Hunting for Silence (Storm and Silence 5)

The sun stood high over Paris when our coach rolled through the northern gate. I gazed back at the city for a moment—then turned to look at the road ahead. It was well-paved, and busy with many travellers and wagons. It looked to be an easy road.

As for my own personal road into the future…

Well, that would be a little more difficult.

What’s so difficult about it? asked a little voice in my head. You love him. You’re going to marry him. Basta.

True. But my congenial feelings towards Mr Ambrose might not be shared by everybody. The only time he and my best

friend Patsy had actually met, he had eviscerated her in a debate about women’s rights, ridiculed her from atop a podium and sent her packing. I doubted very much that she had fond memories of the event. And as for my family…

Ella would be ecstatic, of course. She’d be ecstatic if I married a scarecrow as long as the scarecrow in question was kind, loving and devoted husband. But Anne and Maria would be vicious. And while I didn’t particularly care for their opinions, I wasn’t looking forward to their jibes. For years, I had told everyone that I would never marry, that I didn’t need any man.

And now?

Had I changed that much?

No. He’s not any man. He’s Rikkard Ambrose.

It wasn’t I who had changed. It was us. He was still him, and I was still me. But together, we were something new. Something better.

And I could convince Patsy of that, surely.

Probably.

Maybe?

‘What’s the matter, Mr Linton?’

Turning towards Mr Ambrose, I gave him a bright smile. ‘Nothing. Nothing whatsoever. I was just wondering…what do you normally do if you offend someone? Would you consider an apology?’

‘Certainly. If it is well-delivered, I might even accept it.’

It took a moment for the meaning of his words to sink in. When it did, I gave a groan, covering my face with both hands. ‘I’m so going to be skewered with a parasol.’

The drive to Calais was over disturbingly quickly. As we stepped out of the coach, we were greeted by flocks of screeching seagulls. One of the braver ones tried to use Mr Ambrose as a toilet, but quickly changed its mind when he sent a frosty look her way.

‘Do you think we’ll get cabins on a ferry at such short notice?’ I enquired.

‘One cabin. Just one.’ His gaze bored into me, making me shiver to the bone—as well as other, more interesting parts.

‘Really? You plan to introduce me to the ship’s steward as your significant other in this getup?’ I tugged at one leg of my trousers and smirked. ‘We can try, if you want. It would be amusing to see the poor man’s face.’

Mr Ambrose’s little finger twitched. His jaw worked, but no sound came out. Reaching out, he squeezed my hand.

I don’t want to be apart from you.

I squeezed back.

I know.

It was amazing how much silence could say.

‘Let’s get this over with,’ Mr Ambrose announced. ‘The quicker we’re back in England, the better.’ And he marched off towards the ticket counter.

The clerk behind the counter was sitting with his chin in his hands and his eyelids at half-mast in a way that was either deeply philosophical or half-asleep. In either case, he didn’t have much attention to spare for Mr Ambrose. My dear employer wrapped sharply on the table, gaining about a quarter of the man’s attention. He yawned.

‘Do you ‘ave reservations?’