*~*~**~*~*
I wandered back into the house some time later, deep in thought.
Well, well, well. My innocent little sister conducting a secret romance behind everybody’s back. In retrospect I felt like slapping myself for not noticing it earlier. I remembered very well that odd stare Edmund Conway had given me last evening as we had met in the street: yet he hadn’t really been looking at me, I realized now, but rather at Ella, who had been standing right behind me.
And I had asked Ella what that had been about, and she had lied.
Ella, lying! The little vixen! A grin spread over my face. I suppose I should have been upset about my own sister lying to me, but to be honest I was delighted to discover she had a share of deviousness. It meant we had something more in common than simply the same parents.
Now that I thought about it, I remembered, too, that morning when I had first gone to work, and Ella had immediately jumped to the conclusion that I was going off to see some young man. The joy in her face back then - it was the joy of somebody who had her own personal attachment, who knew what it was to love a man and find joy in it.
I shook my head. Some people really had strange tastes.
Luckily I wouldn’t have to deal with any men seeking my hand any time soon. The only man I would have to deal with again soon enough would be Mr Rikkard Ambrose, and for that particular relationship I would rather need my own pair of trousers and nerves like steel than flowery bouquets and compliments.
That night I went to bed with my head full of expectations and designs for the future, both mine and my sister's. I knew they would be very different futures, but as I looked over at the peacefully sleeping form of my little sister, I vowed that we would both be happy and successful even if I had to twist the arm of fate to achieve it!
*~*~**~*~*
The next morning we were awakened by a vehement knock on the door. Before either Ella or I had the time to rub the sleep out of our eyes, much less call 'enter', the door was thrown open and a mountain of flowers stumbled in, which on closer inspection revealed itself to be our aunt, carrying a cartload of bouquets and trying to conceal a triumphant smile. She did not do a very good job of the latter.
‘There! There, you see, Ella?’ she exclaimed, dumping her entire load at the foot of my little sister’s bed. ‘I knew it! I knew your beauty could not fail to capture his attention. You are almost as beautiful as I was at your age.’
Ella blinked, sleepily - then her eyes widened as she beheld the pile of flora at the foot of her bed.
‘What are these?’ she asked.
‘Flowers from Sir Philip, of course. Get dressed, girls. It is time for breakfast.’
She rushed out and we did as she had ordered. However, I dressed with even less care than usual. It was rather superfluous, really. It was a weekday. Soon enough I would be exchanging my dress for a pair of trousers.
I felt a slight tremor run through me at the thought of encountering him again. Fear? No, it couldn’t be fear. I was never afraid.
We went down and sat down to breakfast. For a change, my aunt was not in a sour mood over my uncle’s absence. Her mind was more pleasantly engaged.
‘Only look!’ she proclaimed, pointing at a particularly extravagant bouquet of large roses. She had ordered Leadfield to place them all around the room in various vases. How she owned that many vases was a mystery to me, since she never would have spared one penny to buy flowers herself. ‘Such beautiful flowers. This bodes well, don't you think girls?’
If she expected a reply to that, she was disappointed. Personally I didn’t think it boded well at all for Ella. Ella, for her part, didn’t seem to think it boded anything at all. Gertrude never spoke unless she had something serious to say, and Anne, Maria and Lisbeth, the only ones probably disposed to agree with Aunt Brank, were too green with envy to open their mouths.
Not bothered by this lack of enthusiasm, my aunt happily prattled on about her expectations while the rest of us consumed our porridge in silence, until finally somebody felt compelled to open her mouth.
‘To me,’ remarked Gertrude quietly, ‘the gentleman’s behaviour is not so delightful, my dear aunt. There seems something too rash in his manner. A gentleman must somehow show a lady admiration, that is true, but it is not quite right to be lavishing such expensive attentions on Ella so soon after showing interest in another.’ Her gaze strayed to Maria and Anne, not quite sure on which to settle. They both stared daggers at her.
‘Nonsense,’ replied my aunt, who did not know the meaning of the words 'too rash' and who would happily have seen three or more of her nieces married to Sir Philip Wilkins if English law had but allowed it. ‘The more attentions the better. It makes it more likely that we will be able secure him.’
