Party in Peking

by Margaret Pemberton

  A smiled tugged at the corners of her own mouth and he grinned, white teeth flashing a gleam of pure devilment in the depths of his dark eyes. Her own smile widened and it seemed to Lewis as if a shaft of bright sunlight had suddenly pierced the shadow of Bishop Favier’s tiny room.

  ‘And so we must contact Monsieur Chamot and Doctor George Morrison and Sir Claude,’ Bishop Favier was saying urgently.

  Lewis took his son’s hand in his and reluctantly removed his attention from Olivia Harland and returned it to the Bishop.

  ‘There must be a council meeting of the Corps Diplomatique,’ Bishop Favier was saying, pacing the room, his hands clasped behind his back. ‘ Sir Claude MacDonald is the man we need to convince of the seriousness of the situation. Once the heads of all the eleven legations have met in council, a naval detachment can be sent for from Tientsin.’

  ‘I am going directly to the legation quarter now,’ Lewis said, squeezing Rory’s hand comfortingly as he heard his gasp of disappointment. ‘It may be that Sir William Harland has already had the opportunity to speak to Sir Claude. If not, then I will go immediately and then seek out Morrison and Chamot.’

  ‘Good, good,’ Bishop Favier nodded his head vigorously. ‘You must leave now, Lewis. There is not a moment to be lost.’

  Olivia turned her head away as Lewis hugged his son tightly and kissed him goodbye. As they left Rory behind with Bisop Favier and walked out once more into the crowded compound encircling the Cathedral. Olivia said tentatively, ‘Can I come with you when you go to speak to Monsieur Chamot and Doctor Morrison?’

  ‘No,’ he said, and his voice was adamant. ‘You need rest.’

  ‘I am not really so tired,’ she lied as he once more took her arm.

  He looked down at her with a wry smile. ‘You’re exhausted. You have done all that you can, Olivia. You can do nothing more.’

  She didn’t protest. She knew that it would be useless. Even now she was slowing him down. She was a hindrance to him, not a help.

  They struggled once more through the Wu Men Gate, vying with hurtling Peking carts and hurrying street traders. There was so much that she had been going to do, and now there was nothing. She knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that it would be futile to approach Phillippe. He would be indifferent to the fate of the Chinese Christian attack. And she knew instinctively that he certainly would not risk his own life by riding to the outlying missions and escorting the inhabitants to safety. The most she could do was try and speak to Lady MacDonald and urge her to make arrangements at the legation for the many women and children who would need shelter.

  The broad, straight thoroughfare of Legation Street seemed blessedly empty after the teeming throngs in the west part of the city. She had hoped that she would be able to say goodbye to him in private, but as they approached the high walls surrounding the lush gardens of the Harland residence, there were exclamations of incredulity and relief and over a dozen household employees came surging down the pathway to meet them.

  ‘It looks as if your uncle was just about to despatch a search party,’ Lewis said dryly as maids and gardeners, cooks and houseboys surrounded them, and Sir William himself came hurrying in their wake.

  ‘Thank God,’ he said fervently, clasping Olivia tightly. ‘I feared the worst, child. There are rumours that Boxers have already infiltrated the city and even that a date has been set for attacks upon the cathedrals and missions.’

  ‘No!’ Olivia cried out, remembering Sister Angelique and Lan Kuei at the Anglican Mission and Rory with his impish smile and shock of thick, dark hair.

  ‘Come inside. You need food. Rest.’ He was shaking Lewis’s hand gratefully. ‘I am to see Sir Claude in half an hour. Where can I contact you with news?’

  ‘The Hôtel de Pekin,’ Lewis said briefly.

  Restrained by her uncle’s arm, Olivia looked across at him in anguish. ‘Lewis, the Boxers couldn’t possibly infiltrate the city could they? The Mission. The Cathedral. The people there will be safe, won’t they?’ and then, like a cry torn from her heart, ‘Rory will be safe, won’t he?’

  His eyes were black pits in the white grimness of his face. ‘ Unless the ministers send for troops, no one is safe,’ he said and then, ignoring the watching circle of Chinese and European servants, ignoring Sir William who still had a protective hand on Olivia, he crossed the distance between them in one stride and hooked a finger under her chin, tilting her face upwards.

