Silence.
It was utter. Complete. Unbreakable. And yet...it was louder than any silence I had ever heard before in my life. I had a sudden urge to clamp my hands over my ears to protect them from the sudden lack of noise. The temperature in the room dropped by a hundred degrees. Not wishing to be frozen into an ice sculpture, I said nothing and didn't move. Especially not in the direction of Mr Rikkard Ambrose. In fact, I avoided looking at him altogether. After all, there was no particular reason why I should be looking at him, right? He hadn't walked in on anything bad. It was all perfectly innocent, and I was blameless, and if I just kept my mouth shut and avoided looking into his icy eyes I might, possibly, survive this.
Captain Carter had no such compunctions.
'Excuse me, Sir!' Rising to his feet, he sent Mr Ambrose a glare that would have made most men retreat with their tail between their legs. 'Didn't your mother teach you how to knock?'
Most men. Not this one.
Mr Ambrose regarded Captain Carter as if he were something he had found stuck to the sole of his ten-year-old mint-condition shoes.
'She did – just like she taught me that a gentleman has no business being alone in a lady's room. Leave.'
'Miss Linton and I–'
'–can speak later. Miss Linton is recovering from injuries. Leave. Now.'
Captain Carter opened his mouth to protest again – and closed it. What could he do? This house belonged to Mr Ambrose. In fact, the captain would probably have to walk for a good, long while to reach a portion of the city that didn't belong to Mr Ambrose. His gaze bored into my employer, then slowly moved from Mr Ambrose to me, and back to Mr Ambrose. His eyes narrowed infinitesimally.
'Very well.' Rising to his feet, he marched to the door. He very nearly shoved Mr Ambrose as he strode past. Nearly, but not quite. Just as he reached the door, he turned and looked back straight at me. 'I shall return. Very, very soon.'
And he was gone.
Silence reigned.
Earth-shattering, ice-cold, terror-inducing silence.
Silence that promised death and destruction.
'Well, well.' Turning towards Mr Ambrose, I gifted him with one of my best fake smiles. 'Nice weather today, isn't it?'
'Which part? The snow storm or the thick fog?'
'Well...'
Taking a step into the room, Mr Ambrose let the door slide shut behind him. Never in the history of carpentry had anyone been able to make the soft click of a door sound so terrifyingly threatening.
'What,' my dear employer enquired in a tone that tickled my spine with icy fingers, 'was he doing here?'
I waved dismissively, then stopped when the motion hurt like hell. 'Oh, just the usual. Stopping by, asking how I'm doing...'
...proposing marriage...
For some reason I didn't mention that last point to Mr Ambrose, though.
He gave me a long, hard look. One of those looks that could make accountants quake in their boots and confess embezzlement on the spot. I was preparing for an inquisition including thumbscrews and Chinese water torture – after all, why not? I was prone and helpless. But it didn't come. Instead, he gave a curt nod.
'I see.'
I blinked. 'You... you do?'
'Oh yes, Mr Linton.' His cold, sea-coloured gaze bored into me, making me shiver. 'I see everything.'
*~*~**~*~*
The days passed slowly and torturously. As I lay there, waiting for my ribs to stop poking me with red hot irons, I reflected that this probably was what marriage to an eligible bachelor would be like: nothing to do all day but be idle until you were bored out of your skull.
So I was determined to approach my injuries with the same brilliant strategy with which I had always approached the prospect of marriage: ignore it and hope it goes away.
'Ah! Ouch! Argh!'
'Um...Miss? I'm not entirely sure you should up on your feet. Your poor ribs–'
'Blast, blast, blast! Ow! Ouch! Bloody hell!'
'Miss, please! Mr Ambrose said you weren't to overexert yourself.'
'Really? He said that?'
Nellie, the maid Mr Ambrose had assigned to me as my personal whipping boy and dogsbody during our stay at this lovely house, blushed. 'Well... he said "Get her up on her feet by the day after tomorrow, or you'll be out of a job." But I'm sure he meant for you to not overexert yourself.'
I patted her head. 'Bless you. Of course he did. Now help me hobble over there, will you? I think I can manage another round across the room before I collapse.'
'Yes, Miss.'
My get-well-or-die-trying approach showed definite results. After only a week, I could hobble across the room without help, and after only a few days more, I managed to get back to my bed without falling on my face. Captain Carter visited me quite often, providing moral support, and Mr Ambrose also dropped by, providing icy glares and threats of cutting my wages. It was hardly a surprise that with such loving support, matters steadily improved. It wasn't long before, finally, I was able to go outside again.
'Aaah!' Stretching, I breathed in the fresh stench of coal mines and factories. 'It's so good to be out again. And will you look at that? Most of the city isn't burned to the ground. How wonderful.'
