Storm & Silence

Who He Really Is (part 2)

Breakfast. The most important meal of the day, it is said. And, in many families under the glorious rule of Her Majesty Queen Victoria, an occasion for the entire household to gather around the table and make polite small talk about their plans for the day, while consuming luscious delicacies. I had read once, when for some reason I had peeked into a cookbook, that in the usual upper middle-class family, the following was brought to the table, for one breakfast:

• fresh sausages

• boiled eggs

• a cold ham

• porridge with fresh cream & butter

• kippers

• a pheasant pie

• fresh curds and whey

• corn muffins

• fresh bread

• marmalade

• honey

• coffee

• tea

The cookbook had also suggested that a red and white chequered tablecloth should be avoided since it could have adverse effects on the digestion.

Breakfast at my uncle's house was slightly different. For one thing, my dear Uncle Brank only owned one tablecloth – a dark brown one, so stains would not be visible and it wouldn't have to be washed so often. For another, the meal was not quite so opulent. And as for the polite small talk at table, that was inhibited slightly by the fact that my uncle wasn't actually present.

Mr Brank had not come down into the dining room to take his meals for years, not since his sister and her husband had died, leaving him the task of looking after six of these strange, unpleasant little creatures commonly referred to as 'girls'. Mr Brank was not fond of female company. He'd had to acquire a wife at some point in his life, of course, in order to produce an offspring who could someday take over the business, but at least she was a sensible, economical woman. These... 'girls' were another matter entirely.

Thus it was that when we arrived in the dining room that morning, the big chair at the head of the table was empty, and my aunt bore an especially sour expression on her thin face. Leadfield, our only servant, who held the position of butler, valet, scullion and shoeblack all at the same time, was waiting for us and bowed as far as his ancient back would allow.

'Breakfast is served, Madam.'

'Thank you, Leadfield,' my aunt said in a cool voice, repeating the ritual that had taken place in our household for over a decade. With another bow and a sweep of his bony arm Leadfield directed us to the table.

'Will Mr Brank be joining us at the breakfast table today, Leadfield?' my aunt asked, continuing the ritual.

'The master is very busy and left early for work this morning,' Leadfield gave the expected answer. 'I brought him his breakfast earlier, up in his study.'

'I see.'

I saw my aunt throw a piercing glower up at the door of Uncle Brank's study, just visible upstairs. It had long been his inner sanctum and impenetrable fortress, where no female, not even my aunt, was allowed to enter.

When Mr Brank's sister and her husband, my beloved mother and father, had been so inconsiderate as to die in an accident, and this horde of chattering miniature females had invaded his home, Mr Brank had wisely decided to retreat and establish a secure base in his upstairs study, where these small creatures would not dare to venture. Instead of coming down to breakfast, lunch and dinner, he preferred to have his meals brought up to him by the aged butler, or to simply eat at work. Needless to say that this did not endear us girls to his wife, who lost many an opportunity to discuss at the table with her husband such important subjects as her latest efforts in household savings and the profligacy of the neighbours.

This time, things were no different. My aunt pursed her lips as the other doors to the dining room opened and my other sisters filed in from various parts of the house, yet my uncle remained absent.

'Are you sure he is already gone, Leadfield?'

'Yes, Madam.'

She sniffed. 'Well, hopefully he will join us tomorrow.'

'Hopefully, Madam,' Leadfield concurred.

'You may serve the first course.'

The first and only, I thought, shaking my head.

'Yes, Madam. Thank you, Madam.'

With all the dignity of a host of royal lackeys serving a voluptuous feast, Leadfield took the lid off the porcelain bowl in the middle of the table and poured each of us a healthy portion of porridge. To this he added some potatoes and salted herrings – the cheapest and most nourishing food that could be found on the London market. Say what you will, my uncle didn't starve us. Over the years, I even had gotten quite a taste for salted herrings.

