After she finished, Chenqua asked, “Did you recognize any of the attackers?”
“One was Xun Kee, of the Red Dragon gang. I think they were all Red Dragons.”
He stroked his beard. “Zhan Hu, the Red Dragon leader, would never condone such an attack—it must have been a private commission. I shall consult Zhan. Between us, we shall learn who hired these louts, and assure that they are suitably punished.”
Troth felt a chill down her spine. Her identification had just condemned half a dozen men to torture and death. Though they undoubtedly deserved it, she was enough her father’s child to deplore the ferocity of Chinese justice.
Chenqua continued, “You must protect Lord Maxwell until he leaves Canton. Stay close to him. Enlist Elliott’s aid to achieve that if necessary—he will also be concerned for Maxwell’s continued health.”
Dismayed, she knelt before him. “Please, lord, choose another. I am not worthy of so great a responsibility.”
“You saved him from six Red Dragons bent on murder. There are few men in Canton who could do as much, and none are in my employ.”
Instead of accepting dismissal, she said, “Maxwell is more perceptive than most Fan-qui. I fear that if I spend much time with him, he may see through my disguise.”
Chenqua gave her a faint, dry smile. “I have faith in your ability to deceive him.”
She bowed again, then withdrew, weary to the bone from fatigue and the bruises she’d acquired in the fight. Though Maxwell and Chenqua had been impressed by her performance, she knew that it had largely been the element of surprise that enabled her to prevail against so many. She’d certainly taken her share of blows.
In her room, she undressed and donned a cotton robe, then released her hair and gazed into the mirror. The image that looked back at her was harsh and unattractive, but it was undeniably the face of a woman, not sexless Jin Kang.
Slowly she ran her fingers through her hair, loosening it into waves that fell to her waist. What about her had brought that intensity into Maxwell’s gaze? Her sheer strangeness, probably. Yet for a moment she let herself believe it had been admiration. If nothing else, at least he had not been shocked by the fact that she was a mongrel.
Are you content with your life? She turned from the mirror. Of course she was content. Only a fool yearned after the impossible.
Have you ever wished to visit your father’s land? Dear gods, how she had wished for that! For the first dozen years of her life she’d looked forward to the day when her father would take her to Scotland as his acknowledged daughter. She had not known then how doting a parent he was compared to most. In his eyes, she had been beautiful, and while his uncritical love had not prepared her for what others would think, she could not be sorry that she had been his beloved pet. If only he had not died…
Wishes could not change fate. She knelt before the small altar and lighted three joss sticks in honor of her father and mother. The scent of the burning sandalwood soothed her. She was fortunate to be part of a powerful household, to be educated in two languages from birth when many Chinese women could not even read or write, and to have the freedom to move around Canton. She would have gone mad if Chenqua had turned her into a maidservant who was never allowed to leave the compound.
But was this the life her father would have wanted for her? She watched the smoke spiral up from the glowing tips of the joss sticks. He would have been grateful that Chenqua had saved her from starvation—with her looks, she would not have been desirable as even the lowest kind of prostitute.
But Hugh Montgomery would not have been pleased to see his only daughter as a fraudulent clerk, ashamed to raise her head or look anyone in the eye. When she was small he’d told her bedtime stories of Mary, Queen of Scots, who’d led her men into battle with her long red hair flaring behind like a banner. He’d explained how in Britain women were forces to be reckoned with, not humble creatures with less value than even the least important man.
And he’d raised her to be a Christian who believed in heaven, and who had no need to make offerings to the dead so that they could survive in the shadow world.
Damn Maxwell! It was his fault that she now remembered her childhood dreams of riding recklessly across Scottish moors, and arguing with men as an equal. Of being a woman and proud of it, rather than hiding her female garments like a shameful secret.
She set the smoldering joss sticks into a porcelain holder and rose to pace about the small room in agitation. Maxwell had no interest in her, except to the extent that she could appease his traveler’s curiosity. He would not lie in bed at night, dreaming of her in his arms, as she would lie yearning for him….
