Hunting for Silence by Robert Thier

My First Time

‘Pfft…! Pffft…!’

Panting like an asthmatic steam engine, I leant against the brick wall of the house behind me and peered around the corner. No Karim. No aunt. Yay! I had managed to outrun them. If I was especially lucky, they had run into each other, and Aunt Brank would by now be busy trying to marry Karim off to Anne or Maria.

Indulging for a few moments in that sweet fantasy, I gave myself a bit of time to rest. Then I set out towards the Charing Cross Coaching Inn. I suppose I could have embarked towards France straight from the London docks, but that was what Karim would be expecting. Besides, there would be very few passenger ships departing to France at this hour of the night, if any. Yet there would be no shortage of coaches travelling down towards the coast, heading for Dover. Dover was the big port for channel crossings. If I wanted a fast way to get to Mr Rikkard Ambrose, it would be from there.

Halfway to the inn, I stopped at a bank that offered storage, not just in safe deposit boxes, but bigger lockers as well. I had stored a getaway suitcase there a while ago, in case I would ever need to run from my aunt’s marriage schemes. Now it would serve a different purpose.

Plus one case and minus one floppy hat (the bloody thing had been a bit too cumbersome), I approached the coaching inn, my heart pounding. For a moment I didn’t know why. Why would there be beads of sweat on my forehead?

Then I realised—this was the first time. The first time I had ever been completely on my own. I had been to Brazil and Argentina, to Egypt and the North of England (which is a lot more foreign, than Egypt, trust me). But never once in my life had I been completely on my own. Mr Ambrose had always been with me, and if he hadn’t been, Karim had. God! Could it be that I was actually missing that big, bearded mountain?

Get a grip, Lilly! You’ve only just managed to escape his clutches. Now isn’t the time to get soft.

Still—being alone was a scary thought. I didn’t even have Ambrose the camel for moral support and face-spitting.

You’re a strong woman, Lilly! You can find your way without a camel to spit in your face!

Raising my chin, I marched down the street and knocked on the inn’s door. A moment later, it was opened by a portly man with an apron around what had once been a waist, but now was more of a barrel. He smiled down at me from an impressive height.

‘Good evening, Guv, good evening! What can I do for ye?’

I cleared my throat. ‘Good evening to you, too, Sir. I was wondering whether there’s a coach departing for Dover soon.’

‘You’re in luck, Guv. One’s about to arrive ‘ere in just ‘alf an hour or so. And…wait a minute, let me check my logs…’ Bustling over to his counter, he started leafing through a tattered, grease-stained book. ‘Ah yes, ‘ere we ‘ave it! Three seats in the Dover coach are still empty. Looks like there’s gonna be plenty of room.’

Breathing a sigh of relief, I hurried over to one of the tables scattered throughout the room and settled down. I hadn’t dared to use my disguise twice to reserve seats for me on the coach. If Karim had seen and followed me, my whole plan would have been ruined. It had been a bit of a gamble, hoping that there would still be empty seats. I guess I was in luck that France wasn’t as popular a destination nowadays as it had been during the Napoleonic Wars.

‘Here you go, Sir.’ The innkeeper hurried over and placed a tankard of ale in front of me. ‘It won’t be long.’

‘Thank you.’

In my quiet corner, I watched and sipped my ale while more and more people filed into the inn’s common room. Some came from outside, some from rooms on the upper storeys, where they had obviously been staying. Trying not to be too obvious, I scanned the people with whom I would be spending the next few hours. There was a clerk in a cheap suit and bowler hat and a harried look in his eyes that I remembered seeing in the mirror on busy work days, several ladies, a travelling salesmen who made his rounds through the common room trying to sell everyone brushes and cheap perfume, and a grumpy old fellow who muttered to himself in French. None of them looked overtly menacing or dangerous. Still, I was glad I had my revolver in my pocket. You never knew.

‘Excuse me, may I sit here?’

Looking up, I saw the harried-looking young man, who was clutching a briefcase in his arms. He glanced anxiously over his shoulder towards the other tables, where the ladies sat scattered, talking animatedly, and gave a little shudder. ‘I can’t sit anywhere near them. They keep talking like hyperactive parrots, and that salesman is constantly trying to sell them the latest perfume from Paris. I guess he hasn’t realised yet that most of us are going to Paris.’

‘By all means.’ I patted the chair next to me. ‘Sit down.’

‘Thanks so much!’ Breathing a sigh of relief, he dropped into the chair. ‘I need a spot of sanity among all those females.’

Pulling open his case, he removed multitudes of documents. Without wasting a moment, he started scribbling, his eyes hectically flitting from left to right.

Leaning forward, I glanced over with professional interest. ‘Sorry to interrupt, but that should be 21, not 12.’ I pointed at the offending line.

