Her beautiful mother had been nominally a Christian, but in true Chinese fashion she’d also worshiped the gods she’d been raised with. To her, Troth said, “I’ve had a tablet inscribed with your name and Papa’s, and I shall honor it all my days. Your spirit will not hunger or thirst in the afterlife.”
She lit sandalwood incense sticks and left them to burn down by the headstones, along with an offering of oranges. Then she left the cemetery, knowing she would never see it again.
Last of all, she walked along Macao’s small peninsula until it narrowed to a hundred-yard width called the Stalk of the Lotus. There she was stopped by the wall into China. Called the Barrier, it had been built to prevent Europeans from setting foot on Chinese soil. By her own choice, she was irrevocably cutting herself off from the land of her birth. She gazed at the wall for a long time before turning away.
So be it.
Chapter 29
Feng-tang, China
Summer 1832
Today Kyle would be executed…again. He prayed that this time it would be real.
He’d been prepared to die under the prefect’s guns, and it had been a shock to find himself still standing as the smoke drifted away. Numbly he wondered if he’d been mortally wounded, but was too injured to feel pain.
Then he looked at Wu Chong and saw the cruel satisfaction in the old man’s face. Damnation, the matchlocks hadn’t been loaded with bullets, only powder and wadding! The execution had been Wu Chong’s vicious, sophisticated form of mental torture.
Kyle was still standing by the wall, rigid, when the plump merchant, Wang, came up to him and bobbed his head apologetically.
“Wu Chong consult soothsayer. Inauspicious time for execution of Fan-qui. After new moon, sentence will be carried out Chinese-style.”
“A beheading?”
“Very swift, painless,” Wang assured him.
Kyle would rather have been shot.
Hanging on grimly to the shreds of his dignity, he stalked back to prison surrounded by guards. Outside his cell, several of them took the opportunity to work him over with expert punches before shoving him into the damp straw.
Three weeks until the new moon.
To keep himself from going mad, he devised exercises to maintain his body. For his mind, he methodically worked his way through his Cambridge courses, starting with the Michaelmas term of his first year. Philosophy, mathematics, the classics in Latin and Greek. Surprising how much a man could remember when he had nothing better to do.
He tried to avoid memories of Troth and home, for they were far more painful than reciting bits of the Odyssey. But he couldn’t control his dreams. At night Constancia lay beside him, warm and loving, or Troth, sweet and true and passionate. Or he was fishing with Dominic, or riding the hills of Dornleigh with his sister and father.
Waking up was a return to hell.
He was sure the second execution would be real. Beheading, after all, was the preferred Chinese method, and their executioners were said to be very expert.
The prospect of decapitation was peculiarly unpleasant, despite Wang’s assurances that it would be painless. This time it was harder to keep his face impassive when he was taken into the courtyard. His bristling, untamed beard helped conceal any failures of control.
When forced to kneel in front of the headsman, he thought of Hoshan and the serenity he’d experienced there. His hammering heart almost drowned out the beating of the drums that marked the raising of the sword.
Cool air brushed his face as the blade sliced by to bury itself in the ground a scant inch in front of him. He half expected a second blow to fall just when he would begin to believe he’d been spared, but Wu Chong was subtler than that.
Once more Kyle was marched back to his stinking cell. It was wretchedly hot. The monsoon season had begun and water trickled down the walls constantly as the rains alternated with suffocating humidity.
Every night Kyle made another scratch on the wall and wondered how long it would be until the prefect tired of his game, and ended it once and for all.
The third execution was scheduled as a hanging in another one of Wu Chong’s bows to Western custom. Kyle no longer cared, for malaria had struck. As he’d guessed at the beginning, the prison was a breeding place for pestilence, and the rude health that had protected him throughout his travels was no longer enough.
He recognized his ailment when chills started in his lower back, radiating throughout his body until he shook with cold despite the tropical heat. Dispassionately he watched his fingers turn dead white and his nails take on a bluish cast. Even milder forms of malaria could be lethal without treatment.