Shaking, she came to a halt and pressed her hands over her face. Soon he would be gone, and she would be content once more.
Yet when she finally went to bed, she wondered bleakly if she would ever know peace again.
Chapter 8
Kyle awoke early the next morning, muscles aching ferociously from the kicks and blows he’d received. Troth must have decided that if Kyle was well enough to argue, there was no need to rouse Gavin Elliott. But Gavin must be informed now.
After splashing cold water on his face, he limped down the corridor to his friend’s room, which also faced the river. Junior members of the firm had to make do with breezeless rooms looking onto narrow courtyards or toward the city wall.
When he knocked, Gavin called, “Come in.”
Kyle entered to find his friend working on correspondence at his desk by the window. Wearing a loose Chinese robe and surrounded by a mixture of Western and Eastern furnishings, he was the portrait of a merchant prince. He’d recovered from the financial difficulties he’d inherited along with Elliott House and was well on his way to becoming one of the richest men in America.
Gavin gave a low whistle at the sight of Kyle’s bruises. “What the devil happened? Did you decide your visit to Canton wouldn’t be complete without joining a sailors’ brawl on Hog Lane?”
“I only wish that was it.” Kyle helped himself to a cup of tea from the tray on Gavin’s desk, nodding with approval at the taste. “I like this blend. Lemon?”
“Right. It’s the best yet, but I’ll keep experimenting. And don’t change the subject—what happened last night?”
Kyle settled carefully on a wooden chair. “I was lured from Hog Lane by the promise of singing crickets, then attacked by six members of a gang. They seemed interested in murder, not robbery.”
“Good God!” Gavin laid down his pen. “That’s unheard of. Within the Settlement, Europeans have always been completely safe. How did you escape?”
Kyle had already worked out an edited version of the truth. “Luckily I had a knife. Though I was roughed up some, I managed to return to Hog Lane without any serious damage. Jin Kang saw me—he’d been working late at the English Factory, and he helped me back here.”
Gavin crossed his arms on his chest, frowning. “Did Jin have any idea why you might have been singled out for attack?”
“He thought it might be the work of one of Chenqua’s enemies. My damned title again—killing a lord would produce a far greater scandal than killing a normal person.”
“Too true. Chenqua will take care of this—the men who attacked you will probably end up being sliced slowly into dog meat within the next forty-eight hours. But you’d better confine yourself to the hong until you leave.”
“No.” Kyle got to his feet. “There’s already little enough of China that I can see. I’ll be damned if I let myself be confined to a single warehouse. If it will make you feel better, I’ll carry a pistol, and not go out at night or unaccompanied.”
“Be discreet with the weapons—we foreign devils are supposed to be unarmed.”
Kyle nodded. “Can I use Jin Kang as an escort when I go out? He has enough English to carry on at least limited conversations.”
“A good choice. He’ll keep you out of harm’s way for Chenqua’s sake. Do you need a doctor? You’ve got quite a black ey
e there.”
“Not the first, and probably not the last.” Kyle withdrew, feeling pleased. He had sworn not to betray Troth’s secret, but at least he could have her company.
Troth was working at Elliott House that morning, translating a set of documents, when her neck began to prickle just before she heard a familiar voice.
“Good morning, Jin Kang. Elliott has given me permission to borrow you for my own use today.”
Alarmed, she glanced up at Lord Maxwell, who managed to make his bruises seem dashing. Though his words to her would not arouse curiosity in an onlooker, there was definitely mischief in his eyes. Warily she swished her brush in the water dish to clean it. “You have work for me, sir?”
“Since Elliott says you know the best shops and showrooms in the Settlement, I’d like you to accompany me to buy presents for my family.”
His family. Of course. “It will be my pleasure, sir. I’m sure your wife and children will be honored that you will select gifts with your own hands.”
