by Robert Thier
‘A man after my own heart. Lead on.’
Downstairs at the entrance, Mr Elseworth was waiting. The good feeling created by his promptness was not supported by his appearance. The man was fat, with small, piggish eyes that made him look like a nasty, greedy bastard. But I knew better than to judge by appearance. After all, by popular opinion I was the most handsome man in London, and I was a nasty, greedy bastard myself.
‘Ah, Mr Ambrose!’ Spreading his arms, Mr Elseworth sent me an ingratiating smile. ‘How very kind of you to spare some minutes of your valuable time for me! I truly think I have an offer that will interest you greatly. Shall we go up to your office and-’
‘No.’
‘But I really-’
‘I have a business appointment in…’ I let my watch snap open. ‘…exactly fifteen minutes and twenty-seven seconds. No time to waste.’
‘But-’
‘We can talk on the way. Move.’
I brushed past a slightly dazed Mr Elseworth, not even slowing my steps. A few moments later, he was beside me, huffing and puffing in an attempt to keep up the pace.
‘Don’t you… think we should… get a cab?’
‘No.’
‘Oh.’
‘We’ll walk. You have an offer to make? Make it.’
We started down the street, Karim and a group of his men surrounding us, while Mr Elseworth extolled the virtues of Wilding Park, the country estate he was desirous of selling. Apparently, it had not only ten huff puff puff bedrooms, but also gasp modern huff gasp bathing facilities gasp. Amazing.
By the time we reached the street that was my destination, I was already getting tired of Mr Elseworth. One country place was as good as another, and I was not prepared to waste any more time on this matter.
‘… tell you, it is in perfect condition,’ Elseworth was blabbing. ‘The best of all the houses I have.’
‘Indeed? Interesting that you are willing to part with such a treasure.’
‘It is out of the goodness of my heart, Sir, out of the goodness of my heart! Wilding Park is a treasure, and I hate to part with it, but I know that with you it will be in good hands.’
Not far away I spotted the bank where I had my first business of the day to conduct. Dismissively, I waved Elseworth away. ‘Bah. I have no time for this. Karim, pay the man and let's be done with it.’ Pointing a finger at the fat estate agent, I fixed him with my eyes. ‘However, you should remember: If you haven't told the truth, I shall be very… displeased.’
My words had the desired effect. If Elseworth had sold me a pup, he knew what was coming for him.
‘Karim?’ I snapped my fingers. ‘The money.’
Karim stepped forward - but then hesitated. I was just about to turn and demand what he was waiting for, when I heard someone clear their throat.
‘Excuse me, Sir?’ The voice was high, clear, and a nuisance. I had already wasted enough time today. Whoever this was and whatever they wanted from me, they were going to be disappointed. Through the mist, I saw only the outline of a smallish figure stepping towards me before Karim intercepted the bothersome stranger, grabbing him by the arm.
‘On your way, you lout!’ he growled. ‘On your way, I said! The Sahib has no time for beggars!’
‘I don't want any money from him,’ the stranger retorted, almost sounding offended. I was just about to start towards the bank again, when I heard his next words: ‘In fact, I want to help him save some!’
I stopped in my tracks.
Maybe this strange fellow wasn’t that big of a nuisance, after all.
‘Save money? Karim - let him go, now!’ I turned my eyes on the stranger, for the first time bothering to look at him properly. He was a rather odd-looking young man with a rather fat behind, although his true figure was hard to divine under the baggy trousers and too-large tailcoat he was wearing. His chubby cheeks were tanned from long hours in the sun, and an overlarge top hat set on a mop of chestnut brown hair that looked as if it wasn’t on first name basis with Mr Comb. All in all, a rather unusual appearance for a financial advisor.
‘You!’ I gave him my best intimidating glare, which has been known to send bloodhounds off howling. He didn’t move back an inch. Impressive. ‘What do you speak of? How exactly can you help me save money?’
The young man’s Adam’s apple bobbed, nervously. He tried to step towards - yes, actually towards - me, but Karim stopped him. The boy really had guts.
‘I couldn't help overhearing part of your conversation with…’
‘Mr Elseworth.’
