by Jo Goodman
Skye's brows rose briefly in question.
"Those are geographic areas where foreigners can operate under their own set of laws and mores. It's all separate from Chinese culture and Chinese expectations. Essentially, it means foreigners govern themselves and the Chinese have no control. The United States didn't bargain for that privilege. Not because we particularly respected the Chinese, but because we wanted an open door to pillage the whole country."
She didn't comment on his cynicism, believing he had good reason for it. "So the world was your oyster," she said softly.
Walker smiled at that, remembering. "Something like that. I know I satisfied my curiosity about most things Chinese. I learned enough of the language to engage in conversation and translate for my parents, who never quite grasped it. I spent a lot of time observing people going through the routines of their lives, the births, marriages, deaths. Ritual and religion fascinated me. I absorbed everything I could." He sighed. "Over time I began to understand how little my parents appreciated the people they were trying to convert. The concept of a single God, for instance, is not easy for the Chinese to accept. Their religious history embraces Tao and Confucius and Buddha. They can embrace many things, but not just one. To my parents, the Chinese were pagan. To me, they were deeply spiritual."
Walker raked back his hair. "There was an older man in the village who allowed me to work beside him. He had no sons, only daughters, and they were both married and living elsewhere. In exchange for my labor, he taught me things. Each of us thought he had the better part of the bargain."
There was no mistaking the affection Walker had for his mentor. "Your parents couldn't have liked it," Skye said. "They were there to save souls, not lose yours."
"They forbade it."
"And you did it anyway." Skye could see that she and Walker shared a rebellious nature. The strictures placed on him as the child of missionaries couldn't have been so different from those that had been placed on her. She began to understand how it was he knew her so well.
He nodded. "I got away whenever I could and joined Han-sheng. He would never have permitted it if he had known my parents were against it. In truth, it never occurred to him that I would defy my family. It was something he simply couldn't have understood."
"Han-sheng," she said quietly, testing the unfamiliar name. "And you learned Tai-Chi from him?"
"I learned about patience and discipline and the nature of order from him. Tai-Chi is a way of expressing those things."
"I thought it was a way of fighting."
Walker grinned. She sounded disappointed. "Tai-Chi can prepare one for the fight. The exercises mirror the movements of Chinese self-defense. Han-sheng called it Kung-Fu."
"And that's what I saw you do in the park?"
"That's what you saw," he told her. "When my parents left me behind, it was with the expectation that I would return to Boston. As I told you, the money didn't arrive. While I waited for some news I continued to live at the mission but spent most of my time with Han-sheng. My parents' replacements were less accepting of the arrangement than even my mother and father had been, but they also had less control. They put up with me because they believed it was their duty. When we learned my parents had died, they felt released from any promises and sent me to an American shipping merchant. The plan was for me to earn my passage back to Boston by working for him. The man was trading in opium and K'u-li labor for the Central Pacific Railroad. I ran away instead."
Skye was leaning forward in her chair, the champagne glass in her hand untouched. She didn't have to imagine what life must have been like on Shanghai streets. Walker told her. A picture began to form in her mind of a boy who'd become accomplished at living by his wits, who'd abandoned the teachings of his parents and his beloved Han-sheng, to steal and cheat and beg from the local merchants. He greased his beautiful tawny hair with boot blacking and lived in alleyways and slept with dogs. He had to defend his territory and his spoils from other thieves, and the fighting made him strong, sharp, and agile.
It had never been much of a charade. Even with the bootblack and a pigtail, the stolen clothes and bowed head, Walker was simply too foreign looking to be mistaken for anything else. He was quick enough and bright enough to elude the authorities for almost six months, but when he was caught, he came within minutes of paying dearly for his crimes.
"I convinced them I was British," he said, affecting a credible accent.
"British?" she asked. "But—" Skye stopped as she realized she had the answer to her question. "The sphere of influence."
He nodded. "They were afraid to touch me then. I was taken to the British Embassy. It was obvious to the Brits that I was a Yank, but they didn't hold it against me. I was given food, clothes, shelter, and severe lectures. Eventually I was turned over to William Elkins, the American consul in Shanghai. Mr. Elkins was engaged in some very delicate negotiations with T'zi Hsi." He saw Skye's questioning look and explained. "The emperor was only a child at the time. His mother ruled. She still has powerful influence, but then it was absolute and Mr. Elkins had no idea how to engage her cooperation."
"And you did," Skye said. Walker had absorbed the culture, the religion, the way of thinking that was a mystery to the West. Of course, he understood what the men in power did not.
"And I did," he agreed. "I helped him arrange a profitable treaty which gained him a great deal of favor with President Grant. When he realized that I was more asset than liability, he stopped thinking about sending me away. I stayed with him for three years, helping him with the local government officials, assisting him in making the best trade agreements. I listened to everything. None of the Chinese officials suspected I understood the language. Foreigners hadn't bothered to learn before. I was young, of no consequence to them, and they were indiscreet. I knew who could be bribed and who would consider it an insult. Sometimes the negotiations would require communication among several powerful families. I was often a messenger between them, trusted simply because they thought I was ignorant and inferior."
