Ah!
*~*~**~*~*
‘Mr Ambrose?’
Silence.
‘Mr Ambrose, Sir?’
More silence. Freezing silence.
‘Mr Ambrose, Sir, I’ve been thinking…’
‘Again?’
‘Yes, Sir. Indeed I have, Sir.’
‘Try to control the urge, Mr Linton.’
I tried to control the urge all right - the urge to kick him where the sun doesn’t shine! It was only with great effort that I remained seated and continued leafing through the balance sheets, feigning a casual attitude.
‘Of course,’ I assured him. ‘I’m sorry, Sir. I’ll be quiet. I just thought you’d maybe like to know about…well, let’s forget it. I’m sure the gold will be found by somebody sooner or later.’
The last sentence hung in the air, the word ‘gold’ thrumming ominously in the silence. In my head, I counted the seconds.
Three…
Two…
One…
‘Gold? What gold, Mr Linton?’
Bingo!
‘Oh, nothing.’ Not looking up from the balance sheets, I waved my hand dismissively. ‘Just something I thought you would be interested in - but no matter. You said leaving town is out of the question, so it doesn’t signify.’
‘What gold, Mr Linton? Tell me, now!’
I tried my best to hide my smile behind a page full of banana sales proceeds. ‘Well, there’s this thing I found among your old files - just a little business opportunity that you might want to reconsider taking on. But if you’re too busy here in London…’
‘I’ll decide when I’m too busy, Mr Linton!’
‘Yes, Sir!’
‘Give me that file! Now!’
‘Of course, Sir! Right away, Sir!’
Approximately half a second later I had whipped out the file in question and was over at his desk, proudly presenting the result of my ceaseless searching. With bated breath I waited as Mr Ambrose opened the file and started to study the contents. This was it! My chance to get out of the country and out of the clutches of my aunt, the apocalyptic monster of marriage.
Please, God! Please, I’m not sure whether the heck you exist or not, but please just let him fall for this!
‘What do you think?’ I demanded proudly. ‘Isn’t that an excellent business opportunity?’
He continued to study the file for a few moments. Then, slowly, very slowly, he raised his head and gave me a look. One of those looks.
‘A South American ruin, a seventeenth-century manuscript with coded directions leading to a lost civilization and a hidden treasure in the jungle? Mr Linton, this does not particularly sound like a business opportunity to me - more like the synopsis of a cheap adventure novel.’
‘It is business!’ I protested. ‘And there’s nothing cheap about adventure novels! I should know! I buy at least three every week!’
‘I never would have guessed.’
‘Don’t you like gold and treasure?’
‘I do. Almost as much as I like obedient employees.’
‘So can we go?’
‘No.’
‘But-’
‘What did I just say about obedient employees, Mr Linton?’
‘But think of the opportunity, Sir! The wealth, the profit-’
‘And the opportunity for you to get out of town?’
My ears started to burn. Quickly, I snatched the file back out of his hand. ‘I have no idea what you mean, Sir!’
Blast, blast, blast! How does he know? How the hell can he possibly know?
‘I’m sure you don’t, Mr Linton.’
He can’t know! He’s just bluffing!
Well, maybe he was. But if there was one man on earth who had a better poker face than a marble statue, it was Mr Rikkard Ambrose.
I gave it one last try. ‘Are you sure about not wanting to do this? Just think of all the gold! And it won’t be difficult to get at all! I mean, South America is only a few thousand miles away-’
His cold gaze stopped me cold. No pun intended.
‘I have no time to waste on foolish adventure quests into the South American jungle, Mr Linton! I deal in real business, not fantasy!’
‘Yes, Mr Ambrose, Sir!’
‘Now, get me the next round of balance sheets!’
‘Yes, Sir! Immediately, Sir!’
I rushed out of the room before I could succumb to my irresistible buttkicking urges. I was just returning with the requested documents, when a cautious knock came from the direction of the door.
‘Mr Ambrose, Sir?’ I heard Mr Stone’s voice from outside.
