Storm and Silence(150)

The question was now - how to unstick him in time. Was that even a verb, unstick? I would have to look that up in a dictionary. After I had saved my sister’s honour and reputation, of course.

I remained quite a while behind the bushes while Ella and Edmund exchanged sweet nothings at the fence. Fortunately, I had brought a book with me: one of my favourites, a historical retelling of the story of Jeanne d’Arc, the woman who had almost single-handedly thrown the English out of France during the Hundred Years' War. I did my best to plunge myself into the narrative. I admired Jeanne d'Arc deeply and felt a deep spiritual connection to her - not because I was secretly French, but because I, too, often felt the urge to chase after English men with a sharp sword in my hand. If I were Jeanne d’Arc and had a sword of my own, I wouldn’t have any problems with disposing of Wilkins!

Finally, the two lovebirds at the fence seemed to remember that there was such a thing as sleep, which was usually accomplished at nighttime, and parted from one another with many apologies and promises to see each other again soon. I waited until Ella had passed my hiding place, shut the book upon my heroine’s story with a regretful sigh, and followed Ella into the house. When I entered our bedroom upstairs, Ella had already curled into a tight ball under her blankets.

I lay down in my own bed and recapitulated my to-do list for tomorrow:

- bring back two books to the lending library

- refine plans to foil the masculine plot to undermine women’s suffrage

- save Ella from eternal shame and dishonour

I frowned. Hadn’t I forgotten something? Something I had to do tomorrow?

Then the memory dropped back into my mind like a red-hot piece of coal. Of course. Tomorrow was Monday. And on Monday I had to go back to the office. To Mr Ambrose.

Other memories returned. Mr Ambrose entering the ballroom, Mr Ambrose whirling me around and around on the dance floor with the grace and precision of a clockwork dancing master, strong and contained. Mr Ambrose staring at Miss Hamilton with an intensity with which he had never looked at me…

Wait just a second! Where had that thought come from? Why would you want Mr Ambrose to look at you? You want him to employ you, and that’s it! Looking at you has nothing to do with it!

Only, maybe it had. If he couldn’t even bring himself to look at me, how could he bring himself to accept me as a female and one of his employees? Yes. I wanted his acceptance as an independent lady, that was all.

Angrily, I punched my cushion and turned onto my other side. Damn the man! Why did he have to pop into my head now? My mind belonged on saving Ella, and maybe also on saving the future suffrage of women from men’s chauvinism, but not on him. Most certainly not on him.

So why was it that as I drifted off to sleep, all I could think of was the feel of his arms around me as he danced with me at yesterday’s ball?

*~*~**~*~*

The fact that I had still not discovered the answer to the question by next morning didn’t exactly improve my mood. I got up at an unearthly hour, went through the routine of switching clothes and left the house. I needed to clear my head, and the cold morning air was just the way to do it.

Besides, maybe I could force Mr Ambrose to look at me at least once by turning up three hours early.

I turned into Leadenhall Street and marched towards my destination. This early in the morning, the foggy streets were pretty much empty of people. Thus, the two huge shapes that dominated the street were even more overpowering than usual: On the left, the stark, towering Empire House; on the right the broad, elegant façade of East India House. The two buildings facing off over the street like that reminded me of Mr Ambrose and Lord Dalgliesh shaking hands in the ballroom. Just as they had back then, this confrontational stance looked almost… threatening.

Shaking my head, I looked away from East India House and started up the stairs of my workplace. I was being fanciful.

Only when I reached the door of Empire House did it occur to me to wonder how I might get into the building. As yet, it seemed to be deserted. The door was firmly locked, and when I peered in through one of the high, narrow windows, I couldn’t see a soul inside. I couldn’t even see somebody without a soul inside - a condition, I was sure, that applied to many of the men who normally occupied its bustling halls, especially the one who paid all the others.

As I walked back from the window to the front door, something clinked in my pocket. Of course! The ring of keys Mr Ambrose had given me. How could I have not thought of it before?

Well, if I thought about it, it wasn’t that surprising. There surely wouldn’t be a key to the front door on the ring, not after the defection of Mr Ambrose’s last secretary and considering the fact that I didn’t have the right gender. He wouldn’t trust me in a million years!