by Robert Thier
So the marquess remained up there in his study, waiting for his son to come up, and Mr Ambrose remained in the guest chamber, waiting for his father to come down. Whenever I thought about it, I had to fight to keep a straight face. Especially in the company of the marchioness, who was clearly upset by this unexpected development.
Luckily, there was more than enough going on to distract her: preparations for the ball were turning the entire household upside down. All rooms were cleaned and aired, the windows polished, the winter garden filled with new plants brought especially from the South, and, and, and. I thought it was all a bit much for just one ball, and mentioned this to the marchioness - who blushed a deep, guilty pink.
‘Marchioness?’
‘Well, Mr Linton…’ She cleared her throat. ‘I might not have been entirely honest when I said we were holding a ball.’
I raised an eyebrow. She blushed even deeper.
‘Promise me this won’t go any further? Promise me you won’t tell anyone?’
‘Trust me,’ I told her, my voice deadpan. ‘I’m very good at keeping secrets.’
She breathed a sigh of relief. ‘All right. I’ll tell you. Maybe it will be a relief, letting someone else in on my plans. But please don’t tell anyone - especially not my son!’
My, my, this was getting interesting. ‘I promise. Go on.’
‘Well…what I am planning…it might be slightly more than just a ball.’
‘Indeed?’
‘In fact…maybe a lot more than that.’
‘You don’t say.’
‘There’ll be extended festivities stretching over several days, with hunting and dancing and picnics in the winter garden. I’m going to invite all the family’s old friends and neighbours, and the officers of an army regiment quartered nearby for the winter, and, um…’
‘Yes?’
‘…and all the eligible young ladies of the county.’
My eyes went wide. ‘You mean…’
‘Yes.’
‘Dear me! There really is going to be hunting, isn’t there? It’ll be open season!’
Lady Samantha’s cheeks turned pink. Her eyes shone with moisture. ‘My son has been alone for so long, Mr Linton. Too long.’
Fire rose inside me.
He’s not alone! He has me!
I almost said it out loud - until I remembered the death sentence prescribed for certain practices by the Buggery Act of 1533. It might be wise to keep my mouth shut on that subject while I was wearing trousers and a tailcoat.[3]
‘Um…do you really think something will come of it, Your Ladyship? You know that your son, while having excellent qualities-’ Although I can’t think of any right now. ‘-can be rather, err…frosty.’
She smiled at me, tremulously. ‘A mother can dream.’
Yes. Nightmares. Terrible, horrific nightmares.
At least from my perspective.
Crap, crap, crap! What was I going to do?
‘You’ll help me, Mr Linton, won’t you?’ Taking my hand, she gazed up at me with those oh-so-motherly blue eyes. ‘You know my son, and are such a loyal friend to him. You’ll help me find the right girl?’
‘Don’t worry.’ Swallowing down all my squirming anxieties. I squeezed her hand and gave her the smile of a fiery ifrit. ‘I will make a hundred per cent sure that your son ends up with the one and only girl who’s right for him. I swear it.’
Unnatural Selection
The marchioness didn’t waste any time. The preparations for the big festivities began that very day. Missives were dispatched to villages all around, hiring additional staff. When the carriages returned, they weren’t just laden with additional staff, but also with all sorts of delicacies of the season, from goose and turkey over gravy to treacle, cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves, ginger, and all the other ingredients needed for a Christmas pudding.
A real Christmas pudding…
The thought alone brought a smile to my face. I hadn’t had one of those since my parents had died. Uncle Bufford’s idea of celebrating Christmas was to let down all the blinds and put an extra sturdy lock on the door as protection against carol singers.
From the way Mr Ambrose’s left little finger was twitching at the sight of servants bustling through Battlewood, polishing, cleaning and preparing, I could tell he had similar urges. But, like the strong man he was, he kept them in check.
The next few days were a whirlwind. People streamed into the manor house like mice into a pot of sugar. Everything was being cleaned, rooms were being aired that hadn’t been used or even opened for years. Thousands of candles were fetched out of secret stores in the cellar, and soon the chandeliers throughout Battlewood shone in tripled glory. And it wasn’t just the servants who did all the work: I was in the front ranks, along with Adaira and Lady Samantha, acting as generals of an army of little Christmas elves in maid and footman uniforms.