‘Enter!’ Mr Ambrose commanded, snatching the balance sheets away from me before I had a chance to put them down. Mr Stone tiptoed into the room, and held out a small stack of envelopes to Mr Ambrose.
‘These just arrived from the Bank of England, Sir. Quite urgent, I am given to understand.’
‘Hm.’ Grabbing the letters, Mr Ambrose sliced the first one open with a finger and pulled out the paper inside. His eyes flicked across the page in prestissimo. Then he glanced up at me.
‘Urgent indeed. I will have to take care of these myself, Mr Linton. Go to your office and make sure I am not disturbed under any circumstances, understood?’
‘Yes, Sir! Just as you say, Sir!’
‘And, Mr Linton?’
I was already at the door when his call made me turn around. He held out a pile of balance sheets to me.
‘Take these with you. I’ll expect you to be through with at least half when I’m finished.’
My shoulders slumped. ‘Yes, Sir. Of course, Sir.’
‘Adequate. Close the door behind you, and do not open it again until I say so.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
I walked out and heard the door shut with a click, behind me.
Settling down at my desk and staring miserably at the balance sheets, I thought: I’m going to be a baronet’s wife.
Was there ever a more depressing thought?
Once or twice, I had glanced into the romance novels that were bread and butter to my younger sisters, Anne and Maria. The heroines of these romances seemed to want nothing more than to marry a rakish lord and spend the rest of their days in delirious lovy-dovyness, popping out babies every nine months, or every six, if they could manage. The noblemen in these books were always tall, dark and handsome and, after initially appearing to be total bastards, they revealed themselves to actually be - surprise, surprise! - kind, loving husbands.
Well, let me just tell you what’s wrong with that picture: the average English nobleman is built like a bent beanpole, with oversized ears and nose. While he is capable of great love and passion, they are generally reserved for racehorses, not wives. And in ninety-nine per cent of the cases, if the nobleman in question appears to be a total bastard, he in the end turns out to be a really absolutely total bastard.
Except to racehorses, of course.
‘I’ll be damned if I let myself be sold off to one of those blue-blooded nincompoops!’ I growled, furiously digging through the pile of documents in front of me, hardly noticing the numbers flying by. ‘No matter what Aunt Brank thinks she’ll be getting out of it! I’ll kill myself first! Or better yet, I’ll kill him! Or burn down the church! Or-’
‘Um…Mr Linton?’
A tentative knock came from the door, and Mr Stone stuck his head in.
‘Yes?’ I barked. He flinched.
‘Um…there’s a lady out here.’
‘Lucky you! Enjoy the company, but don’t make too much noise. I’m working.’
I returned to my numbers, but Mr Stone cleared his throat, and I had to look up again, my eyes narrowed. ‘Yes?’
‘Err…this lady out here…She has come to see Mr Ambrose.’
‘Mr Ambrose gave orders that he doesn’t wish to be disturbed!’
‘I’ve told her that.’
‘And even if he hadn’t given those orders, it’d be more likely that he wante
d to see a rotten pile of seaweed than a member of the female sex.’
‘I told her that too, Mr Linton. In, um, slightly more diplomatic phrasing.’
‘How very kind of you. And?’
‘And she still insists on seeing him. So I thought…’
‘…that you could dump her into my lap?’
Mr Stone’s cheek flamed. ‘Well, um, Mr Linton, I wouldn’t exactly say it like that, I…’ His voice trailed off, and he looked at me, desperately.
I rolled my eyes. ‘All right. Send her in!’
‘Thank you, Mr Linton!’
He vanished. Moments later, another knock sounded at the door. I was surprised, for I had expected the hammering of a matron with a temper to rival that of my friend Patsy. I would have thought it would have taken a true gorgon to get past two front desks and penetrate this far into the lair of Mr Rikkard Ambrose. But the sound that came from the door was an almost apologetic little, gentle tapping, like a baby woodpecker trying his beak out for the very first time.
‘Come in!’
