Burning Tigress

by Jade Lee

  She frowned at the Chinese man. Like his countrymen, he had a small frame. But apparently there was great strength in his wiry muscles, because he had no trouble pulling Lydia and the captain, her trunk, and the rickshaw frame behind him. And besides, there was little choice in the matter, as there weren't any horse-drawn carriages available. So she settled into silence, content to watch her surroundings as the coolie ran them up the street.

  All too soon, even the golden pagoda-like buildings and long banners done in reds and golds could not hold her attention. She was looking again at the sweating man pulling their rickshaw. Beneath his cone-shaped hat of dried leaves, the man seemed all bone with little muscle and no fat. She had never seen anyone so thin. Indeed, every bump in his spine, every shift of his ribs as he huffed stuck out as clearly as a nose or an elbow. Just looking at him, Lydia felt guilty for every crumpet she had ever eaten, every fattening ounce that he was now hauling up the street. She wanted to stop him, to apologize, to tell him not to bother with her; she would walk. But she knew she could not. This was his livelihood, and he would not thank her for shortening her ride.

  So she sat in uncomfortable silence, finding herself aware of the bob of the rickshaw, the huff of his breath, even the slap of his crude sandals against the stone street. She felt herself begin to breathe with him, stupidly wishing she could breathe for him, pull with him, do something to ease his labors.

  She felt certain she would tip him generously, even if the captain did not. Except when the moment finally came, the captain left her no time. As soon as the rickshaw stopped, he grabbed her hand and nearly dragged her off in one sweeping movement. She barely had time to gasp a quick "Xie xie" in thanks before the captain was pulling her toward a building.

  "Please!" she gasped. "Slow down!"

  But the man had apparently wasted too much time with her and was anxious to be gone. No more than she wished to be rid of him, despite his aid. And so she allowed him to rush her into a large building among a whole street of beautiful buildings. All were lavishly decorated, with ornate doors. She had the brief impression of beautifully carved black wood painted with red and gold dragons or swans or other such Chinese decorations, of red paper lanterns hung from the front eaves next to red banners with gold characters. She couldn't read any of the words, of course, but they had a festive appearance that lightened her heart.

  Then she was inside, looking at an elaborately carved staircase of the same black wood as outdoors. To one side, Lydia saw an elegant sitting room furnished with more carved chairs done in slightly faded red fabrics. She saw tables and linen, wall hangings in silk, and gilding everywhere, though obviously gold paint rather than gold leaf. It was loud and gaudy and tended to overwhelm the senses for all that it was empty of people. Especially as there was a slightly nauseating scent of something much too sweet lingering in the air.

  "This is so unlike Maxwell," she murmured to herself. "He is such a restrained person, I cannot think he likes this entryway." But from what she had seen, all of Shanghai was overdone in gaudy colors and loud tones. She was sure his apartment upstairs must be more sedate. So, with that thought in mind, she moved toward the staircase, only belatedly remembering her manners.

  Turning back to the captain, she extended her gloved hand. "Thank you, sir, for bringing me here. I am sure I can find Maxwell now." She glanced upstairs. "Indeed, I suppose his rooms are directly above."

  The captain did not even acknowledge her gesture; his gaze was trained over her shoulder into the sitting room. Lydia turned to find she'd missed the entrance of a Chinese woman of indeterminate age flanked by a burly man of clearly mixed heritage. It was he who drew her attention first as she studied his features. Though almond-eyed like every Chinese, his skin was less golden, more pale in hue. His nose was more pronounced, but his jaw and brow less so, as if his entire body lagged behind a Romanesque nose. Still, he was muscular and broad-shouldered, especially by Chinese standards, and he was clearly unused to smiling. This attitude was enhanced by his clothing—a stained gray tunic over black pants.

  Truly he was the shadow of the woman, who, though shorter, carried herself with a pride that infused every part of her—from her powdered face, through her form-fitting black-and-gold silk gown, down to her black-slippered tiny feet. And if that were not enough, her black hair was coiled high atop her head and held by two ivory combs that glittered in the dusty light. She said nothing and neither did the captain. Instead, the woman pursed her dark red lips and openly inspected Lydia.

  It was bizarre and unnerving, so Lydia decided it was time to take control. Smiling with more warmth than she felt, she stepped forward, all the while praying the woman understood English. "I apologize for the intrusion, but I am Maxwell Slade's fiancée. If you could just show me to his rooms, I can wait there for him."

  Instead of answering, the Chinese woman simply smiled and turned, waving at her burly companion. "Tea!" she said imperiously, and the man bowed before hurrying away.

  "But—"

  "Don't bother arguing," interrupted the captain in low tones. "It will only insult her. Just drink the tea, Miss Smith."

  "But Max..." Her voice trailed away as she suddenly felt the weight of the truth. It would be many more hours, at least, until she would see her beloved fiancé again. He was likely at work and would return home in the evening. She might as well do what she could to charm her new landlady. Mustering a joy she did not feel, she turned to the woman and smiled. "Of course I would love some tea," she lied as she began to untie her bonnet.

  The Chinese woman gestured to a small square table—one of many in the room—and Lydia sat down, doing her best to feel at ease. In truth, she wished only to put up her feet in Maxwell's no-doubt pristine quarters. Instead she sat at the table, turning to address a question to the captain.

  Except, he had disappeared. Indeed, twisting slightly, she saw his heavy form already thumping back down the walkway.

  "Captain?" she said stupidly. Then she recalled her trunk. He was no doubt bringing it inside for her.

  "Sit, Rest," said her landlady, effectively distracting her from the captain's abrupt departure. "Drink tea," she continued, her voice deeper than Lydia expected. And significantly more nasal. Indeed, thought Lydia, she would have to work to understand this woman's English.

  It was just as well that her first task in Shanghai would be to learn the language as quickly as possible. Meanwhile, her landlady's companion returned carrying a pot of tea in one hand and a small round tray in the other. As he slowly set down the tray, Lydia got her first look at Chinese teacups. Small and round, they did not even possess a handle. And once again, the decorations were done in gold paint. To match the decor, she supposed.

  While she was still looking at the elaborate design—a gilded lotus—her landlady leaned over and poured the tea.

  "Drink. Drink."

  Lydia frowned. The woman was still standing over her, gesturing to the teacups. But there was more than one cup on the tray. "Won't you join me?" she asked. Then, in case the woman didn't understand, Lydia gestured with her hands, inviting the woman to sit at the table with her.

  "No, no," answered the woman, with a smile that did not reach her eyes. "You drink."

  Unsure what else to do, Lydia lifted her cup. Looking into the brew, she saw the dark swirl of a single escaped tea leaf. She smiled at the sight, feeling an inner tinge of satisfaction that she knew why. This was how the Chinese brewed their tea, with the leaves actually in the water when served, not strained out as in England. Maxwell had spent an entire letter on the evils of Chinese tea.

  Yet she supposed if a whole nation of people drank their tea with the leaves in it, the brew would not kill her, so Lydia took an obliging sip, somewhat eager to taste her first real cup of Chinese tea. It was more bitter than she was used to, and also had an undercurrent of sickly sweetness, as if the Chinese woman had tried to make English tea but somehow failed.

  Lydia set the cup down, frowning as she trie
d to analyze the taste. But the moment the cup left her lips, the woman was beside her again, actually lifting Lydia's hands to get her to drink.

  "No, no. Drink. Finish tea."

  Lydia did. Indeed, how could she not without appearing horribly rude? So she swallowed the stuff down, surprising herself by not spilling it. She wondered briefly if this was some Chinese custom—to drink the tea without stopping—and envisioned sharing this experience with Maxwell as soon as he returned. Would they laugh about her ignorance? Or about the landlady's obsessive need to have people consume her tea?

  Oh, she had so much to tell him! When would he get here?

  Setting down her cup, Lydia looked at her landlady. "Please, can you tell me where Maxwell works? I should like to meet him there."

  But the woman wasn't listening. She was pouring Lydia more tea.

  "Oh no, thank you." Lydia extended her hands to stop her, but the lady would have none of it. She finished pouring, then rudely shoved the cup back into Lydia's hands.

  "Drink!"

  "Please—"

  "Drink!"

  The woman's tones were strident, and so Lydia did as she was bidden, finishing the cup just as she had the last. But that was all she was going to drink until she had some answers. So, setting down the cup—somewhat harder than she anticipated—she frowned at the woman.

  "Maxwell Sade—"

  "Yes, yes," said the woman, nodding as she poured more tea.

  Lydia frowned. She had not said that right. "Maxwell Slllade. Where does he woke? Work. Where does Max work?" How odd that her tongue felt numb. And she was having difficulty forming certain sounds. Meanwhile, the Chinese woman was saying something in heavily accented English.

  "Your man come soon. You drink now." She was leaning over Lydia, pushing the teacup on her once again.

  But Lydia had had quite enough for one day. She twisted her head away, pushing to her feet. The man was coming toward her from the other side, but Lydia ignored him. She regretting having to be rude to her new landlady—the first real Chinese person with whom she had ever had a chance to converse—but it was necessary. She absolutely refused to drink any more of the vile stuff.

  Except, something was wrong with her feet. As numb as her tongue, they would not support her as they ought. Indeed, the moment she came to stand, she just as quickly began to collapse. Her head felt three sizes too large, and ungainly on her neck as well.

  What is the meaning of this? she demanded of the woman. Or rather she tried. What came out, she was very much afraid, was something more like, "Wha!?"

  Then she knew no more.

  White Tigress

  The Way of The Tigress

  Book One

  by

  Jade Lee

  ~

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  White Tigress

  from your favorite eBook Retailer,

  visit Jade Lee's eBook Discovery Author Page

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  Continue your Tigress journey

  with an excerpt from Jade Lee's

  Hungry Tigress

  The Way of The Tigress

  Book Two

  Excerpt from

  Hungry Tigress

  The Way of the Tigress

  Book 2

  by

  Jade Lee

  USA Today Bestselling Author

  9 January, 1896

  Dearest Kang Zou,

  Our distance weighs heavily upon me, my brother. The garden is dull, the birds are silent without your voice to wake them. Father reminds me that your studies take diligent care, but I see only that our beautiful family flower is incomplete without all its petals.

  Have you attained Heaven yet? Can you return for the New Year's celebration? My poetry is ever dull without your help.

  Your devoted sister,

  Wen Ji

  ~

  Decoded translation:

  My son, you have been gone a long time without word, and powerful people have begun to ask me for a report. Our family's fortunes depend upon your success. Have you found the conspirators yet? Report immediately. Resolve this matter by the end of January and our family success is assured.

  Your father,

  General Kang

  17 January, 1896

  Dearest Wen Ji,

  Alas, I cannot aid your poetry this day. Only constancy of purpose achieves the impossible, and my studies take much attention. The temple has a beautiful garden here, and whenever I gaze upon the plum flower, I think of you. But do not despair. Soon Father will choose a bridegroom for you and another flower will blossom in your heart.

  Your brother,

  Kang Zou

  ~

  Decoded translation:

  Apologies for the delay in report. I work day and night searching for the conspirators, but they are canny and difficult to locate. Do not hope for a resolution by New Year. Perhaps there is another means to restore our family's honor?

  Your son,

  Zou Tun

  Pursuing knowledge serves only to increase our desires, thus creating hypocrisy and causing frustration. Pursuing the Tao eliminates intellectualizing and decreases desires. On the inside you will be pure and empty, and on the outside you will naturally adhere to nonaction and not engage in worldly affairs.

  —Lao Tzu

  Chapter 1

  17 January, 1898

  No. No, no. No, no.

  The word echoed in Joanna Crane's mind, the sound keeping beat with her mare's hooves. She knew she was being ridiculous; one could not outrun a parental edict. And yet here she was on an open road outside of Shanghai, running her poor horse into the ground.

  No, Joanna was not escaping to join the Chinese rebel army. Because that would be silly and dangerous, even if those men were fighting for their freedom from an oppressive government. Just like her American forefathers, they were gambling their lives on a great and noble task, and she would love to fight alongside them.

  But, no. She couldn't do that, even though she had the means of their support—both monetary and in the literature of great American thinkers. She could even translate it into Chinese for them without too much risk to herself. In fact, she'd already started. She had her first scroll of Benjamin Franklin's writings already translated. Or paraphrased. She could do that, couldn't she?

  No.

  Why? Because her father forbade it. Because he had discovered what she was doing and confiscated her books. Because no man wanted to marry someone who read Benjamin Franklin.

  Very well, she'd responded. She would marry. But whom? Not the handsome George Higgensam, an idiotic youth with more money than brains. Not young Miller nor old Smythee nor even pockmarked Stephens. Not any of the young gentlemen who had offered proposals over the last few years.

  And why? Because her father had refused for her. Hadn't even asked her.

  True, she had no wish to marry the men, but frankly she had no wish for her father to summarily dismiss them either. Especially without consulting her.

  Didn't he see that she was wasting away? That without a husband or children to occupy her time, she was useless? Without a purpose or a cause to call her own, she was nothing but a pretty shell with nothing inside. Didn't he see that?

  No. No one saw that but Joanna and her mare, Octavia, whom she was now riding without heed or focus. Which only proved what her mother had feared ten years ago: Shanghai made whites go mad.

  It was no doubt proof of Joanna's staunch constitution that it had taken a decade for her mind to unbalance, but her reprieve was over. Obviously she was insane.

  As if in agreement, poor Octavia—her eighth mare since coming to China—chose that moment to misstep. Joanna's mind was snatched away from her other problems as the horse's head dropped down to the dirt, jerking her nearly out of her saddle. As it was, Joanna banged her forehead upon her poor mare's neck, then had to fight to keep her seat wh
ile Octavia stumbled on an obviously injured leg.

  Fortunately, Joanna had spent much of her childhood riding out one parent's intemperate mood after another and so was an excellent horsewoman. She managed to keep her seat and firmly, if a bit unsteadily, bring Octavia to a stop. Then she was off the heaving animal and doing her best to soothe the creature while praying the damage wasn't fatal. Her father did not pour money into damaged horses.

  "It's nothing serious," she soothed as she began to gingerly feel about the horse's wrenched leg. "Just a strained shoulder. Truly. We'll have you up and about in no time."

  But, of course, first she had to get the horse down. Meaning down in their barn, at home, inside the foreign concession of Shanghai, where the family's head groom would pronounce Octavia's eventual fate.

  Joanna looked around, seeing nothing but open fields shielded by a few scattered trees and a long stretch of empty road. She frowned, mentally counting how many times "no" had gone through her head since she'd left. Exactly how far was she from Shanghai's gate? How long ago had she bribed the gatekeeper and outrun her maid?

  She wasn't sure. But she knew it would take five times as long to limp poor Octavia back home. Guilt ate at her as she began the long, slow walk. Even the trees, growing thicker now, seemed to loom over her with disapproval.

  Joanna sighed, seeing now that her mother's second prediction had come true: She was a spoiled miss with no thought to the consequences of her actions. Except, of course, that was the real reason she had come out here this day—because there were no consequences to her actions... ever. She was her father's showpiece, a hostess for his parties and a trophy kept in reserve for whenever he chose her husband. And because she was rich in this foreign land, she could do just about anything she wanted—within reason—and suffer no consequences whatsoever.