‘Secure him?’ inquired Ella. ‘For what, pray?’
‘Is it not time to end your play-acting?’ hissed Anne. ‘You’ve gotten what you wanted, you can boast of it now.’
Ella blinked at her, dumbfounded.
Her aunt smiled at her sweetly. ‘That’s right dear, you go on being modest. It very well becomes you. No need to be so indelicate as to openly discuss the state of affairs until Sir Philip has acted on his resolve.’
That, I was sure, was a clue big enough that not even Ella could overlook it - but I was mistaken. My little sister appeared just as nonplussed as before. With a shake of the head, I turned from her puzzled countenance and concentrated on my porridge. It was an interesting question how, considering she was so modest as to not be able to see why anybody would want to marry her, she had managed to acquire a lover.
I would have to ask her that sometime. Or maybe I would find out soon enough by listening. I had already chosen the book I wanted to read that evening, when I would go into the garden again. Maybe I wouldn’t even need it, if the exchange at the fence turned out to be interesting enough.
The doorbell rang. Leadfield went to answer it and returned with another bouquet, for which my aunt indicated he should find a vase. More flowers arrived for Ella during the course of breakfast.
I was a liberal-minded person myself, but even I began to find this a bit excessive. Our house was in a fair way to be paved and wallpapered with flowers.
Now and again, I saw Ella glance at the flowers apprehensively. Every time a new flowery message arrived, she looked more puzzled, but I was sure she would not have been worried about them if not for the words of a certain gentleman.
Edmund Conway. Every time my thoughts turned to Ella now, my thoughts couldn’t help but turn to him also. It nettled me that my little sister’s happiness depended on a man. Anybody with sense would seek happiness in yourself rather than in another, because yourself you could always rely upon. But then, Ella, for all her loveliness and amiability, had never had much sense.
It was my job to make up for that. And I would see her happy, or that tradesman’s brat would rue the day he ever thought to play with my little sister’s feelings!
Still deep in thought, I didn’t look up as Leadfield came in, wheezing under the weight of the latest flowery message that, no doubt, promised marriage bells.
‘Another bouquet from Sir Philip Wilkins for Miss Ella,’ he breathed, as expected, and then added: ‘And one from another gentleman, for you, Miss Lillian.’
I nearly bit my spoon in half.
Return to the Game
‘W-what?’ I gasped.
‘And one from another gentleman, for you, Miss Lillian,’ Leadfield repeated stoically.
‘I heard you the first time! But when? Why? And in God’s name, from whom?’
‘Err… they arrived just now, Miss. As to why…’ the old butler blushed a little. ‘Well, I couldn’t say. And from whom… I think I saw a card with the bouquet, but I did not read it.’
Frantically I sprang up and rushed to Leadfield, desperate to know the name of my hidden enemy. I ripped the card out of the bouquet, unfolded it and read:
‘In memory of the first ball where we did N
OT dance together. I am looking forward to changing that soon.
Lieutenant Ellingham.’
Only when silence spread over the room did I realize that I had read aloud. The gazes of my entire family turned to me, and I wished heartily that I could sink into the floor and disappear.
‘Who is Lieutenant Ellingham?’ asked Gertrude.
‘He wanted to dance with you?’ asked Maria.
‘Is he a madman?’ asked Anne.
‘What does he mean, “the first ball where you did not dance together”?’ asked Lisbeth.
‘He’s an officer,’ my aunt interrupted the barrage of questions, twirling her spoon thoughtfully. ‘You could do a lot worse, Lillian. Better secure him before he changes his mind. Oh yes, you’d better hurry, before he actually gets to know you.’
I didn’t really hear any of them. I was still in shock. Lieutenant Ellingham? Lieutenant Ellingham? He wished to make an offer to me? To seek my hand? It seemed hardly creditable.
Not that I did not believe him capable of flattering himself into the belief I might be attracted to him. From what I had seen so far, he could flatter himself into believing that the sky was brown and the earth blue. But what in the name of Jesus and all his Apostles could make him attracted to me? I had done my very best to be as ghastly to him as humanly possible!
