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And I was. Whatever dangers awaited us out there in the cold - we would face them together. Grabbing my suitcase, I took just enough time to straighten my clothes in the hope it wouldn’t be quite so apparent I had slept in them, then exited the room and started down the stairs. When I arrived in the common room, the innkeeper was just trying to persuade Mr Ambrose to stay for breakfast.
‘But Sir, you can’t go to Battlewood this early! His Lordship and Her Ladyship won’t even be up yet.’
‘They’d better be,’ was Mr Ambrose’s curt reply. ‘I didn’t travel all this way for nothing.’
‘Sir! I don’t know who you think you are, but this is the Marquess and Marchioness Ambrose we are talking about! You can’t simply appear on their doorstep at this ungodly hour of the morning!’
‘Oh, I can’t, can’t I?’ Reaching out, Mr Ambrose shoved the fat little man aside. ‘Mr Linton?’
‘Right here, Mr Ambrose, Sir!’
‘We’re going. Come!’
The innkeeper had gone very white in the face. ‘A-Ambrose?’
I gave him a pat on the head in passing. ‘I don’t think the marchioness will mind terribly if we’re a bit early. Mothers usually like it when their sons come to visit.’
And I followed Mr Ambrose outside into the sparkling snow.
The coach was waiting for us, freed of snow, all four horses ready and waiting, and Karim standing next to them like an extremely large, extremely bearded watchdog. He held open the coach door for Mr Ambrose, then slammed it shut so I had to open it again myself. Ah, the manners of a true gentleman…it was a wonderful thing to experience. Simply wonderful.
The moment the door shut behind us, Mr Ambrose slammed his cane against the roof. ‘To Battlewood!’
And despite the beautiful winter world around us, I couldn’t help feeling the name of the place would turn out to be an omen.
We rolled out of the yard, and, glancing back, I saw the landlord standing in front of the door, surrounded by a gaggle of servants and curious guests, wildly gesticulating after us. Over the rattle of the carriage wheel, I could just hear the words ‘Ambrose’ and… ‘air’?
Were they complaining about the cold air?
No. Not ‘air’ I realised with a sudden, chilling certainty. ‘Heir.’
Slowly, my eyes wandered over to Mr Ambrose, sitting stiff as a poker on the other bench. Not just a son, then. The son.
Silence reigned all around as the coach whizzed through the winter wonderland. Sparkling crystals of freshly fallen snow whizzed up into the air on either side, surrounding us with a glittering halo. Soon, the path we were travelling on was engulfed by a tall, proud forest, interspersed with beautiful clearings and glittering, frozen lakes. Game abounded everywhere, deer and rabbits poking their heads out of the trees right and left. Dear God… did all this country belong to his family?
Finally, the forest opened up and we rolled out onto a broad, snow-covered meadow on the other side of which stood a low stone wall. In its centre, a tall cast iron gate rose towards the sky. And in front of the gate, ready and waiting, stood old Elsby, a younger servant slouching against the wall behind him.
The moment they caught sight of the coach, Elsby took a deep breath and the young servant jerked up, as if right up until then, he hadn’t believed anyone was actually coming.
‘Move, boy!’ The old man gave his young companion a whack. ‘Get the gate open! And then run up to the house and tell Her Ladyship that our guests are here. Master Rikkard has come home!’
The gate swung open, and we rolled up the driveway. The coach came around a bend, and another. Finally, I caught sight of smoke rising in the distance. Chimneys! We were approaching the house. Slowing down, the coach rolled around a final bend and…
Oh, dear merciful Lord!
(Motherly) Love
What sort of house would you expect Rikkard Ambrose to have grown up in? Something massive and austere, maybe. Something like Empire House, where all the walls were bare grey stone and the only decorations were the skid marks of busy feet on the hard floor. But this…
Battlewood Hall was a palace. There simply was no other way to put it. A palace.
On either side of a portico held up by six tall Corinthian columns, the wings of the house spread out like those of a giant eagle. Colonnades ranged along both wings, interrupted only by the glitter of glass where a winter garden dared to boldly rise out of the snow, defying the winter’s cold with its lush green vegetation and beautiful, colourful blossoms. The wings of the Hall stretched around a wide courtyard, in the centre of which rose a sculpted fountain bigger than any I had seen in London. In summer, I was sure, it would have been spraying sparkling jets of water in every direction. In winter, laden with snow, it rose towards the sky like the world’s largest, most beautiful ice sculpture.
Figures were arrayed before the entrance. As the coach rolled closer, I could see that most were clad in the uniforms of footmen and chambermaids. The line of servants stretched for at least thirty yards. On the stairs in the shadow of the portico, I glimpsed a figure in a familiar pink dress, and beside her another, slimmer, taller figure with her raven hair falling in wild curls down her back.
‘Ho!’ with a rumble, Karim reigned in the horses and, driving a half-circle around the frozen fountain, came to a halt directly in front of the line of servants. White glitter sprayed up, giving several of the footmen a sugar coating.
One of the servants - presumably the butler - stepped forward to open the door of the carriage, but then he caught Karim’s look, and retreated quicker than Napoleon at Waterloo. Turban raised proudly, Karim marched to the door and pulled it open.
