“And that is as it should be,” said Miss Violet firmly. “I’m glad Hazel asked you to come, I’m glad you agreed, and I’m glad that I was wrong about everything.”
She smiled at him. He smiled back.
For a moment there was nothing but sunshine in his heart, but anxiety returned all too soon. “What about Miss McHenry? I want to help you look after her, but I don’t think I dare go back to England.”
Miss Violet took a deep breath. “If that day comes, I will take care of Hazel—goodness knows she has taken enough care of me through the years. You, young man, you will keep going east, toward your friend and your family. Toward everything that has kept your hope alive all these years.”
Leighton unearthed the Moroccan tea set from his luggage and polished it until the silver glowed. That afternoon he served tea to the ladies from the exquisite set.
Miss McHenry gasped. “Violet, didn’t we see a set exactly like this in Tangier? What a coincidence that they should have it in this house, more than a thousand miles away.”
Miss Violet raised a brow at Leighton.
He swallowed, still feeling shy. “It isn’t a coincidence. I bought the set that day in the bazaar…for you.”
“Oh, you shouldn’t have!” exclaimed Miss McHenry. Then she grinned mischievously. “But I’m so glad you did—after we left Morocco I used to think about this tea set and wish I’d gone ahead with the purchase, the devil with practical concerns.”
Leighton lifted the gleaming teapot to pour into glasses set in the silver-filigree holders. “Well, now it’s all yours.”
Puzzlement came into Miss McHenry’s eyes. “But if you’ve had it all this time, why are you giving it to me today, instead of, say, last Christmas?”
For Christmas he had given Miss Violet a bottle of limoncello and Miss McHenry a small oil painting of her favorite vista on Capri, purchased from a local artist.
“Because—a gift not given is like a book not opened.”
Miss McHenry gave him a quizzical look, but did not press him for a more clear-cut answer. “Very profound, my dear. Now do let us raise these very, very pretty glasses and have a toast.”
“What shall we toast?” Miss Violet asked.
Miss McHenry grinned from ear to ear. “That an old woman’s burgeoning hypochondria turned out to be just that, a whole lot of well-stirred nonsense.”
Miss Violet blinked. “Do you mean—”
“Yes!” cried Miss McHenry exuberantly. “I know you’ve been worried about my health. And I’ve been scaring myself with thoughts of tumors and whatnot. But today I saw the finest internist in Naples—”
“You went to Naples?”
Miss McHenry chortled. “Well, actually I paid for him to come to Capri, to the house of our artist friend—and he declared me in fine health, except for the ulcers that I’ve developed in the course of our travels. Now I shall have to eat much more carefully. No more indulging in strong coffee or spicy food—alas that I discovered both so late. But if I coddle my stomach with porridge and plain broth, he sees no reason why I shouldn’t live to be ninety.”
Leighton laughed out of sheer relief. “Thank goodness. Miss Violet had me convinced your health was rapidly deteriorating.”
“Well, I did tell you I was a pessimist.” Miss Violet smiled sheepishly. “Perhaps in the future I should say that I am a raging pessimist.”
“You did some good,” said Miss McHenry to her sister. “Because you convinced our young fellow here that I had one foot in the grave, I finally got my tea set.”
They all laughed at that. Then Miss McHenry lifted her glass again. “Let’s drink to the pleasure of being alive, boring dinners or not.”
Miss Violet did likewise. “To the best sister in the world.”
Leighton clinked his glass with them both. “To friends. May they ever flourish.”
Chapter 19
Shao-ye
Ying-ying stood in the middle of the room, blindfolded, listening.
Amah was moving about the room. Her footsteps were completely soundless, her breaths likewise. But sometimes the edge of her blouse-tunic brushed against a corner of a table and gave Ying-ying an idea of where she was.
Which was helpful if the objective of the exercise was for her to hit Amah—and occasionally it was—but today’s goal was something else.
In the next courtyard a songbird chittered. Running feet on a walking path to the west—a lackey was delivering something in a hurry. A shrill yet wobbly musical note, followed by a burst of laughter—one of Da-ren’s concubines was learning to play the flute, though she really shouldn’t.
In Ying-ying’s rooms, silence.
Then, sound: a barely perceptible disturbance of the air.
Ying-ying lifted the painted silk fan in her hand and blocked the incoming object a handspan from her face. She spun around and knocked another one that was coming for her shoulder. Then another, aimed at her knees.
The tiny missiles kept coming; she kept deflecting them, her mind blank, her concentration absolute.
At last they stopped. She did not let her guard down. Amah sometimes waited a long time, just until Ying-ying began to relax, before attacking again.
But today she said, “That’s enough.”
Ying-ying pulled off her blindfold and fetched the broom: There were mung beans all over the floor that needed to be swept up. Since direct hand-to-hand combat was unwise even inside their rooms—sounds still traveled—Amah had become quite inventive in Ying-ying’s training. And though most of the maneuvers she devised did not involve any real weapons, they still pushed Ying-ying to her limits. Today’s exercise, for example, required Ying-ying to infuse the fabric of the fan with her own chi; otherwise a mung bean sent from Amah’s fingers would easily put a hole in the silk.