‘Oh dear! Thank you! Thank you so much. I don’t know what Mr Wallace would have said if I’d gotten that wrong.’

‘My pleasure. You’re doing balance sheets?’

The young man’s eyes lit up with the recognition of one tortured soul in hell spotting another sinner. ‘Yes! Are you a bank clerk, too?’

‘No.’ I grinned. ‘Worse. Private secretary.’

‘Keeping a calendar is torture, isn’t it?’

‘You have to do that, too?’

‘Yes. But Mr Wallace calls me clerk instead of private secretary so he can pay me less.’

‘I have a feeling our employers would get along well with each other.’ I extended my hand. ‘Linton. Victor Linton.’

He took it and shook it. ‘Edgar Phelps.’ His little chicken chest puffed out with pride. ‘I work for Mr Wallace at the Bank of England. And you?’

‘Oh, no one that special,’ I said, wiping a stray dust moat from my tail coat. ‘You may have heard of Rikkard Ambrose?’

He nearly dropped off his chair. I’d had no idea that name-dropping could have such literal effects.

‘The Rikkard Ambrose?’

‘Yes,’ I said, glancing down at my fingernails with humility that was about as genuine as an antique statue sold in the East End for two shillings and thruppence.

‘My goodness! Working for him must be so interesting.’

A series of scenes flashed before my inner eye—Mr Ambrose Ambrose pulling me against him in his office and kissing the breath out of me, Mr Ambrose and I bare-skinned under a Brazilian waterfall, Mr Ambrose gazing into my eyes and asking me to be his forever….

I felt a little tug at my heart.

‘You have no idea.’

He sighed. ‘I wish I had seen what you have seen. I wish I had experienced what you have experienced.’

I choked, the mental images in my head suddenly not quite so pleasant and a lot stranger than before. ‘No, you don’t. Trust me, you really, really don’t.’

‘I don’t know about that. I bet you can learn so much from a man like Mr Rikkard Ambrose.’

‘Definitely. Among other things, how to do sums in your head because he doesn’t want to waste paper.’ I pointed at a row in his calculations. ‘That should be two hundred seventeen, not sixteen.’

‘Oh. Blast! Thank you, Mr Linton.’

‘Don’t mention it. So you’re on your way to Dover. Will you be going to Paris, too?’

‘Yes.’ He beamed, seeming pleased by the idea. ‘Mr Wallace had some confidential papers he needed delivered to our branch in the city, so I immediately volunteered.’ His eyes took on a dreamy hue. ‘It is the city of love, after all.’

I blinked. ‘It is?’

‘Oh yes. They say even the most hard-hearted of men will behave like a romantic fool in Paris.’

‘Do they, now?’ I leant back, trying hard not to smile. That was interesting information. This trip might end up being more interesting than I had expected.

Mr Phelps and I continued to chat for quite a bit, and by the time the innkeeper brought us another round of drinks and I had done most of his balance sheet for him, we were fast friends. And, apparently, we were about to become even faster.

‘Ladies and gentlemen?’ The innkeeper came in from the yard. ‘I see the coach arrivin’ outside. Please check if ye ‘ave any baggage left be’ind. Once the coach is ‘ere, the driver will want to leave quickly to keep his schedule, and there won’t be no chance to turn around.’

I swallowed.

Right then and there, it sank in. I was really going to do this. I was going to travel several hundred miles, half of that through a country whose bloody language I didn’t speak, without a single person to watch my back.

Get a grip, Lilly! He’s in danger. He needs you, even if he’ll never admit it himself. Go get your man!

We all started climbing into the coach. Luckily, the innkeeper had been right. There indeed was plenty of room. I could even stretch my legs a little. On my left sat Mr Phelps, and on my right was an empty spot just waiting to be used for a little nap later. This was going to be a comfortable ride.

‘Is that everyone?’ the driver asked. ‘Well, then—’

‘Wait! Wait for us!’

Turning to the coach’s window, I saw two figures rushing towards us. Women—one middle-aged and one younger one, with expensive-looking dresses and ridiculously large cases.

‘Do you have reservations?’ the driver asked, annoyed.

‘No, but we do have money,’ the middle-aged woman panted, pulling a purse out of her pocket.

The driver, not one to argue with the root of all evil if it had the face of the queen stamped on it, pulled open the coach door.

‘Welcome to the party, ladies.’

Smiling at each other with relief, the two women stepped up to the coach and looked up at the passengers inside. The younger woman, for some reason, seemed to focus her eyes on me. She was pretty, I supposed, with pale skin, a slim figure and light brown hair that fell all the way down her back, but the way she was staring at me was rather creepy. I nodded at her and smiled. Still, she didn’t look away. She wiggled her eyebrows. Then she cleared her throat.

