Silence Breaking

06. (Motherly) Love

What sort of house would you expect Rikkard Ambrose to have grown up in? Something massive and austere, maybe. Something like Empire House, where all the walls were bare grey stone and the only decorations were the skid marks of busy feet on the hard floor. But this...

Battlewood Hall was a palace. There simply was no other way to put it. A palace.

On either side of a portico held up by six tall Corinthian columns, the wings of the house spread out like those of a giant eagle. Colonnades ranged along both wings, interrupted only by the glitter of glass where a winter garden dared to boldly rise out of the snow, defying the winter's cold with its lush green vegetation and beautiful, colourful blossoms. The wings of the Hall stretched around a wide courtyard, in the centre of which rose a sculpted fountain bigger than any I had seen in London. In summer, I was sure, it would have been spraying sparkling jets of water in every direction. In winter, laden with snow, it rose towards the sky like the world's largest, most beautiful ice sculpture.

Figures were arrayed before the entrance. As the coach rolled closer, I could see that most were clad in the uniforms of footmen and chambermaids. The line of servants stretched for at least thirty yards. On the stairs in the shadow of the portico, I glimpsed a figure in a familiar pink dress, and beside her another, slimmer, taller figure with her raven hair falling in wild curls down her back.

'Ho!' with a rumble, Karim reigned in the horses and, driving a half-circle around the frozen fountain, came to a halt directly in front of the line of servants. White glitter sprayed up, giving several of the footmen a sugar coating.

One of the servants – presumably the butler – stepped forward to open the door of the carriage, but then he caught Karim's look, and retreated quicker than Napoleon at Waterloo. Turban raised proudly, Karim marched to the door and pulled it open.

'Sahib?'

'Why, thank you.' Giving him a broad smile, I slid out of the coach. 'So kind of you.'

Karim muttered something in a language I – and thankfully everyone else, too – did not understand. Ignoring him, I stretched, breathing in a lungful of fresh air and eying the staff who, in turn, were regarding me with wagonloads of veiled curiosity. I heard whispers, too low to understand but loud enough to send a shiver down my back.

The looks, the whispers – it all stopped the instant the door of the coach creaked behind me and Rikkard Ambrose stepped out into the open in all his chiselled, austere beauty. His face was as impassive as ever. He surveyed the scene in front of us as if he was looking at a cheap two-story pub in the East End of London. Deadly silence reigned.

'Who is in charge here?' he demanded.

A man in a butler's uniform that looked ten times as new and shiny as Mr Ambrose's tailcoat tentatively stepped forward, clearing his throat.

'Mr Elsby, as steward, is the highest-ranking member of the staff, My Lord. But I handle most of the day-to-day running of the house. I'm the butler. Hastings is my name, My Lord. Welcome home. May I introduce the staff to you?'

'No,' Mr Ambrose told him. 'And do not call me "My Lord".'

'Um...'

'Karim will show you where our luggage is kept. I expect everything to be in my room and unpacked in ten minutes maximum. There are some very important papers I must go through before noon. Understood?'

'Y-yes, My Lor– Your Lo– Sir. Yes. Definitely, Sir.'

'Adequate. Come, Mr Linton.'

And we strode past the line of now openly gawping servants, towards the portico. The two figures waiting in its shadow now moved for the first time, shifting, leaning forward. I looked up and, yes, it was indeed her. Samantha Genevieve Ambrose, the mother of Rikkard Ambrose and mistress of this house. Although the tall, raven-haired young woman standing beside the little lady in the pink dress looked far more like she was in charge than her mother