Page 4 of Storm over the Caribbean
That was putting it mildly. The only one I could think of whose hand might be shorter was my second cousin’s pet pygmy marmoset.2 Leave it to Mr Ambrose to invent an entirely new kind of shorthand because the original was too long for his taste.
I looked down at the shorthand—then glanced sideways at the massive book resting next to it. The title on its cover proclaimed:Manual to R.A. Internal Business Shorthand. Confidential.
The smile that had previously been on my face faltered ever so slightly.
Wasn’t it ajoyto be back at work? Proving that I could still do the same work as any man even while pregnant really was anamazingfeeling.
Lilly, you should really get better at lying to yourself.
***
“Thrice-blasted niggardly son of a bachelor!”
Exhausted, I sagged back into my chair.
Five hours! Five bloody hours! That’s how long it had taken. And by “it”, I didn’t mean going through the documents. Oh no. Five hours was how long I’d needed to work my way through the infuriating excuse for a manual that could double as an ancient pharaoh’s pyramid building block. Then another three hours to dig myself through the pile of piss-poor excuses for shorthand documents. By the time I was finished I had cursed Mr Rikkard Ambrose roughly forty-seven times.
“Bloody hell!”
Dragging in a deep breath of air, I placed the last of the papers on the table and started massaging my neck. There were muscles aching back there that I never knew I had. When I stretched, my bones made ominous popping sounds.
Just then, brisk footsteps approached. The connecting door opened, and Mr Rikkard Deserves-a-Kick-In-The-Bollocks Ambrose stuck his head into the room.
“Evening, Mrs Ambrose. A day of hard work is truly invigorating, isn’t it?”
I moved my massaging hands to my back and gave my dear husband a sweet smile. “Do you know that, according to Scotland Yard reports, murders of married men are most often committed by their wives?”
“You don’t say.” He just cocked his head and extended his arm to me. “Fascinating. Now, shall we go home and enjoy our conjugal bliss?”
My smile widened. “Oh, by all means, let’s go home! I’ve already got just the right transportation method in mind—”
“In acarriage. We’re going home in acarriage. Drawn byhorses.”
“You really know how to spoil my fun, don’t you?”
No answer.
“Don’t you know you’ll hurt Ambrose Junior’s feelings?”
Silence.
Bloody hell! The stubborn man would really deprive me of my marvellous mount, wouldn’t he? Horses were so boring. They didn’t even have humps!
Then again, he had said “horses”—not “horse”, as in the single miserable nag that Mr Ambrose usually put before his sorry excuse for a carriage. Did that mean he had actually gone out andbought a real carriage?
Well, well now. A way to get Mr Rikkard Ambrose to buy stuff: threaten him with camels. This had possibilities. Making a mental note to add it to my Handbook for Villainous Newlyweds, I started whistling again and moved to the door.
Hm…that makes two hundred fifty pages already. I wonder when I should get my handbook published…
“Mrs Ambrose?” A voice suddenly came from behind me. “What are you up to?”
“Me?” Turning around, I batted my eyelashes up at my hubby, eyes filled only with innocence. “Nothing. Why do you ask?”
“Hm.” Eyes narrowed infinitesimally, Mr Ambrose extended his arm. I took it like the good little wife I was, and together we strode out the door and into the corridor. Outside, Mr Stone sat at his desk with a pen in his hand and a bruise on his forehead. The moment he spotted Mr Rikkard Ambrose, arm in arm with an undeniably female, very much pregnant figure, his eyes went wide.
“Oh my God it wasn’t a nightmare!”
Mr Rikkard Ambrose slowly turned his head and sent his iciest stare at the receptionist. “What?”
