Lewis looked down at her, the old man inert in his arms, his face granite hard. ‘And who do you think will send the horses and ponies, Olivia? From where is this help that you are expecting going to come?’
It was the first time he had used her Christian name. She stifled the quickening of her pulsebeats and said, ‘Now it is daylight, they will be able to see the refugees making their way to the city. Even if the Empress does not send troops to their aid, Sir Claude or Mr Conger of the American legation will do so.’
There was a measure of pity in Lewis Sinclair’s near black eyes as he regarded her. The delicate oval of her face was smudged with dust. There were blue shadows beneath her thick-lashed eyes. Her slender figure was swaying with weariness.
In the past few hours, she had experienced for herself the horrors of a Boxer attack. She had heard Sister Angelique’s story and Lan Kuei’s. She had seen the long, unending trail of refugees stumbling wearily towards Peking, and still she believed that the plight of those around here was unknown to the authorities; that at any moment diplomats and officers would come riding out to give aid to the sick and weary.
He said gently, ‘Refugees have been streaming into the city for days now, Olivia. If the authorities had any intention of organizing any relief for them, they would already have done so.’
‘But they can’t know! When they see this…’ She stretched out her arm to indicate the highway packed with mules and carts and women and children, ‘then they will send transport for the old and sick.’
‘For old and sick Chinese?’ Lewis asked wryly, the savagery he felt at the authorities’disinterest in the fate of the Chinese Christians firmly under control.
She stared at him, not wanting to believe that what he said was true, and yet knowing that he would never lie to her.
‘Phillippe would organize an expedition if he knew,’ she said, lifting her chin slightly.
‘Phillippe?’
Her mouth was suddenly dry. ‘My financé,’ she said, wondering why the words were so difficult to form. ‘He is a junior diplomat at the French Legation.’
Lewis merely nodded and began to carry the old man towards the shade of a tree. If Olivia Harland’s fiancé was anything like the diplomat who had so insulted the memory of Pearl Moon, he doubted very much that he would have given more than a passing thought to the endless streams of peasants crowding into the city.
Olivia stood at the side of the dust-blown road and waited for him. She had told him now. He knew that she was engaged to be married. He had shown no disappointment, no distress. She tilted her chin still higher. Why should he? He was not in love with her. He was in love with his wife. With the woman who had changed the pattern of his life.
Bleakly she watched as, with touching tenderness, he laid the old man beneath the shade of the tree. His body was powerfully masculine, strong, hard and lean. The planes of his face were harsh, the nose strong. The jutting jawline showed no hint of weakness. He was speaking to the girl again, and she knew that his voice would have nothing of the abrasiveness that it so often held. His tenderness to the old and the vulnerable came from his strength. She wondered why she had not seen it before. Why she had thought him overbearing and arrogant.
He strode back towards her, his mouth a tight, compressed line. ‘There’s no more I can do for him. Once we reach Peking it may be possible to round up some volunteers and ride back with spare horses. If not…’ He shrugged his shoulders in a manner that left no doubt what would happen to the old man and those like him if he was unable to bring them help.
Olivia felt determination flood through her, vanquishing her fatigue. Before, she had thought only of reaching Peking; of ensuring that her aunt and uncle were safe. Now there was another reason for reaching the city quickly. To organize aid that had so far been unforthcoming.
‘It won’t only be the people on the highway who will need assistance, will it?’ she asked as they rejoined their small, anxiously waiting party and Lewis once more lifted Ch’un on to his back. ‘There will be the missionaries that you spoke of in the outlying missions around Peking. Missionaries who might not yet know that the Boxers have come so far south? They will have to be warned; have to be escorted into the city.’
He nodded, his face grim. ‘ Unfortunately, there are very few people in Peking who are likely to put themselves at such risk. There’s Morrison, Peking correspondent to The Times. He’s the first person I shall speak to when we reach the city. He once led an expedition to New Guinea and was left for dead with two spears in his body. He’s also walked alone and unarmed across Australia and from Shanghai to the Burma frontier. There will be no delay on his part in riding out to outlying missions.’
