Married to a Perfect Stranger

by Jane Ashford

  Frederick allowed that this was so. “She expects you at Christmas,” he warned.

  “My family has invited us for the holidays,” said Mary, even though it was rather rude. She’d had as much as she could take of this conversation.

  “Yours.” The visitors looked at each other as if they’d forgotten she had a family.

  “Well, but…” George frowned. “The Bexleys always celebrate Christmas together.”

  “Indeed? Will Roger be there?” Mary asked.

  “He’s in India,” Frederick replied. His tone suggested that anyone halfway intelligent should be aware of that.

  “And we will be in Somerset,” snapped Mary.

  George and Frederick looked at each other. Their bewildered expressions were so similar that it was almost funny.

  “We haven’t made a final plan,” John said.

  She couldn’t believe he was being conciliating and contradicting her in front of these two.

  “Ah, well then…” His brothers nodded.

  Mary could see them thinking that John would bring his unruly wife into line. She felt like shaking them—all three of them. “I didn’t realize it was so late,” she said in her Great-Aunt Lavinia manner.

  John gave her a look. But George and Frederick took the hint. After some backslapping and a flurry of coats and directions to a cab stand not too far off, they departed on a last gust of boisterous laughter. In their wake, the parlor felt unnaturally silent.

  “How can you let them speak to you that way?” Mary had to say.

  “What way? And did you need to hustle them out…”

  “So…dismissively.”

  “They were just joking.” John frowned at her. “Retelling old stories, as families do.”

  Mary suddenly thought of her sisters. Yes, they told stories, too—much softer, more…caressing—of her dreamy inattention and social blunders. The details were different and yet akin. She too had been subjected to years of good-natured laughter. “You should tell them it’s not funny.”

  John gazed at her, uncomprehending. “Why would I do that? Everyone enjoys hearing family tales.”

  “About Frederick? And George?”

  “Of course.”

  “Tell me one.” Mary felt positively militant.

  “What is the matter with…?”

  “I want to hear a ‘funny’ story about Frederick.”

  John let out an exasperated breath, then he shrugged. “Oh, very well. Ah…” He considered. “At school, Frederick was first stroke on the rowing team. During one race, one of the other boats floundered, and he was struck on the arm by an oar. It hurt like the devil, but he managed to keep rowing, and they won the match. Later, the doctor discovered that a bone in his forearm was cracked.” He looked at her as if to say, “There you are.”

  “That’s not the same.”

  “What do you mean? You wanted a story…”

  “That’s just praise.” How could he not hear the difference? “Frederick wasn’t the butt of a joke. That’s just…history.”

  “Well, it’s all history. Family history.”

  “John, it’s not the same.”

  He came over and put an arm around her. “I think you’re tired.” He drew her close. “They should have sent word before stopping by.”

  “It isn’t that.”

  “Come to bed,” he murmured.

  Mary wanted to tell him how she’d made her mother truly see her drawings of Aunt Lavinia and prove to him that old stories could be changed. But he didn’t understand what she meant. And he wasn’t listening.

  He bent and kissed her. It was so hard to keep up a train of thought when she was drowning in the taste and feel of him. Mary’s breath came out in a long, languorous sigh. His hands moved, and it felt so very good. She would tell him later, some other time, when her senses weren’t swimming. “Oh, John.”

  Twelve

  Seated at his desk the next day, John took a report from the stack of papers awaiting him. There was always so much to absorb, such an unruly mass of information to boil down into a concise report. Could he even manage it? Had he been overambitious when he’d promised the summary in two days’ time? Would Conolly have finished by now?

  John glanced at his colleague, who was bent over another document on the other side of the room. That was silly. Conolly worked no faster than he did. What was wrong with him this morning? John read on, underlined a significant passage, and made a note. He was well on the way to making his mark, demonstrating his skill to…everyone.

  It was time to visit Limehouse again and dig for information that others hadn’t found. Why had he heard nothing from Henry Tsing? Why hadn’t he contacted the man himself? He’d allowed domestic concerns to distract him, but that couldn’t be. There was no room for slacking and no margin for error. He would get in touch with Tsing today and schedule further expeditions. And right now, he would absorb the pertinent facts in this stack of paper and produce the perfect report. He bent his head and kept working.

  * * *

  This would be one of the last days to sit outside this year, Mary thought as she set up her small easel in the garden at the center of the square. The air was chill, with a premonition of rain, and the leaves were almost all gone. There was no wind, however, and the autumn sun shone with enough warmth to let her take advantage of the outdoor space.

  She was uneasy and restless after yesterday. And her house felt overfull, even when she was shut away in her private parlor. Pungent odors rose up the steps from the kitchen, where Kate was concocting lotions and tinctures. Mrs. Tanner had followed the vapors upstairs to complain that her daughter’s work made a great mess and hindered her cooking. Mary imagined that this was partly true and partly just resentment at being superseded in her own domain.

  Meanwhile, Arthur bounced between the bickering in the kitchen and his room on the top floor. He had no qualms about knocking at her studio door as he passed to see if she had some errand or task for him. He didn’t have enough to do to absorb his boundless energy. Finally, she’d sent him out for a packet of straight pins she didn’t really need.

