It was a completely normal day in the bustling city of London. The calls of gulls echoed across the harbour. Vendors praised their wares at innumerable roadside stalls, and swarms of people were bustling through the streets, intent on their own business, not paying the least attention to each other. All in all, it was a peaceful, perfectly average morning.
That is, until one of the pedestrians looked up and froze in place.
Another slammed into him from behind, and was about to start cursing when he also looked up, and his mouth dropped open. Another passer-by noticed and, glancing up, stopped in his tracks, eyes widening. Then another. And another. Slowly, they started backing away.
"Why, thank you for making way, gentlemen," came a voice from high above. "I'm glad you recognize my magnificent marvelousness. You may prostrate yourselves, if you wish."
"Bleaawwwk!"
"Ah, you see? Ambrose Junior thanks you, too."
Patting my trusty camel's neck, I urged him forward, and the crowd parted like the Red Sea with Moses phobia. "Gee-up! Let's hurry, shall we?" I smirked. "We wouldn't want to turn up for work late, now, would we?"
"Bleeaagk!"
"So glad you agree."
And, patting my double-humped friend, I spurred him on down the road, which was suddenly amazingly empty and easy to navigate.
Why, you may ask, was I causing a scandal by riding through the streets of London on a camel named after my husband?
Well, duh. It was a camel. In the middle of London. How could I resist?
But, besides this very obvious and universally agreed-upon point, there was also one other. Looking up at the towering façade of my workplace, otherwise known as Empire House, I spotted the fellow I'd been looking for. Right there, next to the front door, stood the towering form of Karim, my dear husband's bodyguard and personal walking armoury.
"Oy, Karim!" Beaming, I waved at him. "Wonderful day, isn't it?"
He responded to my cheerful expression with a face etched from wood. "I am fairly certain when the Sahib said that, due to being in the family way, you should not walk to work, he did not intend for you to come riding on the back of a camel."
"He did not?" I widened my eyes in totally genuine surprise, looking around at the street on which several carriages were parked. "But what else could he have possibly been referring to?"
He sent me a dirty look. "I couldn't possibly say."
My grin widened. "Dicky Darling is rationing his staff's words again, is he?"
"Get. Inside!"
"Right-o! Have fun bodyguarding."
Sliding down from my comfy hump, I strode over to the front door and put the reins into Karim's hand.
"Here, take care of him, will you?"
The last thing I saw before disappearing into the building was Ambrose Junior taking aim at Karim.
"Agh! No, you furry beast, I order you to desist! You shall not spit at—gggk! Agh! You daima rākhaśa!"
Whistling, I stepped into the building. Instantly, the cool and soothing air of the familiar entrance hall enveloped me. The sounds of hurried footsteps echoed through the massive room, and hushed whispers rose from where some brave people were courageous enough to waste their work hours on talking. Any such whispers, however, abruptly cut off when they saw a woman step into the room, whistling a cheerful melody.
A very pregnant woman.
In Mr Rikkard Ambrose's hallowed halls of forced servitude.
Ignoring all the incredulous stares, I stepped to the receptionist's desk where Mr Sallow-Face, also known by some uncreative people as Mr Pearson, was scribbling in a large book, his narrow eyes completely focused on the paper.
"Good morning," I greeted cheerfully. "I'm here to see Mr Ambrose."
"Mr Ambrose is a very busy man," Pearson replied without looking up. "You may go to desk 7-B and get an appointment next summer."
"Odd. I wasn't aware that employees need appointments to see their boss."
Mr Pearson's pen froze halfway across the paper. Around them, various clerks and accountants stopped their work to stare at me.
Will you look at that? Even pregnant, I was apparently still so stunningly beautiful that I garnered all men's attention.
Slowly, very slowly, Pearson looked up. His eyes widened when he came face-to-bulge with my belly.
"Pardon me," he started, his voice a bit hoarse for some reason. "I must have misheard. Did you say you worked here?"
I nodded cheerfully. "Filling in for my brother. The fellow caught the sniffles, so, of course, he sent his pregnant sister as a substitute. Brotherly love is such an amazing thing."
"It's...you?"
"Ah, you remember me!" Happily, I clapped my hands. "So delighted to hear I made an impression."
His gaze travelled past me to where, through the open front door, my pet camel was still visible. Then his face twitched. "You tend to do things that are rather...memorable."
"Yep, I'm spiffing that way, aren't I?"
