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‘Maybe I put it in the chest,’ I mused, tugging at my ear, lost in thought. ‘Or I could have stuffed it in the dresser…’
‘There’s not a man in there, too, is there?’
‘Or maybe I folded it and put it in one of the boxes up on the wardrobe…’
‘Oh God! Tell me there’s no man in there, Lill, please!’ Cautiously, Ella crept towards the wardrobe and peeked inside. All that greeted her was a tangled web of clothes. No lechers and rakes were hiding in my wardrobe, or if there were, they were hiding very, very well. But Ella seemed only partially relieved. Turning back toward me, she gestured at the trousers and hats strewn all over my bed. ‘What’s this? Why do you have them? Where did you get them? And most importantly, what do you do with them? They’re men’s clothes, Lill! Men’s clothes!’
‘I’ve noticed,’ I murmured, striding back to the wardrobe and starting to rummage again. In some part of my mind I realised Ella had been asking me some questions, but I didn’t have the time or patience to answer right now. I was on a mission.
‘Lill, did you hear me? Lilly, this is important! You have to answer me…and…tell…me…’
Ella’s voice slowly drained away as I pulled something from the back of the wardrobe and held it up, triumphantly. The very something I had been searching for.
‘Aha! I knew I had it here somewhere! Didn’t I tell you? I knew!’
‘Goodness gracious!’ Ella’s eyes were wide, staring up at the thing in my hands with awe and wonder. The men’s shirts, top hats and even the trousers were forgotten. ‘Where did you get that?’
*~*~**~*~*
I climbed out of the cab and handed the driver his money.
‘Here you go.’
‘Thanks, Miss.’
He nodded, and drove off. I stood for a moment, looking after him. Ordinarily, I would not have driven to work in a coach. Ordinarily, I didn’t waste my money on things like that when it wasn’t far, especially not if you were the proud owner of a brand-new velocipede. But in this case…
Smiling, I turned and marched towards the front doors of Empire House. It wasn’t quite as easy to march in my current attire as it usually was when I got to work, but nevertheless, I managed it.
Mr Ambrose was standing before the front doors, facing away from me. He seemed to be having a spirited discussion with Karim, who was standing beside the miserable little chaise and irritable grey horse that were Mr Ambrose’s preferred means of transportation.
‘…and I tell you, Sahib, you cannot do this,’ Karim was just saying when I came into earshot. ‘This is a wedding of Royals! Kings and queens, and other people with long arms and short tempers! You cannot ride to a Wedding of Royals in this coach!’
‘And why not?’ Mr Ambrose demanded. ‘What’s wrong with this coach?’
‘It’s…’ Karim began - and then he caught sight of me. His mouth dropped open.
‘There! You see?’ Mr Ambrose sounded as satisfied as it was possible for him to be. ‘You can’t think of a single argument.’
‘Sahib! There! She…she…’
‘What do you mean, she? The Queen? What’s the matter with the Queen?’
‘No! Not Queen, Sahib! She!’ He raised a trembling arm to point in my direction. Mr Ambrose turned to face me - and froze.
Another man might have cursed or jumped. Mr Ambrose did neither. He just froze. His face became stonier than stone, his eyes icier than ice. They raked over me, taking me in from head to foot, and not just me, but particularly what I was wearing.
I twirled, showing off every aspect of the swirling dress. It was magnificent, if I do say myself. I would have to say so myself, because Mr Ambrose certainly wasn’t going to. Coloured in dark red and mocha, it perfectly complemented my chocolate brown hair and eyes.
‘What,’ Mr Ambrose demanded, his voice as cold as the nose of a dead polar bear, ‘is this, Mr Linton?’
‘You’ll have to refrain from calling me “Mr” while I wear this,’ I advised him, cordially. ‘People might look at you oddly if they hear.’
‘Answer my question!’ With a harsh swipe of his hand, he gestured at the masterpiece of haute couture which somehow actually managed to make it appear as if I was halfway well-endowed upstairs, and not so much at the backdoor. The miracles of modern fashion… ‘What is this supposed to be?’
I blinked up at him innocently. ‘Why, it’s called a dress. You might not have heard of them, Sir, they’re a sort of clothing a group of people commonly known as “women” usually wear-’
‘Don’t play dumb with me, Mr Linton! Why are you wearing…this?’