Chills were followed by burning fever. Desperately he rubbed his face against the wet walls, frantic for cooling as muscle tremors brought on pain so deep his bones ached. The guard who delivered his meals prodded him with a boot before leaving him to his fate.
Twelve hours after the first symptoms, the fever ebbed and he had a short period of mere misery. Having seen malaria in others, he took advantage of the time to eat his rice and drink as much water as possible. Often malaria struck in daily attacks as regular as clockwork, and he needed to maintain his strength for the next bout.
The chills returned at noon and the ghastly cycle began again: chills, dry fever, sweating, over and over. He lost count of the days because he was too ill to scratch the wall. Sometimes when shaking with cold he imagined Troth beside him, warming him with her body. Or when he panted with fever he thought he felt her cool hands on his face, until he returned to the horror of the cell.
He had to be carried out to the crude scaffold, though he managed to stand upright as the rope was put around his neck. Three times was the charm; a few miserable minutes and his suffering would be over. Sorry, Dom, for breaking my promise to come home.
But the hangman was an amateur and the execution a sham. Instead of dropping him far enough to break his neck, as a decent British hangman would have done, Kyle was left strangling at the end of the rope until he blacked out. Then they cut him down.
It was hard to be arrogant when lying on the ground spewing one’s guts out, but Kyle did his best. Wrexham would have been proud. Looking disappointed that his prey wouldn’t last much longer, Wu Chong waved him back to the prison.
As his daily bout of fever claimed him, the only damned thing Kyle could manage to be glad about was that Troth and his family would think he’d died quickly.
He’d wanted to see the world. Now it had been reduced to stone walls, illness, and despair.
“Drink.”
He fought the bitter potion forced into his mouth, wanting to return to his dream of England. If even his dreams turned punishing, death truly would be a blessing.
“Drink!”
Coughing and spitting, he came partially awake and realized that a well-dressed Chinese man was trying to force a bitter drink down his throat. Medicine? Poison? No longer caring which, he swallowed, then drifted into darkness again.
He had a vague sense of being carried, of rattling along in some kind of vehicle. Long spells of unconsciousness were punctuated by short bursts of feverish awareness.
When his wits fully returned, he was in a blessedly clean bed. Slowly his gaze moved over carved screens and silk hangings. On a table sat a porcelain vase with one perfect flower. He was in the household of a wealthy Chinese. Surely not Wu Chong?
An elderly female servant peered in at him, then left the room. A few minutes later another woman arrived. This one was also aged, but dressed like the mistress of the household. As she laid a cool hand on his forehead, he said tentatively, “Tai-tai?”
His voice was a croak, but she smiled appreciatively at his recognition of her rank as she made him drink something. Bitterness again. This time he realized that the potion contained Peruvian bark. Rare and expensive, it came from South America and was the most effective treatment for malaria, when it could be obtained.
The next time he woke, the servant bustled off and
returned with Chenqua, leader of the Cohong. Finally understanding, Kyle inclined his head. “Greetings, Lord Chenqua. I gather that I owe you my life. You have done far more than I deserve.”
“Indeed,” the merchant said with unmistakable dryness. “Your crimes cost me many taels of silver, but at least you live. Your death would cost much more.”
Kyle closed his eyes, feeling as if he were five and being scolded by his father. “I’m sorry. It was wrong of me to enter China, but…I wanted very much to see Hoshan.”
Voice slightly softened, Chenqua said, “Understandable, but stupid.”
“Am I in Canton?” When Chenqua nodded, he continued, “Will I be imprisoned again now that I’ve recovered?”
“No. You go to Macao, return to England. Wu Chong says he never intended death, merely imprisonment while he sent word of your capture to Peking, very slowly.” The merchant’s expression turned satiric. “Not possible to prove otherwise.”
