Hunting for Silence by Robert Thier

A Big One on the Finger

Holy Mother of Molys…

I stared down at Mr Rikkard Ambrose kneeling in front of me, and at the ring in his hand. The big, golden ring. Were my eyes deceiving me? This couldn’t be real, could it?

‘Upon consideration,’ Mr Ambrose stated, ‘I came to the conclusion that we should take this customary step to formalize relations.’

This was real. Only Mr Rikkard Ambrose would make such a breathtakingly romantic proposal.

This was real. He was real. He was mine. I swallowed and forced my dry mouth to open.

‘Formalize away.’

Reaching up, he took my hand with a care that almost approached tenderness.

‘Miss Lillian Linton, do you want to become my wife?’

With all my might, I squeezed a single word past the lump in my throat. ‘Y-yes.’

‘Good. Because you’re going to.’

Had he just said good? Good? Not adequate?

Taking a firmer grip on my hand, he slipped the beautiful, big golden ring onto my ring finger. It went easily. In fact…a little bit too easily. It was a little bit too big.

I blinked.

No, not just a little bit…The bloody thing was large enough for three fingers at a time! Had Mr Ambrose gotten a knock on the head during the fight that had messed up his eyesight? Why else would he pick such a humongous ring that actually didn’t look like an engagement ring, but much more like a…

I froze.

No.

No, he wouldn’t. Not even he would dare to…

Slowly, I raised my eyes high, high above to where the theatre curtain hung from the ceiling, held by a number of big, glinting, gilded rings. At the very edge of the curtain, one ring was missing.

My eyes snapped back to Mr Ambrose, sparking with fury.

‘You…you…’

‘…are the love of my life?’ he suggested.

‘You miserable excuse for a miserly son of a bachelor! I…I…’

‘Yes?’

‘…I love you, dammit!’

‘How gratifying.’

‘But don’t ask me why!’

‘I was not planning to.’ Rising to his feet, he dusted off his tailcoat and offered me a hand. ‘Shall, we, Mrs Ambrose?’

Unable to keep the smile from my face, I slipped the ring over three of my fingers and took his hand. So what if it was crazy? It was us. The rest of the world could go bugger themselves!

‘We shall.’

Our little scene was interrupted by slow claps. Startled, I glanced around, just in time to see Claudette ascending from the orchestra pit.

‘Perfait! What a spectacle. It’s a pity sat I cannot turn your story into an opera. Se audience would flee se city in droves and I could get a well-deserved holiday.’

Mr Ambrose gave the prima donna a cold look. ‘I thought I gave orders for everyone to vacate the great hall.’

‘Pouah!’ Claudette made a dismissive gesture. ‘In my opera house, I can do what I want.’

Mr Ambrose opened his mouth, probably to remind her of the little fact that it was actually his opera house, but I squeezed his hand, and—wonder of wonders—he closed his mouth.

‘So, ma petit, you are truly leaving?’ The prima donna regarded me with warmth in her eyes. ‘Too bad. Life is more fun wis you here. I haven’t seen so much drama offstage since I was romanced by an actor from the royal seatre.’

‘Yes. I should be getting home, back to my family. And besides…’ Letting the sentence trail off, I glanced up at Mr Ambrose.

Claudette smiled. ‘I understand.’

You do? Then please explain it to me, because I sure as hell don’t!

I was going to get married. I was going to get married, and leave behind my home and my sisters—everything I had ever known. It was a terrifying thought. And I should have been terrified. But…

I glanced up at Mr Ambrose again.

The only thing I could think was: How can I be terrified as long as I have him on my side?

‘You’re leaving?’

The agonized cry came from the door.

Oh God. Not that.

Footsteps rushed closer, and a moment later, Claudette was shoved aside by a wide-eyed Emilia Harse.

‘Oh. Um, hello Miss Ars— I mean, Miss Harse.’

‘Why, Mr Linton?’ Oh God. Her eyes were shining. Was she going to cry? Please, don’t let her cry! ‘Why are you leaving me?’