'Indeed.'
'I always try to look on the bright side of things.'
'I've noticed.' Stepping to the edge of the balcony, Mr Ambrose gazed out over the city of Newcastle. 'Speaking of a bright side...'
'Yes, Sir?'
'The army made some enquiries into the miners who were suspected of assaulting you in front of the manager's office.'
'And?'
'And those men seem to have disappeared.'
'Is that so, Sir?'
'Yes, Mr Linton.'
'Ah.'
Out of the corner of my eye, I glanced at him. He was still looking out over the city. His face was completely impassive, giving nothing away, and demanding a refund of two hundred pounds and thirty-seven shillings into the bargain. Surely he wouldn't...
Would he?
Time to change the subject. And, fortunately, I had just the right thing ready at hand. Drawing a folded piece of paper from my pocket, I cleared my throat.
'I received another letter from your mother this morning, Sir.'
'Indeed, Mr Linton?'
'Yes, Sir.'
Silence.
And a bit more silence.
'Um...well, Sir?'
'Well what, Mr Linton?'
'What should I answer her?'
'That the strike is still continuing and our return will be delayed for at least another week.'
Silence.
This time, it was a diplomatic silence, maintained by me. But I couldn't keep it up for long.
'Err...but the last remnants of the strike were crushed five days ago, Sir.'
'Correct, Mr Linton. Your point is?'
'Um...never mind, Sir.'
I didn't broach the subject again. Although I did wonder why exactly Mr Ambrose wanted to stay in Newcastle at this point. Captain Carter had to stay for now to help maintain order in the city, but Mr Ambrose? His business was concluded. What was he waiting for? What was he doing?
I got an answer to that question all too soon.
*~*~**~*~*
It was around five p.m. and the sun had just begun to set when the pounding on the door started. By the time I reached the hallway, the maids were gathered in a frightened gaggle, clutching each other as if squeezing the blood out of each other's fingers was somehow a magical protection.
'What in God's name is going on here?' I demanded.
'Th-there's someone at the door, Miss,' Nellie mumbled.
'I had surmised as much,' I shot back as the door reverberated under another thunderous blow. 'Why don't you welcome our visitor?'
'Well, um...' Nellie's nervous glance strayed to the door. She flinched when there was yet another loud thud.
'Where's Mrs Gibbons?'
'Out, Miss.'
'And Mr Ambrose?'
'Out as well, Miss.'
'Well, then we'll have to take care of this. Open the door!'
'But, err...Miss...'
Boom! Boom! Boom!
Nellie shrank back.
'Oh, for God's sake!' Rolling my eyes, I marched down the stairs, and grabbed a solid-looking walking stick from the umbrella stand, likely the property of the late Mr Gibbons. My motto: Better wreckful than reckless. 'Out of the way! I'll do it myself.'
Very happy to hear the news, the maids dutifully retreated to a safe distance. I for my part got a good grip on the walking stick, grabbed the doorknob, twisted and pulled.
'Now listen here, Mister,' I began. 'Whoever you think you are, you can't go around–'
The rest of the sentence stuck in my throat. In front of me stood Captain James Carter. His uniform was torn, and he had a bloody great gash on one side of his head.
'Holy...!'
The captain staggered inside. Grabbing his arm, I half led, half dragged him towards a chair and dumped him into it.
'What happened?' I demanded. 'Who did this to you?'
'Close the door!'
'Not before–'
'Close the door! Now! They might still be after me.'
At that little comment, the maids moved quicker than a debtor running from Mr Rikkard Ambrose. In a flash, the door was closed, locked and bolted. I turned back to Captain Carter.
'They? There was more than one?'
'I don't know, really.' Raising his hand, he cautiously felt the back of his head and groaned. Only then did I realise that he had an impressive bump back there. 'It might have been only one. But if it was, hell, he must have been Goliath's grandson. By George, was that brute strong!'
Bloody hell! Someone had really gone after him. This wasn't just some stupid prank. This was real.
But...Captain Carter? He was the sweetest man I had ever met! In fact, he was about the only man I had met who deserved that adjective! What kind of despicable scum would go after him? Oh, if I ever got my hands on them...!
Trying my best to contain my rage (and my raging curiosity), I dashed into the kitchen and returned with a bottle of brandy and a cloth. At the sight of the bottle, the Captain's face brightened considerably, and he held out his hand.
'You're a lifesaver, Miss Linton.'
'Let's wait and see if you still think that in a minute.' Evading his hand, I opened the bottle and emptied a good part of the brandy onto the cloth. Without any ceremony I slapped it onto the Captain's head and began to vigorously dab at the bloody gash.
