In the Eye of the Storm

  ‘Did what?’ Was it only my imagination, or did my voice sound suspiciously like a squeak? I took a step back. And another. I was a feminist, I was all for standing up to men - but not this man, and not while he was in this mood! I took another step back, and my derrière bumped into the doorframe. ‘What did I do?’

  ‘Read this!’ Giving me one more vengeful, dark glare, he shoved the magazine under my nose. I took it, and the heading jumped right out at me:

  Scandal Around Financial Magnate

  I tried to lift my hands, tried to take the magazine to read, but my arm wouldn’t move. I was frozen in place by the ice in his eyes.

  ‘Don’t want to read it, do you?’ he enquired, with an alarmingly soft voice. ‘Don’t feel like delving into the details? Don’t worry. I’ll read it for you.’

  And he lifted the crumpled magazine to read, hiding his face. Part of me was glad I could no longer see him. But that just meant I had more attention to spare for the ice of his voice when he started to speak.

  ‘Scandalous events often shake the newspapers these days, but seldom has the press of London had to report such an outrage as the writer of this article has now to reveal. Not long ago, at Speaker’s Corner in Hyde Park, London, at a meeting of the esteemed Anti-Suffragist League of London, numerous important personages and a crowd of supporters came together to fight against those unnatural creatures who call themselves suffragettes and feminists and deny the fact that a woman’s God-given place is in the home.’

  The shiver that had run down my back earlier realized that its work wasn’t done yet. Taking a run-up, it raced up my back again, leaving goose bumps in its wake.

  Oh no…

  ‘Among the gentlemen present,’ Mr Ambrose continued without mercy, ‘was Rikkard Ambrose, renowned financial magnate. However, Mr Ambrose’s performance at the meeting did not at all reflect the power and position of his social rank.’

  Blast, no! A curse on all newspapers and magazines! Please, let this not be what I think it is!

  ‘Not that it was Mr Ambrose himself who caused an outrage: no, it was the behaviour of his secretary, whom he had brought along to the meeting, that was beyond all bounds of decorum - a young and still beardless young fellow people heard Mr Ambrose refer to as “Mr Linton”.’

  Blast!

  Lowering the magazine an inch or two, Mr Ambrose’s deadly stare burrowed into me. I swallowed, surprised I didn’t drop dead on the spot.

  ‘At this event,’ Mr Ambrose continued reading, somehow managing to keep me pinned with his gaze while simultaneously looking at the pages in front of him, ‘a rally held officially against the absurd notions of feminists and suffragettes, this Mr Linton dared to speak out in favour of such nonsense. His speech is re-printed in the section for jokes.’

  His eyes fully focused on me now, and he cocked his head. ‘There is an amusing caricature of the two of us, too. Do you wish to see it?’

  I cleared my throat. ‘Err… not particularly, no.’

  ‘I see. Well, then let us relish the rest of this journalistic masterpiece, shall we?’ With a hiss, he dived behind the magazine again.

  Please God! Let me die now!

  ‘Somehow, the impetuous youth managed to enthral the simple-minded people in the crowd. In the end, Mr Linton had to be forcibly removed from the stage to shouts of “Long live suffragism!”.’ Mr Ambrose’s ominous voice reached me from behind the veil of paper. ‘There is little doubt that he is a violent, unstable young man. And as for his employer…’

  Please, God! Just kill me right now! It can’t be that difficult! I don’t need anything fancy. One lightning bolt will do!

  ‘The writer of this article cannot but wonder how Mr Ambrose proposes to run a vast business empire if he cannot even control his own secretary. Also, if Mr Ambrose’s staff is that unstable, what about himself? Are mental difficulties widespread in his circle? This casts a dark shadow of doubt on Mr Ambrose’s abilities and the future of his business.’

  Lowering the magazine once more, Rikkard Ambrose raised his eyes to me, and when I saw the expression in their bottomless depths, I had to swallow.