‘I, um…am getting married.’

‘What?’ Now there definitely wasn’t any water in her eyes—fire, rather. ‘Who is it? Who is the little hussy that stole you away from me?’

Beside me, Mr Ambrose stiffened.

Trust me, you’d rather not know.

‘A, um…Argentinian belly dancer.’

‘What?’ demanded Miss Harse.

‘What?’demanded Mr Ambrose. I could feel his icy stare bore into the back of my neck. Hm. Interesting. Maybe I should have him do a belly dance for me someday.

‘Yes, exactly. A beautiful Argentinian belly dancer,’ I confirmed, stepping on Mr Ambrose’s foot. ‘We’ve been carrying on a scandalous affair for months, didn’t you know? And now I’ve finally decided to get divorced from my current wife so I can marry her and move to China.’

‘You…you…’

‘Scoundrel? Rogue?’

‘…man!’

Ouch! Now there was an insult that really hurt. But I guessed my problems with Miss Emilia Harse were over once and for all.

‘Come, come, my dear!’ Claudette slung a consoling arm around her protégé’s shoulders. ‘That scoundrel isn’t worthy of you. You deserve a real man!’ Over her shoulder, she winked at me. Devious little witch! I was going to miss her. A speck of moisture appeared at the corner of my eye.

As the two singers departed, Mr Ambrose cleared his throat. ‘Miss Linton?’

I sighed. ‘Yes, yes. I know. It’s no good crying, is it? After all, I’m going to see her again someday.’

‘That, and you could take your heel off my toes.’

‘Oh.’ Hurriedly, I lifted my foot. ‘Sorry.’

Extending his hand, Mr Ambrose took hold of me. ‘Shall we go?’

I nodded. ‘Yes. Let’s go home.’

‘I have a better idea.’ Pulling me towards him, Mr Ambrose captured my face between his hands and looked deep into my eyes. ‘Let’s make one. Together.’

*~*~**~*~*

The sun stood high over Paris when our coach rolled through the northern gate. I gazed back at the city for a moment—then turned to look at the road ahead. It was well-paved, and busy with many travellers and wagons. It looked to be an easy road.

As for my own personal road into the future…

Well, that would be a little more difficult.

What’s so difficult about it? asked a little voice in my head. You love him. You’re going to marry him. Basta.

True. But my congenial feelings towards Mr Ambrose might not be shared by everybody. The only time he and my best friend Patsy had actually met, he had eviscerated her in a debate about women’s rights, ridiculed her from atop a podium and sent her packing. I doubted very much that she had fond memories of the event. And as for my family…

Ella would be ecstatic, of course. She’d be ecstatic if I married a scarecrow as long as the scarecrow in question was kind, loving and devoted husband. But Anne and Maria would be vicious. And while I didn’t particularly care for their opinions, I wasn’t looking forward to their jibes. For years, I had told everyone that I would never marry, that I didn’t need any man.

And now?

Had I changed that much?

No. He’s not any man. He’s Rikkard Ambrose.

It wasn’t I who had changed. It was us. He was still him, and I was still me. But together, we were something new. Something better.

And I could convince Patsy of that, surely.

Probably.

Maybe?

‘What’s the matter, Mr Linton?’

Turning towards Mr Ambrose, I gave him a bright smile. ‘Nothing. Nothing whatsoever. I was just wondering…what do you normally do if you offend someone? Would you consider an apology?’

‘Certainly. If it is well-delivered, I might even accept it.’

It took a moment for the meaning of his words to sink in. When it did, I gave a groan, covering my face with both hands. ‘I’m so going to be skewered with a parasol.’

The drive to Calais was over disturbingly quickly. As we stepped out of the coach, we were greeted by flocks of screeching seagulls. One of the braver ones tried to use Mr Ambrose as a toilet, but quickly changed its mind when he sent a frosty look her way.

‘Do you think we’ll get cabins on a ferry at such short notice?’ I enquired.

