Behind the Silence

Mistrustful Acts

It was hard not to want to shrivel up and die under the cold and calculating gaze of my employer.

It was hard, but after working here at the Empire House for nearly a year, I had to toughen up and face the harsh – yet absolutely astonishing – reality that was Rikkard Ambrose. He was the full – stingy included – package.

"What are you doing with that?" His voice was a hiss, slicing through the thick tension ever-present in the air once it came to me and him.

"I..." Had absolutely no idea what to say. After weeks upon weeks of shoving these heavily scented letters into the small drawer at the bottom of this desk – wondering who the lone name of Genevieve was once it was filled to the brim and I had to make more room elsewhere – I had gotten fed up; curiosity had definitely gotten the best of me.

And with the way he was looking at you now...

I wouldn't be surprised if he had Karim chasing me with his sabre.

Because no deduction from my monthly wages could cure that look in his eyes.

"I told you to discard those!"

"Err... Yes Sir, but I thought that maybe one day–"

"Day nothing! That was an order Mr. Linton!"

"I just want to know you!"

Of course that had triggered my employer's infamous silence. Hard, impassive sea-coloured eyes locked with mine.

It was slow...the unseen sight of the fresh barriers piling around his already enigmatic person, trapping him inside – making it more difficult to decipher what he was feeling at the moment. His face grew distant. He was making me want to scold myself in regret for finally wording the truth to him.

"That's not a part of your job description."

With one swift turn, he was already marching through the door that separated our offices. I heaved a long sigh, somehow finding it within me to pity myself for such a treacherous act on my part. He had it made known on countless occasions that he had indeed trusted me.

What would I do now?

My thoughts fled to the side once I heard a soft clink! – witnessing the sudden appearance of a folded piece of paper on my desk. I greedily unfolded the message, expecting an order, expecting the page to be filled with tasks to complete, expecting anything but the one word perfectly engraved to the paper.

Come.

I spent a little too much time tracing the precisely curved letters, entranced by what this one word entailed. What it would bring to life once I went to him. Soon enough, I snapped from my moment of befuddlement, sprang to my feet and sprinted for his door.

Be calm Lilly.

"Reporting for duty, Mr. Ambrose, Sir."

Stay calm Lilly, I tried again; baffled at the sight I had lived to see.

Mr. Ambrose – Mr. Rikkard Ambrose – was crying?

Holy mother of Mary, Moses and Elijah... What do I do?

Blast!

It was an unusual sight. Seeing the normally composed face of your aloof employer contorted into the sight of a weeping widow.

I just didn't know there was an ounce of lament inside of that stone statue.

I rushed to his side.

"Sir!" I was utterly confused in that moment. "Excuse me Sir, I'm sorry to say but – err – you're very much giving me the creeps."

I had done it wrong hadn't I? Bloody Hell!

"What's wrong? I'm here now Sir."

Silence.

"I miss them."

"Who Sir?"

Silence.

"My children."

His who?

"The letters I've been receiving are from my children's mother Mr. Linton. Princess Genevieve."

Now it was my turn elapse into the earful of silence my employer always provided me with.

Months of wondering who in heavens was Genevieve! Months of shoving letters away in hopes that they would benefit him in the end. Oh yes! Stacking those bloody scented letters had surely helped him! He had finally come to his darn senses! But me? Oh no, it hadn't helped me one iota! Was that fury singeing in my veins?

I was gifted with the writer of the Pink Letters to be his ex-roll-in-the-hay. The lone Genevieve – splayed out on the front of every envelope – I was always curious about, was his ex-knock-up.

I felt the anger, bubbling like boiled water in my veins. Rikkard and I – we had hardly begun, as dispiriting as it was. But them? It was proof enough that they had a line of history behind them if they had made it to having children.

The feminist in me was outraged. How could he? Leave the poor woman like that! Then again, how could she? Let a man like him get away! – Especially when she was with their children. I was over the ache in my chest. My indignation out-burned it. I removed my hand from around him, drying the last of his tears with my thumb. I would not watch the stubborn man I had come to harbour feelings for ruin another woman's life. She was one of us women.

"Go to them."