‘W-what?’ I gasped.

‘And one from another gentleman, for you, Miss Lillian,’ Leadfield repeated stoically.

‘I heard you the first time! But when? Why? And in God’s name, from whom?’

‘Err… they arrived just now, Miss. As to why…’ the old butler blushed a little. ‘Well, I couldn’t say. And from whom… I think I saw a card with the bouquet, but I did not read it.’

Frantically I sprang up and rushed to Leadfield, desperate to know the name of my hidden enemy. I ripped the card out of the bouquet, unfolded it and read:

‘In memory of the first ball where we did NOT dance together. I am looking forward to changing that soon.

Lieutenant Ellingham.’

Only when silence spread over the room did I realize that I had read aloud. The gazes of my entire family turned to me, and I wished heartily that I could sink into the floor and disappear.

‘Who is Lieutenant Ellingham?’ asked Gertrude.

‘He wanted to dance with you?’ asked Maria.

‘Is he a madman?’ asked Anne.

‘What does he mean, “the first ball where you did not dance together”?’ asked Lisbeth.

‘He’s an officer,’ my aunt interrupted the barrage of questions, twirling her spoon thoughtfully. ‘You could do a lot worse, Lillian. Better secure him before he changes his mind. Oh yes, you’d better hurry, before he actually gets to know you.’

I didn’t really hear any of them. I was still in shock. Lieutenant Ellingham? Lieutenant Ellingham? He wished to make an offer to me? To seek my hand? It seemed hardly creditable.

Not that I did not believe him capable of flattering himself into the belief I might be attracted to him. From what I had seen so far, he could flatter himself into believing that the sky was brown and the earth blue. But what in the name of Jesus and all his Apostles could make him attracted to me? I had done my very best to be as ghastly to him as humanly possible!

I looked down at the card again, hoping that maybe it might have disappeared or changed its message. But there it was still, like a massive viper just waiting to bite me. Maybe it was merely a joke. Maybe he wouldn’t show up here after all. Yes, that had to be it. He probably was having fun with his drinking buddies from the regiment, imagining my face at this very moment.

Resolutely, I crumpled the card and dumped it into my empty porridge bowl.

‘You shouldn’t have done that,’ remarked Maria sweetly. ‘In your place, I would have framed it and hung it on the wall - because of the scarcity value, you know.’

Not deigning to give her a reply, I rushed out of the room and into the garden. I did not have the time for either her or the oh-so-funny Lieutenant Ellingham at the moment. It was only an hour till nine o'clock and I needed to get changed.

If I remembered correctly, Mr Ambrose didn’t tolerate tardiness.

*~*~**~*~*

Wisely I had stashed the clothes I had borrowed from my uncle in the garden shed. Nobody ever came in there, so I changed in the dusty little wooden shack without fear of discovery. I was quite glad, in fact, that I wasn’t putting on the baggy, striped trousers and oversized jacket in my room: there, I couldn’t have helped looking in the mirror. Oh, how I was looking forward to receiving my first pay cheque and buying clothes in which I could pass for an actual gentleman, not just a scarecrow wearing rags three sizes too big for her. Or him. Depending on your point of view.

Completely attired, I left the garden through the little back door in the wall. This time I had ample time to walk, which was fortunate since I most certainly did not have ample money to pay for another cab ride. I reached Empire House by about a quarter before nine. In the entrance hall, which was as busy as ever, Sallow-face at the front desk let me pass without comment. He had accepted me, apparently. Why couldn’t his master do the same?

Maybe because he’s an arrogant bastard. Or maybe because he knows you’re a girl. Most probably both.

But I would be damned if I put up with this any longer! Oh no. I’d force him to look at me, to accept me, to work with me as he would with any man!

Smiling to myself, I began to ascend the stairs. I knew exactly what I had to do. Since he always locked the door connecting our offices, I would take another route and march in through the main door. Simple. Mr Stone wouldn’t dare stop me, I’m sure. He wasn’t as tough as Sallow-face. And then I would give Mr Rikkard Ambrose a piece of my mind!

