by Jean Moran
Without another word, Kim’s grandmother pushed Luli out of the door, then barred it behind her.
So, tonight he wanted her to dress for dinner. Surely that wouldn’t be so bad. He was a considerate host, the food would be good and the surroundings were aesthetically pleasing. They would dine in great comfort. The furnishings were sourced from a number of countries, his taste a mix of East and West: Turkish rugs, European paintings, silver candlesticks and French-style mirrors with gilded frames.
This must all have cost a pretty penny and Rowena wondered how he’d acquired such beautiful objects, bearing in mind he was a man who took what he wanted, stole rather than bought.
Loneliness was her companion for the rest of the day until Luli reappeared to help her bathe and to massage her flesh with sweet-scented unguents. She sighed as the girl rubbed a scented cream into her skin, massaging her sore elbows, spreading it over her hands and between her fingers. ‘The luoban will fall in love with you tonight.’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t want that.’
Luli tilted her head. ‘Not want?’
‘No.’
Luli shook her head. ‘You different.’
‘Different from what? From whom?’
‘The others.’
Her eyes flashed open. ‘Others? Do you mean other women?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ve seen no other women.’
‘Not here. Somewhere else.’
‘Where?’
Luli didn’t answer at first.
Rowena made a guess. ‘Shanghai? Are there other women at the house in Shanghai? You can tell me. He told me he has a house there.’
‘Yes. That is where they are.’
She sank forward onto her folded arms as Luli continued to rub the creams into her bare back. So, she really was alone here. Perhaps she should feel flattered at Kim’s attention, but that wasn’t what she was feeling: he made her feel safe, protected by his power.
*
Evening. Everything was ready. She was wearing the dress, which slid like water over her curves, lifting her breasts, emphasising her small waist, the flare of her hips, the roundness of her bottom.
As instructed, she sat waiting for him at a Western-style table, laden with dishes for them to pick at, to nibble and savour. In her mind she rehearsed asking him when she could leave her room and walk in the courtyard once more, but feared doing so. She was beginning to learn that everything had to be done his way and she counselled herself to be cautious.
A single servant, dressed in black silk, eyes downcast and a white towel over his arm, was on hand to serve but was ordered to leave once Kim had entered, his black silk robe billowing behind him like a parachute, his legs clad in dark blue trousers.
His hair was loose, black silky strands falling around his shoulders and onto his glistening bare chest. The sight of him, like the princes she’d read about, took her breath away. Paper lanterns lit the courtyard outside and linnets sang in a wire cage hanging from the rafters. The scent of night filtered into the room, with the heavy smell of the battalions of yellow chrysanthemums, like harvest moons in the borrowed light.
The lanterns’ glow caught the blackness of his eyes, threw shadows onto his features and emphasised the muscles of his chest.
Her practical side dismissed the notion that she’d been spirited away on a magic carpet but her imagination, her need to escape the experiences of St Stephen’s, was too powerful to resist. Despite what had happened and despite herself, Kim Pheloung was one of the most intriguing men she’d ever met. She no longer doubted that what Connor O’Connor had told her was true. Kim was less than snowy white. This was the man who had killed the soldiers who had raped her and somehow had got away with it. For that reason alone she could never condemn him. On the contrary, she was grateful he’d taken revenge on her behalf. She felt renewed, her body refreshed, the wounds helped to heal.
‘You look thoughtful.’
She smiled. ‘I cannot quite believe all this.’ She waved a hand at her surroundings. ‘In the midst of this war you have this – this haven.’
‘My haven. My heaven. Stand up.’
‘What?’
‘I want you to stand up. I want to see how you look in the dress I have given you.’
She’d never been the kind of woman to flaunt her figure and doing so now she couldn’t help but blush. ‘Um. Yes. All right.’
She arose slowly from the chair, aware of the flatness of her stomach, the roundness of her breasts pressing against the silky fabric. She blushed even more as his eyes swept over her in the most intimate way.
He nodded. ‘It was the right choice.’
She wasn’t sure it was: the cut and colour reminded her of the woman she’d seen standing on the balcony, dragon tattoos running up her naked thighs.
To counter her embarrassment she sat down again, tempering it further by asking him why he’d had her clothes burned.
Narrowing his eyes he smiled reassuringly. ‘I thought it best. They were in a very bad state. Not worth my laundrywoman’s time.’
‘I would have preferred to keep my white coat. I studied and worked hard to become a doctor. That coat was my badge of office.’
He raised the rice bowl to his mouth with one hand, his chopsticks in the other, his eyes never leaving her face. ‘You do not need it now.’
‘It might be needed – I might be needed, if I could get to Singapore.’
He put the bowl and chopsticks down, wiped his mouth with a cotton napkin.
‘Singapore has fallen.’ He sounded almost triumphant.
Rowena was taken aback. ‘Singapore? I can’t believe it. Not Singapore. It’s well defended.’
The way his expression changed told her he was indeed telling the truth.
‘It was well defended. Fortress Singapore is now occupied by the Japanese.’
Shocked beyond belief, she dropped her gaze, her blood curdling at the probability that Singapore had endured massacres just as Hong Kong had.
