A Most Immoral Woman

by Linda Jaivin

  Kuan entered with a telegram. For a spine-tingling moment, Morrison imagined that through some extraordinary act of telepathy, Granger had realised what he was doing and was attempting to pre-empt him.

  It was not from Granger.

  WHY DON’T YOU ANSWER IF ABLE MEET ME TIENTSIN?

  Why don’t I answer? As if it is not obvious! She only wishes to complete my humiliation. I am only fooling myself—I am quite sure I am fooling none of my friends—if I think that I will remain unaffected by her. It must not continue. I must stay strong and guarded.

  The next morning, Molyneux, up from Chefoo, dropped in for a visit.

  ‘Comment va la mademoiselle?’ Molyneux asked.

  ‘Elle va, par habitude. She wants me to follow. It is absurd under these circumstances. I am entirely disinclined to do so.’

  ‘And yet,’ Molyneux rejoined, ‘you are tempted. I can see that from the ferocity with which you deny your interest.’

  ‘It is true,’ Morrison conceded. ‘Have you ever done such a thing?’

  ‘Invariably I do. Then again, I’m married. It makes things simpler.’

  ‘So you say. I have yet to see any evidence that marriage makes anything simpler.’

  ‘And your life, my dear G.E.?’

  ‘A paradigm of simplicity. And so it shall stay.’

  About an hour after Molyneux left, Kuan returned with another telegram. Morrison braced himself: Maysie or Granger? It was from Moberly Bell. Morrison’s jaw dropped in disbelief. RESCIND BEDLOW YOURSELF TAKE PLACE.

  So now, after all, I am to go to war. They might have asked me. It rankled him that he had been ordered to go in such a summary manner. For all his complaints about being left behind and all his grousing about the quality of the roustabouts, amateurs and dunderheads employed by The Times, he was not eager to take Bedlow’s place amongst the war correspondents. The Haimun’s problems were still unresolved and there was no guarantee, even with his connections, that the Japanese would let him get to the front when they were blocking all the others. He loathed the thought of how it would look if he, George Ernest Morrison, turned out to have no better access to the front than the rest of the rabble; it was insupportable.

  He replied to Bell, stating that he would not shrink from going whilst also implying that he was too big a man to be ordered to take the place of a much smaller one. He girded himself for the drama of informing Bedlow that he himself was to replace him. He made a list of instructions for Kuan, whom he’d leave in charge of the household. He asked Blunt to take over as The Times’s chief correspondent in China while he was gone. He considered what he would need and what he could carry if on the march with the Japanese army. There was much to think about, much to do. STOPPING TIENTSIN EN ROUTE JAPAN. STAYING ASTOR HOUSE.And thus I am guided by an inscrutable Providence back into her orbit. Back into her arms. And thence to war.

  In Which Tolstoi Chooses Between War and Peace

  and Miss Perkins Reveals That She Is Expecting

  Quite a Lot of Our Hero

  The brass band of the Sherwood Foresters was playing an afternoon concert in the octagonal alcove of the Astor House and all Tientsin was there for the diversion. He had not realised such would be the case when he had suggested in his note to her that they meet there for tea. By the time he arrived, she was already seated and it was too late to suggest a change of plans. Morrison sensed that the entertainment was considerably enhanced by the sight of the famous correspondent and the scandalous American together again. He caught eyes darting in their direction from behind raised teacups and fans. It was all so intriguing that it was a miracle the Sherwood Foresters even got a look-in.

  ‘And so I’m off to the front. Or at least that’s the intention. The Japanese are still being most obstreperous on the topic of permissions.’

  ‘If the war is as righteous as you claim,’ she said, ‘then why are the Japanese so reluctant to be observed in the practice of it?’

  Flibbertigibbet. ‘Strategic reasons,’ he said with more conviction than he felt. Her question irritated him. ‘But as I remarked in our first conversation, women are natural pacifists. That is why they are unsuited to govern nations. They do not have the marrow to enact the necessary.’

