Moonflower Madness

by Margaret Pemberton

  Gianetta accepted, relieved that Serena had so easily and naively come to terms with what she was about to do. When the few clothes she was taking with her had been packed in her bag, she turned her attention towards provisions.

  ‘I shall need enough food for at least two days, maybe three. I will leave a letter with you, for your mother, asking her to deduct the cost of whatever I take from my allowance.’

  ‘You can’t go down to the kitchens now,’ Serena said practically. ‘They will be locked.’

  Gianetta’s well-shaped brows pulled together in a little frown and then she shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter. I can’t set off too soon after Lord Rendlesham and Mr Cartwright or they will see me. If they leave at dawn and I leave about nine o’clock, it will put plenty of distance between us and also give me heaps of time to raid the kitchens.’

  Serena yawned, unbuttoned her skirt and stepped out of it. ‘I can’t see how you are going to be able to leave, not with a donkey and a carpet-bag and half a week’s groceries.’ She slipped her arms out of her blouse and laid it over a chair.

  ‘Don’t you think someone will see you, and find it a little odd?’

  ‘I don’t intend to be seen,’ Gianetta said, wondering how on earth she was going to be able to avoid it. As Serena pulled her nightdress over her head and climbed into bed, Gianetta tried to think how it could be managed, and failed. She began to undress. She was tired and she needed to sleep. After she had slept she would be able to think more clearly.

  She turned out the lamp, sliding into bed, wondering with a knot of excitement in her stomach what Lord Rendlesham’s reaction would be when he knew she was to be part of his expedition to Kansu. She closed her eyes, but it wasn’t Lord Rendlesham’s face that burned against the fizzing dark of her eyelids. It was the hard-boned, abrasively masculine face of his companion, and she knew with a shiver of apprehension that there would be no pleasure in his eyes when next they met. The knowledge filled her with unexpected desolation and she curled her fingers tight into her palms. She wouldn’t think of him. He didn’t matter. It was Lord Rendlesham who mattered and she was sure that he would understand her reasons for joining them, and that he would applaud them.

  The next morning, even before it was light, she was woken by the muffled sound of mules being herded together in the courtyard at the Residency’s rear. She lay quite still, savouring the thrill of expectation that rippled through her. Lord Rendlesham and Mr Cartwright were preparing to leave, and in a few short hours she would be following them. There would be no more boredom, no more long, tedious hours spent confined in the Residency gardens. And, sadly, no further flower painting lessons with Mr Li. It was her only regret. She lay for a further few minutes, utterly convinced of the rightness of what she was about to do, then she swung her feet quietly to the floor and began to dress, taking care not to disturb Serena.

  The cavalcade assembling in the chill dawn light was, for China, surprisingly small. From one of the rear windows she could see Lord Rendlesham, dashing in khaki jodhpurs and jacket and knee-high riding-boots. He was standing beside his mount, a strong-looking pony. She could see another, darker pony, tossing its head friskily nearby. A string of ten mules carried the baggage, and though there were dozens of Chinese scurrying to and fro, only five, in shabby quilted breeches and jackets, looked as if they were dressed for travel.

  She stood discreetly at the side of the window watching the expedition, her expedition, preparing to depart.

  Although her aunt had asked her not to come down and say goodbye to Lord Rendlesham and Mr Cartwright, she felt no guilt. She had not given her word, and anyway she was not saying goodbye to them. She was merely watching.

  There was a sudden flurry of movement around the door immediately below her window. Seconds later Zachary Cartwright stepped into view, flamboyantly dressed in Chinese riding boots cuffed with black velvet. His breeches were pale grey, his jacket a darker grey, and a white linen shirt was gashed open at his throat, revealing strong chest muscles and a hint of tightly curling, crisp dark hair.

