In truth, she had often toyed with the idea of setting up a dressmaking shop. She had been designing clothing all her life. Except, her set did not go into trade—and besides, she was going to be a wife and mother; there would be no time for a business. So she had contented herself with making her own clothing, helping her friends, and creating a trousseau.
Except, everything was different here in Shanghai, and the idea of becoming a dressmaker—in this exact location—definitely appealed. What a sweet revenge it would be on Ru Shan as well. The man who had bought her as a pet would be forced to sell his family business to her.
She was already smiling at the thought. Except that all depended upon whether anyone would buy her designs. And by all appearances, Esmerelda was an excellent judge of such things.
The woman sauntered over, peered curiously at the sketches, and Lydia felt her belly tighten with anticipation. To one side, Ru Shan also edged forward, his interest evident in the tense set to his shoulders. Lydia tried to glare him away, but he refused to be intimidated. He did, however, remain silent, apparently as interested in Esmerelda's opinion as Lydia.
Except Esmerelda wasn't saying anything. Indeed, for the first time all day, the woman was maddeningly silent.
"Well?" Lydia finally asked when her patience was exhausted. "What do you think?"
Esmerelda didn't answer at first, her frown expanding as she lifted her gaze to view Ru Shan's bare walls. "Interesting designs," she finally said. "Apparently the Chinese have learned something of dressmaking from us." But then she shook her head. "Except I don't believe they actually sew such outfits. Pretty pictures are one thing. Sewing is something else entirely."
Lydia stepped forward, her eagerness barely restrained. "But you like the designs?"
Her companion nodded. "Most intriguing. Yes, I like them." Then she sighed. "But they haven't any fabric."
Which is when Ru Shan stepped in, his bow deep and respectful. "Fabric can always be purchased," he said. "If madame is interested—"
"No," interrupted Lydia, "I agree with you, Esmerelda. They haven't the ability to sew such excellent designs." She was speaking more to Ru Shan than to Esmerelda, her anger at last turning into a kind of glee at his comeuppance.
He bowed, but she could see the stormy anger in his eyes. "Our seamstresses are the very best."
"Truly?" she challenged. "Please, let me see the specifications for this." She flipped through the book until she came to a complicated ballgown.
Again Ru Shan bowed, though Lydia detected a stiffness in the movement. "My apologies, madam, but the notations are in Chinese."
"I read Chinese," she said firmly. Because she did.
"They are not here at the shop."
"They are not here at all, I wager." Then she straightened, buoyed by the knowledge that Esmerelda liked her work. "Do you know what I wish to do, Esmerelda?" she mused loudly, her gaze becoming contemptuous as she surveyed her surroundings. "I believe I will wait until this poor man becomes truly desperate."
"Well, that can't take long," laughed her companion.
"No," Lydia agreed with a smile. "It probably won't." Then she turned to Ru Shan, making sure he understood exactly what her intentions were. "Then, I believe I shall come here and buy this shop at an amazingly cheap price, turn these incompetents out on their ear, and make a go of dressmaking myself."
Esmerelda's jaw went slack with astonishment. "Surely you don't mean to go into commerce yourself."
Lydia grinned, pleased because Ru Shan had gone sickly pale at her words. "I certainly do," she said firmly. "And I believe I could negotiate a very low price indeed. This is, after all, in the foreign concession. All we need do is expose this man's depravities to the authorities, and the French magistrates will be all too happy to evict him. His only option would be to sell the business to me. For a song."
Then she turned on her heel and left, her laughter ringing sweetly through Ru Shan's empty shop.
From the letters of Mei Lan Cheng
9 February, 1874
Dearest Li Hua,
I must apologize for not writing in so long. You must have thought I was murdered by that ghost man, Mr.
Lost Cat. I cannot tell you how silly that seems to me now. Mr. Lost Cat is very much like a cat—large, furry, but actually very sweet.
