Hunting for Silence by Robert Thier

A Lady’s Hero

Your money or your life…

It told me that maybe I had been spending a bit too much time in the company of Mr Rikkard Ambrose that I actually had to think for a moment about which to pick.

Finally, I decided: neither. But before I could grab the arm of the bandit and slam it against the wall, a horrific scream pierced my ear drums and I instinctively clapped my hands over my ears. Bloody hell! That Emilia Harse had a set of lungs on her!

‘Stop screaming!’ came a slightly panicked voice from outside. Whoever was trying to rob us, didn’t seem exactly to be an expert. ‘Don’t move! Hands above your head! Get out of the coach!’

I raised a hand. ‘Um…which first? Don’t move, or get out of the coach?’

‘Shut up! Get out of the coach, now!’

The ladies immediately jumped to their feet—just what I had been hoping for. Behind their voluminous skirts, I could safely duck down, pull the revolver out of my pocket and conceal it in my sleeve. Thank God I had opted for the handy, purse-sized model.

‘Out!’ the highwayman demanded. ‘Move!’

Of course. Happy to oblige.

The doors swung open, and we all climbed out into the cool night, the ladies wailing and pleading all the while for the bandit to have mercy, and the salesman pleading not to be deprived of his precious sample case. I, on the other hand, was keeping silent. My eyes were sweeping over the mounted figure with the gun. He truly was the real deal. Dark clothes, a fashionable hat, a black cloth tied in front of his face—a real, honest-to-God highwayman.

‘Raise your hands, all of you!’

Mr Phelps raised his hands.

Miss Harse raised her hands.

I raised my hand—the one with the gun in it. I aimed.

Bam!

Beside me, Miss Harse screamed again. But this time, she wasn’t the only one. Bellowing like a skewered donkey, the highwayman clutched his shoulder and slid off his horse. He hit the ground with a dull thud. Instantly, I rushed forward, kicked away his weapon and aimed the barrel of my gun between his eyes.

‘Don’t move, you lowlife scum! One twitch, and I’ll bow your head off!’

I’d always been dying to say that. The heroes in Western adventure novels you could buy on the street corner for a few pennies always said that when they had bested the villain. All I was missing was a sheriff’s star on my chest.

‘Ladies and gentlemen?’ I glanced at my fellow passengers, who were all still standing with their arms in the air and their mouths wide open. ‘Would one of you be so kind as to fetch the miscreant’s weapon?’

Nobody moved.

‘Get the gun! Now!’

Mr Phelps staggered forward and bent to retrieve the weapon with two fingers.

‘It helps if you put the safety back on,’ I advised.

He yelped, dropped the gun, and when it didn’t go off, bent to pick it up again and carefully put the safety in place.

I cocked my head at him. ‘Let me guess—you’re not a gun expert.’

‘Never touched one in my life! This is a civilised country, Mr Linton. Who needs to be armed in this day and age?’

‘We,’ I pointed out.

‘Oh. Um…I suppose that’s right.’

Turning back to the highwayman, I gave him a friendly kick in the ribs.

‘Hey, you!’

He gave a yelp of pain, clutching the spot on his pretty coat where blood was beginning to seep through the cloth.

‘You shot me!’ he exclaimed, as if he’d never heard of anything so scandalous in his life. After all, who could possibly consider doing something as crass as shooting a dangerous criminal in self-defence? ‘You shot me!’

‘Yes, and there are still plenty of spots without holes to aim for. So get up on your feet, will you? Chop, chop!’

I had never seen a man jump to his feet so fast, with the possible exception of Rikkard Ambrose when he smelled charities or creditors approaching. Jabbing my gun into his back and feeling quite fabulous about myself, I forced the man to climb onto the roof of the coach.

‘What now?’ he demanded.

I grinned.

‘Someone,’ I called down to the others who were still standing there gaping up at me. A few still hadn’t lowered their hands. ‘Throw me a bit of rope!’

Soon, the cursing highwayman was secured, with both arms tied to the luggage rack on top the carriage. Jumping down, I wiped my hands on my trousers—and only then noticed the looks of my fellow passengers. They were gazing at me as if I had sprouted horns and a spare set of muscular arms.

‘Um…and you’re sure you are a secretary?’ young Mr Phelps enquired.

‘Of course.’ I twirled my revolver. ‘Do you doubt my qualifications?’

‘Not at all! Not at all!’ Raising his hand again, he quickly retreated a few steps. ‘I doubt nothing whatsoever. Everything is perfectly fine.’

