I Go Dress-Shopping

‘A what and a what?' Mr Ambrose stared at me as if I had lost my mind, and my job was soon to follow.

I smiled at him innocently. ‘Is your hearing not as good as it used to be, Sir?'

‘How,' he asked very slowly and deliberately, ‘are you going to track a thief with… with a dress and a sack full of vegetables?'

‘Onions. They have to be onions. And the how,' I said, tapping my nose knowingly, ‘you'll just have to leave that to me. Secrets of the trade.'

‘How do I know this is going to work?'

I gave him my most sweetest smile.

‘Easy. You'll have to trust me.'

*~*~**~*~*

For nearly half an hour he tried to worm my plan out of me, but I wouldn't budge. At one point he declared that, fine, we were going to try something else. When I asked him what exactly, he didn't look very pleased. Finally, Warren and a few of the others joined my side, arguing for him to let me have a go.

‘We don"t even know whether Simmons is still in town,' Mr Ambrose pointed out, stubbornly shaking his head.

The door to my office chose this moment to open and admit the monumental form of Karim, who bowed and with what I thought was perfect timing said: ‘Nobody has seen Simmons at the train station, Sahib. It is safe to assume that he is still within the city.'

There was one moment more of hesitation - then Mr Ambrose grabbed his top hat from the coat stand and slammed it down on his hard head.

‘Fine. We're going. Karim, come along. We're going to buy onions.'

With a slightly puzzled expression on his face, the bearded man followed his master out. I, unable to conceal a grin, was right at his heels.

‘What are you planning, Mr Linton?' Warren whispered behind me, but I just shook my head.

We had to run to keep up with Mr Ambrose. Out in the street he didn't hail a cab, but began to march down the street.

‘Err… Sir?' Warren cleared his throat. ‘If the situation is as grave as you have indicated, the expense of a cab would surely be justifiable. It is a much quicker means of transport, very convenient in such an urgent situation.'

‘Fine.'

Irritably, Mr Ambrose waved a hand and, when a cab stopped, ordered us inside with a jerk of his head. All of us, about a dozen men plus one disguised woman, into one cab! The driver looked at us as if we were completely insane, and I couldn't blame him.

The good news was I didn't end up with Karim sitting on top of me. The bad news was I ended up with Mr Ambrose sitting next to me. Very close next to me. I didn't want to think about how close. His lean body was nearly squashing me against the wall, and there was something hard pressing into my leg which I very much hoped was the end of his walking stick.

Through the window that connected the inside of the coach with the driver's box, Mr Ambrose threw the cabbie a look. ‘Drive fast.'

The man's eyes widened. Apparently, he knew who was talking to him. The whip cracked, and we started to move with astonishing speed for a vehicle carrying three times the intended load.

‘Take us to Flemming"s,' Mr Ambrose shouted over the whirl and clatter of the wheels. I had no idea who or what Flemming's was - hopefully a place where one could get either dresses or onions. I didn't know if this crazy plan of mine was going to work, but if it was to succeed, I definitely needed all the right equipment.

After a ten-minute drive, the cab stopped in front of a large building with grimy windows and a lot of merchandise crammed together, displayed there. Over the door, large, ornamental letters proudly spelled out ‘Flemming's'.

I took a close look at the department store. I didn't know much about fashion, but I knew enough. The frilly, cheap things displayed in the shop window were not exactly what I was after. I looked at Mr Ambrose.

‘I said I needed a beautiful dress.'

‘What's wrong with those? They're cheap.'

‘That's exactly what's wrong with them.'

I knocked against the roof of the cab. ‘Take us to the best dressmaker in town.'

*~*~**~*~*

The little dressmaker was a hunched figure with a long, hooked nose, remnants of grey hair over both ears and a resplendent waistcoat in blue and gold. He was intent on examining a few rolls of brocade and didn't look up when he heard the doorbell ring. Only when footsteps approached and the annoying presence of a customer drew him from the contemplation of the masterpiece he was no doubt thinking about creating, did he look up. A frown spread over his wrinkled face and he eyed the slight man in baggy trousers who was standing in front of him - yours truly - with obvious doubt in his eyes.