  ‘You didn’t answer my question. Besides, does that make Tolstoi a woman?’ Mae retorted, responding to his tone. ‘He has written a most moving pamphlet arguing the case against war in general and this one in particular, calling it contrary to the teachings of both Jesus Christ and Lord Buddha. He says war brings needless suffering and stupefies and brutalises men. I found his reasoning quite persuasive. Bethink Yourselves! is the title in English by the way.’

  ‘I know it. And yet,’ Morrison countered with a dismissive air, ‘one of Tolstoi’s own sons is so much in favour of the war that he has enlisted to serve. And the old man himself rides out from Isnaia Poliana every few days all the way to Tula to catch the latest news from the front.’

  ‘Well of course he is eager for the news if his own flesh and blood is fighting. Do you deny that Tolstoi has any point?’

  ‘He makes a very good point. He states that Manchuria is to Russia an alien land over which it has no rights.’ Why are we arguing about this?

  ‘Who has rights to Manchuria except the Manchus? I, at least, am persuaded by Tolstoi’s words.’

  Morrison had never appreciated Russian literature less. He took a deep breath. ‘You’re very feisty today, Maysie. But surely you didn’t send me all those telegrams urging me to come to see you only because you wished to argue the case against war.’

  ‘No,’ she replied, her fire suddenly extinguished. ‘Honey, you will be careful, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course. I’m not foolish. And I’m not going to do battle—only report on it.’

  Her lips trembled. ‘I’m afraid.’

  ‘Please don’t worry, Mae. I’ll be fine.’ He patted her hand. This was becoming tedious.

  Her eyes filled with tears.

  Now what?

  A teardrop fell onto her gloves, leaving a damp spot. She blinked down at her hands for a long while.

  Truly she has missed her calling. The stage is the poorer. Her carryings-on, her stories and her flagrant infidelities had finally registered with the saner part of him. Though he could not have known for certain until he had seen her again, observing her now he was satisfied that he had banished her from his heart.

  Another tear fell. He grew irritated and restless, thinking of the many appointments he still had to attend to in Tientsin before sailing to Wei Hai Wei and thence Japan.

  She took a sip of tea and replaced the china cup in its saucer. ‘There is something I have to tell you.’

  Morrison waited, his patience thinning.

  She folded her hands in her lap again and looked him in the eye. ‘It seems that I am not infertile after all.’

  In Which Our Hero Hesitates and Is Lost,

  Following Which He Receives a Most

  Concerning Summons

  Morrison reeled. He searched for the right words with which to frame a question as inescapable as it was indelicate. ‘Are you certain it’s mine?’ he rasped.

  Her upper body straightened incrementally. She placed the flat of her hand on her stomach. ‘I feel that it is.’ Her voice was steel wrapped in velvet.

  That’s it? She ‘feels’ that it is!

  ‘A woman knows such things.’ She poked at a sliver of cake with her fork, her eyes suddenly clear and dry.

  Another moment passed. Then, an affection stronger than Morrison had ever felt for any woman welled up from God knew where and flooded his veins. All was forgiven, all could be forgotten. He’d be a father. He smiled stupidly.

  She smiled back.

  Morrison was forty-two years old. He had experienced alarums before, most recently with the sturdy Australian lass Bessie, whose menses obeyed no calendar known to Western science but did—thank ye gods!—eventually make their appearance. Bold bad Sally Bond had embarrassed
and infuriated him some years earlier by insisting, to her husband no less, that he, Morrison, was the father of their child; Morrison had denied it absolutely, despite the boy’s suspiciously ginger complexion and preternaturally serious brow. From the time he was a young man, Morrison had wanted children—though assuredly not with Sally Bond or even Bessie. But he’d been in no hurry. He always figured these things would sort themselves out. Perhaps it was time. He was getting on. He owned a comfortable home in Peking, enjoyed an international reputation and high social standing and possessed solid, if minor, investments. She was the daughter of a senator and millionaire. She was undeniably charming, stylish and more accomplished in the arts of love than any woman he’d ever encountered. She loved him. She’d said so. And he loved her too. He might as well admit it to himself. He’d already asked her to marry him once before. She had said no because—well, mainly because—she feared she’d be unable to bear him children. That, clearly, was no longer the case. As for her rather elastic sense of fidelity, things would be different now. That’s it then. This it it. ‘Will you…?’

