How am I going to get rid of him? How am I going to get rid of him? How the hell am I going to get rid of him?

This was the only thought running through my head, again and again, when I made my way to work on Friday. I was getting desperate. I mean, I suppose I could always let myself be led to the altar, and when the priest asked me, ‘Wilt thou have this Man to thy wedded Husband, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony?’ answer with a big, fat, resounding: ‘No!’

But to be honest, I didn’t know whether anyone would listen to me. I was still a minor. My aunt and uncle could decide practically everything for me. Could they decide whom I was to marry, too?

Part of me was afraid that, yes, they could.

I had to find a way to get rid of Morty! I simply had to! I had no intention of marrying any man. And if I did, it certainly wouldn’t be a man like him. It would be a man like -

I cut that thought off before it could go any further. Now wasn’t the time for silliness. Now was the time for deep thought.

‘Lillian, my love!’

Correction: Now was the time for running! The voice from behind me froze the blood in my veins and set my heart hammering. He was behind me! If he caught up to me, I’d never get to work! And then…well, I wasn’t quite sure if Mr Ambrose would ‘fire’ me, because I wasn’t sure you could apply such a hot word to Mr Rikkard Ambrose. But he would definitely freeze me.

I hastened my steps. I just had to get around that corner! Maybe…

‘Lillian, my darling! Stop! It’s me, Mor-oomph!’

I was halfway to the street corner before I realized that Morty’s footsteps were no longer following me. His voice, too, had cut off abruptly. Knowing I might regret it, I stopped to listen.

No ‘Lillian, my love!’

No ‘Lillian, hand over your bosom so I can cry tears of happiness on it!’

No nothing.

Slowly, very slowly, I turned. In the whole street, there was no sign of Morty. There wasn’t any sign of anyone. And yet, in the moments before Morty’s voice had cut off, I could have sworn I had heard a second, heavier pair of footsteps.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a motion, and whirled. But the mouth of the alley I whirled towards was empty. Strange. For one moment I thought I had seen a shadow moving into it. No…not moving, exactly. Being dragged.

An involuntary shiver ran down my spine.

Stop imagining things! I told myself. And get to work!

Mr Ambrose did not freeze me. But he wasn’t very warm and chummy, either. We still hadn’t worked through the balance sheets, and his mood was getting icier with every penny of taxes that was added to the total. That day, I went home exhausted and thoroughly depressed at the thought of the weekend ahead. True, my dear employer worked me like a carthorse, but at least he wasn’t prone to frequent and flowery confessions of love. I shuddered at the thought of having no office to escape to for two whole days. I knew what awaited me instead: forty-eight hours of Morty around the clock.

Only…

When Saturday morning dawned and we all sat down to breakfast, Morty didn’t show up. Neither did he show up for lunch, or our usual stroll in the park to which my aunt in her cruelty had condemned me. When, after an hour of feeding the ducks, he still hadn’t put in an appearance, I shrugged and returned home.

‘What are you doing back here so early?’ my aunt snapped. ‘And where is Mr Fitzgerald?’

I shrugged again. ‘He wasn’t there.’

‘What do you mean, he wasn’t there?’

‘I mean that he was in absentia. Skiving off. Not present.’

‘Don’t take that tone with me, young lady! Go dress for dinner! He must be here for dinner, and I’m sure he’ll explain everything then.’

But he didn’t appear for dinner either. I didn’t dare to hope yet when I went to bed that evening, but when Sunday morning came and there still was no sign of him, hope would no longer be denied and fought her way into my consciousness.

Is it possible? Can he really be…gone? Simply vanished? But how?

I didn’t want to believe it yet. Believing it would make it real - and that would make the disappointment when Morty finally walked through the door only all the more crushing. But he didn’t walk through the door all day, nor climb through the window nor come down the chimney.

It can’t be possible! He can’t be gone! He can’t! I can’t be this lucky!