When she had cleared away the evidence of their training, she made a cup of tea and brought it to Amah. “Master looks tired.”
It had been a while since she appeared in the pink of health. From time to time Ying-ying ventured to suggest medicinal potions to feed the spleen or nourish the gallbladder, but Amah always waved them aside.
“I’m all right,” Amah said.
Ying-ying wasn’t entirely sure about that. Sometimes she wondered whether their lack of freedom wasn’t affecting Amah, especially since, as far as Ying-ying could tell, she hadn’t gone out on one of her nocturnal forays since their arrival in Da-ren’s residence nearly three years ago.
Did a woman addicted to gambling sicken if she couldn’t have any illicit excitement with cup and dice?
“Maybe we should ask the kitchen to—”
Amah cut her off. “Don’t be so long-winded. I already said I’m fine.”
Ying-ying turned her face aside and rolled her eyes. Lately there was no pleasing the woman. “In that case I’ll get ready to go to my English teacher.”
Ying-ying had thought her lessons with Master Gordon—that was his real name—would be a secret between the two of them. To her shock, he had applied directly to Da-ren for permission—and received it. She had been both profoundly relieved and more than a little disconcerted. Too much education for girls was frowned upon. Had Da-ren allowed it because he admired learning—as in Mother’s case—or because Ying-ying might as well, since she was a bastard with foreign blood?
But whatever Da-ren’s reasons, with his sanctioning, Ying-ying could proceed openly to Master Gordon’s rooms every other morning—she wouldn’t have minded daily lessons, but Amah had put her foot down and Ying-ying had acquiesced.
She gathered up a stack of English newspapers to return to Master Gordon—he received them by post and thought they provided not only good material for a learner, but a glimpse or two into how the English lived their lives. The book he loaned her, Pride and Prejudice, was more difficult for her to understand—and not just due to the language barrier. As she made her way through the chapters, frequently checking the English-Chinese dictionary he had gifted her, her mouth was almost al
ways open from astonishment.
Such unfettered lives they led. The men of China—and maybe most of the women too—would be aghast. But having women who enjoyed a great many liberties didn’t seem to have hurt the English any. They were strong, powerful, and constantly advancing, while China lumbered and lurched, taking two steps backward for every step forward.
She tucked the newspapers under her arm and grabbed an umbrella. The day promised rain, for which she was glad—it had been quite hot in the past few days. Out into the courtyard there were still no fish and no songbirds, but otherwise Amah had transformed the formerly barren space into a pleasant garden. A row of young pomegranate trees lined an entire wall; along the opposite wall, tree peonies that in spring bloomed a lovely, creamy pink. And in big glazed pots there were China roses, cockscombs, and ornamental peppers.
Her headache medicine must have worked wonders for the majordomo.
The rain started when Ying-ying was halfway across the residence,s and came down quite heavily by the time she reached the garden outside the Court of Contemplative Bamboo. Inside the garden, Little Dragon was unloading a cart full of big rocks, the hem of his robe tied around his waist. And in the pavilion, out of the rain, sat a thin man drinking a cup of tea, looking permanently hunched over.
She recognize him as the same lackey to whom Little Dragon had delivered a flagon of heated spirits one winter day: Chang, a man of very little importance in Da-ren’s household, someone sent out to do the work no one else wanted. It puzzled her how this man managed to have someone as proud as Little Dragon treat him with such consideration.
Little Dragon greeted her with his usual frostiness. “Bai Gu-niang.”
She returned an equally aloof nod.
Master Gordon was opening his windows as she walked in. He had told her that compared to London, it hardly rained in Peking. And when it did, the rhythm was exactly the opposite, with summer being the rainiest season, and the rest of the year almost bone-dry.
“Enjoying the sound of rain?” she asked, knowing that he did—through the ache of nostalgia, that was.
“Ah, yes—and the memories of my carefree youth.”
He poured tea for her. Sometimes they drank jasmine tea, sometimes green tea, and once in a while a spectacularly expensive white tea from Fukien; but when it rained the tea was always from Darjeeling.
The scent of which always recalled their first meeting. How fortunate she was to have met him. What her life would have been like otherwise, she dared not even think.
“I know an exquisite poem about listening to the rain,” she told him.
While he taught her English, she also helped him with his Chinese. Mother would have considered her understanding of poetry completely woeful, but it was more than adequate for explaining the intricacies of the language to a foreigner.
“Will you write it out for me?” he asked, excited.
She still regarded her own handwriting with disdain, but he loved to watch her wield a brush, with the kind of admiration that must have been shining on her own face when she’d watched Mother at her calligraphy practice. She smiled at him. “Of course.”
He went inside his study to retrieve his set of Chinese writing implements: They always used the front room, to show that they had nothing to hide—Da-ren’s permission not withstanding, Ying-ying still needed to be mindful about how her conduct would be perceived.
As soon as he left, Little Dragon entered. She didn’t know how, since he had been doing heavy work just a short time ago, but his clothes looked completely spotless, with barely even a speck of rain on his shoulders.
