The Unexpected Wife
Page 6
She moved first. “Get this done before we’re discovered. We can talk later,” she said.
He pulled out his notebook and began to scribble notes. “How long have you been doing this?” he whispered.
“Since I got here two months ago.” Her tone suggested she found it a stupid question. She didn’t pause in her work.
“You’ve kept it all on little pieces of paper?” he asked.
“I transpose it to a journal and burn the notes. I mean to report it to my father.”
He had nothing to say to that. With Macao covered, he could go on to Whampao and Canton—if he could depend on her to behave sensibly.
She scribbled rapidly. He tried to keep up, but the nearness of warmth and woman distracted him. “You should be in London finding a husband,” he muttered.
Her head darted up. “I will not be some man’s brood mare,” she growled. “I have better things to do.”
Chapter 8
Charles stood in the shade of a camphor tree, running his long-fingered hands along the brim of his hat when she approached their agreed-upon rendezvous. Energy radiated off him as it had as long as she’d known him. Intense and full of life, he had led his cousins into boyhood misadventures and helped extricate them from real ones as an adult. He always entertained the younger set right down to the infants. The elders adored him—when they didn’t worry for him. Zambak always had as well, but she was young and susceptible then.
The rogue didn’t appear in the least discomforted for lack of sleep, unlike Zambak who had slept little and felt resentful. She lay on her bed until dawn reliving their encounter in the office. Can I trust him? How far? Will he help me? The questions had no answer but would not be silenced. Curiously, the memory of his slender form in tight black breeches climbing out the window cut up her peace as well, in the heat of the night.
“Why are you really here?” she demanded without preamble.
He flicked a glance at Filipe trotting up behind and said, “Why, idle curiosity, of course.”
She seated herself on the bench nearby, dropped the bag she carried to her feet, and treated him to a scathing expression. “When pigs fly. What does my father want?”
He sank down next to her and put elbows to knees, peering sideways up at her. “What does he always want? Eyes and ears.”
“On his children?”
“That too. He and Uncle Will ambushed me with a commission from the queen.”
It rang true. Her father wanted as much intelligence as he could gather, and the Earl of Chadbourn worried about Charles, idle and grieving in London.
Watching with care that Filipe stood out of earshot, he went on, still leaning forward. He did not notice her abstraction. “I’m to be an objective observer of the impact of Palmerston’s policies and Elliot’s decisions. I’m to seek out a channel of direct communication between the British Empire and the so-called Celestial one.”
“The holy grail of China relations,” Zambak said sourly. “Others have tried.”
“All have failed. Victoria cannot seem to grasp that,” he agreed.
That won her attention. She studied him for long minutes and came to a decision. At least she had her trusted courier. She reached inside the bag and pulled out a journal covered with Chinese embroidery that, to a casual eye, looked like a diary in which a lady might record fashion or gossip.
“What is this?” he asked.
“Your report. I’ve been waiting for a trusted courier.”
He looked from the book to her face and back, sat up, and took it from her, turning it over in his hands before opening it.
“The first part is simple chronology,” she explained. “What I’ve gleaned about Chinese naval power is marked by the first ribbon.”
“And tea prices and loads by the red one. What is black?”
“Opium. Dreadful stuff. And observations about those who deal in it.”
“We agree on that at least,” he murmured, examining the book. He allowed her to expound on her assessment of the entire seething mess.
“The Chinese do not want the opium,”‘ she reminded him in the end. “They ban it. The traders—smugglers the lot of them—go around their laws. Opium trade exploded after the crown ended the East India Company’s monopoly, and the Company does little but wring their hands and fret over losses. Now the Chinese can no longer tolerate it. The smugglers are out of control, and we’re destroying China from the inside.”
He listened with every sign of respect, leaning his head toward her and nodding occasionally. He did not laugh.
“Will you deliver it to London?”
He didn’t answer. He closed the book and tucked it in his coat before she could take it back. “You looked for something else last night,” he said, his clear eyes waiting for an honest response.
She looked out across the park. There seemed no point in denying it. “Thorn. I am often forced to hunt for news of him from Mrs. Elliot’s personal correspondence. What I do glean isn’t good. He just can’t avoid trouble,” she said finally.
“He’s why you came.”
Her head snapped back to study him. “Yes. How did you know?”
“Guessed.”
“He’ll bring ruin on my family.”
“And himself?” he asked. The compassion in his eyes made her throat contract.
“He’s destroying himself.” She swallowed hard and glared at Charles. “He is Father’s heir—my family’s hope for the future. He’ll bring ruin on us all.” She couldn’t keep the bitterness from her voice.
“As I recall, the two of you shared a bond,” Charles murmured.
“He was my champion, my partner, my—” She shook her head. “Not for a long while, not since his accident. He shut me out—he shut all of us out.” She closed her eyes while visions of Thorn as a boy trailing after her squeezed her heart.