‘One cabin. Just one.’ His gaze bored into me, making me shiver to the bone—as well as other, more interesting parts.

‘Really? You plan to introduce me to the ship’s steward as your significant other in this getup?’ I tugged at one leg of my trousers and smirked. ‘We can try, if you want. It would be amusing to see the poor man’s face.’

Mr Ambrose’s little finger twitched. His jaw worked, but no sound came out. Reaching out, he squeezed my hand.

I don’t want to be apart from you.

I squeezed back.

I know.

It was amazing how much silence could say.

‘Let’s get this over with,’ Mr Ambrose announced. ‘The quicker we’re back in England, the better.’ And he marched off towards the ticket counter.

The clerk behind the counter was sitting with his chin in his hands and his eyelids at half-mast in a way that was either deeply philosophical or half-asleep. In either case, he didn’t have much attention to spare for Mr Ambrose. My dear employer wrapped sharply on the table, gaining about a quarter of the man’s attention. He yawned.

‘Do you ‘ave reservations?’

‘No. But I have this,’ Mr Ambrose told him and placed the title deed of his shipping company on the counter.

The man blinked.

He blinked again.

Then his chin slipped out of his hand and slammed onto the desk. It landed only inches away from the title deed. Horrified, the man jumped to his feet and hurried around the desk.

‘M-my apologies, messieurs. If there is anysin’ I can do for y—’

‘A cabin. Now.’

‘Yes, certainly, certainly. Please follow me. Right sis way, messieurs.’

The journey back across the channel passed quietly. However, there wasn’t a single storm or shipwreck, nor even an encounter with a stowaway. There was a slight disturbance when someone—of course I had no idea who—tried to enter my cabin at night, only to find out head-first that I had locked the door.

Thud!

‘Ow!’

Rolling over, I pulled the blanket up under my chin and smiled into the pillow. I was really looking forward to my wedding night. Anticipation was a wonderful feeling.

Outside, someone uttered a low curse and stomped off into the night.

When a few days later we landed at Dover, the bruise on Mr Ambrose’s forehead had almost vanished. Stepping towards the gangway, I extended my hand to him.

He took it.

‘How are going to do this?’ My voice was little more than a whisper. Inside my head, though, there was shouting.

I’m getting married. Married. Bloody married!

‘Well, the traditional way is for the suitor to approach the parents or guardians of the lady in question and ask for her hand.’

‘What?’ My hand clenched into a fist instinctively, crushing Mr Ambrose’s fingers. I whirled around to face him. He didn’t even blink. ‘No way! I’m not some prize to be given away! I’m my own woman. I’m going to go to my aunt and uncle and tell them I’m getting married, and that’s it!’

His cool gaze was implacable. There wasn’t a hint of emotion on his face and he leaned forward and calmly spoke one authoritative word.

‘No.’

‘No?’ I narrowed my eyes. ‘What do you mean, n—’

One elegant finger against my lips cut me off abruptly. Leaning even closer, Mr Ambrose captured my face in his hands.

‘You are not going to tell them. We are. Tradition be damned.’

Never had I loved him as much as I did in that moment. So I showed him. Standing up on my tiptoes, I threw my arms around his neck and kissed him for all I was worth. Granted, it wasn’t much, counted in pound sterling, but so what? This, right here in his arms, was where I belonged.

Only when shocked gasps came from behind me did I remember that, while I was still wearing trousers, the rest of the world might disagree.

Oops.

Letting go of Mr Ambrose, I took a hurried step back. That didn’t exactly soothe the nerves of the onlookers, however. A small crowd of our fellow passengers had gathered on the deck to stare down at us. One elderly gentleman’s face slackened so his monocle fell and hung dangling from its chain. A lady gave a gurgling noise and keeled over backwards, hitting the planks of the deck with a thunk.

‘Oh. Um…hello there.’ I waved at the audience—then hurriedly glanced at Mr Ambrose. ‘You don’t happen to have a fast coach standing by, do you?’

‘I have something better.’