  The moment was a pulsebeat in the stretch of time, but Olivia knew that it would last in her mind forever. In that moment she became his unreservedly. Dark eyes met blue and then his mouth came down on hers in swift, unfumbled contact. Joy rose up in her so wild and free that she thought she would die of it. From another world she heard her uncle’s outraged protest, the gasps of shock and horror, and then he raised his head from hers, held her eyes steadily for a long moment and turned on his heel, striding swiftly out of the garden.

  He was going to the Chamots. To Dr Morrison. He was going and she loved him and would always love him.

  ‘Disgraceful. Unpardonable…’ her uncle was saying in agitation as he escorted her towards the house. ‘The fellow should be horsewhipped.’

  Olivia paid him no attention. He had kissed her. It was a moment that she would remember always. A moment that no one could take away from her.

  Her aunt was not there to greet her when they entered the house. She was still lying down, fortified by sal volatile and a little medicinal brandy. Olivia made her way straight to her room and as she wearily climbed the stairs she could still hear her uncle announcing that Sinclair was born to be hanged.

  A small smile touched her lips. She didn’t care if he was born to be hanged or not. He had altered her life irrevocably. She now knew what love was and she would never settle for second best. As her maid poured jugfuls of hot, steaming water into her bath, she lay down on the bed, her joy merging into despair. There was only one Lewis Sinclair. It was impossible to imagine that there could be another man with all his qualities. With his fearlessness and daring. His strength and his courage and his remarkable capacity for kindness. No other smile could be so devastating; no other eyes so dark and gleaming. Against her closed lids she saw again the commanding profile, the hard-boned face and strong, assertive jawline; the blue-black hair, thick and glossy, curling low over the collar of his shirt. Heat surged through her body and she clenched her fists tightly. He was married, married, married, and she could not have what she most desired.

  Savagely she rose from the bed, dismissing her maid, wrenching herself free of the dust-clouded Chinese garments that she had worn ever since they had fled the villa. He had shown her what love could be like, but he could not give her his love and she could not take it. She stepped into the fragrant water of the bath, envying with all her heart an unknown Chinese girl that no European lady would deign to speak to.

  When she finally returned to her bed, she slept for eighteen hours. It was seven o’clock the following evening when she finally awoke.

  ‘I’ve ordered a supper tray to be sent up to you,’ her aunt said, sitting down by the side of her bed.

  For a moment Olivia stared at her then recollection returned in full.

  ‘What did Sir Claude say when Uncle William spoke to him?’ she asked urgently.

  ‘Sir Claude has put all our fears to rest,’ her aunt replied with terrifying complacency. ‘He has had an audience with the Empress Dowager who has assured him that none of us will come to harm.’

  Olivia stared at her aunt aghast. ‘But surely he cannot believe her!’ Hastily she pushed the bedclothes away and swung her feet to the floor. ‘Has the Empress publicly condemned the Boxers?’

  ‘I’m sure that she must have,’ her aunt said serenely. ‘Please get back into bed, Olivia. Your tray will be here in a moment.’

  ‘I don’t need a tray, Aunt Letitia. I’m not an invalid. I want to speak to Uncle William.’

  ‘In that case, you will have to dress becoming
ly. He is at present entertaining Phillippe who has been most concerned about your welfare.’

  Both of them looked simultaneously at the large emerald sparkling on the fourth finger of Olivia’s left hand. Her aunt smiled happily. Olivia was going to make the most beautiful bride and Phillippe Casanaeve was without doubt the most handsome of all the diplomats in Peking. Olivia’s mouth hardened into a tight line. She couldn’t imagine why she hadn’t removed the engagement ring before. Now, when it could be returned, was the moment to do so.

  ‘Please tell Uncle William and Phillippe that I shall be down directly,’ she said, ringing for her maid and opening her closet door wide to select a dress.

  Her aunt rose with an indulgent smile, certain that Olivia was merely impatient to be reunited with her fiancé.

  ‘The French,’ she murmured to herself, as she left the bedroom, ‘so charming, so courteous, so… continental.’