‘Is there something I can do for you, Sir?' he asked. ‘Or did you perhaps want to come in through the servant's entrance?'

‘No.' I, shook my head. ‘I'm here to pick out a dress for my sister. It's going to be a birthday present.'

Methodically, the dressmaker took a pair of pince-nez out of his waistcoat pocket, polished them on his sleeve, and clamped them on his nose. Then he studied me like he would a piece of his cloth. Apparently, he found that I was second-hand, with quite a lot of moth-holes, too.

‘And you're going to pay for it?' he asked, disbelief dripping from his voice.

‘Oh no. He is.' Stepping aside, I pointed behind me. A lean black figure appeared from between the shelves and mannequins and strode towards the two of us. In theory Mr Ambrose was dressed quite as simply as I. Nothing about his black tailcoat, black waistcoat or black trousers indicated wealth.

But the arrogance of his dark eyes did.

‘Oh. I see.' The dressmaker swallowed. ‘And the gentlemen's names are…?'

‘I'm Mister Linton,' I answered. ‘And this is Mr Ambrose.'

The pince-nez fell off the man's nose and his eyes widened. ‘Mr Ambrose? Mr Rikkard Ambrose?'

‘Yes.' Mr Ambrose nodded, curtly.

‘Oh dear Sir, please forgive me for not recognizing you on sight. Please forgive me for not properly welcoming you to my humble establishment. You honour me with your presence here!'

‘Yes.' Mr Ambrose nodded curtly again.

‘Once more I beg a thousand pardons. Everything I have, everything I am is at your disposal. What do you wish to see? I have some very fine waistcoats, just came in yesterday from France. Very expensive, but the best, the very best. Please, let me show you…'

‘I'm not here to buy waistcoats,' Mr Ambrose cut him off. ‘I am here…' He paused for a moment - gathering his strength, I would imagine. ‘I am here to pay for a dress for this man's sister. One dress. As pretty and inexpensive as possible.'

The dressmaker blinked, surprised. I would have wagered that not one of his clients had ever before placed an order for a dress they wanted to be cheap. He dealt comparatively well with the new circumstances though, springing up from his stool and bowing deeply.

‘Of course, Mr Ambrose, Sir. Please follow me, Mr Linton. What should the dress be made of? Muslin? Brocade? Silk?'

‘Silk would be perfect. With plenty of lace at the sleeves and the cleavage, and gold embroidery, and little diamonds everywhere.' I smiled at him. ‘Don't pay attention to what Mr Ambrose said. The dress needs to be spectacular. Make it demure but… alluring.'

The little dressmaker winked at me and nodded like an overexcited woodpecker, determined to make a new home for himself. ‘I completely understand, Sir. I think I know just the thing. Do you have your sister's measurements, Sir?'

‘No, but she is about my build. You can use me as a model.'

Half an hour later we emerged from the shop, and Mr Ambrose was carrying a large package.

‘If this is going to be a waste of my money, you will be deeply, deeply sorry, Mr Linton,' he said, his voice as cool as ice.

‘Don't worry. The onions will be cheap, I promise.'

*~*~**~*~*

‘This is in contradiction to our agreement!' Mr Ambrose told me, quiet menace in his voice.

We were back at Empire House. All of us - Mr Ambrose, Karim, Warren and his cronies were assembled in the hallway in front of Mr Ambrose's office. Mr Stone, who normally occupied the desk here, was nowhere in sight. Maybe Mr Ambrose had given him the day off. More likely though, he'd sent him to slave in some other part of the building while we conducted our secret business here.

‘It is not,' I said, cutting open the first string that held together the package containing the dress.

‘It is. I only accepted you under the condition that you would pretend to be a man while working for me.'

‘And I will,' I said patting the dress fondly. ‘I will pretend to be a man pretending to be a woman.'

‘You…' Mr Ambrose might have said something else, but for the moment he seemed lost for words. Then he demanded: ‘And this is really necessary for that infernal plan of yours? You are not just doing this to anger me?'

I gave him my brightest, most happy smile. I was smiling a lot lately. But why the heck not? Thief hunting was fun! ‘Now why would I do something like that, Sir?'