"That, young lady, would be a matter for debate. Now, pray tell, what are you doing here?"
"I told you. I came to work."
He sent me a patronizing look. "Please. I can make some allowances for your condition, but even a young woman in the family way should not make a fool of herself in such a manner. If your brother has told you anything about his employer, you should know that Mr Ambrose would never employ a—"
A whistling noise came from the horn that rested on his desk, attached to a certain system of tubes that ran throughout the building. Reaching out, Pearson lifted the horn to his ear. "Yes, Mr Ambrose, Sir? How may I help...oh. Um...are you quite sure, Sir? I mean, she is here, but I would not have thought that a man such as you would...Yes, Sir! No, I didn't mean to imply any such thing, Sir! Right away, Mr Ambrose, Sir!"
Slowly, Mr Pearson lowered the horn until it came to rest on the desk. His head lifted until his eyes met mine.
"Miss Linton?"
"Yes?" I enquired innocently. "Did he have something interesting to tell you?"
"You may go up, Miss Linton."
"You don't say." Smiling widely, I inclined my head in thanks, then turned away to eye the stairs that led up several floors in a narrow stairwell. "I think I'll be taking the elevator."
How splendid the elevator had recently been renovated and slowed to a reasonable pace, just after my pregnancy was discovered. An amazing coincidence, wasn't it?
With a swing in my step, I strode to the elevator door—then hesitated and glanced over my shoulder.
"Oh, and Mr Pearson...it's not Linton."
He blinked. But he didn't look up, or stop writing in his book. "Pardon?"
"It's not Miss Linton. It's Mrs Ambrose."
Pearson's pen jerked, sending a splash of ink all across the documents on his desk. The two dozen people hurrying through the entrance hall froze in their tracks, their jaws nearly slamming to the floor, their eyes bulging. Grinning, I sent them a last little wave and stepped into the elevator.
Ding!
A short journey later, the elevator doors opened with a soft sound. I strode out into the corridor, and waved at the upstairs receptionist in passing.
"Good morning, Mr Stone."
"Good morning, Mr Linto—what the heck!?"
"Yes, I know." I glanced down at myself and my bulging belly. "I really should have gone with the green dress instead of the blue, right? It totally clashes with my eyes."
"I...you...what...how...who...?"
I gave him a commiserating pat on the shoulder. "I sometimes have trouble waking up in the morning, too. Get some coffee. It's on my new husband."
And, whistling, I stepped past the desk and into my office. Ah...my office. Home sweet home. The place where my heart dwelled. The most amazing—
"You! Inside my office! Now!"
Ah. The sweet sound of domestic bliss.
"Coming, Dicky Darling! Coming!" I piped up.
From outside, I heard Mr Stone's chair clatter to the ground as he toppled over and crashed to the floor. Grinning, I made my way to the connecting door leading to the office of my husband/boss. Not bothering to knock, I pushed open the door and strode into the room.
"A wonderful morning to you, Mr Ambrose!"
Silence.
Ah, wasn't it a joy to be so warmly greeted by your husband?
Mr Ambrose sat behind his massive dark wood desk, fingers steepled. His icy eyes roamed up and down my figure, boring into me like icicle drills.
"Mrs Ambrose?"
"Yes, Mr Ambrose, Sir?"
"When you told me yesterday that you would have a surprise for me on our first day back at work, I did not think you meant showing up in a flowery sundress."
"Yep!" I beamed. "My surprises can really be amazingly surprising, can't they?"
"Mrs Ambrose?"
"Yes, Mr Ambrose, Sir?"
"Why are you in female attire?"
I cocked my head. "Would you have preferred me to show up as a heavily pregnant Mr Victor Linton, to explain to an entire entry hall full of people that the two of us are now married and you impregnated me? Not that I'd mind. Now that I think about it, that might actually be quite interesting. Wait here and I'll get my trousers and tailcoat, and—"
"Stop!"
Already halfway back to the door, I halted and glanced back at him. I did not smirk. Most definitely not. "Yes, dear? Was there something you wanted?"
"You can remain as you are. I suppose your attire is..." He eyed me for a moment. "...adequate."
A face-splitting grin spread across my visage. "Why, thank you so much for giving me such a charming compliment, Mr Ambrose."
"I did no such thing!"
"Of course you didn't."
He sent me one of his patented arctic stares. "Documents on your desk. Shorthand to be transcribed into letters. Now."
