Page 76 of Storm over the Caribbean (Storm and Silence Saga #8)

Well, let us see how long that lasts, shall we?

“The issue I speak of, and which I came to espouse here today is…” I paused. It was time. Time to speak those forbidden words that had haunted my life ever since I had bumped into “Mr Victor Linton” in that random street all those years ago. There was no way around it, was there? “…women’s rights.”

Another cheer went up from the crowd. From my grinning wife especially.

Just you wait. Just you wait. Vengeance shall be mine.

“Since meeting and getting to know my wife, my views of the fairer sex have changed dramatically,” I continued, speaking the complete and utter truth.

In the past, I had merely regarded females as a mild annoyance.

Now, though? Locust plagues were less dangerous.

Also much less threatening to my wallet, as evidenced by a recent atrocity called shopping trip.

“Women play an integral part in our lives. We live with them, we trust them…” With a pregnant pause, I sent a glare at my even more pregnant wife.

The one who had gotten me into this whole mess.

“Never do we realise how horrific it would be if, one day, that trust were to be betrayed.”

Folding her hands over her baby bump, she glanced away and started to whistle in a way a fool might consider innocent.

“Now, some might say that is unlikely, but I know what women have to go through on a daily basis.” Mostly because I am the inventor of the twenty-two hour workday, but who cares about such details?

“Day in, day out, they have to work, and work, and work, and never receive a word of thanks or recognition for it.” As long as they work for me, at least. After all, it would be foolish to waste my time and breath on something so useless.

“Why, some even have to work while they are pregnant !”

Boos and jeers rose from the outraged crowd. And, for once, I wholeheartedly agreed with them. Watching my wife race through the office with twenty pounds of files in her arms was quite the pleasant experience. But doing the same while she was pregnant?

“I say, enough! I say, it is time we start treating women differently! It is time we treat them exactly. How. They. Deserve.”

Such as tying them to a bed so they can’t overwork themselves during pregnancy. Or forcing them to do needlework, dust and wash dishes at home till they beg for forgiveness for making me go through with this charade.

The boos were swiftly replaced by cheers and clapping. Would they still be clapping if they knew how, right now, I was fantasising about tying my darling spouse to our marital bed and teaching her the duties of an obedient wife?

All around, women rose to their feet, their cheers growing louder and louder. “Wo-men’s-rights! Wo-men’s-rights!”

Among the crowd, I found my wife, who was cheering along while wearing a somewhat strained smile.

“Wo-men’s-rights! Wo-men’s-rights!”

Your right to beg for forgiveness if you dare to set up your husband, you mean? Your right to be taught your place—i.e., beneath me, preferably in our marital bed? Yes, cheer me on! Cheer me on!

This reminded me of the time my employees had applauded my “financial restructuring of operational expenses” that was, in fact, their pay cut. Ah, the good old days…

“The laws regarding women in this society must be changed!” I thundered, pounding the lectern with my fist. I was really getting a feeling for this. It was almost…what was the word? Ah, yes. Fun. “And I know exactly what changes I would like to implement.”

Hm…how about matrimonial bondage? Spousal servitude? There are so many pleasant possibilities to contemplate. My gaze bored into my wife, who seemed to be blushing for some mysterious reason. So many possibilities…and such intriguing mental images they conjure up.

“We must stand firm! We must unite to fight for what is right, and ensure that women across the country receive what is due to them!”

Hm…do I still have that riding crop somewhere?

At the very least, I had to have that rope still lying around. After all, sometimes, competitors were simply too annoying to not invite them for a little chat.

Again, cheers exploded from everywhere, interrupting my important deliberations. I gave the crowd a nod, signalling my appreciation of their fervour for feminism. Or acknowledging my new minions, depending on how you looked at it.

It was then that an ifrit raised her hand and interrupted my moment.

“Excuse me, Mr Ambrose, could you elaborate a bit on that? What exactly is it that’s due to women? What do they deserve?”

You sneaky little…

I felt my little finger twitch.

She gave me the sweetest, most innocent smile I had ever seen on her. Oh yes, I was going to need that rope. And that riding crop.

My little finger twitched again.

Calm. Calm. She asked you a question, remember? You must reply.

Unless, of course, I wanted to dispense with this charade and call my subordinates to dunk all those over-excited ladies in the nearest lake to cool off. That was always an option, right?

Not if you want to avoid the wrath of a few hundred feminists, with your wife leading the charge.