Are you surprised? That I would call a ghost person sweet? I am. But he is. Polite and kind. And he has taken to bathing before he comes to our store, so he does not smell like the other Englishmen. He likes our tea and made me laugh when he tried to use chopsticks to eat a bowl of rice. He had come during lunch, you see, and so out of politeness Cheng Fu offered to share. Mr. Lost Cat even seemed upset when he realized I would not eat with them. In fact, he refused to share until I was given a bowl as well. Cheng Fu was shocked, of course, but he wants the English money so much that he will tolerate any strangeness so long as the gold comes.
There was not enough rice, of course, and so I refused. But Mr. Lost Cat even understood that. He gave Ru Shan some money and told him—in Shanghainese—to buy my favorite food. If any Chinese man had done such a thing, Cheng Fu would have flown into a rage. But he wants the English gold so much he told me—me!—not to be offended. That the English are simply very strange, he said, and I was to do as Mr. Lost Cat wanted.
As if I was the one who did not understand kindness, even from a ghost person!
Do you remember that lie I told Cheng Fu? When I said the English were not interested in my good stitching? I was right that Mr. Lost Cat knew what I had done. That very first meeting with him, when I was so afraid he would murder me, he was very polite. He paid for our badly embroidered fabric and arranged for its delivery to his ship. And then, before he left, he spoke to me in English so Cheng Fu would not understand.
He said he knew I did not want to sell our good fabric to him, and that he did not blame me. That I did not know him at all and how could we do business with a stranger? It was too dangerous to risk our best goods on someone we did not trust.
He said that to me, Li Hua, and I knew right then that this ghost person knew more about business than my husband. But are you wondering the same thing I am? How could that be? How could a barbarian know more than my husband, who has been raised in the clothing business since he was a small boy?
I tell you, Li Hua, I do not know. But it is true. And I do not know if that makes me more afraid of Mr. Lost Cat or less.
There is more, Li Hua. Mr. Lost Cat has been coming to the shop every three days now. Yes, every three days! At exactly the times when I will be in the shop either checking the work of the embroiderers or giving them my new designs. He is there sometimes when I bring Cheng Fu his lunch. And lately, I think he has begun waiting on the corner to walk with me as I travel.
It is not seemly for me to allow this to happen. It is not good for my reputation or that of our shop. You know how the Chinese will avoid any place that does great business with the foreigners.
But Li Hua, I have not ended it. And worse, Cheng Fu does not wish me to. He sees only the English gold. What I see is a kind man, even if he is a barbarian. And he makes me laugh. Yes, a ghost person makes me laugh.
Have I been infected too? Am I now as sick as all those other Chinese who are desperate for foreign attention—doing anything for the gold and the opium that they bring?
Mr. Lost Cat sails tomorrow, and his ship will carry some of my best designs to England. I cannot say if I am happy or sad at that. I cannot even think beyond the knowledge that I will not see him again for many months.
Oh, I must go, Li Hua. There is so much more that I wish to write, but Ru Shan is angry again. He does not like his studies and will sometimes throw his books in a fit of temper. Perhaps I should visit the monks today. Perhaps if I give them more money, Heaven will end these troubles and I can sleep peacefully again.
—Mei Lan
Effort and stress are our unhappiest companions. They seem to follow us wherever we go and to inhibit
our need to be still. Indeed, with them as companions, what room is left for Tao?
—Lao Tzu interpreted by Priya Hemenway
Chapter 11
True fear dropped Ru Shan to his knees. It was an instinctive motion, one all children learned in China—a prayerful position. But he did not feel as if he were praying. Instead, he felt a mind-numbing anguish.
Lydia plotted revenge.
It had been bad enough to wake this morning alone, Lydia gone from his side. Her absence had rocked him to his foundations, for he truly hadn't thought her capable of such deception. No white person could hide their passions from him—or so he'd believed. The ghost people were tossed about by their emotions, completely unable to think of or carry out long-term plans. That's what he had been told. That's what everyone in China believed.