His expression tightened. “I have neither wife nor child, but there are plenty of other family members to indulge. Are you free to go now?”
“I am at your lordship’s command.” Though it was ridiculous to care, she was glad that no beautiful Englishwoman waited passionately for her lord’s return. Even in her dreams, her sober Scottish side forbade adulterous thoughts. The Chinese part of her didn’t care, though. Mei-Lian would accept being one of Maxwell’s junior wives. Or even a concubine, with no legal status at all, as long as she was his favorite…
Ashamed of her thoughts, she followed Maxwell out into the square, which as always was crowded with people bustling about their business. The crowded conditions made her nervous. It would be easy for an assassin to jostle up to Maxwell, slide a knife between his ribs, and be gone before anyone saw.
Luckily, Maxwell was no fool. He had the quiet alertness of a man who had survived in more dangerous lands than this. Between the two of them, he should be safe. Just in case, she now carried a concealed knife.
Two lanes ran between the hongs to connect with Thirteen Factories Street. By unspoken consent, they used Old China Street rather than Hog Lane. As they walked, he said, “Try not to look so gloomy, Jin. The object of the day is not only to buy presents and learn more about local trade goods, but to find amusement.”
She slanted him a glance. “Amusement, sir?”
“You are too serious for a young man.” Maxwell paused in front of an open-fronted shop and picked up a set of nested ivory balls, each intricately carved within a larger ball. “My brother would find these intriguing. What incredible carving skill.” He tossed the ball at Troth.
She was so startled that she almost dropped it. “A set of these takes a craftsman many months to carve, sir,” she said, unsure how to deal with Maxwell’s antic mood. “A very fine gift. What else do you seek?”
“Clever little toys to intrigue children. Jewelry and lacquer boxes and silk for the ladies of my family. Perhaps some pieces of furniture.” He wandered into the shop and paused in front of a display of tiny bottles carved from precious materials like jade and amber and turquoise. “Lovely trinkets like these.”
Looking hopeful, the shopkeeper approached and told Troth in Chinese that there would be a commission for her on anything the Fan-qui purchased in this shop. Curtly she refused his offer. As a point of pride, she wanted to see that Maxwell left Canton with the finest goods at the lowest possible prices. In English, she said, “There are better goods elsewhere, my lord.”
Understanding the gist of Troth’s comment, the shopkeeper protested in energetic pidgin. Maxwell played along with her as skillfully as if they’d rehearsed this beforehand. Half an hour later, a sizable number of bottles and carved ivory were being packed carefully for delivery to Elliott House.
They moved on to shops that dealt in jewelry, lacquer wares, and porcelain. Maxwell had an eye for quality and an impressive ability to bargain. They worked out a wordless system in which he would glance at Troth and she’d give a tiny nod or shake of her head to let him know if he had reached a fair price, or whether he should continue bargaining. He was very good at giving a bored shrug and turning to leave, which always produced a new and better price.
Troth was enjoying herself, just as Maxwell had wanted. She found vicarious pleasure in helping Maxwell to spend large amounts of money. Though Chenqua was surely far richer, she’d never had the chance to spend any of his wealth.
As they left a shop where Maxwell had purchased a dizzying number of fans in painted silk and carved ivory, she asked, “Your homeland is so small that you can buy gifts for everyone in England?”
He laughed. “No, but I want a stock of trifles suitable for friends and servants. For a person who has never been more than twenty miles from his place of birth, a fan or perfume bottle will be rare and special. A reminder of what a wide world we live in.” He fingered the only bottle he’d carried with him from the first shop, a lovely little vial carved from crystal shot through with dark veins. “And of course I want to buy the affections of my young nieces and nephews, whom I’ve never met.”
She doubted that he’d ever had to buy anyone’s affections, but he would certainly be a favorite uncle with the showers of presents he would pour over those unknown children. Her father had been like that. Every time he returned from a trip, she had danced with excitement as she waited to see what treasures he had brought.
