Party in Peking

by Margaret Pemberton

She hurtled forward and then the track turned and she slithered to a halt, seizing a tree-trunk for support, gazing in stupefied disbelief at the scene before her.

  The fairy-tale roofs were barely discernible in the smoke. The colonnade fronting the villa was burning furiously, the filigree carved wood cracking and splintering, the flames shooting skywards, the breeze carrying the sparks so that they fell on her hair and skirt. But it was not the ravaging fire that rooted her to the spot in horror. The immaculately laidout gardens, with their lily ponds and dwarf trees and flowering shrubs were overrun by yelling, exultant Chinese. Scarlet sashes swathed their heads and waists. Monstrous swords flashed in the late afternoon sunlight.

  ‘No!’ she cried in protest. ‘Oh, dear God, no!’

  She ran towards the villa as if there were devils at her heels. How she would chase off the nightmare figures once she arrived, she had no idea. She had no thoughts other than that her aunt and uncle were trapped inside the burning inferno, and that she had to reach them; had to do something before it was too late. The breath hammered in her chest, the blood pounded in her ears. The trees thinned, the ground levelled and the long, bristled stalks of the grass clung to her skirt, hampering her speed.

  Through the shimmering heat, she saw Lady Glencarty’s purple clad figure try to run from the smoke and flames, an arm shielding her face. As she did so, the grotesque Grand Guignol figures whooped with triumph and surged forward, weapons high. Lady Glencarty’s screams rent the air and then the smoke obscured her, and there was nothing but heat and noise and the hideous flare as the villa’s eaves ignited.

  Olivia was aware of her own screams, of the smoke stinging her eyes and catching at the back of her throat and then she heard the unmistakable sound of hoofbeats bearing down behind her. She was going to die. Unprepared and ignominiously and at the hands of crazed fanatics. Rage flooded through her. If she was going to die, she would die fighting, resisting with every ounce of strength she possessed.

  She was dimly aware of a furious voice commanding her to halt and still she ran, the frenzied shouts of the rampaging Boxers reverberating through the air.

  The ground throbbed before the onslaught of galloping hooves.

  ‘For the love of God!’ a voice shouted exasperatedly.

  She could sense the horse bearing down on her; feel the heat of the flames on her face. Sparks fell around her, sizzling and cracking.

  ‘Aunt Letitia!’ she cried vainly, and then the horse veered past her and the rider sprang from its back, hurling her bodily to the ground.

  She tried to struggle free, but iron-strong hands pinioned her fast.

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ a furious voice demanded. ‘Are you trying to kill yourself?’

  She gasped in bewilderment. It wasn’t a red-garbed Boxer holding her prisoner, but a European. His face was savage, the cheekbones high, the mouth hard.

  ‘My aunt and uncle!’ she panted. ‘They’re in the villa!’

  ‘Sweet Christ!’ He released her abruptly, thick black hair tumbling low over his brow as he wheeled to view the burning villa and the frenzied figures ringing it in whooping exultation. ‘Stay here and don’t move.’

  The words were flung at her as he leapt to his feet, running towards his horse and the rifle jammed in his saddlebag. The Boxers were a mere fifty yards away, distorted figures eddying and surging in the heat haze. Their whole attention was fixed on the burning villa and when the first rifle shot rang out there were cries of alarm and bewilderment. The unwieldy swords being swung vengefully around their heads faltered and dropped. A white-robed figure, red scarves flying from waist and wrists, plummeted to the ground. There was another shot, and another. Olivia pushed herself to her knees. The Boxers were in disarray, unsure from what direction the unexpected attack was coming.

  By her side the horse whinnied and reared as, shielded by the long grass, its rider fired a volley of rifle shots which sounded as if an army was bearing down in avenging fury. Olivia saw another demonic figure fall, and then another and then, as she stumbled to her feet, sobbing in relief, the whole host turned on its heels, fleeing in full retreat.

  Her rescuer began to sprint towards the blazing inferno and she picked up her skirts, racing with a pounding heart in his wake.

  He turned his head, yelling at her again to stay where she was. At any other time, the fierce command would have instantly halted her, but above the roaring of the flames there came a woman’s cry, and she ignored him, running even faster, every nerve in her body raw with fear.