Before he could reply or try to throttle me, I vanished into my office and locked the door behind me.

‘Err… Sir?' Warren's voice, muffled by the door, was as nervous as it was curious. ‘What is he doing in there?'

‘Apparently,' Mr Ambrose said, his voice as arctic as ever, ‘Mr Linton's plan requires a female participant. Since we have none available, Mr Linton will impersonate one.'

‘Will that work?'

‘Oh yes. Take my word for it, Mr Linton is famous for his impersonations.'

Dear me. Mr Ambrose was capable of sarcasm? Wonder of wonders…

As quickly as I could, I stripped. Then I took out the dress Mr Ambrose had so ungraciously provided and proceeded to put it on.

Dressing took considerably longer than stripping. Not having Ella to help me this time, it took especially long to squeeze myself into the blasted corset. Finally, I was finished and took out a small mirror, about the only useful item ladies were allowed to carry.

My hair still looked a bit windswept, but that was not a problem. On the contrary, it would work to my advantage. The dress looked just as it was supposed to look. The tailor had really done a spiffing job.

Taking a deep breath, I stepped towards the door. Now for the first test. I opened the door, stepped out and did a little twirl.

‘Well? What do you say, gentlemen?'

All of them were looking at me with interested expressions. Well, all apart from Mr Ambrose, who didn't have an expression on his stony face, and Karim, who had an expression but not one that I would like to describe.

Warren stepped forward and nodded slowly.

‘I've got to hand it to you, Mr Linton, you know what you're doing. You look almost like a genuine girl.'

I raised an eyebrow. ‘Almost?'

‘Well, you know…' he waved a hand in the air. ‘When one knows the truth one isn't as easily fooled as everybody else. One just sees those little signs that indicate something is not quite right about you.'

‘You can say that again.'

That nice comment came from Mr Ambrose. ‘Now, can we get on with this?'

We did get on. Or rather out, of the building to be exact. Then, to our employer's severe displeasure, we got into another cab and drove away. Our first stop was the Brown's Hotel in Albermarle Street. When the cabbie stopped his horses, I got out but held up my hand when Mr Ambrose moved to follow me.

‘No. I'll go in alone.'

‘What? Do you intend to catch Simmons all on your own?'

‘No, of course not. I'm just going to inquire if he's here.'

‘And they're going to tell you just like that, are they?'

‘Yes, actually they are.' I winked at him. ‘Could you hand me my sack of onions please?'

He didn't. Instead he said: ‘You can't go in there alone. It's much too risky.'

‘Risky?' Did he actually sound worried? Worried for me?

‘I mean,' he added hurriedly, ‘if Simmons should hear your questions and decide to flee before we can catch him.'

‘Don't worry. I won't let that happen. My onions, please?'

He hesitated a moment - then handed me the sack of onions, looking as though he had just bitten into one.

Wordlessly, I turned and entered Brown's Hotel.

*~*~**~*~*

Ten minutes later I was out again and climbed into the cab.

‘He's not here,' I proclaimed. ‘Let's go try the next one.'

‘How do you know?' demanded Mr Ambrose. Yet this was a demand I was not very disposed to comply with.

‘You mean you can't guess, Sir?' I purred, smiling at him. ‘Surely you are more intelligent than an insignificant little girl.'

The others laughed, thinking I had made a joke. Then they saw Mr Ambrose's expression and stopped laughing.

Soon we stopped at another hotel. I entered, and ten minutes later I left again.

‘Not here,' I stated. ‘Let's go on.'

‘How,' Mr Ambrose asked, his voice dangerously low, ‘do you know?'

We stopped at another hotel, and another, and another. After eight failures, Mr Ambrose's expression had turned from stony to steely. His hands were balled into fists.

I climbed into the coach again, just returned from my latest excursion.

‘He's not here either,' I said. ‘Let's try the next one.'

‘How,' Mr Ambrose inquired, putting emphasis on each word, ‘do-you-know?'

I smiled.

‘Oh, it's just my female intuition.'

*~*~**~*~*

Stepping into the foyer of the Elderberry Hotel, I concealed myself behind one of the columns near the entrance, took the onion I had brought with me out of my pocket and cracked it in half. The strong smell immediately bit into my nose and brought tears to my eyes. Only with difficulty did I keep from sneezing.