  Oops…

  Happy Homecoming

  Mr Ambrose didn’t say a single word on the coach ride to Dover - and he did it in a very scary way. Nobody could be silent like Mr Ambrose. It was a grand symphony of silence, punctuated with staccato stares and sinister drumrolls of finger flexing. In Dover, he sprang out of the rickety coach like a raven swooping down on his dead prey and stalked off, motioning for me to follow without a word. I did.

  We ended up in front of a shop. In the shop windows, I could see displays of trousers and tailcoats. Over the shop, large metal letters proclaimed in cursive script: Harris & White - Quality Tailors for Gentlemen.

  ‘Well, Mister Linton…’ Mr Ambrose regarded me, his eyes glittering dangerously. ‘Let’s find you a pair of trousers.’

  Let’s just say that what followed wasn’t exactly every lady’s dream of a man buying her pretty clothes. When I left the shop half an hour later, clothed in a tailcoat and baggy trousers, and with three shocked sales assistants staring after us, I was feeling ready to kill. And I already had a victim in mind.

  The only problem was… He looked just about as ready for murder as I did.

  ‘How dare you!’ I spat at him, as soon as we were out of hearing. ‘How could you do that?’

  ‘You’re right,’ he growled. ‘I can’t believe I paid for those clothes out of my own pocket. But I’ll promise you, the sum will be deducted from your wages.’

  ‘You…! I wasn’t talking about bloody money! How could you do this to me?’ Tugging at the fabric of the trousers, I took an enraged step towards him. ‘I thought you had finally gotten it through your thick skull that I am a girl!’

  ‘I know very well what you are! I’m simply doing my very best to ignore the fact - ignore it, and conceal it! If your little speech in front of the Anti-Suffragists was enough to cause such a sensation, do you have any idea what kind of scandal it would be if someone found out that a female is working as my secretary?’

  ‘I don’t care! How could you put me in these again? After all we’ve been through, how could you do that to me?’

  ‘I did something to you?’ His voice was as cold and distant as the peak of some lonely mountain. And yet… The mountain was grumbling. It might just turn out to be a volcano. ‘You dare say that to me? You are the one who humiliated me in public!’

  ‘I didn’t humiliate anyone! I told the truth and fought for justice!’

  Before I knew what was happening, he had gripped me by the arms and I was being swept backwards into a dark alley, until I was pressed against a cold brick wall. It was almost as hard as the feel of the body that was suddenly pressing into my front - the body of Mr Rikkard Ambrose. My heartbeat picked up, and not from fear. Not from rage, either. He was so close, every line of his perfect form pressing into me…

  Get a grip, Lilly! You’re furious, remember?

  ‘Suffragism has nothing to do with truth or justice!’ he growled, his strong hands like vices around my arms. ‘Women aren’t fit to vote, or work, or think for themselves! And the sooner you get that through your head, the better!’

  ‘Men are a pack of arrogant, power-hungry jackals!’

  ‘Better a jackal than a little, helpless puppy! At least jackals hunt for themselves! Women are too weak to do anything alone!’

  My fist slammed into his chest with no effect whatsoever. Catching my other hand before it could hit him he forced it upwards, until I was practically dangling from my upstretched arm.

  ‘Let go!’ My free arm slammed my hand into his chest again.

  ‘Make me let go, if you’re so strong!’ Catching my other hand in his iron grip, he pulled it upwards, too, joining my wrists so both of my hands were pinned against the wall by just one of his. ‘What are you waiting for?’

  ‘You bastard!’ I writhed and pulled, but my arms wouldn’t budge. All
I managed to do was to press myself more tightly up against the hard barrier of his body, which didn’t really feel like a bad thing, but didn’t increase my desire to escape, either. Blast him! He was the greatest son of a bachelor south of the North Pole! Why couldn’t I feel properly revolted and disgusted? Why did it feel so good to be held by him, even when I was trying to punch him?

  ‘There, you see? You’re the best proof!’ His voice gripped me just as hard as his hands. It was the voice of someone used to command and being obeyed. ‘Look at yourself! Look at the things you’ve achieved during your employ: getting drunk right before a fight, letting the file slip through your hands, humiliating me in front of all of London—’

  ‘None of that was my fault! It just happened! Let go of me!’

