Looking for Truffles and Butterflies

Mr Ambrose's porter apparently was no instant-cleaning wizard. I soon grew tired of waiting for my tailcoat's return. To tell the truth, I felt tired in general - tired and battered and dirty. What I really needed was not just to get my clothes cleaned, but to get myself cleaned, too. To wash the dirt off my skin, and all the confusions of the night along with it.

Didn't Mr Ambrose have a powder room? With a shower? I thought I remembered something of the sort from when I had needed to powder my foot. Or had it been my nose?

I got to my feet and waited until that nasty, ill-tempered floor had more or less stopped trying to buck me off. It took some time, but finally it seemed to accept I wasn't just going to be thrown out of the window.

With all the authority I could muster, I pointed a finger at the floor.

‘Stay!' I told it. ‘I'm going to go to powder my little toe now, and you're going to stay right where you are. Understood?'

The floor nodded, and I raised my chin in triumph. There! I had gained a complete victory. The little yellow piggies cheered and applauded as I paraded past the desk to the little door behind it.

The powder room was just as I remembered it. One toilet, one shower, and no powder at all. Not even gunpowder. But then, I had come to shower, not to blow things up, so maybe that was just as well.

It was a little darker in the room than the last time I had been in here, though. For a moment I wondered why, until I remembered.

Of course! It's nighttime, and that bright thingy in the sky is missing. What's it called again?

The sun! Yes, that's what it was called.

So… you need those other thingamies now. Those whatyemaycallit… lamps!

Dear me! I was really quite impressed by my vast memory and intellect. It even led me to suspect that there might be some sort of switch for the lamps beside the door - and voilà, I was right! My fingers found the switch and turned it.

Bright light exploded from my left and I gave a little gasp, shielding my eyes from the sudden invasion. After a few seconds of familiarization, I took my hand from my eyes and saw that the room was now bathed in a soft yellow light. Now all I needed was for me to be bathed, too - only with water instead of light.

The shower head protruded from the left wall, over a broad, white, ceramic basin. Of course, it had absolutely no gold ornaments or other adornments like any other decent upper-class British bathroom. This was Mr Ambrose's shower, after all. At the moment, though, I didn't care about ornaments. All I cared about was that water would come out of the pipes.

Closing the door behind me, I strode over to the shower. For some strange reason, I felt as though I had forgotten something, but the prospect of the shower was so alluring I put it out of my mind.

The floor in here seemed to be friendlier than the office floor. It only wobbled slightly once or twice as I made my way across the room.

‘Good floor,' I mumbled. ‘Nice floor. That's right. Just stay where you are.'

The floor obeyed, and soon I had reached my destination and could grab one of the pipes for support.

I noticed there wasn't just a shower, there were towels, too. Perfect! Though a bit strange, admittedly. Who kept bath towels in his office?

He probably practically lives here.

Well, all the better. I wasn't in the mood to drive miles to our bathtub at home, and I needed the calming feel of water on my skin. Maybe my head would feel a little clearer after I sprinkled a little water on it.

Humming contentedly to myself, I slipped out of my remaining clothes, getting it done much more quickly than usual. Trousers were really handy things to wear, compared with hoop skirts. I grabbed one of the towels, all of which, of course, weren't made of embroidered terry cloth, but simple white linen. They felt so smooth and cool that they reminded me of him. Wrapping myself in them was almost like wrapping myself in him. It felt nice.

But… wasn't I supposed to do that only after the shower? I felt a bit confused. Oh well, it couldn't hurt and, as mentioned before, it felt so nice. I was so engrossed in the task of wrapping the towels tightly around me that I didn't hear the approaching footsteps outside.

Only when the door swung open and I heard a gasp behind me did I realize I was no longer alone.

‘Mr Linton!'

Drat!I knew I had forgotten something. Nobody was supposed to be able to come in, right? Though I couldn't remember how or why exactly…

I turned, towels pressed against my chest, just in time to see Mr Ambrose back out of the room, his eyes tightly shut. The door slammed behind him.

