The Concubine's Daughter

by null

  Apart from this grim reminder of the past, the island had been transformed into a sanctuary of verdant woods, loud with missel thrushes and blackbirds, bred by homesick English expatriates a hundred years before.

  At the base of a high hill someone had named Wuthering Heights lived an elite community mainly made up of high-ranking British officers and their families. Cut off from the rest of Hong Kong, except for water taxis that operated day and night and the official Stonecutters ferry that ran to a schedule, the island’s two landing jetties were closely guarded by a platoon of Sikh policemen.

  Sing was both excited and curiously nervous at the prospect of meeting the English lady who had known her parents so well. Having rested well for a day and a night in a small, comfortable hotel owned by a friend of Toby’s, she had taken the cotton frock from its box. Beneath it, in separate tissue, were two sets of filmy white underwear, as beautiful to touch and look upon as the cream-colored frock printed with palest pink roses. The wide red belt emphasized her tiny waist, and the shoes were a perfect fit, making her two inches taller and adding the slightest swing to her hips. She had washed and combed her deep auburn hair to lie in long, soft curls over her shoulders. The hat of light straw she tied loosely beneath her chin.

  Toby was drinking coffee in the lobby when she appeared. The look in his eyes made her blush with pleasure. “I have truly never seen anything more lovely in my life,” he breathed.

  They took the same motor launch that had carried them in search of Indie Da Silva, this time with the uniformed coxswain at the helm. Toby looked dashing to her in cream slacks, a cream polo shirt, and his regimental blazer. He handed Sing the Tanka sling that he had been keeping for her. “I thought you might want to show some of your things to Miss Bramble.”

  Toby was smartly saluted as they disembarked at the landing wharf and entered the car, a vintage burgundy Bentley, sent to fetch them.

  Winifred Bramble’s bungalow, the Elms, was large and spacious, built around the turn of the century by someone who wanted to bring a breath of rural England into the midst of an alien land. Its wide gated entrance was flanked by two towering elms, its rambling gardens thick with rhododendrons and the neat flower beds of an English estate.

  The door was opened by a white-jacketed amah, who showed them into a sitting room crammed with comfortable furniture covered in floral uphostery, its window seat scattered with books and magazines, and vases of carefully arranged flowers everywhere.

  The lady who stood awaiting them was smiling and gracious, slightly stout but straight backed and surrounded, Sing saw immediately, by an energy far younger than her years. She was smartly and simply dressed in a skirt of homespun Scottish tweed and a coffee-colored silk blouse, unadorned but for a single string of matched pearls and one of equal luster in the lobe of each ear. Her silver hair was perfectly groomed and waved, the hazel eyes keenly alert behind lightly tinted glasses.

  She held out her hands to Sing at once, her eyes bright with the threat of tears. “Welcome, my dear … what an absolute joy this is.” She embraced her visitor warmly. “For more years than I care to count, I have prayed for this moment.”

  Sing bowed her head. “I too have dreamed of such a moment. I thank you with all my heart for allowing it to come true.”

  Miss Bramble beamed with pleasure, then turned to Toby, taking his outstretched hand. “Lady Margaret Pelham, the wife of your commanding officer, is a dear friend of mine, Captain Hyde-Wilkins. She speaks most highly of you, as of course does the colonel.”

  She waved them to the comfortable armchairs. Sing reached for the beaded bag and took out the photograph of her parents. “This has been close to my heart since the treasures in this bag were given to me on my tenth birthday.”

  Using both hands, in the way in which all things of great value are exchanged, Sing proffered the photograph.

  Winfred Bramble was unable to suppress a single tear. “This was taken by my own hand so many years ago. I still have the Brownie box camera I used on the deck of Golden Sky to capture the moment they became man and wife.

  “I believe our meeting was decreed by a destiny greater than we can begin to imagine, and there are important things to discuss. However, I propose some light refreshment before we proceed.” She paused, while the amah wheeled in a trolley holding a silver tea service, an array of delicate sandwiches, and an assortment of extravagant pastries.

