Storm and Silence

  ‘No, but there’s something else.’

  ‘Important?’

  ‘Yeees!’

  ‘Then come in.’

  Slowly, I entered. The office hadn’t altered much from the last time I’d seen it. The big map had disappeared off the desk and, instead, heaps of paper were lying on it. I was a bit surprised that I recognized most of them: they were the files Mr Ambrose had told me to bring him, and he was working through them diligently. So he wasn’t just ordering me around to annoy me. Good to know, if slightly unexpected.

  I stepped in front of my employer’s desk and cleared my throat.

  No reaction. He didn’t even look up. Instead, he picked up his fountain pen and began writing on a piece of paper.

  I cleared my throat again. And again.

  ‘Do you have a cough, Mr Linton?’ he asked without looking up. He continued writing.

  ‘No, Sir. I have a question.’

  ‘Then put it and leave. I have work to do.’

  ‘Well, err… it’s a bit delicate.’

  ‘Then put it delicately and leave.’

  Ordinarily, his ice-cold manner would have gotten my dander up. But at the moment, my thoughts were fully occupied by a certain pressing matter.

  ‘Err… yes, Sir. You see, I have to do some urgent… business.’

  He tapped the stacks of paper with his free hand. ‘So have I.’

  ‘I’m sure, Sir. It’s just that my business is somewhat more personal than yours. I, um, need to powder my nose.’

  That was the first time he looked up. With his dark, sea-coloured eyes, he stared at my face intently.

  ‘Why? Your nose looks fine to me.’

  ‘Um… thanks for the compliment, but…’

  ‘If you absolutely must,’ he continued, bending his head again and continuing his writing, ‘you can do it here. I don't mind.’

  I nearly choked.

  ‘Err… Mr Ambrose?’

  ‘Are you still here, Mr Linton?’

  ‘Yes, Sir. I wanted to ask - have you been out in society much?’

  He didn’t look up again. His fountain pen flew over the paper. Blue lines of ink spread over it with graceful ease. ‘No. I detest society. Ever since I’ve returned to England I’ve been far too busy with my business, anyway. Why?’

  ‘Because you seem a bit behind on social idioms. You see… to “powder your nose” is a phrase that ladies use when they want to indicate to gentlemen that they need to pee.’

  There was a loud snap. When I looked, I saw that Mr Ambrose’s fountain pen had snapped in half under the sudden pressure of his fingers. Ink dripped out of the half he still held.

  ‘Then,’ he said in a very measured, calm voice, ‘please do not do it here.’

  I nodded. ‘That’s what I thought.’

  ‘Why don't you just do it somewhere else, then?’ Mr Ambrose’s voice wasn’t quite as calm and collected as usual anymore. My, my. Was the great businessman at a loss? I had to hide my smirk.

  ‘Well, Sir, I checked, and there’s a bathroom downstairs. But it’s only a pissoir, with no separate cubicles. And well, I know you think of me as a gentleman, Mr Ambrose, but I think some of the other staff members might disagree once I let my trousers down.’

  ‘I see your point.’

  Still not looking up, Mr Rikkard Ambrose, one of the country’s richest and most powerful businessmen, pondered the question of where I might pee this afternoon. If I hadn’t been so literally filled with anticipation, I might have burst out laughing. As it was, I preferred standing still.

  Finally, he said:

  ‘You can use mine. It’s in there.’

  And he pointed toward a small door at the back of the office that I hadn’t noticed before.

  ‘Err… your what, Sir?’

  ‘My toilet. Go do what you need to do, and then get back to work. I don't pay you for standing around.’

  I wasn’t sure I had heard correctly. ‘You want me to use your personal…’

  He looked up, sharply.

  ‘Mr Linton?’

  ‘Yes, Sir!’

  ‘What did we talk about in the last five minutes?’

  Suddenly I got the feeling that an awful lot depended on me making the right answer.

  ‘Err… business, Sir?’

  ‘Very good. What kind of business?’

  ‘For the life of me, Sir, I can’t remember.’