My brow furrowed in concern. ‘Are you ill? Would you like a cough drop?’

Mr Phelps nudged me in the ribs. ‘I believe,’ he whispered, ‘she wishes for a gentleman to help her into the coach.’

‘She does? So why aren’t any of them moving?’

‘Um…well…’

Oh crap. Right. I was a gentleman.

Well, ‘man’ maybe, in this getup. I didn’t know about ‘gentle’. Still, I extended my arm and helped the two ladies climb up the steps they would have been perfectly able to climb themselves if they’d just set their minds to it. Then I saw that their luggage was still standing outside.

‘You forgot your suitcases,’ I pointed out helpfully.

The older lady gave me a cool look. I looked back. Mr Phelps gave me another nudge in the ribs.

‘I believe it’s a gentleman’s duty to help a lady with her luggage.’

‘Oh, it is, is it?’

Sighing, I slid out of the coach. The old dame gave me a triumphant look, and the girl chirped, ‘Thank you so much, Sir. We are ever so much obliged to you.’

‘No problem,’ I told her, took hold of her suitcase—and instantly revised my opinion. It was a problem. A bloody heavy problem.

‘What the heck did you put in there? Half a brick house? A collection of medieval suits of armour?’

The older lady gave me a supreme look that reminded me of Aunt Brank. Flicking open her fan, she gave me a wave that said, ‘Get on with it, will you?’

God, did I miss being able to be rude!

Groaning curses in several languages that I hoped the ladies couldn’t understand, I dragged the cases towards the luggage rack at the back of the coach. Bloody hell! Being a gentleman was too much for any sane person! Why did those women have to be such lazy, good-for-nothing parasites, who were nothing but a bane on the life of an honest, hard-working man and—

Then I realised what I was thinking and dropped a suitcase on my big toe.

‘Ouch! Ow! Damn and blast it to hell!’

That, to judge by the outraged whispers coming from the carriage, the older lady had heard and understood. Right now, I didn’t care. She could go boil her head in wine sauce, if she wanted!

Huffing and puffing, I pushed the last case into its place and returned to the carriage door, wiping sweat off my forehead. Only when I sank down in my seat and wanted to lean back for a nice little nap did I notice that the seat beside me was now occupied. The girl smiled up at me.

‘Thank you so much, Mr…?’

‘Linton,’ I panted and then realised that she’d just finagled an introduction out of me. Damn! ‘Victor Linton. How do you do, Miss…?’

‘Emilia Harse. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr Linton.’ The girl gazed up at me with big adoring eyes. I don’t really know how she managed it, seeing as she was technically taller than I was. Impressive. ‘I’m so glad we have a big, strong man like you along with us on this journey.’

The older lady—probably her mother—gave a sniff. ‘Yes, very strong indeed, Emilia. I hope you did not break anything in my suitcase when you dropped it, Mr Linton. There are some very precious valuables in there.’

‘Don’t worry,’ I reassured her with a saccharine smile. ‘Luckily, its fall was broken by my foot. Although it felt the other way around.’

She sniffed again and hid her face behind an issue of what I’d like to do it. Punch.[1]

The girl—Emilia—glanced over at me. She looked as though, for some reason, she wanted to talk to me. So I quickly turned towards Mr Phelps and started a conversation about balance sheets, guaranteed to bore anyone within a radius of fifty yards to death. The strategy worked. Soon, young Emilia appeared to have lost all interest, and I could settle down for the nap I so badly needed. The excitement of my flight had taken its toll, and despite the rumbling of the coach, I drifted off quickly.

When I awoke, jolted awake by a pothole, we had left the city behind us. Emilia and her mother both seemed as sleepy as I had been before my little rest. Mr Phelps was still frantically calculating, and the other passengers were dimly staring into the emptiness that develops wherever people are squeezed together who don’t know one another well enough to talk.

Outside, a moonlit landscape was whizzing past. With every passing minute, we were moving farther away from home. I glanced at the other people in the carriage. I didn’t really know any of them. Not even Mr Phelps. And it was a long way to France.

Suddenly, I felt very alone.

Instinctively, I leant over to the window and looked back to where the glittering lights of good old London Town were just visible in the dark. A shiver went down my back. The thought of being hundreds of miles away, completely on my own…

Don’t be ridiculous, Lilly!I told myself. You’re still in England. This isn’t the South American jungle, where jaguars could leap at you from behind every bush! This is a civilised country. What could possibly happen?

That question was answered a moment later, when the coach came to a screeching halt, and someone stuck a pistol through the window.

‘Hands up!’ A gruff voice demanded. ‘Your money or your life!’