Who He Really Is

‘Where have you been?' Ella demanded in a breathless voice, jumping up from the bed, where, judging from the dampness of her pillows, she had spent half the night crying in despair. ‘Oh Lilly, I've been so worried!'

She definitely looked worried. Her normally cream-coloured face had taken on the hue of a freshly whitewashed wall, except for her large almond eyes, which were shining with suppressed anguish. With both hands, she held a handkerchief to her mouth as if to stifle a scream that was on the tip of her tongue. Glittering tears decorated her face like diamonds. I had to hand it to her: she looked like a perfect damsel in distress. And it hadn't even been she who had spent the night in prison. How did she do it?

‘What has happened to you, Lilly? Were you abducted? Who were you with? Where were you? And… Why are you wearing Uncle Bufford's old striped trousers?' At the last question, she actually stopped crying. Apparently, my wearing striped trousers had a calming effect on her. I should try to do it more often.

‘Don't worry,' I told her, patting her on the head. ‘I'm perfectly fine.'

‘Yes, but where were you?' she repeated the question with more force.

I shrugged. ‘Out.'

‘Where?'

‘Somewhere in town.'

‘You've been gone the whole night!'

‘Have I?' I tried to sound surprised. It didn't sound very convincing, unfortunately. ‘My, my, how time flies.'

‘Why are you wearing Uncle Bufford's trousers?' she asked again. Apparently, this point was of extraordinary significance to her.

‘Well, I…' Desperately I wracked my brain for some legitimate reason why a girl should be wandering through London dressed in trousers.

Instinctively, my eyes slid up and down Ella's figure. She was dressed in what was considered normal and decent for a young lady to wear: a pale cotton gown with wide, puffed sleeves and lace trimmings, and, of course, the crinoline, a structure for supporting enormous hoop skirts that was made out of the bones of whales. The poor sea creatures had to suffer to give the rear end of every lady within the British Empire preposterous dimensions. This was what was considered ‘normal'.

Taking this into consideration, was there a legitimate reason why a woman would want to wear trousers?

Well, maybe because she actually had some brains…

‘Why don't you answer, Lilly? What is the matter?'

But no, that wouldn't work as an argument with Ella. I bit my lip, trying desperately to think of something to say.

‘Please,' she pleaded, clasping her hands together like a little child. ‘Please tell me where you were!'

Darn it! How could I resist her? But I simply couldn't tell her what had really happened.

Don't get me wrong, it wasn't that I didn't trust her. I loved her. I would have trusted her with my deepest, darkest secrets - if she hadn't been afraid of the dark, that is. If I told her that I went out, dressed in men's clothes, to illegally vote at a parliamentary election, was offered a job as a secretary, got caught by the police, then got thrown into jail and spent the night next door to three famous murderers, she would have nightmares for the next three years.

‘I… I wanted to go out last night to visit Patsy,' I fibbed. ‘And you know… it was so late, and the streets were so dark… I was afraid something might happen to me, a lone girl, in the dangerous city.' I affected a quite convincing shudder. ‘And I had read in some book - I don"t remember the title right now - of girls dressing up as men when they did not want to be harassed, so I thought why not do the same, and so I did. But then it was so terrible out in the dark streets, and Patsy said I could stay the night if I didn't want to return in the dark. I was afraid, so I stayed. Sorry for worrying you.'

I waited for the admonishment. No doubt even my sweet, unsuspecting sister would see through this feeble lie. When in the world had I ever been afraid of anything, let alone something as ridiculous as the dark? Rather than dressing in my uncle's clothes to avoid trouble, I would have taken my uncle's cane to deal with trouble if it chose to appear. What would I say next if Ella didn't believe me?

‘Oh, my poor, poor Lilly.' Ella rushed towards me. The next thing I knew she was hugging me tightly, though slightly awkwardly because of her enormous hoop skirt getting in the way. ‘That must have been so terrible! You must have been really frightened.'

‘Err… yes,' I mumbled. ‘I was, I was really.' Dear Lord, she had actually swallowed it!

‘Poor Lilly. You are so brave. Oh, I would have died from fear if I had to set a foot outside the house at night.'

‘Well it's fortunate that I went out then, and not you,' I said, patting her head reassuringly. ‘I like you alive and kicking.'

