China

by Edward Rutherfurd

  The next morning, while Ru-Hai was out with his father, the prefect’s wife came around for a chat. “You know,” she remarked, “I’m sure Ru-Hai is still a virgin.”

  “I daresay he is,” Mei-Ling replied.

  “You hadn’t thought about it?”

  “No. Why should I?”

  “You might have.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Well, some nice woman ought to look after him. Better than his finding out by himself with a whore down an alley in the city, and with all the risks that entails.”

  Mei-Ling stared straight ahead. She knew from their many talks that the prefect’s wife, in private, could be surprisingly crude. And that she was not above a little intrigue.

  “I’m sure somebody could arrange something,” Mei-Ling said drily.

  “No doubt. But wouldn’t it be nice for him to be a bit in love, to have a magical memory, something to treasure for the rest of his life?”

  Mei-Ling said nothing.

  “You like him, don’t you?”

  Whatever her thoughts, Mei-Ling kept them to herself.

  * * *

  —

  On the eve of her departure, Shi-Rong spoke gently to Mei-Ling. “I am truly sorry you are leaving,” he said. “I have already told you my feelings. As far as our bargain is concerned, you have kept your part. Far more than that. Before you came, I trusted you and paid in full. Now I am giving you the same again. You will need it for the education of Bright Moon.” He smiled. “I hope I have treated you well.”

  “You could not have treated me better.” She paused. “But since you really wish to help, I will tell you that I need something more. We are peasants in a hamlet. We know a few people with money in the local town. But that’s all. We’ve no way to find her the husband she deserves. Her beauty shouldn’t be wasted.”

  “It should not.”

  “But you could find her a worthy husband. There is plenty of time.”

  “Yes.” He nodded slowly. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  * * *

  —

  The next morning, Mei-Ling and Ru-Hai took their leave. They were traveling in luxury, for the prefect had insisted that they use his personal riverboat—a large sampan with a sail, and a covered seating area like a tent containing upholstered benches and divans with silken cushions, where they could sit, sleep, and dine in the greatest comfort. There was a serving girl and a crew of six boatmen.

  The prefect himself saw them off at the jetty, together with Shi-Rong, who parted from her with the most friendly affection. So did the prefect’s wife, who whispered a loving message to her as she boarded.

  Ru-Hai was obviously excited by the adventure of the river journey ahead, but Mei-Ling was pleased to see that he bade his father farewell with every sign of filial devotion; she was glad to think she might have played her part in that.

  And so they were off, waving back to the little group on the jetty until a bend in the river slowly nudged them out of sight.

  She leaned back against the cushions and looked out at the scenery. The weather was perfect. She could feel the faint touch of a breeze on her cheek. The morning sun glinted on the river. The steep karst mountains soared into the clear blue sky above.

  The journey would take several days. There were two famous inns at which they might spend the night along the way. But they could certainly sleep on the boat as well. Slow days of perfect peace.

  It occurred to her that, perhaps in all her life, she had never known any days during which she had no duties to perform, no responsibilities of any kind at all. She’d fulfilled all obligations under her agreement with Shi-Rong, and it would be half a month before she entered her family duties again.

  This was a magical interlude, just for herself: a time apart, a place apart. She felt a little thrill.

  She looked at Ru-Hai. He had been watching her. He smiled, then, perhaps embarrassed, glanced away and pretended to gaze at the mountains.

  She thought about her friend the prefect’s wife. What was it she’d whispered as they parted? “Don’t forget to look after the boy.”

  Mei-Ling shook her head. Silly woman. To think of such a thing, at her age. She felt maternal towards him. Certainly. A pleasant feeling.

  She closed her eyes and allowed herself to ponder.

  He was certainly a handsome boy. Almost a young man, really.

  If one did such a thing, would anybody know? And would they care if they did? What would Shi-Rong think about it? she wondered. She didn’t know. Could the boy be trusted to be discreet? That was a good question. Unlikely, she supposed. But not impossible.

  She’d never done anything like that before. There might be no great harm in it now, in such a magical place.

  She opened her eyes to find him looking at her again.

  Well, she thought, she really didn’t know. Perhaps she would, perhaps she wouldn’t. But if she did, one thing was certain: She’d like it to be her own little secret.

  1875

  John Trader took a shortcut. Cantered his horse across open ground. The stupid meeting he’d promised to attend at a neighboring estate hadn’t ended until half past noon, and now he was late.

  Late for Emily. His favorite daughter.

  It had been three years since Agnes had died, rather unexpectedly, mourned by the whole county. And though Emily looked just like her mother, she had a sweetness that was all her own. Even when she was a child, if he was depressed for some reason, his wife would calmly pray; but little Emily would come into the estate office where he was usually to be found and sit beside him and hold his hand and say, “Don’t be sad, Papa.” And then she’d say, “Shall we go for a walk?” And even though he didn’t want to, he’d get up and take her hand and they’d go out into the garden. He’d feel better after that. And sure enough, before long, Emily would appear in the office again with a little painting she’d just made for him, which he would pin to a board propped up on his rolltop desk where he could see it all the time.

