Storm and Silence

by Robert Thier

  The soldier down on the promenade moved closer and closer to the Urania. Not long and he would figure out that it was the only ship due for departure, the only way his prey could get off this island. But at the same time, the line in front of the Urania was dwindling. People were hurrying to get aboard. The sun was setting, and they seemed eager to get to their warm cabins before the cold of the night set in.

  Beside me, I could hear Mr Ambrose let air hiss through his teeth, and turned my head to see what was wrong. He was staring at a point far above the crowd, where a road led up towards the centre of the island.

  ‘What is it, Sir?’

  ‘There might be slight difficulties for our departure. There, Mr Linton. Look!’

  He pointed to the very top of the road, where several riders in blue uniforms, accompanying a rider in red uniform, were racing down towards the harbour. Slight difficulties indeed.

  ‘Don’t tell me those are the French, Sir.’

  ‘Those are the French, Mr Linton.’

  I grimaced. ‘Thank you so much, Sir.’

  By now, the soldiers were halfway down the road. I saw the foremost rider waving, trying to catch the attention of somebody on the ship, but the crowd was getting in the way. He shouted, but his words were drowned in the babble of the people admiring the sea view. Never had I been this grateful for the thriving French tourism industry.

  ‘What will they do if they catch us?’ My mouth felt dry. For some reason, my hand snaked along the railing, towards that of Mr Ambrose.

  ‘The French? Or Dalgliesh?’

  ‘I don't know. Which is worse?’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘Oh.’

  My fingers found his. He twitched, and I was about to draw back, but then his fingers closed around mine like a vice, and held them tightly in place. I was so surprised that I almost didn’t hear the shout from directly beneath us.

  ‘Larguez les amarres!’

  ‘W-what does that mean?’ I whispered. ‘'Seize the spies'?’

  ‘No.’ Mr Ambrose’s voice was just as cold as ever, but underneath the ice, there was triumph, waiting to break through. ‘It means “Cast off”!’

  Before I could even process what that meant, I felt a shudder underneath us and saw the gangway retract. Helpless, the faint cries of the French officers rose over the babble of the crowd as the ship detached itself from the jetty and lurched forward, its steam engine roaring to life like some giant, ancient beast. But unlike the Nemesis, this was a friendly beast. It had come to take us to safety.

  With a dizzying mix of relief and disbelief, I watched as the harbour moved away from us, slowly at first, then faster and faster, as the ship gathered speed and moved away from the island into the channel. The French and British Indian soldiers shouted in vain, their voices drowned out by the engine that carried us farther and farther away from the danger.

  Mr Ambrose’s hand didn’t loosen its grip on mine.

  ‘We made it!’ I whispered. ‘We actually made it!’

  He turned towards me. There was something in his dark gaze - not cold, this time. Something else. Something indefinable. He opened his mouth. But before he could speak, we heard a gentle cough from behind us.

  Letting go of his hand as if it were a block of ice, I whipped my head around and stared up into the concerned face of a member of the ship’s wait staff, looking down at the two of us crouching on the floor with concern.

  ‘Um… we do have seats on this ship, Messieurs. It is not necessary to sit on the floor. Would you like me to show you?’

  *~*~**~*~*

  The helpful young member of the wait staff guided us to our cabins. I didn’t know what Mr Ambrose did after disappearing into his. Stand in a corner and calmly calculate how much money he was going to make out of his new canal, maybe? I, for my part, slumped onto the thing that vaguely resembled a bed nailed to the wall. Bunk, dunk, shwunk - I couldn’t care less what it was called or what it was for. It was relatively soft. That was all I needed to know.

  The knock that woke me from my sleep was tentative but resolute. I blinked and yawned. How long had I been out? I didn’t really care. My clothes had dried, so it had to have been some time.

  Again, there came a knock from the door. Drowsily, I lifted my head. This didn’t look like my room at my uncle’s house. What was this? Oh yes, the ship! It all came back to me then: The island, the mine, the race, getting on the ship…

  What was its name again? Urania. Yes. Had we really managed to escape, or had it all been just a dream? Was I still dreaming?