Except, it obviously wasn't true. At least not for Lydia. Not only had she waited patiently for her opportunity to escape, but she had carefully hidden her plans from him and Fu De. To all appearances, she had accepted her lot. Now she had escaped and was capable of doing even more. That alone left him stunned as he sat on her empty bed.
Then, because no raindrop falls alone, her disappearance was only one of the calamities to strike him today. When he'd finally arrived at the shop, he'd learned that his latest shipments of silk had inexplicably disappeared. He wasn't truly surprised. When the Chinese turned their backs, they did so without reservation. His fellow countrymen believed he consorted with white women, which naturally meant he was untrustworthy, irresponsible, and even unclean. It didn't matter that he and his family had paid their bills for decades. Suddenly, everything was cash only—assuming supplies happened to exist.
This, naturally, had all come just after he spent all his cash on the purchase of Lydia. And now that his family was at its most vulnerable in three generations, the rumors had begun. His name was inexplicably besmirched, and no respectable Chinese would deal with him.
He did not think Lydia had created his current problems, but she was certainly profiting from them. There had been a great deal of notice taken of her sketches yesterday and all through today. Many white customers expressed interest. But Lydia's statement was correct—he did not have seamstresses who could convert her designs into workable gowns. He had sewers who were trying, but the fabric didn't fall right, the look was not quite like Lydia's pictures. And no customer would buy—certainly not pay gold in advance for—a gown that was not even on display.
In short, he had the designs but no cloth to make them and no seamstress to sew them. He had the means of his family's success right in his hands, and no way to succeed. Because Lydia had escaped. And with her had gone the yin water he needed to turn his yang fire to gold. Not only had he lost the golden embryo that creates an Immortal, but also the gold that would bring his family comfort throughout generations.
Worst of all, he could not be sorry that she had escaped. Indeed, that was the cause of his greatest agony. He had been wrong. Lydia was not a Chinese woman to be kept behind walls and used at a man's leisure. She was also not a pet or an inferior species. She was indeed the match of any man he knew: smart, resourceful, and absolutely determined to destroy him.
But why would she? Because he had unlawfully stolen her and kept her his prisoner.
He knew that now. Which meant his current calamities were his own fault—Heaven's just retribution for violating one of Its greatest creatures. That mistake would be his downfall. He could not regain Lydia's help or trust. Worse, if he pressed the matter, he could very well find himself in jail. Lydia had apparently spent the day reestablishing herself among white society. And though the ghost people cared little for the lost women who washed up on the Shanghai shores, they would be very angry with any Chinese merchant who'd chosen to harm their elite.
In short, he had no escape. All he could do was sit and wait for the knife blade to descend. Would she be content to merely force him to sell his shop to her, thereby destroying his family income forever? Or would she go even further, have him arrested? Would she expose his jade dragon practices to one and all?
Lydia's friend was correct. His religion was not one openly spoken of. Most Chinese considered it unsavory at best, perverse at worst. That this was simple ignorance would not help him. People chose their own opinions, regardless of the truth.
It would be bad enough to ruin the family commerce, but exposing his unusual Taoist practices would shame him and his family forever. He would be stricken from the Cheng records, disowned by his father and relatives, and cast aside without family connections or recourse.
In China, a disowned man was nothing.
The weight of shame pressed Ru Shan down, making his body sink even farther to the wood floor, his shoulders dropping down to a traditional kowtow.
He would be ruined. By a white woman. And he could not even be angry, for it was his own fault. What he had done to her was wrong.
But how to make amends? How to appease her and Heaven?
He could not think except to know that he needed her. Only she could craft her gown designs into reality. Only she could bring life and gold back to the family store. And only she had ever given him yin power like water flowing from a fountain. His family needed her, and he wanted her.
Which meant he would have to marry her. It was his only option.