Walker shook his head, his mouth drawn to one side in a derisive, mocking smile. "The Chinese believed in their superiority as much as Mr. Elkins and others like him believed in theirs."
"You could read the language," Skye said.
"Not well," he admitted. "But well enough."
"You were the consul's spy."
Humor touched Walker's smile now and the gleam of it sharpened the gold flecks in his eyes. "I think I was referred to as a second assistant to the consul's aide."
"You were a spy," she said firmly.
He shrugged. "Mr. Elkins rewarded my service by getting me sponsored to West Point."
Skye's eyes widened. She swallowed some champagne. "West Point," she repeated.
"Mm-hmm," he murmured, enjoying Skye trying to take it all in. "I was being groomed for a position that would take into account my special talents."
"Those would include stealing, lying, and fighting," she said drily.
Walker didn't blink. "I'd like to believe they noticed I had an ear for languages, I was interested in other cultures, I was resourceful, and I'd demonstrated I could take care of myself, but I think stealing, lying, and fighting sums it up nicely."
Skye nearly choked on the champagne she was swallowing. She put the glass aside, though she was uncertain if a clear head was an especially good thing right now. Walker's revelations were something more than she'd expected.
"After West Point, I thought I'd return to China. Mr. Elkins had hoped for it, but I was assigned to Washington first, the White House specifically."
Skye didn't try to hide her astonishment. "You spied for the president?"
"I reported to President Grant," he corrected her. "The work wasn't so different from what I had done for Mr. Elkins."
She pulled a face at him for splitting hairs. "You may as well call a spade a spied," she said, her tongue tangling over the words. "I mean a spied a spade. Oh, you know what I mean. You just as well sh
ould say it."
A single brow arched and his smile was wry. "One of us should." What he wanted to do was kiss her. Champagne had made her mouth damp. The taste of her and the drink would be a heady mixture. With some difficulty, Walker reined in his thoughts. "I might have stayed in Washington longer, but I was loaned out for a special assignment in New York."
Something niggled at Skye's memory, prompting her to say, "Logan Marshall."
"That's right. Parnell told you at your interview that I had once worked for the publisher."
Her tone was a touch accusing. "You didn't offer much clarification."
"You weren't entitled then," he said, without remorse. He paused, sipping his own drink, as if thinking about it now.
"Beast," she said, when he didn't say anything more. She tossed her head. "Perhaps I don't want to know."
Walker reached across the space that separated them and took her wrist. Without much urging on his part, he was able to pull Skye from her chair and onto the sofa beside him. She was wedged between Walker and the arm of the sofa and turned slightly in his direction. He leaned toward her and rested his forehead against hers for just a moment, looking her straight in the eye. "You're eaten up with curiosity," he said.
Skye knew that if she said anything at all she would find herself kissing him. She was saved from losing her resolve when he drew back and began to explain.
"I worked for Logan Marshall briefly when his wife returned to the stage. She received threatening letters, from an understudy, as it turned out, that were quite graphic in their description of the harm that was intended her. I'm not certain how it came to pass that Grant himself heard of it. I know he admired Katy's acting when she was in Washington, and Marshall himself is certainly powerful enough to command the president's notice. I do know that it was Grant who recommended me to Marshall."
Something else became clear to Skye. "That's how you found me after I left you at the station."
He nodded. "If it's any consolation, Marshall didn't give you up easily. It was only because he knew me that I was able to discover anything about you."
Was it consolation? she wondered. Was she sorry that Walker had found her so easily? He hadn't let go of her wrist. His fingers circled her skin in the small embrace of capture. Not once had she tried to pull away. "And after Marshall?" she asked.
"I returned to Washington, then Paris, then London."
"And back to New York."
"That's right," he told her. "Because of my uncle." He released her now and was surprised to find that Skye caught his hand and threaded her fingers through his. "The money for my passage back to Boston arrived six months after I began living with Mr. Elkins. It was put aside for me. My uncle didn't mind that I decided to stay, but my grandmother hoped I would change my mind. I think she believed that I could be compelled to take over the shipping business. It was a bone of contention until she died."
"When was that?"
"I was in my last year at West Point," he said. "Soon after, my uncle bought the Granville mansion in Baileyboro. He had a little money from the sale of Grandmother's business, and he had had some success with a number of patents. It was several more years before he finally moved there. I wrote to him regularly and received a reply every third or fourth time. I met him in New York on two occasions when I was working for Logan Marshall, but he liked to remain in Baileyboro. I gathered from him that he knew the villagers considered him a recluse but that he didn't mind. It suited him in some ways. He had a groundskeeper and cook who looked after the house and him. No one bothered to interrupt or ask questions. His work was everything."
Walker smiled. "He was as happy as I've ever known him."
"I've never thought of Jonathan Parnell as a particularly happy man," Skye said.
"That's because you didn't know him."
Skye looked at him oddly, searching his face. "You mean I didn't know him as well as you," she said.
"No," said Walker. "I mean you didn't know him at all."
