‘Look, Mary, such a large bath. And won’t you like this view? You do like the view?’
I couldn’t say anything. He had tried so hard to please me. I never dreamt I’d have such finery to myself. And yet he was leaving.
‘I thought you would want to engage your own servants,’ he said.
‘You are right. Thank you.’
I stood before him and reached out my hand, trailing my long fingers down the front of his shirt.
‘I will wait for you here,’ I said.
He bit his lip. ‘I will hurry.’
The next day we dispatched most of my boxes of clothes from one house to the other and Robert set up a line of credit. It was more money than I had ever imagined. These new-found riches were a boon. A home is a rare kind of pleasure and, after so many months at berth in one boat or another or quartered in provincial inns, it was time to be a woman again.
‘You will have a porcelain service,’ Robert promised, eager to please. ‘Oh, Mary, what of this linen? You do like it, don’t you?’
‘I do. I am happy,’ I told him.
‘And you will stay here? You will wait?’
I smiled. He was as nervous as I was.
The days passed regardless. Then, almost at the end, I was packing the last of my things before I finally moved myself over to my own little mansion, when I came across a box in the study. Robert’s correspondence was piled up, being catalogued. The Royal Horticultural Society would inherit it, in due course, I had no doubt. I fingered the pages, reading a line here and there. And then I noticed there was a small pile of unopened letters. I lifted one. It was addressed to me in Jane’s hand. I realised these were the missives that had been sent to await my return, before she knew what we had done, what had happened. My sister had written over twenty letters until some eight months before we arrived back, when the correspondence had abruptly ceased. I sank into a chair by the empty fireside.
The sound of the wax seal breaking on those letters was agonising. She had written to me of Henry, of course—his first words, his first steps. He had been teething. She described the sunny nature of a happy infant and said that William had called on his son twice and sent gifts at Christmas. She loved my son, there was no doubt of that. In another of the letters she thanked me for the consignment I had chosen—recognising my eye in the gifts and writing at length how the children had played dress up. She told me of the seasons in London—a wet spring, a glorious summer and John, her eldest, who had returned from school for the holidays. Should she plant laurel in the back garden or a clematis—which would take longer to grow? The later letters sounded worried and contained less news—only that Thomas had begun his Latin and that she had had the drawing room redecorated. Robert was silent and I had not written in so long that she was afraid, she said. It was a lonely business, being in London, her companions abroad. Please, please, she entreated me, would I send some word? She was worried. The words resounded—an echo of the sister I had lost, the love and care that I had gambled.
I sat silently. The staff moved through the house. I could hear them. The letters lay on the side tables to the left and right, like an abandoned meal. I kept thinking of those last few weeks, of Robert and I riding together on our way to Foo Chow Soo. Of the golden countryside and our lovemaking in the fields. And then the clear image of Robert taking aim at the pirate junks and the day we had had chocolate again, the sweet, rich texture. I wished I had kissed him afterwards, the taste still on our lips. I loved Jane very much. We both did. And we had hurt her.
As if floating, I left the study and climbed up the stairs towards my sister’s room. I knocked on the door and entered. Jane was sitting alone by the window and looked up as I came in, her enquiring look turning to a withering glance instantly when she saw it was only I. I crossed to her chair and sank down onto the floor beside her.
‘Jane,’ I said, ‘I just read your letters.’
She remained silent, her small fingers fluttering to the collar of her gown, thinking through, no doubt, what she had said in each note.
I continued. ‘You are angry, I know. You have every right to be so. But…’
I got no further.
‘Don’t! Don’t!’ she shouted. ‘I do not want an explanation. I do not want your pity either.’
‘Listen,’ I entreated her. I had to take her on. ‘I have been looking forever for something that I want. All that time in London, all those plays, that silly house near Soho Square, damn William and his wooing. I was searching, Jane. And quite by chance I have found what I was looking for. Here.’
‘My husband,’ she sniffed.