‘Can you get me anywhere else? Australia... or an American base?’
Smiling sadly he shook his head. ‘Impossible. The world is at war. The colonel gave you into my custody. I am responsible for your internment.’
‘Internment. That means I’m your prisoner. How long will I remain your prisoner?’
‘As long as the war lasts – unless other circumstances intervene and curtail your time with me.’
She felt her face drain of colour. ‘What are you saying? That you will keep me here even after the war is finished? Or by “other circumstances”, do you mean you will have me killed as you did the rapists of St Stephen’s?’
‘I am not a barbarian.’
‘But you’re a criminal. That’s true, isn’t it?’ she said, unable to stop herself lashing out with the truth, uncaring if he should repudiate her accusation.
‘Opium. I control all of the opium passing through Hong Kong, Kowloon and the New Territories.’
He didn’t care that she knew and seemed proud to admit what he was, what he did.
‘Why are you telling me this?’
His expression darkened. ‘So you know what is at stake in your life. So you know that you should not cross me and that you should be a grateful guest in my house. If not for me you would be starving and infested with lice like your friends.’
His tone was bitter, his eyes hard. He rose from sitting to standing in one abrupt fluid movement, gliding to the door, his silk robe floating out behind him.
Fearing she’d gone too far, she attempted to make amends. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful.’
He stopped at the door, a dark glower on his face. ‘I have put myself and my household at risk in having you here. All I ask in return is your respect and your trust. Do I have that?’
One half of her was inclined to be the old Rowena, independent and unbowed, but she’d been so close to the death of others, the smell of blood still in her nostrils. She was not ready
to die. She would like to grow old, as she and Alice had discussed. Determination overruled proud defiance. If she was to survive in this house with this man, a different Rowena was required, one who appeared subservient on the outside, her real self hidden within, just waiting for the opportunity to escape.
She got to her feet and joined him at the door, gazing up at him imploringly, realising deep inside that with one movement from him she would be lost.
As if to confirm her inner feelings, the cool night breeze ruffled their hair, lifting his tresses so that they fluttered with butterfly lightness across her face to entangle with her own.
Standing close to him, she could feel the heat of his bare chest. It was difficult not to drop her eyes and take in its bronzed smoothness. He was muscular but lithe and he smelt of the sea.
Tentatively, she lifted a hand, wanting so much to touch him. At the last minute she withdrew, clenching her fingers into her palm, feeling the dryness in her mouth and the pounding of her heart echoing in her ears.
‘I did not mean to offend you.’ She found herself bowing her head, the way she’d seen Luli bow hers before Zu Mu, his grandmother. This man held her life in his hands. Defiance needed to be hidden, but having it smoulder away inside would keep her focused and bolster her courage.
When his fingers lifted her chin she saw that, although he was smiling, his jaw was set firm and the hard look in his eyes that she’d seen earlier was still there.
‘Tomorrow we will dine again. Nine o’clock. Have everything ready. At nine. No earlier. No later.’
She wanted to ask him if he would come to her bed that night. Her lips parted, the words on her tongue ready to slide out. At the last minute she held them back. Whatever he was doing to her was working. In time she would be unable to help herself, but for now she refrained. In the meantime desire smouldered deep inside, but she held it back, unwilling to admit, even to herself, that she wanted him.
11
The next day Luli came in as usual, carrying the bowl of rosewater, the soft white towel and the creams that had helped her body to heal. She brought another red dress, too, this one a dark, blood red, almost purple in a certain light.
‘Always red,’ she murmured.
‘Zu Mu said you may go outside today. You are permitted.’
Rowena felt an instant wave of relief wash over her. At last. Outside meant the courtyard and the sheltered aisles bordering it. It was such a small place, that courtyard, she thought, surveying it through the window, seeing the painted shutters, the fountain, the forest of flowers and green bushes.
Luli had only just left through the ebony door when Rowena opened it and looked out.
Luli glanced round at her and smiled. ‘You free now.’
‘Being allowed to leave my room hardly constitutes liberation,’ Rowena snapped.
The girl looked confused, but Rowena was so eager to get outside that she didn’t stop to explain.
In soft slippers, she crossed the wood-tiled floor and went into the courtyard where she stopped, breathed in the air but wrinkled her nose at the smell of overblown chrysanthemums.
Fresh air wasn’t all she wanted. She wanted a change of scene. She wanted company.
Rowena followed Luli’s path, which led straight into the kitchen on the south side of the house. She stopped and breathed in the starchy air, which reminded her of the smell of wallpaper paste back in England.
The cook and his assistant stopped what they were doing and stared at the handsome woman who had dared enter their precious domain.
‘I’d like to help.’
The cook, a little man with a long pigtail and a white apron that folded around him twice, said something to Luli.
‘He asks if you do not like his food.’
‘Of course I do. I love it, and I would like to learn his skills, or at least some of them.’
He looked pleased when Luli interpreted, beaming with pleasure and gesturing with his hands that he would like her to join in.
He chatted away, pointing at herbs, various spices and the heads of fish floating in greenish brine. Luli couldn’t interpret fast enough, but Rowena gestured that she understood, her eyes alighting on familiar ingredients.