  She looked at him, blinking, expectant.

  She doesn’t make this easy.

  ‘Will you…would you…do you think you would…?’ Doubt niggled.

  She sat preternaturally still.

  ‘Maysie, is it really mine?’

  Her gaze frosted over. When she spoke, each word was an icicle, gelid, dagger-shaped. ‘I told you it was.’

  ‘I just need to know—is there any chance it’s not mine? Have you been with anyone else lately?’

  ‘I thought you banned me from speaking of others.’

  ‘It is not the speaking that is at issue.’ At the next table, the English teachers Mr and Mrs Lattimore had been sitting with their four-year-old son, who slipped out of his chair and wandered over. Mae bent to stroke the child’s hair. In that instant, Morrison saw her as he’d never seen her before. As a mother. The vision melted him. He was lost again.

  ‘Owen.’ His father stood up with an apologetic air. ‘Don’t bother Dr Morrison and Miss Perkins.’ He led his son back to their table.

  ‘If you wish to know,’ she said with a resigned air, ‘I will tell you.’

  ‘I don’t need—’

  ‘Martin Egan, of course.’

  ‘You don’t have to—’

  ‘I can see you want to know. There was Chester as well.’

  ‘Holdsworth.’ Morrison felt ill. She is entirely faithful to my memory. ‘That old goat?’ His tone was bitter.

  ‘Yes. The last time we were together, that “old goat”, as you call him, had me four times in two hours. More like an old bull, really, when you think about it.’

  ‘At his age,’ Morrison spluttered, trying to keep his voice down, ‘you’re lucky it didn’t kill him.’

  ‘I told him it was a most impressive performance. He was tickled pink.’

  ‘No doubt the result of cardial infarction.’

  Mae burst out laughing. ‘Oh, Ernest, honey, that’s why I love you. You always make me laugh.’

  Against all reason her treacherous lips looked sweet again, full and kissable. He could not believe he was thinking about her lips. She’s doing it again. ‘You take other lovers to provoke me.’

  The sparkle faded from her eyes. ‘Oh, honey, will you never understand me? I don’t do it to provoke you. I do it to amuse myself.’

  ‘Maysie, whose girl are you?’ His voice crackled with unhappiness. Just minutes earlier he had intended to renew his proposal of marriage. He did not understand how things had gone so terribly awry.

  ‘Whose girl am I?’ She smiled thinly. ‘My own. And lest you ask again, so is the child. That’s that then. You are just like John Wesley after all. I should prevent myself in future from giving my heart to men who keep their own hearts for themselves, for whom career and ambition will ever be their only true wife and mistress.’ She stood. ‘It’s been delightful. But I must run. I told the Ragsdales I’d be back at four o’clock. They will be expecting me to be prompt.’

  ‘Not if they have paid any attention to your timekeeping in the past, I should think.’ It was a poor joke. But he had been stung by the accusation that he had not been willing to give her his heart, even if—or perhaps because—there was an element of truth in it.

  ‘I do not appreciate your sarcasm, Dr Morrison. Good afternoon. And I wish you well with your travels and your war.’ A flurry of skirts and shawls and she was gone.

  That evening, at a banquet with Chinese officials, the conversation swirled about Morrison like mist. For once, his tenuous grasp of the language seemed a kind of blessing. Back at the Astor, he dreamt a thick unpeopled dream of fern gullies with whispering leaves, of hard, clean sunlight, and of rocks crowned with the square dung of wombats. He woke with a head like an anchor stuck in sand.

  Before breakfast, he sent a telegram to Bell saying he was delayed in Tientsin, implying interviews. It was the nineteenth of April.

  From a local curio dealer he bought a beautiful silver belt engraved with the character ‘double happiness’, the Chinese symbol for wedded bliss. He sent it with a letter addressed to ‘My darling Maysie’. He begged her to see him.

  No response came.

  In Dumas’s parlour that afternoon, Morrison confided that he was in trouble, in every state of every union but calm—and, for better or worse, marital.

  ‘Ah, then there are some consolations.’

  ‘I heard that, dear.’ Mrs Dumas entered with a tray of tea and sandwiches. Her expression intimated that were she married to someone such as Dr Morrison, she would not have to endure such tedium as her own husband’s humour afforded.

