‘Err… your what, Sir?’
‘My toilet. Go do what you need to do, and then get back to work. I don't pay you for standing around.’
I wasn’t sure I had heard correctly. ‘You want me to use your personal…’
He looked up, sharply.
‘Mr Linton?’
‘Yes, Sir!’
‘What did we talk about in the last five minutes?’
Suddenly I got the feeling that an awful lot depended on me making the right answer.
‘Err… business, Sir?’
‘Very good. What kind of business?’
‘For the life of me, Sir, I can’t remember.’
‘Very good indeed. Now bring me a new fountain pen. For some reason this one doesn't seem to be working anymore. And then get on with your business, and leave me to mine.’
‘Yes, Sir! Immediately, Sir!’
I managed to bring him a new fountain pen without wetting myself, then ran to the little door, slid inside and shut it behind me. Quickly, I let my trousers drop. Thank the Lord I was wearing trousers and not a hoop skirt! I would have emptied my bladder three times over by the time I had gotten rid of that. With a sigh of relief I closed my eyes and sank down on the toilet.
As anyone will understand, I’m sure, for the next few minutes I was quite busily engaged. It was only after the pressure had appreciably decreased that I could open my eyes and look around at Mr Rikkard Ambrose’s personal bathroom.
I was in largish chamber with - naturally - bare stone walls. The only thing that could maybe be counted as decoration was a small mirror hanging on the door. Maybe. The plain, ungilded frame and small size of the mirror, however, made it appear more likely to me that it was an object of daily use, in typical Ambrosian style.
My eyes did not rest on the mirror long. They were drawn to an object on the wall to my right. There, over a basin set into the floor, a shower head protruded from the wall.
On seeing this, I suppose I know what my reaction should have been. It should have been some mundane thought like ‘Of course! He’s too stingy for a bath, so he had a shower installed to save water’ or ‘I wonder where he gets the water from. Surely not out of the filthy river’.
Instead, all I thought was: Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God! He showers here! He showers here, in this very room where I am right now, naked! Which would mean without any clothes on. Which would mean you could see all of his…
For some strange reason, I took a little bit longer than usual to conclude my business in the bathroom that day. When I left, Mr Ambrose looked sideways at me. His granite expression didn’t change.
‘Something wrong, Mr Linton? You look a little flushed.’
‘N-no, Sir. I’m very well, thank you.’
‘Good. Then bring me file 29IV229 now.’
‘Yes, Sir! Immediately, Sir!’
I worked as hard as I could throughout the day. Yet the longer I worked, the more my thoughts wandered from my work and to Ella and my own men-problem. Well, man, really, not men. I probably wouldn’t be able to think straight anymore if I had more than one of those creatures hounding me. Lieutenant Ellingham was quite enough.
How the devil am I supposed to get rid of him? I demanded of myself while puffing under the weight of a hundred heavy files.
He didn’t seem to mind that my family didn’t have much money or that I didn’t have ladylike manners. He only seemed to care for my family’s respectable name, which would help him in his advancement in the military.
Hm… Can you get rid of a respectable family name?
Well, short of changing my name or committing suicide, neither of which seemed a very good idea, I would have to do something so humongously stupid and dishonourable that it would disgrace my entire family.
Then why not do that? Sounds easy enough for someone as talented as you.
True, I had no trouble of thinking of possibilities - I could ride through the marble arch, which only the Queen was allowed to do. I could dance naked on top of the marble arch, which not even the Queen was allowed to do. I could make a handstand in Hanover Square and start singing the French national anthem. I could rob the Bank of England.
The last idea sounds nice. Then you can quit this bloody job and go lead a life of adventure, going to see the rain forests and the Great Wall of China!
But, alas, I was afraid that even dressed up as a man, nobody would take me seriously as a bank robber. You probably had to be six foot five for that, with a mask and a pistol.
Plink!
Surprised, I looked down and saw three messages lying in front of me on the desk. I had been so consumed with my own thoughts that I hadn’t noticed them coming in. The first two were the usual missives from His Mightiness, reminding me to bring him file number 35X119 and hurry up about it. The third one was different.
Mr Linton,
Taking into account your negligence in answering my messages, I must assume that something is the matter with you. Is it the same business as earlier today, the business we are never ever going to talk about anymore?
Rikkard Ambrose
I couldn’t suppress a grin as I answered:
Dear Mr Ambrose,
No, that business we are never ever going to talk about again is not a problem - at least not yet. I am sorry for my negligence. I will bring the files immediately.
Yours Sincerely
Miss Lilly Linton
But before I could rise, another message plopped onto my desk.
Mr Linton,
If it is not that problem bothering you, what is the matter?
Rikkard Ambrose.
My jaw dropped. Was I reading correctly? I reread the message. Then I turned it on its head and tried to read it like that, thinking I might be able to put a different construction on the words. Finally, I closed my eyes for ten seconds, yet when I opened them again, the impossible words were still there.
My hand shaking slightly from the shock, I quickly composed an answer.
Dear Mr Ambrose,
Careful, Sir. People might start to think you actually cared if everything goes well in my life.
Yours Sincerely
Lilly Linton
The reply to that came just as quick.
Mr Linton,
Care? Do not be ridiculous. I simply need you to work efficiently, without distractions.
Rikkard Ambrose
Of course. And there was I thinking that maybe he had asked just to make me feel better. Ha! I had forgotten who I was talking- err, writing to.
Yet regardless of his motivations, he wanted to know what was the matter. Panic began to well up inside me. How could I tell somebody I was being pursued by a man I detested? More terrible still, how could I tell that to Mr Granite-Face All-Businesslike Ambrose? The concept alone filled me with unimaginable horror! And what about Ella? I could never tell him about Ella’s secret romantic rendezvous. To mention the word 'love' in his presence would be like trying to explain bicycles to an eel.