My brilliant plan was smashed into ruins, however, as soon as I stepped into the long hallway at the top of the stairs. Everything was exactly as it should be - Mr Stone was behind his desk, all the doors were closed, the stone walls were still made of bare stone, and the floors were still horizontal. Yes, everything was as it was supposed to be - except for the massive figure towering behind Mr Stone, right in front of Mr Ambrose’s office door.

The mountainous dark-skinned man wouldn’t have needed to wear his turban or sabre for me to recognize him on the spot; I remembered him all too well. Nevertheless, Karim’s accessories looked impressive. Considerably more impressive than the top hat I had with me.

Swallowing my apprehension, I walked down the hall.

‘Good Morning, Mr Stone,’ I said.

‘Good Morning, Mr Linton.’

I stepped past his desk and tried to move towards the office door. Karim did not budge an inch.

‘Excuse me, you’re standing in my way,’ I said.

‘Yes,’ he growled. He wasn’t looking at me, but staring straight ahead, which meant he was focusing on a point some five inches above my top hat. He really was big. Too big.

‘Well, would you mind getting out of the way?’ I persisted, trying to shove past him towards the door.

‘Yes.’

‘But I have to speak to Mr Ambrose.’

‘Yes?’

‘Yes, I do. So will you let me into the office?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

At last he seemed to feel that my question merited more than a single syllable. Still staring straight ahead, he proclaimed: ‘Mr Ambrose is busy.’

‘With what?’

‘With business.’

‘Well, thank you very much for that informative answer! When will he be finished, do you think?’

‘Mr Ambrose is busy for a long time.’

‘He has been like this all day,’ Mr Stone whispered when I turned away angrily. ‘I must say I am quite perturbed. Karim is Mr Ambrose’s man for… special tasks. You know, um… dangerous matters?’

He looked around anxiously as if waiting for an assassin to spring from the shadows.

‘He has never been posted here yet, Mr Linton. I am afraid that Mr Ambrose perceives some terrible threat to his person.’

Oh yes, a very terrible threat, I thought, staring venomously at the bearded figure in front of the door. A girl who doesn't want to be called 'Mister' all day! Mr Ambrose’s man for special tasks indeed!

‘Well, I’ll just have to talk to him later then,’ I said to Mr Stone, trying to rein in my stormy temper. ‘I’d better get into my office and start working.’

‘Oh yes, your work!’ Mr Stone slapped his forehead. ‘I almost forgot. These arrived for Mr Ambrose early this morning.’

And he held out a bunch of letters. My brow furrowed in thought. Somewhere I had heard of this. Secretaries took care of their employer’s correspondence, didn’t they? But what exactly did they do with the letters? Read them? Answer them? Eat them for breakfast?

‘Um… what am I supposed do with them?’ I asked.

If Mr Stone found the question strange, he didn’t let on.

‘You are to separate the important from the unimportant, and only the former is to be given to Mr Ambrose.’

Taking the letters, I inquired: ‘And how am I to know what Mr Ambrose considers important?’

He gave me a little smile. ‘The answer to that question will determine how long you keep your job here. Good luck.’

With that he sat down and returned to his own work. I strode over to the door that lead to the room I still had difficulty thinking of as ‘my office’. But it was. I had an office! Me! Sweet little me! Now all I had to do was keep it…

I laid the ominous pile of letters on my yes - yes, my desk! - and started looking through them.

There was a stack of invitations to various social events. Hmm. I looked at the firmly closed and bolted door connecting my office with that of my employer. Something told me that Mr Ambrose wasn’t a very social person. Plus, the invitations seemed to be issued by Lady Metcalf and her circle of friends. Apparently, the fine lady was not so disgusted by Mr Ambrose’s working for a living that she didn’t want him at her parties and dancing with her daughters.

I smiled and, with a great deal of relish, crumpled up those letters and chucked them into the bin.

Next there were charity requests. I wasn’t sure about those, but put them on the pile to go to his office, just in case. It couldn’t hurt to be charitable, right?

Then there were a few letters which, on being opened, revealed themselves to be about business. I didn’t understand above one word in ten they said, but it sounded important so I put them on the pile, too.

