‘So…where does this family of yours live, exactly?’
‘In the North.’
I gave him a look. ‘I had surmised as much from the fact that we’re travelling on the Great Northern Road.’
‘Indeed?’
‘Yes, indeed, Sir.’
I waited for more. Nothing came. Nothing but the pictures my own imagination could conjure up. In the beginning, from the moment Mr Ambrose had first hinted he came from the North, I had always pictured some ice-cold, windy Scottish castle on top of a cliff, with no glass in the windows, and an underground vault filled with a life’s worth of hoarded treasure. However, when I had voiced these theories, Mr Ambrose had looked at me as if I were a particularly repellent cockroach and informed me coolly that he had not and did never intend to live in Scotland, that he was a one hundred per cent English gentleman and did not appreciate my suggesting anything to the contrary.
Of course I didn’t believe a word. The man had to be Scottish! He had to be! He hadn’t bought new underwear in over ten years. If that didn’t scream ‘Highlander’, I didn’t know what did.
Still, it was a sensitive subject, so it might be best to proceed with caution.
‘Okay, let’s start crossing off possibilities,’ I murmured. ‘Do your parents live in a castle?’
‘No.’
‘A palace?’
‘No.’
‘A townhouse?’
‘No.’
‘A henhouse?’
No answer.
‘Ah. So a henhouse it is, then.’
Mr Ambrose raised his gaze from the papers he had been studying. ‘They do not live in a henhouse, Mr Linton. They live in…’ A muscle in his cheek twitched. It was over and done with in a fraction of a second, but I saw it all right. Oh yes, I did. ‘…in a manor in the country.’
I casually leant closer, and enquired, ‘In which part of Scotland?’
A moment of silence.
A long one.
‘Mr Linton?’
‘Yes, Mr Ambrose, Sir?’
‘You know perfectly well that they do not live in Scotland! For the last time, I am not Scottish, and neither are they, and the same applies to my grandparents and their parents before them.’
I raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s what you say. I still doubt it’s physically possible for anyone to be as stingy as you are if they don’t have at least a drop of Scottish blood running through their veins.’
‘I resent that implication, Mr Linton.’
‘Indeed, Sir?’
‘It is perfectly possible for an Englishman to be as frugal, prudent and economical as any Scotsman.’
‘If you say so, Sir.’
With a cool look, he returned to studying his papers. I, for my part pulled out a book I had acquired as a little light reading for the journey: The Stingy Scotsman - One-thousand Hilarious Jokes. It really was hilarious reading, particularly if, like me, you had a pencil with you, and busied yourself replacing the words ‘a Scotsman’ with ‘Rikkard Ambrose’.
This led to some quite interesting results…
What is Rikkard Ambrose’s recipe for tomato soup? Heat a quarter gallon of water, and then fill it into red bowls.
Or how about this one:
Rikkard Ambrose accompanies a friend to the doctor. The doctor tells him, ‘Your friend needs fresh sea air to get well again.’ Mr Ambrose is very concerned, so the very next day, he gifts his friend with a free treatment: a full-time, unpaid job in his fishmonger business.
Another one on the great value of a wonderful friendship:
Mr Rikkard Ambrose’s friend is dying. Rikkard Ambrose kneels beside his bed and gently takes his hand. ‘Anything I can do for you? Any last requests?’ His friend points towards the table next to the bed, where a meal is prepared. ‘J-just one bite of that cake….please…’ Mr Ambrose shakes his head, sternly. ‘Now, really! You know very well that’s for the funeral reception. I can’t waste money buying another one.’
Or, a sweet, romantic one:
Why would Rikkard Ambrose love to marry on February 29? Because then he’d only have to pay for an anniversary gift every four years.
And my current favourite:
At an auction, a wealthy lord announces that he has lost his wallet containing £10,000 and will give a reward of £100 to the person who finds it. From the back of the crowd, Mr Rikkard Ambrose calls, ‘I bid a hundred and ten!’
‘Something funny, Mr Linton?’
Glancing up, I saw Mr Ambrose was staring at me - and only then did I realise I had been giggling.
‘Um…no, Sir. Nothing. Nothing at all.’
‘Indeed?’
A blast of cold wind hit the carriage, and I drew my tailcoat tighter around me. Bloody hell! This carriage was about as warm and comfortable as a can of sardines. But I should be glad that Mr Ambrose agreed to rent a carriage with a roof for the journey. It had taken quite some time to convince him that being caught in the middle of a snow storm in an open chaise wasn’t a good idea.