"Yes, Mr Ambrose, Sir. Right away, Mr Ambrose, Sir!"
Whistling again, I made my way back into my office and past the massive metal monster that was my typewriter, coming to a stop in front of my desk where, as announced, a pile of handwritten documents was waiting for me. Picking up a piece of paper densely filled with tiny scribbles, I stared down at it.
Shorthand?
That was putting it mildly. The only one I could think of whose hand might be shorter was my second cousin's pet pygmy marmoset. Leave it to Mr Ambrose to invent an entirely new kind of shorthand because the original was too long for his taste.
I looked down at the shorthand—then glanced sideways at the massive book resting next to it. The title on its cover proclaimed: Manual to R.A. Internal Business Shorthand. Confidential.
The smile that had previously been on my face faltered ever so slightly.
Wasn't it a joy to be back at work? Proving that I could still do the same work as any man even while pregnant really was an amazing feeling.
Lilly, you should really get better at lying to yourself.
***
"Thrice-blasted niggardly son of a bachelor!"
Exhausted, I sagged back into my chair.
Five hours! Five bloody hours! That's how long it had taken. And by "it", I didn't mean going through the documents. Oh no. Five hours was how long I'd needed to work my way through the infuriating excuse for a manual that could double as an ancient pharaoh's pyramid building block. Then another three hours to dig myself through the pile of piss-poor excuses for shorthand documents. By the time I was finished I had cursed Mr Rikkard Ambrose roughly forty-seven times.
"Bloody hell!"
Dragging in a deep breath of air, I placed the last of the papers on the table and started massaging my neck. There were muscles aching back there that I never knew I had. When I stretched, my bones made ominous popping sounds.
Just then, brisk footsteps approached. The connecting door opened, and Mr Rikkard Deserves-a-Kick-In-The-Bollocks Ambrose stuck his head into the room.
"Evening, Mrs Ambrose. A day of hard work is truly invigorating, isn't it?"
I moved my massaging hands to my back and gave my dear husband a sweet smile. "Do you know that, according to Scotland Yard reports, murders of married men are most often committed by their wives?"
"You don't say." He just cocked his head and extended his arm to me. "Fascinating. Now, shall we go home and enjoy our conjugal bliss?"
My smile widened. "Oh, by all means, let's go home! I've already got just the right transportation method in mind—"
"In a carriage. We're going home in a carriage. Drawn by horses."
"You really know how to spoil my fun, don't you?"
No answer.
"Don't you know you'll hurt Ambrose Junior's feelings?"
Silence.
Bloody hell! The stubborn man would really deprive me of my marvellous mount, wouldn't he? Horses were so boring. They didn't even have humps!
Then again, he had said "horses"—not "horse", as in the single miserable nag that Mr Ambrose usually put before his sorry excuse for a carriage. Did that mean he had actually gone out and bought a real carriage?
Well, well now. A way to get Mr Rikkard Ambrose to buy stuff: threaten him with camels. This had possibilities. Making a mental note to add it to my Handbook for Villainous Newlyweds, I started whistling again and moved to the door.
Hm...that makes two hundred fifty pages already. I wonder when I should get my handbook published...
"Mrs Ambrose?" A voice suddenly came from behind me. "What are you up to?"
"Me?" Turning around, I batted my eyelashes up at my hubby, eyes filled only with innocence. "Nothing. Why do you ask?"
"Hm." Eyes narrowed infinitesimally, Mr Ambrose extended his arm. I took it like the good little wife I was, and together we strode out the door and into the corridor. Outside, Mr Stone sat at his desk with a pen in his hand and a bruise on his forehead. The moment he spotted Mr Rikkard Ambrose, arm in arm with an undeniably female, very much pregnant figure, his eyes went wide.
"Oh my God it wasn't a nightmare!"
Mr Rikkard Ambrose slowly turned his head and sent his iciest stare at the receptionist. "What?"
"Um...err...I meant I'm going to get back to work now, Mr Ambrose, Sir. I'm working free overtime today, haha! I love working! I love working for free so much!"
"That's what I thought you said."
And he strode off, towing me down the corridor. Just before we stepped into the elevator, I sent Mr Stone a wave. Somehow losing his balance while seated, he teetered precariously, and a moment later—
Thump!
"Agh!"
Oh my.
I smiled to myself. If this was what working life as a married woman was going to be like, it would end up being rather amusing.
Ding!