  ‘And as if that weren’t enough,’ he whispered, his cold voice sliding over me like iron fetters, ‘you’re so helpless, so weak that I have to rescue you from that infernal ship. I swam ashore alone, with my own two legs and feet. You? You had to be pulled out of the water like a drowning little puppy!’

  ‘Let go, I said!’ My knee jerked, trying to ram into him, find some vulnerable spot - but he was pressed too tightly against me. And, curse me, a part of me didn’t want to fight! A part of me wanted him closer, harder, even now!

  ‘Look at yourself right now.’ The power in his voice made me want to bite him, strike him in rage - it also made me want to dissolve right into his arms, damn him! ‘I need just one hand to hold you. You’re weak and defenceless. Admit it.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Resign your position as my secretary.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘You don’t have the stomach for it, the strength, the tenacity. Resign, or you’ll get hurt, sooner or later!’

  ‘No!’

  ‘That is an order!’

  ‘I said no! I won’t! You gave your word to keep me, and I will hold you to it, blast you!’

  His free arm came up so quick I didn’t even see it. A strong, hard hand gripped my chin and turned my head, forcing me to look into the bottomless depths of his eyes.

  ‘Respect, Mr Linton. Show respect.’

  ‘Very well - blast you, Sir!’ I glared at him with fire in my eyes. If I couldn’t get my hands free, I would burn him to ashes with the pure force of my gaze, melt that ice of his with the firestorm roaring inside me! ‘So, finally I know. That’s how you feel about me! That’s why you saved my life! Because you think I’m weak!’

  His left little finger twitched. Apart from that, he showed no emotion. ‘Yes. That’s it.’

  ‘Well, do you know why I looked for you after the ship went down? Why I was hoping you would survive?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Because I bloody well want my first pay cheque, that’s why! If you croak, I won’t get a penny!’

  His eyes narrowed infinitesimally. ‘Is that so, Mr Linton?’

  Proudly, I raised my chin. ‘Yes, it is!’

  And it was true. Absolutely. Never mind the way in which his dark stare sent my heart hammering. Never mind how his hard body, pressed up so tightly against me, made me want to be closer still, to grab him, pull him down and…

  Well, never mind all of that. Money! I was interested only in the money!

  Tightening his grip on my wrists, he leaned closer until his forehead was almost touching mine. Bloody hell, his forehead wasn’t the only thing too close! His eyes were two giant pools of sea-deep darkness, right in front of my face, and his mouth was so near I could feel his breath on my cheek.

  ‘Are you sure about that?’ The fingers of his free hand slid over my chin, upwards over my skin, sending a shiver through my entire body. ‘Are you sure you want to be my secretary? Or do you want something else? Want to be something else to me?’

  Something else? What in God’s name does he mean? He can’t be suggesting that we…? No! He can’t. Most definitely not.

  ‘I want to earn my money!’ I growled between clenched teeth. ‘The money to be free! Free of any man!’

  ‘Free of any man?’ He cocked his head a fraction of an inch. ‘Except of me.’

  ‘I only have to put up with you from Monday to Friday, 8 am to 8 pm, Sir!’

  He regarded me for a moment, as if studying a strange and possibly dangerous specimen under the microscope.

  ‘You don’t belong in my office. I might have thought you’d do - but after that thing in The Spectator…’ He let the sentence trail off ominously. ‘You’re a liability, Mr Linton. If you won’t resign voluntarily, I’ll have to make you. Be warned, Mr Linton - it won’t be long until you will be begging to be sacked, and I’ll be rid of you.’

  Jerking my chin free of his hand, I raised it high in the air, facing him down. ‘You can try!’

  *~*~**~*~*

  The drive from Dover to London wasn’t much more chatty and cheerful than the previous one. This wasn’t just because of the stubborn stone statue I had for a travelling companion. No, it had begun to dawn on me that my return might not be very warm and welcoming. Considering the fact that I had left my aunt and uncle’s house supposedly for a brief stroll in the park, and had ended up on a ship that took me to a adventure on a mysterious island on the French coast involving danger, industrial espionage and near death, I thought they might be a tiny little bit upset with me.