‘We must go to Aunt Brank, Lilly, immediately,' Ella insisted, stood back and grasped me by the hand. ‘She wanted to know where you had disappeared to. I'm sure she's frantic with worry.'

Oh blast! Ella, the sweet little angel, might be easy to fool, but my aunt was another matter. If she saw me in striped trousers it would most definitely not have a calming effect on her. Quite the opposite, I suspected.

Ella was already turning and starting towards the door when I grasped her by the arm. ‘Stop! Wait.'

‘Why? We shouldn't wait. She must be terribly worried!'

Worried? Not worried for me, that was for sure. Worried that I had committed some humongous, scandalous transgression, maybe. That was always her first assumption when anything out of the ordinary happened near me: blame Lilly. And in this case she would actually be right.

‘Um… I can't let her see me like this.' I gestured at Uncle Bufford's old trousers. ‘She would be very upset.'

To be honest, "very upset" was putting it mildly. But I thought it better to couch it in gentler terms for the benefit of my little sister.

Ella clutched her hands in front of her chest. ‘Oh, you are right! Oh, Lilly, what shall we do?'

‘Err… change?' I suggested. ‘At least I should. You are fine as you are.'

‘Quite right!' A beaming smile spread across Ella's face. ‘And then we will go down to see Aunt?'

‘Yes, yes.'

Quickly I went to the big old wardrobe that took up a considerable portion of the room. Its size was hardly justified by its contents: one coat and two dresses for each of us. No ball gowns, no large collection of dresses like many of the ladies in town possessed.

Originally, there had even been only one dress for each of us, until I had pointed out to my dear aunt and uncle that if one dress got dirty, you needed a second one to change into, since it was hardly proper for a lady to run around stark-naked. Grudgingly, my uncle had conceded the point and opened his precious purse to buy each of us another dress. The plainest and cheapest that could be found in the city of London.

This was the dress I now took out of the wardrobe, not forgetting to thank the Lord for my uncle's stinginess. The very fact that it was so plain made it a marvellous camouflage for dodging the prospective suitors my aunt flung at me at regular intervals.

‘Here, hold this for a moment, will, you?' I asked Ella, with one hand starting to open the belt which held Uncle Bufford's old trousers in place, and handing her my favourite armour against suitors with the other.

You aren't likely to need it to fend off many suitors, though, are you?said a nasty little voice in the back of my head. Not as long as you look so unlike a girl that the most masculine of men doesn"t even recognize you as female.

‘Help me put this on, will you?' I said to Ella, to drown out the annoying voice in my head. I would not think of Mr Ambrose again. I had done more than enough of that in prison.

‘Of course,' she responded with a sweet smile and was just about to unbutton the dress when a knock from the door froze her in place. That knock managed to drive all thoughts of Mr Ambrose out of my head far more successfully than any attempts on my part.

‘Ella? Ella, are you still in there? Who are you talking to?' The high tones of my aunt's voice penetrated the door. I would have said her voice sounded something like a piece of chalk being dragged across a blackboard, but that would be an insult to chalk all over the world.

Before I could stop her, Ella smiled and cried, elated: ‘It's Lilly, Aunt! She has come back!'

There was a pause. It was filled with the threat of sudden and violent doom. ‘Lillian? Is it true? Are you in there?'

For a moment I considered shouting back, ‘No, not really' - but then I gave up. There was no sense in pretending anymore.

‘Yes, Aunt, I am here.'

‘Come out at once! I wish to speak with you. You have a lot to explain, young lady!'

On tiptoes, I went to the door and bolted it.

‘What are you doing?' Ella mouthed at me, her eyes wide.

‘Protecting our necks,' I mouthed back at her.

‘I'm sorry, Aunt, but that will have to wait a while,' I called out. ‘I'm dressing at the moment.'

‘So what? I am your Aunt. I have seen you dress since you were a little girl.' She turned the doorknob and pushed - but the door wouldn't budge. ‘Lillian? Lillian, don"t tell me this door is bolted!'

‘That's fine,' I answered in as light a tone as I could manage while frantically unbuttoning Uncle Bufford's waistcoat. ‘I won't tell you, I promise.'

‘Don't get smart with me, young lady! Is this door bolted?'