  A hot, unidentifiable sensation flooded through her and she averted her head swiftly. There was a go-to-hell attitude about Zachary Cartwright that both aroused and disturbed her. At dinner the previous evening, Gianetta had been instantly aware that his bored, restless politeness was a veneer, beneath which was a man who didn’t give a damn for polite society. As the evening had progressed she had become convinced that he didn’t give a damn about anyone or anything; that he lived life exactly as he pleased. She had become aware of something else, too. That though she could find nothing likeable about him, she was inexplicably drawn towards him.

  He mounted the dark coloured pony with agile ease and the Chinese servants coaxed the mules into an orderly string behind him. Lord Rendlesham mounted his pony and her uncle went up to him, bidding him a last goodbye. She saw him turn towards Zachary Cartwright, but whatever he said, it was brief. Cartwright had not endeared himself to the consul the previous evening. Gianetta’s uncle stepped back, raising his hand in a gesture of final farewell and Zachary Cartwright led the small expedition out of the Residency courtyard and into the narrow, earth-beaten streets beyond.

  Gianetta remained at the window even when they were out of sight, straining her ears until the sound of hooves could be heard no longer. She knew which way they were going. They were going to leave the city by the north gate. Mentally she travelled with them, down the Pai-hsiang kai, the Street of the White Elephant, the main business street of the city, containing many fine two-storeyed buildings, the homes of bankers and merchants. When they reached the end of the Street of the White Elephant and the homes of the rich, the upper town would be behind them. They would pass out of the north gate, descending the plateau on which Chung King was built by traversing a winding staircase of one hundred and fifty shallow stone steps. The ponies and mules, chosen in preference to horses because they were so much more sure-footed, would pick their way downwards with practised ease.

  The exit from the north gate was the same exit that she and Serena had taken on their rare visits to the Anglican Mission. She knew that Zachary Cartwright and Lord Rendlesham would have to ride in single file because of the shops and booths that pressed in on either side. At the bottom the shops and booths would be left behind, the steps leading out on to a cornice road shaded by fine old banyan trees. The swirling waters of the river would be on their left, the steep, treeless hills on their right. Then they would turn off the cornice road into the hills. Before the morning was very much older, she would follow in their wake.

  Gianeta turned away from the window. She had to pack some provisions and she had to borrow and saddle a pony from the stables. The provisions would be easy, the pony less so.

  Her uncle was a keen polo player, and the stables at the Residency’s rear were large. In the pale light of early dawn she eyed the strong, sleek polo ponies and knew that if she took one of them she would never be forgiven, not ever. There were plenty of mules, looking mildly surprised at being disturbed so early in the day, but having seen that both Lord Rendlesham’s and Zachary Cartwright’s mounts had been ponies, she thought it best that her own mount should be a pony as well.

  Gianetta looked regretfully back towards the polo ponies and a couple of them began to whinny and toss their heads fretfully. She turned away from them. They were superbly fit but they were also highly strung. A highly strung pony would be a handicap, not an asset.

  An unblinking eye held hers. In a stall at the very end of the stable a small Chinese pony was regarding her with bright interest. She hurried up to it and it moved towards her, blowing softly onto her hand through velvety nostrils.

  ‘Oh, you darling,’ Gianetta whispered, opening the door of his stall and stepping in beside him. He was small and shaggy and unkempt. He was also toughly built and endearingly friendly.

  ‘Would you like to travel to Kansu?’ she said to him softly, running her hand down the rough coat of his neck. ‘Would you
like to search for blue Moonflowers?’

  He exhaled warm air and nuzzled her. ‘Then we’ll go.’ she said, pleasure welling up inside her. She gave him another loving pat and stepped outside his box, saying to one of the Chinese stable boys, ‘Would you saddle him up for me, please? I want to go for a ride on him.’ Her eyes sparkled. ‘A long ride!’

  ‘Yes, missee.’ The stable boy nodded. He had not understood all that she had said but he had caught the gist of it. The English lady wanted the pony saddled and she wanted to ride him. It was none of his affair if she wanted to do so unaccompanied. English ladies were not sensible beings. Everyone knew that. He took down a wooden miao-tse saddle from the hook. It was covered with heavy lacquer and topped with a wadded quilt. When he had finished adjusting the saddle, he put a collar of bells around the pony’s neck, so that pedestrians would be warned of the pony’s approach and step aside. The pony shook his head impatiently, eager to be off, and the bells jingled.

