And so it began again.
~~~
In the beginning she’d begged me not to ask about her husband. But after a tortured absence I had to know where I stood. Our passionate reunion was a balm that lasted no time at all, and later, as we lay together in the closeness of that tiny hotel room, the words, the questions, came tumbling out.
‘Is he at home, your husband? Where does he think you are?’
She drew away, studied me in surprise. ‘If you mean, is he here, in Hong Kong, then yes, he is.’ She paused, held my gaze. ‘This evening he could be where he said, at the Hong Kong Club, but he’s probably elsewhere, with his mistress.’
‘His mistress?’
‘Yes. She’s a Chinese woman, quite well-born, I understand – he met her in Canton, brought her here some years ago.’ Sighing, she turned away, reached for her robe. ‘Everyone knows. Of course, they pretend not to.’
Absurdly, I was shocked. ‘Does he know – that you know?’
She shrugged. ‘Probably. We keep up the pretence that I don’t. If either of us were to acknowledge it, the house of cards might just fall down.’
Not understanding, I asked what she meant, and she began to explain about the business her father had created. David Lang had come to Hong Kong when the Chinese first granted the British permission to trade from the island.
‘He was in Macau,’ she went on, ‘during the first of the opium wars, working for a silver merchant – that was where he met and married my mother. Mama was Portuguese – her father was a trader. It was quite dangerous then – they were always on the move between here and Macau, having to pack up at a moment’s notice, lodging with friends until things calmed down. Or acting host when friends were under threat. Exciting times, I gather,’ she added dryly.
‘But when all that nonsense about the opium settled down and Canton became more open, Daddy set up on his own, here in Hong Kong. He’d buy silver from the Chinese and ship the bullion back to London to be sold. The business just kept on growing…’
As she talked, I realized how little I’d known about her. How very few questions I’d asked, how little she had volunteered. I hadn’t even known her mother was Portuguese.
‘Curtis came to us from Canton not long after you and I first met,’ Dorothea went on. ‘He became Daddy’s right-hand man. Then, as Daddy’s health started to break down, he relied on him more and more.’
She bent to turn up the lamp, poured some tonic water into a glass and sipped at it. ‘I suppose there was always something between us,’ she said slowly, as though speculating on the matter, ‘although I never took him seriously because he was so much older…
‘But then Daddy spelled it out. The China trade had made him wealthy, but fever and the climate had weakened his heart: he was paying the price, he said, for worldly success. Yes,’ she sighed, ‘Daddy became surprisingly pious in his latter years. Anyway, he wasn’t well, his heart was weak. He said that when he died, he wanted to leave the Hong Kong business in safe hands – for my sake as much as my brother’s.’
I understood then what her father’s concerns must have been, that when he died the unmarried Dorothea would own half the business and, once married, Dorothea’s husband would control it. So she needed a sensible alliance, otherwise all that David Lang had worked for – with the valuable core here, in Hong Kong – would be at risk.
‘He was very matter-of-fact,’ she went on. ‘It was rather frightening. There he was, telling me he was about to die, and in the next breath planning the future as though only the business mattered. He was my father and I loved him,’ Dorothea declared with sudden break in her voice. ‘He’d always protected me, but suddenly he was talking of death and dying…’
She left my side, paced the room, her shadow moving behind her like a ghost. ‘The right man for the business was Curtis. So he was the one to marry.’
I tried to assimilate that and failed. ‘But did Curtis want to marry you?’
Amused by my thoughtless protest, she laughed; but it had a bitter edge. ‘For that kind of fortune? My dear, wouldn’t you?’
I thought then what an innocent I was, with a mother I’d considered ambitious because she wanted her little shop in Hanley, and had manipulated my father into buying it.
I knew nothing.
13
There are no secrets aboard ship, and every time I went ashore there were comments ranging from good-natured ribbing to the frankly envious. Hines, with barbed wit, made it clear he’d have liked to foil my adventures, while the Old Man, handing out an advance of pay, was prompted to deliver a little speech circling around deep waters, weather conditions, and a certain lack of canvas. It was obscure but I got the drift.