  Miss Bramble effortlessly served them both. “Afternoon tea, Miss Devereaux, an old English habit I simply refuse to abandon: Darjeeling, and pastries from Gaddi’s restaurant in the Peninsula Hotel, greatly enjoyed by your dear mother.” She filled dainty, hand-painted cups, passing them around and offering milk and sugar, while she chatted breezily of her garden and life back in East Sussex.

  Finally, with pleasantries completed, Miss Bramble’s manner became brisk and businesslike. “There can be no doubt that this delightful and courageous young lady is the child of Li-Xia and her husband, Ben; it is as though they stand before me. You have been blessed with the best of both of them.” Crossing to a Victorian rolltop desk, she returned with two sealed envelopes and turned to Sing. “I have something rather momentous to tell you, my dear.”

  She looked at Toby. “As you no have no doubt discovered, for many years Captain Devereaux’s trusted Hong Kong solicitor and friend was a gentleman named Alistair Pidcock. Sadly, he has passed away, leaving me as the sole executor of the Devereaux Hong Kong Trust. The instructions were to invest the fund in the name of Captain Devereaux’s missing daughter for ninety-nine years. If during the course of that time the daughter was found and identified upon the basis of my judgment, she would become the legal heiress to his entire fortune, which I am able to tell you is very considerable indeed. It includes the deed to the Devereaux estate at Repulse Bay known as the Villa Formosa.”

  She turned the warmth of her smile upon Sing. “It is a most beautiful place, though I believe the house is in need of restoration. You must see it as soon as you recover your strength.

  “You see, my dear, your father did not leave Hong Kong before investigating every possible clue to your disappearance. He apparently tracked down the amah, Ah-Ho, learning from her that your mother’s personal servant, fondly known as the Fish, was believed to have taken you with her into the hinterlands of Central China … a challenge that even a man of your father’s caliber and connections would find most daunting. Nevertheless, he tried. For two years he sailed his flagship, Golden Sky, for thousands of miles in search of word that might lead him to you.”

  Again Miss Bramble paused, this time with a frown of disapproval. “I am ashamed to say that the officials in Hong Kong had little interest in your mother’s death and your apparent kidnapping. Had this terrible event involved a British or European family, or even that of a high-ranking Chinese, there would have been a full-scale investigation.”

  Setting down her cup, Miss Bramble shook her head. “Your father was forced to abandon all hope of discovering your whereabouts … but not before he had posted a vast reward for any information from any source, including, I understand, the secret societies known as the triads.” She picked up the pair of envelopes, squaring them efficiently on the table’s polished surface, before handing one of them to Sing. “This is a letter to Mr. Adrian Lau, chairman of the Hong Kong-Shanghai Bank, who was also well known to your father. It will give you immediate access to everything you are likely to require in further assessments. And this,” she added, handing her the second envelope, “is to the most trustworthy man I know, Angus Grant, who was a very close friend of your father’s and may know something of his activities in Shanghai. He is the solicitor who took over Alistair’s practice, and as such I have appointed him coexecutor of the trust.”

  She held out her hand, clasping Sing’s firmly. “Congratulations, my dear, and welcome home.”

  The lovely old bungalow was the perfect place for Sing’s recovery. Miss Bramble tended her like a doting mother. She was surprised a
nd pleased at the speed of her improvement, her color returning steadily, her remarkable eyes clear and possessed of a calm that made it a pleasure to be in her company.

  They had, as Miss Bramble had foretold, many things to talk about. Sing brought forth the books from her beaded bag. “This,” she said of the red and gold volume, “is the private journal of my mother, Li-Xia.” Sing reached for the second book with its faded cover of peach-colored silk. “This is also the chronicle of a difficult life, written by one who fought hard to find her voice as a woman. I am told it is the work of my grandmother.”

  “It will be my great privilege and joy to read them, my dear,” said Miss Bramble. In return, Miss Bramble never tired of telling stories of Sing’s mother Li-Xia, and of her father’s legendary adventures,

  Winifred was often out for the day on her social engagements and community rounds, but always returned with some thoughtful gift—a piece of fresh fruit or pastry or the quite wonderful thing she called chocolate. “For the healing,” she said emphatically, “of the heart and the mind.”

