by Robert Thier
He started to sway more heavily, just as I heard hoof beats from the direction of the inn.
Hurry up, Karim! Hurry up! Hurry up!
Another big sway. I struggled, fighting to stay upright, and—
Thud!
‘Mmmph!’
I lay on the ground for a moment, contemplating what a heavy burden love could be. Karim’s voice tore me from my philosophical contemplations.
‘Sahib? Sahib, where are you?’
I cleared my throat. ‘Down here on the ground, Karim. Could you give me a hand?’
Healing Stone
Back in Paris, I kicked out the first doctor who came to look after Mr Ambrose, and the second, too. The third I kept, because (a) he was the first one to speak English, and (b), he didn’t propose to use leeches. I wasn’t exactly a medical professional, but considering the massive amounts of blood my dear employer had already lost, I didn’t really see the point of bleeding him some more. Besides—the doctor was already going to suck him dry with his bill. That would be hard enough for poor Mr Ambrose to handle.
If he survives, a tiny, scared voice in the back of my mind whispered. A voice I had never heard before.
I straightened my spine. Of course he’d make it! I wouldn’t allow him to die!
‘Well, doctor?’ I demanded. ‘Are you done yet?’
In response, the doctor looked up from his patient. He had a pincer-like instrument in his hand, and gripped between the pincers, I saw what looked little marble covered on tomato sauce. When my stomach realized what it really was, it rebelled.
‘Nearly, Monsieur.’ With a plink, the doctor dropped the bullet into a metal container. ‘’and me the bandages, if you please?’
Trying not to look at the prone form of Mr Ambrose on the bed, I handed him some strips of pristine linen—not ripped out of my shirt this time, but bought from the finest store in Paris. Mr Ambrose was going to be so furious.
Please let him be furious! Please, let him live to be furious!
Calmly taking the linen strips, the doctor used one to clean the wound, then wrapped it with another and tied the bandages with agile fingers. While he was still working, he glanced up at me out of the corner of his eye.
‘Monsieur…Linton, was it?’
‘Yes? And pay attention to what you’re doing!’
‘I am, Monsieur. I am. If I may ask, ‘ow exactly did the patient sustain ‘is injury?’
‘A duel.’
‘Monsieur Linton…’ Tying the last knot, the doctor turned towards me. He picked the bloody bullet out of its container and raised it to eye-level. I had to swallow. ‘Sis is not a pistol bullet. It comes from a rifle.’
My face remained stony. I had learned from the best. ‘It was a long-distance duel.’
‘Monsieur Linton, you cannot expect me to believe—’
‘Do you want your fee, doctor?’
‘Yes, of course, but—’
‘Then get back to work and don’t dare stop until Mr Ambrose is out of danger! Trust me, you do not want to know what he will do if Mr Ambrose does not survive.’ I jabbed my thumb at Karim, standing in the corner of the room like a grim, turban-wearing sentinel. ‘And you definitely do not want to know what I will do.’
The doctor’s eyes flitted nervously between me and Karim. The big Mohammedan gave him his best you-are-about-to-decapitated-like-a-dog look. Quickly, the doctor turned back to his patient. He talked a lot less after that, and worked a lot faster.
Everything in me wanted to look away—but I forced myself to watch. I forced myself to observe every move, every little shift of his fingers. After the things Dalgliesh had done in the past, bribing a doctor definitely wasn’t beyond him, and I wasn’t going to let anything or anyone harm Mr Ambrose. However, the doctor did nothing but his job. He applied a second layer of bandages, covered Mr Ambrose with a thick quilt, and then pulled out a pencil to draw up a quick list.
‘See to it sat you keep him covered, Monsieur. He ‘as lost quite a lot of blood and might go into shock. If ‘e does, send a messenger. I’ve left my card on the dresser. ‘ere—’ He tore the list off his notepad and handed it to me, ‘is a list of suitable foods. Keep ‘im on sis diet, and sat should support his convalescence.’
I glanced at the list, and made a quick mental calculations of how much this would cost.
Oh yes. This would support a very quick convalescence, definitely.
