Party in Peking

by Margaret Pemberton

  His blue eyes gleamed. ‘Of course, chérie,’ he whispered huskily and then, turning to her aunt and uncle, said, ‘ Please forgive me, I have a meeting with the Minister at nine.’

  ‘And will you speak to him about the refugees?’ Sir William asked urgently.

  Phillippe nodded. ‘But of course, and tomorrow night, at dinner, Olivia will be able to tell him of your experiences herself.’

  ‘Dinner?’ Olivia asked questioningly as she rose and walked to his side. ‘What dinner, Phillippe?’

  ‘Monsieur Pichon would like us to join him for dinner tomorrow evening. Your uncle has already given permission for you to accept the invitation, providing you are feeling well enough to do so.’

  Her heart began to slam painfully against her chest. Dinner with the French Minister? She would be able to tell him exactly what the conditions were on the highways leading to the city. She would be able to ask him to organize relief parties. To plead the cause of Bishop Favier in person.

  ‘I am quite well enough to accept the French Minister’s kind invitation,’ she said steadily.

  They had moved into the hall. The houseboy was handing Phillippe his top hat and walking cane, adjusting his silklined even cloak about his shoulders.

  ‘Phillippe…’ Her fingers tightened around the ring. If she gave it back to him now, there would be no dinner with the French Minister the following evening. She would have thrown away her only chance of helping the missionaries and converts.

  ‘Yes, chérie?’ Phillippe said, taking her hand and kissing the tips of her fingers, his eyes burning into hers. He wanted to press her against him, feel her supple body moulded willingly against his. Kiss her until she lost her breath in the passion of his mouth and he could not do so. Sir William was still present and showed no signs of being discreet and leaving them alone for even the briefest of moments.

  ‘I am looking forward to tomorrow night,’ she said, and that at least was true, she thought, as she wriggled the ring once more on to the fourth finger of her left hand.

  ‘Je t’aime,’ Phillippe whispered and then, raising her hand once more to his lips, he bade her goodbye.

  ‘A fine young man,’ her uncle said as the servants closed the doors.

  Olivia said nothing. There was nothing that she could say. Her uncle had suffered enough in the past forty-eight hours without having to know that it was Phillippe’s outriders that had knocked her to the ground. She would never tell him. Telling him would achieve nothing.

  She sighed as she kissed him goodnight. He would be bewildered when he learned that she had broken off her engagement to Phillippe, but better that he was bewildered rather than that he should be hurt by discovering that the young man he thought so honourable was not quite so honourable after all.

  She went to her room but she did not go to bed. She stood at her window, staring out over the starlit roofs of Peking, wondering where Lewis was. What he was doing and who he was with.

  In a bedroom several doors further down the corridor, Letitia Harland was saying anxiously, ‘I think it most unsuitable that Olivia should attend a dinner at the French Embassy when we ourselves will not be present, William.’

  ‘Please don’t worry, Letitia,’ Sir William said with a touch of weariness. ‘We were invited, but I shall be seeing Sir Claude again tomorrow evening and that is of far more importance. Olivia will be escorted by her fiancé. The McClouds will be there and the Lejeunes.’

  ‘But we will not be there,’ Letitia Harland repeated obstinately, the lines of worry on her face deepening. ‘I do not want anyone to think that Olivia is fast!’

  ‘No one will think that, Letitia. Their thoughts will be on other things.’

  ‘What other things, William?’ Letitia asked as he settled himself down on the far side of the bed and blew out the lamp, plunging the room into darkness.

  ‘Boxers,’ Sir William said, and closed his eyes, wondering what fresh approach he could use to stir the Corps Diplomatique into action.

  The next morning Olivia announced at the breakfast table that she was going to go over to the Peitang to help Bishop Favier and the Sisters of Charity care for the refugees.

  ‘I’m sorry, Olivia,’ her uncle said, and his voice was firm, ‘You are not to leave this house again unescorted.’

  ‘Then I shall take one of the houseboys with me,’ she said steadily.

  ‘No.’

  Their eyes met over toast and marmalade and lightly poached eggs.

  ‘The conditions there are dreadful, Uncle William. Please…’

  ‘No.’

