Hunting for Silence

25. The Governor-General

'Oh. I hadn't thought of that.'

'Indeed.'

Even for one of his indeeds, that was indeed a particularly frosty indeed. Glancing over at him, I saw he was sitting unnaturally stiff in the saddle. Normally, this wouldn't have worried me, since everything about him from his soul to his handkerchief was unnaturally stiff. But considering the way he was clutching his arm...

'Are you all right, Mr Ambrose, Sir?'

'Certainly.'

'Ah, good. So it won't hurt if I do this,' I said and jabbed his arm. He nearly toppled off his horse.

'Nnrrg! Mr Linton!'

'Yes?' I blinked up at him, sweet and innocent as the driven snow after a yeti orgy.

'I'm not a pin cushion! Desist from prodding me this instant.'

'Oh. So you mean that did hurt after all? Should I take a look at it?'

Silence.

Then...

'No. No, everything is fine.'

That bloody stubborn son of a bachelor! At this rate, he was going to kill himself! And for what? Pride?

I was about to blister his ears with some choice phrases, when something strange happened. My hand reached out of its own accord and came to rest on his uninjured shoulder.

'What are you afraid of?' I asked. Gently. Without even using a single curse word. What was the matter with me? 'I'm here. I care. Don't you know that?'

There was another moment of silence, longer this time. Finally, he shifted, his good hand coming to rest on mine.

'I know. That's what scares me.'

'Why?'

He hesitated.

'You might have noticed that I'm not particularly open-handed, Mr Linton.'

'You don't say? I would never have noticed.'

Out of the corner of his eye, he threw me a look. I shut up.

'I've had to learn how to economize. Words. Money. Everything. I keep it all and give nothing away—because anything I give away is a weapon that can be used against me. But when you're close...I want to have things I never knew I needed. And I want to give parts of myself away I never knew I had.'

His fingers clenched around mine.

'You're dangerous, Mr Linton. Deadly dangerous. Especially when I'm vulnerable.'

Gently, I raised my free hand to touch his face. 'I would never do anything to hurt you, except demand a raise. You know that, don't you?'

His fingers tightened even more. 'I know. And you're not getting a raise.'

'Not even a shilling per week?'

'I love you.'

'I love you, too. Sixpence?'

'Can you help me?'

A quip about thruppence was on the tip of my tongue. But when his words reached my ears, my tongue froze, and so did my mind.

Mr Rikkard Ambrose was the hardest, strongest, most stubborn man I had ever met in my life—and for a girl who grew up in the house of Bufford Jefferson Brank, that's saying something! I couldn't remember him ever breathing the word 'help'. But now, here, alone in the darkness with me, he was asking.