Silence Breaking

09. The Many Weapons of a Woman

The very next morning, Lady Samantha gave orders for invitations to be made. Instead of sending orders to a printer, she handed a list of names to Hastings, who would convey it to Jeremiah Jones, an antiquary and calligraphist whose work, apparently, was praised by all the noble families in the North. Tomorrow, the marchioness would have a hundred and fifty beautiful, hand-crafted invitations.

'Including,' she whispered to me at the breakfast table while Mr Ambrose was busy oozing disapproval for the expense, 'thirty-six very, very special ones.' She winked.

I suddenly didn't feel at all like eating anymore.

'Mr Linton? Is something wrong?'

I set the fork with my bacon down. 'Everything is fine, Your Ladyship. I just need a little fresh air.'

I walked away before she could say anything else, and caught her glancing worriedly after me. It felt strange having someone older worry about me. Someone who felt almost like a...mother?

Shaking my head, I shook off the thought and marched out into the hall. No Christmas preparations for me this morning! I needed to blow off some steam. So I got my gun out of my suitcase and, wrapping myself in the warmest clothes I had brought, went down to the shooting range behind the house. The targets were nothing but little snowy hills, covered from head to toe in a thick blanket of white, but it was the work of a moment to brush away the snow and reveal the coloured circles beneath. I needed to let off some steam. Besides, considering that many of the soon-to-come new arrivals would be ladies in pursuit of Rikkard Ambrose, sharpening my skills with the gun might not be a bad idea.

Bam!

A hole appeared in the middle ring. I grinned. So I wasn't completely out of practise.

Bam!

Nearly there...nearly there...

Bam!

Bull's eye!

Twirling my gun, I blew the smoke off the end and proceeded to the next target, imagining it looked like the serene profile of Lady Caroline Elaine Sambridge, the most aggravatingly beautiful of our thirty-six special guests.

Bam! Bam!

Bull's eye – twice! Or should I say cow's eye? My grin broadened. I was just raising my gun again when, from behind me, I heard footsteps.

'Mr Linton? Mr Linton, Mother sent me to look for you, to see if you're all right. And then I heard a racket like – oh!'

Turning, I lowered my gun and saw Lady Adaira Louise Jannet Melanie Georgette Ambrose standing behind me, her eyes widening at the sight of the gun in my hand. At that moment, with her mouth slightly open and the stern expression banished from her face, it was quite obvious how young she still was. Sixteen? Seventeen?

'You...you're shooting?' she whispered.

'Yes. Would you like to try?'

If possible, her eyes went even wider.

'You would let me try?'

I stared back at her, taken aback – then I remembered that to her, I was Mr Victor Linton, a man, part of the chauvinistic machinery that prohibited young ladies like her from doing almost anything. Anything interesting, anyway. Time for a little progressive manliness.

'Certainly, why not?' Putting the safety on the gun, I held it out to her, grip first. She approached it as if it were a snake that could strike out at any moment.

'I...I don't know whether I should...Father would never allow...'

'Your father is currently cooped up in his study, refusing to come down to breakfast because he's too stubborn to welcome home a son who has returned after over a decade abroad. Does that sound like someone you should be taking advice from?'