‘You just asked me not to tell you that. So I can't, even though technically it actually might be true.'

‘Lillian!'

Oh-oh… maybe I shouldn't push her too far.

‘Yes, Aunt, it is bolted.'

‘Then unbolt and open it at once.'

‘Sorry, I can't do that.' Quickly, I ripped the waistcoat off and stuffed it under my pillow. Now I was standing half-naked in my room, dressed only in striped trousers, a corset and a top hat which for some reason hadn't fallen off my head yet. ‘I, err… I am preparing a special look for myself today. You always say how I don"t look ladylike enough, don"t you? Well, I'm giving it a special effort today, and I want to surprise you.'

‘Is that really true?'

‘Yes.' I glanced down at my corset and striped trousers. ‘You wouldn't believe how I look right now - it's so different from the usual. Trust me.'

‘I want to know where you were last night.'

‘I'll tell you as soon as I'm finished dressing.' That would give me a little more time to prepare a convincing variation of the lie I had told Ella.

‘Were you with a man?'

I rolled my eyes. Of course that would be the first conclusion my aunt would come to.

‘Will he make an honest woman of you?' she demanded.

‘No,' I hissed. All this talk was distracting. Angrily, I fumbled at a waistcoat button which wouldn't do what I wanted. I needed to get these clothes off fast.

‘What? What kind of rake have you gotten yourself mixed up with?'

‘I didn't mean no as in "no he won't make an honest woman of me". I meant no as in "no, I wasn't with a man".'

‘Oh.' She pondered that for a moment, and then demanded: ‘Well, where were you, then?'

Quickly I looked around for a place to hide the top hat. There wasn't any place I could see, so I just chucked it out of the open window. I would get it later when all the hubbub was over.

‘Like I said, Aunt, I'll tell you when I'm finished preparing my special look.'

‘What kind of special look? What exactly is it that you are doing in there?'

‘Um… Ella will tell you. I'm too busy with dressing.'

I climbed out of the trousers and stuffed them inside my second dress in the wardrobe. When I turned to her, Ella was gaping at me in horror.

‘What am I supposed to tell her?' she mouthed.

‘Think of something,' I mouthed back and then transferred my attention to the dress I would have to worm myself into.

Handing it to me, Ella hurried to the door.

‘Err… Aunt, well, Lilly is… Lilly is…'

Furiously I tried to struggle into the crinoline while Ella stood at the door and with a quivering voice told my aunt some nonsense story about how I was doing my hair in a special new style. God, couldn't she think of a good lie for once? It would be a special day when I decided to style my hair at all, let alone in some special way. My brown locks always looked as if a hurricane had just gone through them in any case, so why bother?

But amazingly, my aunt seemed to swallow the story. She stopped trying to come in, and, after a time, went off grumbling.

Five minutes later I was completely dressed, styled and mentally prepared. Ella had even lavished her skills on me and provided me with a hasty yet luscious hairdo, to give at least a little bit of credence to her story. She squeezed my hand in silent encouragement. Finally, I took a deep breath, unbolted the door, plastered a bright smile on my face and stepped out into enemy territory.

My aunt was waiting for me on the landing, her thin arms folded in front of her chest, the glower of her narrow eyes directed at me like that of the ancient Roman god Jupiter at some poor wrongdoer he was just about to smite with a thunderbolt. All she was missing was the toga and the long white beard.

‘Where were you?' she demanded, the beady little eyes in her vulture-like face narrowing with suspicion. ‘And be warned - I will brook no evasions this time!'

‘Oh, me?' I said brightly. ‘I was at Patsy's and stayed the night. Just came back, in fact. Don't you remember? I told you the day before yesterday that I would stay at her place.'

Keep it simple. Don't say anything else. Just keep it simple and for God's sake, don't blink.

My aunt's glower flickered. I waited, holding my breath. I had gambled on her nature: my dear aunt was suspicious to the bone, but she also didn't actually care tuppence about how I spent my time, as long as it didn't threaten her social standing or the contents of her purse. If I had gotten myself killed last night she wouldn't have cared, if I had done it in a nice, quiet manner. I saw the suspicion gradually lift from her bony face to be replaced by her usual expression of mild distaste. ‘Um… err… yes, now that you mention it I do recall something of the kind,' she said slowly. ‘The day before yesterday, you say?'