‘Mr Linton?' His voice came from the other side of the door. Was it just my imagination, or did he sound just a little bit not his usual cool self?

‘Yes, Sir?'

‘The next time you decide to use my private bathroom, would you be so kind as to bolt the door?'

Bolts! That's how you made sure the door didn't open. I remembered it now. With effort, I squinted at the door.

‘I can't, Sir. There's no bolt on it.'

‘Of course there isn't!' he snapped. ‘Do you think I would waste money having a bolt installed on the door of a bathroom which only I ever use?'

I nodded gravely. ‘Of course not, Sir. Time is money is pumpernickel, right?'

‘Power, Mr Linton, power. Not pumpernickel.'

‘Oh. Right you are, Sir!'

‘Next time you go in there without informing me, wedge a chair under the door! Understood, Mr Linton?'

I nodded again. That sounded like a sound policy.

‘Yes, Sir. As you say, Sir. And by the way… I think you can stop calling me "Mister" Linton now.' I giggled a little. ‘You've probably seen enough evidence to the contrary.'

‘Mister Linton!'

‘No, no. Not Mister. Didn't you hear what I just said?'

There was a silence from the other side of the door.

‘Mr Ambrose, Sir?' I asked. ‘Are you still there?'

‘I am counting to ten to calm myself. Do not disturb me, Mr Linton.'

‘As you wish, Sir.'

I tried to count along, to know when it would be all right to speak again, but it didn't quite work. Every time I got to three I sort of stumbled and couldn't remember the number that came next.

‘Mr Linton?' His voice finally came from the other side.

‘Yes, Sir?'

‘Tell me when you are done in there. I, too, am not completely clean and wish to freshen up before retiring for the night.'

‘You can come in now, if you want,' I offered generously. ‘There's room enough for both of us here.'

‘No!'

He sounded quite adamant. That was strange. Confused, I looked around the bathroom.

‘Yes, there is. Don't you know the size of your own bathroom? There's plenty of room, believe me.'

‘I am not disputing that. However, I still cannot come in.'

I frowned. He was so stubborn sometimes. ‘Why not?'

‘Because,' he explained to me, his voice painfully calm, ‘persons of different sexes do not shower together. Society generally frowns on that kind of thing.'

My frown deepened as I tried to concentrate. If I tried very hard, I vaguely seemed to remember something of the sort.

‘But Napoleon is in here with me, too,' I pointed out, waving at the Emperor, who was leaning against the opposite wall, playing chess with one of members of the piggy dance troupe.

‘Err, well… he's a Frenchman. That's different.'

Before I had a chance to argue, I heard hurried footsteps receding on the other side of the door. Strange. Why had he run away?

Pouting, I removed my towels and stepped under the shower. It would have been a novel experience taking a shower with somebody else. For some reason I couldn't recall at the moment, I had never done it before. Thoughtfully, I eyed Napoleon on the other side of the room, but he didn't seem interested. He was much too engrossed in his game of chess. The yellow piggy appeared to be winning, and the Emperor's face was set in grim lines of concentration.

Ah well, it would be a new experience anyway. To be honest, I had never stood under a shower before. They were a pretty new and fancy invention - expensive, too, by all I had heard. Much more expensive than the traditional bathtub. Mr Ambrose probably only had installed one because he had calculated that in thirty-seven years or so, the water he had saved would justify the additional investment.

Money is power is pumpernickel, right?

Oh well, there couldn't be that much difference between a hot bath and a hot shower. Shrugging, I grasped the tap and turned it.

A banshee-like scream echoed through the halls of Empire House. Outside the door, I could hear the sound of running footsteps, and then Mr Ambrose's voice, calling: ‘Mr Linton? Mr Linton, has something happened?'

