by Robert Thier
Curious. Very curious indeed.
And who was this lady? Samantha?
With a slight feeling of regret at letting go of the mystery, I placed the pink letter back on the table. For just a moment I considered throwing it away. It was obviously full of soppy romantic nonsense - nothing important, in my opinion. Yet Mr Ambrose might feel differently about the matter.
When I rose with all the letters in my hand, I realized for the first time that now was my chance to finally see him again! The thick pile of letters couldn’t fit under the door, so he had to open it. Triumphantly I marched over to the door and raised my hand to knock - only to discover that in my absence, a letter slot had been installed in the middle of the thick wooden door.
Angrily, I pushed the letters through and heard them land on some kind of table. ‘Here,’ I called. ‘I hope you choke on them!’
Shortly afterwards, the slot opened again and several of the letters fell onto the floor with a resounding ‘thwack!’ When I went over and picked them up, I saw that it was the charity requests and the letter from Samantha Genevieve - the latter hadn’t even been opened.
A note was fastened to the top letter:
Mr Linton,
Did Mr Stone not express himself clearly? Only send those letters to me which are of interest to me.
I stared blankly at the note. Was he serious? He hadn’t even bothered to open the pink letter, so clearly personal. Neither had he bothered to sign his message to me, this time - but really there was no need. There was only one person in the entire British Empire who could write like this.
Angrily I stomped over to my desk, grabbed one of the message papers and a pen and began scribbling.
Charity is important! Is the improvement of the lives of the poor of no interest to you?
The reply came almost instantly.
Not if by so doing they become richer and I poorer.
‘Gah!’
Grinding my teeth, I took a look around the office: bare stone walls, no ornaments, no carpets, no nothing. Of course! He was mean with money. I should have guessed from the way he dressed - all in simple black without one piece of colourful brocade or silk on his waistcoat. He practically had the word ‘SKINFLINT’ printed on his forehead. In capitals.
Too bad he didn’t look like a skinflint. He should be old and ugly and skinny, like my aunt, not some reincarnation of Adonis in granite. That would make working for him so much easier!
But what about the personal letter? Taking that out of the pile, I examined it closely. It really hadn’t been opened. Who was it from? What was it about? Why hadn’t it been opened? My fingers hesitated over the next piece of message paper. I would have loved to ask but didn’t dare. I didn’t want to get fired on my second day at work.
So instead I wrote:
Dear Mr Ambrose,
Be assured that you shall receive no further requests to do good deeds from me.
Yours Sincerely
MISS Lilly Linton
The reply wasn’t long in coming.
Mr Linton,
It is not doing good deeds that I object to, it is the principle of charity. I do not give something for nothing. Remember that, Mr Linton.
Rikkard Ambrose
Dear God, was he threatening me?
Yes, probably.
A tingle went down my spine. It felt dangerous, dark and… exciting?
Then another message popped out of the hole in the wall.
Mr Linton,
Bring me file 38XI199.
Rikkard Ambrose
Spiffing. Here we go again.
*~*~**~*~*
Back and forth, back and forth I went the whole day, like a busy little ant carrying bits of leaves to the hill - only that I carried darn heavy files instead of leaves. Oh, and there also was the fact that ants could lift five times their body weight and that they couldn’t get chucked out of the anthill for not working fast enough.
Lucky ants.
I, for my part, heard a fresh plink that announced another demand for a file every five minutes. Apparently Mr Ambrose was still determined to break my resolution and make me give him some excuse for firing me. Ha! That fellow didn’t know me from Adam!
Or rather Eve, since I was a girl.
Some part of me wondered what he did with all those files. Surely, a secretary’s duties consisted of more than carrying files? Having letters dictated, for example.
‘Oh, but for that he’d have to actually speak to me,’ I muttered, grabbing another box of files from the shelves. ‘And he couldn’t do that, now could he! Blast him!’
While I slaved away, my determination grew. I would keep this job. Moreover, I would make him accept me as a girl, and then I could come to work in my own clothes and stop wearing this stupid top hat! But how to make him accept me?