Tarnation!

There was no way around it, was there?

On principle, I was firmly against such extraneous things as facial expressions. But if I weren’t, in that very moment, the expression on my face would have been very…interesting.

“Why, naturally, it is…” I swallowed, tasting bile. Was I really going to say it? That horrible word, which would destroy the proper world order? “…equality.”

They all gazed at me, expectantly waiting for more. Son of a tax-collector! There truly was no way around it, was there?

“Freedom.”

Agh! This was torture!

Just you wait, dear wife of mine. Just you wait!

“The right to…to work . And…”

Just say it. You’ve dealt with this insanity for years now. You can say it like you mean it, just this once.

“…vote.”

Don’t scowl. Don’t scowl. Don’t scowl. It should be easy, right? You are used to showing no emotion. Or rather, not even having any.

So why did it suddenly seem so hard?

The answer to that came a moment later when the gaggle of women started cheering and chanting “Am-brose! Am-brose!” with my wife cheering at the front, giving me a thumbs up.

My hands tightened around the lectern, making the wood creak from the stress. And down below, hundreds of women were cheering and applauding, contributing to mine. If only there were a suitable outlet for it…

As if by providence, my eyes landed upon my darling wife.

Oh, right. There is.

Judging by the way she started retreating into the crowd, she knew exactly what my gaze meant. Unfortunately for her, she wasn’t fast enough.

Shoving the lectern out of the way, I leapt down from the podium and stalked towards my prey.

How fortunate that said prey happened to be not only surrounded by a thick crowd of cheering women who didn’t seem eager to move out of the way, but also heavily pregnant.

In a blink, I had crossed the distance between us.

In desperation, she doubled her efforts to get away, and…was stopped by one of her friends grabbing her arm?

Hm. Maybe I wouldn’t drive them all into bankruptcy after all.

Then said “friend” stuck her fingers in her mouth and gave a horse whistle, attracting everyone’s attention.

“Oy, ladies!” she called out. “Listen up! Mr Rikkard Ambrose has given such a marvellous speech, why don’t we show our appreciation?”

Instantly, another cheer went up from the crowd and, in a flash, I found myself surrounded by a crowd of squealing and cheering females, pelting me with flowers and asking for donations for various feminist endeavours.

Correction: she wasn’t just going to be driven into bankruptcy. She would rot in debtor’s prison till judgement day.

“Am-brose! Am-brose! Am-brose!”

Or maybe I could simply ship her straight to Australia?

“Oy! Break it up, everyone!”

Never before had I been so thankful to hear the voice of the defenders of the law.

“It’s the bluebottles!” one of the girls in the crowd around me shouted. “Run!”

And run they did. The crowd began to scatter, fleeing before Her Majesty the Queen’s men. Some tried to protest, or even charge at the men in blue, but those were quickly taken down.

“Agh!”

“Let go, prick!”

“Assault!” One of the policemen roared. “Assault on an officer of the law. Get them!”

In an instant, they fell upon the crowd that had been harassing me and wasting my precious time a minute earlier.

I nodded in satisfaction. Turnaround was fair play.

As for the fact that the crowd that had harassed me had been armed with flowers, while this one was armed with truncheons… unimportant details.

One of the men in uniform was marching straight towards me. Hm…maybe I should express my appreciation. Not monetarily, of course, but a word or two could—

That was when the man in blue heading towards me veered from his path ever so slightly. I frowned. What was he doing?

The answer to that became evident a moment later when the bluebottle reached out and grabbed. My. Wife.

My! Pregnant! Wife!

Red.

That was all I saw. Bloody, all-consuming red. For decades, I had been a cold man. Calm. Calculating. But now?

Fiery rage flooded through me like the torrents in the bowels of hell! In a flash, I was behind the man, grabbing his wrist before he could even touch her, my grip as tight as a vice.

“Don’t. You. Dare.”

“You…!” The man’s face reddened, and he tried to twist out of my grasp. Foolish and futile, as evidenced by the grunt of pain that escaped the man a moment later. “Ng! I’m an Officer of ’er Majesty’s law! Who are ye to interrupt me in the execution of…my…duty…”

That was the moment when he finally managed to twist around far enough to catch a glimpse of my face. It was also the moment when his face paled abruptly, and all strength seemed to drain from his body.

“The name,” I told the dead man walking, “is Rikkard Ambrose.”

“Nglmp.”

Ah. So he recognized me?