The Unexpected Wife

by Caroline Warfield

  “Again, Charles. How much opium did you see being delivered?”

  He estimated tons.

  “A king’s ransom in one warehouse! It has to be a tempting target for corrupt officials,” she observed.

  “Perhaps, but so far Lin does not appear to be one. In any case, it is still a small fraction of what exists.”

  “We’re hearing in the clinic that he demanded the western traders turn over their stores,” she told him.

  Neither voiced the thought they shared: would Elliot support that edict?

  “One more thing,” he said. “When night fell, I watched the lighthouse minaret flash a signal.”

  “For the boats?”

  “The Five Story Pagoda repeated it and then flashed a slightly different one. The Chinese have a sophisticated signaling system.”

  She noted it, impressed. “What else happened?” she asked. “I want to know all of it.” He rushed through the end of his story, making light of his abandonment and the attack. When he finished, she read what she recorded out loud, “An alert soldier saw through the Duke of Murnane’s disguise and attempted to arrest him for violating the ban on Westerners inside the city walls. His Grace fought off his attacker but suffered a severe knife wound in the process.”

  “That detail is hardly necessary,” he complained.

  “I wrote what I wrote,” she retorted, closing the book. A brief moment of accord passed between them before she asked softly, “What now, Charles? If we’re to have any hope of impacting policy regarding opium, we need to deliver this as soon as can be. You must see that.”

  He opened his mouth, but she raised a silencing hand. “Don’t argue,” she said. “There’s more. I need to get Thorn out of here before he sinks back into the vice, or gets caught up in Lin’s nets.”

  “Don’t assume you know what I think. I agree with you. We’ve seen enough. Also—” he cleared his throat.

  What now? A sick feeling pooled in her stomach at his expression.

  “Oliver wants us gone. Between us, we’ve done damage to his hard-won reputation as a respecter of Chinese law. Now that he knows you refused to stay hidden”—she sputtered, but he rushed on—“and he discovered my little foray into the city, he is furious with us. He has a packet ready to sail to Macao on the morning tide. The two of us are to be on it.”

  “And Thorn,” she said, relieved to have the matter settled.

  “And Thorn,” he agreed.

  “Back to corsets and Clara Elliot for me,” she sighed. Something in his expression alerted her. She sat up straight. There has to be more.

  “Mrs. Elliot may be unhappy with you,” he said choosing his words too carefully for her peace of mind.

  “She’ll frown on my little escapade, I am certain,” she responded.

  “At least that. Perhaps more. Julia has been fanning the flames, dropping hints about the two of us, I suspect, while garnering pity for herself as an abused wife.”

  “That’s what Dan came to tell you? I thought you had an agreement with her.” Zambak frowned ferociously. Is there no end to that woman’s mischief?

  “She lives to betray—and I suspect Jarratt made her a better offer. He likes his revenge served cold.”

  “We need to remove ourselves from Macao as well, don’t we?”

  “Yes. I’ll arrange passage to London for you and your brother as soon as we arrive there,” he promised.

  “What about you?”

  “Julia and I will sail separately.”

  Separately. A dozen arguments leapt to mind, but a mask of stone had come over his face. Her heart sank to her shoes; the wall he built between them could not be breached.

  Chapter 28

  Darkness lay over the harbor when Charles rolled the blood-stained silk robe, tied it with cords, and strapped it to his kit bag. He had come to Canton with little. He would take that and the robe out. A sleepless night with only his throbbing arm to distract him from thoughts of Zambak left him wrung out.

  He found his faux valet—Mr. Jones—a sullen-looking Thorn, and a sternly disapproving William Bradshaw at the harbor entrance to the factory. Zambak would leave the same way she had come, as Jones, a sailor’s cap pulled over her hair. They would try to maintain the pretense at least until they passed the Chinese fortresses where the river narrowed.

  She cropped her hair again. It won’t endear her to Clara Elliot. I’ll have to lock her in my cabin.

  Bradshaw hefted a battered sea chest. Charles assumed it contained Zambak’s treasured Manchu dresses.

  At a pointed look from Bradshaw, Thorn picked up his kit bag. “Don’t you have servants to carry luggage?” he grumbled.

  “Normally,” Bradshaw muttered.

  “What do you mean?” Charles asked.

  “The Chinese servants disappeared overnight,” Zambak told him, her mouth set in grim lines. “A rather ominous sign, I think.”

  Thorn growled something insulting. Bradshaw caught Charles’s eyes, the two men in silent agreement. The sooner he got the Hayden siblings out of Canton, the better. There seemed no reason for further speech.

  The four of them trudged toward the docks in the dawning light only to encounter a knot of seamen in a heated discussion, the captain of the Oliver and Company packet among them.

  “Problem, Captain?” Bradshaw asked.

  “You could say. The Chinese have blocked the river. No ships in or out.”

  The surly faces in the crowd of men left little doubt about the seriousness of the situation. “We could run it, if Elliot hadn’t forced the armed vessels back to Macao,” an American said angrily.

  “Have they given a reason?” Charles asked.

  “Not to us,” another—obviously English—said, spitting on the ground. “Dirt under their feet we are. Someone needs to teach these heathens some respect.”

