by Jane Jackson
William wrinkled his nose. ‘I don’t know how you do it. What about Mrs Treneer? Do you think she’ll be a good nurse? There have some dreadful stories in the newspaper about London hospitals where nurses get drunk on duty and are found sleeping off their excesses in the patients’ beds.’
Susanna laughed. ‘Molly doesn’t hold with drink. She’s settled in really well. I think the patients were rather shocked to begin with. But when one of them objected to her washing him she soon put him straight. She said he’d do well to remember it was a woman that brought him into the world and saw to all his needs until he could fend for himself, so he could just stop his nonsense. If he preferred Albert to hose him down in the yard she would arrange it, but one way or another he was going to be clean.’
William chuckled in delight. ‘How did he take that?
‘In open-mouthed silence. She hasn’t had a word of complaint from him since.’
‘And Albert? From what you’ve said in the past I got the impression he doesn’t like anyone encroaching on what he considers is his territory.’
‘It could have been a problem. But they already knew each other, which helped. And their different tasks rarely overlap.’
‘What about the children?’
‘Fran says Jennet, the younger one, caused a lot of disruption in the class to begin with. But she’s much happier now. No one was quite sure what to do about Mary. Being deaf she can’t talk properly and other children tend to pick on her. Fran asked Mrs Collins if she would take Mary along to sewing classes at the Meeting House. Mrs Collins says Mary is showing great aptitude with a needle and might eventually make an excellent seamstress.’
‘So everything has worked out really well.’
She nodded.
‘Then why,’ William asked gently, ‘aren’t you happy?’
‘Of course I’m happy. I have a chaperone. Molly has a job that pays well and enables her to see Colin every day. Her children are receiving an education that suits their needs and which they would otherwise not have had. The Infirmary is running smoothly. Everything is fine.’ Her wide smile felt horribly false so she hurried on, ‘Edward – Doctor Arundell – has been teaching me how to make medicines.’
‘I suppose,’ he grinned, ‘this means you are forced to spend a considerable amount of time with him?’
‘Actually, no,’ Susanna replied lightly, brushing dust from her skirt to avoid looking at him. ‘He’s very busy at the moment. Don’t forget he has his practice to attend as well as the Infirmary. So after he has given me instructions he usually has to rush off somewhere. But he’s always back before I leave to check what I’ve done. He says I learn exceptionally fast.’
Flinging an arm over her shoulder William gave her a quick squeeze. ‘I think he’s showing enormous faith in you.’
‘Oh Will, do you really?’
‘Come on, Su. Making medicines is highly skilled work. I mean getting it wrong could kill someone. So for someone as conscientious as Doctor Arundell to leave you to get on with it all by yourself is a terrific compliment.’
The knot of fear began to loosen. What William said made perfect sense. Edward was a very busy man with many demands on his time. His actions were a demonstration of his trust. To interpret them as a means of avoiding her did them both an injustice.
Chapter Twelve
Every surface in the morning room was covered with tissue paper on which lay camisoles of ivory silk, shifts and pintucked nightgowns of fine cotton lawn, flannel vests and petticoats of cambric and muslin.
A rosewood sofa table was spread with a large white cloth to protect the delicate fabrics heaped upon it. All the lamps were lit and a fire burning brightly in the grate added more light and welcoming warmth.
As they sewed Susanna peeped sideways at her sister. The weeks of preparation had wrought a definite change in Frances. She was less prickly. It was as if Richard’s proposal had validated her, bestowing a confidence she had previously lacked.
‘Fran?’ Susanna paused halfway through a stitch. ‘When you and Richard are alone does he make love to you?’ She found it difficult to imagine Frances and Richard moved by passion.
Frances blushed. ‘You know etiquette does not permit us to –’
‘But he is soon to be your husband. I can’t believe he would not have tried to steal a kiss.’
‘We have not often been alone. Richard is most considerate of my reputation.’