  Sing set up a table in the garden, where she practiced the art of calligraphy. Winifred looked on admiringly. “There are certain things, my dear, that I was privileged to teach your mother. She was an avid student, with a capacity for learning the ways of her husband’s people that society requires. I would be delighted to share the same basic requirements with you whilst you are here.”

  She paused to watch the tip of Sing’s brush dip and swirl from strokes bold and full to the finest of lines no thicker than a hair. “And perhaps,” Winifred added, “you might show me how to create such magic. It has always struck me as good for the soul.”

  Miss Bramble’s cheerful kindness enclosed Sing in a cocoon of generosity. As her strength returned, Sing enjoyed her lessons in the refinements of English behavior, and began rebuilding her physical and spiritual well-being in the ways she had been taught. Winifred, who had never seen the practice of Chinese folk medicine or the astounding grace and agility of wu-shu, was fascinated by the burning of moxa sticks and the insertion of hair-fine acupuncture needles in the most extraordinary parts of the body. She never complained of the strange odors from the brewing herbs. Pleased by her genuine interest, Sing explained her procedures with patience and care.

  Colonel Pelham’s married quarters were no more than a stroll away. The colonel returned to Stonecutters Island each weekend, bringing his adjutant with him. Toby spent every hour he could at the Elms, and he and Sing were frequent dinner guests of Sir Justin and Lady Margaret, who sometimes joined them for an evening of whist or gin rummy, which Sing learned to play with alacrity. When they were alone, she and Toby sometimes spoke of marriage, but it was clear she still had too many unanswered questions about her past to be fully ready to embrace her future.

  Nearly a month after Sing had learned of her inheritance, she and Toby were on their way to the Villa Formosa. Fewer and fewer buildings dotted the open green of the countyside, where the blue-green waters of Repulse Bay swept away from rising cliffs. Sea air reached through the car’s open window to ruffle Sing’s hair as the car traveled smoothly up the winding coastal road toward the house.

  They had spent the morning in the office of the bank manager, Adrian Lau, who had given them his undivided attention upon reading Winifred’s letter of introduction. They were joined by Angus Grant, the amiable Scottish lawyer who listened well and spoke only when he had something of value to say, his brown eyes frank and engaging. “I knew your father very well,” he told Sing. “He was one of the most interesting men it has been my privilege to call a friend. I am at your disposal at any time.”

  Mr. Lau was so intrigued by the unexpected appearance of a claimant to the Devereaux estate after more than a decade that he offered to accompany them to the Villa Formosa. A limousine was at the steps of the bank in record time for the half-hour journey to Repulse Bay.

  Seated beside the chauffeur, Mr. Lau turned to address her. “When Captain Devereaux left Hong Kong at that terrible time, he gave his trusted gardener, Ah-Kin, the deed to his own cottage on the estate, plus an endowment to maintain the grounds in their original splendor. Ah-Kin has been notified, and awaits the mistress’s arrival with much burning of joss sticks to Ho-Sen-Yi, the god of lost travelers.”

  The iron gates of the Villa Formosa swung silently open. Ah-Kin, his white hair and beard framing a face that still appeared young, bowed low as the car crunched slowly up the wide gravel drive toward the deserted villa. Typhoon shutters barred its many windows, and drifts of leaves had gathered in the bold scoop of its eaves. In contrast, the gardens that fell away on either side of the house were all the more grand and exquisite.

  A wide flight of hastily swept marble steps led to the imposing entrance. Mr. Lau produced a ring of keys, talking as he sorted through them. “I understand the main structure remains in good repair, but if it is decided to reopen the property, may I suggest engaging the right tradesmen to undertake a thorough inspection and restoration? The original furnishings and furniture are stored in the company godowns at Causeway Bay.”

  When the doors were thrown open, Sing hesitated on the threshold, then turned to Toby and Mr. Lau. “Forgive me. May I beg, with great respect, that you enjoy the view of the bay for a few moments? This is a place I must enter alone. If there are voices here, only I can hear them …”

  She faltered, concerned that her request might be misunderstood. Mr. Lau seemed momentarily surprised, but Toby smiled, releasing her hand. “You have waited all your life for this moment. Don’t let it pass too quickly.”

