‘Ha! I doubt ballroom dances will develop so far as to include either of those. Though it is a pity.’ His eyes, glinting with mirth, fastened on a particularly corpulent duchess dancing not far away. ‘Cartwheels… that would certainly add considerable entertainment value to the average ball. It might be sufficient to draw away audiences from the music hall.’[5]
‘We should do this again - not just tonight, but when the next ball comes along! I never before considered the possibility of actually having fun at a ball. I feel like a girl dying of thirst in the middle of the Sahara, in front of whom suddenly a hand appears with a glass of water and a voice says “Want a sip, dear?”’
Captain Carter grinned, but then he winced as if he had remembered something, and shook his head.
‘I’m afraid I can’t be your glass of water in the desert, Miss Linton.’
‘Oh.’ My face fell. I thought he had enjoyed our galoping just as much as I had, but maybe I had been mistaken.
He seemed to read my thoughts on my face. ‘It’s not that I don’t want to. I’d like nothing better. But, you see, I’m leaving London in a few days. And I’m not likely to return for some time.’
‘Really? Leaving? Why?’
He hesitated
‘Is it a secret?’ I teased.
‘Well, yes, it is actually.’
‘My lips are sealed. Well, actually they aren’t, because I hate the taste of sealing wax, but you can tell me anyway.’
‘Blast you!’ He fought the grin, but it spread over his face anyway. ‘I shouldn’t even be thinking about telling you this! Why the heck am I?’
I waved my fan like I thought a proper lady would. ‘Because I’m so irresistible?’
He studied my face for a moment. ‘That must be it.’
‘So, why are you going?’
‘The fate of a soldier, I’m afraid. We’re always going, going, going. Usually away from places where there are balls and pretty young ladies, and towards places where there are wars and people trying to stab you in the kidneys.’
‘Is that so? And are your kidneys still intact?’
‘Luckily, yes. But I don’t know whether they still will be after this little adventure.’ His face became uncommonly serious. ‘We’ve had reports of a series of vicious attacks on traders in one of the eastern protectorates.[6] There’s pressure on the Admiralty and the Commander-in-Chief to get quick results. The Navy has already dispatched several vessels, and if they can’t root the bandits out from the sea, we’ll probably be sent in.’
My eyes gleamed. ‘That sounds dangerous!’
He looked at me, one corner of his mouth twitching. ‘And that just makes you want to come along, doesn’t it?’
‘Why on earth not?’ I demanded.
‘Didn’t you ever think about saying “Oh, that sounds terribly dangerous!” while clutching my arm in fear, staring deeply into my eyes, beseeching me to be careful and return to you in one piece?’
In answer to that, I stomped on his foot. Seeing as I had been restrained during the dance, I was entitled to give him at least one bruise.
‘Ouch!’ he laughed. ‘You’re no proper young lady, you little beast!’
‘If I were a proper young lady I wouldn’t have danced the galop with you,’ I pointed out.
‘True, true. Then, don’t be proper, please.’
‘That won’t be a problem.’ I rose to my feet and extended my hand to him. ‘Since you’ll be leaving soon, we have no time to waste. Would you do me the honour of dancing another galop with me, Captain?’
‘I’m the one who is supposed to ask you!’
I grinned. ‘Not a proper young lady, remember?’
He grinned back. ‘Yes! I’d be delighted to dance with you.’
The rest of the evening passed in a whirl of flying skirts and disapproving glares from my aunt. And the best thing was: she couldn’t even say anything! She had told me to spend my evening dancing and smiling, and there I was, dancing and smiling. The only thing was - I wasn’t pretending.
When the evening finally came to an end, and people were rushing through the room, trying to say their goodbyes to everybody, I stayed beside the captain for a moment longer.
‘When will you be leaving for your not-so-secret secret mission?’
He winced. ‘Blast! I should never have told you!’
‘Out with it! Or do you want an elbow in the ribs, or a smashed foot?’
‘Please, gentle lady, spare me! I’ll probably be leaving the day after tomorrow, if the ship is ready by then.’