‘But when you were was it nice? Did his lips make you swoon the way the romantic novels say? I know,’ she forestalled her sister’s scolding. ‘We are not supposed to read such books. But it was only one, and I just wanted to see why they are supposed to be so wicked.’ She shrugged. ‘It certainly wasn’t very well written. There was far too much flowery description of appearance and character. But when at last the hero swept the heroine up in his arms …’ she sighed dreamily. ‘It was so romantic. Was it like that for you?’
Frances stopped sewing and Susanna saw her fair brows draw together. ‘It was … wet.’ Her tone betrayed uncertainty and distaste.
‘That’s all?’
‘A lady has a responsibility to restrain excessive ardour in both herself and her lover.’
What lover? She tried to contain her exasperation. ‘But what harm could a kiss do? You will soon be married.’
‘Exactly.’ Frances was severe. ‘Marriage is a serious undertaking. All this talk of kissing is frivolous and out of place.’ She resumed her sewing.
About to tease, Susanna noticed her sister’s hands were trembling and realised she was far more nervous than she could bring herself to admit. What if she did not enjoy Richard’s embraces? Having accepted his proposal presumably she was prepared for the intimacies of marriage. Susanna had not been able to discover exactly what these were. But sleeping in the same bed must surely require husband and wife to enjoy being close to one another. Whenever she thought of Edward in that way she experienced strange sensations deep inside. No doubt that was something else of which she should be ashamed. But it felt so nice.
‘Of course it’s serious. But can’t there can be fun as well as responsibilities?’
‘You are so … superficial, Susanna. Marriage is the foundation of family life. It should be treated with solemnity and respect.’
‘I’m not mocking marriage. I hope I shall soon be making preparations for my own wedding.’
‘You?’ Frances snorted.
‘Why not? And I shall take it every bit as seriously as you do. But I want my marriage to be much more than just an arrangement between families or a partnership for raising children.’ She gazed into the blazing fire. ‘I want a union of body and soul with the man I love.’
‘Susanna! How can you even think such wicked thoughts. There must be something wrong with you.’
‘Who says they are wicked? Courtship might be strictly controlled by the rules of etiquette, but surely once a couple are wed –’
‘You aren’t the only one who reads books,’ Frances interrupted. ‘After my engagement was announced mother bought me two, specially written for young women preparing for marriage.’
‘You never told me.’
‘Why should I? You’re not the one getting married.’
Not yet, Susanna wanted to respond, but restrained herself. ‘So what do they say?’
‘That no well-brought-up girl entertains such thoughts. A wife should be her husband’s companion,’ Frances quoted. ‘And though she must submit to her husband in order to please him, and to fulfil her desire for motherhood, she would otherwise prefer to be relieved from his attentions.’
Behind the triumph on her sister’s face Susanna glimpsed relief, but did not immediately register its significance.
‘Pray for guidance, Susanna. Until you rid yourself of all these scandalous ideas, how can you even hope to find a serious suitor?’
Susanna lifted her chin. A small voice warned her against rashness. But her sister’s disgust coming on top of the day’s
events goaded her beyond endurance. ‘I may already have one.’
As the servant removed their plates Lowell sat back. ‘That was the tastiest steak and kidney I’ve ever eaten.’
Sir Andrew Cathcart nodded approvingly and dabbed his mouth with his napkin. His silver-grey hair curved back from his temples like two folded wings and his long side-whiskers were neatly trimmed. Because of his girth and the slope of his shoulders – both minimised by the superb cut of his evening clothes – he appeared short. But his face revealed a character much tougher than his physique suggested. He had a deep forehead, a Roman nose, and a firm mouth. He was, Lowell guessed, in his mid-fifties.
‘Club food is often criticised for being too reminiscent of the nursery or prep-school. But personally I prefer it to the mucked-about stuff served in restaurants these days. Can’t understand the appeal of such places myself.’ He gave a brief shudder. ‘A man can’t hear himself think with all that female chatter. Give me a club any day. Much more civilised.’
Masking his amusement Lowell glanced around, recalling the previous evening. After a hesitancy over etiquette that felt awkward – like a joint stiffened with age and disuse – he had eased into the appropriate moves and responses. But mentally his adjustment was far from complete.