  ‘Very good indeed. Now bring me a new fountain pen. For some reason this one doesn't seem to be working anymore. And then get on with your business, and leave me to mine.’

  ‘Yes, Sir! Immediately, Sir!’

  I managed to bring him a new fountain pen without wetting myself, then ran to the little door, slid inside and shut it behind me. Quickly, I let my trousers drop. Thank the Lord I was wearing trousers and not a hoop skirt! I would have emptied my bladder three times over by the time I had gotten rid of that. With a sigh of relief I closed my eyes and sank down on the toilet.

  As anyone will understand, I’m sure, for the next few minutes I was quite busily engaged. It was only after the pressure had appreciably decreased that I could open my eyes and look around at Mr Rikkard Ambrose’s personal bathroom.

  I was in largish chamber with - naturally - bare stone walls. The only thing that could maybe be counted as decoration was a small mirror hanging on the door. Maybe. The plain, ungilded frame and small size of the mirror, however, made it appear more likely to me that it was an object of daily use, in typical Ambrosian style.

  My eyes did not rest on the mirror long. They were drawn to an object on the wall to my right. There, over a basin set into the floor, a shower head protruded from the wall.

  On seeing this, I suppose I know what my reaction should have been. It should have been some mundane thought like ‘Of course! He’s too stingy for a bath, so he had a shower installed to save water’ or ‘I wonder where he gets the water from. Surely not out of the filthy river’.

  Instead, all I thought was: Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God! He showers here! He showers here, in this very room where I am right now, naked! Which would mean without any clothes on. Which would mean you could see all of his…

  For some strange reason, I took a little bit longer than usual to conclude my business in the bathroom that day. When I left, Mr Ambrose looked sideways at me. His granite expression didn’t change.

  ‘Something wrong, Mr Linton? You look a little flushed.’

  ‘N-no, Sir. I’m very well, thank you.’

  ‘Good. Then bring me file 29IV229 now.’

  ‘Yes, Sir! Immediately, Sir!’

  *~*~**~*~*

  I worked as hard as I could throughout the day. Yet the longer I worked, the more my thoughts wandered from my work and to Ella and my own men-problem. Well, man, really, not men. I probably wouldn’t be able to think straight anymore if I had more than one of those creatures hounding me. Lieutenant Ellingham was quite enough.

  How the devil am I supposed to get rid of him? I demanded of myself while puffing under the weight of a hundred heavy files.

  He didn’t seem to mind that my family didn’t have much money or that I didn’t have ladylike manners. He only seemed to care for my family’s respectable name, which would help him in his advancement in the military.

  Hm… Can you get rid of a respectable family name?

  Well, short of changing my name or committing suicide, neither of which seemed a very good idea, I would have to do something so humongously stupid and dishonourable that it would disgrace my entire family.

  Then why not do that? Sounds easy enough for someone as talented as you.

  True, I had no trouble of thinking of possibilities - I could ride through the marble arch, which only the Queen was allowed to do. I could dance naked on top of the marble arch, which not even the Queen was allowed to do. I could make a handstand in Hanover Square and start singing the French national anthem. I could rob the Bank of England.

  The last idea sounds ni
ce. Then you can quit this bloody job and go lead a life of adventure, going to see the rain forests and the Great Wall of China!

  But, alas, I was afraid that even dressed up as a man, nobody would take me seriously as a bank robber. You probably had to be six foot five for that, with a mask and a pistol.

  Plink!

  Surprised, I looked down and saw three messages lying in front of me on the desk. I had been so consumed with my own thoughts that I hadn’t noticed them coming in. The first two were the usual missives from His Mightiness, reminding me to bring him file number 35X119 and hurry up about it. The third one was different.

  Mr Linton,

  Taking into account your negligence in answering my messages, I must assume that something is the matter with you. Is it the same business as earlier today, the business we are never ever going to talk about anymore?

  Rikkard Ambrose

  I couldn’t suppress a grin as I answered:

  Dear Mr Ambrose,

  No, that business we are never ever going to talk about again is not a problem - at least not yet. I am sorry for my negligence. I will bring the files immediately.

