“So Master Kuo-tung could be back in England in…” She wasn’t sure exactly how far England was from China.
“Three months, more or less.” He sighed. “But I can’t go back yet—and maybe not for some years to come.”
“Why not?”
Once again she regretted her question. He had been very, very kind to indulge her curiosity, but now she had truly overstepped the bounds of propriety.
“I have offended a very powerful man,” he answered quietly.
“Oh,” she said, at once thankful that he had replied and saddened on his behalf. “That happens a great deal here in China. Has Master Kuo-tung ever heard of Jiayu Pass?”
“No, I have not.”
“It’s the westernmost gate of the Great Wall. And those who offend the court are exiled beyond, where there is nothing but wasteland and desolation. They weep and lament by the gate, but they are not allowed back inside.”
Master Kuo-tung rolled his pen under his fingers. “In that case, I must count myself fortunate. In my exile I am allowed to sit in this beautiful garden, study Chinese poetry, and make friends.”
It was odd for him to call her a friend—he was a generation above her; were he Chinese, she would be addressing him as Uncle. But the solace he took in her company felt so genuine that she scarcely knew what to do with herself. She selected a piece of candied kumquat from the tray of snacks on the table so she could go for a bit without talking.
Little Dragon arrived with the tea service. Adroitly he poured boiling-hot water into the red-sand clay teapot, whirling it around to warm the interior.
“I know I offered Bai Gu-niang jasmine tea,” said Master Kuo-tung. “But I also have tea from Darjeeling, which is much beloved by the English. Would Bai Gu-niang be interested in sampling a cup?”
She had no idea the English drank tea; nor had she ever heard the name Darjeeling. “I will be delighted to try.”
“I don’t think I have come across another young person so courteous since…” He shook his head slightly and turned to address Little Dragon in French.
Little Dragon gave her a stony look, as if it were her fault that he was being asked to fetch a different kind of tea. He left and returned a minute later, set the tea to brew, and withdrew.
The fragrance that wafted from the teapot was a darker, deeper scent than what she was accustomed to. “Oh, it is red tea.”
“Yes. In English we call it ‘black tea.’ This particular variety is grown in the foothills of the Himalayas.”
The Himalayas formed the southern boundary of Tibet, and she could not remotely imagine the climate in Tibet as suitable for the cultivation of tea. Then she realized he must mean foothills on the other side of the great mountain range.
“This tea is from India?” she marveled. She knew nothing of India, other than that it was hot and the birthplace of the Buddha.
“Yes, indeed. I drank a great deal of this tea in England. Now, not so much—it makes me long for home.”
At the end of his words, he bit his lower lip, as if embarrassed.
His homesickness echoed in her. “I miss my home too,” she confessed. “My home is only few li away, but I don’t think I will ever see it again.”
This was something she could not have told anyone else in Da-ren’s residence. Gossip would spread and people would think her ungrateful. But she felt completely safe speaking to this outcast foreigner, with his young face and melancholy eyes.
He poured tea for both of them. “Will you tell me something of your home?”
She did. As she sipped his fragrant brew, she described the pomegranate trees with flowers like flames, the goldfish that glittered under the sun, and even Mother’s parakeet that spoke better Mandarin than he did, which made him laugh, the corners of his eyes crinkling.
He, in turn, told her about a house in the south of England, situated amid rolling green hills, that he had loved to visit. There he would ride, paddle rowboats, and sometimes hike for great distances with his friends.
“I have visited in winter, of course, when it was cold and rainy—we used to stay inside, drink Darjeeling tea, and talk all day long. But for some reason, whenever I think of my friend’s house, it is always warm, always summer.”
She didn’t know why, but his words brought tears to her eyes. “I remember my home in all seasons, but I think I understand what you mean.”
She no longer recalled Mother’s sighs and frowns. Instead she remembered the time Mother taught her how to play dominoes. The time Mother had given her a full-fledged compliment for coming up with the second half of a couplet. And the time Mother, in a particularly good mood, had sat Ying-ying down to brush out her hair and recoif it into a more sophisticated arrangement.