  Today, she and her husband, Henry, were due to arrive at noon. They could stay only two days. And then? Who could tell?

  The big house at Drumlomond came in sight. Built of red sandstone, it was typical of the region: large and square. “It’s a bit of a barracks,” Trader would say fondly. But with its ample spaces, its conservatory, where there was a parrot in a cage, its stables, fishing, and rough shooting, not to mention the barn and the beasts of the home farm, it had been a paradise for his growing children.

  The house looked so solid and serene in the autumn sun. They’d renamed the estate using Agnes’s family name, which had pleased everyone very much and reminded the county that its occupants belonged there since ancient times. And if John Trader had bought it with the profits from the opium trade, even the origins of his ownership were fading gradually away into the background. For since British planters had recently learned to grow tea in India and the British public had acquired a taste for the darker Darjeeling brew, the need for tea from China had become less urgent. His eldest son had taken his place in the partnership now, and the business was making far more money importing Indian tea than it was in selling opium to the Chinese.

  But Drumlomond wasn’t solid and serene for John Trader. Not anymore. Not since Henry Whiteparish had come into his life and stolen his daughter away.

  * * *

  —

  He’d tried to reason with her, that first terrible day when Henry’s letter had arrived. “Do you remember,” he’d asked, “the time you went to Paris?”

  “Yes, Papa.” Young ladies were supposed to speak French, but the rudimentary conversation they’d learned from their English governess had been so inadequate that when they tried it out on a young Frenchman who was visiting, he had burst out laughing. Very rude of him. But it was a signal that something had to be done.

&nb
sp; Emily had gone. First time she’d been abroad. She’d loved it. Even learned some French. She’d said she wanted to travel again.

  “I’m just so afraid you may suppose that going off to China with a missionary is going to be the same sort of thing,” he’d said. “And it really isn’t.”

  “Do you think Henry’s unsuitable?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s my cousin.”

  “I know.”

  “I love you, Papa, and I wouldn’t want to do this, but I could elope with him.”

  “Elope?” Trader looked at her in astonishment. He’d never heard of anyone eloping with a missionary before. Were missionaries allowed to elope?

  * * *

  —

  His strongest support had come from a completely unexpected quarter. The day after his conversation with Emily, Trader was sitting in the library when, a few minutes past noon, a hansom cab rolled up the drive, from which emerged, under a large brimmed hat, and in urgent haste, the unhappy figure of Cecil Whiteparish.

  “My dear cousin,” he cried, as soon as the butler had announced him, “forgive me for appearing without warning, but I left Salisbury for London the instant I heard this terrible news and took the train straight to Dumfries.”

  Trader led him into the library. “What’s your view of this business?” he asked before they even sat down.

  “Why, it must be stopped, of course,” Whiteparish cried. “It must be stopped at once!” He fell back in the leather armchair. “I think,” he confessed, “I need a drink.” And having gratefully received a heavy lead crystal tumbler of the local Bladnoch malt, well filled, he took a large sip, shook his head, and declared: “I blame myself.”

  “I don’t know about that,” said Trader mildly. “You could say it was my fault. I invited him here.”

  “No. You invited me and Minnie to stay—almost the moment I retired to Salisbury, which was exceedingly good of you. But as Henry was just home from China and I was proud of him—and because, I confess, I wanted my son to see what a fine estate my cousin had—I asked if he could come, too, and you said yes. Little did I imagine what it would lead to.”

  In fact the visit had gone rather well. They’d all spent a week together, enjoying family meals and country walks. They’d gone to church, where the missionary and his wife had been welcomed with deep respect. John had even asked a couple of his more religious-minded neighbors to dinner one evening, and they had questioned Cecil closely about China and the Christian work there and thought him a splendid fellow.

  And truth to tell, during that whole week, no one had really noticed that Henry and Emily were often together.

  “Did you know that Henry and your daughter started corresponding after that?” Cecil asked.

  “Not at the time.”

  “He wrote from the mission’s headquarters in London, of course, so it didn’t look like a personal letter. What I resent is that he never told me.”

  “He was nearly thirty. He didn’t have to.”

  “He didn’t tell me because he knew what I’d have said. And then Emily and her sister went to Edinburgh for a week, so he went there and met them, and made it look as if it were quite by chance. Deceitful.”

  “All’s fair in love and war, they say.”

  “Not if you’re a missionary!” Cecil retorted furiously. “My son has treated you abominably.”

  “Have you told him so?”

  “I most certainly have. I have told him that he has been underhanded, selfish, and irresponsible.”

  “What does he say?”

  “Oh, the usual. He respects me, but in this case he must trust his own judgment. You know the sort of thing.”

  “She told me she’s prepared to elope with him.”

  “Elope?” Cecil blinked his eyes. “Elope?”

  “She’s of age. It may not be illegal. What would the mission do if they eloped and then turned up in China? Assuming they were married, of course.”