Mr Ambrose waved his hand imperiously. Immediately, a towering shadow fell upon the onlookers.

‘Yes, Sahib?’

‘We were just leaving, Karim. Do you think these ladies and gentlemen have anything to say against that?’

Turning towards the other passengers, Karim gave them a look. A look at his sabre and pistol, to be precise. I had never seen so many heads shake so fast.

‘No, Sahib.’

‘Adequate. Let’s be on our way.’

Side by side, we strode down the gangplank. Down on the docks, Karim cleared his throat. ‘Should I hail a cab, Sahib?’

‘I think we’ll walk,’ I said before Mr Ambrose could bring himself to pry his lips apart. I winked at him, ‘It’s so much more economical.’

Karim blinked. Whatever he had expected, an order from me definitely wasn’t it. ‘Um…Sahib?’

Mr Ambrose raised one eyebrow infinitesimally. ‘You heard her.’

‘Yes, Sahib! Certainly, Sahib.’

Karim inclined his head, and we started down the street. After a few steps Mr Ambrose seemed to notice the giant grin on my face.

‘What are you so exuberant about, Mr Linton?’

‘Oh, nothing, really. I just realized that once we’re married, Karim will have to do what I say.’

‘Whatever it is you are thinking, Mr Linton—no.’

I heard a sigh of relief from behind me.

‘No? Are you sure?’ I fluttered my eyelashes at him.

It had zero effect.

‘Indeed I am. You shall have to plot your vengeance on my bodyguard another way,’

I realized what he was thinking and gifted him with a brilliant smile. ‘Oh, no, no! I wasn’t going to do anything to Karim.’

‘You weren’t?’

‘No, of course not! I would never make him do a handstand in a tutu, or strap him down and let half a dozen children tickle his feet for three hours, or anything like that!’

‘For something you never intended to do you seem to have spent an inordinate amount of time thinking about it, Mr Linton.’

‘Well, a girl has to amuse herself somehow, doesn’t she?’

Mr Ambrose did not deign to reply to that. For a while, we walked in silence. In my head I started counting down.

Five…four…three…two…one—

‘So…what was it that you were thinking?’

I grinned.

‘Well…I was just running down my list of enemies in my head. There are a few friends of my demon-brood sisters Ann and Maria, for instance, who would really benefit from a visit by a seven-feet-tall sabre-swinging giant. It might improve their character.’

‘Indeed.’

I stopped in my tracks. Mr Ambrose continued walking for a few more strides before he noticed I was not at his side any longer and turned, his head cocked.

‘Mr Linton?’

‘Did you…did you just agree to let me use your bodyguard to terrorize my enemies?’

‘Certainly. If he is not otherwise engaged.’

I let that sink in for a moment—then I dashed forward and threw my arms around him.

‘I’m so glad I’m going to marry you!’

He stiffened—then, after a moment, relaxed and put his arms around me.

‘Likewise.’

Suddenly, I remembered where I was and what I was still wearing. Hurriedly, I slid out of Mr Ambrose’s arms and jumped back. But the staring crowd and rude comments I expected weren’t forthcoming. In fact, there wasn’t even a single curious bystander staring at us.

‘Where is everybody?’

Mr Ambrose glanced around. He didn’t seem particularly perturbed by the empty street.

‘Working?’ he suggested.

I raised an eyebrow. ‘On a Sunday afternoon?’

‘It’s where I would be.’

‘We’ll have to have a talk about that once the formalities are over and done with.’

‘We can have it now. I won’t stop working. There. I talked. We’re done.’

‘I think we also need to look at your definition of “talk”.’

Apparently not deeming this worthy of a reply, Mr Ambrose pointed down the street, and we proceeded. I still threw confused glances right and left at the empty street, but as we approached Uncle Bufford’s house, my thoughts became more and more preoccupied with what I was going to say. Or rather, how I was going to get Aunt Brank to shut up long enough to be able to say anything.

Dump a bucket of cold water on her?

No, that would just make her screech louder.

Gag her?

