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ovely.’
‘It is abominable that someone like you can call himself a gentleman. You should know better than…’
My voice trailed off.
‘Wait just a moment… What did you say?’
Belatedly, my ears registered his last spoken words. The ears delivered them to my brain, where they were turned around and examined carefully. Then they were submitted to an authenticity test somewhere in the dark depths of my mind.
You’re lovely… Miss Linton, you’re lovely…
The results of the test weren’t long in coming. On the whole, it was extremely unlikely that these words could have really, as I imagined, come out of the mouth of Mr Rikkard Ambrose. Unlikely? Scratch that. Impossible!
‘What did you say?’ I repeated, my voice so weak I didn’t recognize it anymore. Suddenly, having my hands in his felt completely different, and for some reason I stopped struggling to get them free. From my sitting position, I looked up at Mr Ambrose, who looked as though he had just been forced to swallow his own top hat.
‘What did you say?’ I repeated once more, though I remembered perfectly well. I just wanted to hear it again to make sure I hadn’t gone temporarily insane. Rikkard Ambrose thought I was lovely? Nobody had ever told me I was lovely! Not even my own mother! And what kind of lovely exactly? The 'Oh-that-was-a-lovely-job-Mister-Secretary'-kind of lovely, or the other kind of lovely? The kind that involved him calling me Miss instead of Mister.
‘I said…’ Mr Ambrose hesitated. Then, straightening, he suddenly let go of my hands and glared at me, his cool expression recovered. ‘I said bring me file 35X119.’
He turned on his heel and marched into his office, slamming the door behind him.
*~*~**~*~*
Luckily, fetching files is not really an intellectually taxing task. If it had been, I would have had enormous difficulties completing the day’s work.
I was just about to leave my office at the end of the day when the door to Mr Ambrose’s office opened, and I caught a glimpse of his dark, ramrod-straight silhouette in the doorway.
‘Would you mind stepping into my office for a moment, Mr Linton?’
Oh, we are back to ‘Mister,’ are we?
Well, I wasn’t exactly sure I had heard right that time he’d admitted my real gender earlier today, anyway.
‘Yes,’ I said, curtly. ‘I would mind.’
Ha! You see? I can be rude and cold, too; it’s not just you who has that extraordinary ability!
‘Nevertheless,’ he persisted, his dark eyes flashing, ‘I would like it if you came into my office for a moment.’
‘My work hours are over.’
‘Consider it overtime to make up for your tardiness today. Come in. Now!’
From the tone of his voice I knew he would brook no further argument. Sighing, I followed him into his office, where he settled down into his chair and regarded me over top of his steepled fingers.
‘The man who wants to marry you…’ he stated. ‘You don't like him.’
‘Oh boy, I wonder how you figured that out,’ I sighed, rolling my eyes. ‘Sir,’ I tacked on at the end quickly, as his eyes flashed again.
‘You don't want to marry him.’
‘No, I don't, Sir. And?’
‘And nothing.’ He looked down at his papers and waved a hand. ‘You’re dismissed. I hope tomorrow you’ll show a better performance than today. Good day, Mr Linton.’
Bewildered, I left the office. What had that all been about? As hard as I tried, I couldn’t figure out the answer. Neither could I figure out Mr Ambrose himself. Impolite, honourable, ruthless, moral, stingy, randomly considerate - filled with all these contradicting attributes, he was the strangest man I had ever met. Hardly anything like society’s idea of a perfect gentleman, who was supposed to be moderate in all things. And yet, I realized, as I entered the garden through the back door and sneaked into the shed, although he might be the strangest man I had ever met, he was by far not the worst one.
Working for him was certainly not going to be boring. My thoughts strayed to Simmons, locked up in the cellar. Oh no, not boring at all.
