The Unexpected Wife

by Warfield, Caroline

  “And you of course,” she went on, turning as if she had gathered strength. “Jarratt would rather keep you from any position in government if he can, or hurt you at least. He seems to have taken offence that you removed the marquess from his control.” Spite gleamed in her eyes.

  “Why you, Julia? Why do you hate me?”

  “I don’t hate you, Charles. I merely despise you. So easy to bamboozle. So easy to—” a cough took the rest.

  And the adoration of just one man would never be enough for you. You thrive—or used to thrive—on keeping us competing in circles. He surged to his feet, convinced the harpy had fallen asleep, and stood with his hands fisted as he considered his options, unable to leave and yet unable to act.

  “You cheated me.” He almost missed the whispered words.

  Rage surged up. How in God’s name did I cheat her? He turned to leave.

  “You’ll get your freedom, and I’ll see none of that lovely money.”

  He stopped dead. Freedom. The only thing I ever wanted from her. He turned back and loomed over the bed.

  Her eyes flickered open, suddenly sharp. “Laudanum. You owe me that much. The pain—you have no idea.” Her face twisted as if to demonstrate. Is she faking? With Julia he could never be sure.

  When she began to shake, he reached instinctively to cover her but pulled his hand back, repulsed by the dirt. He watched long and hard, but this time she didn’t wake up.

  She would soon be gone, and he would be free of her. He told himself to walk away and be grateful, but his feet would not move. Finally, he let out a string of curses, none of which woke the woman on the bed.

  I can’t leave her alone like this. She is still my wife. His analytical mind began to take stock of what needed to be done. Zambak would know what to do. The valiant Zambak who had swallowed her pride to learn from Dr. Peters and who even now— No! Lady Zambak Hayden will have nothing to do with this hellhole. Julia is my damned responsibility and mine alone.

  Lists swirled in his head as he walked to the door; he would be back.

  ~ ~ ~

  Three days of no word from Charles or her brother left Zambak dejected. She made daily trips to the mission—both the clinic and the school—grateful to be useful and grateful to avoid the ladies who found excuses to pay calls on Clara Elliot hoping for a tidbit about the now-notorious Lady Zambak Hayden.

  She trudged home late on the fourth day, the ever-eager Filipe trotting at her heels, and braced herself for another scold from Clara. Old Hua bowed her in. “Ladies in parlor, Lady Zam. Missy Elliot say you come when home.”

  Damn. Dare I claim headache? She handed cloak and bonnet to Filipe.

  Too late. Clara Elliot stood in the parlor door, “Who is it Hua? Ah! Lady Zambak. We have visitors.” Her eyes defied Zambak to walk away.

  She almost did, but breeding and manners propelled her forward. Mother would approve at least. “Face them down,” she would say. How much harm will a few moments do?

  Four pairs of glittering eyes met hers: Mildred Dennison’s beneath a bonnet festooned with feathers like those on a Roman centurion’s helmet; her cronies, Lucy Ingram and Eunice McIlroy, flanked her.

  Mrs. Dean—Alice, she remembered—crouched in the corner. Zambak caught fear beneath a veneer of resentment. The woman’s husband is still in Canton and still under indictment, albeit under protection in Elliot’s headquarters. She must hate me. At least that one has reason. I’m here, and her husband isn’t.

  A pregnant silence lasted as long as it took Clara Elliot to pour Zambak’s tea. When it broke, she reevaluated her mother’s question about how much harm. The women could do a great deal in very few moments.

  “You have had such an adventure, Lady Zambak,” Mildred Dennison exclaimed breathlessly. “Trapped with all the men in Canton.” The emphasis on men was unmistakable.

  “Did you really meet the evil Lin Zeux? What did you do to convince him to let you go?” Ingram’s wife broke in. She dropped her voice to a whisper. “Were you . . . tortured?”

  Zambak set her teacup carefully down lest she throw the delicate porcelain into the hearth. “Commissioner Lin, a man of great character, treated me with respect and consideration despite the fact that my presence in Canton violated his country’s laws and his own sense of propriety,” she responded. “He required only that I leave forthwith and arranged for me to do so.”