It took a while for my eyes to become significantly wet. Two or three times I checked in the large mirror on the wall. Did I look distressed enough yet? No, not quite. I needed to be really distraught. Overwhelmed. Terrified.

When I was finally satisfied with my appearance, I let the onion drop and kicked it into the nearest corner. With an audible sob I staggered out from behind the column near the entrance as if I had just now come in.

It wasn't easy to stumble and stagger like a real damsel in distress on my way to reception. This rather silly behaviour was somewhat annoying. But I did a great job, if I do say so myself. By the time I had reached reception and clutched the counter in an apparently desperate effort to keep myself upright, the man at reception had noticed me. Oh yes, most definitely he had noticed me.

‘Um… Miss… Are you unwell?'

In response, I gave him a pretty impressive heartbroken wail and tottered precariously.

‘Err…'

The receptionist was desperately trying to find a spot where he could grip me to support me without being improper. His eyes were wild, showing his panic and complete puzzlement about what to do with this female who had suddenly appeared in front of him. Finally, he hit on the perfect solution.

‘Sarah! Hellen!' he called. But unfortunately, the female staff seemed to be out of hearing range.

‘I… no, don"t call anybody else, please,' I begged him in a low whisper. Compassion and panic mingled in the face of the young man. My, my, I was pretty good. If Mr Ambrose kicked me out some day I could always try a career as an actress. ‘The shame is too great. Please, Sir, don"t'

‘Of course not, Miss, if it will distress you,' the receptionist answered warmly. ‘Only tell me what is the matter with you and how I can help you. Do you wish a room to rest? You look in need of rest.'

‘No, I…' Shaking my head, I pressed my clenched hands to my face, half-concealing my features and wiping away a few of the tears that were running down my face. ‘I don"t need a room. I came… I came to…'

‘Yes? Yes?'

‘Oh no!' I half turned away from the young man, once again swaying from right to left as if I were about to fall. This was starting to be fun! ‘I can't reveal the secret to another living soul! What he has done… it is too shameful. My lips will not form the words. What he has done… No, I cannot tell you. Even if he is here…'

‘Who, he?' demanded the young man. ‘Has somebody harmed you?'

‘Please! Do not force me to speak of it!'

‘You said he was here. It is one of our guests who has harmed you?'

‘Please, Sir… have pity…'

‘Miss,' he said gently, coming around the counter to stand directly in front of me, ‘if one of our guests has behaved dishonourably to such a fine young lady as yourself, the honour of our house is in question. I must beg you, please, tell me who this man is and what he has done to you.'

I made a smile flicker across my face, with just the right amount of feminine feebleness and a pinch of sadness thrown in.

‘You are too clever, too persistent for me, Sir. You are right. There is indeed a man I am looking for, a man who has done a grievous wrong. I have heard that he might be in this hotel, and have come in the hope of finding a gentleman willing to aid me. And now I have. Oh Sir, you have no idea how great a pleasure it is for a weak girl such as myself to find that there are still strong and honourable men in the world willing to stand up for what is right.'

The receptionist's narrow chest swelled. I fluttered my moist eyelashes at him and it swelled some more. I briefly wondered whether he had a balloon and a pump hidden under his shirt.

‘Whatever wrong this man has done to you,' he promised, his voice a bit deeper than it had been before, ‘I shall see to it that he gets what is coming to him.'

‘Thank you, Sir, thank you!' I clutched his hand with both of mine and gave it a gentle, grateful squeeze. As if I had squeezed a trigger, his chest puffed out a little more. Interesting. This seemed to be a reflex reaction with the brain playing no part in the decision. Well, in what part of the male decision-making process did the brain ever play a part?

‘Thank you,' I repeated. ‘I shall be eternally grateful to you. But it is not to me that the wrong was done - it is to my sister.'

‘Oh.' The receptionist looked slightly crestfallen at this news, so I quickly ploughed on, giving him another sad smile. ‘Oh yes, my poor, innocent little sister. Dear Ophelia.'

I had heard the name in a play once. It seemed to fit, because immediately, the concern on the face of the receptionist returned.