  Sing stood alone in the domed entrance hall, light through panels of colored glass casting patterns onto the dusty marble floor like the windows of a church. The long-dead vibrations of those who had come and gone through these doors resounded in her mind.

  She expected to feel an invitation to enter, but it was not there. A vast emptiness enclosed her, her footsteps echoing in a void as she passed from one large and musty room to another, entering every forgotten space until she stood in the empty chamber that had once been her father’s private domain.

  Drawing the bolts of the shutters, she threw them wide to the sounds and smells of distant oceans, an undeniable presence brought to life.

  Time passed as she sat in the window seat, a sea air blowing through the empty room, chasing a stray leaf that had somehow found its way inside. Many voices spoke to her: Master To, the sunrise in his eyes; the Fish, lifting a crab from the shallows; Ah-Soo, tossing her flaming wok; Tamiko-san, in her golden robes; Ruby, with her crinkled smile. They all seemed to tell her that there was something left to see.

  She had put it from her mind—the only place she was afraid to find, the room where she was born and Li-Xia had suffered so. The Fish had told her about that terrible night.

  Sing knew without asking where it was to be found: The door to the master suite was closed, while all other rooms had been open.

  Sing entered to a chill that closed around her like a shroud; there was no welcome here. She felt the hand of evil heavy on her shoulder, urging her to leave this unholy place and not return.

  Instead, she unbolted the shutters with trembling hands, throwing them open to the Ti-Yuan gardens and beyond—windswept spaces drenched with light. She stood her ground, sending down her chi till it was rooted on the Rock of Great Strength. Demons danced about her, but the wind gusts swept them out, until the hand on her shoulder slowly slipped away. Here, in this dark room, so suddenly invaded by the energies of life, only the fragrance of the gardens and the sound of birds remained.

  Miss Bramble was delighted to welcome Sing back to her bungalow while the Villa Formosa was being restored. But the dogs of war were gathering beyond the peaceful oasis of Stonecutters Island in those early months of 1941.

  Toby brought the daily newspapers, and Sing had discovered the magic of radio, finding that the world outside her own was filled with the threat of invasion. As she learned of the Japanese Imperial Ar
my swarming down from the north and read of the dreadful massacres of Nanking and Canton, she began to understand the terror that was eating its way into China’s heart.

  Sing’s personal wars had been fought without knowledge of such things; only now did she realize the size of her country, or begin to understand its history. She learned of the warlord Sun-Yat-Sen; the young Mao-Tze-Tung and his rebel hordes; and his enemy Chiang-Kai-Shek, leader of the Kuomintang. The Japanese had occupied Manchuria and Shanghai for years, and were pressing farther south with every passing day.

  That the man who had shown her the meaning of love might himself be in danger made her moments with him more precious. Toby’s visits grew less frequent as the buildup of Hong Kong’s defenses increased with the Japanese push south. The news that was once so alien to Sing seemed more personal to her every day. Miss Bramble redoubled her philanthropic efforts, and Sing joined her as much as she could, grateful for the chance to do more than bask in a luxury that still felt strange to her.

  The restoration of the Villa Formosa was complete by the time she considered herself fully recovered. Angus Grant had supervised the work, using photographs and memory to replace all the furnishings as they had been for Li-Xia and Ben.

  A separate vehicle had carried countless bottles of rare wines, wrapped in sleeves of straw—vintage champagne, scotch, Napoleon brandy, and kegs of Navy rum. Angus had volunteered to check the inventory and organize the restocking of the cellars, but Sing had insisted he take what he wished of both the liquor and the sealed containers of pipe tobacco and crates of Havana cigars.

  The Scottish lawyer had politely refused. “It all belongs here, lassie; for all we know he’ll be back to claim it.” He had selected a bottle of Glenflddich. “But if you care to have a bottle of this upstairs for when I drop in, I’ll not say no.”