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‘Yes, Sir! Immediately, Sir!’
I rushed out of the room before I could succumb to my irresistible buttkicking urges. I was just returning with the requested documents, when a cautious knock came from the direction of the door.
‘Mr Ambrose, Sir?’ I heard Mr Stone’s voice from outside.
‘Enter!’ Mr Ambrose commanded, snatching the balance sheets away from me before I had a chance to put them down. Mr Stone tiptoed into the room, and held out a small stack of envelopes to Mr Ambrose.
‘These just arrived from the Bank of England, Sir. Quite urgent, I am given to understand.’
‘Hm.’ Grabbing the letters, Mr Ambrose sliced the first one open with a finger and pulled out the paper inside. His eyes flicked across the page in prestissimo. Then he glanced up at me.
‘Urgent indeed. I will have to take care of these myself, Mr Linton. Go to your office and make sure I am not disturbed under any circumstances, understood?’
‘Yes, Sir! Just as you say, Sir!’
‘And, Mr Linton?’
I was already at the door when his call made me turn around. He held out a pile of balance sheets to me.
‘Take these with you. I’ll expect you to be through with at least half when I’m finished.’
My shoulders slumped. ‘Yes, Sir. Of course, Sir.’
‘Adequate. Close the door behind you, and do not open it again until I say so.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
I walked out and heard the door shut with a click, behind me.
Settling down at my desk and staring miserably at the balance sheets, I thought: I’m going to be a baronet’s wife.
Was there ever a more depressing thought?
Once or twice, I had glanced into the romance novels that were bread and butter to my younger sisters, Anne and Maria. The heroines of these romances seemed to want nothing more than to marry a rakish lord and spend the rest of their days in delirious lovy-dovyness, popping out babies every nine months, or every six, if they could manage. The noblemen in these books were always tall, dark and handsome and, after initially appearing to be total bastards, they revealed themselves to actually be - surprise, surprise! - kind, loving husbands.
Well, let me just tell you what’s wrong with that picture: the average English nobleman is built like a bent beanpole, with oversized ears and nose. While he is capable of great love and passion, they are generally reserved for racehorses, not wives. And in ninety-nine per cent of the cases, if the nobleman in question appears to be a total bastard, he in the end turns out to be a really absolutely total bastard.
Except to racehorses, of course.
‘I’ll be damned if I let myself be sold off to one of those blue-blooded nincompoops!’ I growled, furiously digging through the pile of documents in front of me, hardly noticing the numbers flying by. ‘No matter what Aunt Brank thinks she’ll be getting out of it! I’ll kill myself first! Or better yet, I’ll kill him! Or burn down the church! Or-’
‘Um…Mr Linton?’
A tentative knock came from the door, and Mr Stone stuck his head in.
‘Yes?’ I barked. He flinched.
‘Um…there’s a lady out here.’
‘Lucky you! Enjoy the company, but don’t make too much noise. I’m working.’
I returned to my numbers, but Mr Stone cleared his throat, and I had to look up again, my eyes narrowed. ‘Yes?’
‘Err…this lady out here…She has come to see Mr Ambrose.’
‘Mr Ambrose gave orders that he doesn’t wish to be disturbed!’
‘I’ve told her that.’
