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They were slowly starting to realize: this was real. And it had been, for quite some time. And nobody had noticed.
‘No way!’ Anne whispered. ‘No way! It’s really true? It can’t be! There’s simply no way that a miserable little fussock like you could catch—’[55]
Mr Rickard Ambrose’s eyes snapped to her in a flash. Her words dried up mid-sentence in a croak.
‘You were saying?’ he enquired, cocking his head.
‘N-nothing.’ Shaking her head wildly, she began to retreat. ‘I wasn’t saying anything.’
‘Indeed. That is what I thought.’
‘P-please forgive us, Mr Ambrose.’ My aunt made a hurried curtsy. ‘This has come as quite a shock to all of us! We had no idea…’ She turned her head towards me and was about to throw me a venomous glare when she realized that, under the current circumstances, that might not be the wisest thing to do. ‘Dear me. Here I am prattling on, and I haven’t even offered you refreshments yet. Where are my manners?’
Mr Ambrose met her attempt at an ingratiating smile with an arctic look immune to ingratiating, bootlicking, and probably a dozen poisons besides. ‘I wouldn’t know. How many years has it been since you’ve seen them last?’
‘Err…um…well, I think I’d better fetch refreshments now. Leadfield, please show the gentleman into the drawing room. Girls, hurry up and help me! And as for you, Lillian—’
‘She,’ Mr Ambrose said, ‘is coming with me.’
‘Ah. Um. Right.’ Aunt Brank gave him another smile as sincere as a promise made on April Fool’s day. ‘I was just about to suggest that.’
‘Doubtlessly.’
A bent and wrinkled Leadfield, who seemed to be walking even more excruciatingly slowly than normally, held open the door to the drawing room, and my aunt stepped towards the door, only to be overtaken by Mr Ambrose, who strode straight to her favourite chair and sat down.
‘Err…please take a seat,’ Aunt Brank said.
He cocked his head about one mi
llimetre. ‘I already have. Now, will you go inform the head of the household of my arrival? I would like to make him give his blessing to this arrangement immediately.’
‘Err…surely you mean ask him to give his blessing?’
Leaning forward, Mr Ambrose gave her a very long, very marrow-freezing look. ‘Do I look like the type of man who says things he does not mean?’
‘Err…no! I didn’t mean to imply…’
‘Your face looks a little bit red, dear aunty,’ I asked, the picture of a concerned niece drawn by an extremely devious cartoon artist. ‘What’s wrong? Feeling flustered? Would you sit down? This must be such a great joy to you, knowing that your greatest dream will finally come to fruition and your dear niece will be happily married.’
‘Yes,’ my dear aunty ground out between clenched teeth as she speered me with her dagger-like eyes. ‘Such a…joy.’
‘I can see that. You look like you could explode from delight.’
‘Well…yes. Then I’d better go and…and…’
‘Explode outside?’ Mr Ambrose nodded. ‘Adequate idea. And do not forget to fetch the man of the house.’
‘No, Sir! Certainly not, Mr Ambrose, Sir.’
And she fled from the room.
Left behind was me, Mr Ambrose, and my flabbergasted collection of frozen statues, also known as ‘sisters’.
Reaching for one of cup of teas Leadfield had brought, I took a sip. ‘Nice weather today, isn’t it?’
‘Indeed,’ said Mr Ambrose.
No one else said a thing. They all just kept staring at the two of us as if watching a zebra and tiger snuggling in the zoo.