  Disappointment flickered in the woman’s eyes, but Mrs. McIlroy spoke before she could object. “Surely you don’t condone that pagan? He has trapped our men inside the foreign compound, starving them into submission.”

  Zambak thought of the young clerks frolicking over leapfrog and cricket on the parade ground and their amusement at being forced to learn to cook rice and eggs. Hardly starving. Hardly miserable.

  “Pagan he may be and of a culture known for cruelty, but the commissioner wishes only to enforce Chinese law. He asks merely that we obey.”

  “But we are British!” Mildred exclaimed as if that explained everything.

  Zambak sighed. “Captain Elliot is doing his best to spare Mrs. Dean’s husband the harshness of Chinese law. He has determined none of Her Majesty’s subjects will be judged by any law but our own.”

  “See? I told you, Alice. My Charles will take care of your husband. He will.” Clara Elliot’s chin shook with pride.

  Mildred Dennison sniffed. “He sent the Lorne on dispatch to Madras, and I just hope he’s calling for the navy. They could break through that blockade. Our own husbands’ ships are prepared to assist. Why doesn’t he use them, Clara? I ask you? We could smash the Chinese.”

  Yes. Three dense perimeters of Chinese war junks, and our navy could smash them like twigs—Jarratt & Martinson gunships as well. Elliot may not have authority to declare war per se, but he can command any firepower he chooses.

  “Captain Elliot wishes to avoid war, Mrs. Dennison. Shouldn’t that be our best desire? Bloodshed will benefit none of us,” Zambak said sweetly. She hid her anger under a practiced sip of tea, graceful and contrived. Mother would be proud.

  “What does His Grace have to say about the matter?” Lucy Ingram asked, her glittering eyes examining Zambak as if looking for any sign of debauchery or ruin.

  We come to the real issue. Politics be damned. Are you sleeping with the duke? That’s what they came for.

  Again, she set the cup down carefully. This time she whispered conspiratorially. “I shouldn’t be telling you this,” she whispered, drawing all of them to lean forward, eager to hear of scandal. “His Grace has come at the queen’s bidding to report on conditions here.” It was known among the men by now, so it did no harm to say. “He will be returning to London as soon as he can arrange it.”

  “Yes,” Eunice McIlroy cooed, “but what does he have to say to the matter. Surely he confided in you.”

  Pillow talk do you mean? Alas no. She chose to lie. “I have no idea. A powerful man like the Duke of Murnane would not confide a confidential report in a mere girl.” Cow slop, every word of it. I hope she chokes on her curiosity.

  “Do you know his duchess is in Macao?” Mrs. Dennison asked. All eyes darted to Zambak.

  “I have been at the mission the better part of four days,” she responded. “Even there, rumors abound. I hope the woman is well.”

  Eyes slid to one another in some mysterious communication. Who will be first with the deliciously poisoned knives?

  “We thought so at first, so charming she was on the arm of Hugo Jarratt, that delightful young man,” Alice began. “We’re lucky to have him here in Macao during our troubles. Such a kind young man.”

  “He found her alone in a pokey little house—abandoned with one meager servant, he said. Not well done of the duke, I must say,” the Dennison woman added, picking up the thread of a well-rehearsed conversation.


  “She looked wan and pale, however, so one wondered,” Eunice piped up. “And then when she said, well . . .” The woman had the grace to blush at her own tittle-tattle.

  “What exactly did she say?” Zambak asked.

  “What were her exact words, Mildred? Something about recovering from the duke’s last visit?” The woman gave the word a salacious tone and didn’t meet Zambak’s eyes.

  “Something like that,” her friend responded. “She blushed prettily and turned the subject from such a delicate admission. Men can be such beasts.”

  Some men. Not Charles. Zambak bared her teeth. “Ladies, I know you are far from London these many years.” And not one of you social-climbing spiders would move in the same circles as the Duke of Murnane if you were. “So, there may be much you do not know.” She peered in each face one by one, holding their attention, daring them to push themselves forward. “Throughout the ton, His Grace has a reputation for absolute propriety and honor.” She paused while three of them swallowed hard and eyes widened, some eager, some wary.

