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‘But—’
‘No.’
All right. That was one avenue closed.
If only I could get to Uncle Bufford first. As soon as I showed him Mr Ambrose’s bank balance he’d be happy to get him as a son-in-law without asking his name. Most likely, he wouldn’t even ask about age, size, sex or species.
He might ask what kind of man he is, though.
Yes. He really might. My grumpy uncle and I had gotten to know each other quite well during the last year or two. He might actually care about my happiness. The challenge would be getting to him. Aunt Brank was a tough coconut to crack.
Time seemed to pass far too fast. One moment, we were walking away from the docks, the next, we turned the corner and saw my uncle’s house farther down the street.
Mr Ambrose stopped, and turned me towards him.
‘Do you have a change of clothes somewhere?’
I nodded. Somehow, my mouth was too dry for an actual answer.
‘Adequate. You go change and prepare them for my arrival. I will take a brief trip to Empire House to dress appropriately for the occasion. I shall return directly.’
‘Dress appropriately? You mean you actually own a second tailcoat?’
Looking most superior, Mr Ambrose straightened his lapels. ‘No. But I can have this one ironed.’
A smile spreading across my face, I reached up to touch his face. ‘You do that. I’ll be waiting for you.’
He nodded, and started to turn. My hand on his shoulder stopped him.
‘And…’
‘Yes?’
‘Hurry up. I’m not good at waiting.’
‘Neither,’ Mr Ambrose told me and took hold of my face, ‘am I.’
And he kissed me, there, right in the middle of the street. Nobody was watching. The street was still beautifully, wondrously empty. After a long, long while, he let go. His dark, sea-coloured eyes bored into mine for a moment.
‘Until later.’
And with that, he turned and vanished into the London fog.
Gathering all my courage, I turned, too, and headed towards the garden wall. As I unlocked and slipped through the familiar little gate into the back garden, a feeling of unreality came over me. Could it really be that I was doing this for the very last time? That soon, I wouldn’t be Miss Lillian Linton anymore? That instead, I would be Mrs Lillian Ambrose?
Well…the last part isn’t necessarily decided yet. After all, why should you be the one to change your name?
Hm…what would Mr Ambrose say to becoming Mr Rikkard Linton?
Nothing, probably. A whole lot of ice-cold, very explicit, very determined nothing.
Smiling, I slipped into the garden shed. Married life was going to be interesting.
As quickly as I could, I changed into my (slightly dusty) spare female outfit. Then, like a condemned woman going to meet the aunt squad, I marched to the front door and knocked.
No response.
Well, that wasn’t really that odd. You could usually brush your teeth, write a sonnet and do a few cartwheels in the time it took Leadfield, our ancient butler, to reach the door. But…this time I didn’t even hear a hint of the slow, lopsided gate of the dear old mummified fellow.