Despite her enjoyment, by midday she was flagging. She’d known it was tiring to shop when one had little money, but had not realized that it was equally fatiguing to buy everything in sight. “Are you ready to return to the hong for luncheon, sir?”
“Not particularly. What do Cantonese eat?” Maxwell’s gaze went to a noodle stall on the opposite side of the street. “People are getting food there. Let’s have some.”
“Sir, you cannot eat from a noodle stall!”
“Why not? Are Fan-qui and Cantonese stomachs so different?”
“It…it is not dignified,” she said uneasily, knowing this was not how Chenqua and Elliott expected her to care for Maxwell.
“What is the point of dignity when it deprives one of interesting experiences?” He purposefully crossed the street to the stall.
Resigned, Troth ordered them two bowls of noodles in broth. Then she had to instruct her charge in the use of chopsticks. He didn’t do badly for his first attempt.
Finishing the noodles, he said, “Excellent. What do other vendors sell?”
Troth introduced him to fragrant rice congee, dumplings, and sweetmeats, followed by a visit to a teahouse for a relaxed cup of tea. Everywhere Maxwell was watched with amazement by people who’d never seen a Fan-qui eating street food. He ignored the stares, apparently used to drawing attention wherever he went.
Troth studied him covertly, intrigued by his interest in the daily routines of Cantonese life. His enthusiasm was contagious. He had been right to say she was gloomy. For many years, her life had been defined by duty and service. Now his presence was causing her to see her world with new eyes.
She sipped her tea, sadly aware that soon he would go back to his English world and her life would once more be drab routine and loneliness. But there was a kind of friendship between them, and she would be left with a few bright memories.
Chapter 9
After the teahouse they stopped at a shop specializing in perfumes. Under the pretense of offering advice, Troth had an intoxicating session of sniffing and enjoying. If she were allowed to be a woman, she’d always wear scent.
The next visit was to a dealer in spices and flavorings. Maxwell bought samples of many, frowning when he reached the final jar. “Dried bergamot peel, I think.”
Troth had never heard of it. “Bergamot?”
“A fruit something like an orange.” Maxwell added it to his substantial order, and they moved on to the last stop, the grandest silk showroom in the Settlement.
The owner had heard of Lord Maxwell’s ex
pensive passage through Thirteen Factories Street and waited with deep anticipation for their arrival. When Troth brought Maxwell into the showroom, the owner bowed low. “You honor my humble shop, my lord. Pray allow me to show you my poor wares.”
At his nod, assistants began unwinding bolts of silk. Yards of shimmering fabric cascaded to the floor until the showroom was a festival of brilliant colors. After Maxwell chose two dozen bolts of the finest material in the shop, he said, “I should also like to purchase ladies’ garments made in the Chinese style. Do you have any made up?”
“A few.” Another order, and a dozen finished robes were brought from the back of the shop and laid reverently across a table.
The garments would not have disgraced the ladies of the imperial court in Peking. Trying to conceal her longing, Troth stroked an exquisite peach-colored robe made from kesi, a brocade with patterns woven into the fabric. “The quality is acceptable,” she murmured, as if her only interest were in its value.
Maxwell said, “That looks as if it might fit my brother’s wife, and the color would be good on her.”
“A Fan-qui lady is so small?” Troth asked, surprised.
“Meriel is, but my sister is tall.” He lifted the largest garment, a brilliant scarlet splashed with embroidered flowers and butterflies. Probably it was a bridal robe, since red was a fortunate color and always worn for weddings. “Lucia is about your height.”
He held the robe up to Troth’s shoulders. “Would a woman like this, Jin?”
As soon as his fingers brushed her shoulders, a wave of energy pulsed through her, even stronger than when she’d shown him how to hold a calligraphy brush. In his eyes she saw the same shock. After a frozen moment, she said, “Your…your sister would surely be well pleased with such a magnificent gift, my lord.”
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