There was a light rice dish flavoured with spring onions and egg for lunch, which would be served cold. The evening preparations were more elaborate as they were to be served to her and the master of the house. They were laughing at Rowena’s efforts to make noodles when Kim’s grandmother entered, the door slamming open, her walking stick tapping angrily on the tiled floor when she saw that Rowena was present.
Anger rumbled from the depth of her being as her voice rose along with her walking stick, falling on Luli’s cheek, aimed at and only just missing the cook, who was swifter on his feet than she was. She turned to Rowena, waving the stick and shouting furiously.
Luli was trembling and rubbing at the spots where the stick had landed.
‘Tell Zu Mu I understand. She does not want me in the kitchen.’
Luli nodded.
The old lady raised her stick and pointed it at the door.
‘All right. I’m going.’
She wished Kim was there so that she could tell him she would like to do something in this house, not just wait for him.
A little later, Rowena was sitting beside the fountain, pulling at strands of gold thread that formed the tails of exotic birds on the tunic she was wearing, when Luli came running out.
On seeing the servant, she sat bolt upright. ‘Is Zu Mu still vexed with me?’
Luli, a red mark on her cheek where the stick had hit, said nothing, her eyes moist with tears. She set down the dish and scampered away.
Rowena sat without eating, watching heads bobbing and moving around in the kitchen. A tableau of human life was acting out in front of her, something to watch and wonder about. Fish had been delivered, a pedlar of fruit was enjoying the company of the cook, and men with brushes were sweeping down cobwebs from the overhanging roofs and leaves from the tiled areas beneath the overhanging eaves. Not once did they look up to meet the eyes of the foreign woman, a gweilo, an interloper from the Far West, as were all her people.
There was a door from the kitchen to the outside, used by tradesmen and servants. The door Kim had brought her through was ostensibly for the use of guests and family. It led into a cool hallway, where an interior door opened onto the courtyard.
Her attention stayed fixed on the kitchen door, which might be accessible at all times… perhaps even at night.
An uncanny feeling accompanied thoughts of escape, an inner voice suggesting she was safe here, that the aura of the man had been apparent from the beginning and had drawn her to him. It felt almost shameful that she didn’t want to escape the undeniable comfort of her situation. He was attempting to keep her safe and she had to be grateful for that. But there was more. She was under his spell and wasn’t sure she wanted to be free until the spell was well and truly broken.
*
Although not blinded to the privations of a prisoner-of-war camp, thinking of Alice, Tansy and the rest made her eyes misty and brought a lump to her throat. Hopefully all those she’d worked with had survived. She smiled when she thought of Alice, her opinions and her reaction when she’d taken her out that night in Kowloon. She might not have been adventurous at the time, but if she was still alive, being adventurous was a definite advantage.
A chrysanthemum bloom, too heavy for its stem, startled her when it settled on her shoulder. She looked at it and sniffed its unique perfume, thinking it looked like the sleepy head of a round-faced child. The only time she’d seen such blooms in England had been at funerals.
She eyed it balefully. ‘I’d like you better if you could speak.’
Just a flower. She sighed as a few of its petals fluttered to the ground. It was here and so was she.
The sun went down and shadows fell with the night across the courtyard. Before darkness finally claimed it, lanterns of multi-coloured shades dan
ced and tinkled in the night air.
He would be here tonight. When she closed her eyes she could smell his exotic aroma, see again the polished perfection of his bare chest.
‘Be still,’ she muttered, placing her hand over her heart. Her natural sensuality was battling with her professional self.
Desiring him did not prevent her wanting to know what was happening in the outside world, not just the war but smaller details of Kowloon and whether there was transport to Hong Kong, or in the opposite direction into the interior of China – just in case she changed her mind and escaped before they got closer.
He came to her almost every night, the warmth of his body against her back. In the beginning she’d tensed but now she looked forward to his presence, suffused with a sense of calm as he laid his arm across her, his fingers combing her hair.
Tonight he would come again.
By nine o’clock all was ready. The smell of food wafting across the courtyard from the kitchen was delicious. Cold delicacies had been set out ready for them to nibble before the main course was brought to the table. Fresh fruit was piled in a blue and white bowl in the middle. The whole was a mix of East and West and included a bottle of French wine, the label referring to a vineyard in Burgundy.
The dining chairs, too, were French, moulded in a style more often seen in a château, the seats and backrests upholstered in embroidered silk. Feeling light-headed, she sat down and waited, with nothing but the creaking emptiness of the room.
The French clock, an ornate thing of gilt and cherubs, ticked resolutely, the minute hand moving on past the allotted time.
A faint sound, like a soft brush sweeping the floor, came to her from outside. Was he back? She hadn’t heard the car or his swift footsteps, his and his bodyguards.
When the door opened it was not Kim standing there but his grandmother.
She pretended not to be surprised to see her and asked, ‘Is Kim home yet?’ Even though the woman spoke no English.
The old woman glowered, pushed the door shut and clambered onto a couch, where she drew up her legs and laid her walking stick beside her.