‘Exactly,' I confirmed, letting my smile grow even more bright and confident. ‘Where did you think I was? Did you think I spent the night in prison?'

Her mouth thinned. ‘Lillian! Don't even joke about such a thing! It is unbecoming of a lady!'

‘Of course. I am sorry.'

Behind me, I heard Ella carefully step out of the room. She had obviously listened and knew that the danger of actual bloodshed was passed.

‘Shall we go down to breakfast?' I suggested. ‘I am hungry after my walk.'

Nodding, and still frowning slightly, my aunt turned and led the way down the stairs. Behind her, I let out a deep breath. Thank the Lord for uncaring relatives.

*~*~**~*~*

Breakfast. The most important meal of the day, it is said. And, in many families under the glorious rule of Her Majesty Queen Victoria, an occasion for the entire household to gather around the table and make polite small talk about their plans for the day, while consuming luscious delicacies. I had read once, when for some reason I had peeked into a cookbook, that in the usual upper middle-class family, the following was brought to the table, for one breakfast:

· fresh sausages

· boiled eggs

· a cold ham

· porridge with fresh cream butter

· kippers

· a pheasant pie

· fresh curds and whey

· corn muffins

· fresh bread

· marmalade

· honey

· coffee

· tea

The cookbook had also suggested that a red and white chequered tablecloth should be avoided since it could have adverse effects on the digestion.

Breakfast at my uncle's house was slightly different. For one thing, my dear Uncle Brank only owned one tablecloth - a dark brown one, so stains would not be visible and it wouldn't have to be washed so often. For another, the meal was not quite so opulent. And as for the polite small talk at table, that was inhibited slightly by the fact that my uncle wasn't actually present.

Mr Brank had not come down into the dining room to take his meals for years, not since his sister and her husband had died, leaving him the task of looking after six of these strange, unpleasant little creatures commonly referred to as ‘girls'. Mr Brank was not fond of female company. He'd had to acquire a wife at some point in his life, of course, in order to produce an offspring who could someday take over the business, but at least she was a sensible, economical woman. These… ‘girls' were another matter entirely.

Thus it was that when we arrived in the dining room that morning, the big chair at the head of the table was empty, and my aunt bore an especially sour expression on her thin face. Leadfield, our only servant, who held the position of butler, valet, scullion and shoeblack all at the same time, was waiting for us and bowed as far as his ancient back would allow.

‘Breakfast is served, Madam.'

‘Thank you, Leadfield,' my aunt said in a cool voice, repeating the ritual that had taken place in our household for over a decade. With another bow and a sweep of his bony arm Leadfield directed us to the table.

‘Will Mr Brank be joining us at the breakfast table today, Leadfield?' my aunt asked, continuing the ritual.

‘The master is very busy and left early for work this morning,' Leadfield gave the expected answer. ‘I brought him his breakfast earlier, up in his study.'

‘I see.'

I saw my aunt throw a piercing glower up at the door of Uncle Brank's study, just visible upstairs. It had long been his inner sanctum and impenetrable fortress, where no female, not even my aunt, was allowed to enter.

When Mr Brank's sister and her husband, my beloved mother and father, had been so inconsiderate as to die in an accident, and this horde of chattering miniature females had invaded his home, Mr Brank had wisely decided to retreat and establish a secure base in his upstairs study, where these small creatures would not dare to venture. Instead of coming down to breakfast, lunch and dinner, he preferred to have his meals brought up to him by the aged butler, or to simply eat at work. Needless to say that this did not endear us girls to his wife, who lost many an opportunity to discuss at the table with her husband such important subjects as her latest efforts in household savings and the profligacy of the neighbours.

This time, things were no different. My aunt pursed her lips as the other doors to the dining room opened and my other sisters filed in from various parts of the house, yet my uncle remained absent.

‘Are you sure he is already gone, Leadfield?'

‘Yes, Madam.'

She sniffed. ‘Well, hopefully he will join us tomorrow.'

‘Hopefully, Madam,' Leadfield concurred.

‘You may serve the first course.'

The first and only, I thought, shaking my head.

‘Yes, Madam. Thank you, Madam.'