  The stable boy wondered where the English lady intended riding. The two English gentlemen who had just left were rumoured to be riding north to Kansu and Tibet. Tibet was the roof of the world, so far away and so inaccessible that no-one he knew and no-one his father or his father’s father had known, had ever been there. Perhaps the English girl thought that she, too, would ride to the roof of the world. He giggled to himself at the idiocy of such an idea and continued with his morning tasks, filling the polo ponies’mangers with fresh hay.

  Gianetta made her way quickly back to her bedroom, taking care to be seen by as few of the servants as possible. Serena was still asleep, her blonde curls vulnerably tousled. Gianetta hesitated. She wanted to wake Serena and say goodbye to her but she was frightened that in the cold light of day Serena might no longer view her adventure as romantic but see it as insane, and insist on telling her mother about it.

  The early morning sunlight flooded through the chinks in the closed shutters, spilling into dappled patches of gold on the floor. Gianetta turned away from Serena’s bed. She couldn’t wake her. The risks were too great. She sat at her dressing-table and wrote a letter to her aunt and another to Serena. Then, her heart beating fast and light, she picked up her carpet-bag of clothes and provisions and, with one last regretful look towards the still sleeping Serena, she tiptoed quietly out of the room.

  It was nearly eight o’clock and there were far more servants around than there had been earlier. They looked at her impassively as she walked out of the Residency and across to the stables. None of them spoke much English and she knew none of them would take it upon themselves to report her early morning departure to either her aunt or her uncle. To see nothing and to hear nothing was a great Chinese ability.

  Gianetta stepped into the stables, the smell of horse strong and warm. She walked quickly past the stalls until she came to the end one. The little Chinese pony eyed her eagerly. She put down her bag, opened the door of his stall and gazed at the saddle with defeat. It had never occurred to her that it wouldn’t be an English side-saddle.

  ‘Drat!’ she said, giving vent to the worst expletive she knew. ‘Now what are we going to do?’

  The pony nuzzled its neck towards her in an encouraging manner. She patted him, frowning thoughtfully. She could ask the stable boy to re-saddle him with an English saddle, or she could change her skirt for something that would enable her to ride more easily. One of the Chinese girls who worked in the Residency kitchen was crossing the top end of the stables. She was wearing the garments that were a household uniform. A blue, lightly quilted high-necked jacket over narrow fitting trousers. If Gianetta wore the same, and if she let down her waist-length hair and plaited it in a queue, then not only would she be able to travel with greater ease, but she would be safer, for from a distance she would look Chinese, not foreign.

  ‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ she said to the pony and, leaving her carpet-bag on the floor at his feet, she ran towards the servant’s quarters.

  ‘I want the servant’s linen-room,’ she said breathlessly to a startled house-boy. ‘Can you tell me where it is?’

  ‘Nothing for missy in se’vant’s linen’oom,’ he said, backing away from her as if she had taken leave of her senses.

  ‘That is for me to decide,’ Gianetta said with school-ma’am crispness. ‘Now come along, show me where it is.’

  She had no way of knowing whether she would find clean garments as well as dirty ones in the linen room, but knowing how particular her aunt was about the cleanliness and neatness of her household staff, she was reasonably optimistic.

  The house-boy, certain that this lightning inspection of the linen-room meant trouble, stood apprehensively to one side as she opened the door he indicated.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, stepping inside and giving thanks for her aunt’s meticulous housekeeping. Large baskets held dirty linen. Shelf upon shelf held newly-washed and freshly-pressed clean linen. She scrambled out of her skirt and into a pair of surprisingly comfortable trousers. Then, aware that she could never hope to make her way back to the stables without being seen, she pulled her ankle-length skirt over the top of her trousers and donned one of the Chinese jackets.