Olivia remembered seeing The Times correspondent at one of Lady MacDonald’s soirées. He was a handsome man in his mid-thirties and she could well believe that he would fall in unhesitatingly with Lewis’s plans. She remembered that he had been introduced to her as Dr Morrison and that he had a slight Scottish burr to his voice. Obviously, Dr Morrison and Lewis Sinclair had more than fearlessness in common.
‘And who else?’ she asked as he strode past the horse and the pony and Sir William and Lan Kuei and once again began to lead them south.
He frowned. ‘There’s young Chamot, the Swiss proprietor of the Hôtel de Pekin.’
‘And is that all?’ she asked, aghast.
‘There may be one or two drifters and adventurers who will be willing to leave the safety of the city and ride out into the countryside, but I doubt if I will be able to raise a party of more than half a dozen.’
A hard knot of determination settled deep inside her. She would go directly to Phillippe and he would speak to this minister and official rescue parties would then be sent out.
A little way behind her Lan Kuei faltered, gasping for breath. Olivia turned quickly. The short respite while her baby had been carried for her had not been long enough. Olivia’s arms ached, her legs felt like leaden weights and she yearned for rest, yet she quietly took the whimpering baby from Lan Kuei’s arms and hoisted it once more against her shoulder. He looked across at her, the expression in his eyes one of admiration, warm and flattering. Her pulse leapt and she looked away from him quickly, terrified that he should see the emotion she was trying so desperately to hide.
As the sun rose, the way became more arduous. Peking shimmered before them in the heat haze like a mirage, a dream city of high crenellated walls, constantly before them and yet seeming as if it would never be attained. Clouds of dust gouged up by the wheels of carts choked them. The heat stifled them. They were pushed and jostled and there were times when Olivia wondered how she would manage to continue to put one foot in front of the other. Her exhaustion was obvious and Lewis said quietly, ‘Give the baby back to Lan Kuei.’
Olivia looked behind her at Lan Kuei’s half-closed eyes and swaying walk and shook her head. He did not argue with her, simply moving closer, bridging the narrow gap between them and taking a firm hold of her arm. She did not protest or try to pull away. She had neither the strength or the inclination. Cheng-yu still clasped Lewis’s neck with his tired arms, his small black eyes dull and uncomprehending. Even Lady Glencarty’s back had lost its ramrod straightness as she rode the pony, Sister Angelique behind her. It was her uncle that Olivia felt most sorry for. The experiences of the last few hours had left its mark on him and his austere, autocratic features had taken on the lines of unmistakable age. He was not accustomed to exercise and the long walk with the constant fear of attack was taking its toll.
Overcome with concern for him, she did not look where she was going and stumbled. Lewis’s grip on her arm tightened as he steadied her and then, ignoring her protests, took the baby from her, adjusting Cheng-yu slightly so that he could both carry the toddler on his back and the baby in his arms.
Relieved of her burden, she continued to walk at his side. The dust stung her eyes and she had to shield them from the sun as she looked ahead and at Peking. To her dazed gaze
it did not seem as if the walls were any nearer or if they would ever, ever, become any nearer. And though she knew by now that their pathetic procession must be clearly visible no riders surged out of the Tien An Men Gate, hastening to their aid.
‘It will only take another hour,’ Lewis Sinclair said, his smoke-dark voice piercing through her tiredness.
She pushed a tendril of hair away from her face and gave him an unsteady smile. It was unknowingly gentle and soft, full of such innocent sensuality that the breath caught in his throat.
She was beautiful and she was brave and she affected him in a way that he had not thought any woman ever would again. He remembered the fiancé awaiting her at the French Legation and hoped that he bore no similarity to the obnoxious young diplomat he had punched so squarely on the jaw.
‘I can see the yellow eaves of the Tartar City,’ her aunt said, almost senseless with relief.