I looked down at the card again, hoping that maybe it might have disappeared or changed its message. But there it was still, like a massive viper just waiting to bite me. Maybe it was merely a joke. Maybe he wouldn’t show up here after all. Yes, that had to be it. He probably was having fun with his drinking buddies from the regiment, imagining my face at this very moment.
Resolutely, I crumpled the card and dumped it into my empty porridge bowl.
‘You shouldn’t have done that,’ remarked Maria sweetly. ‘In your place, I would have framed it and hung it on the wall - because of the scarcity value, you know.’
Not deigning to give her a reply, I rushed out of the room and into the garden. I did not have the time for either her or the oh-so-funny Lieutenant Ellingham at the moment. It was only an hour till nine o'clock and I needed to get changed.
If I remembered correctly, Mr Ambrose didn’t tolerate tardiness.
*~*~**~*~*
Wisely I had stashed the clothes I had borrowed from my uncle in the garden shed. Nobody ever came in there, so I changed in the dusty little wooden shack without fear of discovery. I was quite glad, in fact, that I wasn’t putting on the baggy, striped trousers and oversized jacket in my room: there, I couldn’t have helped looking in the mirror. Oh, how I was looking forward to receiving my first pay cheque and buying clothes in which I could pass for an actual gentleman, not just a scarecrow wearing rags three sizes too big for her. Or him. Depending on your point of view.
Completely attired, I left the garden through the little back door in the wall. This time I had ample time to walk, which was fortunate since I most certainly did not have ample money to pay for another cab ride. I reached Empire House by about a quarter before nine. In the entrance hall, which was as busy as ever, Sallow-face at the front desk let me pass without comment. He had accepted me, apparently. Why couldn’t his master do the same?
Maybe because he’s an arrogant bastard. Or maybe because he knows you’re a girl. Most probably both.
But I would be damned if I put up with this any longer! Oh no. I’d force him to look at me, to accept me, to work with me as he would with any man!
Smiling to myself, I began to ascend the stairs. I knew exactly what I had to do. Since he always locked the door connecting our offices, I would take another route and march in through the main door. Simple. Mr Stone wouldn’t dare stop me, I’m sure. He wasn’t as tough as Sallow-face. And then I would give Mr Rikkard Ambrose a piece of my mind!
My brilliant plan was smashed into ruins, however, as soon as I stepped into the long hallway at the top of the stairs. Everything was exactly as it should be - Mr Stone was behind his desk, all the doors were closed, the stone walls were still made of bare stone, and the floors were still horizontal. Yes, everything was as it was supposed to be - except for the massive figure towering behind Mr Stone, right in front of Mr Ambrose’s office door.
The mountainous dark-skinned man wouldn’t have needed to wear his turban or sabre for me to recognize him on the spot; I remembered him all too well. Nevertheless, Karim’s accessories looked impressive. Considerably more impressive than the top hat I had with me.
Swallowing my apprehension, I walked down the hall.
‘Good Morning, Mr Stone,’ I said.
‘Good Morning, Mr Linton.’
I stepped past his desk and tried to move towards the office door. Karim did not budge an inch.
‘Excuse me, you’re standing in my way,’ I said.
‘Yes,’ he growled. He wasn’t looking at me, but staring straight ahead, which meant he was focusing on a point some five inches above my top hat. He really was big. Too big.
‘Well, would you mind getting out of the way?’ I persisted, trying to shove past him towards the door.
‘Yes.’
‘But I have to speak to Mr Ambrose.’
‘Yes?’
‘Yes, I do. So will you let me into the office?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
At last he seemed to feel that my question merited more than a single syllable. Still staring straight ahead, he proclaimed: ‘Mr Ambrose is busy.’
‘With what?’
‘With business.’
‘Well, thank you very much for that informative answer! When will he be finished, do you think?’
‘Mr Ambrose is busy for a long time.’