‘Good. Well, I suppose we’d better continue then. We’ve lost enough time as it is. We don’t want to have too much of a delay. I’m sure the carriage company would prefer us not to derail their schedule, eh?’

I nudged the leg of the coachman who, during all this time, had been sitting on his box, frozen as a statue.

‘Err…um…schedule? Right. Schedule. Of course.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Everyone, please get in. We’ll be continuing on our way.’ His eyes darted to me, and to the gun I realised I was still holding in my hand. ‘That is, if that’s all right with you, Sir. I mean, we can wait here a little, or have a picnic, if you prefer.’

I grinned. ‘Maybe later. Right now, I think we should be going.’

‘Of course, Sir! Right away, Sir!’

Sir…

My grin widened until it nearly split my face apart. Ah, what a sweet feeling. Did Mr Ambrose feel like this all the time? No wonder he insisted on tyrannising his employees. Being the tough man was fun. Even if, technically, you didn’t possess all anatomic requirements for the job.

Whistling, I got into the carriage, and it set off. I was in such a good mood that it took me a few moments to realise not all my fellow passengers were gazing at me with a mix of fear and apprehension. There was one among them who had a very different look on her face.

‘Oh…oh, Mr Linton!’

Crap. No, please don’t let this be what I think it is! Crap, Crap, Crap!

Miss Emilia Harse, her big eyes shining with adoration, leant across the bench towards me. ‘Mr Linton, you were so brave! You acted when nobody else had the courage to protect me.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t say I was protecting you, per se. It was more about—’

‘And modest, too!’ A blush rose to her cheeks, and she gifted me with a smile I would dearly have liked to return to the gift shop. ‘Oh, Mr Linton. You’re the first true man I’ve met in my whole life.’

‘Then I pity you,’ I told her earnestly, edging away. ‘From the bottom of my heart.’

She didn’t exactly get the intended meaning.

‘No need.’ Ignoring her mother’s indrawn breath, she reached out to touch my hand. ‘Not now that I’ve met you.’

Oh God, please help me. I know I’ve never believed in you, but please prove me wrong and work a miracle. A nice thunderbolt to strike me dead would do, thanks.

How could it possibly get any worse than this?

A moment later I found out, when Mrs Harse leant forward and smiled at Emilia and me, motherly love shining in her eyes.

‘I must say, I am also very glad that fate caused our paths to intersect, Mr Linton. At first I wasn’t sure about you, but you’ve shown yourself to be a fine man.’

Her eyes wandered from me to Emilia and back again, and she nodded in approval. In approval!

Satan, if God can’t help me, maybe you’re available? I need help now!

Thank heavens we would be going our separate ways soon. They’d be going wherever they were planning to, while I’d be off onto the channel ferry. The sooner I put an ocean between me and Miss Emilia Harse, the better!

*~*~**~*~*

‘Do Re Mi Fa Sol La Ti Do….Do Re Mi Fa Sol La Ti Do…’

Groaning, I pressed my hands over my ears and tried to ignore the pounding in my head. An ocean between me and Miss Harse wasn’t nearly far enough! She had been going on like this all morning, and I desperately wanted to catch a few more hours of sleep before the ferry’s departure. Normally, I would have marched down the coaching inn’s corridor, kicked open the door to Miss Emilia Harse’s room, and sung, ‘Do Re Me The Fa Vor To Shut Up!’

But, considering the adoring way the girl had gazed at me as we’d exited the coach a few hours earlier and the authorities had come running to pluck the highwayman from the roof, I had better keep my distance from Miss Emilia. If I came to her bedroom at this hour, she might just get the wrong idea.

What was the bloody girl singing for, anyway? Was she training to be a banshee?

Stuffing my head under the pillow, I tried to ignore the noise and think about more pleasant things. Like what would happen when I saw Mr Ambrose again.

Can’t you guess, Lilly? He’ll be overjoyed! What man wouldn’t be when unexpectedly seeing the girl whom he loves most in the world, and who just turned down his proposal like a plate of cold porridge?

All right, maybe I had better think about something else. How about…how about…Ella! Yes, Ella was a safe topic. She would be with Edmund, probably, blissfully happy, anticipating a long and happy life together with the man of her dreams.

Which is a lot more than you’ll have, seeing as you turned down yours.

Sometimes I really hated my inner voice.

‘Do Re Mi Fa Sol La Ti Do…’

But not quite as much as I hated some other voices.

Finally, blessedly, the singing ceased, and I was able to drift off into an uneasy sleep. I dreamt of Rikkard Ambrose singing a tragic aria in soprano about his faithless love, who had left him for her feminist principles. When I had awakened and thanked God on my knees that it had just been a horrible nightmare, I cautiously snuck to the door and listened. No noises. No voices. Nothing. Apparently, Miss and Mrs Harse were doing what I had done—taking a well-deserved nap before the next stage of their journey, wherever they were going.