  Their eyes held and Olivia’s heart sank. He meant what he said. Seeing her despair, he reached out and covered her hand with his, the expression in his eyes softening. ‘I know how much you care, Olivia, and I know how much you want to help, but you cannot do so. Not without causing your aunt great anxiety.’

  ‘The English Mission then?’ she pleaded. ‘It is much nearer and Sister Angelique is there…’

  He shook his head. ‘I have given your aunt my word that you will not leave this house today until Phillippe calls for you this evening.’ He rose wearily to his feet. ‘ I would be very grateful, Olivia, if you would enable me to keep my word to her.’

  ‘Yes, Uncle Willliam,’ Olivia said, knowing that she was defeated.

  The hot morning sun streamed through the windows, motes of dust dancing in the light. The day stretched ahead of her unendurably. In the Peitang Bishop Favier would be working tirelessly. In the English Mission, Sister Angelique would be caring for the babies and the old and the sick. And she… She was doing nothing. In a gesture of futile impatience she screwed her table napkin into a tight ball and flung it down beside her empty plate. There was nothing to do but wait for the evening and then be instrumental in persuading the French Minister to organize immediate relief parties.

  Restlessly she climbed the stairs past her own room and on and up to the top of the house, hoping that from one of the windows she would be able to see the streets of the City. She sighed with disappointment. The high walls surrounding the house and legations made it impossible. Only the roofs of the great Chien Men Gate were visible, but she could not see the crowds scurrying to and fro beneath its rose-red, tip-tilted eaves.

  She wondered where Lewis was, and her heart hurt her. Had he made contact with Dr Morrison and Monsieur Chamot? Were they already riding far out into the Boxer riddled countryside to escort frightened missionaries and converts to the city in safety? She pressed a hand to her side as if in doing so she could ease the pain. It was two days since they had parted. Since he had kissed her so passionately in full view of her uncle and all the household staff. In two days he could have left the city and returned several times. By this evening her uncle might have news of him. Her pain increased. If he had, he would not tell her. She doubted if Lewis Sinclair’s name would ever pass her uncle’s lips again.

  Descending the stairs, she heard the sound of female voices rising from the morning room. Her aunt had visitors.

  ‘My dear, I cannot imagine what possessed her!’ she heard one of her aunt’s friends saying, ‘ to be actually seen riding astride a Mongol pony with two filthy peasant children!’

  Olivia’s eyes sparked angrily, and her hand tightened on the banister rail.

  ‘They had nowhere to go,’ she heard her aunt saying defensively.

  There came a mirthless laugh. ‘Of course they had somewhere to go, Letitia. There are orphanages for destitutes, are there not? To have brought such children in the legation quarter was an act of unprecedented folly. Just think of the disease that could be spread.’

  ‘And then for Doctor Sinclair to slam into Sir Claude’s study in such a manner!’ another voice said, sounding awestruck.

  ‘And to order him to send for more troops!’ the first voice said, high on a note of disbelief. ‘Why, the man must be mad!’

  ‘But more troops are needed,’ Olivia heard her aunt say timidly.

  ‘If they are, Le
titia, it is for the ministers to decide. Not a lunatic. He rode out yesterday to Hosfang with Doctor Morrison, The Times correspondent, and they brought back over forty missionaries and children! Into a city as overcrowded as this! It is sheer folly! Why could they not stay where they were?’

  Olivia had heard enough. She marched across to the door of the morning room and entered it without even the briefest of knocks. ‘Because they would have been burned to death,’ she said, her eyes flashing, and in a voice so unlike her own that her aunt turned pale. ‘They would have died at the hands of the Boxers just as my aunt and uncle and Lady Glencarty would have died if it had not been for Doctor Sinclair!’

  Her aunt’s distinguished guests stared at her open-mouthed.

  ‘As for the children now living with Lady Glencarty,’ Olivia continued, her whole body blazing with anger, ‘You had better get used to them for where they came from there are thousands more and they are going to have to be sheltered here! In the only part of the city that still has room!’

  ‘Olivia, please,’ her aunt protested weakly.