The door slowly swung open, and a woman entered. No - not a woman, a lady. Definitely. She was older, in her late fifties or early sixties maybe, with a wrinkled little face that showed the lines of both much joy, and much sorrow. Clad in a pink dress and with a pink parasol clutched anxiously in her hands, she looked so harmless and lost that even in my present mood, I couldn’t help but soften towards her a little. This fragile little thing wanted to see Mr Rikkard Ambrose? The poor dear had no idea what she was in for.
‘I-is this the office of…’ she gulped.
She couldn’t even say his name! Apparently, she did have some idea what she was in for. But she didn’t really understand. Not completely. She couldn’t have. If she did, she would be on a ship bound for the Colonies right now, thanking God for escaping her terrible fate.
‘Yes?’ I probed, cautiously.
‘Is this the office of Mr Rikkard Ambrose?’
‘Yes, it is.’ And it’s not too late, yet. You can leave before he gets hold of you.
The lady swallowed, her little hands clenching around the handle of her parasol. ‘I would like to see him.’
‘Are you sure about that?’
‘Yes.’
‘I see. Well…I’m afraid Mr Ambrose is busy at the moment.’
The lady swallowed again, and raised her chin. ‘I would still like to see him.’
Oh-la-la! This little lady had more mettle in her than I’d suspected at first sight - or at second, to be honest.
‘Are you acquainted with Mr Ambrose?’ I asked, cautiously.
You can’t be. You haven’t been frozen solid by his ice-cold gaze.
An expression flitted over her face. It might have been a smile - but it might just as well have been a painful wince. ‘Yes. I know…knew Mr Ambrose.’
What? From where? Where??
‘I’ve never seen you here.’
‘I’ve never been here before.’ One corner of her mouth moved up into a tremulous half-smile. ‘You have probably received some of my correspondence, however.’
It took me a moment to catch on. Then my eyes went wide, and I stared at her, really seeing her for the first time: pink dress, pink parasol, a pink bonnet on her head…
No.
It couldn’t be.
‘No…!’
I didn’t realize for a moment that I had uttered the word aloud. She had noticed though, and her smile broadened a little bit.
‘I see you realize what correspondence I’m speaking of?’
I realized all right. This lady, standing right in front of me - it had to be her! The one I had wracked my brain about all those past months! The one whose letters filled nearly every drawer of my desk by now! The mysterious figure from Mr Ambrose’s past:
The pink letter lady!
But…but this can’t be her!
I stared at the old lady, combining her image in my mind with the theories I had developed as to the identity of the writer of the pink letters.
A friend overseas?
No! She’s bloody well right here, isn’t she?
A mistress?
As if! Mr Ambrose wouldn’t willingly spend a penny on anything, least of all a woman! Besides, isn’t she a little…well…you know!
A wife?
No! No, no, no, nonononononoooooooo!
It simply couldn’t be her. I refused to believe that this was the femme fatale from Mr Ambrose’s past. She looked like Britain’s favourite granny in training, for heaven’s sake! It had to be someone different who had been sending him letters! Maybe one of the many ladies asking for charity, whose letters I had been depositing in the paper container (not the bin, because Mr Ambrose insisted on not wasting paper and wrote his notes on the back of the charity requests he refused to answer) over the last few months. Yes! That had to be it!
‘If you’re here collecting for a charity, I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint you.’ I gave her an apologetic smile. ‘Mr Ambrose has many excellent qualities-’ Although I can’t think of any right now. ‘-but generosity is not one of them.’
‘I know.’ The woman’s answering smile was sad. ‘I’m not here collecting for a charity. I’m here to see my son.’
The Blessings of Motherly Love
I felt the floor sway under my feet. Her words rocked me to the very core of my being.
Mother?
She was his mother?
Apparently she was. And do you know what was the only thought that my extraordinary, profound and intelligent mind could come up with as a reaction to this profound revelation?
NothiswifenothiswifenothiswifeYesYesYesYes! Andnothismisstresseither! Yesyesyesyipee!
I am really profound, right?