At my suggestion, Mr Ambrose was roped into the preparations and given the task of acquiring the decorations for the approaching Christmas celebrations. Ostensibly, the reason behind my suggestion was keeping Mr Ambrose too busy to think about leaving, but the real reason was that I simply really enjoyed watching the muscle in his jaw twitch maniacally while he chased servants through the snowy woods on the search for a suitably towering tree and stood on a ladder fixing mistletoe to chandeliers.[4]
I, meanwhile, had a bigger role to play than simply general of the Christmas elves: I had become Lady Samantha’s official advisor on all things Rikkard Ambrose.
‘I need you, Mr Linton,’ she explained, looking up at me with a half-sad, half-hopeful expression on her face. ‘When my son left, he was an open, cheerful boy. Today…’ She shook her head. ‘Sometimes I look into his eyes, and I wonder if it’s really him, until I look deeper and know it is my son. It is definitely him. But I don’t know him anymore. You are the closest thing my son has to a friend. If he is going to relax and enjoy during our festivities, I need you to help me. Tell me, what should I include in my plans for Christmas? What does my son enjoy?’
I considered for a moment. ‘Err…making money?’
‘No, no. I mean what does he do for fun, Mr Linton?’
‘Work. A lot.’
‘And other than that?’
‘Um…bully employees into working faster?’
‘So…what you are telling me is that my son most enjoys doing all the things in this world that are not meant to be enjoyed?’
‘Exactly, Your Ladyship. You hit the nail on the head.’
‘So what do you suggest we do?’
‘Well, do you have more rooms in this house that aren’t decorated yet?’
‘Dozens. But they won’t really be used.’
I smiled. ‘He doesn’t need to know that, does he? Keep him busy. That’s the best thing you can do.’ Plus, it’s just so much fun to watch.
‘Oh, thank you, Mr Linton! Thank you!’
‘You’re most welcome, Your Ladyship.’
The preparations continued in a wild whirlwind. With every day, things were better: the winter-blooming flowers in the winter garden opened, more sparkling snow fell, promising a perfectly white Christmas, and Rikkard Ambrose ran all over the place, chasing about tree-decorators and mistletoe-hangers, his jaw muscles now suffering from chronic twitches. In short: life was busy and life was good.
Until, one day…
‘Mr Linton?’
‘Yes?’ Looking up from the mirror I had been inspecting for specs of dust, I saw Lady Samantha hurrying towards me, a stack of newspapers in her arms. The uppermost was open to the social pages, showing the engraving of a beautiful young lady.
Uh-oh…
‘I, um…have been preparing for the other part of the festivities,’ the marchioness whispered, glancing around as if she feared Mr Ambrose might suddenly jump out from behind one of the mirrors on the walls. ‘Can we talk?’
‘Of course, Your Ladyship. Is there somewhere private?’
‘Come with me.’
She led me into a little chamber that had nothing in it but a table, a few chairs, and a lock on the door. The latter the marchioness now locked behind us. Then she went to check the windows and lower the blinds.
‘You remember what I mentioned about the…special possibilities of this occasion?’
‘Oh yes. I remember.’
‘Well…’ Depositing the papers on the table, she started spreading them out. ‘I’ve collected the most recent issues of local papers - especially the social pages, with engravings of various young ladies that made impressions at balls in the vicinity.’ A dreamy gleam entered into her eyes as she gazed down at the table. ‘Look at them! Aren’t they beautiful?’
‘Yes,’ I groaned. ‘They are.’
‘Mr Linton? You sound a little off. Are you feeling quite well?’
‘Yes, yes, thank you. Please continue.’
‘Well, I was going through these, trying to decide whom to invite, and I thought you could advise me. You’ve been such a tremendous help, and such a good friend to my son. Besides, it would be so helpful to get a man’s perspective.’
‘You don’t say.’
