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‘Indeed?’
‘Yes, indeed, Sir. And now the miners are rioting, and-’
Mr Ambrose held up one hand. Baker shut up and closed his mouth.
‘Mr Linton?’
I snapped to attention. Not an easy thing to do while sitting on a horse, but I managed. ‘Yes, Sir?’
‘Return to the house. Pack our things, and a few supplies. Meet me back here in ten minutes.’
‘Yes, Sir. Um…should I give our apologies to your mother?’
‘You can give her yours, if you wish. I’m keeping mine.’
With that, Mr Ambrose removed me from his cognition, and turned his intense, sea-coloured eyes on Baker, unleashing a barrage of questions. As I turned my horse and galloped away, their voices faded behind me. It didn’t take long until the house came into view in front of me. A small figure in a pink dress was standing at a downstairs window.
Poor Lady Samantha. I’m sure a miner’s rebellion wasn’t exactly part of her Christmas plans.
True. But right now I had other, much more pressing concerns. With his usual effortless, elegant callousness, Mr Rikkard Ambrose had dropped a nice, big problem into my lap: Mr Linton could make his excuses and ride off with Mr Ambrose. But what about Miss Linton? I had a feeling that, if a smiling Miss Linton were to approach Lady Samantha and say: ‘Hello? I’m sorry to be rushing off in such a hurry. It’s just, there’s a violent uprising in a mining town a few dozen miles away, and I have to go with your son to expose myself to deadly danger and potentially get my head bashed in’, the response might not be very positive.
What to do?
Well, you can always leave without saying anything.
Yep. I could - if I wanted her to send Captain Carter and half the British Army after me and her beloved son. Not good.
Well…that leaves only one option. The tried and trusted last resort of magnificent misfits: lying like a rug.
‘Lady Samantha? Lady Samantha?’ Pushing open the door, I strode inside. Something in my tone must have alerted her, because she was already rushing towards me.
‘Yes, Mr Linton? What’s the matter? Is everything all right? Is my son-’
‘He’s fine,’ I hurried to reassure her. ‘Nothing has happened to him. But we met someone out in the woods - a messenger from Newcastle. He told us that, um…one of Mr Ambrose’s friends there is sick.’
‘Oh dear!’ Covering her mouth with one dainty hand, Lady Samantha took an involuntary step towards the door, as if she wanted to reach out and comfort her far-off son. ‘That’s terrible! I’m so sorry to hear that someone is ill. But…’ She glanced at me, guiltily. ‘Does it make me a horrible person when I say that, in a way, I’m almost relieved? I didn’t know my son had any friends.’
Oh yes, he has made lots of friends. And they’re all shiny and golden, with the face of King George III embossed on one side.[6]
So, in a way, what I was telling her was even true. For Mr Rikkard Ambrose, any enterprise that could potentially make money but currently didn’t was probably the closest thing to a sick friend he was ever likely to have. Great justification, right? I had always been brilliant at justifying fibs. Still, the next one was a bit, well…
I cleared my throat.
‘His friend might die.’
Any hint of gladness disappeared from Lady Samantha’s face.
‘Goodness gracious!’
‘And he would like to see Mr Ambrose one last time. So you see-’
‘Yes, yes, of course!’
Stepping forward, she clasped both my hands in hers, her eyes shimmering with tears of sympathy. It was almost enough to make me feel bad for lying - which was saying something. I didn’t normally apologise for my favourite hobbies.
‘Of course you must go, but…oh dear.’ Shaking her head, she through a regretful glance down the hall into the house, from where the sound of music and merry laughter came. The sounds of approaching Christmas. ‘I had so hoped that Rick would…well, it can’t be helped. Will you tell your sister, or would you like me to deliver the news?’
‘My sister? Oh, she will be coming with us.’