Olivia blinked again into the sunlight. The massive forty-foot high walls no longer shimmered insubstantially but rose solidly from the sun-baked plain, the yellow glazed eaves of the gatehouses rising above them and higher still, the unmistakable shape of the White Dagoba. Nothing higher pierced the cloudless skyline and for the first time Olivia realized why. Anything higher would have offended the feng-shui. Their journey was nearly over, but her feelings were far too confused for her to share her aunt’s wholehearted relief. Once inside the city, Sister Angelique and Cheng-yu and Ch’un would no doubt make for the Anglican mission, perhaps taking Lan Kuei and her baby with them. Her aunt and uncle and Lady Glencarty would make immediately for the British Legation and she would be obliged to accompany them. And Lewis Sinclair would seek out Dr Morrison and Monsieur Chamot. In all probability, she would never see him again. She looked across at him, at the strong assertive outline of his features, at the thick black hair, springy as heather, and her throat felt painfully tight.
Wearily they entered the south gate of the Outer City, moving slowly with the crowds along the raised causeway that in winter offered a dry thoroughfare over mud-swamped ground. The Chien Men Gate leading into the Tartar City lay ahead of them and Lady Glencarty and her aunt gazed at it with hungry eyes. Eventually, after being pushed and jostled on all sides, they left the Outer City behind and entered the tumultuous chaos of the Tartar City.
The raised causeway was now a street sixty feet wide and on either side were mat-shed booths and shops huddling three rows deep. This was the city of rope-dancers and jugglers, fortune-tellers and pedlars, that had so entranced her. It did so no longer.
The smell of unwashed and diseased humanity nearly overpowered her. She no longer could see anything exotic in the sight of the ragged story-tellers and scribes. She was aware only of the poverty. Of the half-naked children; the squalid, fetid hovels that were their homes.
‘Oh thank God,’ Letitia Harland sobbed in weariness as the roofs and walls of the legation quarter came into view. ‘Oh, William, I am so tired. So very tired.’
William Harland’s face was grey with fatigue but he patted his wife’s hand reassuringly, knowing that he would have to forgo the luxury of a bath and a rest until after he had made a report of what had occurred, to Sir Claude MacDonald.
The Anglican Mission was on the opposite side of the city to the legation quarter and Sister Angelique asked Lady Glencarty to rein in the pony.
‘This is where we must part,’ she said gently. ‘ Doctor Sinclair, would you help me to dismount please.’
Lewis handed the baby once more to Olivia, swung Cheng-yu to his feet and lifted Sister Angelique lightly to the ground.
‘Just one moment!’ Lady Glencarty said sharply. ‘This will not do, Doctor Sinclair. The Anglican Mission will be crowded to the doors with refugees. Goodness only knows what facilities will be there. Sister Angelique must accompany us to the legation quarter.’
‘And the children?’ Lewis asked, quirking an eyebrow.
Lady Glencarty glared at him, ‘And the children,’ she said unflinchingly.
Sister Angelique shook her head. ‘Thank you, Lady Glencarty, but I shall be of more use at the Mission than I would be in the legation quarter.’
‘Poppycock!’ Lady Glencarty said fiercely. ‘ The streets are so crowded it will be impossible for you to make your way there on foot.’
‘Doctor Sinclair will escort me,’ Sister Angelique said composedly. ‘But perhaps, as conditions at the Mission will be so crowded, you could take Ch’un and Cheng-yu to the legation quarter? I am sure they will be much more comfortable there for the time being.’
The prospect of entering the legation district with two Chinese orphans visibly shook Lady Glencarty but she said briskly. ‘Kindly mount Cheng-yu behind me, Doctor Sinclair.’
Lewis swung the tired and bewildered toddler up behind Lady Glencarty and Lady Glencarty transferred her attention to Lan Kuei. ‘Would you like me to take the baby?’ she asked majestically.
Lan Kuei shook her head; Lady Glencarty terrified her even more than did the Boxers.
‘That’s it, then,’ Lady Glencarty said with a resurgence of vigour. ‘I shall look after Ch’un and Cheng-yu until this commotion is over. Goodbye, Doctor Sinclair. I doubt that we shall meet again.’
‘Your horse…’ Letitia Harland said nervously to him, wondering if she was going to be asked to dismount and make the last few yards of the journey on foot.