‘…with Mr Elseworth. Am I right in thinking that you intend to purchase Wilding Park, Sir?’
I gave a curt nod. ‘You are.’
‘If you don’t mind my saying so, Sir, I would advise against it.’
‘Why?’ I studied the youngster intently. There was no sign of deceit in his eyes. Trepidation, certainly, but not deceit. What was his game? Did he even have one?
‘My… my grandmother lives in the vicinity of Wilding Park, Sir. I visit her now and again and have caught glimpses of the house. It is not pretty.’
I waved that away. ‘I am not concerned with whether it is pretty or not. Is it sound?’
‘That it is, Sir, that it is,’ Elseworth threw in. From the look he directed at the young man, our young friend had made an enemy today. ‘Don't listen to this foolish youth!’
‘It is not sound,’ the fellow snapped.
Ah, so he has some fire under that big topper of his, has he?
‘And you know that how?’ I wanted to know.
‘Half the roof tiles are missing and I have seen unhealthy-looking stains on the walls,’ the young man started rattling off. ‘Once, in passing, I heard the steward complain about the wilderness in the grounds and an infestation of rats. The road up to the house, from what I could see from my coach as I drove by, also looked in bad disrepair.’
‘And you remember all that just from passing?’
I looked at him again, and this time from an entirely different angle. He was young, true - there was not a shadow of beard on his chin - but not too young. His behind was rather larger than usual, but still I didn’t get the feeling that he sat on it all that often. There was a fire in his brown eyes, a desire to prove himself that burned in all people who had long moved out of Lazytown.
‘Yes?’ It sounded more like a question than like an answer. But it was answer enough for me.
I gave a curt nod. ‘I see. Exactly what I have been looking for.’
The young man blinked. ‘But I just told you the house is dilapidated and…’
I cut him off with a jerk of my hand. ‘Not the house, young man. You.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes, you.’ Glancing over my shoulder, I waved towards Mr Elseworth. Or should I say the late Mr Elseworth? In the world of business, he was as good as dead. ‘Karim, get rid of that individual. Our business relationship is terminated. I have no further use for him.’
‘Yes, Sahib.’
‘Now to you.’ Ignoring the protesting shrieks of the pig that was being carted off to slaughter, I focused all of my considerable attention on the young man in front of me. ‘I know a good man when I see one, and I need a bright young man with a good memory and quick mind as my secretary. The last one I had has just left my employment for some unfathomable reason. I think you would be exactly the man for the job.’
The young man’s eyes bugged, and he coughed. Overwhelmed by my generosity, probably.
‘Err… the man for the job? Sorry, but I don't quite think that I'm the one you want, Sir.’
What the heck? Why was he being difficult?
‘Can you read and write?’
‘Yes, but…’
‘Do you have employment?’
‘No, Sir, but…’
Bloody hell, what was this? He should be kissing my feet! I didn’t have time for this.
‘Well then, it's settled.’ My gaze drilled into him, making clear that by ‘s
ettled’, I meant ‘very, absolutely, finally settled’. ‘Be at my office, nine sharp Monday morning.’
Taking a step towards the youngster, I held out my card to him. Having those cards printed had been abominably expensive, but having to waste my time reciting my address would cost me even more time and money.
‘Here.’
As I stepped forward and the last remnants of mist between me and the young man disappeared, his jaw suddenly sagged and a glazed look came into his eyes, as if he were seeing a unicorn with an extra horn sticking out of its behind. Why was he staring at me like that? Impatiently, I waved the card.
‘Hello, young man? Are you listening to me?’
‘Err… yes. Yes, I am.’ The young man shook himself. ‘You just surprised me, Sir. I must admit, that it's not every day I get an offer like that.’
‘See that that you're not “surprised” too often when you are in my employ. I have no use for baffled fools standing around gawking for no good reason.’
Still, the youngster hadn’t taken the card I was holding out to him. What was the matter? Was he mentally retarded?
‘My card!’ I said, waving the thing impatiently. He finally took it, and studied it as if it were a particularly peculiar bug. Maybe I’d better rethink hiring him… But no. I needed a secretary, and fast. If I had to deal with one more charity request for helpless little orphans, I was going to shoot someone. Probably the orphans.