She pushed the hurt away and focused raging thoughts on her family name. After Thorn came Henry, just starting university—not Zambak; never the daughter. Who knows how much harm Thorn might do before Henry can even try to set things straight. Father is healthy and vigorous but— She opened her eyes to find Charles studying her.
“So you fled to Macao because of Thorn and the need to get away from London?” Charles asked, something suspiciously like compassion in his voice. One gloveless hand slipped over hers; she didn’t pull away.
“London, yes: endless gossip, endless balls, endless obsession with marriage.” Weariness threatened to lay her flat. Let him report that one to her mother. She’d made her position clear the night before; he didn’t tease her with it. She glared at him until he removed his hand and looked away.
“I’ll have to get to Canton and check on him,” he replied.
“You do that,” she spat. “You won’t be marooned here in skirts with no way in.”
Laughter did burst out then. “Is that what you’ve been trying to do? Get to Canton? Western women—”
“Are forbidden. No one knows that better than I.”
He sobered, studying her until he rose and offered his hand. “We’re expected at the Quakers’ house.”
She took it and stood next to him, with nothing left to say.
Cow shite. What good will dinner with Dan Oliver do me now? I can’t ask for passage with Charles listening to every word.
~ ~ ~
Family chatter made it difficult for Charles to question the famous China trader notorious for his opposition to opium smuggling as closely as he wished. The reverberation of laughter, the hum of conversation, and the sweet prattle of little ones crushed his soul. Warmth of affection overran warmth from the cheerful fire, and the heat in the Knightons’ eyes when they looked at one another put him in mind of embers ready to burst into flame, subdued only by their quiet joy.
Even more distracting, the youngest Knighton daughter, introduced to him as Blessing, snuggled into Zambak’s lap. He watched her initial discomfort melt when the child popped a thumb in her mouth and leaned into her shoulder. A tender smile playing on Zambak’s lips and a knife’s edge of pain sliced through his heart when he remembered the feel of his son at that age, a warm little body curled in his arms, trusting and secure. Zambak unconsciously kissed the little one’s head. Whatever bone-headed idea she has about marriage, she will make a magnificent mother.
“So the navy has withdrawn?” she asked Oliver, one hand absently caressing the child’s back, pulling the conversation back to the topic of the tea factories in Canton and the opium operations at Whampao.
“For now, my lady, for now. Maitland gave Admiral Kuan some bottles of wine and a handshake before they scampered. Elliot seems relieved, and so are half the traders.”
“What about the rest of the traders?” she asked.
“Hopping mad.” Oliver’s assessment of the situation in the Pearl Delta, carefully edited for the presence of children, sounded dire. Charles guessed what he didn’t say. Jarratt and others hoped the navy would force the Chinese to accept the contraband or at least look the other way again.
“You think open conflict is likely, then?” Charles asked.
“You mean more than the dance they just did, all flag waving and circling? Yes. And worse.” Oliver glanced apologetically at Temperance who bent to speak to her son, obviously stricken with hero worship for the great China trader. Oliver took a puff on his pipe. “Jarratt and his ilk are begging for it. They want to thrust your English sword down the Chinese throats.”
“Daniel . . .” Temperance warned.
“Begging your pardon, Your Grace. None of them—ours or yours—respect Chinese laws.” Oliver, an American of evangelical bent, didn’t share the Quaker dislike for titles.
A swallow of the Knightons’ ale, homemade and strong, cleared thickness in his throat. “I’m Charles here, Oliver, or Murnane if you wish. I appreciate your candor.”
Oliver went on. “The brutes complain the Chinese don’t respect your government, and call for the navy to teach them rough manners. War is an ugly thing.”
“The war junks would be no match if we attack them,” Zambak put in, her entire attention on the speaker.
“In the end, yes, but they’ll do their share of harm in the meantime,” Oliver said.
“Can it be avoided?”
Dan Oliver puffed silently for several moments. Charles knew the answer when it came would be carefully worded and circumspect. Even Temperance strained to listen, as she pretended to bustle about with meal preparation.
“Unlikely. The Chinese have become determined to enforce the anti-opium statutes among their people, as they ought. Innes, Jarratt, Dennison, Dean, and the rest defy the law.” He glanced at the children. Charles could guess what he didn’t say. The big traders had begun arming their ships and ran their opium almost to Canton itself. “The conflict will explode sooner or later, and we best be prepared,” Oliver went on. He looked over at Aaron Knighton.
Temperance’s hands stilled, and she leaned forward to take the baby from Zambak to balance her on one hip.
Aaron reached over and took his wife’s free hand, a smile warming his face. “This day thee need only prepare dinner for our guests.” Something tender and mysterious passed between them before Temperance called the company to table.
When violence explodes, will it reach Macao? Charles longed to ask Oliver, but he knew it best to postpone it until he could talk to the man privately. For now, dinner waited and the sight of Lady Zambak Hayden on a rough bench between two small children being asked to bow her head in prayer.