  A third knock came from the door. I could tell from the sound alone that it wasn’t Mr Ambrose on the other side.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Monsieur? Diner is ready in the dining hall.’

  That decided it. I had managed to have some pretty strange dreams in my lifetime, but never could I dream up a French waiter calling me ‘Monsieur’. Crazy things like that were reserved for reality - my reality with Mr Rikkard Ambrose.

  Groaning, I pushed myself up from the bunk bed and stumbled towards the door. ‘I’m coming,’ I called. ‘I’m coming.’

  ‘Very well, Monsieur. You are, um, well? You seemed a little pale, earlier.’

  Well, what do I say? Getting shot at does that to me.

  ‘No, no. Everything is fine. Thank you.’

  ‘Excellent. I shall return to the dining hall. Your companion is awaiting you there.’

  Not long after, I stepped out onto the deck of the ship and closed my eyes for a moment as I breathed in the fresh sea air. It was cool, harsh and salty - not the best combination for a city girl like me, under normal circumstances. But just now, I revelled in it, revelled in the fact that it was no longer the dank, dusty air of the mine I had to breathe in, revelled in the fact that I could still breathe because I was alive.

  Opening my eyes again, I looked around. I stood on the upper of two decks aboard the Urania. The wooden structures supporting the deck, as well as the walls of the cabins, were painted in a cheerful golden-yellow and only served to re-emphasize the point: I was out of the dark. I was safe. We both were safe.

  Stepping towards the railing, I took another deep breath and looked back the way we had come. Past the roiling clouds of smoke from the engine that propelled us forward, past the churning waters behind it, I could see, in the distance, the faint shape of a mountain on the horizon, rising out of the distant waves. Île Marbeau. It looked like nothing more than a molehill from here. And regardless of how angry the mole that lived there might be right now, regardless of how much he might resemble a lion in his fury, we were out of his reach. I smiled.

  Leaving the sea view behind me, I turned and went in search of Mr Ambrose. I hoped for his sake he hadn’t eaten without me and already left, or there would be hell to pay!

  It didn’t take me long to find my way through the luxurious, wood-panelled corridors of the ship. They were not like the corridors of the Nemesis. Light shone in through curtained windows, gold and silver glittered in every corner, and everywhere there were helpful people willing to show you the way, instead of evil people willing to show you the way to your grave. One old lady, Lady Timberlake, even entangled me in a conversation about how small and underfed the young men in military service, like my good self, looked nowadays, when I asked her for the way. She discovered I had the cabin right next to hers, and it took me some time to pry myself away from her. She was sorry to see the young soldier (i.e. me) go; he reminded her so much of her grandson, the brave darling…

  I hoped fervently this was due to the excellence of my disguise and not to the freakish anatomy of her grandson.

  When I finally entered the dining hall, a grand room with plush leather chairs arranged around small, intricately carved tables, and crystal chandeliers dangling from the ceiling, the first thing I saw was Mr Ambrose, sitting at one of the tables and arguing with one of the waiters over the price of a glass of water.

  ‘…two shillings for one glass?’ Mr Ambr
ose was saying, trying to nail the poor waiter to the wall with his cold glare. The other guests were watching him with apprehensive looks on their faces. ‘What do you put in that water, man? Gold dust? This is not acceptable!’

  ‘But Monsieur,’ the waiter protested. ‘This is special mineral water with many beneficial properties for your health, directly from the wells at…’

  ‘Well, as it happens, I do not feel sick in the slightest. Is it within your ability to procure some non-healing, but reasonably priced water?’

  ‘Monsieur! This is a vessel of the very first class. We pride ourselves on the excellence of everything we serve, and it would be a disgrace if we-’

  ‘Can you or can’t you?’

  A pained expression crossed the waiter’s face.

  ‘I might be able to, um… obtain some low-quality fluid out of the provisions for the ship’s personnel, if Monsieur wishes it.’

  ‘Yes, Monsieur wishes it.’

  ‘Alors, I shall do my best. Before I leave, what does Monsieur wish to eat?’

  Mister Ambrose eyed the bread basket placed in the middle of the table.

  ‘Does this cost anything?’

  ‘The bread basket? No, of course not, Monsieur! That is just an appetizer. Which of our delicacies does Monsieur wish to taste?’