My aunt obviously didn't feel like that. She eyed the fish on her plate with ambivalence. I could clearly see two of her strongest instincts warring with one another: her stinginess, which told her that this was the cheapest food you could get without poisoning yourself, and her social aspirations, which told her that a lady would under no circumstances eat something that also formed the regular diet of Irish peasants. In the end, stinginess, aided by a rumbling stomach, seemed to win out. She poked one of the potatoes with her fork as if she expected it to come alive and attack her. When it didn't, she impaled it and picked up her knife.

I had already started shovelling porridge into my mouth while my aunt was occupied, taking the opportunity to actually get some serious eating done before my lack of table manners was noticed. Beside me, Ella ate with considerably better manners but equal enjoyment. Gertrude, my eldest sister and the old maid in the family, didn't seem to mind the plain food either. The others, however, – Lisbeth and especially the twins, Anne and Maria – looked rather contemptuously at their plates and took a long time to start eating.

Even when they finally stuck their forks into the herring, they did not eat very much, and this was not just the case because they didn't like their food: unlike me, they considered themselves to be very fine ladies. Very fine ladies could under no circumstances talk with their mouths full, which meant they hardly ever could put a bite in their mouths.

'Have you heard?' Anne burst out as soon as we were all seated. 'Lord Tilsworth is engaged! And to a frightful girl, too. She is supposed to be one of the most low-minded creatures in London – and with horrible freckles all over her face. What in God's name induced him to marry her I cannot imagine! She's not even of the gentry, from what my friend Grace told me the other day.'

'No!' gasped Maria. 'Can it be true that he is throwing himself away on somebody like that? I can hardly believe it!'

'It is true, I swear it. As I said, I had it from Grace, who had it from Beatrice, who had it from Sarah, who had it from her second cousin, who heard it all from the cousin of Lord Tilsworth's second chambermaid.'

'Which of course means that it must be true,' I mumbled, rolling my eyes and chewing my potatoes.

'Lillian!' snapped my beloved aunt. 'Don't talk with your mouth full.'

'Yes, Aunt.'

'Such a pity,' Maria sighed. 'Tilsworth would have been such a catch. And he was quite taken with me at the last ball.'

I rolled my eyes again and hoped my aunt wouldn't see. She would probably consider that unladylike behaviour, too. Oh yes, the last ball. Anne and Maria had been talking about it for days and days now. They were the only ones of us who actually ever got invited to any balls, because they were the only ones pretty enough in the eyes of the gentlemen. No, that wasn't quite true. Ella could have given them a run for their money – if she hadn't been so painfully shy. But as it was, Anne and Maria, pale, tall and sickly-looking, with dark circles under their eyes and that demure look that gentlemen favoured so much, were the only ones of us ever getting into society.

Which was pretty much how I liked it. They were welcome to all the balls and all the men they could get. They could have thousands and thousands of men, and have illicit affairs with them or marry one or all of them, or cook them for dinner if they really wanted to. I would wish them the best of luck. But why oh why did they have to bore the rest of us to death by talking about it?

'...and the Earl of Farthingham is supposed to be engaged to Lady Melrose.'

'Really, Anne? I hadn't heard that.'

'Yes, Maria. You see, it's a frightful secret because...'

I ignored them to the best of my ability and concentrated on my salted herrings, while they kept gossiping about the famous Admiral this and the rich Mister that. My thoughts were neither on my food nor on society, however. They were on a certain tall, dark-eyed individual and on one question that kept coming back to the forefront of my mind ever since he had given me his card: Should I go there?

I didn't even know why I was still thinking about it. A normal lady wouldn't even consider trying to get a job.

Ah yes, that snarky little voice in the back of my mind said, but then, a normal lady wouldn't try to go voting dressed up as a man, would she? Ladies simply weren't supposed to be independent. They were expected to marry, sit at home and look pretty. And that's not exactly what you have in mind for your life, is it?