  Olivia pulled the ring from her finger and dropped it unceremoniously into one of the cut glass dishes gracing her dressing table. Phillippe Casanaeve had been most concerned about her health, had he? He certainly had not been when he had thought her a Chinese peasant girl lying in the dust and the dirt in the wake of his sedan chair.

  By the time her maid arrived she had almost finished dressing. She had selected a gown of watered green silk and when her maid asked how she would like her hair to be dressed, asked simply that it be knotted in a simple chignon in the nape of her neck. Her maid did as she was bid, aware that since her ordeal there was a subtle change in her mistress’s manner. A new sureness and certainty about her. It was as if, overnight, she had changed from being an extraordinarily pretty girl and grown into a stunningly beautiful woman.

  Olivia surveyed herself in the full-length mirror and was pleased with what she saw. Then, picking up the emerald ring and cupping it in the palm of her hand, she made her way calmly downstairs to where her uncle and Phillippe Casanaeve waited.

  Chapter Six

  The chandeliers cast a brilliant light over the mahogany and silk and silver furnishings of the drawing-room. Her uncle and Phillippe rose simultaneously to their feet as she entered and she was pleased to see that the white, gaunt look that had strained her uncle’s face was now receding. The web of lines around his eyes had deepened, but other than that, he looked no worse for his ordeal. She kissed him affectionately as he took her hands.

  ‘I’m glad to see you looking so much better, dear child. You had us quite worried, but Doctor Fitzpatrick said all you needed was rest.’

  ‘And he was right,’ Olivia said reassuringly, stepping away from him and turning towards Phillippe.

  ‘Olivia!’ His voice was tender, his eyes full of concern. ‘I vow, upon my life, that the fiends who caused you such distress will be caught and hanged.’

  Dispassionately she allowed her hand to be taken and pressed against his lips. ‘Your task may be a little difficult Phillippe,’ she said, and there was an undercurrent in her voice that startled her uncle and made him look at her with fresh concern. ‘One Boxer is very much like another.’

  ‘Your aunt tells me that you were injured in the streets yesterday afternoon,’ Phillippe continued, unaware of the coolness in her voice. ‘What happened? Are you quite recovered?’ Solicitously he led her towards a chair.

  ‘Quite, thank you,’ she said, seating herself and looking up at him as if seeing him for the first time.

  His blond hair shone. His blue eyes gleamed. No harshness or strong-boned aggression marred the classical purity of his features. His moustache was elegant. His sartorial elegance splendid. They were so close that she could smell the clean, starched linen of his elegant lace-trimmed evening shirt. The sweet aroma of the eau de Cologne that he favoured. He was handsome, charming, debonair. And she knew that never again would she want to be in the same room with him, or speak to him, or even acknowledge his presence if their carriages should pass in the street.

  His handsomeness and charm were all on the surface; beneath was another Phillippe. A Phillippe that she had no desire to associate with, much less to marry.

  ‘I wish I had been there,’ Phillippe said fervently, as he sank on one knee beside her. ‘ If anyone had touched so much as a hair of your head, I would have whipped them to within an inch of their lives!’

  Strangely enough she believed him, yet he had shown not the slightest concern for the Chinese girl his sedan had knocked to the ground beneath the trampling hooves of his outriders’ horses.

  The hand that held hers was beautifully manicured. Soft and white. She thought of Lewis’s hands, large and strong, and a tremor ran through her.

  Phillippe felt a surge of heat to his loins. In some way that he could not understand, she had changed. She had always been lovely. Now she was beautiful. There was a new quality about her. A new poise and self-assurance.

  Her soft, dark hair shone glossily beneath the light of the chandeliers, held in a loose knot at the back of her neck by Chinese ivory combs in a manner he found unbearably sensual. In the delicate oval of her face, her eyes were smoke-blue, thick-lashed and wide-spaced. Before she had left Peking for the Western Hills, they had always gazed up at him with adoration: now there was something new in their depths. Something that he did not understand and that caused him a flicker of unease. With growing desire he noted the swell of her breasts beneath the aquamarine silk of her bodice and the curve of her hips beneath the fall of her skirt.