Instead of trampling on his foot, I gave his hand a squeeze.
‘I’ll miss you,’ I told him, and found to my surprise that I actually meant it. My arms reflexively crossed in front of my chest. ‘You… well, you’re one of the few men I don’t actually despise.’
He swept a dramatic bow. ‘Why, thank you! You really know how to compliment a gentleman, Miss Linton. May I say that I don’t actually despise you, either?’
‘You may.’
Bending still a little farther forward, he took hold of my hand and, before I could rip it from his grasp, pressed a kiss on the back of it.
‘Goodbye, Miss Linton. Or should I say au revoir?’
My eyes narrowed. ‘I prefer pip-pip, or cheerio.’
‘Pip-pip, it is, then, Miss Linton.’
He turned and walked away. And I, for some reason, stood there looking after him long after the crowd had swallowed him, remembering the feel of his arms around me.
*~*~**~*~*
By Monday morning, I was no longer thinking about Captain Carter’s arms - or his feet or nose, for that matter. In fact, any thought of any man existing on this earth had been expunged from my brain, excepting that one representative of the species homo masculus masculus lentus[7] that I would have to confront in no more than an hour.
It won’t be long before you are begging to be sacked, and I’ll be rid of you.
His words echoed in my mind while I got up and dressed. They still echoed when I went downstairs for breakfast. They hadn’t faded by the time I got up from the breakfast table.
‘Where are you going?’ my aunt demanded, sharply.
‘To the park,’ I lied. ‘For a rendezvous.’
Her face brightened. ‘With that nice young man, Captain Carter?’
Somehow, she had been able to compartmentalize the events of last night in a way that allowed her to be furious with me because I had displayed such an atrocious lack of ladylike behaviour and spent the evening dancing frivolous dances, while she was simultaneously ecstatic about Captain Carter, although he had been the one to ask me to dance said dances. It was really amazing what levels of unjust nastiness an ambitious aunt could work herself up to if she put her mind to it.
‘Yes,’ I lied. Lying was such a useful skill.
‘Excellent!’ Her eyes narrowed in suspicion for a moment. ‘There won’t be any dancing, will there?’
‘In the park? No, I don’t think so.’
There! That one had even been true.
‘Good. You may go. And see that you don’t return before two pm. I don’t want to see you near the house before then!’
‘Don’t worry,’ I told her another very true fact. ‘I think I’ll be pretty busy all day.’
When nobody was looking, I slipped out of the back door into the garden and snuck into the shed. There, my new set of clothes was already waiting for me. During the last few weeks, I had been using my uncle’s old Sunday best, which he hadn’t used for years, but that had gone down with the Channel ferry. My new attire consisted of pretty much the same ghastly mixture of cheap trousers and tailcoat, only these weren’t three sizes too large for me.
A few minutes later, I stepped out into the street, successfully transformed from Miss Lilly Linton, suffragette and part-time trampler of men’s feet, into Mr Victor Linton, secretary to Mr Rikkard Ambrose of 322 Leadenhall Street, London. The new me gave the passing cabs a regretful glance - but I ha
d just informed my uncle I didn’t want an allowance any more, and it was still about a week until I would receive my first pay cheque. So this wasn’t the time for luxuries. Straightening my shoulders, I started marching towards my goal, my feet already aching.
Not as much as they will be once he is through with you.
The thought came out of nowhere, like an adder in the grass. Sneaky! Blast, I wasn’t going to surrender to him before I had even started.
It won’t be long until you will be begging to be sacked - he said that. He meant it. You know he always does.
Yes, blast him! But so did I! I wasn’t going to give up! Not ever!
What do you think he’s going to do?
My foot caught on something, and I almost stumbled. Bloody hell! I should be watching where I was going!
Or even better: you should be thinking about whether to go at all!
Oh, shut up!
When I turned the corner into Leadenhall Street, I didn’t waste a glance on the other buildings, not even on East India House, the headquarters of Mr Ambrose’s main business rival and personal arch-enemy. My eyes were drawn to it, the largest building on the street, the largest building anywhere in London as far as I knew, with the possible exception of Buckingham Palace.