I tried telling myself that again and again as I lay in bed that night, trying to fall asleep. But the ridiculous grin on my face just wouldn’t die down, and neither would the hope blossoming in my non-bosomy chest. I suppose I should have felt a bit worried about what might have happened to poor Morty - but I was too blissful at the prospect of not becoming Mrs Morton Marmeduke Fitzgerald to bloody care!

This happy prospect became exponentially more likely when, by next morning, Morty still hadn’t put in an appearance. Ignoring my aunt’s sour face, which could have been used to make enough pickled eggs to supply London for a whole year, I danced out of the house, threw on my men’s clothes and dashed off to work, running twice as fast as I normally did. By the time I arrived at 322 Leadenhall Street, I was barely out of breath. I danced into Mr Ambrose’s office, hardly able to suppress my urge to sing.

‘Isn’t it a wonderful morning, Sir?’ I sighed, twirling like a ballerina in the middle of the office.

Mr Ambrose didn’t raise his cool gaze from the paper he was reading.

‘Any particular reason for your unnecessary exuberance, Mr Linton?’

‘Yes, oh yes! A man has disappeared! Maybe he’s sick, or he’s been pressed into the Navy, or -’ I did another pirouette, ‘- he might even be dead!’

‘And that is cause for joy why, exactly?’

‘Because he’s the bloody man who wanted to marry me, that’s why!’

He cocked his head. ‘I see. My congratulatory condolences, Mr Linton.’

‘Thanks!’

‘How did this fortunate event take place, if I may ask?’

I frowned. It wasn’t like Mr Ambrose to ask questions. And he had a funny lack of a look on his face. Somehow a bit different from the usual absence of expression that usually reigned on his stony visage.

‘No idea. But now that you mention it…’

‘Yes, Mr Linton?’

‘It’s strange…’

‘What is?’

‘He isn’t the first suitor who has disappeared without a trace. The last one disappeared just like that, suddenly, without the slightest explanation.’ I bit my lip, thinking - then shrugged, and skipped over to my desk with a grin. ‘But as long as they’re gone, why should I care about the how? Maybe I have a guardian angel.’

Abruptly, he turned around, and marched back to the door. ‘Doubtful. I cannot imagine a divine entity would waste its time guarding you.’

‘Thank you for the compliment, Sir!’

‘Get out the balance sheets, Mr Linton. We’re going to get through with them today, understood?’

‘Yes, Sir!’

We didn’t get through with them. There were lots and lots of the blasted things, and this was going to take longer than Mr Ambrose had anticipated. Either he hadn’t known how rich he was, which I doubted very much, or he hadn’t anticipated how big of a bite the government was planning to take out of his profits. In that case, I pitied the poor tax collector who would come around trying to collect. There truly were fates worth than death, and I didn’t wish them on anybody. Not even tax collectors.

I toiled from morning until (almost) night. Mr Ambrose continued to crack the figurative whip until thirty-seven seconds before eight pm, when he finally admitted that we might actually not manage to finish the work tonight.

‘Put away the balance sheets,’ he ordered. ‘In all probability, we will not be able to finish our work today, after all.’

I glanced at my pocket watch. Twenty-five seconds to closing time. Yes, I’d say that it was probable, too.

Grabbing stack after stack, I stored away several months’ worth of bookkeeping. The only thing I had on my mind was getting out of the office extra quickly to enjoy my newfound freedom - but when I removed the last stack of financial papers from Mr Ambrose’s desk, something beneath caught my eye: a slim black folder, lying conspicuously alone at the corner of the desk.

I hadn’t put it there. Usually, all the files on Mr Ambrose’s desk were put there by me. But this one? No. The thing just lay there, dark and mysterious, sending a shiver down my spine. It sparked a dim memory in my mind. Months ago, shortly after I had first started working for Mr Ambrose…

Haven’t I seen something similar?

But no. I was Mr Ambrose’s secretary. What possible reason would he have to keep any files secret from me? Still, even the inscription on the file seemed familiar: M.M.F.. from L.L. Waste Disposal.

What could that possibly mean?