  “Mr. Bradshaw, I suggest Mr. Jones accompany Lord Glenaire back to Oliver and Company. Perhaps you and I can find more information at the consulate or the East India Company premises.”

  Bradshaw nodded. “Dan headed over there earlier,” he replied. “I’ll go with you.”

  You might have told me that sooner. Charles swallowed his retort.

  “I’m not going to be sent back to Zion’s Quarter like some choir boy. I’m going to the Company factory,” Thorn insisted, turning on his heels in that direction.

  “Jones!” Charles snapped. “You will wait for me at Oliver’s factory.” He glared at Zambak who too obviously looked prepared to follow her brother. The fewer people who notice her wandering about the better.

  “His lordship may have need of me, Your Grace,” she responded.

  He heard muttering among the seamen. “Damned titles and strutting aristocrats . . .”

  “You will escort me to Zion’s Quarter, Mr. Jones, and I’ll brook no opposition,” he repeated through clenched teeth. As badly as he wanted to search out Dan Oliver, he wanted Zambak off the parade ground more. Thorn strode halfway across the open space while they stood their ground: Charles determined and Zambak defiant.

  “We’ll lose him,” she hissed.

  “Better him than you,” he retorted under his breath. “Captain, I will thank you to see my luggage stowed aboard until we can sail. Mr. Bradshaw, you will let me know what you discover, will you not? And please escort Lord Glenaire back to the factory.” Neither American looked pleased to be ordered about by an English duke, but they didn’t argue.

  Stepping away, he addressed Zambak in a furious whisper. “You cannot parade your female self around outside. You know that—and that disguise of yours fools few. We’re in enough trouble.”

  “We need to keep Thorn in hand,” she stormed back.

  “I can’t handle both of you at once if you’re going to be def
iant. Move quickly before we entertain the waterfront with the image of a duke taking his valet by the arm.”

  “If I go back to Zion’s Quarter, will you go after Thorn?”

  “That’s what I intended, damn it Zambak. Of course it is. Use that magnificent mind of yours for a moment.”

  She took several steps before she gave in. “Yes. Do it,” she answered in clipped tones.

  When he reached the Company headquarters, he found the Marquess of Glenaire to be the least of his problems, even when he found him in conversation with Jarratt’s Canton manager.

  “No one’s going anywhere, your lordship,” Charles heard the man growl. “Not into the city. Not onto the boats.”

  Charles gave the boy a hard look. “Follow me. We’ll get to the bottom of this,” he said, turning on his best ducal voice. “They can’t force us to stay here.” He wished he believed that, but Thorn at least accepted his tone of authority and followed him.

  “You’re right. The Company ought to accept—” Charles ignored the rant about privilege that followed, making a bee line for Oliver and the other senior officials.

  Dan Oliver paled at the sight of him. “I hoped you got out before the blockade,” he said. “Bradshaw tells me otherwise. Where is . . .?

  “My valet? Back at Zion’s Quarter.” Oliver’s shoulders sagged in relief. “What has happened?” Charles went on.

  Jarratt’s minion had followed him. “Lin demands we turn over our opium,” he said.

  “We knew that,” Charles answered. “What has changed?”

  “We’re under siege,” Oliver told him.

  “The servants have all disappeared, the river has been blockaded, and supplies have been cut off until we submit and hand over all our opium,” the East India Company man explained.

  “How long can we hold out?”

  Oliver glanced at Thorn. “That depends on how careful we are.

  “You have no opium, Dan. Doesn’t Lin make an exception?” Charles asked.

  “So far, no,” the American said, “but individual demands are reaching each factory. I need to get back to Zion’s Quarter. Your “valet” may be there when demands arrive.” He studied Charles, waiting for his meaning to sink in.

  Lin may attack Oliver for Zambak’s presence. Worse he may demand— Charles shuddered to think what the high commissioner could demand.

  ~ ~ ~

  Zambak listened to Peters read the decree in flat tones. She had reverted to the Manchu dress rather than watch the Americans squirm uncomfortably over a woman in breeches, and scurried to Dan Oliver’s private office to find them about to start without her.

  “The High Commissioner holds Oliver and Company in great ‘esteem’ for want of a better word,” Peters translated, while Dan, Bradshaw, and their troublesome guests crowded around the captain’s desk.

  “But?” Oliver prodded.

  “Friendship with, . . . hmm” With no Chinese staff remaining, Peters had no help. He murmured the Chinese word out loud.

  “Barbarians, I believe,” Zambak put in.

  “Yes. Barbarians, I suppose. He says we allowed friendship with barbarians to cloud our vision. He calls on Hong—he means merchant—Oliver to reject lawlessness and expel lawbreakers from his premises.” The doctor’s expression sagged even as his pallor deepened.

  “What is it, Peters? What does he want?” Charles demanded.

  “He asks Dan to hand over the English lawbreakers that he shelters so that he can . . .” He scanned the message once again and then twice. “Judge—or perhaps correct—their behavior.”

  Zambak spoke over thickness gathering in her throat. “What is the punishment for westerners who violate the ban on entering the city walls?”

  “Banishment,” Oliver said.