‘I have to catch him,’ I growled, grabbing the next box and imagining that it was Mr Ambrose’s stiff neck. ‘I have to grab him and simply make him see!’
Yesterday, I hadn’t been able to get to him in time, and he had escaped. Today, he had placed his watchdog in front of the door - but he would have to come out eventually. To prevent him slipping away like last time, I cracked my office door open and kept an ear out for any steps moving out there.
As the day progressed, I got more and more excited. The thought of seeing him again - and of giving him a whopping big piece of my mind - was thrilling. I hadn’t set eyes on him since the day he not-so-graciously accepted me into his service, and I was looking forward to the encounter very much. Hm… Did punching your employer count as grounds for dismissal?
Too bad I didn’t have my parasol with me.
Some time around twelve o'clock, the requests for files suddenly stopped.
Ah! He was preparing to leave. Now he had to be coming soon. I sidled up to the door in anticipation.
Steps approached my door. What? Was he coming to see me? No, the steps didn’t sound like him. Too slow, too timid. There was a knock on my door and Mr Stone’s voice called: ‘Mr Linton? May I come in?’
‘Please do,’ I said, stepping back, frowning.
Mr Stone entered with a slightly puzzled expression on his face. ‘I am to inform you,’ he said, ‘that Mr Ambrose has left again and that you can finish your day early, too, if you want to.’
‘What?!’
‘Yes, the strangest matter indeed. He never leaves early normally, and now twice in a row? And this time he even went down the back staircase that is normally never used. I am beginning to fear for our master’s safety.’
‘You are, are you?’ I grabbed my top hat off the desk and slammed it on my head with probably a bit too much force. ‘Well, you’re right to be!’
Mr Stone paled. ‘So you think, too, that his life is in danger? That there is someone after him?’
‘You bet there is,’ I growled and marched out of the room, slamming the door behind me.
Oh that… I couldn’t even think of a bad enough word for him! The next time I would get my hands on him, I would take one of those little message containers with the words 'I AM FEMALE' in it and stuff it down his throat!
*~*~**~*~*
I went home to lunch, but since I didn’t have the wherewithal to cope with my aunt’s incessant questions about Lieutenant Ellingham, I made my disappearance as soon as possible. I decided to go the King’s Library to look a few things up. Maybe I’d find an interesting book on China, or a Colonial adventure story, or…
All right, I admit it. I was going to look up Rikkard Ambrose. So what? Was it a crime that I wanted to find out a bit more about the man I worked for? It was only natural that I would like to discover a few more things about him. It might help me avoid such blunders as the one with the charity requests. Maybe I’d discover that he kept a poodle, or was allergic to strawberries, or some other interesting fact.
Maybe I’d even find out whether he was, as I was beginning to suspect, more than a simple citizen. Books and newspapers could hold all sorts o
f interesting information.
Fortunately, unlike riding, shooting and pretty much anything else that I thought might be interesting to do in life, reading was not solely the domain of men. Nobody gave me a second glance as I walked along the gallery of the King’s Library, between the mile-high shelves and imposing busts of historical personalities.
In passing, I sent up a glare at the busts. ‘Of course you’re all men,’ I muttered, gesturing up at them threateningly. ‘It didn’t occur to anyone to put a bust of Queen Elisabeth or Mary Astell up there, did it? Darn chauvinist sculptors!’
An elderly gentleman passing in the opposite direction stopped when he saw me shaking my fist at the statues, and blinked as if he wasn’t sure he was seeing right. I quickly hurried on to the newspaper section.
Shortly afterwards I stood in front of a row of shelves, examining the enormous books which contained the Times of the last few decades. Where to start? From the dates on the file boxes I knew his history went back quite some time. So I pretty randomly picked one of the massive volumes. With effort, I managed to get it down from the shelf and transported it to a table next to a bust of Julius Caesar.