‘Sir?’ Picking up the file, I held it out to him. ‘What am I supposed to do with this?’

He looked at me for a moment - a strange look that sent another shiver down my spine. Bloody hell! I had to set up a shiver blockade somewhere back there.

‘Well, Sir?’ Mr Ambrose was still gazing at me, unspeaking. I glanced down at the file. What in God’s name was so familiar about it?

I looked back at my employer, and he cocked his head. ‘File it under “success”, Mr Linton.’

‘Yes, Sir. As you wish, Sir.’

*~*~**~*~*

Free!

Free!

Free!

I was free!

Free as a bird!

No, actually much freer than a bird! A bird had to build a nest and fill it with ugly, quarrelsome baby birds and then spend all his time stuffing their greedy little beaks with earthworms. I didn’t have to stuff anybody with anything. I could just tell them to get stuffed!

My aunt was in a sour mood, of course, but since this was sort of her natural state, I wasn’t particularly worried about it. As for Morty - I wished him all the best, wherever he was. The happier he was in his current place of residence, the less likely he was to come back to me. And when a little pinch of guilt overcame me now and again for not worrying more about the fate of my fiancé, I had only to resort to the pages of the Times to recover my earlier sense of exalted relief at not being faced by the prospect of marriage:

QUARRELSOME WIVES

It has come to the attention of the Editor of this paper that recently, a number of cantankerous women have gone so far beyond the boundaries of propriety as to take their husbands, the very men to whom they swore a vow of loyalty in front of God, to court. Why, one may ask, did they feel the need to accuse the men who should be dearest to their hearts? Was it because they were murderers? Thieves? Traitors to the Crown?

Far from it! It was mere, petty dissatisfaction - rebellion against the way in which God made the world. Forgetting their vow of obedience, they dared to contradict the master of the house and then, when faced with the just punishment for their quarrelsome ways, they dared to call upon the law of England to defend their breaking of their wedding vows.

Can such behaviour be tolerated?

Just as God did not tolerate Eve’s sin, we must not tolerate these latest offences of women against the divine order of things. When a man desires to punish his wife, this is his business, and his alone. Only women without an ounce of proper feeling in them would protest anything to the contrary. It is well-known that those women who object to their husband’s castigating have been led astray by influences from outside the home. Working women, those are the ones who are protesting against their just punishment. If we want to put an end to the quarrelsome nature of many wives, we must put an end to women’s employment. Undoubtedly, it is the predominant cause of wife beating, and completely contrary to the purposes for which woman was given to man. Woman’s purpose is to be the angel in the house, not the devil outside of it.

Thus, I call upon every right-thinking man in Great Britain to not give work to women, or associate with so-called ‘ladies’ who have reached an unbecoming degree of independence by practising a profession. If we all recall the divine order of the world and return to what is proper and right, it may not yet be too late to save Great Britain from the terrible fate that is threatening.

Charles Marcus Earl

The Editor

Do you understand why I might be a teensy-weensy bit anxious about getting married?

Yep. I thought so.

‘Lillian!’

My aunt’s voice tore me from my delicious fantasies of strangling the editor of the Times. Lowering the paper, I glanced up just in time to see her rushing into the room. I was expecting her to make some cutting remark about how unfeminine of me it was to read the paper, and had already prepared a mollifying response - but I didn’t need it.

‘Oh Lillian! Lillian, how wonderful!’ My aunt rushed towards to me. There was a radiant smile on her face. My guard went up immediately. ‘Simply wonderful! Oh, Lillian, I am so glad that that awful Mr Fitzgerald has disappeared!’

Cocking my head, I lifted one eyebrow. ‘Well…so am I. But I must admit, I’m rather surprised you feel that way.’

‘Oh, don’t be silly!’ She pulled me up out of the chair and hugged - actually hugged - me to her. ‘Of course I’m glad he’s gone! You deserve much better!’

With those words, my good mood evaporated, and a thrill of apprehension shot through me.

‘Better?’ I demanded. ‘Better like whom, exactly?’