Bah! What was I waiting for? I had wasted enough time on this little worm!
‘Don't be late.’ I sent him another significant look. ‘I don't tolerate tardiness.’ With that, I turned and marched away down the street. If he showed up, good. If not, he wouldn’t have been tough enough for the job, anyway. Soon, the young man disappeared in the mist somewhere behind me.
‘Where to now, Sahib?’ Karim asked from beside me, keeping pace.
Wordlessly, I nodded at the bank down the street.
‘Very well, Sahib.’
There were quite a few customers in Bradley & Bullard’s Bank, waiting at tables, writing documents, busily chatting. At least they chatted until Karim, his sabre, his turban and his beard stepped into the main hall. All voices died, and all eyes were drawn to the huge Mohammedan. Then I followed him inside, and Karim was forgotten. There are things with which even a sabre and a turban cannot compete.
Ignoring the line of people in front of the counter, I marched up to the closest bank clerk and fixed him with my gaze.
‘You there! How much does this bank cost?’
‘Um… we offer very affordable bank accounts, and our fees for stock management are also-’
I cut him off with an impatient gesture. ‘That’s not what I asked! How much does this bank cost?’
The man blinked at me, the confusion in his eyes slowly changing to disdain. His eyes wandered over my simple black tailcoat, my lack of silk, satin and gold embroidery, and I knew he was busy judging by appearance. Bad mistake.
The bank clerk’s eyes narrowed. ‘I’m afraid I don’t have the pleasure of understanding you, Sir.’
‘Rest assured, understanding me is no pleasure.’
‘I can readily believe it, Sir.’ He sniffed, derisively. ‘Will you please remove yourself? You are holding up the line.’
Reaching into my pocket, I took out one of my business cards and slammed it onto the counter. The bank clerk’s eyes focused on my name and widened in shock.
If I hadn’t lost the ability years ago, I might have smiled. Sometimes, a business card says more than a thousand words.
The man’s frightened eyes rose from my name to meet my gaze.
‘Get me the manager,’ I ordered.
When we left the bank five minutes later, Karim was carrying the documents detailing the sale in a suitcase that the manager had, in his generosity, gifted to me. People tend to be generous like that when they are scared of losing their jobs.
‘Is our business here concluded to your satisfaction, Sahib?’
Taking a deep breath of filthy London air, I glanced back at the bank.
‘Well… It’s not the bank of England, but it’ll do for a week or so.’
‘Quite so, Sahib.’
‘Where to next…?’ I hesitated on the sidewalk, thinking. Bloody hell, I really needed a secretary to keep track of my appointments, and fast! Hopefully, that youngster would live up to my expectations. He seemed like a bright young man. Where to now… where to-
‘Chauvinists!’ a shout rudely interrupted my thoughts. Or, to be exact, it was more of a shriek. ‘Oppressors of womanhood!’
I turned, just in time to see… What the hell?
Farther down the street, a figure was being dragged down the front steps of a polling station by two police officers. A figure I knew. I stared. Was it really…? Yes. My future secretary.
No. Oh no, this would not do. Not at all. If the police had caught that foolish youth breaking the law, they would just have to forget about it, until I had found someone cheaper and more law-abiding.
‘Officer!’ In three long strides I was in front of them. I was damn well going to get to the bottom of this! ‘Officer, what are you doing with this young man, may I ask?’
The sergeant turned and, when he caught sight of me, paled. Unlike the bank clerk, he clearly knew with whom he was dealing. If his facial expression wasn’t enough proof, his hurried salute definitely was.
‘Good morning, Mr Ambrose, Sir!’ he mumbled, trying his best to keep hold of my prospective secretary, who was wriggling like a rattlesnake in an attempt to get free. ‘Um… Sir, if I may ask, what young man are you speaking of?’
My eyes slid from the policeman to the young man in his clutches and back again. Was he daft? Who else would I be talking about?
‘That one, of course. Are you blind? What are you doing with him?’