‘No. No. Robert is incidental. You don’t understand. I found a country that fascinated me. I found something I was good at. I found a vocation, an interest, a calling. And yes, all right, I found him as well. I hated Robert in London. You know I did. And the truth is, I will never go back there. But here in China, Robert and I, we have this together. It has sparked something that is amazing in every way. And however much I don’t want to hurt you, I cannot regret it. Nothing will make me regret it.’ I was crying. ‘But you and I may never see each other again, Jane. And you are still my sister. I do not love you less than before and I do not want to lose you. Even if you are angry with me, let’s make it up. Let’s cobble together something. Please.’
My breath was heaving. Jane was having none of my sentimentality. She fought back.
‘So you want my love while you share your bed with my husband? That is not possible, Mary. You have made your choice. Take him then! I will not divorce him. But know that you have humiliated me. And that’s what you will have left of me because of this. A façade. A pretence. I will play my part. No one will know. I will be your housekeeper, Mary,’ she spat sarcastically. ‘I will look after your mistakes and back up all your endeavours. I will invest your money. I will auction your goods. I will be Mrs Fortune for you and they can all tell me how marvellous you are. How wonderful. How extraordinary! You show-off ! You have to have everything. You have found what you wanted. Well, bully for you. For in taking it you have got the only thing I ever dreamed of since I was a little girl. He is my husband.’
I felt for her. ‘We will never agree,’ I said sadly. ‘But Robert is hardly gone from you. You did not really have him in the first place, Jane. Everything that you liked is yours still. All that time in London you preached acceptance to me. You told me that I had to do what is best for my family. Well, perhaps things haven’t turned out just the way you’d like, but now it is your turn to play the hand you’re dealt. And it is not as easy as you thought, is it?’
My sister lashed out. It was a surprise and her blow sent me flying. She jumped up from her chair and kicked me hard in fury when I was down. I grabbed her by the foot and wrestled her to the floor.
‘How could you? You are so like him! You beast! You foul, foul monster!’ she shouted.
Her hair had come loose and fell about her shoulders like a madwoman’s. I held her down.
‘That’s it, isn’t it? It’s Da! He hurt you and he never hurt me. And now it’s not that Robert loves you less that kills you, it’s that he doesn’t hate me any more! You can’t bear that. Because you thought you were his favourite. You can’t bear having to share him!’
The commotion of our tussle had brought a maid from downstairs. The door clicked open and the girl stood there, her mouth open at the sight of my sister and I, hair flying, fighting like street urchins. We both sat up, suddenly well behaved, as if we were children caught by their governess. I laughed.
‘Get out!’ Jane screamed at the girl, who fled immediately.
‘I thought all you wanted was to be Mrs Fortune,’ I muttered. ‘And you are. You hate the part of Robert that I have. I have no desire for the part you like. We can both have him, Jane. It’s not like Da at all.’
‘Convenient,’ she snarled.
‘You have always been good to me but, Jane, I never had what I wanted. I have it now and I won’t give it up
. ‘
Jane thumped her hands flat on the floor in frustration.
‘And there is nothing I can do! I just feel so helpless,’ she howled.
All at once I realised that I remembered that feeling. Other people making decisions for me—things I did not want at all and had no choice in. It was not so long ago that, frustrated, I had hit the floor myself. I stroked the back of her hand.
‘We are family,’ I told her. ‘And we must stick together, Jane. You know that. My son, your husband, all the responsibilities. We are going to share more than most, I suppose. And I know it is wrong. But I will not steal him from you, not like you are thinking, and no one need know. Truly. The only difference is that I am happy here and that Robert, some of the time, will be happy here too. It is not perfect for any of us, but it is what we have.’
Jane’s eyes were hard. There was no resolving things. Not now, anyway. Forgiveness takes time.
‘You are Mrs Fortune,’ I promised her. ‘And I am Fanny Kemble, I suppose.’