A short journey later, the elevator doors opened at the bottom of the shaft, and the two of us stepped out into the entry hall. The moment we did, the gossiping crowd of clerks that was scattered throughout the hall fell suddenly silent and did their best to look very busy.
"So..." Mr Ambrose's icy gaze swept through the hall. "This is how things are, are they?"
The clerks did their best to sink into the floor. Unfortunately, it was made of very solid stone.
"I see. Well, if you have so much time to gossip, I'm sure you'll also have enough time to stay to work a few extra hours for no additional compensation, won't you?"
"Yes, Mr Ambrose, Sir!" a chorus of hurried murmurs echoed through the hall. "Of course, Mr Ambrose, Sir!"
"Well? What are you waiting for?"
"Nothing, Sir!"
The hall burst into a beehive of activity. As for me—I scrutinized my dear husband's profile. "Did you just use me as a way to get your employees to work free overtime?"
"Only a despicable, greedy person would do such a thing, Mrs Ambrose."
I narrowed my eyes at him. "So that means yes?"
Reaching out, he gently stroked a thumb across my cheek. The tiny motion sent a delicious shiver down my spine. His dark, sea-coloured eyes bored straight into my soul. "You know...I am reliably informed that knowing your spouse well is an excellent sign for a stable, lasting marriage."
"I-is that so?"
Damn you, my bloody useless, uncooperative tongue! And damn those darn deep, dark, hypnotic eyes of his!
"Now, enough time wasted." He stepped forward, and I noticed that, somehow, we were across the hall already.
Dammit, when did we move so far?
Pushing open the front door, he stepped outside and snapped his fingers. "Coach!"
A moment later, a simple but elegant black carriage came to a halt in front of us. And, wonder of wonders, it did indeed have two horses harnessed in front. The fact that one of them happened to be the scruffy little grey nag that was previously pulling Mr Ambrose's little chaise didn't detract from the amazing miracle in the least.
"Sahib." Jumping down from the box, Karim inclined his head and held open the carriage door.
"Karim." With a curt nod back at the bodyguard, Mr Ambrose strode past him and helped me into the coach. "Take us home."
"Home?" I blinked, suppressing a yawn. I only just realized this was the second time he'd said that. Darn, I really had to be getting tired if I missed obvious stuff like that. "Aren't we going back to the hotel?"
The day we arrived back from America, we had checked into a hotel near the docks, since Empire House wasn't exactly equipped with anything remotely resembling lodgings. I had expected we'd be going back there.
Giving me a cool look, he cocked his head at me. "Did you really expect me to pay for a hotel room one day longer than absolutely necessary?" Then, without breaking eye contact, he placed his hand on my bulging stomach, ever so gently.
Translation: You will have a real home. You and our child.
I swallowed. "True. That would be an egregious waste of money."
"Correct. Then we shall proceed." Reaching up, he slammed his cane against the roof of the carriage. "Karim, drive!"
A whip cracked and, with the clattering of wheels on cobblestones, we set off. A contented smile spread across my face, I snuggled into the surprisingly comfortable upholstery and closed my eyes. We would be going home. Home, where—
I froze.
Something had occurred to me.
Mr Ambrose had bought a home. Mr Rikkard Purse-Strings-Are-Not-Meant-to-Open Ambrose.
Cautiously, I opened one eye.
"Say...the 'home' we're going to...it isn't by any chance a ruin in the East End, right?"
"No."
"An old warehouse by the docks?"
"No."
"And...you didn't do anything like with your manor, which just so happened to be used as a furniture shop on the side?"
"No, of course not." He turned towards me and gazed deeply and earnestly into my eyes. "Nothing of the kind. I swear, the place we are going to is primarily used as a domicile."
Mollified, I closed my eyes once more and sank back into the upholstery. After all, surely my beloved husband wouldn't try to trick me.
Right?
-----------------------------------------------
My dear Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen,
I just realized that, in the last author's note of "New Storm Rising" I referred to Lilly's future child as "Ambrose Junior", while that is actually the name of her pet camel. So, just to reassure you, my dear readers, Lilly is not going to give birth to a baby camel! ;-) This was merely a little mistake on my part.
I hope you enjoyed the first chapter of "Storm over the Caribbean"?
Yours Truly
Sir Rob
-------------------------------------------------
GLOSSARY:
Ḍaima rākhaśa is Punjabi for "Damn monster".
Pygmy marmosets - Pygmy marmosetsare the smallest monkeys in the world.