Ying-ying had worn her hair in the same style ever since.
Before Master Kuo-tung could answer, Little Dragon arrived at his side and spoke to him. Master Kuo-tung turned to Ying-ying, an expression of surprise on his face. “I am told that my lunch has been delivered—I did not realize it was so late. Would Bai Gu-niang care to join me?”
Ying-ying leaped up. It was already lunchtime? She had better rush back, or Amah might never let her out again. Hastily she thanked Master Kuo-tung for his hospitality. He in turn invited her to return for tea anytime.
“My lessons with the young masters are in the afternoon. My mornings are quite free. And it would be my good fortune and privilege to have Bai Gu-niang’s company again.”
She dared not promise anything, but all the way back to her own courtyard she could not help skipping. And she need not have worried about lunch: It had not been delivered yet, given that their courtyard probably ranked last in importance in the entire compound.
Amah was in the midst of a set of breathing exercises, seated cross-legged on her bed. She opened her eyes when Ying-ying poked her head in the door.
“I didn’t run into Shao-ye,” Ying-ying told her.
Amah nodded, closed her eyes again, and went on with her practice.
Four days later, when Amah allowed Ying-ying out again, she headed directly for the garden at the northwestern corner of the residence.
Master Kuo-tung, as he’d promised, was in the exact same spot. He rose as he saw her, a wide smile on his face.
Chapter 14
Catherine Blade
Ying-ying took the piece of paper out of the redwood box, the one that contained all the mementoes from Mother’s days with her English protector. She was fairly certain the writing on the paper was English, which Master Kuo-tung would be able to read.
And then he would be able to tell her what it said.
She put the piece of paper back again. Maybe it was better for her not to know.
A few moments later she had the piece of paper in her hand again. And then again it was back in the box.
“If you aren’t going for your walk, you can come and stir this potion for Master Keeper Ju,” Amah said from the next room.
Three months after their move to Da-ren’s residence, Amah had already gained a measure of renown among the senior servants for her medicinal skills. Every few days she would be concocting a brew for someone. Four days ago she cooked up something for Mrs. Mu-he’s arthritis, before that for a household scholar’s weak liver, and now a special preparation for the majordomo’s headaches.
“I might spit in it, if I did,” Ying-ying answered.
She had not forgiven the majordomo for how he had received them.
“As highly placed as he is, he is still a servant, and takes his cues from his master,” came Amah’s rebuttal.
And that was the crux of the matter, wasn’t it? Da-ren didn’t value her, and therefore no one else did.
Except for Master Kuo-tung. With him she never felt that she was lesser, or out of place.
She opened the redwood box, took out the piece of paper, put it up her sleeve. Then she shrugged into Mother’s cape.
As she adjusted the fasteners under her chin, Amah came into the room. Lat
ely things had become less tense between them. The credit, to Ying-ying’s thinking, lay largely with Master Kuo-tung. Amah let her out only once every four or five days, but that meant the rest of the time she had her next visit with Master Kuo-tung to anticipate, which made an astonishing difference. Even lessons on medicinal herbs had become easier to tolerate.
“You should make some potions for yourself,” she told Amah. “Your color doesn’t look too good.”
She had become thinner and her skin now had a gray undertone.
Amah waved a dismissive hand. “I’ll drink medicine when I need to, and not before.”
She came forward and set the last two fasteners in place on the cape. Then she stepped back and inspected Ying-ying. “You are growing up. It isn’t advisable for you to spend so much time with the foreigner.”
Ying-ying had never mentioned Master Kuo-tung to Amah. Did Amah hear about it from the other servants or had she followed Ying-ying without her knowledge? The latter, she decided. Amah would have said something if Ying-ying had become a topic of gossip.