I threw a glance at Anne and Maria. They obviously were content with this lot in life. And why not? They were pretty, they could sit still very well, and to judge from the effort which they put into their social exploits, they would marry well, too. The young men of London where, from what I could gather, full of praise for their beauty and accomplishments, and were only quarrelling about which of the two to praise more. Quite a hard decision, since they were twins and identical to the last lock of their golden hair.

Indeed, Anne and Maria would make very fine ladies. I, on the other hand, had always had a rather stormy temperament that didn't lend itself well to the idea of marriage. Not as long as the vows included an oath of obedience to a man, anyway.

I definitely wanted to do more with my life than exist as an appendix to some chauvinist blockhead. So why did I hesitate, now that this golden opportunity had presented itself?

Maybe because I remembered with crystal-like clarity the darkness in Mr Ambrose's eyes. I remembered how that muscled mountain, Karim, had dragged off the fat man at his master's command. Mr Ambrose was no friendly or gentle man. There was a good chance that going there would cost me dearly. Still, his offer was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

Now the question was: for this opportunity, was I prepared to enter the lion's den without knowing if an open maw awaited me?

In my mind, I again saw an image of his dark eyes – dark eyes so deep you could drown in them. They seemed to draw me towards them. Suddenly, I didn't feel as hesitant about going as I had a moment ago.

His offer, I reminded myself. That is the only reason you're thinking about him, the only reason for going to see him again. This man is your ticket to freedom. Remember that, and while you're at it, forget about his hard, chiselled face and those deep, dark eyes...

But somehow I couldn't seem to manage. His eyes seemed to stare at me constantly out of my memory, burning holes into my mind. In those eyes I saw ruthlessness, arrogance, anger and more icy cold than in an arctic blizzard.

Why couldn't I stop thinking about them? About him? I had never thought much about a man before. The way they behaved themselves, regardless of their looks, had always been enough to make me want to give them a good kick in the backside. But there was something about Mr Ambrose, something about those dark sea-coloured eyes, his granite face and the way he held himself, ramrod-straight and immovable, which I couldn't get out of my head. I had a feeling that if I tried to kick him, I would end up breaking every single one of my toes.

I wanted to go to him, to grab this golden opportunity, and at the same time I wanted nothing so much as to run away to hide in some corner where his dark eyes couldn't find me. If I only knew more about him, knew who or what he was and what I would be facing, maybe I could work up the courage to go to his office. But how in the world could I find out anything about him?

'...and Sir Ralley was so taken with the French Countess, I doubt he'll be able to resist another week. If he doesn't propose soon, I know nothing about London society. And I'm an expert, trust me. It's a marvel that...'

My hand froze in mid-air, half a herring hanging from my fork. Anne's words, which I had only heard by accident, had struck me like a thunderbolt.

I'm an expert. Trust me.

That was it! I just might find out more about him simply by asking! After all, I had a veritable fountain of information about London's society at my disposal. Two of them, in fact, or even three if you counted my aunt, who, although she wasn't able to go out as much as Anne and Maria, was just as addicted to the gossip of the high society. And to the high society, I was sure by now in spite of his simple attire, Mr Ambrose belonged without a doubt.

It was still unlikely that they would know of him. There were thousands of upper-class people residing in London, the capital of the world. But asking couldn't hurt.

'Err... I have a question,' I said, laying down my fork and bisected herring.

Maria waved a hand. 'Oh, leave us alone with your talks of politics and adventure stories and God knows what else, Lilly. We're too busy with serious talk to be bothered with your nonsense.'

'A question about society.'

The table went silent. All eyes were on me, even those of Gertrude, who normally was content to stay in her own little world.

I cleared my throat. 'Um... Does anybody know a Mr Rikkard Ambrose?'

Holding my breath, I waited for an answer. If he was nothing but a simple government official, they wouldn't know of him. But if not, if he was somebody more important, or rich, or powerful...

Maria laughed a high, nervous laugh, somewhere between hysteria and giggling.

'OhLord, Lilly, you're so funny. Do you honestly mean to tell us you don't knowwho Rikkard Ambrose is? I mean, the RikkardAmbrose?'