  “The duchess does not enjoy such a reputation. Her behavior has been a byword my entire life—so much so that even as a young girl I heard of it. Mothers present her as an example to their daughters of what they must not become. I would warn you against believing a word she said, or”—she paused again for effect—“repeating it. The Duke of Murnane has endured much from her with great forbearance.”

  Eunice McIlroy blinked. Mrs. Dean blushed. The Ingram woman looked down, but Mildred Dennison didn’t back away. “Be that as it may, Lady Zambak, she seemed quite distressed that you of all people had gone off with her husband under questionable circumstances. We heard you actually dressed as a man.”

  “And came back dressed as a Chinese,” Eunice squeaked, darting glances at her fellows and wringing her hands.

  “No wife would put up with that,” Mrs. Dennison spat. “No matter what did—or did not—go on while you were gone. You must see that.”

  “I see a great deal, Mrs. Dennison, and you are much mistaken in your views of the Duke of Murnane. He continues to be a man of honor.” Damn him anyway. I have all the disgrace and none of the pleasure. She stared the woman down, generations of ducal breeding lending her a finely honed ability to rout any encroaching mushroom who dared attack.

  In the silence that followed, Zambak rose before they could regroup for another attack, like a pack of jealous terriers eager to enforce the will of the pack on a superior animal.

  “If your curiosity is quite satisfied, I’ll take my leave. I am weary from my labor today, and there are those who will appreciate it tomorrow. I bid you farewell.”

  The door didn’t quite close behind her before the whispers began.

  Chapter 35

  Servants may be eager for work and still shrink from a house that smells of death. Rank and money eventually overcame scruples, however, and Charles directed his newly acquired army to set up a bath in the cleaner of the two bedrooms first. A plaintive cry from the other room told him their efforts had awoken Julia. Still among the living. He ignored it.

  Only when the tub steamed with water, and the scent of jasmine and lavender pushed against the house’s stench, did he enter the other room, swallowing a gag. He had changed into clothing generally consigned to the bottom of a trunk and only pulled out when he had the need to crouch behind barrels or fade into neighborhoods in which rank would be a hazard, a self indulgence he vowed to outgrow.

  Striding into the room, he yanked the sheet from his wife with one swift movement and ripped her nightgown neck to hem before slipping it from her skeletal shoulders and lifting her from the bed.

  “Designs on my body, Charles?” she whined.

  He ignored her, carrying her toward the waiting tub.

  She weighs no more than a newborn kitten, he thought. Jonny, sick as he was, weighed more than this at eight. Memories of Jonny gave him strength to endure it. Whatever else Julia may have done, she was Jonny’s mother.

  “You are hurting me. The women of Macao already believe you’re a monster,” she shrieked.

  He overcame the urge to drop her into the water, laying her tenderly down instead, in spite of her sharp cry.

  “Let the warmth help, Julia. You’ll feel better.”

  “Why should I believe you? You want me to suffer.” She sank into a whimper.

  Do I? Probably—to my shame—but it won’t be at my hand. He didn’t answer her. He placed a rolled towel on the tub’s rim and laid her head against it. Two little half-Portuguese maids with scarves tied across their noses peered back at him.

  “Let her soak for a while first,” he instructed them in Portuguese. “Take care she doesn’t slip under the water. Before it cools, clean her thoroughly.”

  The girls looked dubious, but they bobbed down in a semblance of obeisance and ogled the tub.

  “When you are finished, put her in a clean night rail.” He pointed to a package on the nearby table, and the narrow cot nearby. “You may sit her on that bed until we are finished.” They blinked at him; he hoped they understood.

  He met more servants in the larger room. Once the bedding, Julia’s clothing, and the mattress had been dragged to the yard and burned, work proceeded with a bit more alacrity. Two men hauled more water upstairs to clean the larger bedroom and hallway, scrubbing from ceiling to floor at the duke’s orders.

