“He turned that down. So did Father Leo.”
“Jesus Christ, you asked him too?”
Malcolm related that meeting, shocking Jamie even more.
“God Almighty, Tai-pan, if you’re so set on it to go to those lengths … perhaps…we’ll find another captain.”
“Not much chance of that, Jamie. Anyway Heavenly stressed to keep it quiet until it was over, particularly Sir William who could forbid it as Angelique and I are under age. And if she put him on formal notice, he’ll have to tell Seratard. She’s won … God curse her!”
Again he set his eyes on the horizon. In the past when a catastrophe happened, when the twins drowned, for example—while she never said it directly, he always thought that she blamed him, if he’d been there somehow it would not have happened—he would feel the tears welling, like now, but would force them back and that would make the hurt worse and the sick feeling terrible. He did that because “A tai-pan never cries.” She had always drummed it into him. It was the first thing he could remember her saying, “The tai-pan never cries, he’s above that, he fights on, like Dirk, he never cries, he bears the burden,” repeating it again and again though tears always came easily to his father.
I never realized what contempt she had for him.
She never cried, never once that I can remember.
I’m not going to cry. I will bear the burden. I swore I’d be worthy of the tai-pan and I will. Never again will she be “Mother” to me. Never. Tess. Yes, Tess, I will bear it.
His eyes focused on Jamie, feeling so old, and so lonely. “Let’s get ashore.”
Jamie started to say something, stopped. His face was strange. Then he pointed to the seat opposite. More packets of mail there.
“What is it?”
“That’s … that’s Wee Willie’s mail. Bertram, the Legation’s new dogsbody, was sick so I said I’d … I’d fetch their mail for them.” Jamie’s fingers were as shaky as his voice. He picked up the large bundle of letters. Its crisscrossed string was government-sealed in the center but it was still easy to leaf through the corners and find her two letters. To Sir William and Admiral Ketterer. “We, with a little time, and … and luck you could, I … I might be able to … to get them out.”
The hair at the nape of Malcolm’s head seemed to stiffen. To rob the Royal Mail was a hanging offense.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
The two men stared at the bundle of letters, in turmoil, consumed with dread. The cabin was claustrophobic. Malcolm said nothing and watched Jamie, who was silent, both of them drained. Then, making the decision for him, Jamie’s shaky fingers ripped at the string, but this galvanized Malcolm into his own decision and he reached over and grabbed the bundle and stopped him. “No, Jamie, you mustn’t.”
“It’s the—the only way, Tai-pan.”
“No, it isn’t.” Malcolm straightened the string, relieved the seal was not broken, then smoothed the letters out and put them back on the other pile, the touch of them hateful. “It’s just not right,” he said, his voice as weak as his knees, despising his weakness—was it weakness? “I’d never forgive myself if you … if you were caught and … and, well, I just don’t have the courage—apart from that it’s not right.”
Jamie’s face was wet with sweat. “Right or not, no one’s to know. If we don’t, you’ve no chance. Maybe we can find a captain—even Brock’s, they’ve a ship next week.”
Malcolm shook his head, his mind blank. A wave rocked the launch against the pilings, screeching the rope fenders. With an effort he forced himself to concentrate. All his life, whenever he was in quandary, he would ask himself what Dirk Struan, the tai-pan, would do—but never a real answer came forth.
At length, wearily he said, “What would he do, Jamie? Dirk Struan?”
At once Jamie’s memory took him to that devil-may-care giant of a man, the few times he had seen him, or been in his company for a few minutes—he himself so junior and just arrived. “He’d …” After a moment, a smile began. “He’d … Dirk would…yes, that’s it. I think he would order us and the Bosun ashore and take the launch out himself ‘to test her as something feels amiss,’ and then … then when he was well away and in deep water, he would calmly open the sea cocks and, while she filled, he would make sure all this mail was well weighed and could not float free, then he’d go to the stern and light a cheroot and wait till she sank and swim ashore. Had he interfered with the mails? ‘Perish that thought, laddie.’” Jamie’s beam became seraphic. “Why not?”
Before Tokaidō Malcolm was a strong swimmer. Now he knew he would sink like an anchor. “I’d never make it ashore.”