And of course it wasn’t advisable—or she wouldn’t have run away the first time Master Kuo-tung greeted her. But she didn’t want to get into an argument with Amah about him, so she said, “I will remember that, Master. And since Master has been out and about, has she discovered the identity of the martial-arts expert yet?”
If Amah noticed that she had changed the subject, she did not remark on it. “All I know is that it can’t be the man who teaches self-defense to Da-ren’s sons—he has no lightness skills at all. Bao-shun is the only other person said to be good at martial arts, but he was at our courtyard that night, and not here.”
“Maybe that man is no longer here.”
“Maybe, if I’m so lucky.”
But Amah did not sound convinced.
Ying-ying ran into Little Dragon on the way. He carried a carafe of spirits and a small cup on a tray. She looked at him quizzically—what business did he have in this part of the residence?
“Bai Gu-niang,” he greeted her coldly as they passed each other.
She gave a small nod.
Then, behind her, she heard him say softly, “The wind is strong today. Would Master Keeper Chang care for some heated spirits?”
She looked over her shoulder. He was speaking to a middle-aged manservant, rail-thin and stooped, who was sweeping the snow that had fallen onto the walking path.
She would never have pegged Little Dragon as the kind-hearted type, but he treated the older servant as if the latter were his father.
The garden where she had first seen Master Kuo-tung was empty; she kept walking. When weather turned cold he had invited her to his rooms, where they could be nice and warm inside. That was when she learned that he lived in the Court of the Contemplative Bamboo, which also housed Da-ren’s study, in a row of east-facing rooms.
It is so his sons would take their lessons with me seriously, Master Kuo-tung had explained as to why he had been given such a place of honor.
Do they? she had asked.
He had smiled and shaken his head slightly. The younger one takes everything seriously. The older one, well, I’m afraid the older one doesn’t take anything seriously—or at least not his studies.
Which had not surprised Ying-ying at all.
She stopped just outside the moon gate to peer into the Court of the Contemplative Bamboo—she didn’t want to run into Da-ren and then have to explain what she was doing there. Once she was sure she was safe from that possibility, she skirted around the bamboo grove and slipped past Master Kuo-tung’s door—he had told her there was no need for her to knock, and she had immediately taken him up on his offer, happy to not make any noises that might attract Da-ren’s attention.
If Da-ren was home, that was. He was still a busy man and left the residence almost daily for business at court and elsewhere.
The arrangements of Master Kuo-tung’s rooms was a familiar sequence to her: the first room for receiving and dining, the second as a study, and then an inner bedchamber—Mother’s rooms had been laid out exactly that way.
He was not in the receiving room. She called him and received no response. She poked her head into his study—and nearly stumbled a step backward: He had in his hands the jade tablet Amah had stolen from Da-ren!
She must have made some noise. He glanced up and smiled. “Ah, Bai Gu-niang, when did you come in? I didn’t hear you at all.”
Her mouth opened and closed several times before she could ask, “If you don’t mind my curiosity, Master Kuo-tung, how did you come by your artifact?”
“This? From my father. He purchased two such tablets in Nanking many years ago, after the First Opium War.”
He made it sound so ordinary. Perhaps Da-ren—and consequently Amah—had been wrong about the value of the tablet. Perhaps it was one of those oft-copied pieces that had no particular significance at all.
“When I was growing up,” Master Kuo-tung continued, “one of the tablets was always on my father’s nightstand, and the other always on my mother’s. After they passed away, I inherited the jade tablets. Then…”
His voice trailed off. He gazed down at the small tablet as if he could see through it to another place, another time. “Remember the house I told you about, the beautiful house where it is always summer in my memories? I gave one jade tablet to the master of that house, and this one I kept for myself.”
For a moment Ying-ying forgot her alarm: There was only the intensity of his longing and the sweetness of the past forever torn from him. “It must have made for a beautiful present.”
He smiled faintly. “It was very kindly received and very much cherished.” He held out the tablet toward her. “Would you like to see it more closely?”
