Silence Is Golden (Storm and Silence 3)

‘The Chapel Royal, Mr Linton.’

‘Um…are we allowed to simply go in there?’

‘I don’t believe so, no.’

‘But you’re going to do it anyway, aren’t you?’

‘Yes.’

We were marching through a long corridor now. At the end of it, a set of double doors awaited us. Mr Ambrose pushed them open and strode inside as if he owned the place. Maybe he did. How was I to know if the British monarchy was in debt or not?

Beyond the doors lay not a church, nor a cathedral - the modest name ‘chapel’ was clearly well deserved. But although the room wasn’t very large, its sumptuous décor, high, arched windows and dark, partly painted, partly wood-panelled walls told everyone who saw it that this was a place only for royalty.

To my relief, we weren’t the first ones to enter. A small crowd of people, including an elderly man in black and white robes who was clearly a priest, were already gathered beneath the windows at one end of the room.

‘Ah. Welcome, welcome!’ Catching sight of us, the priest strode towards us, arms outstretched. ‘Come in, Sir, Miss. What a joyous occasion. Such a happy day deserves to be celebrated, does it not?’

‘No, it does not.’ Taking off his top hat, Mr Ambrose clamped it under his arm. ‘But I presume it is going to happen anyway.’

‘Err…well…’

The poor priest looked as if he had been thrown a little off track. Taking pity on him, I smiled and curtsied. He hurriedly bowed back to me.

‘Please!’ He turned to the other people in the room. ‘Is there someone present who can introduce me to this lovely lady and her, um, formidable companion?’

‘Allow me.’ A portly admiral stepped forward, and the introductions began. By the time everyone in the room had met everyone, my head was buzzing with names. It wasn’t buzzing loudly enough, however, to keep me from noticing the fact that whenever we came to the part where Mr Ambrose said, ‘And this is Miss Lillian Linton’, and another person realized that I was in fact not there alone, but that I was Mr Rikkard Ambrose’s date for the evening, the looks I received went from shock to utter incredulity and instant loathing. The latter expression was particularly prevalent on the faces of a few young ladies in the room, and most of the moth

ers with unmarried daughters.

Shortly after, a servant appeared with my promised towel, and I started to rub my hair vigorously, determined to squeeze out every little bit of moisture. I saw a few of the other ladies eyeing my towel. I wasn’t the only one whom the rain falling outside had taken by surprise. So when I was finished, I held out the towel to a particularly wet old French duchess.

‘Would you like to have it?’

She looked at me for a moment or two as if I had mouldy spaghetti growing out of my nose. Then she made a noise like ‘Pfuit!’ and turned away.

‘What’s wrong with the towel?’ I demanded of the empty air. ‘It still has some dry patches! And my hair doesn’t smell that bad.’

‘I presume it is not the towel of which she does not approve,’ came Mr Ambrose’s cool voice from right next to me. ‘But the idea of rubbing her hair into haystack style in the middle of the Chapel Royal.’

‘Haystack st…! You really know how to compliment a lady, you know.’

‘Yes, I know. Do you have a comb with you?’

‘Why on earth would I bring a comb to a royal wedding?’

‘I thought so. Well, no matter. Hold still.’

‘Hold still? Why…’

My voice drained away as I suddenly felt fingers sliding through my damp hair. Gentle, firm fingers, straightening strands with disturbing ease. I tried to say something, tried to tell him to get his hands off my hair - but my voice suddenly didn’t seem to want to work anymore. It lounged in a beach chair somewhere on a sunny shore on the Cote d’Azur, sipping a fruity drink, accompanied by my higher brain functions and sense of propriety.

His fingers slid through my hair with a surety and confidence that made my spine tingle and my knees want to give out. It reminded me too much of other times he had touched me - times on that mad, passionate trip to Egypt when our carefully erected boundaries had broken down and I had done things with him that no feminist should ever do with any man - particularly not with a cold-hearted chauvinist bastard such as Rikkard Ambrose.

Those memories had better stay where they were: in the past, firmly locked away. Mr Ambrose was my path to freedom and a regular pay cheque. I could literally not afford seeing him as anything else.

‘There you go.’ With a swipe of his forefinger, sliding a stray lock of hair behind my ear, he finished. ‘Much less faeneumerial.’

‘Faenewhat?’