‘Hello there, fellow,’ I said, petting Caesar on his head. ‘Let’s see what we have on Mr Ambrose, shall we?’
*~*~**~*~*
Three hours and seven volumes later, I gave up.
He was everywhere: always on the edge of things, never quite part of society yet always in the middle because all of society seemed to orientate itself around him. Mr Ambrose had been spotted near the races - but did he bet on a horse? No! Mr Ambrose had been seen talking with business partners outside the theatre. But did he go in? Of course not! Once he had been spotted at the opera but had left before the performance ended.
What did he do in his free time?
Where was his family?
What nefarious activities had he engaged in to amass his enormous fortune?
There were no articles about his past, not even the indication that at some point he might have given an interview. Nowhere in the dozens of papers I leafed through did I find a single answer to my questions. But then again - why was I so anxious to find out? What business of mine was it how he had gotten his money? Why did I so desperately want to know?
Deep down I knew why. With a shiver I remembered his words, almost a threat, on that day he had sat opposite me in his office, his dark eyes burning holes into my head:
I need a man. A man, Miss Linton. Not a girl who will run off screaming at the things she will see where my business takes me.
By that, I was sure, he had meant more than seeing the inside of file boxes.
I wanted him to accept me as his secretary. As his female secretary, however scandalous other people would consider that. Yet I was also slightly afraid of what would happen if he did. What would he do if I really managed to convince him to let me work for him for real? Or more importantly, what would I have to do?
*~*~**~*~*
When I got home, my aunt was waiting and ready for battle, glaring at me like an emaciated Valkyrie. I was half expecting her to be holding a sharp spear and riding an eight-legged horse.
‘Where were you?’ she demanded.
‘I was in the park walking, showing off my charms to the young men there,’ I lied brightly. ‘Just in case I might happen to come across Lieutenant Ellingham.’
‘Oh.’ My aunt’s thin lips relaxed a tiny little bit. ‘Really? Well… good. That’s very good.’
‘I shall do that often now, if it is all right with you, Aunt,’ I continued quickly, determined to exploit this sudden inspiration to the limits. Darn it! Why hadn’t I thought of this before? ‘After all, now that I have been introduced into society, there are hundreds of men I could meet. Thousands, in fact. And the more I meet…’
‘You’re quite right.’ My aunt came up to me. For a moment I was worried that she might want to hug me, which would have been slightly awkward because (a) we were both wearing hoop skirts and (b) I hated her guts, skeleton and strict, black boots. But instead, she merely laid a hand on my arm. It was enough for me to want to run screaming and take a bath in the Thames. ‘I’m very happy you’ve finally started behaving like a lady, Lilly. I knew you would see sense some day.’
I thanked her like a proper little lady and then hurried off. Not towards the Thames for a bath, because I knew perfectly well that it was full of dirty toilet paper. Instead, I directed my steps towards the garden.
Why the garden, you may ask?
Simple. Over all the questions about Mr Ambrose that were plaguing my poor, chocolate-deprived brain, I had not forgotten my sister and her problems. When I had entered the house, the sun had just been about to set. I knew perfectly well what that meant.
Ella and Edmund would soon have their nocturnal rendezvous in the garden. So I went out there and this time didn’t even stop to take a book with me. Tonight, I was quite sure, I wouldn’t need literature to take my mind off things. Judging from the number of flowers that had arrived in my absence, the evening’s conversation would provide more than enough distraction.
As soon as the moon rose over the streets of London, I heard a rustle from the door and, through the bushes behind which I had concealed myself again, saw Ella hurrying past. Only a moment later, Edmund appeared on the other side of the fence.
‘Ella, my love,’ he called in a damnably audible whisper. ‘Oh, how it fills my heart to see you!’
‘And mine,’ sighed Ella. Then she hesitated. ‘I mean my heart is filled with joy from seeing you, not from seeing myself. That would be silly. I see myself every morning in the mirror.’ She brightened. ‘But now you are here!’ She exclaimed. ‘I have been waiting all day to see you!’