‘Not him, Sir.’ Reaching up, the sergeant gripped the young man’s top hat and pulled. It was like that silly trick magicians did when they pulled a rabbit out of the hat - only in this case, I would have actually preferred it if a curious bunny poked its nose out of the hat. Instead, masses of wild chestnut hair tumbled out. I felt a cold hand clench hard around my vital organs. ‘Her. That's a girl, Mr Ambrose, Sir.’
Impossible.
Silence.
I stared.
More silence. And for the first time in my life, it wasn’t because I didn’t want to say something. It was because I did absolutely not know what to say. Or to yell. Or to bellow.
No. No, this is impossible.
‘Something wrong, Sir?’ the sergeant inquired dutifully. He got no answer from me. I didn’t have one. After a long moment of waiting, he cleared his throat. ‘Well, if you'd excuse us, Sir, we have to take this one away to where she belongs. Maybe a night in the cells will teach her not to do what's only for men.’
‘Aye,’ one of the constables chuckled. ‘Women voting? Who ever heard of something like that? Next thing we know they'll want decent jobs!’
Jobs.
Women.
Jobs for women.
A job for a woman.
No. No. No. No. No. No!
I only distantly heard the laughter of the policemen. Most of my attention was focused on the seething volcano of ice-cold rage that was rising inside me. Taking a deep breath, I met the girl’s eyes. She met my gaze head-on, not looking away, not even blinking. Other people had died at my hand for the kind of defiance I saw in her eyes right then.
A woman.
A job for a woman.
But she wouldn’t really…!
Paralyzed, I watched the policemen drag her away. Just before they pulled her around the corner, she turned her head back towards me and, grinning in a way that made me want to strangle someone, shouted:
‘Looking forward to seeing you at work on Monday, Sir!’
She wouldn’t! Would she?
THE BEGINNING…
###
Dedication
This story is dedicate
d to all my awesome fans and fiery little Ifrits without whom the book would never have been possible. All of you have been an inspiration!
Firstly, I would like to thank the contributors to the publishing campaign who have opened their hearts (and their wallets!) to get this book into print. The most generous contributions came from (**taking a deep breath**): Alexis Rose Stinson, Ammarah Maryam Abbasi, Bianca van den Berg, Cailin Ingram, Cindy Susana Orozco-Cazapa, compulsiveeater, Daisy Orozco, Dakota Trauth, Deb Caputo, Dominique C. Mohler, Elisabeth Nettesheim, Faryal Motiwala, Filipa Silva, Gabriela Grant, Jodie Perry, Julia Davis, Julia Hazima, Katrin Störmer, Kuini Erika, Laura F. Carlson, Laurianne Wohlscheid, Leisa Zaharis, Madeline Bunde, Marcia Robichaud, Marnurwani Bte Mohd Noordin, Michele Marquez, Mohsanh Omar, Natalie Y. Young, Nicole Strong, Nina Lawrence Akpovi, Noelia Wehrhahn, Reman Jawar, Romina Avaness, Shelby Nunn, Sonali Chander, Tahani H. and Tasneem Hiba. Thank you! Without your generosity, this book would never have made it into print.
Additional thanks is due to Deb Caputo, who indicated a number of points that helped me significantly in fine-tuning historical accuracy. And a big cartload of thanks goes to Iris Chacon, the wonderful editor who volunteered her time to edit this opus from front to back.
Last, but certainly not least, I want to thank all those fiery fans and Ifrits who might not have had the means to contribute funds to the publication campaign, but who inspired me with their encouragements, during a mighty Twitter battle helped this book win the People’s Choice Award in the Wattys, drew wonderful portraits of Lilly and Mr Ambrose or scattered glowing reviews of this book all over the web. I truly have the most amazing fandom south of the North Pole! Three cheers for you all! Lilly would be proud of you, and even Mr Ambrose would be mildly impressed. I look forward to scribbling many more stories for your enjoyment, knowing that you shall be with me every step of the way.
About the Author
Robert Thier is a German historian and writer of historical fiction. His particular mix of history, romance, and adventure, always with a good deal of humor thrown in, has gained him a diverse readership ranging from teenagers to retired grandmothers. For the way he manages to make history come alive, as if he himself lived as a medieval knight, his fans all over the world have given him the nickname “Sir Rob.”