  ‘The one that doesn't cost anything.’ With one hand, Mister Ambrose pulled the bread basket towards him, with the other, he waved the waiter away. ‘This will be quite sufficient. That will be all.’

  The waiter was near tears.

  ‘Monsieur cannot be serious! Water and bread? Water and bread? This is a first-class vessel, not a prison bark!’

  ‘More’s the pity. On a prison bark, I wouldn’t have had to pay for the voyage.’

  ‘Monsieur! I beg you to reconsider. Please, here, I have a menu, will you not look and see if there is something that will please your palate? We have the best-’

  He was interrupted by a hand snatching the menu from his grasp. My hand.

  Casually, I flicked through the pages with golden corners and embossed, italic writing. Something caught my eye.

  ‘I would like… Foie Gras avec Sauce Espagnole, then a glass of Champagne…’

  ‘The sparkling variety or pale red?’

  ‘Sparkling, definitely sparkling. And as for dessert… well, we shall see. I look forward to tasting your delicacies.’

  The waiter bowed so deeply that his head almost smashed into the table.

  ‘Thank you, Monsieur. Thank you so much!’

  Shooting a last, lofty glance at Mr Ambrose, he glided away. I, meanwhile, sank down into the chair opposite my employer and gave him a bright smile.

  He did not return it.

  ‘The price for that extravagant meal shall be deducted from your wages,’ he warned.

  ‘If you keep this up, Sir, there won’t be anything left of my wages when you’ve deducted all you wish.’

  ‘That would be very convenient indeed, Mr Linton.’

  ‘Oh, don't be so grumpy,’ I admonished. ‘You got what you wanted, didn’t you? We have the file back. We should celebrate!’

  ‘I am celebrating. I ordered a glass of water, didn’t I?’

  ‘Dear me, you’re right. Your extravagant exuberance is overwhelming, Sir.’

  He, oh great surprise, didn’t reply. The waiter arrived with our drinks, and I raised my glass of champagne towards Mr Ambrose.

  ‘A toast,’ I declared.

  He regarded me with those cool, dark eyes of his.

  ‘Similar to jokes, Mr Linton, toasts are a waste of time and breath. They also present the added hazard of spilling a drink one has paid for.’

  ‘Well, I like to waste a little breath and time now and again!’

  ‘I noticed.’

  ‘A toast,’ I repeated, and to my utter astonishment, Mr Ambrose hesitantly raised his glass towards mine. ‘To a successful operation. May you make so much money out of your canal that you choke on it!’

  We clinked glasses. I didn’t spill anything of my costly drink.

  ‘A pleasing prospect, Mr Linton. However, quite unlikely. I have never had problems digesting monetary gain.’

  I hid a smirk behind my champagne glass. ‘I can readily believe that, Sir.’

  He watched me drinking, his eyes narrowing infinitesimally. ‘Should you be drinking, Mr Linton? Remember what happened last time.’

  My smirk widened into a grin.

  ‘Yes, that was fun.’

  His eyes narrowed another fraction of an inch.

  ‘There was a gunfight. You were hallucinating. We nearly died.’

  ‘As I said, fun.’

  ‘I think we must agree to disagree on that, Mr Linton,’ he said coolly.

  We lapsed into silence again. I wet my lips and opened my mouth - then closed it again. There was something I really wanted to ask. I didn’t, though. I was afraid of what the answer might be.

  ‘Messieurs! Voilà, your meal has arrived!’ The waiter swooped down on us like an eagle on a rabbit, only instead of grabbing us for his next meal, he brought us one. A steaming plate was set down in front of me, with a glistening, brown piece of something on it that looked incredibly soft and succulent. It also looked like nothing I had ever seen before, let alone eaten.

  Bowing and smiling at me, the waiter departed. He completely ignored Mr Ambrose. I looked down at my plate, and tentatively picked up the thing on it with a fork. It wobbled.

  ‘You have no idea what foie gras is, do you?’ Mr Ambrose asked.