“I could, easily, Tai-pan.”
“Yes, but this isn’t your problem, Jamie, and even if you did, it would only buy me a week or so and that’s no good. Joss. We can’t interfere with the Royal Mail. Let’s agree to forget this happened. Eh?” He held out his hand. “You’re a real friend, best I’ve ever had. Sorry I was rotten to you.”
Jamie shook warmly. “You weren’t, I deserved what you said. No harm’s done. Tai-pan … please, it would be easy.”
“Thanks, but no.” For the ten thousandth time, Malcolm knew he was not Dirk Struan and could never do what the tai-pan could do, in this case either blatantly remove the letters or sink them. Before Tokaidō, perhaps I would have dared, but now … now it’s fifty times worse. Tokaidō, always Tokaidō, he thought, the word branded into his mind, so frustrated he could scream. “I have to face it alone.”
He hobbled ashore and went to his own suite. The small bottle was full but he took none of it, firmly putting it back into the drawer. Painfully he pulled his chair nearer to the window and sank into it with relief.
I’m going to win, he promised himself. Please, God, help me. I don’t know how but I’m going to win Angelique, I’m going to conquer the pain, the opium, the Tokaidō, Tess, and I am going to win….
His sleep was deep and restful. When he awoke Angelique was there, seated near and smiling at him.
“Good afternoon, darling. My, but you slept well. It’s almost time to change for the party!” Her eyes were sparkling. She came and kissed him and knelt beside him. “How are you?”
“Seeing you makes me so happy.” His voice was filled with love but it did not hide his inner worry.
That decided her. It was important to take him out of his usual seriousness so he would enjoy tonight’s party, which he had promised was a celebration. “I’ve a surprise for you,” she said, mischievously.
“What?”
She scrambled to her feet and began to twirl as though dancing, her afternoon dress sibilant. Suddenly she chuckled and called out, “Look!” and lifted her skirts and petticoats, revealing the long length of her perfect legs enhanced by silk stockings, saucy garters under her knees, and garter belt and multilayered frilly panties. He had been expecting the traditional, all-concealing pantaloons. The sight of her took his breath away.
“Christ Almighty …” he spluttered.
“It’s for your pleasure only, my darling,” she said, flushed at her daring, laughing at his color, then coquettishly raised her skirts over her head for an instant, letting them fall as suddenly, and fanned herself, saying breathlessly, “It’s the latest fashion, no more pantaloons! Pantaloons are finished. The columnist of Le Figaro says nowadays some of the most famous ladies of Paris don’t even wear panties at the Opéra—on special occasions—for the secret pleasure of their lovers.”
“Don’t you dare,” he said, laughing with her, swept up in her exuberance. He caught her hand and settled her into his lap. “The thought would drive me wild.”
She buried her head in his shoulder, pleased that her stratagem had worked. “I think I’ll whisper in your ear during dinner, sometimes, or when we’re dancing, that I’ve forgotten them—just to tease my Prince Charming, but only when we’re married and to amuse. You don’t mind, chéri, do you—the new fashion, no pantaloons?”
“Of course not,” he said,
man-of-the-world, secretly not. “If it’s fashion, then it’s fashion.”
“You said tonight’s party was to be a celebration?”
Most of his lightness left him. “Yes, yes, it was. But…be patient with me, Angel. In a few days I’ll be able to tell you the real reason—I just have to delay a little. In the meantime, know that I love you love you love you…. ”
In the evening the weather became changeable but it did not dampen the spirit of Malcolm’s party. The main Struan dining room had been built for this purpose and dwarfed the rest of the Settlement’s private facilities except for the Club. Sparkling silver, crystal glasses, the finest Peking china, the thirty-odd guests in evening dress or dress uniforms. Hoag had declined as he had a fever.
Dinner was immense as usual and at length over. Now to roars of approval, the long table was set against the wall—a rare occurrence but almost obligatory whenever Angelique was present, all guests wanting to dance with her. Except Jamie—but only tonight. By prior agreement with Malcolm, Jamie had quietly left during the mayhem of moving the table. “Sorry, but I don’t feel much like dancing. I’ll slip out, Tai-pan.”