She frowned. "But you said—"
"I said Jonathan Parnell is my uncle. The man you know isn't Jonathan Parnell."
Skye simply stared at him. Questions flooded her, but the words would not be formed. It was too astonishing.
"You believe me?" he asked.
"I believe you." It never occurred to her that she couldn't.
"I received a few letters from him when I was in Paris. You have to understand that my uncle always addressed the letters to Hsia To. It's Chinese for 'Little Too Many.' Sometimes a daughter is given that name as a joke."
"Because daughters aren't valued."
"Exactly. In my case, I once overheard my uncle comment that I'd been born only because my mother had had a little too many." He saw Skye glance at her own glass of champagne and look relieved that she hadn't drunk more. "Years later, when I understood his comment, I wrote to him about the name. The next letter that arrived, and every letter after that, was addressed just that way. He even took to using it in place of my name when he spoke about me."
"Your uncle has a peculiar sense of humor."
Walker could tell she was thinking he had inherited the trait. In spite of that he felt her squeeze his hand, encouraging him to go on. "The letters I received from him while I was in Paris bothered me. There were some things he mentioned rather offhandedly that I thought bore a closer look. I suppose by then I was feeling rather protective toward him, but I was also caught up in what I was doing. I didn't write back. When I was in London, the letters stopped altogether."
He leaned back and rested his head against the back of the sofa. Skye's thumb was lightly passing back and forth across his knuckles. In the other hand he held the champagne glass. He gave it to Skye and let her put it aside. "I can't explain what made me sure something was wrong. Before that I had gone for months without hearing from my uncle, but this time I was alarmed."
"So you came back."
Walker was silent for a long time. "Too late," he said at last.
Skye's hand tightened on his. She had been expecting it, but somehow it still had the power to wrench her. Walker's own features were taut, the line of his jaw cleanly defined. A muscle worked in his cheek. "You're certain?" she asked.
He nodded slowly, almost imperceptibly, closing his eyes. "Certain of everything but where they put the body." Walker turned his head to the side and looked at Skye. Her face was pale but she was holding up.
"The groundskeeper and the cook," she said.
"That's right. His name is Morgan Curran. She's Corina Curran."
"Wife?"
"Sister. Stepsister, actually. Reading is her married name. She's a widow." Skye's expressive eyes were easy to read. "No, he wasn't murdered. At least, not that it was obvious or suspected. He drank a good deal."
"Liver disease?"
Walker didn't mince his words. "He drowned in his own vomit."
Skye blanched. "How do you know all this?"
"It's what I do, Skye. I ask questions. I observe. I listen. I discover. It's not so difficult. Most of the time it's not even dangerous. It requires patience and discipline and an occasional bit of luck."
She thought it probably required a great deal more than that. She reached up and touched the side of his face, brushing back the hair near his temple. The hard lines of his face softened a bit.
"It was the middle of summer when I arrived in Baileyboro," he told her. "I asked for directions to the Granville place at the train station. I was pointed to a man pacing at the far end of the platform. He was waiting for an approaching carriage, his shoulders hunched, hands in his pockets. 'That's Mr. Parnell there,' I was told. 'Good piece of luck,' they said, 'to run into him that way.'"
"It was Morgan Curran," said Skye.
Walker let out a long, heavy breath. "It was. There was no resemblance at all, yet it became clear that no one in Baileyboro thought he was anyone but Jonathan Parnell. I went out to the Granville mansion later but never announced myself. I looked around the prope
rty, watched people come and go, and heard Curran being addressed as Parnell. I knew I had to come up with some way to get into that house, some way that would keep me there for a while. I wasn't confident that a simple search or a confrontation would turn up anything. The small chance that my uncle was still alive also meant I had to act quickly. No one was being hired at the house so I couldn't present myself as looking for work. I needed another plan."
Skye's hand fell away from Walker's face as understanding came to her. "You threatened Parnell!" she said. "Those attempts on his life were your doing! You made him think someone was after the engine and that he was in danger."
"Guilty." The single word was said without regret. "He hired me to protect him."
"But how did he find you? He could have hired anyone."
"I made myself known in Baileyboro. Cautiously, of course. A bit mysteriously. It's a small village, and it was precisely the kind of thing that got everyone's attention. After two threats, Parnell sought me out. I pretended to come reluctantly, which made him want me more. I had references from people I could trust. They were sufficient to impress Parnell."
"How can you call him Parnell?"
"That's how I think of him, how I have to think of him. To do otherwise would show my hand. I could make a mistake so easily. Anyway, it's not as if I called my uncle by his last name. He was Uncle Jon. Curran is Parnell."
"And Parnell is not an inventor," she said.
"No. Not an inventor. He's only played at it. Quite thoroughly, too."
"That's why you didn't care that I had drawn a picture of the engine."
"You knew I saw it?"
She nodded. "You folded the paper differently than I did. I knew you had to have looked at it and decided I could keep it. I wondered why. Now I know. It was a worthless piece of paper, anyway."
Walker was reminded again it was the incidental things that could trip him up. He was fortunate that it was Skye who had caught him out. "Your father found it interesting."