  ‘Thank God that you are safe,’ he murmured, wishing heartily that Sir William and Lady Harland were not in the room and that he could circle the enticing narrowness of her waist with his arms and kiss the smooth creaminess of her skin, the rosy softness of her mouth.

  The emerald ring dug deep into the palm of her free hand. She could not return it to him with her aunt and uncle present. Perhaps, when it was time for him to leave, she would be able to spend a few minutes alone with him. Not minutes, she corrected herself as she remembered his furious face as he had exhorted his whip-bearing outriders onwards. A moment. One moment was all that she needed. One moment in which to tell him that she did not love him and that she could not marry him.

  ‘You have no idea of the ordeal that we suffered,’ Letitia Harland was saying. ‘To be almost killed at the hands of the Boxers and then to be almost crushed to death on entering the city! It was terrible. Truly terrible.’

  ‘Something will have to be done about the refugees,’ Sir William said with a worried frown. ‘The overcrowding is appalling.’

  Phillippe, misunderstood the cause of his concern, said in a voice touched by only the merest of accents, ‘I quite agree with you, Sir William. The streets are so crowded there is barely room to move. I, myself, was nearly killed yesterday afternoon when a stupid Chinese threw herself beneath the feet of one of my bearers. It is high time the city gates were closed and all further entry barred.’

  Sir William, who did not agree with him at all, cleared his throat, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

  ‘And where do you propose that the refugees should go?’ Olivia asked tightly, wondering how she could have ever imagined herself in love with a man so uncaring of others.

  Phillippe shrugged. ‘Tientsin,’ he said indifferently. ‘They will find somewhere. People like that always do.’

  A chill ran down Olivia’s spine. People like that. People like Sister Angelique and Ch’un and Cheng-yu and Lan Kuei. Her eyes sparked dangerously and before she could speak again her uncle said hastily, ‘ Tientsin is eighty miles away, Phillippe. Most of the refugees are on foot. It would be totally impracticable. Provision must be found for them here. I intend to speak to Sir Claude about it first thing tomorrow morning.’

  Phillippe, skilled in the art of smoothly changing his opinions whenever it was polite to do so, nodded. ‘Perhaps you would like it if I, too, approached my minister?’

  Sir William was unable to suppress a sigh of relief. He had seen the flare of anger in Olivia’s eyes and for one hideous moment he thought s
he was going to tell young Casanaeve exactly what her opinion was of his suggestion that the travel-weary refugees be barred entry to the city. He would have to talk to her when Casanaeve had taken his leave. It was obvious that as yet, he had no full understanding of the situation. It would never do if the engagement were broken off. He was highly eligible. Young, rich, and with a brilliant career ahead of him. To lose him as a future husband for Olivia over a few carelessly spoken words would break Letitia’s heart.

  ‘Was the Chinese girl hurt?’ Olivia was asking Phillippe, and her uncle was aware again of the new and disturbing undercurrent in her voice.

  Phillippe gave a slight, gallic shrug of the shoulders. ‘I have no idea, my dearest Olivia. The horses were badly shaken. Such attacks are becoming commoner and commoner.’

  Olivia’s smoke-blue eyes widened. ‘Attacks?’ she asked queryingly. ‘I am sorry, Phillippe. I had not realized that you had come under attack.’

  White, even teeth flashed in a reassuring smile. ‘Do not worry, Olivia. I am more than a match for any Chinese street gang.’

  She was filled with a sudden desire to laugh. Street gangs, indeed! He had been safe in his sedan, surrounded by outriders clearing a way for him with their flailing bamboo rods and all that had happened was that she, in her inexperience, had not managed to dodge the cruel blows. She had been hit across the shoulders; had fallen and had temporarily halted his sedan. The crowd had been far too cowed to have attacked him. Her desire to laugh faded. They would not be cowed when the Boxers arrived. Lewis had told her that many Chinese were in sympathy with the Boxers. Chinese already safe within Peking’s walls. She shivered. Chinese non-Christians would massacre Chinese Christians. Peking was not the safe haven the refugees believed it to be.

  The emerald scorched her palm. Phillippe had risen to his feet and was standing at her side. She looked up at him and, uncaring of the presence of her aunt and uncle, said quietly, ‘Phillippe, I would like to talk to you alone for a moment.’