So Wu Chong would not be punished for overstepping his authority. If Kyle had died of fever it would have been unfortunate, but not the prefect’s fault. The mock executions had been mere pranks, much less than the Fan-qui deserved, or so the official story would go. No diplomatic incident, only a lawbreaking Briton graciously restored to his people by the Chinese government. “How did you learn of my captivity?”
“The Company, and a letter from Mei-Lian.”
So he owed Troth his life—again—and Chenqua knew something of their relationship. By now, she must be almost to England. His family must endure months of mourning before they could learn he was alive. Well, there was no help for that. He hoped the news didn’t kill his father—the guilt of that would never go away.
Wondering how much his lawbreaking had cost Chenqua, Kyle said, “I shall reimburse you for the fine you had to pay.”
“No. Go home, and live with the knowledge of what your foolishness has cost.”
Unsmiling, Kyle said, “You drive a hard bargain.”
“Always.” Chenqua gathered his robes about him, then hesitated. “You stole my best interpreter. Swear to provide for her.”
“I have already pledged myself to that.” Kyle studied the merchant’s face, trying to read his expression. What had Troth meant to him? Not a daughter, not really a friend, but surely there had been some affection. “Have you a message for Mei-Lian?”
Chenqua hesitated. “Tell her…I miss her kung fu.”
“I shall.”
After the merchant left, Kyle lay back exhausted. His last grand adventure had ended in humiliation and near death. Had it been worth it?
He’d endured months of suffering, the crushing knowledge of his own reckless stupidity, a disease that would probably dog him for months, perhaps years. He’d also contracted a marriage that he’d intended to last for hours, not a lifetime. In trying to help Troth, he’d failed her.
He was a thrice-damned fool.
Chapter 30
Shropshire, England
Early spring 1833
Troth drew her horse to a halt at the top of the hill overlooking Warfield’s long driveway. As she contemplated the pale blue sky and the first wary sprigs of greenery, she said, “I’m beginning to believe England might actually have a summer.”
Beside her, Meriel laughed. “I can’t blame you for doubting, but spring is truly on the way. My favorite time of year, when the whole earth comes alive.”
“I’m looking forward to seeing your gardens in all their glory.”
“You must help me design a Chinese garden,” Meriel said, eyes glinting.
Dominic had also reined in his horse, but didn’t join the conversation. He seemed tense, his thoughts clearly elsewhere, though he’d been the one to suggest this afternoon ride. He and Meriel rode as if born in the saddle, but they were willing to accommodate Troth’s more modest riding skills. Though she’d made progress, she was still grateful for Cinnamon’s docile nature and smooth gaits.
Months had passed since she’d arrived in England. It was time she left her safe refuge. She must fulfill the pledge she’d made at her father’s grave and visit Scotland. After that, she must decide how and where she wanted to live. “I need to sit down with Dominic and learn what my financial situation is. I gather that I should be able to afford a small house.”
“A good deal more than that, but you should stay here,” Meriel said promptly. “The children adore you. So do Dominic and I.”
Troth smiled but shook her head. “I can’t live here forever.”
Meriel glanced at her husband and frowned when she saw that he hadn’t been listening. “Dominic, is something wrong?”
He started a little as her words pierced his reverie. “Sorry. I’ve been having the strangest thoughts.” He hesitated, as if unsure whether he should say more, before continuing painfully, “I…I keep feeling as if Kyle will ride through the gates. I even dreamed that last night. Ridiculous, of course, but I…can’t stop wishing.”
Wordlessly Meriel touched his hand, her eyes compassionate. Troth understood the difficulty Dominic had in accepting his brother’s death. She felt it, too, and had her own dreams in which Kyle came riding home, laughing that his death had been a misunderstanding and he was alive and well. She would run into his arms—and from there her dreams became so explicit that she blushed to think of them in broad daylight.
Offering distraction, Meriel said, “Let’s ride up to the castle. On a day like this we should be able to see halfway across Wales.”