‘Yes!' I yelled back. ‘Yes! A bucket full of ice water, that is what has happened! Where the dickens does the water in your pipes come from? Antarctica?'

I heard something from the other side that sounded very much like a wall being punched with energy. Or maybe the floor. I hoped it was the floor. He deserved it more.

‘Well?' I demanded. ‘Where the heck do you get your water from?'

‘A rainwater tank on the roof,' came the cool reply. ‘Why?'

‘You use rainwater?'

‘Yes. You don't honestly expect me to pay for water when I can get it for free, do you?'

‘Mr Ambrose, Sir?' I asked, as sweetly as I could.

‘Yes?'

‘Is the water in this tank per chance heated in any way?'

‘No, of course not. Why would I waste money on that?'

I proceeded to explain to him exactly why. My explanation might have contained an expletive or two, or maybe a dozen, most directed at him, his ancestry to the tenth generation, and most especially his architect. When I was finished, his cool voice came from outside:

‘Mr Linton?'

‘Yes, Sir?'

‘Do not make any unnecessary noises again. I am trying to work.'

And with that, he was gone.

Quivering with cold, I stood under the shower, cursing the icy water running over my skin, and cursing Mr Ambrose. If he were in here with me, damn him, I was sure I would not be half as cold. He could be surprisingly warm considering how icy he was all the time.

Closing my eyes, I imagined him here with me, wrapping his arms around me, holding me tightly against him. For some reason, I was sure it would feel very nice having him here. He would be much more interesting company than Napoleon, who was still standing against the wall, bent over his chess game.

When I opened my eyes again, I saw him.

He had come after all! Mr Ambrose had entered the room. I wondered briefly why he was dressed in a red hunting costume, but who cared. I smiled a wide smile.

‘You came,' I mumbled.

He smiled back at me, opened his mouth, and growled like a tiger. Hmm… that wasn't something he did normally, was it? And normally, he wasn't so fuzzy around the edges. But you couldn't expect everything, could you? He was here, that was the main thing. Who cared if I got tiger growls instead of intelligent conversation. It wasn't as if he was a great talker under normal circumstances.

He stepped closer, his cold eyes raking up and down my body in a way for which any man deserved a slap in the face. Yet, strangely, I felt no urge to slap him. I felt an urge to draw him closer. Maybe then the cold water would be easier to bear. Heat already began to simmer in my belly…

‘Mr Ambrose, Sir…'

My words were cut off as he took another step forward and reached out for me.

*~*~**~*~*

Sometime later - insofar as time still had a meaning for me - I stumbled out of the powder room in a shirt and trousers, my feet still bare and my hair damp from the shower. Mr Ambrose awaited me outside, attired in his usual black tailcoat, bow tie and icy expression. How odd. I could have sworn that he'd just been wearing red, and then… well… significantly less.

‘What exactly did you do in there, Mr Linton?' he demanded icily. He held his silver watch open in his hand. ‘You spent thirty-one minutes, four and a half seconds under the shower. The average time people require to take a shower is eight to fifteen minutes.'

I blinked at him owlishly. ‘How do you know the average time people need to make a shower? Do you spy through people's windows with a telescope?'

He chose not to honour that with a reply.

‘I only require three and a half minutes,' he informed me instead.

‘I'm sure you do, Sir.'

‘People are too lazy.' He let the watch snap shut and strode past me into the powder room. ‘This room is now occupied, and since there is no lock on the door, you had better remember not to come in.'

‘Say hello to Napoleon for me,' I called after him. ‘And tell him, if he's planning a rematch, to start with the ruy lopez, e4 e5! Classic opening move!'

The door slammed shut without a reply. How rude! I had liked him better under the shower.

Remembering, heat flushed through my lower body. Much, much better.