Yet the double standards and hypocrisy which characterised English society were as rife in Shanghai as here in London. Perhaps he was simply out of touch. During the past five years he had spent so much time sailing to the wilder shores of China his contact with so-called civilisation could be counted in weeks.
Only one other table in the dining room was occupied: by an elderly man, napkin tucked into his collar, carefully chewing soup.
‘It’s always quieter in the evenings.’ Cathcart smiled. ‘Far more suitable.’
The choice of word reminded Lowell of Mackenzie’s warning. He had gone to see his old captain at Greenwich after receiving Cathcart’s invitation, delivered to the ship an hour after it docked.
Mackenzie had refused to speculate on what the baronet might want. ‘He’ll tell ye when he’s a mind tae. Just don’t be taken in by appearances, lad. A man does nae reach his position in the Foreign Office just because he inherited a title. Yon baronet has the mind of a serpent and don’t you forget it.’
Lowell left, little wiser but greatly intrigued.
‘I have never been able to understand the logic,’ Cathcart passed the decanter across the table, ‘in serving a wine of distinction after the palate has been dulled by coffee or contaminated by cigar smoke. A vintage port deserves to be treated with more respect.’ He passed his glass beneath his nose inhaling appreciatively.
Filling his own glass Lowell lifted it and allowed the tawny wine to slide over his tongue. It was rich, smooth and mellow. He swallowed, belatedly recognising the compliment implicit in the baronet’s choice of wine.
‘Excellent,’ he agreed. Though the previous night’s sleep had blunted his exhaustion, and the interlude with Henry’s wife had rid him of a tension that had given him gut-ache and a tendency to snap and snarl, he was still unable to relax.
‘The Factory House at Oporto is almost a place of worship for port lovers. Would you care for cheese? How about the Stilton?’
Glancing up impatiently Lowell caught Cathcart’s gaze and realised the flow of small talk had been a tactic designed to give his host time to observe and assess. He recalled Mackenzie’s warning.
Cathcart scooped up the decanter and his glass. ‘If you’ve finished we’ll go and make ourselves comfortable.’ Across the wide passage a blazing fire welcomed them. Gaslights on the wall either side of the fire hissed softly, adding their gentle illumination to the glow from the flames that cast flickering shadows across the oil paintings hanging on the oak panelling. Button-back armchairs of rich brown leather shiny with use and age were grouped in twos and threes around small tables.
Choosing a corner to one side of the hearth, well out of earshot of two men nursing balloon glasses and puffing on fragrant cigars, Cathcart set the decanter on a slender-legged table at his elbow.
Lowell could wait no longer. ‘Why am I here?’
Cathcart pinched the bridge of his nose. The mannerism betrayed weariness.
‘Our new Foreign Secretary, Lord Clarendon, does not approve of Prime Minister Disraeli’s foreign policy in China. I suspect both of them have only a minimal grasp of the true situation. One of the many problems we have in the Foreign Office is that the intelligence we receive is invariably coloured by the vested interests of the people supplying it.’ He looked directly at Lowell. ‘You, however, are not a diplomat. Nor, thank God, are you a politician. You were born in China and have lived there all your life. You speak the dialects. And most important of all, you have access to areas few non-Chinese ever see.’
‘Why should you think that?’
Cathcart’s smile contained a hint of impatience. ‘Come now, Captain Hawke. Your exploits in the Yangtze river are the stuff of legend in waterfront taverns from Macao to Shanghai. Men who have sailed with you are only too delighted to bask in your reflected glory. The legality of your cargoes does not concern me. What I want is information. Detailed, accurate information. Supplied directly and exclusively to me on as regular a basis as conditions allow.’
Lowell dark brows climbed. ‘A spy?’
‘An observer,’ Cathcart corrected.
‘That’s all?’
‘For the moment. However, should circumstances –’
‘Quite. Sufficient unto the day …?’ Lowell saw Cathcart’s features relax into a faint smile. They understood one another.