Prayer finished, an awkward silence ensued. Before more talk of war could cast a deeper pall on their gathering, Temperance said, “Daniel, I wish to thank thee for the funds to establish our clinic. How does the one in thy Canton warehouse fare?” She neatly turned the conversation away from war and on to her efforts to find space for a clinic in Macao. The captain obliged, an in-depth discussion of danger being inappropriate for the company. Charles determined to seek him out to find out more as soon as he could.
Chapter 9
Three times Thorn’s name came to the tip of Zambak’s tongue. Three times she bit it back, unwilling to disrupt the Knightons’ peaceful meal and even less willing to air her family’s troubles. She longed to drag Dan Oliver out and demand that he smuggle her into Canton, or to whatever godforsaken hole Thorn had crawled into. She no longer had any confidence that he kept to the Company’s factory as he ought and Chinese law demanded.
Temperance served a plain meal, savory stew, and delectable bread. The fare would have horrified her mother’s French chef, but Zambak found it delicious and satisfying. The ambience in the room, on the other hand, disquieted her; the entire evening left her confused. Open displays of affection, behavior utterly unfamiliar to her, passed between the Knightons: the touch of hand to back here, grasp of fingers there, warm glances in between. Her own parents lived in a perpetual cycle of vociferous conflict and passionate reconciliation. The Knightons’ gentle accord turned her insides to jelly and unleashed a longing inside she couldn’t name.
Sharing a bench with a six-year-old while Temperance held Blessing in her lap to feed her lay in equally unfamiliar territory. Children did not dine with the Duke and Duchess of Sudbury. Even in the Earl of Chadbourn’s ramshackle household, there were limits. Charles’s uncle preferred that his children know how to enter into conversation before they joined in family dinners. Even he didn’t include them when there were guests. None of it felt comfortable, and Zambak loathed feeling ill at ease. Part of her wanted to bolt right back to Clara Elliot’s formal dining room, but something about these people drew her in.
When Temperance suggested she tell the men about her teaching, she let herself be persuaded. By the time she described her lessons on Europe, the upheavals in the Ottoman Empire, and Russian nationalism, she relaxed into the story, strangeness forgotten. When she described Lai-min Lau’s enthusiasm for her lesson on the Turkish harem and the education of women there—a topic Zambak knew well from her mother’s stories—the general laughter held no disrespect.
“Lau? The hong?” Oliver asked.
“Correct,” Temperance answered with a smile. “Her father deals in tea. She speaks of it proudly.”
“Hong?” Zambak asked.
“Merchant,” Oliver explained. “One of the honest ones. Good family. We buy their tea annually.”
“Lai-min’s father has also given us money for our clinic,” Temperance put in.
Lai-min, one of the few upper-class Chinese girls in their school, spoke of her father with great pride. As Temperance predicted, Zambak learned as much as she taught, and language had been one of the unexpected bonuses. Still, Lai-min’s English faltered, and Zambak’s fledgling Cantonese could not always compensate.
Zambak made note of that. Her reports needed more information about tea, the beneficial part of the infernal triangle with silver and opium, to flesh them out. She had wondered before if tea wasn’t the key to the entire mess.
“Lai-min learns quickly,” Temperance said. “I have hopes for her.”
“Are you drawing her to the faith?” Oliver asked.
“I am showing her how to listen to her inner light,” Temperance answered with a sly smile.
A merchant who supports a free clinic must already know the light, Zambak thought. Daniel looked amused by Temperance’s comment. Zam
bak knew the missionaries shared care for the poor but differed sharply on actual evangelization, Quakers being unwilling to dictate belief. She suspected Oliver knew it too.
“I think friend Daniel doesn’t attend to the light as he ought,” Aaron Knighton teased. The meal ended with good-natured laughter.
“Thee wished to see my wood working, Charles. Come and I will show thee my poor efforts,” Aaron said, and the two men left through the rear door conversing amiably—and with obvious knowledge—about tools and woods.
What does Charles know about woodworking? He’s a duke for pity sake. Father certainly has no interest in handcrafts. They act like old friends. Something about woodworking brought her brother to mind. She tucked it away for later.
She wondered if Charles had always been this comfortable with everyone he met regardless of his or her station. The few times Zambak encountered him at balls or formal dinners during her three miserable seasons, he displayed impeccable etiquette. On the other hand, he had never been pompous or aloof when she was growing up, although their interactions tended to be in informal settings among friends. She stared after the two men wondering if she knew him at all.
“It would be a great gift if thee would watch Blessing while I tidy up.” Temperance’s voice brought her back to the present. Zambak blinked twice at the sight of Daniel Oliver, wealthy merchant and ship’s captain, dandling a baby on his knee. She sank into the chair next to him and reached for the little one, rescuing his cravat in the process. When Temperance turned toward the kitchen, Zambak had the opportunity she longed for.
“I was hoping for a private moment, Captain Oliver. I have a proposition for you.”