'Ouch! Ow! What are you doing?'
'Cleaning your wound. We have to make sure it doesn't get inflamed.'
'Well – ow! – it feels pretty inflamed right now. That burns!'
'It's supposed to. Hold still.'
'And then I'll get to drink the rest of the bottle?'
I felt relieved. If he could still make comments like that, his head couldn't have been too severely damaged. He was still the same Captain James Carter.
He waited – not patiently, but he did wait – until I had cleaned and wrapped his wound, and fetched a cold wet cloth for the bump on his head. Then, finally, I settled myself down in a chair across from him and fixed him with my best Ambrose-imitation stare.
'Talk! What happened? Start from the beginning.'
'The beginning...' Uttering another groan, he pressed the cold cloth more firmly to his head. 'Well, I suppose that would be when I went out for a drink with a few of my friends in the Bull's Head Inn. It's just down the road from here. I stepped out and was thinking, since I was in the area, I might come to visit you – when suddenly, someone grabbed me from behind.'
Instinctively, my fingers twitched, itching to reach out for a sharpened parasol. 'Who was the son of a bachelor?'
'I only wish I knew. Whoever it was, they pushed me into a dark alley, and I was just about to turn and show them that they'd picked the wrong man for a fight when they whacked me over the head, hard.' Another groan. 'Good Lord, he was fast! And strong as Atlas! But I could have lived with the blow to my head. The blow to my ego that came a second later when they pulled a sack over my head was more difficult to digest.'
I stared at him. 'A sack? Over your head?'
'Yes.'
'Why would a thief or a robber–'
He grimaced. 'Oh, this was no thief, Miss Linton. They were only after one thing: my pretty head on a platter. I don't know why they didn't just ram a knife between my ribs. As quick as they were, they could have managed. I suppose they had something more interesting planned for me than a simple, quick death.'
'But you got away. You escaped.'
'Barely.' He pulled another face. 'Somehow, I managed to twist around, even with those giant arms around me squeezing me half to death. I lashed out, and by pure dumb luck, hit the fellow in the face. I tore off the sack and ran down the alley without even looking back.'
'Blast and double blast!' Shaking my head, I stared at the marks on him, wondering what kind of beast would be able to inflict that kind of damage on a professional soldier. 'So you have no idea who it was?'
For the first time since he had staggered into the house, the impish grin I knew and loved spread over the face of Captain James Carter.
'Well...not entirely.'
My eyes narrowed. 'What aren't you telling me? Out with it!'
Slipping one hand into his pocket, the Captain pulled out something from his pocket. Metal and wood glinted in the candlelight. A moment later, he held something up between us.
'I got hold of this while I was trying to land a blow,' the Captain explained. I heard his voice as if from very, very far away. 'Well, what do you say, Miss Linton? There can't be very many of those in Newcastle.'
I swallowed, my eyes fixed on the object in his hand. 'No, there can't.'
'As soon as I find out who it belongs to, I'll have my man!'
'Yes. Yes, I suppose you will.'
In front of me, in the faint light of the candles, glinted a beautiful curved dagger in an intricately worked mahogany and metal sheath. It was very oriental in design, and, what was more important, very, very familiar.
'Do you see there, the strap, where it's been torn loose? It could be easily matched if the owner were to be found.'
'Oh. Yes, indeed.'
'The only question is where I'll keep it while I make enquiries. I don't want to take it back to headquarters. There's just a chance that one of the local officers did this as payback for our role in the suppression of the strike.'
'Why don't you leave it with me,' I offered, reaching for the dagger as if to check whether it was truly real. It was. 'I'll...look after it.'
'Would you? Thank you, Miss Linton. That's very kind of you.'
'Oh no,' I whispered, my fingers closing around the dagger. 'I think I'll have a use for it.'
*~*~**~*~*
Quite a long time later, when the sun had set and Captain Carter had long departed, I still sat in the hallway, the dagger in one hand, the brandy bottle in the other. Whatever happened tonight, I would probably murder someone or need a drink, so it was best to be prepared.
I had to wait quite a long while. When finally the door opened, and a large, turban-wearing figure entered the house muttering low curses, I rose. With a flick of a finger, I lit a match and held it to the candle on the chair next to me. In the sudden light, Karim stood frozen in the door.
Smiling like a shark, I raised the dagger. 'Looking for this?'
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My dear Lords and Ladies,
Apologies if I keep my author's note short today. I have caught an infection and am tied to my sickbed. Luckily, I do not only have to rely on 19th-century remedies ;-) Please keep your fingers crossed that I'll be back up soon, hopefully in time to post the next chapter on schedule.
Yours Truly
Sir Rob