  So this chance to escape to the garden and her paints was more than welcome. She set out her colors and opened the jar of water, prepared the paper, then sat back and waited. Very soon, her brush began to move. Quick strokes over the damp page outlined a head with short hair. She blended brown with white and a dash of red to color a face. Blotting her brush on a cloth, she added the eyes, mouth, nose. Alternating clean lines and the subtle washes that watercolors offered, Mary elaborated the portrait. It was the eldest Bexley brother as he’d appeared on his visit yesterday. She wasn’t surprised. Thoughts of him, and George, had been running in the back of her mind, or seething might be a better description.

  An unknown while later, Mary lowered her brush, finished, and contemplated what she’d done. The features were accurate. The blue eyes gazed out directly, smugly. The jawline jutted with complacent belligerence. Here was a man who was perfectly content with his own opinions, she decided, looking deeper into what her talents had produced. He would laugh at attempts to challenge or change them, secure in the knowledge that he knew better. If you needed him to think differently, well, you might have taken on an impossible task; if you wanted him to actually listen to John, for example, or recognize his brother’s many talents. Mary was afraid that the eldest Bexley brother had acquired all the ideas he wanted at an early age. He was certainly unlikely to accept any from her.

  She gazed at the face she’d drawn, searching for more amiable traits. She saw no touch of malice or deceit. Frederick would not comprehend grudges, she thought, because he never held one himself. He had no need to, because he was always right.

  “Ah,” commented a familiar voice from over her shoulder. “You’ve done it again—captured a character. A most self-satisfied young man, I’d s
ay. You simply itch to smack some sense into him.”

  Mary turned to find Eleanor, warmly bundled against the chill, standing behind her bench.

  “A friend of yours? Oh dear, not your husband, I hope?”

  “No.” Mary hesitated. But Eleanor was unlikely ever to encounter Frederick. “His brother.”

  “Well, that’s a relief for the sake of my manners. But not such good news for family harmony, I expect.”

  Mary shook her head. Her mind was full of the Bexleys and the way they’d acted with one another yesterday.

  “Older brother,” said Eleanor. It wasn’t a question. “Eldest, I imagine. It’s the usual look.”

  “Usual?”

  “I was here first. I learned everything before you. You can tell me nothing.”

  Mary had to laugh a little. Eleanor had described Frederick’s attitude so perfectly.

  “At least he’s not a duke,” the old woman added. At Mary’s surprised look, she explained, “It’s far, far worse when all the world is toadying to them.”

  It must be, she supposed. Mary had never encountered a duke—unless you counted seeing Wellington at Vauxhall, which she didn’t.

  “Does he live in London?”

  “No.”

  “Fortunate.” Eleanor smiled at her. “Well, you are being discreet, which is admirable. And you haven’t asked for my advice. However, I shall exercise the prerogative of the old and give it to you anyway. Keep this young man…” She raised an eyebrow.

  “Frederick,” Mary supplied.

  “Frederick. Keep Frederick at arm’s length in the nicest possible way. Don’t tell him what you’re up to or what you think about any great matters. Don’t ask him what you ought to do, unless you are fully prepared to comply with his orders. Follow these precepts and peace will reign.”

  “You seem very certain.” The rapid spate of advice was startling.

  Eleanor’s expression grew impish. “Oh yes. I am an eldest child myself, you see. I kept my brother quite under my thumb until he cheated and ran off to Eton. They convinced him of his own importance there, and he no longer listened to a mere girl.”

  Mary laughed, even as she thought that Eleanor was very likely right about Frederick. “You are alone today?”

  Eleanor nodded. “Caroline has gone off to call on a friend. I believe she is wangling that invitation we spoke of. I hope so, actually. Otherwise, she is up to some mischief.”

  “Oh.”

  Her neighbor’s smile said that she heard Mary’s misgivings in that one word. “Caroline has a good heart, you know. She just needs a bit of reining in.”

  That was all well and good for her grandmother. But if Caroline required reining in at the Castlereaghs’ reception, what was Mary supposed to do? How did one subdue an earl’s daughter? Then she realized that her new acquaintance’s antics were unlikely to involve her. Caroline would more than likely disappear into a circle of her society friends.

  “My lady?”

  Eleanor’s maid came up to the gate in the wrought iron fence. She didn’t rattle the bars, but she looked as if she’d like to. “It’s cold, my lady,” she called. “You’re going to take a chill.”

  Eleanor smiled and raised a gloved hand to show she’d heard. “I must go.”

  Mary’s fingers were icy by this time. She started tidying her paints. “I shall miss sitting in the garden.”

  “As I do, every winter.” Eleanor cocked her head as if she’d had a thought. “Perhaps you would come over, now and then, and paint with me? Not as good as being outdoors, but still pleasant perhaps.”

  “I’d like that very much,” Mary replied.

  “Good.” With a smile and a nod, her neighbor departed.