  It was now after eight-thirty and she knew that, with every passing minute, the chances of running into her uncle or aunt were increasing. Quickly she hurried once more out of the Residency and across the courtyard to the stables. There was no-one about, not even the stable-boy. Even so, she was going to take no chances. She would lead the pony by the rein until they were clear of the Residency grounds. Then, in a suitable place where she would not attract attention, she would discard her skirt.

  ‘Are you ready?’ she said to the impatient pony. ‘I’m not going to mount you yet. I’m going to lead you out of the courtyard and into the street.’

  He hurrumphed agreeably and she wondered what his name was. There was no name on the door of his stall and she had to be able to call him something.

  ‘Would you mind being called Ben?’ she asked him.

  He looked like a Ben. Friendly and dependable. He hurrumphed again, brown eyes gleaming, and with a furiously beating heart she led him out of his stall and toward the Residency gates and the road beyond.

  Chapter Three

  The gates leading from the Residency into the street were flanked by thick bushes and banyan trees, and it was here that Gianetta quickly took off her skirt, rolling it up and stuffing it into her already full carpet-bag. She felt strange in the trousers and mandarin-necked jacket, as if she were about to go to a fancy dress party. A little soft round hat, the kind that most Chinese wore, bulged in the pocket of the jacket. She took it out, hesitating. Until she changed her hair style, no matter how Chinese her dress, she would still never be mistaken for a Chinese. Hesitating no longer, she hurriedly took the pins from her hair, shaking her head so that her heavy, waist-length hair tumbled loose and free. Then, with nimble dexterity, she plaited it into a long, single pigtail, securing it with a piece of thread from her jacket.

  ‘Right,’ she said exultantly to Ben, placing the little blue cap on top of her head. ‘Now we really are ready to go.’

  She swung herself up into the wooden saddle, anchoring her carpet-bag firmly to the pommel. Ben tossed his head, gave himself a little shake and then, as she touched him lightly with her heels, set off down the dust-blown road at a purposeful trot.

  It was a strange experience to be outside the Residency grounds without the protection of sedan-chair and servants. For a fleeting moment, panic assailed her and then was banished, never to return. This was what she had longed for from the moment she had set foot on Chinese soil. The noise and clamour and colour assailing her were the real China. The China she had been protected from for far too long.

  Chung King was built on a high, rocky peninsula and the Upper Town, where the Residency was situated, was the highest point of all, standing on a sandstone plateau with breathtaking views of the broadly flowing Yang-tze and the pale, tawny hills beyond.

  As the
homes of the rich were left behind, the streets grew narrower and even more crowded. Families squatted by the roadside, pecking at their morning meal with chopsticks; lacquered ducks as flat as pancakes hung from shops that were little more than holes in the walls; hawkers cried their wares, loping along with heavy containers of food dangling at both ends of bending bamboo poles that arched across their shoulders; elderly women hobbled on feet that had once been cruelly bound; pedlars shouted their wares; donkeys and mules jostled for right of way with sedan-chairs.

  Ben trotted on unperturbed by the crush and the noise and Gianetta rode with her eyes firmly downwards, terrified that one of her uncle’s envoys would be in the street and would recognise her, that perhaps even her uncle himself would pass her in his sedan-chair.

  The steps began and she tightened her grip on Ben’s rein. He descended without hesitation, only pricking his ears and checking slightly when he had to confront a camel that was making its way, heavily burdened, up to the town from the riverside wharf.

  The walls surrounding the base of the town came into view. The north gate was open, the smell from the river strong and pungent. No-one had challenged her. In a city thronged with dozens of different races; Mongolians, Manchurians, merchants from Turkestan, she had gone unnoticed. The bells on Ben’s collar jingled merrily as he trotted out through the gate and on to the broad causeway beyond. The river was on their left-hand side, innumerable eddies, like the curls and whorls of Chinese characters, rippling its glittering smooth surface.