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Mercifully we moved on from the subject of opera, and he kept me busy enough writing down more appointments that I didn’t even think too much about Miss Hamilton. When I was finally finished with the thirty-sixth appointment, he nodded curtly.
‘Give me the book and let me see.’
Handing him the book, I waited for his judgement. I knew my handwriting wasn’t very good, and he had talked with the speed of a Spinning Jenny.[42] His face was, as ever, indecipherable as he studied the page, giving me no clue as to what he might be thinking. Finally, he closed the book with a snap.
‘Adequate,’ he said. ‘You managed to take it down without leaving anything out, which is more than I can say of my last five secretaries.’
It took me a moment to realize that this had actually been a compliment. When I did, a ridiculous grin spread over my face. What was wrong with me? Why did his approval give me this warm, fuzzy feeling inside, like drinking hot chocolate on a cold winter morning?
Except hot chocolate didn’t stare at me so disapprovingly. Not ever.
‘If you’re quite done exhausting your facial musculature needlessly, Mr Linton, then perhaps we can move on with work?’
‘Yes, Sir! Just as you say.’
‘Put this away again.’ He handed me the appointment book. ‘Remember, you’re responsible for it.’
Still exhausting my facial muscles in what I thought was a definitely not needless expression of satisfaction, I hurried back into my office. As I bent to open the drawer, the appointment book slipped out of my hand and fell to the floor, opening at the previous week. Picking it up, I saw that the week was covered with appointments: Mr Ambrose must have left his office without telling me. All the appointments were written down in a familiar neat and precise hand.
He had been keeping track of his own appointments! It had been silly of me not to think of this, really. After all, it was a secretary’s job to take care of appointments, so why had it not been part of mine?
The answer was evident: because he didn’t trust me to handle them! Had he been afraid that - silly, overexcited female that I supposedly was - I would send him to a brothel-house in the east end instead of the Bank of England? A storm of indignation began to brew in me, and the barometer of my temper slowly rose. But then I suddenly remembered that now he had entrusted me with the a
ppointment book.
Did this mean he was finally coming around? Was he beginning to accept me? Maybe soon I could drop this ridiculous charade of pretending to be a man, and he would stop calling me ‘Mr Linton’.
An image flashed in front of my eyes: I, entering the big hall downstairs, in an undoubtedly feminine dress, my head held high, going up to work for one of London’s most powerful businessmen. The first ever lady to earn her own way in this world…
‘Mr Linton!’
Blast!
Just like that, a cold voice from the neighbouring room shattered my daydream. Quickly, I put the appointment book away and made my way back to my employer’s office. Not quickly enough for his taste, though, apparently.
‘What did I tell you, Mr Linton?’
I straightened, knowing exactly what he wanted me to hear.
‘That knowledge is power is time is money, Sir!’
‘Which means you have to be what…?’
‘Quick and efficient, Sir!’
‘Indeed. Now go to your desk, get notepaper and a pen.’
Wondering what the heck he wanted me to do now, I fetched the required items and returned, receiving no admonishment this time.
‘I have a business letter to write,’ he declared when I had taken up my station beside his desk, a notepad in hand. ‘Obviously, you are not what I wish for in a secretary and have very limited abilities, but my handwriting is not elegant enough for official letters, and I need somebody to do this. It might as well be you.’
I tried my best not to look at him. Having just seen a sample of his handwriting, I knew there was nothing whatsoever wrong with it. In fact, his clear, precise script was one of the most beautiful hands I had ever seen. A smile tugged at the corners of my lips, and I hid behind the notepad. I had been right. He was beginning to accept me, even if he’d rather die than admit it.
‘The letter is to a very important business partner of mine,’ he warned. ‘Make one mistake, and I shall be very displeased.’
I couldn’t help remembering what had happened to the last guy that had ‘displeased’ him: hauled off by Karim into the misty alleys of London, never to be seen again. But surely he wouldn’t do something like that to me simply for making a mistake in a business letter, would he?
Um… would he?