  Yours Sincerely

  Miss Lilly Linton

  But before I could rise, another message plopped onto my desk.

  Mr Linton,

  If it is not that problem bothering you, what is the matter?

  Rikkard Ambrose.

  My jaw dropped. Was I reading correctly? I reread the message. Then I turned it on its head and tried to read it like that, thinking I might be able to put a different construction on the words. Finally, I closed my eyes for ten seconds, yet when I opened them again, the impossible words were still there.

  My hand shaking slightly from the shock, I quickly composed an answer.

  Dear Mr Ambrose,

  Careful, Sir. People might start to think you actually cared if everything goes well in my life.

  Yours Sincerely

  Lilly Linton

  The reply to that came just as quick.

  Mr Linton,

  Care? Do not be ridiculous. I simply need you to work efficiently, without distractions.

  Rikkard Ambrose

  Of course. And there was I thinking that maybe he had asked just to make me feel better. Ha! I had forgotten who I was talking- err, writing to.

  Yet regardless of his motivations, he wanted to know what was the matter. Panic began to well up inside me. How could I tell somebody I was being pursued by a man I detested? More terrible still, how could I tell that to Mr Granite-Face All-Businesslike Ambrose? The concept alone filled me with unimaginable horror! And what about Ella? I could never tell him about Ella’s secret romantic rendezvous. To mention the word 'love' in his presence would be like trying to explain bicycles to an eel.

  It’s really nothing, I scribbled on a piece of paper. Really, really nothing. Don’t concern yourself with the matter. I am sure you have more important things to do.

  Hurriedly, I shoved the message into a container and the container into the pneumatic tube - only then realizing that I had forgotten my usual teasing salutation. Well, that could only be good, right? He had complained of my teasing him all the while, after all, and right now I wouldn’t want to rile him up any more.

  Twenty seconds later, a message returned.

  It consisted of two simple words.

  Tell me.

  Oops. Maybe I had been wrong. Again I took up pen and paper.

  Dear Mr Ambrose,

  As I said, it is nothing. Please do not concern yourself with my petty troubles.

  Yours Sincerely

  Miss Lilly Linton

  I shoved the message into the tube, pulled the lever and waited anxiously. When, after a minute or so, no reply had come, I dared to breathe again. He was going to let it go. So now I’d just have to find those files he wanted…

  I was just about to get up when a noise from the room next door froze me in mid-movement: The scrape of chair legs over a stone floor. Then, quick, hard steps approached the connecting door and a key turned in the lock.

  Holy Moses! He was coming over!

  *~*~**~*~*

  He stood in the doorway like a statue of some Greek god about to pass judgement on a poor mortal and maybe throw a thunderbolt or two.

  ‘Tell me,’ he ordered.

  ‘I’m not obliged to tell you anything about my personal life,’ I mumbled, and thought: I’m looking down at the floor! Why the hell am I looking down? I’m a strong, independent woman! ‘That’s not part of the job description of a secretary.’

  ‘It’s also not part of the job description of a secretary to tour the hotels of London in a dress and with a sack full of onions at the ready, but you did it anyway. Tell me. Now!’

  I stayed silent.

  ‘If you will not tell me, I’ll deduct the time we spend arguing from your wages.’

  I gasped. That was a low blow.

  Well… maybe I could just tell him about me, personally. I couldn’t tell him about Ella, of course. That wasn’t my secret to share. There was only one thing left to tell. I took a deep breath.

  ‘Well…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m being pursued by a man.’

  ‘What?’ With three long strides, Rikkard Ambrose was at my desk and had grabbed hold of my hands. Startled, my eyes flew up to look at him.

  Hey! He was supposed to be calm and immovable as granite! I wouldn’t have thought him capable of an emotion such as this. True, his face still was as impassive as ever, but his eyes… His dark eyes were emitting sparks of fury.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me about this earlier?’ he demanded.

  ‘Why should I? It was none of your business!’

  I tried to free my hands from his grip. It felt disturbing, having him hold my hands in his strong grasp after the episode in his personal powder room. I tried to shove that from my mind and concentrate on the moment.