Empire House rose high, high into the air above the other buildings. Its size was not in breadth, but in climbing far above the other buildings, towards the sky. When first I saw the building, I couldn’t think why. Now I felt sure I knew: it was cheaper to build high on a smaller piece of ground. Plus, I had to admit, it looked much more intimidating. And Mr Ambrose was as much into intimidation as he was into keeping his purse tightly closed.
Cautiously, I approached the portico. I half-expected him to jump out at me from behind one of the two gigantic support columns.
Don’t be silly! Get a move on, Lilly!
Crossing the street, I climbed up the steps to the half-open door and entered the entrance hall. Immediately, I was surrounded by cool shadows and the patter of hundreds of busy little feet, coming from busy little clerks hurrying through the hall like ants through an anthill. The narrow windows let in only a few rays of sunlight, and the stone walls were completely bare of decoration.
I gave a happy sigh.
Home.
Except, of course, for the little fact that this was a huge stone monument to mammon, not a home. A monument of which not a single brick belonged to me. And in its bowels waited not a welcoming committee but a stone-faced madman who wanted to devour me for breakfast and spit me out again.
Don’t be melodramatic, Lilly! At least not now! You can do that on your own time!
Fighting an urge to linger, I advanced towards the sallow-faced receptionist behind the desk at the back of the hall, and nodded a greeting.
Sallow-face nodded back. ‘You may go up, Mr Linton. Mr Ambrose is expecting you.’
Oh, he is, is he?
I hardly noticed my aching feet while climbing up the stairs. My brain was too focused on wild, chaotic fears to have room for pain.
Blast, blast, blast! He’s going to try to get rid of you again!
My feet touched the third landing. I hurried on without pausing.
Yes, he is. But what can he do? Make you carry more files than before?
Fourth landing… fifth… Outside, the bell of St Paul’s Cathedral started to strike the hour.
‘What can he do?’ Did you really have to ask yourself that question?
Now I bloody couldn’t stop imagining!
Sixth landing… just one more… seventh! Panting, I stumbled into the narrow hallway with doors leading off to either side that was the gateway to Mr Ambrose’s inner sanctum. At the end of the hallway, Mr Stone, an astonishingly nice and unassuming man for someone working so closely with Mr Ambrose, sat at his desk, guarding the entrance like a timid Cerberus.
And behind Mr Stone… a door.
The door.
I started forward. The only sensible thing to do. But why the heck was I moving on tiptoes?
‘Hello, Mr Stone.’
And now why are you whispering?
He smiled up at me. ‘Welcome back, Mr Linton.’
I threw another glance at the door. ‘How is he?’
Mr Stone cleared his throat. ‘Um… not in a particularly good mood, I’m afraid. Here’s his correspondence for the day. But if I were you, I’d avoid him until he has relaxed a bit.’
Mr Ambrose? Relax? Do you want me to wait a million years, or just ten thousand?
‘Well, thanks for the advice,’ I told him. ‘I’ll just go into my own office, then, and-’
‘Mr Linton!’ The cold voice from inside the head office cut through mine like a razor through rice paper. It sent a shiver down my back and made Mr Stone sit up straight in his chair. Then it came again. ‘I know you’re out there, Mr Linton. Come in here! We have work to do!’
Oh, bloody hell…!
To Watch for Fat and Gold
When I opened the door to his office, Mr Ambrose was sitting in his chair, glaring at a piece of paper on his desk as if he wanted to freeze it solid with his gaze. He didn’t look up when I stepped in, but still managed to make me feel that the icy look was not for the paper alone.
‘You are two and a half seconds late, Mr Linton!’
‘Good morning, Sir. It’s very nice to see you again, too.’
‘Send a message through the tubes! I want to know if my new cane has arrived yet.’
‘Your new what, Sir?’