  ‘And Doctor Sinclair is not a lunatic!’ Olivia continued undeterred. ‘He is splendidly courageous and the only sane man in the city!’ and before they could draw breath to answer her, she spun on her heel, her skirts whipping about her ankles, slamming the door behind her.

  ‘Well, really…’ she heard faintly from her aunt’s guests. ‘Such behaviour…’ and when the bell rang for the maid, Olivia knew that it was to request some sal volatile.

  She marched out into the garden, still furiously angry. How could they be so blind as to what was happening around them? No wonder Lewis had lost his temper and gone storming into Sir Claude’s inner sanctum. A smile touched the corners of her mouth. She would have given a great deal to have seen the expression on Sir Claude’s face when Lewis had burst into his room.

  As she neared the miniature pagoda that decorated the lawns, she disturbed a flock of white pigeons. They fluttered out from beneath the eaves, spreading their wings and circling high above the pines that screened the garden from that of its neighbours. She watched them and her smile faded. In all likelihood she would never see Lewis again. It seemed a thing too monstrous to be true, but then so did the reality of his marriage.

  She sat down on a wooden seat in the pagoda’s shade, remembering the joy on Rory’s face as he had rushed up to his father, flinging his arms around his neck.

  Walking with Lewis across the dust-blown plain towards Peking she had been able to forget the existence of his Chinese wife. Rory’s exuberant, undeniable existence made it impossible to do so any longer. And yet, she thought, watching the birds as they wheeled and soared, he had kissed her. He had looked at her with such naked desire that his face had been transfigured.

  Her hands clenched tightly in her lap. Had it been only desire? Had there been love there too? She did not know and she would never know. Bleakly she rose to her feet. She must stop thinking about him. Thinking about him would not bring him back to her. Would not alter the fact that he had fallen in love and married years ago. How old had Rory been? Four, probably five. Five years ago she had been only thirteen. They had missed each other in time and in place and there was nothing that she, or anyone else, could do about it.

  Her knuckles white, she forced herself to think about the coming evening. It would not be easy to talk to the French Minister in the impassioned way that she intended. A dinner table was not the place for serious conversation, especially when there were ladies present. A frown furrowed her brow. She needed to talk to him in private, but how and where? The problem occupied her thoughts all morning and even when she joined her aunt for lunch, no infallible solution had presented itself to her.

  Phillippe’s carriage arrived promptly at seven. She had dressed with care. Not in order to please Phillippe but so that the French Minister would be unable to ignore her. Her gown was of midnight-blue silk, cut as low as propriety and her aunt would allow. Clusters of tiny seed-pearls decorated the bodice and emphasized the narrowness of her waist. The skirt fell gently over her hips, swirling out in a sudden flare around her ankles to reveal dainty satin evening pumps. Despite her aunt’s protests, she had again dressed her hair with stunning simplicity, coiling it softly in the nape of her neck and securing it with a freshly plucked gardenia.

  As Phillippe handed her into the carriage, he knew with pride that she would outshine every other woman in the room. He took her hand immediately the carriage doors closed behind them, about to take full advantage of the unprecedented privacy that the unchaperoned journey afforded.

  His lips pressed heatedly against her temple and she froze with distaste, saying quickly, ‘No, Phillippe, please! My aunt has given me her utter trust and…’

  ‘Olivia!’ His voice was low and urgent, his hands hot about her waist as he pulled her towards him.

  ‘Phillippe!’ Her protests were silenced as his mouth came down on hers, his lips hard and insistent. She tried to pull away from him but he was too strong for her. How could one man’s kiss be so different from another’s, she thought wildly as she tried to free herself from his embrace. His hand was on her breast, his tongue deep in her mouth. With all the strength she could muster, she drew back her hand and slapped him full across the face.

  His head shot back, his blue eyes wide, first with astonishment and then with anger.

  ‘Qu’est-ce que’ne va pas avec toi?’

  The carriage continued on its way, swaying gently from side to side. Olivia’s distaste was replaced by panic. One word from Phillippe and the carriage would turn round and she would never set foot in the French Embassy.