Oh well, you couldn't expect people to behave the same when they were dry as when they were wet, now, could you? Disconsolately, I wandered over to the straight-backed visitor's chair and was just about to sink down on it when it occurred to me that Mr Ambrose probably wouldn't like water stains on it any better than bloodstains. So I leaned against the wall and tried to dry my hair as best I could with the towel I had brought with me. It didn't go very well. The floor had it in for me once again, rocking from side to side, making it nearly impossible to find my own head, let alone get it dry.

‘Blast!'

I tried to throw the towel over the back of my head so I could rub my neck dry. But somehow I managed to throw it over the front of my head instead, to rub my face wet. I got a mouthful of towel, and tried in vain to dislodge it from between my teeth.

‘Blaft, blaft, blaft… pfft! Blast!'

Finally! But by now I had managed to wrap the towel around my throat. Could one strangle oneself with a towel, I wondered? It would certainly make an interesting headline:

Sparsely dressed young lady found strangled with a towel in office of London's richest businessman! The scandal thickens! Mr Rikkard Ambrose unavailable for comment!

Mr Ambrose would not be pleased - and neither would Napoleon or Alexander. They'd prefer it if I died bravely in battle, I was sure. I should probably try not to strangle myself.

Tentatively, I tugged at one end of the towel again. The beastly thing constricted around my throat, with total disregard for the wishes of two famous historical emperors.

‘Blast!'

‘Here, let me.'

My hand jerked when somebody touched it, and I really would have strangled myself had not this other hand gripped the towel firmly and unwound it from around my neck. Wait just a minute - I knew this hand!

It was Mr Ambrose. He had returned and appeared beside me without my noticing. Well, I suppose strangling oneself is a rather engrossing activity.

He wasn't wearing his red hunting costume this time, or his black tailcoat, though I saw that hanging over the visitor's chair nearby, next to a piggy that was looking through the pockets, in the hope of finding truffles, presumably. This Mr Ambrose was simply dressed in a white shirt and black waistcoat and, of course, his icy expression, which he probably hadn't taken off even under the shower.

His hands weren't icy, though. They were gentle and warm as he unwrapped the towel from around my neck and pulled it over my hair, which he seemed to have no difficulty finding.

‘Hold still a moment.'

His fingers worked too quickly for me to tell what exactly he was doing, but when he was finished, the towel was wrapped up and around my head in a complicated knot, keeping the cold air out and my wet hair in place.

‘Now you can sit down,' he ordered tersely. ‘When the towel has soaked up most of the water from your hair, get a fresh towel and dry your hair again. Don't even think of starting to rub, just take a bit of hair at a time and pat it dry from both sides.'

He led me to the visitor's chair, and I was so surprised I let him do it.

‘How do you know how to towel-dry long hair?' I asked him, once I was seated beside the truffles-seeking yellow piggy. ‘Don't tell me you used to work as a hairdresser's assistant.'

‘No. The explanation is somewhat simpler than that. I used to have long hair, once.'

‘You?' My voice probably contained a bit more incredulity than was proper, but then, I had an inkling I had been doing a lot of things lately that were not entirely proper, and so far I was having lots of fun. I eyed Mr Ambrose's neatly trimmed black hair with suspicion. ‘You had long hair?'

‘Indeed.'

‘Why?'

‘Because I did not have enough money for a knife or scissors to cut it with.'

He was out of the room before I could think of a reply. And really, thinking of replies was so exhausting…

*~*~**~*~*

‘Mr Linton? Mr Linton, you have to remove that damp towel.'

‘W-what?'

Blinking, I sat up straight. The world seemed very fuzzy again. There was a man standing in front of me… White shirt, black waistcoat and bow tie… stone-faced… Mr Ambrose! Mr Ambrose with a fresh towel!

‘Here. Take this.' He handed the towel to me.

‘But you said to wait,' I protested.

‘You have been waiting. Sleeping, to be exact. But five minutes is long enough. My office is no home for passing drunkards.'

He unwound the damp towel from my head, and I, luckily able to find my head again, began to rub vigorously.