  Of course, neither my aunt and uncle, nor my five sisters actually knew anything about the adventure on the French island. I could just tell them I had lost track of time and my walk in the park had turned out to be a little longer than I expected. The only problem with that was that my aunt wasn’t a very trusting woman. She might think that a weeklong walk in Green Park was a bit incredible.

  Maybe you could say you went on a walk to Yorkshire and back, instead. That would fit the time frame much better.

  It would also sound even more ridiculous.

  ‘What excuse would you tell your family if you had to explain having disappeared for a week?’

  I only realized that I had spoken out loud when the stone statue in the corner raised his head and looked at me.

  ‘None,’ Mr Ambrose told me.

  I blinked, taken aback. I hadn’t really expected an answer. So my next words popped out before I could really think about them. ‘You’d disappear on your family for an entire week? Just like that? Without explanation? Have you done that? Left and stayed away for an entire week without sending word?’

  ‘No.’ He met my eyes coldly. ‘I’ve left and stayed away without sending a word for approximately nine and a half years.’

  I gaped at him. Ignoring me, he turned back to staring out the window. Well, well… so Mr Ambrose was not a family man, eh? What a surprise!

  Which still didn’t answer my question: what was I going to say to my family when I returned?

  Well, why say anything at all? You could simply garb yourself in mysterious silence, like bloody Mr Ice-Cold Ambrose!

  Yes, I could do that - if I wanted Aunt Brank to try and rip my head off!

  Well, you’ll simply have to let her try and hope it is attached firmly enough to survive.

  Outside the coach, the landscape began to change. Gentle hills transformed into flat, monotonous country. After a while, it began to be dotted with a cottage here and there. More cottages came, then turned into houses. And before I knew it, we were rolling into London. The sounds of the city engulfed us, and the familiar smoky smell of the city crept into my nostrils.

  Soon enough, the carriage was rolling down a familiar street - a very familiar street. Taken aback, I stared out of the windows at the neat, middle-class brick houses. Wasn’t this…? Yes, it was! The street where my aunt and uncle lived! The street where I had lived, too, ever since my parents had died.

  ‘What are we doing here?’ I blurted out.

  Turning his head just a fraction, Mr Ambrose deigned to look at me. ‘You live here, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but…’ I hesitated. How was I going to tell him I hadn’t thought he’d care enough ab
out me to care where he threw me out of his coach without sounding rude? It was impossible. But on the other hand, since when had I had a problem with sounding rude?

  ‘I didn’t realize you were providing cab services, for me, Sir,’ I told him, one eyebrow raised in question.

  ‘Don‘t get above yourself, Mr Linton. I just do not think you have the brains to find your way home alone.’

  The arrogant…! Blast him! I could believe him, too, considering the way he was looking at me.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to accompany you back to Empire House, Sir?’ I said in the sweetest tone I could manage. ‘Who knows, maybe you could use my help squeezing your head through the door, considering how big it has grown.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary.’ He didn’t even bat an eyelid. Curse him! Could nothing ruffle that son of a bachelor?

  When we finally pulled up in front of my aunt and uncle’s house, the coachman jumped off to open the door for me, but I was outside before his feet had even touched the ground.

  ‘Do you have any luggage, Sir?’ he asked, with a polite bow. ‘Should I help you carry it in?’

  ‘That all sank in the Channel,’ I informed him. ‘But thanks for the offer.’

  Leaving a startled coachman behind, I started towards the door in the garden wall and the garden shed beyond, where I still had a secret stash of women’s clothes tucked away. But after only a few paces, I stopped, half turned, and sent Mr Ambrose a bright smile.

  ‘Looking forward to seeing you at work on Monday, Sir.’

  He acted as if I weren’t there. Clapping his hands, he motioned for the coachman to get back to work. Moving faster than should be allowed for a man who didn’t have to work under the threat of slavery, the coachman jumped back up on the box and cracked his whip.

  ‘Gee up!’

  The horses darted forward and the coach was gone, a black streak that grew smaller and smaller in the distance. Only when it was already turning around a corner did I start to wonder: