The Peony Lantern

by Frances Watts

  We had been travelling for twelve days by the time we reached the Itabashi bridge one afternoon, the sun already sitting low in the sky. ‘It’s not more than four miles now to my house in Kanda,’ said Shimizu. ‘I know it’s late, but now that we’re so near home I’d like to keep going. Kasumi, can you manage it?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  And then suddenly we were inside the city’s north gate, standing at the edge of an enormous open plaza backing onto a broad tree-lined river. Streets ran off in all directions. It was quite a sight for someone from a town with only one main road.

  Lord Shimizu pointed to a long grey wall at one end of the plaza. ‘That’s a daimyo’s mansion,’ he said. ‘When my lord is in Edo he lives in a large compound like that in Daimyo Alley, to the south-east of the castle, and most of his retainers do too. A couple of thousand people live there. But I have my own house not far from the Matsuyama mansion.’

  I couldn’t say in which direction we went, as there was too much to distract me. The plaza — I’d never seen such a large open space — was crisscrossed by streams of people. Travellers moved in groups like schools of fish. To my left were tea stalls, with waitresses beckoning to passers-by. Palanquin bearers called out for custom, offering to convey weary travellers through the city streets in wooden seats or small wooden boxes held aloft by two long poles. Ahead of us was a trio of women, using their fans to point and whisper behind. Their faces were painted white with their eyebrows drawn in black and their lips coloured blood-red. Their hair was twisted into extravagant arrangements and bristling with decorative pins and combs. With their gorgeous kimonos and quick, darting movements, they resembled colourful birds.

  ‘Geisha,’ said Isamu, staring.

  As dusk fell, lanterns were lit, giving the other people moving along the street the appearance of fireflies bobbing through the mild air.

  Shimizu began to walk more quickly, as if in a hurry to be home. We followed a wide road — I had the impression of rows of houses interspersed with shops — which gradually inclined and grew wider. The densely packed houses gave way to walls and gates, and glimpses of roofs surrounded by trees.

  We turned into a narrow street, passing through a guard post. Lord Shimizu stopped to exchange a few words with the guard. I noted some maids gossiping near the entrance of one home, heard a tofu vendor calling, saw a young man slouching against a wall as if waiting for someone.

  ‘Here we are.’ We entered through a wooden gate and found ourselves in a courtyard of raked gravel, facing a large house. There was a smaller building to the right, and I could see hints of a garden to the left. The porters put down our luggage and for a moment there was a commotion as porters mixed with servants from the house. Glancing behind me, I saw a young man across the street watching intently. When he saw me looking he turned his head away abruptly.

  As the porters left and the luggage was carried inside, we walked past the large imposing entrance to the house and continued around the side of the building to a smaller entrance. I guessed that the front of the house would have the formal reception room where Shimizu conducted his business, while we were going to the private quarters.

  A young woman stood alone in the lamp-lit entrance, her hands nervously smoothing the silk of her kimono. Her hair, dark and lustrous, was drawn back into a large roll worn high on her head. Another of the ladies-in-waiting, perhaps, ready to take us to Shimizu’s wife?

  Lord Shimizu started towards her and she bowed.

  When she looked up at him again her eyes were glowing. ‘It’s good to have you home, my husband.’

  For a moment I just stared. This was Shimizu’s wife? I had been imagining someone much older — close to Shimizu in age — but this woman could only have been a few years older than me at most.

  Motioning for us to come forwards, the samurai said, ‘Misaki, this is my nephew Isamu.’

  ‘Welcome to Edo, Isamu-san,’ she murmured.

  ‘And this is Kasumi. She has come from the Owari domain to be your churo, a lady-in-waiting,’ Shimizu said.

  Suddenly remembering myself, I kneeled before her and touched my head to the ground.

  When I raised my head she was looking at me curiously and, I thought, a bit hesitantly. I probably didn’t look much like a lady-in-waiting.

  I removed my sandals and stepped up onto the tatami, following the others through a small entry hall — which held a rack on which the two men placed their swords — into a room laid with six mats. I could hear kitchen sounds coming from behind a sliding screen to my right, while to my left was a large reception room of ten tatami mats at least. The tokonoma was in the right-hand corner, and opposite the raised alcove was a gold-lacquered display cabinet with several open shelves and a beautiful blue-and-white bowl sitting on top. Its bottom half had a pair of closed doors painted with a mountain scene.

  ‘Are you hungry?’ Misaki asked. ‘Please sit and I’ll have Ishi arrange some trays.’

  I hovered uncertainly, not sure if I should be helping her to fetch the food, but she said, ‘You too, Kasumi; you must be tired from the journey.’

  As soon as I sat, I realised that I really was weary.

  Misaki left the room, returning a few minutes later with a small plump woman. They were both carrying trays, which they set in front of the two men. They returned to the kitchen once more and reappeared with trays for Misaki and me. I assumed the other servants and ladies-in-waiting had already retired for the night.

  I looked at the food in front of me: soup, pickles and small cakes of rice with . . . was that raw fish on top? I glanced at Isamu and saw that he was poking it gingerly with his chopsticks.

  Lord Shimizu laughed. ‘I don’t think Isamu or Kasumi will have seen sushi before.’

  ‘It’s an Edo specialty,’ Misaki explained.

  ‘But the fish . . .’ Isamu poked it again. ‘It’s not cooked.’

  ‘We serve it raw. I’m sorry, it didn’t occur to me that you wouldn’t . . . I didn’t think.’ She cast a stricken look at her husband. ‘Should I ask Ishi to make something else?’

  ‘Please, don’t worry,’ Isamu said. ‘If it’s an Edo specialty, I’m sure I’ll enjoy it.’

  While Lord Shimizu told Misaki about the journey, I picked at my meal. The fish was firm but tender, the flavour not too strong. I puzzled over the garnish for some time until Isamu whispered, ‘I think it’s seaweed.’

  By the time the meal was finished I was so tired I was almost swaying where I sat. Misaki must have noticed, for she rose and said, ‘Let me show you where you will sleep, Kasumi.’ She led me through the reception room to the room I’d seen on the other side of the tokonoma. In the corner was a painted screen, and Misaki went towards it. Behind was a small alcove, large enough for a futon. My small trunk was already there.

  ‘You can sleep here. My husband and I have a room at the back of the house.’ She pointed across a narrow wooden-floored corridor. ‘The toilet and bath are through there.’ She nodded towards a deck leading on to a short corridor running alongside the kitchen.

  Futons had already been unrolled for herself and Shimizu. I helped her to lay out a bed for Isamu in the reception room, and then I took a futon into my own little alcove.

  So many rooms. In Tsumago we’d had only one room for our family’s private use. Even the honjin, which had eighteen rooms in total, had only three for the use of the Yamada family.

  Perhaps in one of the rooms across the corridor were the other ladies who attended Misaki. Tomorrow I would sleep with them, but for tonight I would enjoy my solitude. I had never slept alone before. It was quiet without Hana’s loud breathing and restless shifting about, not to mention the noises of the guests with their snores and snuffles.

  I was already half asleep when I heard someone speak my name. I was about to reply when I realised that what I had heard was part of a whispered conversation from another room.

  Of course: my alcove must be just across the corridor from the room of my mis
tress and her husband. No doubt Misaki was asking Shimizu what strange impulse had possessed him to offer me a position in their household.

  I was wide awake now, intent on the voices. There was a soft indistinct murmur that must have been Misaki, then her husband’s deeper voice replied, ‘No, I haven’t told her — and you can’t either. It’s too dangerous.’

  Her? Were they still talking about me?

  More murmuring.

  ‘She knows nothing, suspects nothing — that’s why she’s so perfect. As long as you stay quiet, we have nothing to fear. But if our secret should get out . . .’

  There was a long silence and I thought they must be asleep, then Shimizu said, ‘I’m sorry it has to be this way, my dear. But it’s worth it, isn’t it? You love me, don’t you?’

  And for the first time I heard Misaki’s voice clearly as she said, ‘Oh yes, Minoru. More than anything.’

  Chapter

  Four

  The cherry tree clothed

  In a single green layer:

  The robe of summer

  If our secret should get out . . . What? What was too dangerous for me to know? I was perfect for this job, Shimizu had said, because I knew nothing, suspected nothing.

  As cosy as I was under my quilt, I couldn’t repress a shiver. He was right that I knew nothing. And there was no one I could ask. Did the other ladies-in-waiting know? Did Isamu? All at once I felt a long way from home.

  I woke to the sound of clattering as the wooden sliding shutters that had enclosed the house at night were opened. Aware of noise from the kitchen, I hastily rose and pulled a clean kimono on over my under-kimono, then walked through the series of rooms that led to the kitchen. The futon on which Isamu had slept had already been put away, I noticed, and the reception room opened onto a deck that led to a garden from which I could hear Isamu’s voice, so familiar to me now, mingling with that of his uncle. I stepped into the kitchen, which was dim and smoky, and saw Ishi stirring a pot at the stove, Misaki supervising her.

  ‘Good morning, my lady.’ I bowed low at the door and she looked up briefly. Standing behind the stove in a plain cotton kimono not so different from my own, she looked less young and fragile than she had the night before. Seeing her now, I was sure I had dreamed the exchange I’d heard — about secrets, about danger . . .

  ‘I hope you slept well, Kasumi,’ she said briskly.

  ‘Yes, my lady. How can I help you?’

  ‘We’ll serve my husband and his nephew their breakfast before I dress.’

  It was a relief to be doing the same task I might have been doing at home — though on a much smaller scale, as we had only two men to serve and not an inn full of guests.

  Misaki and I assembled trays with a bowl of miso soup and one of rice, and carried them into the room just as Shimizu and his nephew entered, both dressed formally in stiff-shouldered jackets and wide-legged hakama. I felt suddenly shy to see Isamu like this; he was no longer my familiar travelling companion and his manner seemed more subdued.

  Misaki kneeled before her husband, bowed, then placed the tray in front of him and I did the same for Isamu.

  ‘Thank you, ladies. I’ll be taking Isamu over to the domain mansion this morning.’

  I kept my eyes on the floor, surprised by the pang I felt at the thought of his leaving. Would I see him again? I wondered.

  Isamu finished his breakfast and went to see to his luggage, and Misaki returned to the kitchen for some more rice for her husband, leaving me alone with Lord Shimizu.

  ‘So, Kasumi, I’ll be relying on you.’

  With my father’s admonishments about appropriate behaviour in mind, I had been kneeling quietly with my face downcast, but now I looked up in astonishment.

  Shimizu was cradling a teacup in his hands, his thumb idly stroking the rim. He said quietly, ‘Misaki and I only married two months ago, and I’ve been away for six weeks of that time already. My business for the daimyo keeps me very busy and I’m worried she’ll be lonely. She’s not from my own domain, you see; she’s from Morioka and doesn’t know anyone in Edo. You’ll be good company for her, and I hope you will do a service for me.’

  ‘Of course, sir.’ I felt that I would do anything to help him. My father had dismissed me as useless, but Shimizu had chosen me to come to Edo and attend his beautiful wife. If he was about to share the secret with me, I would guard it with my life.

  The samurai smiled faintly. ‘Your father tells me you are observant; I want you to be my ears and eyes — if Misaki appears to be troubled, to be suffering, if anyone should cause her distress, I want you to tell me. Can you do that?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ He rose even further in my estimation. I was sure most husbands wouldn’t be so sensitive. And I had an answer to one question, at least. Father may not have meant to praise my powers of observation — watching wasn’t work as far as he was concerned — but Lord Shimizu thought my skill was valuable, that I might be of some real use. But what did he think would cause his wife distress? Perhaps the other ladies would tell me. But when was I going to meet them?

  While Misaki accompanied her husband and his nephew to the gate, I carried the men’s empty trays to the kitchen. ‘Ishi,’ I whispered, ‘where are the other ladies?’

  Ishi looked up from the sink. ‘What other ladies?’

  ‘The ladies who attend Misaki-san.’

  ‘There are no other ladies, dear. You’re the only one.’

  I gaped at her. ‘But hasn’t she brought anyone with her from Morioka?’

  ‘Not a soul. She came to Edo all alone.’

  That struck me as peculiar, but I supposed that even if Ishi knew why no one had accompanied Misaki, she wouldn’t tell me. Lord Shimizu’s servants would all be loyal. Come to think of it, where were all the servants? Surely a man of such high rank would have an army of them. ‘Is there a large household staff?’ I asked.

  Ishi frowned at the pan she was scrubbing. ‘Just me to oversee the running of the house and kitchen, and Otami to do the cleaning and the laundry.’

  Only two . . . ‘And outside the house?’

  ‘There’s the gardener and Goro, the night guard.’ I had a sudden memory of a short squat man with the protuberant eyes of a toad standing by the gate the night before. It must’ve been he and the gardener who had carried in our luggage. ‘And the master has a manservant, Haru. You’ll have met him already.’

  ‘I thought there would be more,’ I said.

  ‘Our master is a true samurai,’ Ishi declared with pride. ‘He might be of the highest rank, but he believes in working hard and living humbly.’

  Misaki entered the kitchen at that moment, and the cook and I ceased our conversation.

  ‘We can have our own breakfast now,’ Misaki said.

  As my mistress and I ate the leftovers from the breakfast cooked for the men, I watched her surreptitiously. Her forehead was furrowed slightly, and she concentrated fiercely on her bowl of soup as if to discourage conversation.

  I had barely finished half my own bowl before she set hers down and stalked from the room.

  I abandoned my breakfast to follow her.

  ‘Ishi has been doing my hair until now,’ she said over her shoulder as we walked through the reception room which a maid — Otami, I presumed — was sweeping. ‘A cook!’

  I was taken aback by the disdain in her voice. Was this the same woman who had spoken so sweetly to her husband, had so ardently declared her love for him? (If I hadn’t dreamed it, of course, and I was growing more and more sure that I had.)

  ‘Thank goodness I’ll no longer need to rely on her.’

  ‘Yes, my lady,’ I said. Why would she no longer need Ishi? I wondered. Then it dawned on me. It would be my job to do her hair. I had known this would likely be one of my duties, but I’d thought there would be other ladies to teach me. I felt a stirring of anxiety in my chest.

  In the room where Misaki and her husband had slept the futons had been put away in the built-in cupboard.
We went through to a smaller room of four mats. Several silk kimonos hung over rails. Tentatively I reached out to stroke one, the fabric smooth and slippery beneath my fingers.

  ‘You’ll find everything you need on the dressing table here.’

  I looked up as she spoke and, in the light glowing through the rice-paper screen separating the room from the garden, I saw what had last night been concealed by her makeup and this morning by the dimness of the kitchen: a shiny scar bloomed across her left cheek.

  I must have gasped, because Misaki put a hand to her cheek self-consciously. ‘The makeup covers it well. You know what they say: a light skin conceals seven other defects.’

  ‘You don’t have seven defects to conceal, my lady,’ I protested, because it was true. Other than the ugly scar, Misaki was exquisite, with large eyes in an oval face and a long straight nose. Her face was pale even without the makeup and her teeth had been blackened with dye, presumably recently given she hadn’t been married long.

  ‘How did you —?’ I began, then stopped and looked at the floor. It was none of my business.

  ‘A fire,’ she said briefly.

  Had she been burned before or after Lord Shimizu married her? I wondered. I was deciding whether I had the courage to ask when she ordered, ‘Come do my hair.’

  ‘Yes, my lady.’

  I moved to stand behind her as she kneeled on the tatami. Taking a comb from the dressing table, I began to pull it through Misaki’s hair, a river of black as silky-smooth as one of her kimonos.