by Robert Thier
Mr Ambrose had dropped me off in front of my house. But… how the hell had he known where my house was? I had certainly never told him! And if he knew my aunt or any of my sisters well enough to know where they lived, I’d eat my corset! He and my uncle might know each other from the annual meeting of the London Misers’ Association, but I doubted it. My uncle never left his four walls except to go to work, and neither did Mr Ambrose.
So, that still left the question: how the hell did he know?
For a few moments I looked after the coach, biting my lower lip in thought. Then I shrugged, and turned back to the house. The Lord might move in mysterious ways - but he had nothing on Mr Ambrose in that department.
It took no time at all switching clothes. Ever since I had to do it on a sinking ship to save myself from drowning, I had gotten a lot quicker at lacing up a corset. Everything has its bright side, I suppose. Leaving the changing room (alias the garden shed), I made my way towards the back door and to my delight found it unlocked.
Huzzah! Fortune was smiling on me! Maybe I would be able to sneak up to my room and pretend as if nothing had happened. At least until the next morning.
I was about halfway up the stairs when a voice came like a whip crack from behind me.
‘Lillian!’
Wincing, I stopped in my tracks. Apparently, fortune wasn’t really smiling on me. It was just grimacing. Slowly, I turned and came face to face with Hester Mahulda Brank, my beloved aunt.
All right, the ‘beloved’ part might have been a lie. But judging by the death-glare she was shooting up the stairs at me out of those small, sharp eyes of hers set into her vulture’s face, I wasn’t particularly beloved by her either. More bedespised, if there was such a word.
‘Lillian Linton! Tell me this isn’t you, showing your face here after… after…’
‘This isn’t me showing my face here,’ I assured her. ‘It’s not actually me at all. It’s just a phantasm, some kind of ghostly image. So… why don’t you carry on with whatever you were doing and let this phantasm go to bed? It is a really tired phantasm.’
‘It is you! Nobody else would dare talk to me like that!’
Why was everybody pretending to recognize me by my insolence? First Mr Ambrose, and now her! It was really unfair! In reality, I was a quite nice, well-behaved, soft-spoken young lady. Yes, I bloody well was!
My aunt had started moving, stalking up the stairs towards me, her feather duster clutched in her right hand like a sword.
‘You… you… ungrateful little brat! You disappear for over a week, and then you simply waltz back in here as if nothing had happened? Is that your thanks for the care I took of you all those years?’
You mean torturing me with etiquette lessons while you tried to marry me off to the first rich bachelor available? Yes, thanks so much for that!
But not even I was brave enough to speak that thought aloud.
‘One week! One entire week!’ She was nearly level with me now. I started to retreat, peering with trepidation at the feather duster in her fist. These things looked innocent enough, but who knew, maybe hers had a concealed blade or hidden spikes or something. I wouldn’t put it past her. ‘One week you disappear without a word! Do you have any idea how-’
…worried you’ve been for me? How many sleepless nights you’ve spent praying for my safe return?
‘-many social events I’ve had to reschedule because of you?’
Oh, my dear aunt! It’s so nice to know how deeply you care for me.
‘Two balls, three dinner engagements, and one walk in the park with Colonel Spencer - all arranged for nothing! He’s gone to India now, and he’s such an old fool he might actually have taken you!’
Isn’t it wonderful to have such loving relatives? They always give you such a warm welcome home.
Reaching the end of the stairs, she pointed the feather duster as if she meant to skewer me with it. I took a few more steps back.
‘Such a pity,’ I said, meekly lowering my head. ‘I would really have liked to meet Colonel Spencer.’ Preferably with a large mallet in hand and no witnesses.
‘Oh, you would have, would you?’ My aunt’s eyes sparked. ‘To think I might have had you out of the house by now, properly married and taken care of… And now you’re back, costing me even more housekeeping money!’
‘I’m really sorry. Truly, I am.’ A very, very large mallet.
My back hit the door at the end of the corridor, and I was forced to stop. Moments later, a feather duster poked into my ribs. To my relief, there were no hidden spikes or blades.