Well, as long as it was cold, why not use it to my advantage?
Putting aside my book, I rose. Mr Ambrose showed no sign of noticing that I was moving until I settled myself down on the other bench, right next to him.
‘Mr Linton!’
‘Yes?’
‘What are you doing?’
‘Keeping warm, Sir.’
‘Keeping wa-?’
His voice cut off abruptly as I leant against his hard, muscular side and snuggled into his warmth. Amazing how a man with a heart of ice and face of stone could be this warm.
‘Mr…Linton…’
‘Mmmmh?’
‘I…you…’
I slid an arm around him, pulling him close, and his words drained away. I snuggled closer, revelling in his warmth, and a few minutes later, the world followed his words, slipping away into nothingness.
*~*~**~*~*
‘Mr Linton?’
‘Mmmm…’
‘Mr Linton!’
‘’ts not time to get up yet, Ella… Let me sleep a little longer.’
‘Mr Linton, wake up! We have stopped.’
Blinking, I yawned, dragging in cool winter air. The cold revived me a little - but only a little. Getting up at five a.m. was showing its effects. It was only then that I realised my head was resting in Rikkard Ambrose’s lap. I blinked up at him.
‘Oh. Hello there.’
‘Good afternoon, Mr Linton.’ He nodded to me. His body was as stiff as a board. ‘Your head is lying on my papers. You are obstructing my view.’
‘Then why didn’t you wake me earlier?’
‘I…’ A muscle in the side of his face twitched, and I realised that he had one arm around my waist, holding me against him. He, too seemed to suddenly notice that and let go as if I were on fire. ‘I cannot have you sleep-deprived. I need you at your full capacity when we arrive.’
‘Oh. That’s it, is it?’
He slid out from under me, letting my head thud onto the bench. ‘Yes.’
‘I see.’ Groaning, I sat up straight and pulled the blinds partly aside. ‘Why have we stopped?’
‘The horses need rest. And the rest of us have certain business to take care of, too, I believe.’
I stared at him. ‘Here? You want to hold a business meeting out here, in the middle of the country on the Northern Road? Mr Ambrose, dedication to work is all well and good, but this-’
‘Not business business, Mr Linton. A…well…another kind of business.’
I stared at him for a few moments - but then, when the full feeling in my lower regions started to call attention to itself, I got it.
‘Oh! Oh, I see.’
‘Indeed.’
I stared at him. ‘You have to pee?’ I asked, morbidly fascinated. I had always assumed he lived on the smell of money alone and had no digestive organs.
He gave me a cool look. ‘I have to fulfil the same bodily functions as any other adult male.’
‘And you’re planning to do it here?’ I glanced out of the window again. Outside, it was snowing heavily, and the wind was howling. ‘Bloody hell! You’ll be lucky if you don’t freeze off your-’
‘Finish that sentence the wrong way, Mr Linton, and it will cost you a week’s wages.’
‘ - fingers.’ I threw him a grin. ‘Well then, good luck.’
‘Good luck yourself, Mr Linton. You’re going first.’
I blinked at him. ‘You’re not serious.’
‘When and how exactly have I given you the impression that I tend to joke?’
‘But…aren’t we stopping at an inn, later?’
‘No. It’s a ten- to twelve-hour drive up to the North, well manageable within one day. Why waste money on an inn if we don’t have to?’
‘Because…how to put this delicately…no matter how often you call me “Mister”, there are still a few anatomical differences between me and the average man, differences which make relieving myself while standing rather difficult. So if you don’t want me to greet your mother in wet and smelly trousers, we should definitely stop at an inn.’
‘Oh.’
The expression on his face was priceless. I tried my best to disguise my grin - but failed. He couldn’t get out of the coach fast enough. As soon as he’d left, I fell over, collapsing in hopeless giggles. Minutes later, when Mr Ambrose returned to the coach and ordered Karim to start driving, I was still smiling. God bless the female bladder! I had no intention of driving all the way through to the North in one go. Oh no. I had plans that involved me, Mr Ambrose and a cosy little room at an inn somewhere, where we could huddle together and….
Well, you get the picture.
*~*~**~*~*
‘There! There, do you see? I see lights right up ahead. That has to be an inn.’