“We both swore to forget about the launch today.”
“It’s not that, just want to collect my wits.”
Tonight Angelique was the only lady present, the other two, like Hoag, were regretfully sick, and she was squired to the heating tempos of waltzes, polkas played by André Poncin on a grand piano, imported to huge applause in the spring. One dance per guest was the rule, she was allowed to rest after four dances and to stop whenever she wished. Her face was glowing and she wore a new crinoline of red and green silk, but without the full hoops of a crinoline, that dramatized her wasp waist and swelling bosom, her nipples minimally covered in the fashion decreed by Paris, deplored by absent clergy, and devoured by every man in the room.
“Enough, mes amis,” she said after an hour to groans and pleading from those who had not had a dance, and she went back to Malcolm, fanning herself and exhilarated.
He was in a great, carved oak chair at the head of the table, gentled by wine and brandy. He enjoyed watching her as much as any although, as always, deeply frustrated that he had not claimed the first dance, or would not claim the last as was his right. Normally he was an accomplished dancer.
She settled herself on the arm of his chair. His arm went lightly around her waist, hers rested on his shoulders.
“You dance marvelously, Angel.”
“None of them are as good as you,” she whispered. “That’s what first attracted me to you and, Prince Charm—”
Cheers of anticipation stopped her. To her embarrassment and chagrin, André’s fingers began the first slow, seductive chords of the cancan. Not a little annoyed, Angelique shook her head, and did not move.
To her surprise, and amid roars of delight, Pallidar and Marlowe took center stage, towels wrapped around their uniforms as skirts, the rollicking music picked up tempo and the two of them began hilariously to parody the dance that scandalized the civilized world, outside of Paris, faster and faster, lifting their pretend skirts higher and higher, high kicking to more cheers and jeers and roars, every table thumping to the beat, faster and faster until the two men, red-faced and sweating in their tight uniforms, tried valiant splits and collapsed in a heap to tumultuous cheers and shouts of “encore, encore,” the applause deafening.
Laughing with all of them, Malcolm graciously released her and she went over and helped them up, congratulating and praising their efforts.
Pallidar was panting and pretended a groan. “I think I’ve put my back out for good.”
“Champagne for the Army, and rum for the Navy,” she called out, linked arms with both of them and brought them back to Malcolm for more praise, smiling at him. “Not for me the cancan, eh, darling?”
“That would be too much.”
“My word, yes,” Marlowe said.
“Yes,” Malcolm said, sharing the secret smile with her, nicely titillated.
When André began playing again, he chose a waltz. It was just enough to show her ankles as she swayed but not enough to reveal the daring lack of pantaloons. He had shown her the article in Le Figaro, encouraged her and shared the secret. All evening he had watched her and those fawning on her—Babcott towering over all the others, then resplendent Pallidar and Marlowe trying to ease him out of the inner circle—relishing his secrets and, for the moment, the life within a life that he led. Angelique was dancing with Sir William. Laughing to himself, he let his mind drift as his fingers played. What would they all do if they knew what I know? About the earrings, the abortion, and how I disposed of the evidence? They’d turn from her as if she were a leper, all of them, including lovesick Struan, he more than any.
If things were different and I were in Paris with her, backed by Noble House power and money and an adoring but invalid husband, what secrets I could obtain! She’d require expert training in the more feminine and not so gentle arts, her claws would need honing but then she would be a classic, any salon and any bed would welcome her, and once she had a taste of the Great Game this oh-so-cunning little chicken would feed on it with gusto.
And into my bed? Now or later, certainly, if I wanted to turn the screws, but I no longer want her and will not take her, except for revenge. She’s much more amusing as a toy and there’s little enough in this world to amuse …
“Wonderful idea, André!” Phillip Tyrer was beaming down at him. “Settry said you cooked the whole thing up with them.”
“What?”
“The cancan!”
“Ah, yes,” André said. His fingers continued with the waltz, then ended it. “Time for a break, let’s have a drink,” he said, deciding that now, being almost public, would be a perfect time to bring Tyrer to heel. “I hear a certain lady’s contract is worth a Minister’s salary,” he said in French, and saw Tyrer’s face redden with embarrassment and look around. “My God, as though I’d be so indiscreet. Phillip, don’t worry, my friend, I have your interests in mind.” He smiled, remembering their encounter at the Yedo Castle. “Affairs of the heart have nothing to do with affairs of State, though I believe France should share the spoils of the earth with Great Britain, no?”
