On the tenth of August the last of the rice was set aside for the fighting men. It seemed that the end could be only days or hours away, yet when the Boxers triumphantly detonated a bomb beneath the Peitang’s crèche, everyone, converts, children, the sick, were galvanized into furious action. There was no thought of capitulation, only of frenzied rescue-work and the grim determination that they would never give in. Never.
The next day, as they searched for dahlia roots in the grounds of the compound, Rory said suddenly. ‘Can you hear gunfire, Olivia?’
‘I’ve heard nothing else for eight weeks,’ Olivia said wryly, wishing that the pain behind her eyes would ease.
‘I know, but this is different. Listen.’
She leaned back on her heels and listened. The noise was like dull thunder, heavy and merciless, and then, very faintly, a bugle sounded La Casquette du Père Bugeaud.
‘It’s the relief force!’ she gasped, scrambling to her feet. ‘They must be at the gates!’
Others too had heard the bugle. The Boxers’ standards had vanished from the walls of the Imperial City. For the first time in eight weeks they were no longer under fire.
‘It’s over!’ The shout went up. ‘The relief forces are coming! It’s over!’
She grabbed Rory’s hand, running to find Lewis, her eyes shining, her pain and hunger forgotten.
‘He’s there!’ Rory cried as a hard-muscled figure leapt agilely down from the perimeter wall. ‘Papa! Papa! It’s over!’
He hurtled towards Lewis who caught him and swung him high in his arms, hugging him tight. She ran towards them and he set Rory down, opening his arms wide, white teeth flashing in his lean, sunburned face.
‘For us, it’s the beginning,’ he said, his dark eyes gleaming as his arms closed around her, his mouth coming down on hers hard and long as cheers and hurrahs rang out for the advancing troops.
Epilogue
It was September. Rain had cooled the dust-parched earth. The savage red-garbed hordes had melted away with the same rapidity with which they had appeared. In the countryside life went on, grim and feudal, as it had for centuries. The gossip in the small villages dotted about North China’s great plain no longer revolved around Boxers, but speculated on the whereabouts of the Empress Dowager.
In Peking, the streets, houses and shops were devastated, but trees flowered amidst broken walls, sunlight filled empty courtyards and the silence, after the weeks of barbaric howling, was sweet. The great city gates were open, guarded only by international troops, and the palace in the Forbidden City was empty, for Empress Tzu-hsi had fled.
‘Queen Victoria would never have done such a thing,’ Lady Glencarty said to Letitia Harland as they strolled the Legation lawns amidst a throng of elegantly dressed wedding guests.
‘I should think not!’ Letitia said, deeply shocked. ‘ Queen Victoria would never have allowed the siege to take place in the first place!’
Lady Glencarty smiled maliciously. ‘ How she must have hated it. Changing out of those splendid robes of hers and dressing in coarse blue cotton like a peasant.’
‘And cutting those long, long fingernails short and riding out of the city, hidden in a Peking cart. I wonder where she is now. Do you think that she will return?’
‘Oh, she’ll return,’ Lady Glencarty said darkly. ‘But I shall not be here when she does, thank goodness. I leave for England in ten days’ time.’
‘Does Sister Angelique travel with you?’ Letitia asked, thinking how pretty the parasols looked and how charming Lady MacDonald’s peach silk dress was with its tiers of ruffles at the hem.
Lady Glencarty frowned slightly. ‘Yes, and of necessity we shall have to travel slowly. She is still terribly emaciated. It is a miracle that she is alive at all.’
‘It is a miracle that any of us are alive,’ Letitia said with a shudder. ‘I cannot understand why Olivia should be so thrilled at the prospect of remaining in China. I am sure that she and Lewis could have settled most happily in Bath.’
Lady Glencarty shook her head. ‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘ Never. They have both succumbed to the strange fascination that China so often exerts over the European mind. Lewis did so long ago.’ She paused as Lewis and Olivia approached, their arms lovingly linked as they greeted their guests. Lowering her voice she continued, ‘Perhaps Olivia did so when she met him, perhaps before. Who is to say? It is enough that she has succumbed totally now and that her future lies here, in China, with the man she loves.’
Letitia sighed and gazed tenderly at the bridal pair. Olivia’s cloud of soft dark hair was swept high, held in place by ivory combs etched in gold. Her gown was of beige Chantilly lace, her elbow-length gloves of matching silk. Lewis had bent his dark head close to hers and she was laughing up at him, her gentian-blue eyes alight with love.
‘It was a beautiful wedding,’ Letitia said, dabbing her eyes with a lace-edged handkerchief. ‘And Bishop Favier was right in wanting to perform it in his half-destroyed cathedral. It was a wonderful way to reaffirm faith in the future.’
Lewis and Olivia neared them and Letitia felt her throat tighten and wondered how she could ever have thought Lewis unapproachable and forbidding. He was smiling down at her, his dark eyes affectionate.
‘No tears, Letitia, please.’
‘No Lewis, of course not,’ she said, her eyes still overly bright.
‘It’s just that I’m so happy and Olivia looks so beautiful and… Oh dear. I am going to cry. I can’t help it.’
‘What you need, Letitia,’ Lady Glencarty said bracingly, ‘Is more champagne.’
Letitia nodded and Olivia said mischievously, ‘It’s a wonder there’s any left. Uncle William tells me that you drank nothing else all through the siege.’
‘I couldn’t Olivia.’ Her aunt said defensively, ‘There was not enough water and I was obliged to drink champagne.’
Olivia hugged her tight, kissing her cheek. ‘ Darling Aunt Letitia, may you always drink champagne!’
Beyond the trees, in the clear blue sky, a bird swooped low and Olivia caught her breath, her hand tightening in her husband’s. ‘Look Lewis,’ she whispered, moving away from her aunt and Lady Glencarty, ‘Can you see?’
The September sun gleamed on the gaudily coloured wings, the proud defiant crest and long curved beak.
‘A hoopoe,’ Lewis said softly, his arms closing around her.
The bird flew high once more, wheeling in a graceful circle above their heads.
She lifted her face to his, her eyes radiant. ‘It’s promising us happiness, Lewis.’
Tenderly he traced the delicate outline of her face with the tip of his finger. The high, pure cheekbone; the straight, perfect nose; the soft, sensuous curve of her lips.
‘We shall always be happy, my love,’ he said, his rich, smoke-dark voice deep with the love he felt for her.
Her body curved yieldingly against his. ‘Always,’ she murmured, a low sigh in her throat, her heart filled with joy as she raised her face for his kiss.
Copyright
First published in 1987 by Hale
This edition published 2013 by Bello
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Copyright © Margaret Pemberton, 1987
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Party in Peking Page 19
