Hunting for Silence

04. The Price of Love

'Go away!' came his jovial greeting from inside.

'But Uncle,' Ella dared to protest. 'We need to speak with you.'

'Then especially go away. I don't have the time to bother with women's problems.'

'There, you see?' Aunt Brank raised her chin triumphantly. 'He doesn't want to be bothered. It seems I shall have to be the one to decide the matter after all.'

'Let me try,' I suggested with a brilliant smile. Stepping forward, I knocked against the door. 'Uncle? It's about money.'

There was a momentary pause from within, then...

'Come in.'

Sometimes, I truly loved my uncle.

We stepped inside. The room was as dingy as I remembered. Although it was a bright spring day outside, only slim slivers of light fell into Uncle Bufford's study, due to the heavy curtains that covered most of the windows. Coins, receipts and bank notes in bundles still covered every available surface. The piles seemed to have grown about two inches since my last visit. Uncle Bufford sat, as he always did, behind his massive wooden desk, most of his face, apart from his sharp little eyes, concealed behind a ginormous beard. The instant we entered, those eyes focused with unerring speed on Edmund.

'You. I know you. You're the Conways' boy.'

Edmund swallowed. 'Yes, Sir.'

'Are you the one who wants money from me?'

'No, Sir.'

'Then what do you want?'

'Um, well...'

'What are you waiting for? Speak up, young man!'

'I, um, came to ask for your niece's hand.'

'Which one? There are so many running around here I can hardly keep track.'

'Ella, Sir.'

'Ella? Hm, hm. Ella.'

'And I, of course, said no!' Aunt Brank cut in. 'Ella is a charming young girl, who, with a bit of luck, could marry into any of the highest families of the land! To give her to a half-baked, piano playing nobody—'

'Tuning,' Edmund corrected.

'What?'

'Tuning, Ma'am. I tune pianos, I do not play them.'

My aunt gave him a look that suggested where he could stick his well-tuned pianos. 'As I was saying, to give her to this nobody of a nincompoop would be beyond ridiculous. It would be the height of folly!'

'B-but Aunt!' Ella stepped forward, wet her lips and, with a blush taken straight out of a gothic romance, whispered, 'I love him.'

My aunt stared at her. My uncle stared at her. I stared at her. For Ella, this was rebellion. For Ella, this was dancing naked on the rooftop while the house burned down. She had actually voiced her own opinion—and not while hiding in a broom closet. Just goes to show: wonders never cease.

Uncle Bufford sent me a grumpy glare. I knew what that glare meant.

You've lured me into this under false pretences, young lady! You said we would be talking about money. And now I have to deal with marriage, and love, and other kinds of mushy female matters that make me want to hurl. Just you wait. This will have consequences.

I gave him a bright smile.

Oh yes, it will. Just you wait, you old buzzard.

'Well?' Aunt Brank demanded. 'Aren't you going to say anything?'