‘I shall be back to attend to him after I have escorted Sister Angelique and Lan Kuei to the Mission,’ Lewis said briefly. ‘Goodbye, Sir William. Impress on Sir Claude the gravity of the situation, and the need for immediate reinforcements for the city.’
‘I shall,’ Sir Willianm said vehemently.
The two men shook hands and then he was looking down at her and though she could not be sure, she thought that there was regret in the depths of his dark eyes. He was saying goodbye to her. She could scarcely hear his voice above the tumult of the crowds seething around them. His hand touched hers. She wanted to cling to it and instead released it with impeccable formality. There were tiny flecks of gold near the pupils of his eyes. A small scar above one eyebrow. The hard line of his mouth had softened slightly and for a moment she thought that he was going to smile at her in the same devastating, down-slanting way that he had when they found the pony at the Hoggett-Smythes’, but she was disappointed. Only the briefest of smiles touched his lips and then he was striding away from her, shouldering a way through the dense crowds, Sister Angelique and Lan Kuei in his wake.
‘Come along, my dear,’ her uncle said to her wearily, ‘another few minutes and we will be safely indoors.’
The constriction in her chest grew tighter and tighter. Once behind the high wall surrounding their home in the legation quarter, she knew that she would not be able to leave. She would not be able to go to the French Legation and speak to Phillippe. She would not be able to do anything to organize help for those still on the highway and in the outlying missions.
‘No,’ she said suddenly, ‘ There are things I have to do first. Uncle William. I’m sorry!’
‘Olivia!’
She did not wait to hear his protests. She turned quickly, pushing her way through the teeming crowds, heading blindly, not in the direction of the French Legation, but towards the west side of the city and the Anglican Mission. She needed to know what conditions were like there. To see for herself. One thing she was now sure of, no one from the legations would have bothered to make the journey for themselves.
A Peking cart drawn by a running Chinaman nearly ran her down. Donkeys and mules tangled with each other. Chinese women with bound feet hobbled, pedlars shouted their wares, refugees from distant villages thronged aimlessly. There were loud cries from behind her as a sedan chair was carried ponderously through the throng, attendants clearing the way with flicks of bamboo rods.
She tried to move out of the way quickly but was not quick enough. The smarting lash of bamboo fell across her shoulders, making her cry out with pain and shock. Instinctivel
y, she pressed herself back once more into the crowd as the sedan chair and its occupant and attendants continued on their imperious way. Her legs were shaking. Vainly she looked around for a wall upon which to lean and could see none. A pannier of rice cakes and tea was jammed hard into her back, and there was no apology forthcoming from the offending pedlar. For the first time she realized the colossal difference between dressed as a European and being dressed as a Chinese.
She took in a deep, steadying breath, searching the crowd ahead of her, straining for a glimpse of Lewis Sinclair’s glossy dark hair and powerful shoulders. He was nowhere to be seen. The smells of ginseng, garlic, tobacco and roasting meat assailed her on all sides. Doggedly she continued in the direction of the Anglican Mission, wondering how she could ever have thought this part of the city intriguing and exotic.
She avoided a turning to the south. The Mission was in the west of the city nearly parallel with the British Legation, but on the other side of the broad thoroughfare, leading from the Chien Men Gate. She fought back a wave of faintness, perspiration breaking out on her forehead. If she fainted here, in the street, she would very likely be trampled to near death. Suddenly, ahead of her, she saw an unmistakable head of black hair and a pair of strong shoulders forging a way through the crush.
‘Doctor Sinclair!’ she called, but her voice was drowned in the pandemonium around her.
From behind came the cries of another set of outriders accompanying a sedan chair. She was directly in its path and she tried feverishly to push herself out of its way. No one would give way for her. Those around her were too accustomed to the painful flicks of the bamboo whips that cleared a way for the sedans of officials and ministers to grant an inch of ground.
‘Doi mm jue!’ a voice barked raucously. Once more she tried to press herself out of the sedan’s way.
Party in Peking Page 7