‘She… Oh, I can't bring myself to say it. You must understand, Sir, she has been educated in a convent. She does not know the ways of men who are no gentlemen, who are not like you. You must not judge her too harshly.'

I sniffled a bit more.

‘What happened?' he gently enquired.

‘She… she eloped. A man staying in the village of the convent enticed her with honeyed words, sweet words of love and eternal devotion. He said he would marry her.'

The receptionist's mouth dropped open.

‘How shocking!'

‘Oh no, Sir, the shocking part is yet to come. As I said - my sister is young, only sixteen years of age. She was deceived by his words.'

‘Deceived? Do you mean that when…'

‘When they had run away together, he… he…' I closed my eyes at this point. It seemed the right thing to do. After all, I was in such terrible pain about my poor little sister Olivia. Or was it Olga? No, Ophelia, right! ‘He used her and then threw her away like a soiled handkerchief, left her at the first inn where they stopped and disappeared into the night.'

‘The devil!'

‘Oh please, Sir, your language.'

‘I beg your pardon, Miss,' the receptionist said, his face reddened, ‘but you must agree that only a demon in human guise, or perhaps a Frenchman, not an English gentleman, should be expected to behave in such a manner.'

‘I cannot argue with you, Sir. It is not in my power to offer anything in defence of that man. Even though I might not like the harsh terms in which you express your view of him, it is nevertheless justified.'

The receptionist, overcome with his emotions and his manliness for a moment, stood there mute, holding my hand in silent support.

‘And what is to become of your sister now?' He asked after a moment. ‘What will your father do?'

‘That is just the thing.' Renewed tears sprang to my eyes - and I didn't even have to use another onion. I wasn't just good at this, I was top-hole![24] A natural talent! ‘We have not a father nor a mother, not even an uncle. We are all alone in the world, Ophelia and I, and have only each other.'

‘And your name is?'

That was something I had pondered for quite a while before starting to put this little plan of mine into action. I mean, Lilly Linton? That didn't sound very romantic. It clucked off the tongue, rebounded from the teeth and came shooting out of the mouth like cannon fire. No. I needed a name with weight. With romance. So why not let myself be inspired by romance?

‘Juliet,' I said. ‘Miss Juliet Desdemona Bennet.'

‘Miss Bennet, you have my sincerest condolences.' He pressed my hand again, with all the masculinity he could muster. ‘Both for the death of your parents and the misfortune that has befallen you since. I stand in awe at your bravery, for I can see what has happened since. For love of your sister, you went out in search of this man, did you not? You, who had no one in the world, dared to go after such a monster?'

‘How could I not?' I asked, my voice wavering just right. ‘Ophelia is my only sister. Her honour and happiness mean more to me than life itself.'

‘And you suspect him of staying in our hotel, this man?'

Oh boy. This was really working out nicely. Apparently I had delivered the first part of my performance so well that he was doing the rest of the job for me. So I just gave a shaky little nod.

‘He shall be brought before the magistrate!' the receptionist proclaimed.

‘Oh no! No, Sir, I beg of you!' Quickly I pressed his hand, which immediately caused some more chest-puffing. Yes, apparently this was a male reflex and worked quite automatically. Fascinating. ‘If that were to happen, if the whole matter were to become public, my sister's honour would be forever ruined!'

‘Oh, I see.' Floundering for a moment, the receptionist enquired: ‘But what, then, do you intend to do?'

‘I intend to confront him. To force him to marry my sister after all.'

‘You alone? Miss Bennet, that would be far too dangerous.'

‘I shall not be alone. There is a man - an old acquaintance of my father - who has promised to assist me. He cannot aid me in the search because he has his sick wife to take care of, but once I have found the miscreant, he has sworn he will come and place before the man the choice: to marry my sister or fight a duel to the death.'

The receptionist nodded solemnly.

‘Then all that remains for me to do, Miss Bennet, is to determine whether or not you are right in your suspicion that this man is staying with us.'

Wonderful! I couldn't have put it better myself.

‘Indeed, Sir,' I said, blinking up at him tearfully, ‘that would be most kind.'

Most kind indeed. Now get on with it before the onion stops working.