Last but not least came a letter like no other: It was no invitation. It wasn’t advertising. And it sure as hell wasn’t business. That was pretty obvious from the fact that it came in a pink, strongly scented envelope.

‘What the…’

I almost broke out laughing when I smelled the perfume! Mr Ambrose had a lady friend? A secret love, maybe? But then I saw the address of the sender and her name. In curly, old-fashioned writing was written:

Samantha Genevieve Ambrose

Ambrose? A relative? A sister, maybe? I couldn’t suppress a snort of laughter at that. To be honest, it was even harder to imagine Mr Ambrose as a family man than as a lover.

Then I noticed something printed next to the address of the sender and frowned.

‘Now what is this doing here…?’ I muttered leaning closer.

If the letter came from Mr Ambrose’s family, the family of a simple, if rich, citizen, how did there come to be a coat of arms stamped on the envelope?

Quite an elaborate coat of arms, too. I didn’t know much about the nobility, but I knew enough to realize that a crest like this didn’t come from a simple knighthood. The coat of arms had the look of centuries on it: the rose in the upper right and the lion in the lower left corner reminded me of the little I had remembered of my lessons in English history.

In a flash, I suddenly remembered what one of the ladies at the ball had said… something about a noble family Ambrose in the North. An Earl’s family.

‘I’ll be damned!’

But no… that couldn’t be. It just couldn’t be Mr Ambrose’s family, could it? If he were an earl’s son, he wouldn’t be calling himself 'Mister' Ambrose. He would have the right to call himself Baron or Lord Somethingorother.

Curious. Very curious indeed.

And who was this lady? Samantha?

With a slight feeling of regret at letting go of the mystery, I placed the pink letter back on the table. For just a moment I considered throwing it away. It was obviously full of soppy romantic nonsense - nothing important, in my opinion. Yet Mr Ambrose might feel differently about the matter.

When I rose with all the letters in my hand, I realized for the first time that now was my chance to finally see him again! The thick pile of letters couldn’t fit under the door, so he had to open it. Triumphantly I marched over to the door and raised my hand to knock - only to discover that in my absence, a letter slot had been installed in the middle of the thick wooden door.

Angrily, I pushed the letters through and heard them land on some kind of table. ‘Here,’ I called. ‘I hope you choke on them!’

Shortly afterwards, the slot opened again and several of the letters fell onto the floor with a resounding ‘thwack!’ When I went over and picked them up, I saw that it was the charity requests and the letter from Samantha Genevieve - the latter hadn’t even been opened.

A note was fastened to the top letter:

Mr Linton,

Did Mr Stone not express himself clearly? Only send those letters to me which are of interest to me.

I stared blankly at the note. Was he serious? He hadn’t even bothered to open the pink letter, so clearly personal. Neither had he bothered to sign his message to me, this time - but really there was no need. There was only one person in the entire British Empire who could write like this.

Angrily I stomped over to my desk, grabbed one of the message papers and a pen and began scribbling.

Charity is important! Is the improvement of the lives of the poor of no interest to you?

The reply came almost instantly.

Not if by so doing they become richer and I poorer.

‘Gah!’

Grinding my teeth, I took a look around the office: bare stone walls, no ornaments, no carpets, no nothing. Of course! He was mean with money. I should have guessed from the way he dressed - all in simple black without one piece of colourful brocade or silk on his waistcoat. He practically had the word ‘SKINFLINT’ printed on his forehead. In capitals.

Too bad he didn’t look like a skinflint. He should be old and ugly and skinny, like my aunt, not some reincarnation of Adonis in granite. That would make working for him so much easier!

But what about the personal letter? Taking that out of the pile, I examined it closely. It really hadn’t been opened. Who was it from? What was it about? Why hadn’t it been opened? My fingers hesitated over the next piece of message paper. I would have loved to ask but didn’t dare. I didn’t want to get fired on my second day at work.

So instead I wrote:

Dear Mr Ambrose,

Be assured that you shall receive no further requests to do good deeds from me.

