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Fifteen years!
I couldn’t imagine being a mother. But if I were, and if my child were away from me for that long…
I shuddered.
What on earth could have happened?
I had no idea. But I knew this much: it had been something bad. I saw it every time tears glittered in Lady Samantha’s eyes or she stumbled over words and suddenly broke off in the middle of a sentence. I saw it every time her daughter bit her lip in anger and held back irate comments. And I saw it in the big, empty hole that was left by the person who wasn’t even there to greet Mr Ambrose: his father.
Lady Adaira and her mother did their best to conceal it, dragging him into the drawing room and peppering him with endless small talk, which he icily ignored, but after an hour or so it was becoming painfully obvious that his father had no intention of coming down. Mr Ambrose didn’t demand to know what was going on, didn’t question the servant about whether his father was out riding - but he did stand up and march to the window that overlooked the stables. Sure enough, there, in front of the place where both horses and coaches were kept, lay smooth, untouched snow. And it hadn’t snowed since last night. Nobody was out. His father was in the house.
The muscles in Mr Ambrose’s jaw tightened.
Hours dragged by. We sat in tense silence, waiting for a royal summons. I exchanged nervous glances with Lady Samantha while Lady Adaira muttered unladylike things under her breath, and Mr Ambrose got colder and colder, harder and harder, with every passing minute. Finally, Hastings the butler descended from upstairs and, approaching Mr Ambrose, bowed.
‘His Lordship is ready to receive you now, Sir.’
‘Indeed?’ Mr Ambrose’s face didn’t show a spark of emotion. It was a mask of cold stone, with not a crack anywhere in sight. ‘But I am not. Pray tell his Lordship that I shall be ready to receive him in half an hour. I shall await him in the small green drawing room.’
And with that, he turned and strode away, leaving the butler standing open-mouthed.
My fingers clenched into a fist, and I couldn’t suppress a grin. Bravo! Show him!
My warm glow of pride lasted about as long as it took me to glance at Lady Samantha’s face.
The day didn’t exactly get better from there. Mr Ambrose didn’t show up for lunch, and neither did his father. In a weird way, it made sitting at the huge table in the dining room feel almost like home: all the ladies gathered around the table, with the male population of
the house off stewing in their rooms somewhere.
More time passed, and dinner arrived. Once more, the three of us gathered around the table, trying desperately not to stare at the empty seat at the head - that is, until Mr Ambrose strode in and sat down in it.
‘That is father’s chair!’ Lady Adaira exclaimed.
Mr Ambrose met her eyes, coolly. ‘He doesn’t seem to be using it, does he?’
‘Yes, but-’
‘Besides,’ Mr Ambrose continued, his gaze hardening, ‘are you so sure the chair truly belongs to him?’
He held her gaze for a moment - then she looked away.
What was that all about?
I was dying to ask, but didn’t dare.
Dinner was - surprise, surprise - a rather tense affair. Mr Ambrose sat there, practising his master craft of silence, while we raw beginners sat around and somehow, while saying not a word, didn’t manage to be nearly as silent as he was. Every breath he took seemed to suck sound and warmth from the air, and Lady Samantha was looking more miserable with every second.
I didn’t understand this! From the bits and pieces I had heard, whatever had happened to separate the family, it hadn’t been Mr Ambrose’s fault, had it? This was so infuriating! I wanted to go up there and shake some sense into the old man who didn’t swallow his pride to welcome home his son.
Plus, if the marquess thought that Mr Ambrose would be the one to swallow his pride, he hadn’t reckoned on two things:
1. The size of Mr Ambrose’s pride relative to that of his throat.
2. The infrequency with which Mr Ambrose opened his mouth for any reason, including swallowing.
‘It has been a long day.’ Shoving away his plate, Mr Ambrose rose to his feet. ‘And I still have much work to finish. If you will excuse me, Mother, Lady Adaira, Mr Linton.’
‘No, wait-’ Lady Samantha reached out, but too late. He was already gone. She slumped in her chair.
