Storm and Silence

Storm and Silence Page 20

Get a grip, I told myself, and clambered to my feet.

Looking around, I saw that I was standing in a longish room, almost a corridor, with doors leading off at regular intervals to the sides. At the very end of the room was a large double door of dark wood. Between me and the door stood only the desk, and behind the desk sat the anxious, narrow-faced young man.

This had to be Mr Stone.

‘I’m here to see Mr Ambrose,’ I panted with as much dignity as one can muster while gasping for air. Quickly I tried to smooth out the wrinkles in my dress, but they resisted stubbornly.

‘Are you…?’ he left the sentence hanging in the air as if afraid to finish it.

‘I’m Miss Lillian Linton.’

‘Ah, yes.’ Mr Stone nodded. ‘I was told you would be coming.’ He threw a furtive look back at the double door. ‘And you really have to see Mr Ambrose, Miss?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you have an appointment?’

‘Yes.’

‘Very well.’

Swallowing, Mr Stone picked up one of those horn-speak-through thingies from his desk and placed it at his mouth.

‘Um… Sir? I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr Ambrose, Sir, but there is someone to see you. A Miss Lillian Linton.’

He put the horn to his ear for a few seconds, listening, then frowned and looked up at me apologetically. ‘Err… Miss? Mr Ambrose says he does not know a Miss Linton.’

I gave him my very sweetest smile - sweeter than solid chocolate. ‘Tell him we met last Friday in the street. I’m sure he will remember.’

‘Of course, Miss.’ Mr Stone cleared his throat and nodded, dutifully. He was really a very nice, accommodating young man. ‘Mr Ambrose? The young lady says…’

He repeated my message. For a second or two, everything was still and silent - then Mr Stone jerked the listening-horn away from his ear. I could faintly hear someone shouting on the other end and caught a string of expletives.

‘Yes, Mr Ambrose, Sir.’ Mr Stone had gone as white as a sheet and was speaking hurriedly into the horn. ‘Certainly, Mr Ambrose, Sir. What should I tell the young lady, Mr Ambrose, Sir?’

The answer came over the line, and Mr Stone’s eyes widened, his face turning beet red.

‘But Sir! I… I cannot tell her to go and do… that! No, not a respectable young lady!’

The shouting on the other end resumed, probably on the subject of my alleged respectability. It seemed that Mr Ambrose had quite a lot to say about that, and none of it was complimentary.

‘Well, what then, Mr Ambrose, Sir?’ asked the young man timidly. He waited again, then nodded when the answer came. ‘Yes, Sir. Immediately, Sir.’

Mr Stone looked up at me, his ears still red.

‘Err… Mr Ambrose wishes to see you at once, Miss Linton.’

I bet he does, I thought, but said nothing and instead merely smiled at the young desk clerk again. He was really quite nice - for a man.

Mr Stone rose, and, leading me past his desk, guided me to the large double-door that was, as I now realized, the entrance to the private office of Mr Rikkard Ambrose.

Just before the door he stopped, leaned over and whispered. ‘Err… Miss? Be careful, yes? Mr Ambrose is very… um… well, just be careful.’

With that elucidating statement, he held the door open for me, and I entered, my heart hammering, knowing that the future course of my life might well depend on the man inside. Now why didn’t that make me feel very good?

His Indecent Demands

As the doors closed behind me, my eyes were drawn immediately to the dark figure standing in front of the window at the opposite end of the room. Heavy curtains half covered the large windows even this early in the morning, and the lean figure of the man was cast in shadows. I could not see his face. But I could feel his eyes on me.

Quickly, I glanced around. No landscapes on the wall. No tapestries. Not even a portrait of dear X with his wife Y their three large, hairy dogs. God, did this man have an allergy to decoration? Maybe I should have chosen the simpler of my dresses for this meeting after all. To my left, massive wooden bookshelves covered one wall, but the rest of the walls weren’t panelled wood as was customary in most offices. They weren’t even painted, but consisted of the same dark stone as the outside of the building.

Yes, I had diagnosed the decoration allergy correctly. And I didn’t even have a medical degree.

My eyes returned to the man at the window. Suddenly, he moved and sat down at the large wooden desk that, besides the bookshelves, was pretty much the only piece of furniture in the room. Light from the window fell onto his face and illuminated the hard, chiselled features of Mr Rikkard Ambrose. Again it struck me that, for a man, he didn’t look half bad - maybe not even a quarter. For some reason, my heart rate picked up as I looked at him.

‘Welcome,’ Mr Ambrose said in a cool voice. ‘Kind of you to drop by. Take a seat.’

My mouth dropped open. I had expected him to be angry. Boiling mad, even. But there he was, as cool as a cucumber.

Hesitantly I went to the visitor’s chair opposite his own. As soon as I had sat down, I regretted it. The thing was made of plain, hard wood and almost hurt to sit on. I straightened my back and it got a little better.

With agonizing slowness, Mr Rikkard Ambrose rested his elbows on the desk in front of him and steepled his fingers. Over the tops of his finely manicured hands, he regarded me with those dark, sea-coloured eyes of his. Dark eyes in which I could see something roil.

‘Well?’ he said, after two or three seconds of silence. ‘I believe I already told you that I do not appreciate time-wasters, Miss… Linton, was it?’

I nodded.

‘So what do you want?’

I swallowed, and said nothing. God, how to phrase this?

He regarded me coolly for a few more moments, then added: ‘If you are concerned about me pressing charges against you, do not worry. I have no desire to ruin a lady’s reputation, especially the reputation of a “lady” who is not right in the head.’ He looked down at his desk and studied a few papers lying there. ‘If that is all, Miss Linton…’

The dismissal was obvious in his tone of voice. But I didn’t pay attention. I was still too busy processing the ‘not-right-in-the-head’ comment. Not right in the head? Why? Because I put on a pair of trousers? Because I wanted a say in the government of my country?