‘I sink that’s all for now.’ The doctor was edging towards the door. For some mysterious reason, he seemed rather eager to get out of here. ‘If you would be so kind, Monsieur…’
‘Oh, of course.’
Reaching underneath the quilt, I slipped a hand into my dear employer’s pocket, and pulled out that mysterious well of plenty, that hallowed object of mystery which was Mr Rikkard Ambrose’s wallet. At the other end of the room, Karim made a garbled noise of protest—but when I sent him a look, he shut up and concentrated very hard on looking bodyguardly.
I raised the wallet, trying to act as if this was nothing special. And in a way, it wasn’t, right? After all, he wanted me to be his wife. As his wife, everything that was his would be mine, wouldn’t it?
Yes, and of course he’s going to see it like that, too, eh?
Taking a deep breath, I opened the wallet.
Holy….!
Suddenly, I didn’t feel quite as confident about the whole ‘what’s his is mine’-thing anymore. My pockets weren’t nearly big enough!
I swallowed.
‘How much, doctor?’
The doctor named a sum that, five minutes ago, would have seemed exorbitant to me. Now I just reached into the wallet, pulled out the smallest bill and handed it to him. ‘Keep the change.’
‘S-sank you, Monsieur! ‘ow very generous.’ Wide-eyed, he retreated to the door. His gaze was fastened disbelievingly to the bill in his hands. ‘As I said, if you should have need of me, call me. Day or night, it does not matter. I shall always be at your disposal.’
And he vanished.
Which left me alone in the room with one unconscious Ambrose and one self-conscious bodyguard.
Lifting the quilt, I carefully slid Mr Ambrose’s wallet back in its place. Then I turned towards Karim, looking at him like I never had before. Not with amusement or annoyance, not with anger or a little devil dancing in my eyes, but with an earnest, heartfelt plea.
‘Karim? Please?’
The Mohammedan met my eyes for a long moment. Then, without a word, he nodded and left the room.
‘Thank you,’ I whispered into the empty air as I sank onto the bed beside Mr Ambrose.
I don’t know how many of you have ever lain beside the man you love while he was unconscious, on the brink of death. The advantage with Mr Ambrose was that, as long as I closed my eyes and just held him tightly, I hardly noticed the difference to the waking version. Well… maybe that wasn’t entirely true. He probably was a little less chatty while he was awake.
Still, lying there, not knowing whether he would ever wake up again…
‘Please.’ Grasping his hand and lifting it to my lips, I pressed a light kiss on its back. ‘Please wake up.’
Silence.
Just in case, I peeked up to check if his eyes were open. With him, you never knew. But they were still firmly closed.
And even if he woke up, what then? It didn’t mean he was out of danger. I had heard plenty of horror stories of people returning with a wound from the colonies, or from a simple hunting accident, and dying a miserable death weeks later when it started to fester.
Don’t worry. Mr Ambrose would never waste that much time. If he kicks the bucket, it’ll be quick.
‘Shut up!’ I told my inner voice and hugged him to me even more tightly.
‘You’re not allowed to leave me, understood? I forbid you!’
Silence.
Bloody stubborn son of a bachelor!
Slipping under the quilt, I snuggled up to him. I lay there as time slowly drifted by
, unable to close my eyes for even a moment. Outside of the opera house, the first glimmer of dawn began to appear at the horizon. Paris awoke as the sun began to rise over the city. The noise of people and wagons starting to move through the streets drifted in through the thin glass panes. Church bells rang out, telling everyone who hadn’t caught on yet that it was time to get up.
Still, Mr Ambrose did not wake.
Don’t panic, Lilly. Don’t you dare lose your head! He’ll wake up in just a minute and start ordering you around. He has to!
But what if he didn’t?
I’ll have lost him. And I would have never really had him in the first place.
Why hadn’t I grabbed fate by the balls? After all our adventures together, after knowing how I felt deep down for so long, why hadn’t I just told him how I felt ages ago? We could have been…
The images flitting past my inner eye made me want to cry.
Yes, and of course that would accomplish so much. Pull yourself together, Lillian Linton! It’s no use crying over spilled milk.
True.