With all the dignity of a host of royal lackeys serving a voluptuous feast, Leadfield took the lid off the porcelain bowl in the middle of the table and poured each of us a healthy portion of porridge. To this he added some potatoes and salted herrings - the cheapest and most nourishing food that could be found on the London market. Say what you will, my uncle didn't starve us. Over the years, I even had gotten quite a taste for salted herrings.

My aunt obviously didn't feel like that. She eyed the fish on her plate with ambivalence. I could clearly see two of her strongest instincts warring with one another: her stinginess, which told her that this was the cheapest food you could get without poisoning yourself, and her social aspirations, which told her that a lady would under no circumstances eat something that also formed the regular diet of Irish peasants. In the end, stinginess, aided by a rumbling stomach, seemed to win out. She poked one of the potatoes with her fork as if she expected it to come alive and attack her. When it didn't, she impaled it and picked up her knife.

I had already started shovelling porridge into my mouth while my aunt was occupied, taking the opportunity to actually get some serious eating done before my lack of table manners was noticed. Beside me, Ella ate with considerably better manners but equal enjoyment. Gertrude, my eldest sister and the old maid in the family, didn't seem to mind the plain food either. The others, however, - Lisbeth and especially the twins, Anne and Maria - looked rather contemptuously at their plates and took a long time to start eating.

Even when they finally stuck their forks into the herring, they did not eat very much, and this was not just the case because they didn't like their food: unlike me, they considered themselves to be very fine ladies. Very fine ladies could under no circumstances talk with their mouths full, which meant they hardly ever could put a bite in their mouths.

‘Have you heard?' Anne burst out as soon as we were all seated. ‘Lord Tilsworth is engaged! And to a frightful girl, too. She is supposed to be one of the most low-minded creatures in London - and with horrible freckles all over her face. What in God's name induced him to marry her I cannot imagine! She's not even of the gentry, from what my friend Grace told me the other day.'

‘No!' gasped Maria. ‘Can it be true that he is throwing himself away on somebody like that? I can hardly believe it!'

‘It is true, I swear it. As I said, I had it from Grace, who had it from Beatrice, who had it from Sarah, who had it from her second cousin, who heard it all from the cousin of Lord Tilsworth's second chambermaid.'

‘Which of course means that it must be true,' I mumbled, rolling my eyes and chewing my potatoes.

‘Lillian!' snapped my beloved aunt. ‘Don't talk with your mouth full.'

‘Yes, Aunt.'

‘Such a pity,' Maria sighed. ‘Tilsworth would have been such a catch. And he was quite taken with me at the last ball.'

I rolled my eyes again and hoped my aunt wouldn't see. She would probably consider that unladylike behaviour, too. Oh yes, the last ball. Anne and Maria had been talking about it for days and days now. They were the only ones of us who actually ever got invited to any balls, because they were the only ones pretty enough in the eyes of the gentlemen. No, that wasn't quite true. Ella could have given them a run for their money - if she hadn't been so painfully shy. But as it was, Anne and Maria, pale, tall and sickly-looking, with dark circles under their eyes and that demure look that gentlemen favoured so much, were the only ones of us ever getting into society.

Which was pretty much how I liked it. They were welcome to all the balls and all the men they could get. They could have thousands and thousands of men, and have illicit affairs with them or marry one or all of them, or cook them for dinner if they really wanted to. I would wish them the best of luck. But why oh why did they have to bore the rest of us to death by talking about it?

‘…and the Earl of Farthingham is supposed to be engaged to Lady Melrose.'

‘Really, Anne? I hadn't heard that.'

‘Yes, Maria. You see, it's a frightful secret because…'

I ignored them to the best of my ability and concentrated on my salted herrings, while they kept gossiping about the famous Admiral this and the rich Mister that. My thoughts were neither on my food nor on society, however. They were on a certain tall, dark-eyed individual and on one question that kept coming back to the forefront of my mind ever since he had given me his card: Should I go there?

I didn't even know why I was still thinking about it. A normal lady wouldn't even consider trying to get a job.

Ah yes, that snarky little voice in the back of my mind said, but then, a normal lady wouldn't try to go voting dressed up as a man, would she? Ladies simply weren't supposed to be independent. They were expected to marry, sit at home and look pretty. And that's not exactly what you have in mind for your life, is it?