On the next night, their last, we dined at the Governor’s mansion. The guests toasted Robert at the table, all twenty of them. During the pudding Pottinger received the news that Foo Chow Soo had been relieved, thank heavens, and we all toasted that as well—both the success and to the memory of the men who fell.
‘And Major Gilland?’ Robert enquired.
‘Sent the news himself. Gilland is indestructible, I think,’ Pottinger joked.
I was glad of it.
Afterwards I recited Juliet and received a standing ovation, Robert joining the applause and Jane clapping politely at his side.
‘And what will you do, Miss Penney, now you are set for the quiet life?’ the Governor enquired.
‘I have not the least idea, though the capital profit Robert recently made does have me inspired to trade. If I can make for Ning-po and perhaps Chusan from time to time I am sure I can find exceptional goods to send for sale in London.’
Pottinger raised an eyebrow.
‘Miss Penney,’ he said, ‘you are full of surprises, but I suspect we would have you no other way. There is a reliable fellow I can perhaps recommend to you as an agent.’
That night I did not sleep at all. I could not bring myself to it. I had been feeling ill of late. At first, I thought it was my troubles. The difficulty with Jane, and Robert leaving. Already I was beginning to recognise that it was more. I did not say a word.
The next morning on the dock the Lady Mary Wood was loaded, the tea gardeners in their quarters, the sixteen Ward’s cases sown with germinating tea seeds on the deck. I sat in Robert’s rooms, books piled to one side, his notebooks in the trunk. Jane had said goodbye to me already, kissed my cheek coldly and removed to her own cabin. It was, I realised, a start, albeit a small one. Now my darling sat staring at me and I at him.
‘I love you,’ I said.
He must go. He must go.
When the tide was ready he walked me to the gangplank, hugged me and I left the boat just before the anchor was raised and the ship cast away. Robert stayed on deck, staring back at me. I was not empty without him, I noticed. Perhaps that is the measure of a true love. I thought I saw the small figure of my sister come to stand at his side just before the ship finally disappeared. I hoped so as I turned towards the town. There were camellias growing in front of some of the houses. I wondered if I might spot a yellow one.
Epilogue
My second son was born in Ning-po the following April. Society was, oddly, not scandalised at all, at least, not that anyone showed it, when I returned to Hong Kong with a baby in my care. Money, I realise now, buys many things that are not the least bit material. And the colonies, I suppose, are different. The greatest shock was Robert’s, of course. I had decided not to tell him by letter. I wanted him to return to me, not out of duty, but out of love.
The baby has a slash of dark hair and my lover’s shy smile. I have called him Albert Gilland Penney and Sir Pottinger has said he will stand as godfather to the boy, who was baptised, of course, by the Bishop. Robert does not know this yet. He has only just arrived. He is on the verandah in the shade, with his son in his arms.
‘I am going to keep this child at home, myself,’ I told him. ‘I will not lose another little boy.’
Perhaps, I daydream, they will be friends one day, these half-brothers, Henry and Albert. Perhaps John and Helen and Thomas will find out they have, well, we will call them cousins, I suppose. It is strange to love one’s children so, without even knowing them. I cannot help myself and I daydream that there will be more.
For now, Robert has brought his maps and we are set for Japan. Another adventure, just the two of us and more riches to be made, no doubt. Albert will stay in the care of a governess I have employed—a lady who arrived in Hong Kong some months ago in the wake of a scandal. I employed her immediately and I am happy to say that I am paying her far too much.
‘Two hundred and fifty miles will outrun almost anything,’ I said. ‘I think you have overshot the mark in coming this far, but I do hope you will stay.’
She has not as adventurous a spirit as I, but her company is very pleasant and she knows the part of Ariel by heart.
I notice that there is a letter in Jane’s hand addressed to me. It is the first I have had of her since her leaving and I smile at the very thought. I will read it later, curled up on the balcony, tomorrow morning, or perhaps afternoon—whenever I emerge. Now, though, I stand at the garden door. Robert has been crying. There is no need for either of us to say a thing about it.