  ‘Of course I do!’ I sent him an indignant look. How dare he adopt this superior tone with me? I was a member of the gentry, after all. He was nothing but a paltry financier. Why should he just assume he knew more about French cuisine than I did? Granted, he might be right, but it was still a pretty darn cheeky supposition.

  ‘Indeed?’ The way he said that word alone made me want to stuff a fork down his throat. ‘Well, what is it, then?’

  ‘Um… it’s…’ I stared at the brown lump, trying to make deductions from the form and size. ‘Fish?’ I suggested, hopefully.

  ‘Not quite. Actually, it’s goose liver.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Suddenly, I was acutely aware of how the ship pitched and rolled in the power of the waves, and I wasn’t quite so keen on tasting the French delicacy as a moment before. Raising my eyes, I saw Mr Ambrose watching me, his face perfectly expressionless, but his dark eyes slightly smug.

  Ha! I’ll show him!

  Quick as a flash I cut off a piece of the poor goose’s innards and stuffed it into my mouth before I could think better of it. Carefully, I bit down. It tasted surprisingly good. Not squishy at all, but soft and buttery.

  ‘Hmmm…’ Swallowing, I cut off another piece. ‘Quite nice. Yes, really quite nice.’ I tried the sauce that came with it, and the grin returned to my face. ‘Those Froggies really know what they’re doing in the kitchen.’

  Cutting off another piece, I offered it to Mr Ambrose. ‘Do you want to try?’

  Demonstratively, he took a piece of baguette from the bread basket and took a bite.

  ‘Oh well, suit yourself.’

  We ate in silence for a while. I really enjoyed the meal. When you live off potatoes most of the time, tasting foie gras is something special simply for the scarcity value. Add to that the exquisite taste, and… well, it was just about heaven. I treasured every bite, knowing I wouldn’t taste something like this again for a long, long while. Even with my own wages, I would hardly be able to afford this on a regular basis. Especially if…

  There it was again. That question. That question I didn’t want to ask.

  I did it anyway.

  ‘Am I really that bad?’

  My voice was quiet, hesitant. Mr Ambrose looked up from his plate, where he was cutting his baguette into geometrically similar pieces. ‘What?’

  ‘You intimated that after you had deducted money from my wages for all the things I had done wrong, there wouldn
’t be anything left. Am I really that bad at my job, Sir?’

  For once, there was no teasing, no scorn, no antagonism in my voice. That seemed to throw him off. He stared at me as if really seeing me for the first time. His dark eyes turned even darker.

  ‘No,’ he said, finally. ‘You are not. In fact…’ His jaw worked for a moment. ‘In fact, one might say your services have been moderately satisfactory, thus far.’

  ‘Satisfactory?’ Had I heard right? Had he just uttered praise? Praise, moreover, which in Mr Ambrose’s limited complimentary vocabulary equalled heavenly trumpets announcing a triumphal procession in honour of my utter perfection?

  ‘Relatively speaking, of course, Mr Linton. You are still no match for a real man, of course.’

  For some reason, this didn’t make me want to bash his brains in. Instead, my lips twitched. ‘Of course.’

  ‘But for a member of the unmasculine persuasion, you showed considerable lack of fear, down in the mine.’

  ‘Courage, you mean, Sir?’ I inquired sweetly.

  ‘Courage would be too strong a word. I would be more inclined to attribute your actions to an impetuous nature and a tendency to rash behaviour. However, whatever the reasons might be, you exhibited a considerable lack of fear and weakness.’

  ‘You mean I was resilient, Sir? Strong, even?’

  ‘Those words are not the ones I would have chosen. It is more likely-’

  ‘-that my actions originated from some irrational part of my inferior mind, which simply didn’t grasp the danger, than from any real strength of character?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Why, thank you, Sir.’

  ‘You’re welcome, Mr Linton.’

  Why was there a smile on my face? His compliments were badly disguised insults! He still was just as abominable a chauvinist as on the first day I met him. I should be shouting at him, demanding recognition of my work and my loyalty. I definitely should not be moving my right hand across the table towards where his left rested on the tablecloth.

  And why was his hand suddenly starting to move, too, sliding over the table until his fingers touched mine? His fingertips brushed the back of my hand, and a little gasp escaped me. Suddenly, my mind felt very irrational indeed.