He set down a pile of newspapers, magazines, and letters on a side table. “These were delivered from the British Legation. Bai Gu-niang, please see to it that Master Kuo-tung has them in hand.”
The expression of distaste on his face…She could not understand him. Other servants disdained her because she was nobody, but he wasn’t the sycophantic sort. What cause did he have to despise her, she who had never asked him to do any extra work or treated him disrespectfully?
“I will,” she said.
He withdrew. Master Gordon came back with a brocade-wrapped box that contained the “four treasures of the study”—ink stone, ink stick, writing brush, and writing paper. He ladled a small amount of water on the ink stone and ground the ink stick in a gentle circular motion, as she had shown him.
“Master Gordon, why do you suppose Little Dragon thinks ill of me?” she heard herself ask.
His hand stilled for a moment, before he resumed the grinding. “I do not believe it is anything against you, per se. It’s more…”
He glanced at her. “Do you not see the similarities between the two of you?”
His question made no sense. She could see nothing in common at all between herself and Little Dragon.
“Would it help you if I tell you he was born the year after the French ransacked the Old Summer Palace?”
She did not comprehend immediately. Then her hand moved on its own to cover her mouth. Was he implying that Little Dragon was also of mixed blood? “He told you?”
“He didn’t need to. He does not have eyes like yours, but he has unusual height for a Chinese. His skin is several shades fairer than the most housebound Chinese women. It would also explain his interest in learning French and not any of the other languages I speak,” answered Master Gordon.
She was still flabbergasted. “If you are right—if we are indeed both of European paternity—then why does he treat me as he does? Wouldn’t he want to be friends instead?”
“But look at the difference in your stations in life. You may think you are a nobody, my dear, but you are still a guest of a prince of the blood. You have a courtyard of your own, an amah to look after you, and even an Englishman to give you lessons.
“His life has probably been immeasurably more difficult. Once he asked me whether he could give some spirits that Da-ren had gifted me to this servant, Chang. I asked who Chang was and Little Dragon said he was the man who had saved him from a life begging on the streets of Tientsin.”
So he detested her because she was no better than he was, yet had enjoyed a life of ease and plenty.
She shook her head.
“I know it isn’t fair,” said Master Gordon gently, “to be judged for circumstances beyond your control. But his opinion diminishes him, not you.”
She blew out a breath of air and dipped a fine-tipped brush into the ink he had produced. “Well, at least now I know. And by the way, a delivery came for you from the British Legation.”
Master Gordon had received letters and packages before, when Ying-ying was with him. Always he had set everything aside and continued with their lesson. But today he leaped up from his seat, his face flushed with something half between excitement and dread.
“Would Bai Gu-niang mind if I took a moment to read this letter?”
They now conversed largely in English, but at her insistence he still called her Bai Gu-niang, instead of Miss Blade.
“Of course not.”
She wrote out the poem while he stood in a corner of the room and read his letter. He was practically shaking when he came back to his seat.
“I hope it’s good news,” she said, setting down her brush. She couldn’t tell one way or the other.
“I—I think so. I hope so. My goodness, I hope so.”
“What happened?”
“Do you remember the house in the south of England? I gave one of the jade tablets my father had brought back to England to the master of the house.”
“Yes, of course. He was your dearest friend.”
“Well, he passed away five years ago. The letter is from his widow. She tells me that there is a possibility that his son might be on his way to visit me.”
“But that’s wonderful!”
“Yes, it is. But it would not be an easy journey for him. I am beside myself, imagining all the worst-case scenarios.” He shook his head as if to clear it. “Forgive me—I’
m a little overcome.”
“It’s quite all right,” she reassured him, feeling rather overcome herself—she wanted so much for him to be happy.
He poured the remainder of his tea down his throat and made a valiant effort to start the day’s lesson. But she excused herself after some time, knowing he probably wished to read the letter again and again and do whatever it was that people did when they had news that was both exhilarating and unsettling.
“Just remember,” she said as she rose. “Don’t do that.”
They both knew what she was talking about: the jade tablet. She had come upon him at the beginning of the previous year looking at it with fierce concentration, oblivious to her presence—and had admonished him for not heeding her warnings about never having the tablet in the open again.
“Not a chance,” he replied, smiling.
At the door she turned back. “I hope he comes.”
“I hardly dare hope,” said Master Gordon, his voice cracking just a little. “But yes, I hope so with every fiber of my being.”
What if Master Gordon’s friend’s son did come? There was certainly space in Master Gordon’s rooms for him to stay. But would Da-ren allow it, or would the thought of two foreigners under his roof be too much even for him?
All those thoughts and more careened inside Ying-ying’s head. She scarcely knew whether she was on her way home or charging headlong into Da-ren’s study.
“…can’t leave yet. Wait a little longer, please, I beg you.”
She blinked—the voice belonged to Little Dragon. She was in the garden outside the Court of Contemplative Bamboo, and he was speaking from the other side of the artificial hill. Amah had always instructed her to walk heavily: a noiseless progress was the surest sign of a martial-arts expert. But distracted by Master Gordon’s news, she must have forgotten—and Little Dragon and whomever he was speaking to had no idea that she was within hearing range.
The Hidden Blade Page 20