  ‘None of my business?’ he repeated, coldly. ‘A man has been chasing you through London, and it’s none of my business? Tell me, is he connected with Simmons? What did he want? Did he mention the file or threaten to harm you? How far did he pursue you? Was he on foot or on horseback? How did you escape?’

  It all clicked into place then: his reaction, the grip of his fingers on mine, even the cold fire in his eyes. I almost started to laugh. Almost.

  ‘Err… Mr Ambrose? When I said he’s “pursuing” me, I meant he wants to marry me.’

  Mr Ambrose’s grip on my hand slackened, and he blinked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘He’s trying to get me as his wife, not chasing me through town with a knife in his hand.’

  ‘Oh.’ There was a pause. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Am I sure?’ I glared up at him. ‘What’s that supposed to mean? Of course I’m sure! Even I know the difference between a bouquet of flowers and a butcher’s knife!’

  ‘Err… of course you do. Well, that’s good to hear. That’s really…’

  I stared at his face. A muscle somewhere in his cheekbone twitched, and his eyes went from side to side as if looking for an escape. Dear me. Had I managed to get Mr Rikkard Ambrose flustered?

  Suddenly, an unpleasant thought struck me.

  ‘How come the first thing you thought of when I said I was being “pursued by a man” was that somebody was chasing me to get information out of me about you?’

  ‘Well, um…’

  ‘Do you think I’m that uninteresting? Do you think I’m a shrivelled old hag, that I could only attract men who want to stab me, not ones that want to marry me?’ As hard as I could, I tugged at my hands to free them from his grasp - but his fingers were too strong. ‘How dare you! Do you really think that I am that ugly?’

  ‘Of course not,’ he snapped, not looking at my face, which was good, because my glare would have burned holes into him. I was so angry with him, I would have slapped him if the thought of my pay cheque hadn’t stayed my hand. ‘Of course not, Miss Linton, you’re l
ovely.’

  ‘It is abominable that someone like you can call himself a gentleman. You should know better than…’

  My voice trailed off.

  ‘Wait just a moment… What did you say?’

  Belatedly, my ears registered his last spoken words. The ears delivered them to my brain, where they were turned around and examined carefully. Then they were submitted to an authenticity test somewhere in the dark depths of my mind.

  You’re lovely… Miss Linton, you’re lovely…

  The results of the test weren’t long in coming. On the whole, it was extremely unlikely that these words could have really, as I imagined, come out of the mouth of Mr Rikkard Ambrose. Unlikely? Scratch that. Impossible!

  ‘What did you say?’ I repeated, my voice so weak I didn’t recognize it anymore. Suddenly, having my hands in his felt completely different, and for some reason I stopped struggling to get them free. From my sitting position, I looked up at Mr Ambrose, who looked as though he had just been forced to swallow his own top hat.

  ‘What did you say?’ I repeated once more, though I remembered perfectly well. I just wanted to hear it again to make sure I hadn’t gone temporarily insane. Rikkard Ambrose thought I was lovely? Nobody had ever told me I was lovely! Not even my own mother! And what kind of lovely exactly? The 'Oh-that-was-a-lovely-job-Mister-Secretary'-kind of lovely, or the other kind of lovely? The kind that involved him calling me Miss instead of Mister.

  ‘I said…’ Mr Ambrose hesitated. Then, straightening, he suddenly let go of my hands and glared at me, his cool expression recovered. ‘I said bring me file 35X119.’

  He turned on his heel and marched into his office, slamming the door behind him.

  *~*~**~*~*

  Luckily, fetching files is not really an intellectually taxing task. If it had been, I would have had enormous difficulties completing the day’s work.

  I was just about to leave my office at the end of the day when the door to Mr Ambrose’s office opened, and I caught a glimpse of his dark, ramrod-straight silhouette in the doorway.

  ‘Would you mind stepping into my office for a moment, Mr Linton?’

  Oh, we are back to ‘Mister,’ are we?

  Well, I wasn’t exactly sure I had heard right that time he’d admitted my real gender earlier today, anyway.