‘Your…son?’ It was more of a croak than a question.
The woman nodded, slightly bending in the knees. It was not quite a curtsy - it was a far more regal gesture of greeting.
‘My name is Samantha Genevieve Ambrose.’
‘Linton,’ I mumbled, automatically bowing my head in return. My eyes were fastened on the little woman in front of me, while I tried desperately to imagine Mr Ambrose having fit inside her once. It was quite absolutely impossible. ‘Mr Victor Linton. Delighted to make your acquaintance.’
‘How do you do, Mr Linton. And may I ask what position you occupy under my son?’
Immediately, my mind flashed back several months, to a dark hotel room in Egypt, the messy double bed, and all the positions I had occupied under Mr Rikkard Ambrose. Thank God that my face was too tanned to really blush. Still, I could feel my ears burning.
‘I, err, am Mr Ambrose’s private secretary.’
Very private, on occasion.
‘I see.’
‘And you…’ I still couldn’t stop staring. ‘You really are his mother? Are you sure?’
A small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. ‘I was there at the birth, you know. Yes, I’m quite sure.’
If my ears had been burning before, they felt about ready to explode now. ‘Sorry! I didn’t mean…! It’s just, Mr Ambrose always seems as if he were chiselled out of some mountain, not made out of flesh and bone.’
‘Yes.’ The proud light shining in her eyes undeniably confirmed her words. She really was his mother. Or she was crazy enough to think she was. I still wasn’t sure which was more likely. ‘He has grown into a strapping young man, hasn’t he?’
That’s putting it mildly.
‘That’s not the only reason why I was surprised,’ I dared to say. ‘I’ve been with Mr Ambrose for quite a while now, and he has never mentioned a mother. Now that I think about it, he’s never mentioned any family.’
Pain shot across her face like a bolt of lightning. She concealed it fast, but it was there, and it was real. This was no imposter or madwoman. This was a mother in agony.
Oh crap! What am I going to do?
‘Never?’ she asked in a whisper.
‘Never.’
She clo
sed her eyes for a moment. ‘Well…no. I imagine he wouldn’t.’
When she opened her eyes again, they were moist. But she had not let the threatening tears spill over. And, to judge by the stubborn set of her chin, she wasn’t going to.
‘I still want to see him.’
Blast, blast, blast! This isn’t fair!
No secretary should have to deal with something like this! Blustering bankers? No problem. Stinking beggars? Send them my way! Striking employees? I’m your girl! But nearly weeping mothers? He didn’t pay me nearly enough for this!
I cleared my throat.
‘I am afraid Mr Ambrose doesn’t want to be disturbed.’
There! Problem solved. Now she has to go away, right?
‘I still want to see him, Mr Linton.’
Damn!
‘He really, really doesn’t want to be disturbed,’ I hedged.
‘I really, really want to see him. P-’
Don’tSayItDon’tSayItDon’tSayIt!
‘-lease.’
Bloody hell!
‘Please, Mr Linton!’
Why does she have to sound so damn desperate? And those big, sea-coloured eyes of hers! They look so helpless, and at the same time, so much like his.
‘Please.’ She took a step towards me.
I sank down in my chair, as if my desk would be enough to protect me from her desperate motherly feelings.
‘Mr Linton, I can see that you’re a man of feeling- ’
You’re wrong about that, Lady!
‘-and surely you can sympathize with me.’
Not if I want to keep my job, I can’t!
‘Why don’t you come back some other time?’ I suggested desperately. ‘He might not be so busy then.’
A sound escaped her throat. It was half-laugh, half-sob. ‘Another time? You have no idea of what you speak! Do you know how many times I’ve tried to see him since the catas- since he left home? That was after I found out he was still alive, of course! God! Mr Linton, I haven’t seen him in ten years! Please! Just please…’
Damn you Rikkard Ambrose! Damn you!
I swallowed, hard. ‘I’m sorry, my Lady, but he left explicit instructions. No one is to disturb him. And I believe that includes you.’