Indeed, Mr Linton?’

  ‘Indeed, Sir!’

  ‘Why haven’t you started tying knots yet, Mr Linton?’

  Grumbling something I hoped was too low for him to hear, I grabbed the nearest rope.

  That was how much of the days passed: during the day, I was on deck, drudging like a peasant under Louis XVI just before the Revolution, while during most of the night I had to work on deciphering the manuscript. The only difference was that, unlike Louis’s poor peasants, I wasn’t going to rebel. After a while, I found that I actually enjoyed working on the ship. I was doing something useful for a change, and learning things in the process. Mr Ambrose was right. London ladies should learn how to tie sailing knots. Not that I’d ever admit as much to his face, of course!

  I was busy scrubbing the planks of the poop deck (which, thank God, didn’t really deserve its name) when I heard the shout of the lookout, far, far above me:

  ‘Ships ahoy!’

  Jumping up, I whirled around, scanning the sea. The water was of such a bright blue here that it almost hurt my eyes to look at it. But with a bit of squinting I could just manage to look, and after a few moments, I saw them: three dark spots on the horizon. Slowly, my eyes became used to the light, and the vague shapes solidified into ships. One small boat, one two-master, and one sizeable three-master that moved just a little bit faster than the other two.

  They all were heading straight towards us.

  I whirled again and spotted Mr Ambrose standing a few dozen feet away, straight as a rod of iron, his hands clasped behind his back, looking out over the ocean. I started towards him, pointing to the ships that were closing in on us.

  ‘I thought you said there would be no pirates!’

  ‘Those?’ Mr Ambrose jerked his hand at the vessels dismissively. ‘Those aren’t pirates. Do you not see the flags, Mr Linton? Those are vessels of the Argentine Republic.’

  ‘Oh, thank God!’ I relaxed against the railing. ‘I thought we were in trouble! Thank God we’re sa-’

  The thunderous boom of a cannon shot cut me short. Stumbling back, I was nearly hurled backwards onto the deck. Instead, I slammed into something hard - very hard. Two strong arms wrapped around me.

  ‘You do not have very good sea legs, Mr Linton, do you?’

  ‘Why the bloody hell are they firing at us?’

  ‘They aren’t firing at us.’

  ‘It damn well sounded like firing to me!’

  ‘Language, Mr Linton! That was just a warning shot. They want us to stop us, inspect our wares and collect tariffs.’

  His arms were still around me, for some reason. I cleared my throat, feeling my ears start to heat. ‘Oh. If that’s all…’

  ‘They’re not going to start really firing until they figure out we aren’t going to stop.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I do not like to repeat myself, Mr Linton.’

  ‘I don’t give a flying fig what you do or don’t like!’ Wrenching myself out of his grip, I whirled around, eyes blazing. He didn’t seem particularly impressed. He continued to look out over the ocean, ignoring me, so I planted myself right in his face to get his attention. ‘What the heck do you mean, we’re not going to stop? Do you mean to say you want to sell your goods without paying one penny of taxes?’

  He didn’t even raise an eyebrow. ‘Did I forget to mention that detail before?’

  ‘Bloody hell, yes, you forgot to mention it!�
�

  ‘I see. Well, you seem to have deduced it on your own.’

  Another thunderous cannon shot sounded in the distance. Another warning shot, but one that went by no means as wide as the first one. A fountain spewed up next to the Mammon, splattering us with saltwater. Something that felt like a small fish bounced off my head. I stumbled back, sputtering and cursing. Mr Ambrose didn’t move one inch, not seeming to notice the rivulets of water dripping from his top hat. I glared at him.

  ‘It’s not very hard to deduce at the moment, Sir!’

  ‘Correct.’

  He still hadn’t deemed to look at me, but stood on deck, a wet and chiselled statue, his arms crossed and his face showing not a hint of worry or anxiety. I wondered if throttling the captain was acceptable nautical behaviour. Probably not.

  Damn!

  ‘You can’t bloody sell goods without paying taxes!’

  ‘Why not, Mr Linton? It’s the preferable way of selling goods. It generates maximum profit.’

  ‘But that means we’re smuggling!’

  ‘No, Mr Linton. We are defending one of the inviolate rights of man: the principle of free trade.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘I can sell whatever I want, whenever I want, wherever I want.’

  I took a moment to translate this from Ambrosian speech into normal language. ‘In other words: you smuggle.’

  ‘Of course not! There’s a vast difference between free trade and smuggling.’

  ‘Indeed, Sir?’

  ‘Indeed, Mr Linton. Brave defenders of free trade such as ourselves have the armed power of the British Empire behind them. Smugglers don’t.’

  ‘But… it’s still illegal.’

  ‘Technically not.’

  ‘Oh, really? Care to explain?’

  He deemed to glance at me then. ‘The Argentinians closed their borders a few years ago. Now, trade is weighed down by heavy tariffs, and restricted to a few large ports controlled by the government. It is illegal to sell goods anywhere else on Argentinian soil.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And we are not going to sell goods on Argentinian soil. With brand-new steam engines made in Britain, we can sail up Argentinian rivers, and sell our goods along the river. If the customers come aboard, they will in fact be on water, not on Argentinian soil. Therefore, our selling goods is not illegal.’