‘Sorry? That’s not good enough, girl!’
‘I’ll do the dishes for a week aunt,’ I promised.
‘Not good enough!’
I bit my lip. What could be a worse punishment than doing chores?
‘I’ll go out every day to meet as many young men as possible! I’ll attend every ball, every feast, everything there is. I’ll practically throw myself at every young man I come across.’
‘Still not good enough by half! You, young lady, are in need of a thorough dressing-down!’
My eyebrows shot up. Wasn’t she already taking care of that? And most thoroughly to boot?
‘Not by me,’ she told me as if she had read my thoughts. Her voice had a coldness that almost rivalled that of Mr Ambrose. ‘Turn around, girl!’
Reluctantly, I did as she said, and for the first time realized where my backward steps had led me: upstairs, at the very end of the corridor - in the forbidden zone. I stood right before the door that lead to the domain of the dread lord of miserdom, the gates to the lands of death and desolation and spanked bottoms for little five-year-old girls who had been so brazen as to peek inside.
I stood in front of my Uncle Bufford’s study.
I tried to say something, but no more than a croak escaped my mouth. Half turning back to my aunt, I shot her a desperate, pleading look. But she looked back at me like a hangman escorting the prisoner to the gallows.
‘I will see if he’s ready to receive you, girl.’
The door to the study creaked ominously as she opened it to step in. With her inside, for a moment, I considered running. I could be out on the street and away from the study of terrors before anyone could say Jack Robinson. But… where would I go? I had no money to rent a place. I still hadn’t received my first pay cheque. That happy event was still a few days in the future, and the thought that Mr Ambrose might give me an advance was too laughable to think about. And even if I’d had money… I was still a minor. They could haul me home whenever they wished.
‘Girl!’
I jumped. Without my noticing, my Aunt had come out of the room again and was holding the door open for me.
‘He’s ready to receive you. Go in.’
Too late to run now. ‘Aunt, couldn’t you…?’
‘Go! Now!’
Taking a deep breath, I straightened. There was no escape. I had to get a grip and bite the bullet, like any brave soldier faced by inevitable death and dismemberment. Raising my chin in defiance of the enemy, I stepped into the study.
A Study in Golden
At first, I couldn’t see anything at all. Apparently, a love of money wasn’t the only thing Uncle Bufford and Mr Ambrose had in common: a penchant for muted lighting was also on the list. Probably they thought it was wasteful, letting all that light into a room without enough eyes present to properly utilize it.
So I waited for my eyes to adjust to the gloom. And waited. And waited longer, while silence surrounded me.
Ah. So that would be three things they had in common: stinginess, darkness and taciturnity. I supposed I could expect as much from a man who had spoken to me and my sisters about three times in total since he adopted us over ten years ago.
So I waited some more. And more. The first thing I noticed when my eyes slowly got used to the dark was gold. Piles of it. Coins were heaped on the desk, on chairs, on and inside chests, even on top of the lamp in the corner. Bits
of paper were almost as numerous as coins: they littered everything, everywhere, mixing with the coins into an ordered chaos that only one man’s mind, I was sure, could understand.
‘Step forward, girl!’
I flinched. The voice had come from a high-backed armchair that stood facing away from the door. Over the backrest I could just see what seemed to be the top of an oddly coloured cannonball. After a moment, I realized it was a man’s bald head.
‘I said step forward! By that I meant around the chair, so I can bloody see you!’
Ah. Another shared characteristic with Mr Ambrose: impatience. Maybe the two knew each other, after all.
Hurrying around the chair, I made a quick curtsy in front of the sitting figure. It wasn’t until I straightened again that I got a good look at Uncle Bufford for the first time in years.
He wasn’t a particular beauty, by conventional standards. His bald head was covered with brownish age marks, and so was the over-large beak of a nose protruding from his face. The deep-set eyes that were fixed on me flashed threateningly. His chin might have been firm and manly, but it was hidden behind a gigantic white beard that hung from his chin like an overgrown bush of white spirea. His bushy eyebrows were so large and his forehead so wrinkled that it seemed to be home to a permanent frown, and his bulky form was clad in a cheap tailcoat of a dirty grey-black colour. In short, he looked like Father Christmas after a very bad day full of blocked chimneys.