“I … I agree, André. Yes, I … the negotiations are not so good, I’m afraid. Yes, at a standstill.”
“Better to speak French, eh?”
“Yes, yes, you’re right.” Tyrer used his handkerchief as a dandy would to wipe away a sudden sweat. “Never thought it would be so difficult.”
André beckoned him closer. “Listen, I can tell you how to fix that: Don’t see her tonight even though you’ve an assignation for the night.” He almost laughed aloud as Tyrer’s mouth dropped open. “How many times have I told you there are few secrets here. Perhaps I can help … if you need help.”
“Oh yes, yes, I do. I, yes, please.”
“Then …”
Both of them glanced at a roulette table that had been set up at the other end of the room, where there was a burst of laughter and clapping as Angelique won on double zero—no gambling for money tonight, just worthless bronze Chinese coins called small cash. Vargas acted as croupier.
Tyrer sighed. “Lucky at gambling and lucky in love.”
“She works at it,” André said thinly, irritated with her, “so should you. Listen, break tonight’s rendezvous with Fujiko; oh, I know Raiko’s set it up especially at your pleading—Raiko didn’t tell me by the way, it was one of her maids. Don’t go, and don’t send word that you’re not going, just go to another Inn, say the Inn of the Lily, take any girl there, their prettiest is one called Yuko.”
“But André, I don’t wan—”
“If you don’t want to bed her, just make her please you in other ways, or get drunk, or pretend to get drunk, believe me you won’t be wasting your money. Tomorrow, when Nakama mentions Fujiko, or anything about the contract or Raiko, act offhand, and tomorrow night, repeat the performance.”
“
But …”
“Anytime Nakama mentions anything, act casual, say nothing other than that the Inn of the Lily was many times more promising, telling him sharply not to mention it again, particularly to Raiko. All right so far?”
“Yes, but don’t you think—”
“No, unless you want to be driven mad, and not have Fujiko at a relatively reasonable price—you’re going to get stuck anyway, Phillip, but never mind, it’s not fair you should be beggared, it’s a matter of face. Do not discuss this plan with Nakama, and keep the pattern up for a week at least.”
“My God, André, a week?”
“Three would be better, old friend.” André was amused at Tyrer’s miserable countenance. “I’m not only saving you enormous money but an ocean of aggravation. It’s important you act as if you couldn’t care less, that you were pissed at the delays and breaking appointments and Raiko’s outrageous asking price—particularly to an important official like you! That’s a good thing to throw at Nakama once or twice. But not more, he’s a sharp fellow, no?”
“Yes, yes, he is, and very knowledgeable.”
Yes, André thought, and soon it will be time to share all of it with me, both what he’s told you and what I have gleaned for myself. Interesting that he speaks English—thank God my spies have their ears open as well as their eyes. That explains a lot, though I don’t know why he won’t speak English to me or even Japanese whenever I’ve caught him alone. I suppose because Willie ordered him not to.
“Now,” he continued quietly, “Raiko will ask me a dozen times to intercede and arrange a rendezvous. After a week I’ll reluctantly agree. Don’t let Nakama do it or let him in on the game and when you see Raiko, act tough, and with Fujiko. You’ve got to be very convincing, Phillip.”
“But …”
“Tell Raiko she was correct to consider her client’s interests, yours, first—particularly as you are an important official, harp on that—giving you time to consider the matter carefully. You quite agree it’s better to be prudent, that buying ‘the woman’s’ contract now is not a good idea. Use that term and not Fujiko by name—don’t forget from their point of view you’re only discussing a piece of merchandise at this stage, not the lady you adore. Thank Raiko, and say with her help you have thought carefully and believe buying a contract would be a mistake. You’ll just hire ‘the woman’s’ services from time to time, and if ‘the woman’ is busy, shikata ga nai—it doesn’t matter—life’s too short, etc.”
Gai-Jin Page 85