Maybe with Karim’s help I could do it. But then…it would probably not make her a lot more receptive to what I had to say. And my birthday was still a long way off. I technically still needed a guardian’s permission to marry.

Well…

There would be one way to ensure her cooperation. But…

I glanced at Mr Ambrose.

‘How should I introduce you?’ I asked, cautiously. ‘As Mr Ambrose, or Lord Ambrose, Heir to The Honourable The Marquess Ambrose?’

His mouth slammed into a thin line. His face turned from marble to granite.

‘Mister. Always just mister.’

‘It might help smooth the way if—’

‘No.’

‘But—’

‘No.’

All right. That was one avenue closed.

If only I could get to Uncle Bufford first. As soon as I showed him Mr Ambrose’s bank balance he’d be happy to get him as a son-in-law without asking his name. Most likely, he wouldn’t even ask about age, size, sex or species.

He might ask what kind of man he is, though.

Yes. He really might. My grumpy uncle and I had gotten to know each other quite well during the last year or two. He might actually care about my happiness. The challenge would be getting to him. Aunt Brank was a tough coconut to crack.

Time seemed to pass far too fast. One moment, we were walking away from the docks, the next, we turned the corner and saw my uncle’s house farther down the street.

Mr Ambrose stopped, and turned me towards him.

‘Do you have a change of clothes somewhere?’

I nodded. Somehow, my mouth was too dry for an actual answer.

‘Adequate. You go change and prepare them for my arrival. I will take a brief trip to Empire House to dress appropriately for the occasion. I shall return directly.’

‘Dress appropriately? You mean you actually own a second tailcoat?’

Looking most superior, Mr Ambrose straightened his lapels. ‘No. But I can have this one ironed.’

A smile spreading across my face, I reached up to touch his face. ‘You do that. I’ll be waiting for you.’

He nodded, and started to turn. My hand on his shoulder stopped him.

‘And…’

‘Yes?’

‘Hurry up. I’m not good at waiting.’

‘Neither,’ Mr Ambrose told me and took hold of my face, ‘am I.’

And he kissed me, there, right in the middle of the street. Nobody was watching. The street was still beautifully, wondrously empty. After a long, long while, he let go. His dark, sea-coloured eyes bored into mine for a moment.

‘Until later.’

And with that, he turned and vanished into the London fog.

Gathering all my courage, I turned, too, and headed towards the garden wall. As I unlocked and slipped through the familiar little gate into the back garden, a feeling of unreality came over me. Could it really be that I was doing this for the very last time? That soon, I wouldn’t be Miss Lillian Linton anymore? That instead, I would be Mrs Lillian Ambrose?

Well…the last part isn’t necessarily decided yet. After all, why should you be the one to change your name?

Hm…what would Mr Ambrose say to becoming Mr Rikkard Linton?

Nothing, probably. A whole lot of ice-cold, very explicit, very determined nothing.

Smiling, I slipped into the garden shed. Married life was going to be interesting.

As quickly as I could, I changed into my (slightly dusty) spare female outfit. Then, like a condemned woman going to meet the aunt squad, I marched to the front door and knocked.

No response.

Well, that wasn’t really that odd. You could usually brush your teeth, write a sonnet and do a few cartwheels in the time it took Leadfield, our ancient butler, to reach the door. But…this time I didn’t even hear a hint of the slow, lopsided gate of the dear old mummified fellow.

‘Hello?’

I knocked again.

Nothing.

For the first time, then, it really sank in: the streets around me were empty. Completely empty. How often did that happen in London, even on a Sunday? No, especially on a Sunday! People should be heading to the public parks in droves. Instead, an unnatural silence hung over the city. Trust me, by now I was an expert on unnatural silences.

‘Hello? Hello! Is anyone in there? Answer me, dammit!’ I started pounding on the door. ‘Open up right now!’

Finally, footsteps hurried down the corridor. The latch clicked, and the door slowly slid open just wide enough to let me see a little slice of a face on the other side. It was not my aunt’s.