‘Finished with your examination, girl?’ he growled.
I flinched and reflexively folded my arms in front of my chest. On both sides of my head, I could feel my ears burning.
‘Um… yes.’
Blast you! Don’t sound so brazen! You may not like it, but this man could turn you out on the street with a flick of his finger! This isn’t some adventure where you boldly stand up to any man you come across! This is real life!
‘Sit down!’
Quickly, I sat on the only free chair in the room. There were other chairs besides that, but they were all covered in paper and coins.
Uncle Bufford fixed his penetrating gaze on me. It could not compete with Mr Ambrose in the category of utter, cool, dispassionate power, but had a way of winding around you like gnarled roots and holding you in place that was no less effective.
‘You know why you’re here, girl?’
‘Yes.’
‘My wife informs me you left this house recently.’
I swallowed and nodded. ‘Yes.’ Then, remembering his similarities to Mr Ambrose, I corrected: ‘Yes, Sir.’
One of Uncle Bufford’s bushy eyebrows rose. He showed no other reaction.
‘She also tells me that you were gone for quite a long time. An entire week, in fact.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
Uncle Bufford grunted into his beard. ‘I suppose that is unusual for girls? How long are the free runs you’re usually given? Do they take off your leashes at all?’
I blinked. Was he joking? He didn’t seem to be.
‘Um… we don’t wear leashes, Sir.’
He shook his head. ‘Pity. Education nowadays could learn a lot from dog training.’
Still, I was not sure whether he was joking. That gnarled old face gave away about as much as the trunk of an oak tree. Finally, I decided to assume for my own sanity’s sake that he was, but outwardly, I had better act as if he wasn’t. Just to be sure.
‘I think leashes are not very fashionable, Sir,’ I told him demurely. ‘They would clash with ball gowns.’
My Uncle gave a derisive snort. ‘Fashion! As if that counts for anything!’
Suddenly, in spite of the leash talk, he seemed a lot more likeable.
‘I quite agree, Sir,’ I told him, perfectly honest this time.
‘Oh, you do, do you?’ He studied me with those sharp eyes of his, and I couldn’t help it. I raised my chin and met his eyes defiantly. Blast it! Why couldn’t I be meek for all of five minutes? This man could throw me out on the street if I didn’t behave!
‘How would you liked to be leashed?’ he asked, cocking his bald, bearded head.
‘Not at all, Sir.’
One side of his mouth twitched up. ‘Because it’s not fashionable?’
‘No, Sir! Because I want to be free.’
‘Is that so…?’ His eyes got even sharper. He was silent for a moment. Finally, he asked: ‘Why?’
‘Why what, Sir?’
‘Don’t play dumb with me, girl! Why did you run away?’
I swallowed. ‘I cannot tell you, Sir. But it was important.’
His bushy eyebrows rose again. ‘You cannot tell me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Cannot, or will not?’
‘Both.’
‘Was it a man?’
I nearly choked. ‘No! No, no! It wasn’t! It most definitely wasn’t!’
His gaze wandered over my face for a moment. ‘No, I didn’t think so. So… what was it, then?’
‘I cannot tell you, Sir. I’m sorry.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘If this is all some sort of tantrum, a ploy to get me to give you more pocket money, you can forget it. I took you in for my sister’s sake, God rest her soul, but I will not indulge your female extravagances!’
Female extravagances? My eyes blazed.
‘No,’ I told him flatly. ‘It is not a ploy to get you to raise my allowance. In fact, since I’m already here, I want to use the opportunity to tell you that you can reduce it, if you want to.’
This time both of his eyebrows shot so high up, it nearly looked as if the bald top of his head had suddenly grown hair again.
‘Reduce it?’
‘Or forget about it altogether.’ I made a dismissive gesture. ‘From next week onward, I won’t need it anymore.’
If he had been giving me searching looks before, it was nothing compared to how his eyes probed me now. There wasn’t just determination in those eyes now. This time, there was genuine interest.
