He had been keeping track of his own appointments! It had been silly of me not to think of this, really. After all, it was a secretary’s job to take care of appointments, so why had it not been part of mine?
The answer was evident: because he didn’t trust me to handle them! Had he been afraid that - silly, overexcited female that I supposedly was - I would send him to a brothel-house in the east end instead of the Bank of England? A storm of indignation began to brew in me, and the barometer of my temper slowly rose. But then I suddenly remembered that now he had entrusted me with the appointment book.
Did this mean he was finally coming around? Was he beginning to accept me? Maybe soon I could drop this ridiculous charade of pretending to be a man, and he would stop calling me ‘Mr Linton’.
An image flashed in front of my eyes: I, entering the big hall downstairs, in an undoubtedly feminine dress, my head held high, going up to work for one of London’s most powerful businessmen. The first ever lady to earn her own way in this world…
‘Mr Linton!’
Blast!
Just like that, a cold voice from the neighbouring room shattered my daydream. Quickly, I put the appointment book away and made my way back to my employer’s office. Not quickly enough for his taste, though, apparently.
‘What did I tell you, Mr Linton?’
I straightened, knowing exactly what he wanted me to hear.
‘That knowledge is power is time is money, Sir!’
‘Which means you have to be what…?’
‘Quick and efficient, Sir!’
‘Indeed. Now go to your desk, get notepaper and a pen.’
Wondering what the heck he wanted me to do now, I fetched the required items and returned, receiving no admonishment this time.
‘I have a business letter to write,’ he declared when I had taken up my station beside his desk, a notepad in hand. ‘Obviously, you are not what I wish for in a secretary and have very limited abilities, but my handwriting is not elegant enough for official letters, and I need somebody to do this. It might as well be you.’
I tried my best not to look at him. Having just seen a sample of his handwriting, I knew there was nothing whatsoever wrong with it. In fact, his clear, precise script was one of the most beautiful hands I had ever seen. A smile tugged at the corners of my lips, and I hid behind the notepad. I had been right. He was beginning to accept me, even if he’d rather die than admit it.
‘The letter is to a very important business partner of mine,’ he warned. ‘Make one mistake, and I shall be very displeased.’
I couldn’t help remembering what had happened to the last guy that had ‘displeased’ him: hauled off by Karim into the misty alleys of London, never to be seen again. But surely he wouldn’t do something like that to me simply for making a mistake in a business letter, would he?
Um… would he?
He went off before I had a chance to ponder this further. If I’d thought his listing of appointments had been fast, it was nothing to how he raced through that letter. He seemed to have it all perfectly written out in his head already, and was just reading off a wall in front of his inner eye. Not once did he stumble or think in enumerating figures, trade routes, factories and a million other things I had never even heard of before.
By the time we had finished, I had filled five pages and my hand was screaming for a relaxing bath in hot water. With my left hand, because my right one was on strike right now, I picked up the handwritten pages and offered them to Mr Ambrose.
He let his cold gaze wander over them. I held my breath again.
Please, God, no mistakes, no mistakes, no mistakes…
‘Passable,’ he allowed.
Thank the Lord! It had to be faultless. If there had been any mistakes, I was sure he could not have resisted pointing each one out to me before dismissing me for failing in my duty.
‘Try to remember next time that you are a human being writing, not a hen with inky feet running all across a sheet of paper,’ he added.
I pursed my lips, suppressing the urge to go for his throat.
‘Any other constructive criticism, Sir?’
‘No, that is it for now.’
He grabbed a piece of paper and scrawled something which he then handed to me. ‘Here. Address the letter to this address and put it out on Stone’s desk. Stone will take care of posting it.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
Taking the letter from him, I hurried back into my office and did as I had been told. Inside of me, conflicting emotions were fighting a fierce battle. The appointment book, the letter… was he beginning to trust me, or was I reading too much into this?
Yes, a nasty little voice inside me said. You are.
Bloody hell! But I wanted so much for him to trust me!