  At the main entrance the heat beat them back; the marble lions grinning grotesquely at their helplessness.

  ‘This way!’ she shouted desperately, pressing a handkerchief against her nose and mouth, running with all her remaining strength towards the rear of the villa.

  A beam fell with a shudder, tongues of fire shooting off it. A volley of sparks rained down on her and the silk of her skirt sizzled and burst into flame. She beat at it with her hands, still running, running, running. Smoke billowed round her. No matter how hard she tried, she could not keep pace with him. She saw him take a flight of steps two at a time and disappear into the roaring conflagration. She pressed her arm against her face, shielding it from the heat, determined to follow and then, with a sob of relief, she saw the servants run screaming on to the lawns, the stumbling figure of Lady Glencarty in their wake. Seconds later her uncle followed, the Englishman at his heels, her aunt senseless in his arms.

  As they fled towards Olivia, there was a massive rumble and the delicate, upturned eaves succumbed to the inferno, toppling in on themselves.

  At a safe distance, the formidable Englishman laid Letitia Harland on to the grass and began to loosen her tight bodice with indecent expertise.

  Olivia knelt down at her aunt’s side, her hair curling wispily in damp tendrils around her frightened face. ‘ Is she alive?’ she asked urgently.

  He nodded, rolling Letitia Harland unceremoniously over on to her side, his fingers resting on the pulse beat at her wrist. As he did so, Letitia Harland shuddered, her eyelids flickering open. Olivia grasped her aunt’s hand, weak with relief.

  If her aunt’s rescuer also felt relief, he showed no sign of it. The black bars of his eyebrows were pulled together in a frown as her uncle stepped shakily towards them, saying incredulously, ‘Sinclair! By all that’s wonderful, Lewis Sinclair!’ He grasped him fervently by the hand. ‘Sinclair, my good chap! How can I thank you enough?’

  With eyes suspiciously bright, he dropped to his knees beside the prostrate figure of his wife. ‘It’s all over, my love,’ he said, circling her shoulders with his arm. ‘You are safe now. There is no more danger.’

  As her aunt moaned and clung piteously to him, Olivia saw a flicker of impatience cross Lewis Sinclair’s face and then he was saying in a tightly controlled voice, ‘I doubt if that is quite the case, Sir William.’

  William Harland looked up at him in bewilderment, his usual self-assurance pathetically absent. ‘I’m afraid that I don’t understand…’

  ‘Are there no more men in your party?’

  Sir William shook his head and Olivia saw comprehension dawn in his eyes. She felt suddenly faint. They were fifteen miles from Peking. Their servants had scattered. The countryside was alive with Boxers, and only Mr Sinclair was armed. She swayed dizzily and Lewis Sinclair sprang forward, catching hold of her in strong arms as she fell into a vortex of darkness and black rushing winds.

  As she returned to consciousness she was aware that she was lying on the grass, her head resting on the linen of a jacket that carried a faint but pleasing smell of cologne. Male cologne. She could hear her Uncle William saying, ‘Poor child,’ and a rich, deep voice retort drily, ‘A little more than that, Sir William. Your niece was intent on beating off the Boxers single-handed when I came to her aid.’

  Her cheeks warmed and she stirred hastily in order to bring the conversation to a halt before she should be embarrassed further. Her uncl
e immediately rushed to her side, but Lewis Sinclair remained where he was, his dark brows pulled together, white lines of impatience edging his mouth.

  His jacket had been discarded and beneath the white silk of his shirt, Olivia was uncomfortably aware of exceedingly broad shoulders and lean, hard muscles. There was a sense of power under restraint about him, a brooding restlessness that was palpable.

  She remembered the conversation that had taken place in the carriage and marvelled that it had been only a few hours ago. Since then the whole world seemed to have tilted on its axis. Her uncle had said that Lewis Sinclair had married a Chinese girl and had left Peking when it became obvious that his marriage would never be countenanced by the European community there.

  She looked across at him in the gathering dusk as her uncle solicitously asked after her well-being. She could well imagine that he would be uncaring of what society thought of him. There was a fearlessness about him, a daring and an insolence towards life that she had never encountered before, and which she found strangely attractive.

  She saw the muscles along his jaw line flex and then his gaze inadvertently met hers. Shock ran through her. His eyes were almost as dark as his hair and the expression in them was one of inner pain, searing in its intensity.

