Storm and Silence

Storm and Silence Page 123

Naturally they did. This was the northeast corner of the Park, after all: Speaker’s Corner.[43]

There were several people there, standing on wooden boxes or on the ground. But nearly all of them had given up trying to catch the crowd’s attention. The focus was clearly on a group of important-looking men standing on a large podium right behind Cumberland Gate.

Then I saw the large banner suspended over the podium.

‘MEETING OF THE ANTI-SUFFRAGIST LEAGUE - UNITE IN THE STRUGGLE FOR THE NATURAL WORLD ORDER AND WOMAN’S GOD-GIVEN PLACE IN THE WORLD’

My head whipped to the side to stare at Mr Ambrose - just in time to see the smile drain from his face like wet paint from a wall in the middle of a hailstorm. And I realized that was all it had ever been: paint, over a perfect, cold, merciless granite statue.

The coach stopped.

‘Come, Mr Linton,’ he ordered, meeting my eyes with his icy gaze and pushing open the door. ‘Or else we shall be late for this very important event.’

Am I a Chimpanzee?

‘What is this?’

My voice didn’t sound like my own. It sounded as if it were coming from very, very far away.

Mr Ambrose sprang out of the coach and looked up at me. ‘What do you think it is? It is me expressing my cherished political opinions for the good of Britain and the Empire.’

His voice sounded exactly like his own. In fact, it sounded more like his own than it had done during the entirety of the last two days. Gone was the friendliness. Gone was the interest. Gone was the politeness. Gone was all the pretence.

And I suddenly understood what this was all about. His words rang in my head like a great brass bell:

You can stay - until and unless you leave of your own free will. And I will find a way to persuade you.

This was his way. His way to get rid of me. His way to make me hate him so much that I couldn’t stand to be in his company anymore, let alone in his employ. I threw a glance at the banner over the podium and shuddered. So he wanted to make me hate him, eh? Well, he was going about it right. Whatever else you could say of him, he knew me well.

I stole a glance at his immovable marble face. He… he couldn’t really believe that, could he? He couldn’t really be on the same side as those blasted chauvinists?

But then my eyes wandered to his dark, ice-cold eyes.

Are you kidding? Of course he can! Look at him! He’s probably spearheading their movement!

And as much as I hated my inner voice right at that moment, I had, for once, to agree with it. If there ever was a man who crushed anything in his path, it was Rikkard Ambrose. Arrogance and raw masculinity rolled off him in waves that were almost tangible. The bastard!

Anger surged up inside me.

So what? So what if he was in cahoots with them? I would be damned if I let his intrigues deprive me of this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity! I didn’t care whether he thought I couldn’t handle the dangers of my job, I would prove him wrong! And I would begin proving him wrong by surviving this humiliation! How bad could it be? I only had to stand beside him, after all.

Yes. Stand beside him and listen while he defiles the most sacred beliefs of your heart.

Oh, thank you very much for pointing that out. Thank you!

Leaving the coach in the capable hands of the driver, Mr Ambrose strode towards Cumberland Gate and the park beyond, myself close at his heels. In spite of the masses of people gathered at the northeast corner of the park, we had no problems finding our way towards Speaker’s Corner. People made way for Mr Ambrose as if he were the King of England. Well, in a sense he was the king of his personal empire. Did the people around us know that? Or did they just feel the iron aura of authority that surrounded him?

‘… have developed a theory which rests on my study of the female brain. Though spurned by my colleagues at Cambridge University, I, Professor William H. Anstruther, am wholeheartedly convinced of this theory. It may be years ahead of scientific thinking today, but that only adds to its brilliance.’

Looking up, I saw that there was a man at the front of the podium, speaking to the crowd. He was a thin fellow, with a thin moustache and thin voice. Nevertheless, the crowd seemed to be listening intently.

‘Based on my measurements of female head circumferences,’ the man continued, ‘I have concluded that their capacity for logical thought is far behind that of any man. Throughout my studies, this empirical conclusion was supported by behavioural evidence: a great many of the females I approached as potential test subjects frankly refused to have their head shorn in order for me to be able to take their measurements.’

I opened my mouth to laugh - however, then I took a look around and saw other people nodding and exchanging looks of satisfaction. Bloody hell! The people here were actually taking this seriously!

By now, Mr Ambrose and I had approached the side of the platform, where a staircase led upwards. A young underling in a too-big suit waited there and almost fell over himself when he recognized the man who was coming towards him.

‘Mr Ambrose!’

If he had bowed any deeper, his nose would have brushed the ground. I threw him a disgusted glance he didn’t notice. His attention was fully focused on my loathsome, conniving, cold-hearted bastard of an employer.

‘W-we are t-terribly honoured that you could join us here t-today, Sir,’ the young man stuttered. ‘It is not often that we have the good fortune of a man of your stature lending his support to our venture. We cannot thank you enough…’

‘Mr Cartwright is waiting for me?’ Mr Ambrose cut him off.

‘W-well, yes, Sir,’ the young man answered, not seeming in the least offended at this gross violation of good manners. ‘He has been eagerly a-awaiting your a-arrival, Sir. He was so thrilled w-when we received notice of your intention…’

‘Lead me to him!’

‘W-why, yes, of course, Sir. F-follow me.’

The stutterer started to stumble up the stairs, and we followed with enough distance so as not to run into him, should he trip over his own feet.

‘Why so abrupt, Mr Ambrose?’ I hissed at the broad, ramrod-straight back in front of me. ‘Don’t you like to be flattered?’

‘I don't like wasting my time, Mr Linton - which is, essentially saying the same.’

‘If you don't like wasting your time, then why are we here?’

‘Because this is a very important event which will further one of the most important aims in my life.’