Yours Sincerely

MISS Lilly Linton

The reply wasn’t long in coming.

Mr Linton,

It is not doing good deeds that I object to, it is the principle of charity. I do not give something for nothing. Remember that, Mr Linton.

Rikkard Ambrose

Dear God, was he threatening me?

Yes, probably.

A tingle went down my spine. It felt dangerous, dark and… exciting?

Then another message popped out of the hole in the wall.

Mr Linton,

Bring me file 38XI199.

Rikkard Ambrose

Spiffing. Here we go again.

*~*~**~*~*

Back and forth, back and forth I went the whole day, like a busy little ant carrying bits of leaves to the hill - only that I carried darn heavy files instead of leaves. Oh, and there also was the fact that ants could lift five times their body weight and that they couldn’t get chucked out of the anthill for not working fast enough.

Lucky ants.

I, for my part, heard a fresh plink that announced another demand for a file every five minutes. Apparently Mr Ambrose was still determined to break my resolution and make me give him some excuse for firing me. Ha! That fellow didn’t know me from Adam!

Or rather Eve, since I was a girl.

Some part of me wondered what he did with all those files. Surely, a secretary’s duties consisted of more than carrying files? Having letters dictated, for example.

‘Oh, but for that he’d have to actually speak to me,’ I muttered, grabbing another box of files from the shelves. ‘And he couldn’t do that, now could he! Blast him!’

While I slaved away, my determination grew. I would keep this job. Moreover, I would make him accept me as a girl, and then I could come to work in my own clothes and stop wearing this stupid top hat! But how to make him accept me?

‘I have to catch him,’ I growled, grabbing the next box and imagining that it was Mr Ambrose’s stiff neck. ‘I have to grab him and simply make him see!’

Yesterday, I hadn’t been able to get to him in time, and he had escaped. Today, he had placed his watchdog in front of the door - but he would have to come out eventually. To prevent him slipping away like last time, I cracked my office door open and kept an ear out for any steps moving out there.

As the day progressed, I got more and more excited. The thought of seeing him again - and of giving him a whopping big piece of my mind - was thrilling. I hadn’t set eyes on him since the day he not-so-graciously accepted me into his service, and I was looking forward to the encounter very much. Hm… Did punching your employer count as grounds for dismissal?

Too bad I didn’t have my parasol with me.

Some time around twelve o'clock, the requests for files suddenly stopped.

Ah! He was preparing to leave. Now he had to be coming soon. I sidled up to the door in anticipation.

Steps approached my door. What? Was he coming to see me? No, the steps didn’t sound like him. Too slow, too timid. There was a knock on my door and Mr Stone’s voice called: ‘Mr Linton? May I come in?’

‘Please do,’ I said, stepping back, frowning.

Mr Stone entered with a slightly puzzled expression on his face. ‘I am to inform you,’ he said, ‘that Mr Ambrose has left again and that you can finish your day early, too, if you want to.’

‘What?!’

‘Yes, the strangest matter indeed. He never leaves early normally, and now twice in a row? And this time he even went down the back staircase that is normally never used. I am beginning to fear for our master’s safety.’

‘You are, are you?’ I grabbed my top hat off the desk and slammed it on my head with probably a bit too much force. ‘Well, you’re right to be!’

Mr Stone paled. ‘So you think, too, that his life is in danger? That there is someone after him?’

‘You bet there is,’ I growled and marched out of the room, slamming the door behind me.

Oh that… I couldn’t even think of a bad enough word for him! The next time I would get my hands on him, I would take one of those little message containers with the words 'I AM FEMALE' in it and stuff it down his throat!

*~*~**~*~*

I went home to lunch, but since I didn’t have the wherewithal to cope with my aunt’s incessant questions about Lieutenant Ellingham, I made my disappearance as soon as possible. I decided to go the King’s Library to look a few things up. Maybe I’d find an interesting book on China, or a Colonial adventure story, or…

All right, I admit it. I was going to look up Rikkard Ambrose. So what? Was it a crime that I wanted to find out a bit more about the man I worked for? It was only natural that I would like to discover a few more things about him. It might help me avoid such blunders as the one with the charity requests. Maybe I’d discover that he kept a poodle, or was allergic to strawberries, or some other interesting fact.