‘Yes.’ She pointed down at the spread-out newspapers. ‘So, which of these young ladies do you find most attractive? Which would you be inclined to marry?’
I cleared my throat. ‘Well…that isn’t an easy question to answer.’
‘I know.’ She sighed. ‘They’re all so lovely.’
‘Well, um…yes. Of course. Lovely.’ I cleared my throat again. ‘But aren’t we asking the wrong question? I mean, it is not about what I, a humble secretary, would prefer in a wife. Trust me, you would not want the kind of spouse that I am looking for for your son.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Absolutely!’
‘Well… I suppose you are right. Rick is the son of a marquess. The two of you belong to different worlds.’
‘That, and he is a completely different person from me. We need to find the perfect woman for him, specifically.’
‘You’re right, of course.’ She threw me a grateful smile. ‘I’m so glad I have you to advise me.’
‘So am I, Your Ladyship, believe me. So am I.’
‘So…which of these young ladies do you think would make a good wife for my boy? Here are a few I picked out. Have a look and tell me what you think.’
She handed me a couple of newspaper cut-outs with more printed engravings. I looked at the first - and pulled a face.
‘Ugh!’
‘What?’ Lady Samantha looked crestfallen. ‘You don’t like her? But she’s so beautiful!’
My point exactly.
But I had a feeling I’d better not say that out loud. So instead, I cleared my throat. ‘Well…yes. But she has blonde hair.’
A puzzled frown spread across Lady Samantha’s face. ‘Is that a problem?’
‘Definitely! Any candidates for the post of your future daughter-in-law can’t be blonde - or black-haired, for that matter. Mr Ambrose only ever looks with interest at brunettes.’
‘Really?’
‘Oh yes. And they shouldn’t be too slim, either. I’ve been long enough with him to know from personal experience that he likes women with a little meat on their bones.’
‘Oh, Mr Linton!’ Reaching over, she clasped my hand. ‘Thank you! This is exactly what I need. Please, go ahead and look through the images, and dispose of those you think are unsuitable.’
A smile spread across my face. ‘My pleasure.’
I looked back down at the image in my hand - a slim, beautiful blonde girl with gorgeous green eyes. With a scowl, I threw it over my shoulder.
‘No. Next one…No, too tall. Next one - no, too small. Next one - yikes, no! Much too beautiful.’
Lady Samantha blinked. ‘That is a bad thing?’
‘Umm…well, yes, of course. You don’t want your son to marry for looks alone, do you?’
‘Well, no of course not, I would never…’
‘There, you see? We need ugly girls! Lots and lots of ugly girls.’
‘But…how do you know these ones will be more intelligent?’
‘We’ll only pick ones with really big heads, of course. Here, like this one.’ I showed her a picture - and she flinched back. ‘Didn’t you read of this brilliant new scientific discovery? Professor William H. Anstruther found compelling evidence that the intelligence of a person is relative to the size of their heads.’ Inconspicuously, I crossed my fingers behind my back. Please God, if you exist, forgive me. ‘It’s quite simple, really. Larger heads means more space for more brains.’
‘Oh.’ A smile brightened her face, and she squeezed my hand. ‘Thank you so much, Mr Linton! I’m so glad I have you to help me. I don’t know what I would do without you.’
Throw a magnificent ball with beautiful guests, probably.
‘So, let’s continue, shall we?’
‘By all means, do.’ She watched eagerly as I continued to sort through the pictures.
‘This one - God no! Just look at that devious smile of hers. She can’t be trusted. That one - no! She looks far too grim. Mr Ambrose needs someone with a little humour in her. This one - blonde Next one - blonde. Next one - blonde again!’
‘Um…that looks more like red to me.’
I gazed at the image critically. ‘Strawberry blonde,’ I decided, and it sailed over my shoulder onto the rubbish heap.
‘Next one - no. And… no. And no. And no. And not that one, either. Nope, she hasn’t got a chance. And that one? God, no!
The rubbish heap grew. Lady Samantha gifted me with a radiant smile. ‘It’s heartwarming to see someone besides me who thinks nobody is good enough for my boy.’