I threw a glance at Anne and Maria. They obviously were content with this lot in life. And why not? They were pretty, they could sit still very well, and to judge from the effort which they put into their social exploits, they would marry well, too. The young men of London were, from what I could gather, full of praise for their beauty and accomplishments, and were only quarrelling about which of the two to praise more. Quite a hard decision, since they were twins and identical to the last lock of their golden hair.

Indeed, Anne and Maria would make very fine ladies. I, on the other hand, had always had a rather stormy temperament that didn't lend itself well to the idea of marriage. Not as long as the vows included an oath of obedience to a man, anyway.

I definitely wanted to do more with my life than exist as an appendix to some chauvinist blockhead. So why did I hesitate, now that this golden opportunity had presented itself?

Maybe because I remembered with crystal-like clarity the darkness in Mr Ambrose's eyes. I remembered how that muscled mountain, Karim, had dragged off the fat man at his master's command. Mr Ambrose was no friendly or gentle man. There was a good chance that going there would cost me dearly. Still, his offer was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

Now the question was: for this opportunity, was I prepared to enter the lion's den without knowing if an open maw awaited me?

In my mind, I again saw an image of his dark eyes - dark eyes so deep you could drown in them. They seemed to draw me towards them. Suddenly, I didn't feel as hesitant about going as I had a moment ago.

His offer, I reminded myself. That is the only reason you're thinking about him, the only reason for going to see him again. This man is your ticket to freedom. Remember that, and while you're at it, forget about his hard, chiselled face and those deep, dark eyes…

But somehow I couldn't seem to manage. His eyes seemed to stare at me constantly out of my memory, burning holes into my mind. In those eyes I saw ruthlessness, arrogance, anger and more icy cold than in an arctic blizzard.

Why couldn't I stop thinking about them? About him? I had never thought much about a man before. The way they behaved themselves, regardless of their looks, had always been enough to make me want to give them a good kick in the backside. But there was something about Mr Ambrose, something about those dark sea-coloured eyes, his granite face and the way he held himself, ramrod-straight and immovable, which I couldn't get out of my head. I had a feeling that if I tried to kick him, I would end up breaking every single one of my toes.

I wanted to go to him, to grab this golden opportunity, and at the same time I wanted nothing so much as to run away to hide in some corner where his dark eyes couldn't find me. If I only knew more about him, knew who or what he was and what I would be facing, maybe I could work up the courage to go to his office. But how in the world could I find out anything about him?

‘…and Sir Ralley was so taken with the French Countess, I doubt he'll be able to resist another week. If he doesn't propose soon, I know nothing about London society. And I'm an expert, trust me. It's a marvel that…'

My hand froze in mid-air, half a herring hanging from my fork. Anne's words, which I had only heard by accident, had struck me like a thunderbolt.

I'm an expert. Trust me.

That was it! I just might find out more about him simply by asking! After all, I had a veritable fountain of information about London's society at my disposal. Two of them, in fact, or even three if you counted my aunt, who, although she wasn't able to go out as much as Anne and Maria, was just as addicted to the gossip of the high society. And to the high society, I was sure by now in spite of his simple attire, Mr Ambrose belonged without a doubt.

It was still unlikely that they would know of him. There were thousands of upper-class people residing in London, the capital of the world. But asking couldn't hurt.

‘Err… I have a question,' I said, laying down my fork and bisected herring.

Maria waved a hand. ‘Oh, leave us alone with your talks of politics and adventure stories and God knows what else, Lilly. We're too busy with serious talk to be bothered with your nonsense.'

‘A question about society.'

The table went silent. All eyes were on me, even those of Gertrude, who normally was content to stay in her own little world.

I cleared my throat. ‘Um… Does anybody know a Mr Rikkard Ambrose?'

Holding my breath, I waited for an answer. If he was nothing but a simple government official, they wouldn't know of him. But if not, if he was somebody more important, or rich, or powerful…

Maria laughed a high, nervous laugh, somewhere between hysteria and giggling.

‘Oh Lord, Lilly, you're so funny. Do you honestly mean to tell us you don"t know who Rikkard Ambrose is? I mean, the Rikkard Ambrose?'