Maybe I’d even find out whether he was, as I was beginning to suspect, more than a simple citizen. Books and newspapers could hold all sorts of interesting information.

Fortunately, unlike riding, shooting and pretty much anything else that I thought might be interesting to do in life, reading was not solely the domain of men. Nobody gave me a second glance as I walked along the gallery of the King’s Library, between the mile-high shelves and imposing busts of historical personalities.

In passing, I sent up a glare at the busts. ‘Of course you’re all men,’ I muttered, gesturing up at them threateningly. ‘It didn’t occur to anyone to put a bust of Queen Elisabeth or Mary Astell up there, did it? Darn chauvinist sculptors!’

An elderly gentleman passing in the opposite direction stopped when he saw me shaking my fist at the statues, and blinked as if he wasn’t sure he was seeing right. I quickly hurried on to the newspaper section.

Shortly afterwards I stood in front of a row of shelves, examining the enormous books which contained the Times of the last few decades. Where to start? From the dates on the file boxes I knew his history went back quite some time. So I pretty randomly picked one of the massive volumes. With effort, I managed to get it down from the shelf and transported it to a table next to a bust of Julius Caesar.

‘Hello there, fellow,’ I said, petting Caesar on his head. ‘Let’s see what we have on Mr Ambrose, shall we?’

*~*~**~*~*

Three hours and seven volumes later, I gave up.

He was everywhere: always on the edge of things, never quite part of society yet always in the middle because all of society seemed to orientate itself around him. Mr Ambrose had been spotted near the races - but did he bet on a horse? No! Mr Ambrose had been seen talking with business partners outside the theatre. But did he go in? Of course not! Once he had been spotted at the opera but had left before the performance ended.

What did he do in his free time?

Where was his family?

What nefarious activities had he engaged in to amass his enormous fortune?

There were no articles about his past, not even the indication that at some point he might have given an interview. Nowhere in the dozens of papers I leafed through did I find a single answer to my questions. But then again - why was I so anxious to find out? What business of mine was it how he had gotten his money? Why did I so desperately want to know?

Deep down I knew why. With a shiver I remembered his words, almost a threat, on that day he had sat opposite me in his office, his dark eyes burning holes into my head:

I need a man. A man, Miss Linton. Not a girl who will run off screaming at the things she will see where my business takes me.

By that, I was sure, he had meant more than seeing the inside of file boxes.

I wanted him to accept me as his secretary. As his female secretary, however scandalous other people would consider that. Yet I was also slightly afraid of what would happen if he did. What would he do if I really managed to convince him to let me work for him for real? Or more importantly, what would I have to do?

*~*~**~*~*

When I got home, my aunt was waiting and ready for battle, glaring at me like an emaciated Valkyrie. I was half expecting her to be holding a sharp spear and riding an eight-legged horse.

‘Where were you?’ she demanded.

‘I was in the park walking, showing off my charms to the young men there,’ I lied brightly. ‘Just in case I might happen to come across Lieutenant Ellingham.’

‘Oh.’ My aunt’s thin lips relaxed a tiny little bit. ‘Really? Well… good. That’s very good.’

‘I shall do that often now, if it is all right with you, Aunt,’ I continued quickly, determined to exploit this sudden inspiration to the limits. Darn it! Why hadn’t I thought of this before? ‘After all, now that I have been introduced into society, there are hundreds of men I could meet. Thousands, in fact. And the more I meet…’

‘You’re quite right.’ My aunt came up to me. For a moment I was worried that she might want to hug me, which would have been slightly awkward because (a) we were both wearing hoop skirts and (b) I hated her guts, skeleton and strict, black boots. But instead, she merely laid a hand on my arm. It was enough for me to want to run screaming and take a bath in the Thames. ‘I’m very happy you’ve finally started behaving like a lady, Lilly. I knew you would see sense some day.’