The receptionist went back behind the counter and picked up the big book in which all the guests signed their names. ‘If you would be so good as to tell me his name, Miss?'

‘His name is Mr Simmons. But I doubt he would have used his real name to sign into your book. He knows he is being sought and will probably make use of an alias.'

‘How clever of you!' the receptionist exclaimed. ‘I would never have thought of that.'

That, I believed.

‘But then how will we find out if he is here?' he asked.

‘I can give you his description,' I offered. Finally we were getting to the interesting part. ‘My sister has told me exactly what he looks like. He has quite a distinctive appearance.'

‘Then please do.' The receptionist nodded eagerly. ‘I see all the people who check into our hotel, and it is part of my job to have a good memory for faces. I will certainly be able to tell you whether he is here.'

‘Oh, I am so relieved.' I put a trembling hand over my heart. ‘Thank you for your kindness, Sir. The man I am looking for is tall and gangly, with a long nose, long blonde hair and a thin moustache, and a scar over his right eyebrow.'

A curious expression spread over the receptionist's face: a mixture of disappointment and relief.

‘Well, that is quite distinctive, Miss, and I can tell you right away that we have no one of that description living under our roof.'

‘Indeed?' I began to back up. ‘Well… then I was wrong. Sorry for your trouble.'

‘Wait a minute, Miss. What will you…'

‘I suppose I will have to go look somewhere else now. Bye!'

And I was out of the door.

Outside Mr Ambrose awaited me, looking at his open watch and tapping his foot on the ground. His fingers were unconsciously tracing some pattern on the lid.

‘And?' he asked as soon as he saw me.

‘He's not here.'

‘How do you know that?' he growled through clenched teeth.

I winked. ‘Let's just say… by the use of feminine wiles.'

*~*~**~*~*

Twenty-five hotels later.

‘… I don"t quite see. If you do not want the man brought before the law, what then do you intend to do?' the receptionist asked, concern in his voice. Gosh, it really was amazing how similar male minds were.

‘I intend to confront him. To force him to marry my sister after all.'

‘All by yourself? Miss Bennet, that would be far too dangerous!'

Hey, he had actually said "by yourself" instead of "alone"! So men were capable of some variety after all!

‘I shall not be alone,' I answered, sniffling. ‘There is a man - an old acquaintance of my father - who has promised to assist me. He cannot aid me in the search because he has his sick wife to take care of, but once I have found the miscreant, he has sworn he will come and place before the man the choice: to marry my sister or fight a duel to the death.'

The receptionist nodded solemnly.

‘Then all I can do is to find out whether or not you are right in supposing this man to be staying with us.'

‘Indeed, Sir,' I said, blinking up at him tearfully, ‘that would be most kind.'

The receptionist went back behind the counter and picked up the big book in which all the guests signed their names. ‘If you would be so kind as to give me the man's name, Miss?'

Yes, if you would be so kind as to do a handstand and a few pirouettes for me! God, can none of you ever say anything really different? Men! All the same!

‘His name is Mr Simmons. But I doubt he would have used his real name to sign into your book. He knows he is being sought and will probably make use of an alias.'

‘How ingenious!' the receptionist exclaimed. ‘I would never have thought of that. But then how will we determine if he is here?'

Well, the same way I did it in the last twenty-five hotels, you dolt!

‘I can give you his description,' I offered, having to restrain myself to keep from yawning. This was getting old. ‘My sister has told me exactly what he looks like. He has quite a distinctive appearance.'

‘Then please do.' The receptionist nodded eagerly. ‘I see all the people who check into our hotel, and it is part of my job to have a good memory for faces. I will certainly be able to tell you whether he is here.'

Yes, yes, of course you will… Now can you stop blabbering so we can get on with this?

‘Oh, I am so relieved.' I put a trembling hand over my heart. ‘Thank you for your kindness, Sir. The man I am looking for is tall and gangly, with a long nose, long blonde hair and a thin moustache, and a scar over his right eyebrow.'

Again I had to suppress a yawn. Here we go again.

A grim smile spread over the receptionist's face.

‘Miss, I believe you have caught your villain! A man of just such a description is indeed staying under our roof at this very moment!'