  She took a relieved breath. “And the presence of a woman?”

  “More complicated. No one has tried it. I would have expected him to call me on the carpet for allowing it. The crime would be mine in his eyes, I should think,” Dan Oliver told her.

  “Do they execute women?” she asked, looking from Peters to Bradshaw and back to Oliver.

  Peters shrugged. “I haven’t heard of it happening, but that doesn’t mean they wouldn’t.”

  “The logical thing then, is for me to obey the summons while His Grace remains here,” Zambak said.

  “No!” Charles shouted.

  “My lady—” Oliver began at the same time.

  “Did you hear me? There is risk,” Peter’s said. “We can’t let a woman put herself in that position.”

  “I am willing to take that risk. Besides, I will learn a great deal if I go. It is my life and my decision to make.”

  “Zambak Hayden, you cannot—–” Charles began.

  “You have no right to order me, Charles. My decision. I will go. We owe it to Oliver and Company to help them redeem themselves in the commissioner’s eyes.”

  Silent communication passed between Oliver and his colleagues. “It will certainly help us if it goes well,” Dan Oliver said. “Are you certain, my lady?” Peters watched anxiously; Bradshaw studied the floor.

  “Certain,” she reiterated.

  “Then I go too.” Charles glared at her; she glared back, equally determined. Stubborn man.

  “Your Grace! There is no guarantee that banishment is the only—” Peters sputtered.

  “I need no guarantee. She isn’t going alone.”

  “Charles, isn’t it better if one of us stays back?” she said, as sweetly as she could muster.

  His stormy blue eyes bore into hers. “You aren’t going alone. It is my life and my decision to make.”

  He’s thrown my words back in my face. Cow shite. She had no argument to dissuade him. They would face the commissioner together.

  Chapter 29

  Lin’s messenger, as it turned out, waited for Oliver and Company’s reply at the front gate. Within an hour, he returned with an escort and what Peters assured them amounted to promises of safety for the woman. Charles kept his skepticism to himself. Zambak dressed as a Manchu lady but could do little with her hair. The white blond, entirely un-Chinese curls, blessedly short, responded to Canton’s air with unruly enthusiasm, flying about her head. Charles dressed as an English gentleman ought, albeit, given the choices available in such a place, with considerably less grandeur than he might have worn to greet the Duke of Sudbury. Peters, Oliver, and Bradshaw watched them go, unable to disguise the concern in their eyes.

  Charles positioned himself just behind Zambak’s left shoulder, marching in step. He didn’t understand her greeting to their escort, but the gentleman in court dress responded. The two large, armed guards on either side did not. He expected to be led to the Five Story Pagoda or other garrisoned building, so when they were taken instead to the compound of Yuen-hua Academy—which he had assumed to be merely Lin’s residence—he wondered again about the man who had summoned them.

  He can whack off heads in a schoolyard as well as a parade ground, he reminded himself.

  After marching them through a sunny courtyard lined with cypress and dotted with artfully placed sculpture, their guard brought them what appeared to be an academic assembly room hastily repurposed into an audience chamber of sorts. A group stood between them and the dais, three well-dressed gentlemen with chains ominously around their necks. He tilted his head forward to listen to Zambak’s whispered translations. “They are waiting for—” A glower from their escort silenced her, and she bowed her head respectfully. Charles would have laughed if the stakes had been less high. Theater, remember. She said theater.

  After several excruciating moments, a door opened up behind him, and a man came down the middle of the room surrounded by an honor guard, his pace stately and somber. Commissioner Lin Zexu appeared to be of middling
height, only an inch or two taller than Charles, but he exuded confidence and power beyond his size. He had the gently rotund shape of a jovial grandfather, but no one would mistake his expression for anything other than sober. The men in front of them dropped to their knees when he mounted the dais and touched their foreheads to the carpeted floor, once, twice—three times. Witnessing the famous Chinese kowtow for the first time, Charles wondered in a panic if they were meant to do the same thing, but Lin’s attention appeared to be entirely on the men in front of him. “Opium den operators,” Zambak hissed.

  Lin made short work of the trial, if that is what it was, barking a reprimand, and—judging from what appeared to be desperate begging—passing sentence. Guards dragged them out the door. One wept openly.

  Lin raised his eyes, and Charles felt it cut through him. After a second’s hesitation, Zambak dropped to her knees and made a perfect imitation of the kowtow she had witnessed. Theater. Charles made a spilt-second decision to stay erect. Instead, he gave Lin a perfect court bow, exactly as he might to the queen. He wondered whether the brief flicker of surprise that crossed Lin’s face owed more to her obeisance or his refusal. With a hand gesture, the commissioner summoned an official to stand behind him. He then barked an order, and the man, apparently a translator, said in heavily accented English, “The lady may rise.”

  She stood, head bowed. “The High Commissioner wishes the names of those who flout our laws,” the translator pronounced. Charles didn’t wait for Zambak. “I am His Grace Charles Emery Wheatly, the Duke of Murnane. This woman is Lady Zambak Hayden, daughter of His Grace, the Duke of Sudbury.” It was almost perfectly correct, insofar as a duke could introduce himself.