But making sure I wouldn’t spill any in the future? That was an entirely different matter.
Raising my chin, I gazed up at Mr Ambrose’s stony face, memorizing its every edge and line. From now on, there would be no more hesitation. If I got him back, I wouldn’t hide, wouldn’t hold back anything. I was his, and he was mine, basta. The time for sneaking around behind other people’s backs was over. I was going to stand up for him, stand up for us, and anyone who objected could go bugger themselves with a banana!
Which might actually be an interesting sight.
I’m going to marry this man. I’m going to give him all my heart. And then I’m going to browbeat him into funding a campaign for women’s suffrage.
Smiling, I stroked a finger down his cheek.
But maybe I’ll only tell him about that last part after we were married.
His eyelids fluttered.
I lay there for a moment, unmoving, staring at him. Had that really just happened, or had it just been my imagina—
His eyelids fluttered again.
Yes, yes, yes, thank you, God, Zeus, Odin and anybody else up there! Thank you, and please excuse that I don’t believe in you!
‘Mr Linton…w…w…’
‘Yes?’ Quickly, I leant forward, trying to catch his words. ‘What do you need? Water?’
‘W…why is my wallet lighter?’
It was then that I knew he was going to be all right.
*~*~**~*~*
It took time, of course. Much more time than was to Mr Ambrose’s liking. But after I was sure that the danger of his wound festering was past, it was rather enjoyable to have him at my mercy. Alas, it wasn’t a state that was to last for long. Three days after we arrived back in Paris, a messenger boy knocked at the door of the opera house.
‘The minister is expecting us,’ Mr Ambrose told me when he had perused the missive. ‘It appears he’s rather eager to know if he should expect a world-wide war to break out in the next couple of days.’
‘But you can’t go! You’re still much too weak!’
The moment the words were out of my mouth, I could have kicked myself. I might as well have set his bed on fire.
‘Weak?’ The word was spoken softly. Coolly. Like the first whisper of an arctic storm approaching. ‘Indeed, Mr Linton?’
‘No! No, I didn’t mean—’
Ignoring me, Mr Ambrose swung his legs out of the bed. Grabbing his hat off the nightstand, he pushed himself to his feet. I held my breath, watching him intently for any sign of weakness. But his legs were straight, his feet as steady as iron.
‘Do I seem weak to you, Mr Linton?’
‘No, Sir. Of course not, Sir.’
Because if I answer ‘yes’, you’ll probably insist on marching all the way to the ministry and collapse from exhaustion.
‘Adequate. Karim!’
The Mohammedan stuck his head in through the door. When he caught sight of Mr Ambrose standing, his eyes widened. ‘Sahib! You shouldn’t be out of bed alrea—’
I shook my head vigorously. Karim’s jaw slammed shut.
‘What was that, Karim?’
‘Nothing, Sahib. Nothing whatsoever.’
‘Hm. Order a cab. We are going to the ministry.’
‘Yes, Sahib. Immediately, Sahib.’
He vanished, and I gave Mr Ambrose a look. ‘All right, all right. You can go. But you have to stop playing the stoic, do you hear? Tell me when it hurts!’
He lifted an eyebrow infinitesimally. ‘Hurt? What, pray, are you speaking of, Mr Linton?’
I jabbed a finger into his side.
‘Aarrr!’
‘That,’ I informed him, and grabbed my tailcoat from a hook on the wall. ‘Come on. Let’s go.’
The ride to the ministry didn’t take long. I diplomatically refrained from pointing out that, under normal circumstances, Mr Ambrose would have eaten rusty nails rather than paying money for a cab. I even pretended to let him help me out of the coach, while I actually steadied him. What the heck was happening to me? Why was I suddenly being so nice to him?
It had to be this marriage-thing. It was messing with my head. I had to make a point of being nasty to him at least once a week, or all the fun would go out of life.
Minister Guizot awaited us in his cluttered office. I stood next to Mr Ambrose, inconspicuously supporting him, while Karim took up his post next to the door.
‘Bonjour, Monsieur Ambrose. Bonjour, Monsieur Linton, and Monsieur…what was your name again?’
He gave Karim a questioning look.