‘He has been like this all day,’ Mr Stone whispered when I turned away angrily. ‘I must say I am quite perturbed. Karim is Mr Ambrose’s man for… special tasks. You know, um… dangerous matters?’
He looked around anxiously as if waiting for an assassin to spring from the shadows.
‘He has never been posted here yet, Mr Linton. I am afraid that Mr Ambrose perceives some terrible threat to his person.’
Oh yes, a very terrible threat, I thought, staring venomously at the bearded figure in front of the door. A girl who doesn't want to be called 'Mister' all day! Mr Ambrose’s man for special tasks indeed!
‘Well, I’ll just have to talk to him later then,’ I said to Mr Stone, trying to rein in my stormy temper. ‘I’d better get into my office and start working.’
‘Oh yes, your work!’ Mr Stone slapped his forehead. ‘I almost forgot. These arrived for Mr Ambrose early this morning.’
And he held out a bunch of letters. My brow furrowed in thought. Somewhere I had heard of this. Secretaries took care of their employer’s correspondence, didn’t they? But what exactly did they do with the letters? Read them? Answer them? Eat them for breakfast?
‘Um… what am I supposed do with them?’ I asked.
If Mr Stone found the question strange, he didn’t let on.
‘You are to separate the important from the unimportant, and only the former is to be given to Mr Ambrose.’
Taking the letters, I inquired: ‘And how am I to know what Mr Ambrose considers important?’
He gave me a little smile. ‘The answer to that question will determine how long you keep your job here. Good luck.’
With that he sat down and returned to his own work. I strode over to the door that lead to the room I still had difficulty thinking of as ‘my office’. But it was. I had an office! Me! Sweet little me! Now all I had to do was keep it…
I laid the ominous pile of letters on my yes - yes, my desk! - and started looking through them.
There was a stack of invitations to various social events. Hmm. I looked at the firmly closed and bolted door connecting my office with that of my employer. Something told me that Mr Ambrose wasn’t a very social person. Plus, the invitations seemed to be issued by Lady Metcalf and her circle of friends. Apparently, the fine lady was
not so disgusted by Mr Ambrose’s working for a living that she didn’t want him at her parties and dancing with her daughters.
I smiled and, with a great deal of relish, crumpled up those letters and chucked them into the bin.
Next there were charity requests. I wasn’t sure about those, but put them on the pile to go to his office, just in case. It couldn’t hurt to be charitable, right?
Then there were a few letters which, on being opened, revealed themselves to be about business. I didn’t understand above one word in ten they said, but it sounded important so I put them on the pile, too.
Last but not least came a letter like no other: It was no invitation. It wasn’t advertising. And it sure as hell wasn’t business. That was pretty obvious from the fact that it came in a pink, strongly scented envelope.
‘What the…’
I almost broke out laughing when I smelled the perfume! Mr Ambrose had a lady friend? A secret love, maybe? But then I saw the address of the sender and her name. In curly, old-fashioned writing was written:
Samantha Genevieve Ambrose
Ambrose? A relative? A sister, maybe? I couldn’t suppress a snort of laughter at that. To be honest, it was even harder to imagine Mr Ambrose as a family man than as a lover.
Then I noticed something printed next to the address of the sender and frowned.
‘Now what is this doing here…?’ I muttered leaning closer.
If the letter came from Mr Ambrose’s family, the family of a simple, if rich, citizen, how did there come to be a coat of arms stamped on the envelope?
Quite an elaborate coat of arms, too. I didn’t know much about the nobility, but I knew enough to realize that a crest like this didn’t come from a simple knighthood. The coat of arms had the look of centuries on it: the rose in the upper right and the lion in the lower left corner reminded me of the little I had remembered of my lessons in English history.
In a flash, I suddenly remembered what one of the ladies at the ball had said… something about a noble family Ambrose in the North. An Earl’s family.
‘I’ll be damned!’
But no… that couldn’t be. It just couldn’t be Mr Ambrose’s family, could it? If he were an earl’s son, he wouldn’t be calling himself 'Mister' Ambrose. He would have the right to call himself Baron or Lord Somethingorother.