  ‘You see my point?’ whispered Dumas.

  ‘I heard that too,’ Mrs Dumas chirped. ‘Anyway, I shall leave you two to your discussions. I am going to my room to read. I’ve discovered the most marvellous book.’

  ‘And which one is that?’ Morrison asked.

  ‘Anna Lombard by Victoria Cross.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘You’ve read it? Don’t you agree it’s a wonderful novel?’

  ‘Yes, fine book, hmm.’

  After they were reassured by footsteps on the creaking floorboards above that Mrs Dumas had moved out of earshot, Dumas sighed. ‘Thank goodness Tientsin is short of handsome, sword-bearing Pathans or I should fear anew for our marriage.’

  ‘Awful book,’ Morrison said.

  ‘Terrible. So what news?’

  Morrison described his conversation with Mae.

  The tale sent Dumas into a frenzy of whisker-pulling. ‘When do you see her next?’

  ‘Her Grace declines to answer my notes. Mrs Ragsdale, however, has summoned me to her residence tomorrow morning for a chat.’

  Dumas’s eyebrows shot high and wide.

  ‘My feelings exactly.’

  In Which Morrison Endures a Most

  Curious Conversation

  ‘Dr Morrison, thank you for calling.’

  ‘Always a pleasure, Mrs Ragsdale.’

  Overnight, the weather, as capricious as love, had turned springlike, almost sultry. A film of sweat sheened Mrs Ragsdale’s upper lip as they stumbled through an exchange of pleasantries. Under his jacket, Morrison felt damp circles spread from under his arms. He held his hat in his hand.

  ‘Dr Morrison,’ she ventured at last, her eyes apologetic. ‘As you know, Senator and Mrs Perkins have entrusted the guardianship of their daughter to me whilst she is in China.’

  He nodded. His throat and stomach were a sheepshank, knotted top and bottom.

  ‘I feel I must speak to you about a rather sensitive matter. I believe you know what I’m referring to.’ Mrs Ragsdale attempted a smile. It died on her lips. She tried to resuscitate it without great success.

  ‘Yes.’ He felt his cheeks colour. ‘I believe I do.’ Anguish gripping my vitals.

  ‘Dr Morrison, you know how much I respect you.’

  Morrison held his breath.

  �
��Back home, as you might imagine, Senator and Mrs Perkins are pillars of society.’

  ‘Of course,’ was Morrison’s careful reply.

  Mrs Ragsdale, eyes moistening, frowned. ‘This is so terribly awkward.’

  Morrison sat as still as a corpse.

  ‘Miss Perkins is the apple of her father’s eye. But she has always been a bit…man-crazy. She is, and I shall be frank with you, Dr Morrison, only kept from male company with the greatest of difficulty.’

  Morrison nodded. ‘I understand,’ he said, though in truth he was struggling.

  ‘I shall come to the point. Mae—Miss Perkins—has told me that you’ve been pressing your suit. That you have asked her to marry you. That you have been steadfast and persistent.’

  Morrison blinked.

  ‘I know your intentions are honourable, Dr Morrison.’

  ‘They are.’ They were. They are. ‘And what,’ he added, maintaining as neutral a tone as possible, ‘does Miss Perkins say of her own intentions?’

  In Which We Learn That Miss Perkins Had

  More Than One Ace Up Her Sleeve and

  Morrison Confides in the Sea

  ‘You can imagine my astonishment as her circumlocutions finally spiralled towards the central point, which was that my fervently desired engagement—such was the dated quality of her newsgathering—was not to be. I digested this information, as well as the news that Miss Perkins had departed for Shanghai in the company of Mrs Goodnow, with some degree of heartburn, as you might imagine. But the moment I was truly threatened with reflux was when Mrs Ragsdale informed me, in a dramatically lowered whisper, that the cad, the scoundrel, the reprobate Martin Egan, whom she had always thought such an honourable gentleman and a pleasant man too, had gone and got the lass “into trouble”.’

  Dumas jerked forward in his chair as though mechanically sprung. ‘No!’ he cried.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Yes.’