  She grasped his hands, knowing that the next few seconds were vital. ‘I am sorry, Phillippe,’ she said, her voice trembling vulnerably as she simulated remorse and distress, ‘ but to be alone with you like this…it is so disturbing… I am so frightened that I shall forget myself completely, and…’ Her words trailed away, her eyes eloquent.

  For one long, endless second she was not sure if her ruse had worked and then his fingers tightened on hers and he was kissing her hands, murmuring endearments, telling her that she was a goddess, a witch, an angel.

  With overwhelming relief, Olivia felt the carriage shudder to a halt. The journey was over and on the return journey there would be no need for pretence. Her engagement ring would be returned to him. She would never have to suffer his embrace again.

  Monsieur Pichon was small and intense with a heavy black moustache. Madame Pichon was heavy-bosomed and draped in ruby-red velvet. Her first words as she greeted them, were, ‘How relieved I am that you have arrived in safety! There are rumours that the railway station at Fengtai has been burned to the ground by the Boxers.’

  Olivia drew in her breath sharply. If the rumour were true, it would make her task of persuading Monsieur Pichon to take immediate action far easier.

  As she entered the dining-room on Phillippe’s arm, she was immediately aware of the air of suppressed anxiety. Their fellow guests were Mr and Mrs McCloud. Mr McCloud was a businessman and Monsieur and Madame Lejeune were friends of the Chamots and visiting the city as part of a long, leisurely trip to the East.

  Only minutes after they were seated, Monsieur Pichon was called from the room and the guests toyed with their Terrine of Duckling, not liking to voice the fear that was uppermost in their minds. Only Phillippe seemed totally undisturbed by the rumours of an attack on Fengtai. Looking across the table at him, Olivia had the distinct feeling that the city would have to be overrun before Phillippe would accept that the Boxers were a danger.

  When the Minister returned, his guests looked towards him anxiously. He sat down, obviously agitated, and after drinking deeply from his wineglass, said, ‘The rumours are true. The railway station and locomotive sheds at Fengtai have been burned. So, too, have the houses of the Belgian engineers who were working there.’

  There were gasps of horror from all the ladies apart from Olivia. She felt only a cold, hard k
not deep inside her, able to visualize all too easily the scene that must have taken place.

  ‘The steel bridge at Fengtai has been blown up,’ Monsieur Pichon continued, pushing his plate away from him. ‘ Observers say that the smoke darkened the sky for miles around.’

  ‘Was Fengtai a very important station?’ Madame Lejeune asked hesitantly.

  Monsieur Pichon nodded his head gravely. ‘Yes, Madame. I am afraid that it was. It stood at the junction of the Peking to Tientsin line.’

  ‘And the Belgians?’ Olivia asked, her eyes holding Monsieur Pichon’s steadily.

  The maid came in. The plates were removed. Tarte aux Pommes à la Suisse replaced the duckling.

  ‘The line to Tientsin is still in working order,’ Monsieur Pichon replied. ‘I am glad to say that the workers at Fengtai managed to escape to Tientsin by train.’

  There were exclamations of relief from the McClouds and Lejeunes. Phillippe allowed his wineglass to be refilled and smiled across at Olivia as if to say that the panic had been over nothing.

  Olivia did not return his smile. Instead she said tightly, ‘Were all the construction engineers at Fengtai there when the attack took place, Monsieur Pichon?’

  Monsieur Pichon was about to say yes, but something in the expression in Olivia’s eyes prevented him from doing so. They smouldered at him from the pale whiteness of her face, demanding the truth.

  His shoulders sagged visibly. ‘No, Miss Harland. I am afraid that they were not. The engineers’ main headquarters is a little distance away at Ch’anghsintien.’

  ‘And…?’ Olivia demanded, every line of her body taut as she waited for his answer.

  Monsieur Pichon cleared his throat uncomfortably. ‘The damage done by the Boxers at the junction means that Ch’anghsintien is completely cut off. Withdrawal by rail to either Peking or Tientsin is now impossible.’

  ‘Then they are trapped?’ Madame Lejeune asked, her voice high, her dessert untouched on her plate.

  Monsieur Pichon’s face was grave. ‘I am afraid so, Madame. There can be no help for them.’