I thanked her like a proper little lady and then hurried off. Not towards the Thames for a bath, because I knew perfectly well that it was full of dirty toilet paper. Instead, I directed my steps towards the garden.

Why the garden, you may ask?

Simple. Over all the questions about Mr Ambrose that were plaguing my poor, chocolate-deprived brain, I had not forgotten my sister and her problems. When I had entered the house, the sun had just been about to set. I knew perfectly well what that meant.

Ella and Edmund would soon have their nocturnal rendezvous in the garden. So I went out there and this time didn’t even stop to take a book with me. Tonight, I was quite sure, I wouldn’t need literature to take my mind off things. Judging from the number of flowers that had arrived in my absence, the evening’s conversation would provide more than enough distraction.

As soon as the moon rose over the streets of London, I heard a rustle from the door and, through the bushes behind which I had concealed myself again, saw Ella hurrying past. Only a moment later, Edmund appeared on the other side of the fence.

‘Ella, my love,’ he called in a damnably audible whisper. ‘Oh, how it fills my heart to see you!’

‘And mine,’ sighed Ella. Then she hesitated. ‘I mean my heart is filled with joy from seeing you, not from seeing myself. That would be silly. I see myself every morning in the mirror.’ She brightened. ‘But now you are here!’ She exclaimed. ‘I have been waiting all day to see you!’

‘Your words make my soul sing, Ella. Please, step closer, into the moonlight, so I may behold your lovely face.’

‘I will. But first… first I have to tell you something, Edmund.’

‘What?’ he asked, his breath catching.

‘It is the strangest thing,’ Ella muttered. ‘I would not even mention such a strange, trivial occurrence if not for your words yesterday, but…’

‘But what? My words yesterday? What words?’ Now I could hear a distinct note of anxiety in Edmund’s voice.

It must have shown on his face, too, because Ella smiled at him hesitantly, caught off guard by his expression. ‘Well… what you said about the flowers. You remember? You told me to tell you if Sir Philip sent me any more flowers.’

I glanced at the young man. Now the expression on his face wasn’t simply anxious anymore. It was panicked.

‘Yes, and? Has he sent you another bouquet?’

‘One?’ Ella giggled. ‘No, not one. I tell you, the man must be very eccentric, I cannot otherwise account for his behaviour. He sent me dozens of bouquets. I had no idea there were that many flowers to buy in the whole city of London. I…’ She broke off when she saw Edmund’s face.

‘Edmund? Edmund, what is wrong? What ails you?’

‘My heart is breaking,’ he answered tonelessly, staring into the distance with empty eyes. ‘That is what ails me. It is as I thought. I am doomed.’

I leaned forward, resting my head on my knees. This was good. Better than the theatre, except that I couldn’t throw peanuts at the actors. I doubt Ella would have appreciated that.

‘What is the matter?’ My little sister wrung her hands in sudden desperation. ‘Oh Edmund, reveal to me this terrible secret you are carrying! What is it about those flowers that makes you fear them like death itself?’

‘Worse than death,’ he mutters. ‘A thousand deaths and the tortures of hell.’

Dear me! That fellow had definitely read too many romantic novels. I considered interrupting and telling him he was overdoing it.

But then, on second thoughts, maybe I’d rather not.

‘Tell me, Edmund! Tell me, what are they?’

‘The flowers are a sign of affection,’ said Edmund, his voice as hollow as a drainpipe through which all his hopes were flooding away. ‘Sir Philip wishes to seek your hand in marriage.’

Ella stiffened. All colour drained from her face. I covered my eyes with my hand and let it slip down my face. Good God in heaven, she was actually surprised.

‘No!’

‘Yes, he does.’

‘No, Edmund…’

‘And who can blame him?’ he continued. ‘You are indeed a fair maiden, Miss Linton. Every gentleman in England should be seeking your hand. You…’ his voice broke, and after a moment he continued: ‘You are far too good and beautiful for common folk.’

‘Edmund! What are you saying?’ She cried out.

‘I am saying goodbye, Miss Linton.’

‘Goodbye? Edmund, why do you torture me so? And why so distant? Why call me Miss Linton?’