This was it. This was my chance!

Jumping up and stuffing all my things into my suitcase, I carefully opened the door and peeked outside. No one in sight.

Cautiously, I tiptoed down the corridor. Thank heavens I had broken Mr Ambrose’s cardinal rule and paid the landlord in advance. It was worth it if I could get out of here without a teary goodbye scene with Miss Emilia Harse.

The inn was quiet. While most of Dover was already up and about, most passengers, to judge by the noise coming through some of the thin doors, seemed content to snore the day away. I reached the front door without encountering anyone. Outside, the dull grey sky of a beautiful English morning greeted me, accompanied by the smell of freedom, seaweed, and rotten fish. Following the latter, I easily found my way to the harbour.

I’m coming, Mr Ambrose!

Several steamships lined the docks, interspersed with smaller fishing boats and cutters. Rising above the smaller masts, like castle towers above the treetops, I could even see the huge masts of a great sailing ship. My eyes wandered up and, there, at the mast, I saw flying the flag of the East India Company.

Shuddering, I quickly turned away. That was one ship I would not be boarding.

Turning my head this way and that, I wandered down the docks, searching. After only five minutes, I spotted it: a small steamer painted in cheerful blue and green, on its side emblazoned the name the innkeeper had told me: Rob Roy,[2] Scottish hero, and today, my hero as well, if all went as planned.

Hastily I marched up to the guard beside the gangplank.

‘Please tell me that you’re going to France and you’re weighing anchor soon,’ I demanded, throwing an anxious glance back at the inn. No sign of Emilia yet. ‘Please!’

‘Err…aye, we’re leavin’. In about fifteen minutes, guv.’

‘Wonderful! Brilliant! You’re my saviour!’

And, pressing my ticket into his hand along with a tip that would have made Mr Ambrose faint, I hurried onto the ship and ducked behind the closest funnel. Sinking against the heated metal, I let out a sigh of relief. Safe!

Well, almost.

With bated breath I waited while more passengers streamed on board, and sailors loaded bags of mail. The same bags that, not so long ago, must have contained my own letters to Mr Ambrose. Finally, a bell sounded, and the captain stepped out on the upper deck.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, please step back from the gangplank. We’ll be casting off soon. If any passengers are still on land and do not wish to miss the ferry from Dover to Calais, please board now. We shall be departing in approximately five minutes.’

A harried-looking little man sprinted on board, but everyone else seemed to be ready for departure. Especially me.

Get it over with! Go on! Move!

Finally, the bell sounded again.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, please step away from the gangplank and hold fast. This ferry from Dover to Calais is now departing. May we have calm seas and fair weather.’

With a deep rumble, the steam engines sprang to life. Smoke spewed from the funnel high above my head. The sailors raised the gangplank, and slowly, ever so slowly, we started to drift away from the docks, gathering speed, wind blowing ever faster in my face.

It’s really happening. I’m going. I’m leaving, all on my own.

Stepping out from behind the funnel, I slowly approached the railing and gazed back at the quickly receding city of Dover, its beaches, docks and white cliffs gleaming in the sun. A broad smile began to spread over my face. I had done it. I had gotten away and was heading towards France. Towards Mr Ambrose. And far, far away from Miss Emilia Ha—

‘Mr Linton! What a pleasure to see you here!’

I froze.

Slowly, torturously slowly, I turned around. I didn’t want to see what I knew I would see once I faced towards the ship—but as usual, the universe didn’t give a flying fig about my preferences.

‘So you’re on your way to France, too?’ Beaming with happiness, Emila Harse rushed towards me, little hearts blinking in her eyes. ‘How wonderful! I was so terribly upset when we had to board the ferry this morning, thinking we were leaving you behind. And now look what’s happened! Isn’t this splendid?’

‘A pleasant coincidence,’ the mother agreed, a calculating look in her eyes that I knew all too well from my Aunt Brank. It was the same look she directed at eligible bachelors. I nearly jumped over the side of the ship. ‘A pleasant coincidence indeed.’

‘Coincidence?’ Stepping towards me, Emilia touched my hand. Why shouldn’t I jump over the side? Surely it couldn’t be so hard to swim to Calais? Wasn’t there a fellow who had tried to swim the English Channel and only drowned just before he reached the shore? That was a risk worth taking, surely! ‘It must be fate that has led us together.’

Fate, I’m going to kill you.