  “Send them back at once, I trust,” said Cecil firmly. Then he paused. “They might not,” he conceded. “They’re always short of hands.” He shook his head in puzzlement. “What does she see in him? He’s not a tall, handsome fellow like her brothers. He’s hardly better looking than I am.”

  “He’s got a sort of magnetic force,” said Trader thoughtfully. “Knows what he wants. Won’t take no for an answer. Women like that. Whether it’s gone further…Though she’s always been chaperoned.”

  “Heaven forfend! Please don’t tell me so.”

  “I don’t think he’s seduced her. Or she him. I think she’s in love with the idea of being a missionary’s wife. You know, romantic and all that.”

  “There is absolutely nothing romantic about being a missionary’s wife,” Cecil said firmly. “Nothing.” He took an angry sip at his whisky, ruminated silently for a few moments, and continued. “A good deal of my life,” he said slowly, “is spent asking people for funds to support the missions.” He smiled wanly. “There are tricks to that trade, and I’ve learned most of them. It helps, of course, that I honestly believe it’s a good cause.” He paused. “But I never suggest to anybody that they should become a missionary.”

  “What if they ask if they should? You surely don’t discourage them?”

  “In almost all cases that’s exactly what I do. Even if they insist that they want to.”

  “Why?”

  “Because as with a lot of difficult callings—in my observation—the good people are not the ones who desire the career. It’s the people who just find they have to do it. They can’t help themselves. In the church, the best priests often didn’t want to follow the stony path at all. But something led them to it. So my guess is that you’re right. She’s in love with the idea of the missionary life—which is exactly why she shouldn’t do it.”

  “Will you tell her this?”

  “In words of one syllable.”

  * * *

  —

  He did, the following evening. He explained to her kindly but firmly what the life of a missionary was really like. “One of the worst things,” he informed her, “is that you never really know whom you can trust. And just when you think you may at last be securing a genuine convert, they let you down.” He outlined the constant lack of money, the worries about one’s children, and the stress that can arise between husband and wife in such difficult conditions. “You’ll be lonely, too. You’ll yearn for home. In short, to put the matter frankly, you won’t find it’s what you imagined at all. You’ll find you’ve made a huge mistake.”

  To which, after smiling and nodding gently, she answered: “You sound just like Henry.”

  “I do?”

  “Those are all the things he keeps telling me.”

  It was time to get tough. “You seem to think that everything’s going to be all right just because you’ll be with Henry. But I must tell you that in my opinion, you are not only unprepared, but unsuited for this life. You have never known anything except comfort, whereas life in a Chinese mission is harsh. We often have to work with our hands. You won’t like it, and frankly you won’t be any good at it.”

  “We may live in the big house, Mr. Whiteparish, but this is the countryside. I know the farmworkers. I’ve grown up with their children. I know exactly how they live and how to work with my hands.”

  “But China is nothing like Galloway. You’ll be surrounded by people who speak no English. None.”

  “Some of the old people in Galloway still don’t speak English. They speak Gaelic. I can even speak a little myself.”

  “Had it ever occurred to you that, without wishing it, you may be a hindrance to your husband?”

  A shadow seemed to pass across her face. “You really think so?”

  “I’m afraid I do.”

  Emily was silent, frowning. Had he got t
hrough to her? Was this a ray of hope? And all credit to the girl, he thought, it appeared that the idea that she might be letting Henry down meant more than anything else.

  “Henry says that he has faith in me,” she said uncertainly. “He says that God will give me the strength I need.” She looked at him earnestly. “Do you think he is mistaken? And that perhaps because he loves me, he is deceiving himself?”

  Cecil Whiteparish gazed at her. What should he say? The truth, he supposed. What else? “I do not know,” he answered. “But I can see why he loves you.”

  * * *

  —

  The marriage went off well, thanks to Colonel Lomond. His speech was short.

  “Our lovely bride is marrying a kinsman—which is usually a sensible thing to do. After all, if you marry a kinsman, at least you know what you’re getting.” Murmurs of approval. No member of the Scots gentry would ever disagree with that. “And this kinsman of hers is a man who’s decided to put his service to our religion first, as I daresay we all should. More than that—I’m speaking as an old soldier here—he’s prepared to face discomfort and possible danger to do it. And he’s found a wife, from my own family, I’m proud to say, who’s prepared to share that mission with him. So I ask you to raise your glasses in our old Scottish toast: Good health.” He paused, and then firmly: “Long life.”

  They got the point. Only good words could be said after that.

  * * *

  —

  There were three of them at the big dining room table. As today was Thursday, that meant cold beef and pickle for lunch. Trader liked it served with a local French wine his vintner had discovered, one nobody else at that time had ever heard of. “They call it Beaujolais; it’s red but you serve it cold,” the vintner told him. So at Drumlomond, alone in all Scotland, this wine was served on Thursdays with the beef and pickle.

  They talked of family matters first, and friends, and general things. The meat course was cleared.