  Distinctly shaken, and telling herself she must have been mistaken, she looked away hastily, saying to her uncle. ‘Is Aunt Letitia quite recovered?’

  William Harland’s face was white and drawn. ‘Yes, thanks to Doctor Sinclair.’

  Olivia looked up at him startled, and then remembered. Lewis Sinclair was a doctor. It certainly explained the no-nonsense way in which he had loosened her aunt’s corseting.

  ‘And Lady Glencarty?’

  ‘Only too well,’ her uncle replied dryly, and Olivia became aware of Lady Glencarty’s voice a little distance away, raised in outraged indignation. ‘I’ve never heard of such an insulting suggestion! The man must be mad! To walk to Peking! I would rather die first.’

  ‘The choice is yours,’ Lewis Sinclair said indifferently, rising to his feet and walking across to his horse. ‘If you stay here, you will almost certainly be dead by morning.’

  ‘Poppycock,’ Lady Glencarty retorted but there was a trace of uncertainty in her voice. She turned to William Harland. ‘Sir William, please inform…this…gentleman… that troops will already be on their way here from Peking to avenge this outrage.’

  ‘There are no troops,’ William Harland said wearily.

  ‘Then the minister should have seen to it that troops were sent for,’ Lady Glencarty said, conveniently forgetting that only hours before she had derided the thought of any such action.

  Sir William struggled for patience. ‘We are in an exceedingly difficult situation,’ he said tensely, ‘ The Boxers will have realized by now that they were not being attacked by a large force and one rifle will not deter them for long if they return.’

  Lady Glencarty glared at him. ‘I will not walk to Peking as if I were a peasant.’

  ‘Nor will I, William,’ Letitia Harland said, her voice trembling. ‘We would become the talk of the community. Lady MacDonald would think it most odd.’

  With an expletive of impatience that made Sir William blanch, Lewis Sinclair pivotted on his heel and strode away from them.

  William Harland regarded his retreating back nervously and grasped his wife’s arm. ‘Calm yourself, Letitia. Lady MacDonald will say that you have been very gallant.’

  ‘But I do not want to be gallant, William,’ Letitia Harland said, tears streaking her face. ‘ I want to wait here as Clarissa suggests, until help arrives.’

  ‘No help is going to be forthcoming, my dear,’ William Harland said quietly. ‘There are no troops and…’

  ‘But the Empress has soldiers! When she hears what has taken place, she will send her soldiers…’

  William Harland doubted very much whether Empress Tzu-hsi would send soldiers, even if she knew of their predicament. And she would not get to know of their predicament, as Sinclair had informed him that all the telegraph wires had been cut by the rebels. Gently he told his wife the impossibility of making contact with Peking.

  With an underlying note of fear in her voice, Lady Glencarty said, ‘Rubbish! I refuse to believe it! I…’

  William Harland mopped his forehead with his handkerchief. Behind them the flames from the burning villa continued to leap skywards. The servants had fled. The horses had bolted. He was responsible for the lives of three people, two of whom he loved dearly. Common sense told him that he could only save those lives with the help of Lewis Sinclair, and Sinclair had told him that he had been travelling away from Peking when he had come to their aid. A cold shiver ran down his spine. If Sinclair continued on his journey, leaving them to their fate, that fate would almost certainly be death. Letitia grew breathless walking the short distance from the carriage to the coolness of her rooms. She would never be able to complete the hot, dusty, return trip to Peking on foot. She needed Sinclair’s horse, and she needed the protection afforded by his rifle.

  He fixed Lady Glencarty with a steely stare. ‘As my guest, Clarissa, you will oblige me by doing what I request.’

  Lady Glencarty gasped, opened her mouth to speak, and then, for the first and only time in her life, thought better of it.

  William Harland turned on his heel. ‘ Where did Doctor Sinclair go?’ he asked Olivia.

  ‘He strode off in the direction of the gatehouse,’ Olivia said, her eyes troubled. ‘ Uncle William, if the telegraph wires had been cut, the countryside between here and Peking could very well be teeming with Boxers.’

  ‘That is a risk we have to take,’ her uncle said, making sure his wife could not overhear him. ‘To remain here would be folly. The Boxers cannot have retreated far and will be back to see what, if anything, remains to be looted.’