‘Your words make my soul sing, Ella. Please, step closer, into the moonlight, so I may behold your lovely face.’
‘I will. But first… first I have to tell you something, Edmund.’
‘What?’ he asked, his breath catching.
‘It is the strangest thing,’ Ella muttered. ‘I would not even mention such a strange, trivial occurrence if not for your words yesterday, but…’
‘But what? My words yesterday? What words?’ Now I could hear a distinct note of anxiety in Edmund’s voice.
It must have shown on his face, too, because Ella smiled at him hesitantly, caught off guard by his expression. ‘Well… what you said about the flowers. You remember? You told me to tell you if Sir Philip sent me any more flowers.’
I glanced at the young man. Now the expression on his face wasn’t simply anxious anymore. It was panicked.
‘Yes, and? Has he sent you another bouquet?’
‘One?’ Ella giggled. ‘No, not one. I tell you, the man must be very eccentric, I cannot otherwise account for his behaviour. He sent me dozens of bouquets. I had no idea there were that many flowers to buy in the whole city of London. I…’ She broke off when she saw Edmund’s face.
‘Edmund? Edmund, what is wrong? What ails you?’
‘My heart is breaking,’ he answered tonelessly, staring into the distance with empty eyes. ‘That is what ails me. It is as I thought. I am doomed.’
I leaned forward, resting my head on my knees. This was good. Better than the theatre, except that I couldn’t throw peanuts at the actors. I doubt Ella would have appreciated that.
‘What is the matter?’ My little sister wrung her hands in sudden desperation. ‘Oh Edmund, reveal to me this terrible secret you are carrying! What is it about those flowers that makes you fear them like death itself?’
‘Worse than death,’ he mutters. ‘A thousand deaths and the tortures of hell.’
Dear me! That fellow had definitely read too many romantic novels. I considered interrupting and telling him he was overdoing it.
But then, on second thoughts, maybe I’d rather not.
‘Tell me, Edmund! Tell me, what are they?’
‘The flowers are a sign of affection,’ said Edmund, his voice as hollow as a drainpipe th
rough which all his hopes were flooding away. ‘Sir Philip wishes to seek your hand in marriage.’
Ella stiffened. All colour drained from her face. I covered my eyes with my hand and let it slip down my face. Good God in heaven, she was actually surprised.
‘No!’
‘Yes, he does.’
‘No, Edmund…’
‘And who can blame him?’ he continued. ‘You are indeed a fair maiden, Miss Linton. Every gentleman in England should be seeking your hand. You…’ his voice broke, and after a moment he continued: ‘You are far too good and beautiful for common folk.’
‘Edmund! What are you saying?’ She cried out.
‘I am saying goodbye, Miss Linton.’
‘Goodbye? Edmund, why do you torture me so? And why so distant? Why call me Miss Linton?’
‘You are right,’ he said in the same hollow voice. ‘I should call you Lady Wilkins. For that is who you soon shall be.’
Apparently, I had been wrong before: Ella had still some colour left to drain from her face. It vanished at Edmund’s words, plummeting towards the earth’s core.
Suddenly not at all amused by the scene, I sat up straight, staring whole arsenals of daggers at Edmund.
What was that bastard doing? Was he so heartless that he could just stand there and hurt my little sister? He should be pulling her into his arms and telling her all would be all right! After climbing over the fence, that is.
‘I will never marry Sir Philip,’ Ella proclaimed. ‘Never!’
‘But why not?’ Edmund asked, his voice still as hollow and dead as an entire graveyard. ‘Is he not a most eligible match?’
‘I do not care how eligible he is,’ sniffled Ella, taking two rapid steps towards the fence. Edmund stepped back hastily as she stuck her hand through the poles, trying to reach him. ‘I… I…’
‘Yes? You?’ he inquired and his voice wasn’t quite as dead as before.
‘I love you, Edmund.’
‘Ah. A platonic love, surely, since you are soon to be married?’