‘You are right,’ he said in the same hollow voice. ‘I should call you Lady Wilkins. For that is who you soon shall be.’

Apparently, I had been wrong before: Ella had still some colour left to drain from her face. It vanished at Edmund’s words, plummeting towards the earth’s core.

Suddenly not at all amused by the scene, I sat up straight, staring whole arsenals of daggers at Edmund.

What was that bastard doing? Was he so heartless that he could just stand there and hurt my little sister? He should be pulling her into his arms and telling her all would be all right! After climbing over the fence, that is.

‘I will never marry Sir Philip,’ Ella proclaimed. ‘Never!’

‘But why not?’ Edmund asked, his voice still as hollow and dead as an entire graveyard. ‘Is he not a most eligible match?’

‘I do not care how eligible he is,’ sniffled Ella, taking two rapid steps towards the fence. Edmund stepped back hastily as she stuck her hand through the poles, trying to reach him. ‘I… I…’

‘Yes? You?’ he inquired and his voice wasn’t quite as dead as before.

‘I love you, Edmund.’

‘Ah. A platonic love, surely, since you are soon to be married?’

‘No! A lover’s love, Edmund. If I could, I would be thine, to have and to hold.’

‘Oh Ella! Come into my arms!’

What the heck? Just ten seconds ago he was egging her on to marry somebody else, and now he wanted them to snuggle? If all lovers behaved like this, they should be summarily committed to lunatic asylums!

Surely, Ella would be too proud and self-respecting to throw herself at a man who had just scorned her?

‘Oh, Edmund, my love!’

No, apparently she wasn’t.

I watched in mingled horror and fascination as she indeed threw herself into his arms, or at least as well as she could with the fence in the way. I wondered how long it was going to take one of them to think of the ladder leaning against the garden shed. Probably a good long time still.

Anyway, both of them seemed to be much too honourable to just throw themselves at each other. I had expected at least some action and was a tiny bit disappointed when they only took hold of each other’s hands and stared into each other’s eyes. I had seen both of their pairs of eyes before. They weren’t that interesting.

‘So you do not simply feel friendship for me?’ Edmund demanded, his voice deep with emotion. ‘There is more?’

A little colour returned to Ella’s cheeks. ‘You know there is.’

‘Yes, but the delight of hearing you say it…’ He closed his eyes for a moment, sighing blissfully. ‘There is no song of angels that is sweeter to my ears.’

Yes. He really read too many romance novels.

My little sister, not in the least repelled by his sappiness, took one of his hands and lightly pressed it to her cheek. Now we were getting somewhere!

‘I love you, Edmund.’

When Edmund opened his eyes again, they looked a little more interesting than before. Certainly more intense.

‘As I love you, Ella, my heart’s delight.’

‘Oh Edmund. You do not know how long I have been waiting for you to say these words to me.’

‘They have lain ready on my tongue forever.’

He pressed her hands again.

‘So you will be mine?’

Suddenly, the colour left Ella’s cheeks again. The radiant smile that had lit up her features until a moment ago became laced with sadness.

‘Edmund, I…’

‘What? What is this? You said you loved me!’

‘I do! I do! But…’

Now there again were tears in Ella’s eyes. She didn’t seem to be able to continue. So Edmund spoke for her, slowly and gravely:

‘But the objections to our love which you so conscientiously explained to me before, still stand. Nothing has changed. The fact that we love each other does not mean that we can be together.’

Ella gave a shaky little nod.

‘What if you told your aunt that you did not love Sir Philip?’

‘I? Defy my dear, dear aunt? Oh please!’ She clasped her hands in supplication. ‘Please don't even make me think of such a thing!’

‘Then what do we do?’ he asked, sounding lost.

‘I don't know!’

Behind the bushes, I bit my lower lip, deep in thought. Well, I didn’t know either. But I’d be damned if that was going to stop me from doing something! At least I had plenty of time on my hands. My new job with Mr Ambrose was not very demanding. He didn’t seem to want anything from me at all.

Had I only known then how wrong I was about that.