  Olivia looked over her shoulder apprehensively, half expecting to see red-sashed figures once more bearing down on them.

  Her uncle continued, ‘It is also our duty to ensure that Peking is informed of what has taken place. When I last spoke to Sir Claude, he believed the Boxers were contained in Chihli and Shansi. Their presence so far south can only mean that they are intent on launching an attack on the city.’

  Olivia paled. There were over four hundred Europeans in the city. Many of them were missionaries, their lives revolving around the cathedrals and churches, the hospitals and orphanages. The others were diplomats: men like Sir Claude MacDonald and Mr Edwin Conger, the American Minister, both of whom had their wives and children with them. Men like Phillippe. She felt her heart contract. Even now the Boxers could very well be marching on Peking, and they were unwarned and unprepared.

  ‘What is it that Mr Sinclair wishes us to do, Uncle?’

  William Harland thanked God for her quick grasp of the situation and her lack of hysteria. ‘He thinks that we should set off for Peking on foot. If we walk through the night, we can be there by dawn.

  ‘But Aunt Letitia cannot walk so far over rough ground!’ Olivia protested.

  ‘Your aunt will ride on Doctor Sinclair’s horse.’

  ‘And Lady Glencarty?’

  Sir William passed a hand wearily across his eyes. ‘Perhaps another horse can be obtained,’ he said, turning in relief as Lewis Sinclair strode towards them, throwing a pile of clothing on to the ground.

  ‘I salvaged these from the gatehouse,’ he said curtly. ‘There’s no sign of the gatekeeper or his wife. I imagine they fled with the rest of the servants.’

  Sir William regarded the Chinese clothing in perplexity. ‘ I’m sorry, Sinclair, I don’t quite understand…’

  ‘The ladies will find the trek easier in native dress. Their long skirts make it impossible for them to walk far, much less to ride.’

  Letitia Harland gazed at the bundle of cast-off clothing in horror. ‘I couldn’t, William. I couldn’t…’ she said with a shudder.

  Lady Glencarty’s rocking-horse nostrils flared. ‘ No!’ s
he snapped, her head high, splendidly regal despite her dishevelled coiffure and the smoke smuts on her cheeks. ‘Never!’

  Olivia saw Lewis Sinclair’s jaw tighten in impatience. ‘ Lady Glencarty, it is fifteen miles to Peking. Your present skirt is not only long and straight, it has a ridiculous train that I have nearly fallen over twice. You will be able to walk far quicker in native dress.’

  ‘No,’ Lady Glencarty repeated, and then with ice-cold clarity added, ‘Those clothes, Doctor Sinclair, are Chinese!’

  The insult to his wife was blatant. Olivia saw the skin stretch like parchment across his cheekbones. His knuckles clenched white and then he swung on his heels, striding quickly away, towards his horse.

  Olivia took one look at her uncle’s stricken face and picked up her skirt, running after him. ‘Please, Doctor Sinclair! Lady Glencarty did not mean…’

  He spun around and she flinched at the expression in his eyes. ‘I am well aware of what Lady Glencarty meant,’ he said, his voice a whiplash in the growing darkness.

  ‘But it would not have done,’ Olivia protested. ‘All the garments are too small for my aunt and Lady Glencarty. They could not wear them even if they tried. They would not fit.’

  Lewis Sinclair frowned, and then looked across to the plump figure of Letitia Harland and the Junoesque proportions of Lady Glencarty. There was no disputing the truth of what she said. He swore savagely to himself and then said with barely controlled patience, ‘ You are quite right, Miss Harland. They would not fit at all.’

  ‘If I tear a rent in my aunt’s skirt to the knee, it will enable her to ride.’

  He nodded, releasing his hold of the horse, and William Harland let out a sigh of relief.

  ‘Come, my dear,’ he said to his wife. ‘There is no further time to spare. Let Olivia do as she suggests and let me help you mount Doctor Sinclair’s horse.’

  ‘Olivia, no!’ her aunt cried as Olivia seized the hem of her ankle-length skirt, ‘It is Indian silk!’

  Olivia ignored her, ripping the skirt to the knee.

  Lady Glencarty glared, ‘My gown,’ she said freezingly, ‘will remain as it is.’