‘I think there will be tree peonies,’ he remarks. ‘In Osaka.’
‘Tell me,’ I enquire, as I put the baby in his basket and slip sinuously onto Robert’s lap, ‘how much does a new species of tree peony sell for in London, these days?
Historical Note
The Secret Mandarin is what Truman Capote called ‘Faction’—a mixture of reality and fiction. I freely admit to putting the needs of a good story before anything else, but I have retained historical accuracy wherever I can. Fortune made several well-documented trips to Asia and wrote his own accounts, which mostly focussed on his horticultural discoveries. The Secret Mandarin contains episodes from all of them. His books were bestsellers in their day (though rather dull if you aren’t a botanist). Between the pages and pages on different species of plants, they offer tantalising glimpses into what might be considered Fortune’s more exciting adventures. He mentions only in passing that he spoke to a Mandarin or went to stay in a local farmhouse, for example, and devotes only a few paragraphs to the pirate attack I have reproduced on Captain McFarlane’s ship (on the way to Hong Kong rather than on the way out). In many places I have simply ‘resited’ events. Robert did not live at Gilston Road, for example, until later in his career, but I have moved the Fortune family there earlier (from staff accommodation at Kew Gardens) to accommodate the needs of Mary Penney. Wang and Sing Hoo both served Fortune during his trips, but their time in his service was not contemporaneous. During his time in the tea countries Fortune stayed with the Wang Family, rather than taking a trip of only a couple of days to visit (as in my account). I hope that these changes do not distract - I tried to write a story that was in the spirit of the times, based around what really happened, taking guesses at what might lie in the gaps between the documentary evidence available. Likewise, there is no concrete proof that Fortune spied for Britain, though it seems very unlikely that the military commanders in Hong Kong would not have asked him to keep an eye out, given that he was one of very few Europeans who made their way into the interior of China. I found myself in awe of Robert Fortune—a truly adventurous man—though very aware of his shortcomings. He really never understood the country that brought him so much prosperity and fame. The omissions in his own accounts were telling of both his character and his understanding. It was for these reasons that Mary Penney, a character entirely of my own invention, seemed to fit in like a jigsaw piece. It was as if she had always been missing.
There is very little documentary evidence of Fortune’s private life, as Jane Penney burned all his letters and some of his papers after he died. A horticulturist told me that she had done this at his request, but of course, of that we can never be sure. As a novelist this left an enticing gap that once more, the invention of Mary Penney seemed to fill seamlessly. I hope you enjoy the book and forgive any liberties I may have taken in creating the story.
Further Reading
I found the following invaluable in the course of my research:
Non-fiction:
The Victorians by A N Wilson (Arrow)
The Victorians by Jeremy Paxman (BBC Books)
Victorian London by Liza Picard (Phoenix)
The Suspicions of Mr Whicher by Kate Summerscale (Bloomsbury)
For All the Tea In China by Sarah Rose (Hutchinson)
The Age of Wonder by Richard Holmes (HarperPress)
The Scottish Enlightenment by Arthur Herman (Fourth Esate)
The Plant Hunters by Toby Musgrave, Chris Gardner and Will Musgrave (Cassell Illustrated)
A History of Hong Kong by Frank Welsh (HarperCollins Publishers)
Chinese Mythology by Derek Walters (The Johns Hopkins University Press)
1421 by Gavin Menzies (Bantam Books)
The Chinese Opium Wars by Jack Beeching (Harcourt Publishers)
The Opium Wars: The Addiction of One Empire and the Corruption of Another by W. Travis Hanes and Frank Sanello (Robson Books)
The Honourable Company by John Keay (HarperCollins Publishers)
Fiction:
Water Music by T C Boyle (Granta Books)
The Crimson Petal and the White by Michael Faber (Canongate)
Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell by Susanna Clarke (Bloomsbury)
The Star of the Sea by Joseph O’Connor (Vintage)
Fingersmith by Sarah Waters (Virago)
The Secret Mandarin Page 34