Not that it made any difference. Pride made me insist on paying hotel bills, and love made little gifts essential. A length of Chinese silk she admired, a silver vase; a heart-shaped locket for her birthday. My pay barely covered these items, but I refused to worry, just as I ignored the risks I was running. Each return to Hong Kong was a passionate reunion and, if the joy was never as pure as the first time, I considered every moment worth it.
When the ship was in, Dorothea generally gave a small party for the ship’s officers and certain local residents with whom they’d become acquainted. She was not the only hostess to do so. Such gestures were seen as a return of hospitality, but in Dorothea’s case it was more of a tactic to keep criticism at bay. If Dorothea’s husband were likely to be present I would volunteer to stay aboard ship. Whatever the situation between them I had no desire to meet him, nor provide more fuel for gossip.
Evidently though, he had a desire to meet me. Perhaps the third or fourth time we arrived in Hong Kong, he came, unexpectedly, to one of Coptic’s informal receptions. It was a pleasant evening in spring, before the monsoon winds brought summer’s heat and crushing humidity. I knew he was about ten years older, but Dorothea’s description was too vague to alert me when he joined the group I was with. The conversation had been about Canton, which I had never visited, but it quickly degenerated into a debate on the opium trade. With ethics versus pragmatism, it was in danger of becoming heated.
‘It funds almost everything here,’ one man declared. ‘Without it, we couldn’t live like we do. Ban it, and the whole market collapses.’
‘If you’d seen what I’ve seen,’ another said tersely, ‘in some of those back rooms off the Queen’s Road, you’d know the destruction it wreaks. The families of those people…’
‘Oh, you’re talking about the addicts…’
‘They’re all addicts!’
And then the newcomer said lightly, ‘But have any of you ever tried it? Smoked occasionally, it’s really most relaxing…’
Tension shifted at once. I was aware of it but not sure why. In fact at that precise moment I was simply relieved: having been at a loss how to divert the discussion, suddenly this stranger had done it for me. I turned in gratitude, just as someone said, ‘Oh, it’s you, Curtis – might have known you’d have something to say!’
He beamed in response, a clean-shaven, pleasant-faced man with thinning hair and the beginnings of a paunch. Then he turned to me, and, on a speculative look, said, ‘You must be Mr Smith?’
No choice. I had to shake his outstretched hand. ‘I am indeed, sir. How d’you do.’
‘I’m just back from Canton,’ he said blandly, ‘with a party of missionaries glad to be leaving the place. They were talking about the evils of opium too. I didn’t like to tell them the silver in the hold was payment for a cargo from India…’
There was a silence. At a complete loss for words, I glanced over his shoulder, my eyes searching for Dorothea. Someone – the pragmatist – said, ‘What did I tell you? This is a man who knows first-hand how the business works…’
Others joined in, and then Dorothea was at her husband’s elbow, smiling sweetly, urging him to come and meet the Captain. He bowed to the gathered company, cast an ironic smile in my direction and departed.
&
nbsp; I’d been in places that sold opium, had even smoked it once. It did nothing for me, and the after effects were so numbing I had no desire to repeat the experiment. But I’d seen the addicts, hunched in doorways or sprawled, glassy-eyed in some dark alley, and I’d stepped past them, wishing they would find somewhere else to sleep it off. To me opium addicts were in the same bracket as drunken seamen: I felt disgust rather than sympathy, did not consider that I had anything to do with the state they were in.
With time, of course, one sees the bigger picture. But then, the fact that Dorothea’s husband was somehow involved in importing opium to China was less shocking to me than that deliberate introduction.
‘He knows,’ were almost the first words I said when she and I were alone again.
‘Of course he does.’
That afternoon Dorothea had brought a picnic to our assignation on the southern side of the island. She laid out the tartan rug, arranging the plates and a cold collation of chicken and salad leaves as though nothing was wrong.
‘What did he say?’