Nobody? Well, that’s not precisely true…
Finally, I had managed to wheedle down the competition - officially known as ‘honoured guests’ - from five hundred to thirty-six.
Thirty-six.
Thirty-six maybe not particularly beautiful but still much too womanly women, who, in a short while, would be invading this house and vying for the attention of Mr Rikkard Ambrose. With narrowed eyes, I surveyed the selection of harpies spread out in front of me. There were a few I could discount immediately - like Daphne Belleville, a seventeen-year-old hatchling who had just had her debut last month and, by all reports, was too shy to ask for sugar with her tea. One frosty look from Mr Rikkard Ambrose, and she would be scurrying off in the opposite direction. And as for Lady Caroline Sambridge, she had spent two thousand pounds last year on jewellery alone. Mr Ambrose wouldn’t touch her with a ten-foot pole.
But the rest…
They were not actually horrific. Some didn’t even have the decency to be ugly. Was it too much to ask for a hump or a wart on the nose?
Sure, they were nothing to write home about, but then, neither was I. Not in the eyes of the stupid, chauvinistic public, who badly needed a new set of standards by which to judge women. The question now was: were society’s standards also those of Mr Rikkard Ambrose? Yes, we had had fun in the jungle, but if he ever seriously wanted a woman, could it really be someone like me?
The time for doubt is over, Lilly. You’re at Battlewood. Time for the battle to begin!
‘Oh…’ Lady Samantha gazed down at the selection of ladies on the table, her eyes dreamy. ‘They’re wonderful! I can just feel it: we have the right girl. We have her here.’
Gazing at the images of the competition with narrowed eyes, I cracked my knuckles. ‘Oh yes. We have.’
The Many Weapons of a Woman
The very next morning, Lady Samantha gave orders for invitations to be made. Instead of sending orders to a printer, she handed a list of names to Hastings, who would convey it to Jeremiah Jones, an antiquary and calligraphist whose work, apparently, was praised by all the noble families in the North. Tomorrow, the marchioness would have a hundred and fifty beautiful, hand-crafted invitations.
‘Including,’ she whispered to me at the breakfast table while Mr Ambrose was busy
oozing disapproval for the expense, ‘thirty-six very, very special ones.’ She winked.
I suddenly didn’t feel at all like eating anymore.
‘Mr Linton? Is something wrong?’
I set the fork with my bacon down. ‘Everything is fine, Your Ladyship. I just need a little fresh air.’
I walked away before she could say anything else, and caught her glancing worriedly after me. It felt strange having someone older worry about me. Someone who felt almost like a…mother?
Shaking my head, I shook off the thought and marched out into the hall. No Christmas preparations for me this morning! I needed to blow off some steam. So I got my gun out of my suitcase and, wrapping myself in the warmest clothes I had brought, went down to the shooting range behind the house. The targets were nothing but little snowy hills, covered from head to toe in a thick blanket of white, but it was the work of a moment to brush away the snow and reveal the coloured circles beneath. Time to forget all my troubles for a while and have some fun! Besides, considering that many of the soon-to-come new arrivals would be ladies in pursuit of Rikkard Ambrose, sharpening my skills with the gun might not be a bad idea.
Bam!
A hole appeared in the middle ring. I grinned. So I wasn’t completely out of practice.
Bam!
Nearly there…nearly there…
Bam!
Bull’s eye!
Twirling my gun, I blew the smoke off the end and proceeded to the next target, imagining it looked like the serene profile of Lady Caroline Elaine Sambridge, the most aggravatingly beautiful of our thirty-six special guests.
Bam! Bam!
Bull’s eye - twice! Or should I say cow’s eye? My grin broadened. I was just raising my gun again when, from behind me, I heard footsteps.
‘Mr Linton? Mr Linton, Mother sent me to look for you, to see if you’re all right. And then I heard a racket like - oh!’
Turning, I lowered my gun and saw Lady Adaira Louise Jannet Melanie Georgette Ambrose standing behind me, her eyes widening at the sight of the gun in my hand. At that moment, with her mouth slightly open and the stern expression banished from her face, it was quite obvious how young she still was. Sixteen? Seventeen?