They started ambling down the hill just as the distant estate gates swung open and a carriage entered. Troth had learned to recognize different types of vehicles, and this one didn’t look like a neighbor coming to call. Actually, it resembled the hired post-chaise that had brought her to Shropshire.
Dominic made a choked sound as he stared at the chaise with agonizing intensity.
What on earth…?
Abruptly he urged his horse into a gallop and tore down the hill at breakneck speed. After a startled moment, Meriel raced after him.
Wondering what the devil was going on, Troth followed at a more sedate pace. Was some cherished relative visiting? That carriage didn’t belong to Wrexham or Lady Lucia and her husband—Troth would have recognized those.
Dominic intersected the road and waved the driver of the chaise to a halt, then vaulted from his horse and wrenched the vehicle’s door open. A thin figure emerged, almost falling into Dominic’s arms.
Gods above, it couldn’t be. It couldn’t be!
Heart hammering, Troth kicked her mount into a wild gallop, clinging to the saddle desperately as she raced to join the small group by the chaise.
It couldn’t be—but it was. Face haggard, Kyle was embracing his brother as tears ran down Dominic’s face.
Barely managing to pull Cinnamon safely to a halt, Troth dismounted in a flurry of skirts, then hesitated, feeling it would be wrong to interrupt the brothers’ reunion. Throat tight, she whispered, “This can’t be happening.”
Meriel glanced at her. “You didn’t actually see him die.”
Her comment cut to the heart of what had happened. Troth had heard the sentence of death, and listened to the blasting guns—but she hadn’t seen Kyle die. She pressed one hand to her mouth as she accepted that miraculously Kyle was truly here, gaunt but alive. Alive!
Kyle turned toward the women, though Dominic kept one arm around him, as much for support as from affection. It wasn’t hard to tell the twins apart now—while Dominic glowed with health, Kyle looked as though he’d just risen from a sickbed.
Troth’s desire to embrace him was checked when he looked at her with blank, shadowed eyes. Dear heaven, he couldn’t have forgotten her! Or perhaps—her stomach cramped as if she’d been kicked—he no longer wished to see her.
Then a faint smile curved his lips. “Troth. I’m glad you made it here safely.”
At least he had acknowledged her. In England as in China, public affection between husband and wife was frowned upon. Ev
en a couple as devoted as Dominic and Meriel were usually restrained in the presence of others. Telling herself that he was only following English custom, she stammered, “I…I was sure you were dead, my lord.”
“I never really believed you were gone, Kyle,” Dominic said, his face radiant. “Yet after listening to Troth’s story of your execution, I had to.”
“I almost was. Strange sense of humor, Wu Chong. He had a fondness for mock executions.” Kyle shrugged. “Because of Troth’s messages to Chenqua and the Company, I was rescued from Feng-tang before malaria could put paid to my account.”
He stepped away from his brother and almost fell. Alarmed, Dominic caught him again. “You look like death walking.”
“It’s not that bad, Dom,” Kyle muttered as he swayed on his feet. “Malaria takes a long time to fully heal. Troth will know how it’s treated.”
“I’m sure she does, but you’re coming up to the house right now. I’ll ride with you. Meriel, will you lead my horse back?” Not waiting for an answer, Dominic half lifted his brother into the chaise and they set off again.
It was the illness that made Kyle so unresponsive, Troth decided. He was exhausted by his imprisonment and the long journey home, and malaria was not a disease that one recovered from quickly.
Nonetheless, she felt a deep sense of hurt as she led Cinnamon to a rock so she could remount. He’d treated her like a casual acquaintance, not a cherished wife.
As she scrambled into her sidesaddle, awareness of what his return meant struck with the force of a blow: Kyle had proposed marriage only to protect her—he’d never intended for her to actually be his wife. She’d been his mistress. If not for his death sentence, that was all she would ever have been. Her hands began to tremble.
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