She sat back on her heels, gazing at me as though I were a child needing to have everything explained. ‘He just reminded me to be discreet. He said certain little birds were eager to connect the ship to me, and me to you.’ She paused, busied herself with the cutlery. ‘And yes, he turned up at the reception because he was curious. Wanted to see you for himself.’
Heat flooded my chest and face. I felt like a servant, given the once-over by the master of the house. ‘And did I pass the test? Was I considered good enough to service the mistress?’
Her eyes flashed as the barb went home. Fingers tightened on the knife in her hand. Slowly, she leaned towards me, the blade pointing at my heart. ‘Never,’ she hissed, ‘speak to me like that again.’
I grabbed her wrist, turned it away until she cried out. ‘And don’t you ever point a knife at me, madam.’
Tears sprang to her eyes. As she rubbed her wrist I apologized, said she should know not to threaten anyone like that.
She would not say sorry, and we were silent and apart for a while. Eventually, she said, ‘It’s because it’s gone on so long. I gather he’s known almost from the first, but expected it to fizzle out.’
‘Like the others, you mean?’ The words were out before I could stop them: I didn’t need the shamefaced nod to confirm it. I was no more a fool than Henry Curtis, and knew there had to have been other men before me. Even so I hated her in that moment. Whatever I’d suspected, I didn’t want such confirmation.
It spoiled what should have been a delightful afternoon. There was a half-hearted attempt at reconciliation but I was too sick with jealousy and she no doubt too guilt-ridden for it to be successful.
So, having picked at the food and stared at the view, we made our way back in the trap. Somehow, despite its swaying on the uneven road, she managed to keep a distance between us. Bowling along between lush vegetation, dappled sunlight made an ever-changing pattern on clothes and skin. How like Dorothea that was: hard to pin down; never the same for two minutes together. Watching those slender, capable fingers handling the reins, controlling the sturdy little pony, I marvelled at her. She looked almost frail at times, and yet there was a hidden core of strength that allowed her to twist and turn and manoeuvre until she got what she wanted.
I told myself I hated the way she’d snared me so artfully. In truth I despised myself for being such a willing slave.
Like the witch she was, she read my mind. ‘Do you hate me?’
‘No,’ I sighed. ‘I hate what I don’t know – it torments me. And then you tell me something and I hate it even more.’
A swift glance. ‘Have you no past?’
‘Only you,’ I said softly, knowing it was the truth. I touched the curls at the nape of her neck; her skin was damp and I wanted to taste it. ‘I’m a fool, I know.’
She turned soft dark eyes upon me, full of regret. As her hands relaxed, the swaying trap slowed. ‘If I were free, it would be different. As it is, I have a past – and responsibilities.’ Shortening the reins, urging the pony on again, she said, ‘I thought we could have each other – thought we were all that mattered. I imagined…’
‘What?’
‘Well,’ she admitted, ‘that the moment would be enough.’
I stared hard at her profile, wondering how she could be so blind. So wilfully blind. Aware of the spectre of Harry Jones, I wanted to say, you had a past before I knew you – it was your past which brought us together…
Lacking the courage, I took the opposite tack. ‘What of the future? Do you never think about that?’
‘Not often,’ she said, suddenly brisk. ‘In a place like this, anything can happen. Look at my mother, surviving childbirth twice to die of the fever at twenty-five. I’ve outlived her already. Even had my own brush with death. Who knows how much longer I’ll be here? Life’s short, my darling – I thought you above all would realize that.’
That brash, devil-may-care response typified her. Even so, as the pony’s hooves thudded along, I struggled to absorb what she meant. ‘A brush with death? When was that?’
Another swift glance, then back at the road. ‘Years ago. Didn’t I tell you? I was expecting a child – lost it. I was very ill, nearly died. After that…’ She shrugged, left the rest unsaid. A bird clattered out of the trees and she clicked her tongue as the pony shied. ‘But I thought you knew.’
I shook my head, amazed by her ability to confound me. ‘You said you couldn’t have children. You didn’t say why.’