‘You know, girl… my whole life I’ve had to deal with people badgering me to give them my money. But I believe you’re the first one to ask to receive less of it than they’re already getting.’
‘I’m unique.’ I gave him my brightest smile. ‘Like a snowflake.’
That corner of his mouth twitched again. ‘I think you’re a little too fiery for a snowflake.’ Then, suddenly, his mouth flattened into a grim line, and similar lines spread across his forehead. ‘But we still haven’t discussed that matter of you running away - and more specifically, how you are to be punished!’
Blast! And there I thought I would get off easily. As inconspicuously as possible, I looked around the room for carpet beaters and horse whips. True, I hadn’t seen or heard from Uncle Bufford in ten years, but I had heard stories…
‘Your punishment,’ he proclaimed, his face sterner than ever, ‘is to have your allowance cut. Not another penny you’ll get out of me for dresses, or jewellery, or whatever frivolous things you girls buy nowadays, do you hear me? Not another penny!’ Maybe I was mistaken, I mean, this was the terrible uncle after all, the figure that had haunted mine and my sister’s nightmares as little children, but I could have sworn he gave me a small smile. ‘I hope this terribly harsh punishment will be a lesson to you.’
I shot up from my seat and almost saluted. Instead, I gave a hurried curtsy. ‘Yes, Sir! It definitely will, Sir!’
‘Good! Now off with you, and don’t bother me again unless the house burns down. I’m a busy man!’
‘Yes, Sir! Just as you say, Sir!’
I hurried towards the door. Just in time before opening it, I remembered to let my shoulders sag and my lips quiver. When I stepped outside, and my aunt hurriedly straightened from where she had been trying unsuccessfully to listen at the thick oak door, she took in my woeful face with a nod of satisfaction.
‘There! You see? That’s what happens when you display a lack of respect for your elders.’
I nodded, meekly. ‘Yes, Aunt. I’ll remember, Aunt.’
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‘What did he say to you?’
‘He… he said…’ Making my lower lip tremble expressively, I trailed off into a sob-like noise. Now that was good acting!
My aunt gave another satisfied nod. ‘There! I told you that you would regret what you did. Now, off to your room with you, and stay there until I call you.’
‘Yes, Aunt. As you wish, Aunt.’
Hurrying off down the corridor, I managed to disguise my giggle as another sob. That must have been the best punishment ever! Reaching the door to my room, I pushed it open and sauntered in.
The room was just as I remembered it - except for one thing. My little sister Ella, the only one of my five sisters with whom I really got along and who by God’s good grace happened to be my roommate, was lying on my bed, crying her eyes out.
My eyebrows rose. Even for Ella, who could be a bit sentimental and romantic sometimes, this was going rather far. Usually, she lay on her own bed, and went without the crying. In fact, at this hour of the day, she mostly didn’t lie in bed at all, but was in the garden, conducting a supposedly secret and insufferably sappy romance with the neighbour’s son.
It was only then that I noticed she was holding something. Curious, I stepped closer.
‘Oh, Lill!’ Ella said. Or to be precise, she didn’t say it. She wailed it. Rather a curious way to say hello but, shrugging, I opened my mouth to respond with an, ‘Oh, Ella,’ when I noticed what the thing she was holding was: a picture of me!
‘Oh, my dear, dear sister!’ Covering her eyes with one hand, Ella let her forehead slump forward onto the picture frame. ‘Oh, my dearest Lill!’
I closed my mouth. A picture? Where the heck did she get a picture of me? Had I ever sat down to have my portrait taken? Not since Mother and Father had died, surely! Uncle Bufford wouldn’t waste a penny on something like that!
‘Oh, Lill! Where can you be?’
I opened my mouth to say ‘right behind you’ - but Ella continued before I could get a word out. She seemed to be doing the dialogue fine without my help: ‘Staying with relatives? No, no, we would have heard something by now. It has to be something else. Something sinister. Could it be… that man! That man she mentioned! He has abducted her and is having his wicked way with her!’