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No.
It couldn’t be.
‘No…!’
I didn’t realize for a moment that I had uttered the word aloud. She had noticed though, and her smile broadened a little bit.
‘I see you realize what correspondence I’m speaking of?’
I realized all right. This lady, standing right in front of me - it had to be her! The one I had wracked my brain about all those past months! The one whose letters filled nearly every drawer of my desk by now! The mysterious figure from Mr Ambrose’s past:
The pink letter lady!
But…but this can’t be her!
I stared at the old lady, combining her image in my mind with the theories I had developed as to the identity of the writer of the pink letters.
A friend overseas?
No! She’s bloody well right here, isn’t she?
A mistress?
As if! Mr Ambrose wouldn’t willingly spend a penny on anything, least of all a woman! Besides, isn’t she a little…well…you know!
A wife?
No! No, no, no, nonononononoooooooo!
It simply couldn’t be her. I refused to believe that this was the femme fatale from Mr Ambrose’s past. She looked like Britain’s favourite granny in training, for heaven’s sake! It had to be someone different who had been sending him letters! Maybe one of the many ladies asking for charity, whose letters I had been depositing in the paper container (not the bin, because Mr Ambrose insisted on not wasting paper and wrote his notes on the back of the charity requests he refused to answer) over the last few months. Yes! That had to be it!
‘If you’re here collecting for a charity, I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint you.’ I gave her an apologetic smile. ‘Mr Ambrose has many excellent qualities-’ Although I can’t think of any right now. ‘-but generosity is not one of them.’
‘I know.’ The woman’s answering smile was sad. ‘I’m not here collecting for a charity. I’m here to see my son.’
The Blessings of Motherly Love
I felt the floor sway under my feet. Her words rocked me to the very core of my being.
Mother?
She was his mother?
Apparently she was. And do you know what was the only thought that my extraordinary, profound and intelligent mind could come up with as a reaction to this profound revelation?
NothiswifenothiswifenothiswifeYesYesYesYes! Andnothismisstresseither! Yesyesyesyipee!
I am really profound, right?
‘Your…son?’ It was more of a croak than a question.
The woman nodded, slightly bending in the knees. It was not quite a curtsy - it was a far more regal gesture of greeting.
‘My name is Samantha Genevieve Ambrose.’
‘Linton,’ I mumbled, automatically bowing my head in return. My eyes were fastened on the little woman in front of me, while I tried desperately to imagine Mr Ambrose having fit inside her once. It was quite absolutely impossible. ‘Mr Victor Linton. Delighted to make your acquaintance.’
‘How do you do, Mr Linton. And may I ask what position you occupy under my son?’