  * * *

  In his empty office, John once again prepared to venture out into the slums, trading his neat coat and pantaloons for shabby, threadbare garments and emptying his purse of all but the coin necessary to pay for information. This time, he’d made sure that everyone had gone before starting his transformation. He didn’t want Conolly’s commentary or another colleague’s questions. Indeed, the thought of any cautions or objections chafed unbearably. He knew what he was doing. He did not require oversight or interference from those less familiar with the situation.

  He set off on foot. A fellow such as he was pretending to be would not arrive in a hackney even at the far edge of the slums. He walked with shoulders slumped, a man with nothing to steal, while carefully scanning the streets around him. He would not be taken by surprise by lurkers waiting for easy pickings.

  His ancient stuff coat, buttoned up to the neck to hide his good shirt, was surprisingly warm. And the wind had died down, so the air was less chilly. In half an hour, John reached the Red Dragon tavern, sidled inside, and spotted Henry Tsing at a battered table in the corner. He walked over—not too fast, not too slow—and joined him, settling in the most shadowed chair, and pulling his cloth cap well down on his forehead.

  “New ship in from Shanghai,” Henry muttered, his words covered by the babble of drinkers around them. “Dumped four Chinese sailors with no work.”

  “They are here?”

  The other man shook his head. “Two over at Shen’s. The others at Dora’s—till their pay runs out.”

  John nodded. It was no use trying to interview foreign sailors at Dora’s bawdy house. Their attention was all on her girls. And in any case, the men were not usually interested in his offers until they’d used up all their wages from a voyage.

  They stayed at the Red Dragon long enough to nurse one drink at a believable pace. John sloshed some of the rotgut out onto the table and tipped more into the corner behind him when no one was looking. He did his best not to swallow any of the harsh liquor.

  Henry Tsing spoke to this man and that as they passed the table. He offered greetings and bits of gossip and asked for news. They uncovered no single significant fact in this manner, but John was convinced that the accumulation of data would prove useful in the end.

  Leaving the Red Dragon, they took a circuitous route that led them into several other grogshops, where their routine was the same, before ending at Reginald Shen’s impressive establishment. Shen was the most promising contact that Tsing had found for John, and this was the place where he expected, eventually, to turn up something important.

  Like Henry, Shen had been born in England to a Limehouse slattern. But unlike John’s guide, Shen’s Chinese father had taken an interest in his existence. Moreover, the elder Shen had a secure post on an East Indian trader, because of his wide knowledge of currents and shipping lanes across the eastern routes. His vessel docked in London every year or so, and he visited his son and checked on his welfare when in port. Before the voyage from which he didn’t return—for unknown reasons—he provided funds for Reginald to open a business in these dark streets. Perhaps he also bequeathed a measure of cleverness, because the young man made a success of the venture.

  Shen’s became known as a haven for Asian sailors. It offered cheap lodgings, a taproom with food prepared by a Chinaman, and a place where a variety of transactions could be safely completed. It was not a shop or a market; it was a space where men could sell or trade trinkets and possessions to raise the funds to live while they searched for a berth on an outgoing ship. Shen took a percentage of every deal, of course. He’d also told John that he maintained the service because it allowed him to acquire interesting objects, while drawing customers for his other services.

  The surprising thing, to John, was Shen was a patriot. He revered England as his home, as the land that had given him opportunities, and he was happy to provide information to England’s government. He did require payment, but as he explained it to John, this was entirely reasonable. Did he not have to pay the servers who manned his enterprise and the cadre of toughs who protected it? And without them, there would be no flow of sailors and
no information.

  Shen’s help had other conditions. Secrecy, of course. To be known as a conduit would not be good for business. But he also insisted on meeting John in person. Sending spoken messages back and forth with Tsing or another was too risky, in Shen’s opinion. And he certainly didn’t care to leave written evidence.

  And so John had begun a series of clandestine visits, late at night, when Shen’s patrons were deep in their cups and more alert neighbors sound asleep. He and Tsing wandered the district, as they had tonight, and came to Shen’s only when Limehouse’s lack of interest in them had been thoroughly demonstrated.

  As before, Tsing was left behind in the taproom. John was spirited up an unfamiliar set of stairs and around several corners before being led into the room where he’d visited Shen before. The man’s headquarters was hidden within a maze of corridors with more ways in and out than John had been able to count.

  The office itself was like a comfortable parlor, with little sign of business about it. Shen sat in an armchair before a crackling hearth, thin hands held out to the flames. He wore the dress of a prosperous English merchant. They exchanged greetings, and John sat in a chair on the other side of the fireplace. “What news?” he asked.

  Shen smiled, as he always did, at his visitor’s bluntness. “Limehouse is still enjoying the tale of how the emperor tricked the English over the kŏutóu.”

  John tried to curb his impatience. The proprietor of this place was a handsome man, neat and spare with dark hair and eyes slightly tilted from his heritage. He was intelligent and quick to see irony. Some part of John always expected a foreign accent, but Shen spoke like a London native. “It’s surprising how widely that story spread among common sailors.”

  Shen shrugged. “Servants, courtiers, spiteful mandarins—someone is always jabbering. Is this not how you hope to discover important information?”

  John nodded. “I wish the emperor had received Lord Amherst. If they could have talked…”

  “The dragon throne is angry about all the opium traders are bringing into his country and the arrogance of foreigners.”