Still, the shock of that thought echoed like a crack of thunder through his body. He shook in terror, his forehead still touching the ground. His friends and family would be appalled. If others shunned him because they believed he kept a white woman as a lover, how would they feel about a white wife?
And yet, try as he might, he could think of no other possibility. As his wife, Lydia would continue to create her clothing designs. He already knew they were spectacular enough that someone would pay in advance for such gowns. And with gold to pay for fabric—in advance—his suppliers would return. Gold forced a blind eye to many evils—even that of having a white wife.
Eventually, the Cheng store would flourish again. Meanwhile, he would have access to Lydia's yin power, which could only aid in achieving his financial and religious goals. And lastly, as his wife, Lydia's honor would be restored. Which meant Heaven would be appeased. Once again, Ru Shan's path would be assured.
There was no other option. He had to marry Lydia.
But how to begin? The obstacles were numerous and seemingly insurmountable. He had no influence with these foreigners. And she had a fiancé.
He would find a way. His life and his family's survival depended on it.
* * *
Lydia was shriveling inside. The docks were a teeming mass of noise and confusion. Once that would have thrilled her, but right now it was keeping her from her future husband. And even though there were perhaps a dozen white women watching the noise and bustle, she felt as if everyone's eyes were on her. They all stared and whispered behind their hands, their words obvious. "That's the woman who was in a brothel. And you know what happens there."
It was silly. Even if Maxwell had been spreading the tale far and wide, no one would know what his fiancée looked like. But try as she might to convince herself she was merely being hysterical, she couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. And judged.
She had never expected to become one of those women. "A poor, misguided trollop," as her mother used to say.
And yet, suddenly, she felt as if everyone cast her in that role whether or not it was true.
And maybe it was true, she thought with a crushing panic. Because she missed it. She missed her morning routine with Ru Shan, the flow of yin that made her feel full and lush. She ached to touch herself as Ru Shan had done, but knew she could not. Certainly not in public. Thankfully, she would be married soon. She knew that husbands often enjoyed touching their wives' breasts, and so, hopefully, would Maxwell.
If only the man would appear! Then everything would be set to rights.
Except when Lydia and Esmerelda at last found his company's dockside office, the young man
inside was unsure of her fiancé's whereabouts. He had left some twenty minutes ago in search of Maxwell, leaving her and Esmerelda to wait with increasing impatience in the stifling little room. And as her companion passed the time by recalling every party and entertainment she and Maxwell had enjoyed together, Lydia felt herself grow smaller and tighter and more frightened.
Where was Max? Wasn't he supposed to protect her from experiences like this? Wasn't a husband supposed to make sure his wife was treated with respect and honor? Not force her into the company of his own mistress!
Thankfully, the young clerk chose that moment to return. Unfortunately, he came into the tiny building alone, his face beet red with embarrassment.
"I... I... um, I'm sorry, m-miss," he stammered. "I can't find him."
"I told you," Esmerelda chortled. "Max don't like to be bothered at work. He wouldn't come if you was on fire, he's that particular."
"But I'm his wife," Lydia said to the clerk.
"Not yet, you ain't," crowed her companion.
The young clerk wouldn't look her in the eye. She waited a moment while Esmerelda became positively gleeful at her discomfort.
"Look ducks—," the woman began, but Lydia didn't let her finish.
"Thank you, Esmerelda, for your help today. I believe I can handle things from here." Then she held out her hand. "Max's purse, if you please."
It took a moment for Esmerelda to understand Lydia's meaning. Then, when she finally did, she puffed herself up to her full, impressive height. "Why, of all the cheek!" she sputtered haughtily. "Is this the thanks I get fer helping out a poor woman in need?"
"You helped because Maxwell ordered you to. So it seems we are both dancing to his tune, and you have no cause to act superior." Feeling childish, Lydia abruptly snatched the purse from the woman's wrist, breaking the ribbons and no doubt bruising the woman's skin. She hardly cared. Esmerelda had been picking at her from the very moment she'd let herself into Max's flat.
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