Unfortunately, Karim was immune to questioning looks.
‘Um. Alors…Monsieur Ambrose, my lieutenant already reported back to me and told me of the little altercation in front of the Sainte Catherine inn. Would you be so kind as to elaborate?’
Mr Ambrose looked as though he had to seriously consider the question. Understandable, in a way. He was neither elaborate, nor particularly kind. But finally he nodded and started recounting the events of a few nights ago. There were a lot fewer words, bullets and blood splatters than I would have used, but he got the gist across. When he reached the part where Karim put on the uniform and knelt to the governor-general, I saw the bodyguard stiffen.
‘So that was it,’ Mr Ambrose concluded. ‘The governor-general left, and we simply returned to Paris.’
Yes, with you slung over the back of my horse like a pair of rock-filled saddlebags. Very simple indeed.
‘You are sure he left?’ the minister enquired, his forehead furrowed. ‘He didn’t see through your ruse and turn back at some point?’
For the first time since we entered, Karim spoke.
‘He left. I made sure my description of the rebellion was quite…convincing.’
His voice sent a shiver down my back. And to judge by the look of the minister, I wasn’t the only one.
‘Très bien. Then I think our business is concluded, non? It ‘as been a pleasure, gentlemen.’
The invitation to leave was quite evident. The minister’s smile said, ‘Thank you so much for helping. Now could you please get out of my country before you cause a miniature war with your nemesis?’
Giving a curt nod, Mr Ambrose turned towards the door. ‘I shall send you my bill.’
The minister blinked. ‘Bill? For what?’
‘For keeping your country out of a war. You didn’t think that would be for free, did you? Au revoir.’
And he marched out of the room.
The minister blinked—then glanced at me. ‘’e…’e cannot be serious, non?’
I gave the poor man a pitying look and patted his shoulder. ‘Just pay. It’ll be easier that way, trust me.’
‘Stop dawdling, Mr Linton!’
‘Oops. Duty calls. Excuse me.’
And I scurried out into the hall.
The three of us marched in silence until we reached the entrance hall. The sun was just rising as we stepped
into the big empty space. Neither inside nor outside on the street many people were about. At the sight of the sun through the big windows, Karim stopped and gazed out, eastwards, towards the burning orb.
‘One day, I’ll bring news of rebellion in my homeland,’ he told the sun. ‘And it won’t be fake.’
Mr Ambrose gazed at his loyal bodyguard for a moment. Then, stepping forward, he placed a hand on Karim’s shoulder.
‘The East India Company will be dealt with in time, Karim—as will Dalgliesh. You have my word.’ Lowering his hand, he turned back towards the exit. ‘But for now, I have other things to take care of.’
I raised an eyebrow. ‘Things that are more important than the fate of a whole continent?’
‘Yes,’ he told me and took my hand firmly in his.
The whole cab ride back to the opera house passed in silence. And yet…I couldn’t help the feeling that something was going on. Mr Ambrose exchanged more than one look with Karim. Then, halfway through the ride, he suddenly reached out and took my hand again.
‘Mr Ambrose? What’s the matter?’
He didn’t answer.
About ten minutes later, the cab rolled to a stop in front of the opera house. During the whole ride, Mr Ambrose had not once let go of my hand. When the coach stopped and the door opened, he didn’t loosen his grip. Instead, he stepped from the coach and held out his hand to guide me outside—not something a boss usually did for his trouser-wearing secretary. Something a man might do for his sweetheart. My heart was started pounding.
‘Mr Ambrose?’
No answer. He pulled me through the front door, and started up the main stairs. I glanced back, and Karim, the bloody blighter, was standing next to the coach, arms crossed. What was going on? Karim went everywhere with Mr Ambrose! Why wasn’t he coming with us?
‘Mr Ambrose, what’s going on?’
The only reply was silence. Cold, hard, all-encompassing silence.
I tried to tug my hand out of his—just out of habit. I might as well have tried to tug free from an iron clamp.
‘Mr Ambrose, Sir? Why are you holding my hand?’
‘To manipulate your direction of movement, Mr Linton.’
‘I had sort of noticed that! Why?’