‘I suppose so.’ Mr Ambrose gave me a cool look. ‘And you really can’t manage the last twenty miles or so?’
‘You don’t want to see - or smell - what happens if I try.’
‘Indeed.’ Mr Ambrose slammed his cane against the roof. ‘Karim? Stop at that inn!’
It was early evening and the sun had just begun to set as we drove into the inn’s courtyard. Through curtains of falling snow, I saw the landlord and a maid standing at a window, their noses pressed against the glass, staring out at us with eyes as big as saucers. They probably didn’t get many visitors up here this time of year, and even fewer who were being driven around by a big Indian with a turban on his head.
‘Karim?’
At Mr Ambrose’s call, the big Mohammedan slid off the box, landing in the snow with a dull thud. A moment later, he appeared beside the blind-covered window. ‘Yes, Sahib?’
‘Go ahead and see if they have a room free, and if everything is secure.’
‘Yes, Sahib.’
And he was gone. A moment later, I heard the front door of the inn squeak, and all chatter inside ceased immediately as the huge sabre-bearing bodyguard stepped inside. There was a moment of silence during which you could have heard a pin drop, then Karim’s gravelly thunder of a voice proclaimed: ‘My master has arrived. You there, fat man - you have a free room for him. If not, make one free now.’
You had to love Karim. He was simply so nice and sociable.
‘I shall search this building now. Anyone harbouring malicious intent against the Sahib, make your peace with your God!’
And the door slammed shut.
I raised an eyebrow at Mr Ambrose. ‘Check to see if everything is secure? Right smack in the middle of the United Kingdom?’
‘I have my reasons.’ And I noticed that his hand hovered just over the place where he usually carried his gun.
Holy moly! What kind of family reunion is this going to be?
‘The estate,’ Mr Ambrose said, very slowly and precisely, as if he had to force every word out, ‘of Lord Daniel Eugene Dalgliesh is only a few miles away from that of my parents.’
Oh.
That piece of information would have been kind of nice to have earlier. Like, for instance, before I nagged him into coming here?
Too late now, Lillian. You dug your own cesspit, so you‘d better jump in.
Karim reappeared before the window. ‘Everything secure, Sahib. I have spoken to the fat man with the apron and secured accommodations for you and-’ he threw a look at me ‘-and your companion.’
‘You didn’t waste money on more than one room, did you?’
‘Certainly not, Sahib. They only have one free room in any case. The others, the fat man tells me, are full of winter supplies. They were not expecting guests.’
‘Then where will you sleep?’ I demanded. Sharing a bed with Mr Ambrose was one thing, but Karim and his beard was where I drew the line!
Karim straightened to his full height, puffing out his chest. ‘In the stables. I am strong and resilient and do not fear to suffer in Ambrose Sahib’s service.’
And he strutted away, very satisfied with himself for freezing his toes off and in the process saving his employer a few pence.
‘Come on.’ Gripping the door, Mr Ambrose pushed it open, letting snow swirl inside on a gust of cold wind. ‘Let’s go, Mr Linton.’
And, leaping down into the snow, he started toward the inn, his long legs eating up the distance fast. Grabbing my suitcase from the top of the carriage - of course, Karim had stowed away Mr Ambrose’s luggage and left mine to soak in the snow - I hurried after him.
Inside the inn, we were greeted by a collection of patrons frozen solid into statues, all staring at the giant Indian who was standing guard next to the door, glaring at them as if any of them might draw a dagger at any moment and rush towards Mr Rikkard Ambrose. They didn’t seem to me to be very intent on doing any rushing - except maybe out of the room. But nobody dared to move. Ale dropped from half-raised mugs. Somewhere in the background, a tea kettle whistled in shrill protest.
Mr Ambrose let his gaze wander over the assembled crowd - then turned away without a word, facing the innkeeper.
‘One room. One night. No food.’
‘Ah, um…yes, Sir.’ The innkeeper fumbled with his apron. ‘Your man already explained your requirements.’
‘Adequate. Oh, and my employee here needs to use your facilities. If you would have a servant show him the way…’
‘Certainly, Sir! I’ll call Tom and-’
The innkeeper cut off as, suddenly, there was a movement in the small crowd of patrons. At the very back, an old man leant forward, frowning at Mr Ambrose - then suddenly, his eyes went wide, and he shot to his feet.
‘No! It can’t be! Master…Master Rikkard?’