Pouring himself more wine Cathcart offered the decanter which Lowell declined with a shake of his head. ‘Is there some way in which Her Majesty’s Government might convey its gratitude for your assistance?’
‘I need guns.’
Cathcart’s expression did not alter. ‘For whom?’
‘Among others, British Consular officials at ports up the Yangtze.’
‘Why should they need guns?’ Cathcart demanded. ‘They are there legally under the terms of the Peace Treaty as representatives of the British Crown.’
‘Tell the Chinese that. And tell the two British officials whose houses were set on fire. Under the pretence of helping, local Chinese robbed them of everything they owned. Incidents like these are occurring regularly.’ Lowell held his host’s gaze. ‘If the law cannot or will not protect these people, they must take whatever steps are necessary to protect themselves.’
After a few seconds Cathcart gave an abrupt nod.
‘All right. What do you need?’
‘A thousand rifles – British Enfield, the .577 calibre that have been converted from muzzle to breech-loading for the new Snider cartridge – plus half a million rounds of ammunition and your guarantee of a continued supply.’
‘What?’
‘Plus Colt .36 single action revolvers, the Navy model, with ammunition.’ Lowell’s brows formed a single black bar as he thought rapidly. ‘And seven Gatlings.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Surely you –’
‘I know what a Gatling is,’ Cathcart interrupted tartly. ‘The deadliest weapon ever invented according to the American whose brainchild it was; ten barrels firing thousands of rounds a minute without risk of jamming or misfire. But it’s hardly suitable protection for a consulate.’
Lowell grinned. ‘One mounted in the bow of my boat will make damn sure the river pirates don’t stop your generous donation to the cause of peace reaching its destination.’
‘But seven? And why so many rifles and handguns?’ Lowell leaned forward. ‘Look, officially we may no longer be at war with China, but that hasn’t stopped the fighting. To establish and maintain trade in the up-river ports our people have to be protected. There are only two British gunboats to patrol six hundred miles of river, and the Imperial war junks steal as much as the pilongs.’
‘You said among others. What others?’
&nb
sp; ‘It seemed expedient to negotiate an alliance.’ Lowell shrugged.
Cathcart tossed back a large mouthful of port, heedless of its pedigree. ‘With whom?’ Strain was audible in his voice.
‘Kwang Tsai.’
Cathcart’s drawn breath hissed sharply. ‘You’re asking her Majesty’s government to supply arms to a Chinese warlord?’
‘No,’ Lowell said crisply. ‘You offered. A token of gratitude in return for my assistance, remember?’
‘But giving guns to the Chinese –’
‘Kwang Tsai is a realist. He recognises a fact that the Dowager Empress refuses to accept. The British are in China to stay. In return for guns with which to defend his territory from rival warlords, he will extend his protection to British traders and missionaries and their families.’
‘So the other six Gatlings are for him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can we trust him?’
‘Can we afford not to?’ Lowell replied.
Cathcart tapped his fingertips on the arm of his chair, clearly struggling with the ethics of the situation. After a few moments he gave another brief nod. ‘You’d better prepare a full list of the ammunition and spares you’ll need.’ He rubbed his forehead in a revealing gesture.
‘Just one more thing,’ Lowell said. ‘I want a hideaway gun. Preferably a Deringer. The .41 has two barrels but is small enough to be concealed in the hand and can be carried in a waistcoat pocket, up a sleeve, or down a boot.’
‘Indeed? How very convenient.’ Taking a small white card from an inside pocket, Cathcart passed it across. ‘Present this, and your list of requirements, at Woolwich arsenal any time after next weekend.’
A quick glance showed Lowell the card was printed with the simple legend Smith & Company, Machinery Exports. ‘Thank you.’
Cathcart leaned forward and poured them both more wine. ‘Now, what exactly is the situation in China?’
Chapter Thirteen
The Meeting House was full. The window sills had been adorned for the occasion with arrangements of holly and pine cones. Vases of red and white chrysanthemums signifying love and truth added welcome colour to the plain room.