She almost took it in her hand before she remembered. “Master Kuo-tung, I must tell you something: You should hide this tablet and never let anyone see you with it. Da-ren had one just like it and he treasured it, but it was stolen several years ago.”
“Oh,” said Master Kuo-tung, looking astounded. “Exactly like this one? You have seen it?”
She hesitated. “No, I have not seen it myself, only heard it described. And the theft happened before you came to China, of course. But you understand what I mean, do you not, Master Kuo-tung?”
It would not look good if Da-ren were to come to know. What were the chances that a foreigner would have in his possession a nearly identical object as that which had been taken from him?”
“Yes, I understand. And don’t worry,” he reassured her. “This is the first time I have taken it out to look at since I arrived in Peking. No one else knows I have such an item.”
“You should put it away right now.”
He looked down at the tablet a long moment. “I believe someday I will donate this to the British Museum. Perhaps I had better do it sooner, rather than later.”
He excused himself to go into the inner room; she shrugged out of her cape. When he came back, he offered her a cup of Darjeeling tea, the scent and taste of which she had come to love, and they spent a few minutes talking about what a museum was, a concept entirely novel to her.
It wasn’t until he was refilling her cup that she remembered the piece of paper she had brought. She waffled again, wondering whether she ought to say nothing of it.
“Bai Gu-niang.”
“Yes?”
He smiled. “Bai Gu-niang hasn’t heard anything I said. Is there something on her mind?”
She bit the inside of her cheek, extracted the piece of paper from where it was stowed up her sleeve, and handed it to him. “I was hoping Master Kuo-tung might be able to read this for me.”
“Certainly.”
He scanned the lines of text. His brows rose. Then he looked back at her. “This letter was addressed to an unmarried lady who has the same family name as Bai Gu-niang. But it dates from a while ago—1864.”
“And what year is that?” She was unfamiliar with the Western calendar.
&nbs
p; “I apologize. I mean the third year of Tung-chih Emperor’s reign.”
Her pulse quickened. “That’s the year I was born.”
“And I remember reading something about a crash in Shanghai that year having to do with a huge influx of refugees that was expected but never materialized.” He read the letter again. “How did this come to you?”
“I found it among my mother’s things. So it was addressed to her?”
Master Kuo-tung glanced at her again. “It seems that way. It is a letter of condolence concerning the death of a man named Blade.”
“Buh…lay…de,” she repeated slowly.
“Mr. Blade perished in an accident. It would seem that the recipient of the letter was then with child—Mr. Blade’s child. And the writer informed her that Mr. Blade had been looking forward to the birth of the baby and that he would have named it Charles, if it turned out to be a boy. And if a girl, Catherine.”
The foreign devil in Mother’s photograph had a name—a surname, at least. And Ying-ying, unbeknownst to herself, had always had an English name.
“It is a beautiful name, Catherine—a queenly name,” said Master Kuo-tung, as he handed the letter back to her.
She didn’t know what to say. She wondered whether the letter made it clear that she was illegitimate.
“The moment I met Bai Gu-niang, I wondered whether she wasn’t of mixed heritage,” Master Kuo-tung said quietly. “And when I saw Bai Gu-niang’s eyes up close, I became fairly certain.”
She lowered her face, ashamed of her eyes, which so easily gave away her secret to one who knew what to look for.
“Has Bai Gu-niang ever thought of visiting England and perhaps meeting members of her father’s family?”
The suggestion flabbergasted her. “Did the letter mention any such family? And the English, they do not mind children born outside of wedlock?”
He looked pained. “No, the letter didn’t mention any family. And I’m afraid the English do mind—very much.”
She shook her head. She could just imagine the horror on the part of her father’s family, to have this wild seed arrive on their doorstep from the far ends of the earth. She would not put herself through such humiliation—and rejection.
The Hidden Blade: A Prequel to My Beautiful Enemy (Heart of Blade) Page 15