‘My cane! I tried to hold on to my old one, but it slipped out of my fingers while swimming ashore.’ He sounded as if having survived the sinking of the ship was an insignificant event that could in no way outweigh the horrendous loss of his invaluable walking stick. ‘I have to buy a new one. If things continue at this rate, I’ll be reduced to beggary soon.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘And it’s going to be infernally expensive! I have to have it custom-made, of all things! They don’t sell them like I want them.’
‘Really, Sir? I can’t imagine why shops don’t usually sell walking sticks with hidden swords inside. They’re such a handy, everyday item.’
‘Mr Linton?’
‘Yes, Sir?’
‘Get a move on and get me my cane!’
‘Yes, Sir!’
While Mr Ambrose continued to shoot death-stares at the paper in front of him, I went into the office next door, to a spot where there was a hole in the wall, and beside the hole a number of levers and buttons. They gave me access to the system of pneumatic tubes that ran through the entire building. Shove a small cylinder with a message into one of the tubes and push the right buttons, and it would pop out at almost any place in the building, saving Mr Ambrose a lot of valuable time and my leg muscles from eternal cramp.
Dear Sallow-face…
My hand stopped writing, hovering over the little bit of paper. Hm… I probably shouldn’t address him like that. He might be offended. Men were funny that way.
But I had such bloody difficulties remembering the man’s name! What was it again? Parsnips? Pumpkin? No, Pearson! That was it, Pearson!
Dear Mr Pearson,
Mr Ambrose has requested…
I halted again. Then I crossed out ‘requested’ and wrote ‘ordered’ instead.
Dear Mr Pearson,
Mr Ambrose has ordered me to enquire with you if his custom-made walking stick has already arrived. You know, the one with the pig sticker inside?
Yours truly
Mr Victor Linton
The answer came back quickly and efficiently:
Mr Linton,
No.
Yours,
Pearson
Ah. Apparently the good Mr Pearson had embraced wholeheartedly Mr Ambrose’s policy on quick and efficient communication in the workplace. Returning to Mr Ambrose’s office, I handed him the slip of paper.
‘Here, Sir! As requested, Sir!’
He threw a glance at the paper. He
didn’t curse - curses were a waste of valuable breath, after all - but the way in which his little finger twitched spoke volumes. Ones with lots of dirty words inside.
‘I can’t go without some protection,’ he growled. ‘Not there! Who knows what they might get up to?’
Shoving his chair back abruptly, he rose from his desk and marched out of his office into mine. A moment later I heard the rustling of keys and knew what he was doing.
What the bloody hell does he want in the safe?
‘No, not that,’ I heard him murmur to clanking and thudding. ‘Not that either, and that’s not right at all… Ah, yes!’
Seconds later he re-entered his office. And he had found what he’d been looking for. My eyes went wide! It was a massive wooden cudgel, painted lines drawn around the top, and the image of a very determined, very ugly demon’s face carved into it.
‘What the hell is that?’ I blurted out before I could control myself. He gave me a look. One of those looks. ‘Sir,’ I added hurriedly.
‘It is one of many trophies from my travels. Originally, I believe it had a ceremonial purpose. But it will suffice for what I have in mind.’
He gave the thing an experimental swing, and I jumped back.
‘What in God’s name do you need a ceremonial cosh for?’
Picking up the letter he had been staring at from the desk, he thrust it at me. ‘Read!’
Carefully, not sure whether he would break out into any more sudden bouts of experimental stick-fighting, I took the piece of paper. Even more carefully, I lowered my eyes to it.
Sir,
A situation has arisen at factory number 12 in Soho, and requires your immediate attention.
Yours truly
Dennis Bradley
Factory Manager
Not far underneath that was scribbled in a rather hastier script:
P.S.: I resign.
‘A situation?’ My head snapped up to stare at Mr Ambrose. ‘What kind of situation?’
‘It doesn’t say.’
‘I know it doesn’t say! That’s why I’m asking you!’
‘I regret to inform you, Mr Linton, that I am not omniscient.’ His face stone-hard, he gave the cudgel another experimental swing. ‘But I think it’s best to go prepared for anything.’