  A cook had been more difficult to hire, and that only on condition he would not have to go above stairs for any reason. Once the worst of the burning cleared the air, Charles noticed two small boys buzzing around the kitchen, climbing up to wipe shelves clean, and carrying in the supplies Charles requested. He had given the man full rein to buy what he needed, explaining that the primary need would be broth and plenty of it. A flock of chickens, not long for this world, squawked in cages in the corner of the kitchen, and in short order, water boiled on the rickety stove.

  Taking stairs two at a time to check on progress, the duke found Julia in a thin gown shivering on the cot while both girls stood by helplessly doing nothing. He cursed himself for a fool, ordered them to dispose of the now-fetid water, and went back down to scrub his hands and forearms with a lye soap until he rubbed them almost raw. Once satisfied, he pulled a coverlet from the pile of clean linen on the cart he had waiting in front of the tiny house and sent two men to carry the new mattress up.

  Julia made no protest—and showed no gratitude—when he wrapped her on the coverlet and laid her back on the cot. The bath had exhausted her. As he started to leave, a trickle of red caught his attention, and he glanced around the room but found nothing to help. His over-zealous little maids had removed all linen and probably planned to burn them as well. He removed a handkerchief from his shirt and wiped the dribble of blood and spittle from the corner of Julia’s mouth. A flicker of a sneer rapidly disappeared as she began to rock in pain.

  Laudanum. It had proven harder to find than servants. A sea of opium tar, and I can’t find a simple tincture of the stuff. He ran an agitated hand through his hair. It would have to wait.

  Three hours later, more coin and the promise of escape from the house induced three of the temporary workers to build a laundry behind the house. Julia had soiled herself again before he could move her into the newly cleaned room, and at the rate he was going, he would empty Macao of bed linen in a week.

  With Julia back in the larger, newly scrubbed room, he attempted to negotiate with two little maids in a mixture of Portuguese, English, and his few words of Cantonese. He expected to spend most of his time there but needed someone to stay with her when he went out.

  “Will you sit with the lady?” Two heads nodded vigorously.

  “Will you give her water and broth?” More nods.

  “Do you think you can take turns?” That question elicited confused looks. He was
eventually able to convey the concept, but the girls looked so nervous about being alone with a dying woman doubted they would carry it out.

  “Do you have another sister?” He asked. Their enthusiastic “Yes!

  His attempts to convey the concept of round-the-clock care were interrupted by loud knocking on the door. When no kitchen staff bothered to answer and no major domo magically appeared to greet guests properly, he flew down the steps and yanked the door open.

  A bright smile and two sparking black eyes looked up at him. Filipe bent double, bobbed up, and pronounced, “‘r Grace, I have found you! Honor to your house.” Charles had no response to that, but it didn’t matter. The boy rattled on. “The Lady Zam wishes to know are you well?”

  “As you see, I am,” Charles said, swallowing a laugh. “But—”

  “The lady wishes to tell you that you are a—” The boy scrunched up his brow, trying to remember the exact words. “Pathetic excuse for partner. Don’t communicate. Typical man, she say.”

  She could have called me worse. He opened his mouth to respond.

  Filipe got there first. “She wishes to know, do you need help making arrangements. Lady Zam goes to England. Filipe wishes to come. Good servant! Can—”

  The boy drew breath to expound on his virtues, but Charles cut him off. “Tell Lady Zambak that I have as yet not had time to make arrangements. Tell her my own affairs are complicated and will take time. Besides, most of the British shipping is tied up at Canton except for the few anchored off Hong Kong Island waiting for trade to resume.”

  Filipe rocked up on his toes. “No problem ‘r Grace. English merchants here. Here now. Cap Elliot brings all from Canton. No more tea trade. All boats to Hong Kong, Macao—some in harbor this morning.”

  Elliot pulled the tea traders out? Is he trying to pressure Lin? Charles doubted the commissioner cared about the tea, but the hong merchants did and, he suspected, the emperor might.