‘I said pat your hair dry,' he reminded me. ‘Pat. Gently. Not rub like you want to rip it out of your head.'

‘Why don"t you go write a brochure on hair care?' I grumbled. ‘I can dry my hair however I want, thank you very much.'

After a few minutes, I let the towel sink with a sigh.

‘I can't get it really dry with this,' I complained. ‘You wouldn't happen to have a hairbrush, would you?'

He was standing at the dark window by now, looking out over the lights of the city. He didn't turn around at my question.

‘Why on earth would I possess such a useless item? Use your fingers. That's perfectly good enough.'

Why was he suddenly being so antagonistic? He had been so nice just a minute ago, saving me from strangling myself, and even nicer before that, in the shower… and now? Now he was cold as stone again, and staring away from me. I didn't understand it. Didn't understand him.

‘I liked you better in your hunting costume,' I grumbled.

‘What did you say?'

‘Forget it.'

I did my best to dry my hair with fingers and towel. Beside me, the piggy had switched to the inner jacket pockets, still searching for truffles.

‘Try the upper left one,' I whispered to it. ‘Take his wallet and you can buy all the truffles you've ever dreamed of.'

The piggy squeaked excitedly and proceeded to take my advice. I leaned back in the chair with a contented sigh, imagining how it would find Mr Ambrose's wallet and sneak off with all his money to buy truffles in Brussels. Suddenly, my hair felt much drier, and I myself better in a general way, though my feet were still a bit cold.

I sneaked a peek at Mr Ambrose, to see if he had taken notice of the piggy's activities. But he was still standing at the dark window, his back to the room, looking out over the city. In the distance, beyond the glass, one could just see the lights glowing at the docks. Work went on there, even through the night.

‘Mr Linton?'

Exasperated, I tapped on the armrest of the chair. ‘You still persist in calling me that? Even after what you've seen?'

Maybe it was a trick of the light, but I could have sworn his ears turned a tiny bit red. So, this creature of stone actually had some blood in him.

‘Especially after all I've seen, Mr Linton.' His voice was as frosty as the heart of an iceberg. ‘Not,' he added immediately, ‘that I actually saw anything. I turned away and closed my eyes very quickly. I saw nothing at all.'

‘Mr Ambrose, Sir?'

‘Yes?'

‘Don't lie.'

‘Mr Linton!'

He started to turn - then thought better of it and folded his arms in front of his chest. So I folded my arms in front of my chest, too, in defiance. And for the sake of gender equality, of course. Peeking at him out of the corner of my eye, I saw he was still glaring out of the window, trying to freeze the city of London with his gaze alone. I didn't have a window to stare through belligerently, so I had to make do with the wall, but my stare was nevertheless a match for his.

For a while we just remained like this, glaring in angry silence. Finally, he spoke again:

‘I wanted to ask you something, Mr Linton.'

‘Well, why didn't you?'

‘You distracted me.'

‘I'm quite skilled at that,' I admitted.

‘Yes, you are.'

‘So ask now.'

There was another moment of silence. Then, abruptly:

‘Why do you do it, Mr Linton? Why work for me? Why insist on doing work that is meant for men? You saw that it is dangerous. If you didn't believe me before, you cannot doubt it after tonight. Why do you do it?'

It was the first time he had asked me this question - outright, without cold disdain, sounding as if he really were interested in hearing the answer. For a moment, I considered giving a smart reply like ‘because of the cheerful working atmosphere at your office' or ‘because I like gun fights', but… I was feeling strangely drowsy and unprotected, robbed of my usual defensive layers of sarcasm against the masculine world. The truth slipped out of my mouth before I could help it.

‘I want to be free.'

He whirled around, and I jerked in surprise. I had not expected my simple statement to get such a reaction. His eyes were like shards of dark ice.

‘That is it? That is all? You are free. England is a free country. Nobody can hold you against your will!'