‘Perhaps not.’ A brief enigmatic smile as she negotiated a corner. ‘Doesn’t do to dwell,’ she said.
Feeling inadequate I gave up then, unsure whether the feeling inside was anger or despair.
~~~
The future was important to me – or had been, until I met Dorothea. Now the present was paramount. All I wanted was her love, yet with every crossing of the Pacific, the days we had left were falling off the calendar like leaves from a dying tree. I wanted to stop time, hold it back, but there was nothing to grasp.
I learned how short the hours of pleasure could be and, during those endless blue Pacific days, how painful were the days and weeks between. In Dorothea’s company I could think of nothing but her; away from her I was consumed by doubt as well as longing. I began to entertain fantasies, to talk about leaving White Star and finding a position with one of the companies setting up in the Far East. But there was no point in that unless Dorothea would divorce Curtis and marry me.
When I dared to voice those hopes, she cut me dead. No, there was no possibility of divorce. The scandal would be unbearable, and how would she manage the business? Besides, there was Nicholas to think of in London.
I began to think the business and Nicholas were a ready excuse. My old fear, that I was simply not good enough for her, reared its ugly head. Tormented by it, knowing my career was the only thing between myself and that tradesman’s boy from Hanley, I tried to imagine giving it up. That I was even willing to consider it horrified me.
Consumed by desire, I thought it was love. Maybe it was. I wanted to believe that she loved me too, but that fantasy lasted only so long as I was at sea. Ashore, I was faced with reality; she did not want to share her life with me, only the excitement of the moment. It went against everything I had ever believed of women – decent women that is – and made me feel rather less than the man I’d imagined myself to be.
Perhaps it was inevitable. We were no longer new lovers discovering the wonder of each other, but existing on snatched assignations, sometimes at the house when Curtis was absent. I often wondered what the servants thought of my visits, but when I voiced such thoughts Dorothea said they were paid to work, not to think. And anyway, she added pettishly, they were Chinese, so what did it matter?
That was unlike her. I knew she relied heavily upon Li, the elderly retainer who seemed to combine the duties of butler and major-domo: certainly he kept the other servants under control. He’d been wit
h the family since her father’s day, so I imagined his allegiance was to Dorothea rather than Curtis – but that didn’t mean he agreed with what she was doing. No matter how differently the Chinese lived, as I understood it, adultery was adultery, no matter the race or creed.
Dorothea’s husband might have abandoned his marital responsibilities, but I have to say I was never easy in that house. The portrait of Dorothea’s mother hanging in the drawing room seemed to watch me at every turn. Although Curtis left little impression on the place, I saw David Lang in every shadow, felt the power of his fortune like a weight at my back.
Often, I found myself reflecting on that hot afternoon at the garden party, when David Lang had dismissed me like some tradesman’s boy. I had so wanted to prove that I was better than that. And yet here I was, in love with the daughter he’d warned me against, and behaving like some unprincipled scoundrel in a cheap romance.
I wasn’t the first, but what did that signify? I’d lost most of the pleasure in my job; I moped one way across the Pacific, and battled with the weather and my desires on the way back.
Hines the Swine, proved his epithet. Needling me about Dorothea, on occasion he used fo’c’sle language. The first time I almost took a swing at him, and it was only a swift word and Cooper’s grasp on my arm that stopped me. After that, knowing what he was after, I schooled myself to walk away, shut him out. On a less personal level he constantly found fault, warning me that if I didn’t buck up, I would be in trouble. Did I want Decline to Report written in my Seaman’s Discharge Book? That would scupper any ambitions I might have had.
He was right, of course. There were occasions when I’d been late back to the ship and less than meticulous about my duties. Worse, leaving Hong Kong for Shanghai on our next return to San Francisco, I found it difficult to sleep and hard to rouse myself for my watch. But what angered me was the way Hines managed to insinuate that I was lazy, not up to the job, not White Star material. He must have had a word with the Old Man, because a few days after we left China I was summoned to his presence.
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