I wanted to laugh out loud. But the subject really wasn't anything to laugh about.

‘Once I'm married, my husband can,' I hissed. Anger was rising inside me, burning away the tiredness that had clouded my mind. What did he know of freedom? What did any man know? They took for granted what women could never have. ‘I must work to make a living. The only other choice is to give myself to a so-called "eligible" man, Mr. Ambrose, Sir. For life.'

In three steps he was around the desk and in front of me.

‘And would that be so detestable? To belong to a man?'

I shot up to face him, not knowing where the energy came from. I was bone-crushingly tired. But I suddenly ran on anger now, and I always had a good supply of that at hand. My mouth tightened, the tired smile disappearing. Woozy or not, tired or not, seeing little piggies or not, I had an absolutely clear opinion on that one particular question.

‘I'd rather die!'

A muscle in his beautiful, mask-like face twitched.

‘Even if the man… harboured feelings for you?'

At that, the yellow piggy stopped searching for truffles and started snickering. I wanted to throw something at it, but didn't see any ammunition in the vicinity.

‘And how likely is that?' I scoffed.

For a moment he just stood there. His jaw moved; he looked like he wanted to say something. But then, why didn't he? Instead, he just stood there in silence.

Finally, he said in his most icy voice: ‘How should I know? I am certainly no expert on bridegroom choice. Still, it would seem a safer option to marry than to do what you are doing.'

‘Life is not about living the safer option,' I told him sleepily. ‘Life is about living a life worth living.'

‘You won't get to live a life worth living, or any life, if you go on like this!' Grabbing my upper arms, he pushed me backwards until my back slammed into the wall. ‘Don't you understand, Mr Linton? You could have died out there tonight! Died!'

And he shook me, as if he could get his point across by treating me like a salt shaker. All it did was make me angrier! All right, I admit it also made me feel the hardness of his body grinding and bumping against mine, but I tried my best to ignore that and focus on the being angry part.

I remembered another time not long ago when we had stood like this, pressed close together, my anger boiling like a volcano in me, his freezing cold in him. I remembered what it had felt like to feel every line of his sinuous, statuesque body pressed against me. Statuesque - that was normally a word you used only for women, if you wanted to say they were tall and graceful. But as I felt him now, I knew it described him perfectly. It described the hardness of his muscles. It described the lack of motion on his face. It even described his taciturn and stony manner. Like a statue. Statuesque.

The only thing it did not describe was the anger I swear I could feel underneath the stony exterior, in his deep, dark eyes.

What was there for him to be angry about? What was it to him if I died? He'd finally be rid of me, something he had been trying to achieve by a multitude of methods for weeks now. He should be glad if a stray bullet did the work for him.

‘You could have died,' he repeated. Behind him, Napoleon, who had left the bathroom by now, the chessboard under his arm, nodded solemnly. Blast! Even the Emperor agreed with him. I had to swallow.

‘I know,' I said softly. ‘I know I could have died, but so could you. So could any of the men who were there, fighting.'

‘But you are not like them, Mr Linton.'

The unspoken spoken words hung like the sword of Damocles in the air over our heads: You are a girl. You are weak.

My chin rose up in proud defiance.

‘I can be like them, in all the things that matter.'

His icy, sea-coloured eyes wandered from my face then, went down my body, slowly, lingeringly, and up again. I could feel the breathing in his chest, still pressed against mine, quicken as he did so.

‘No.' The word was absolute, brooking no contradiction. ‘You could never be.'

He leaned forward until I could feel his breath tickle my skin. What was he doing? His hands, his body, his breath, all melted together into a frightening, exciting melee of sights, feelings, smells and sounds. Suddenly, I could feel butterflies dancing in my stomach.

Butterflies?What the heck were butterflies doing down there? I hadn't eaten any this morning, had I?

His silent, stony face was only inches away now. He was so near, so terribly near - and then he moved to close the last bit of distance.