The China Bride

by Mary Jo Putney

  Mollified, he said, “You are only a woman. It is not to be expected that you should act with logic.”

  Troth Montgomery, a Scotswoman, would dispute that. But Mei-Lian only bent her head in submission.

  Chapter 2

  The final approach to Canton reminded Kyle of the port of London, only twenty times as crowded and fifty times more raucous. Foreign trading ships had to be moored a dozen miles downriver at Whampoa, with cargo and crew transported the final distance on a ship’s boats. The vessel carrying Kyle and Gavin Elliott sliced boldly between giant lorchas and junks with huge eyes painted on their prows to watch for demons. Gangs of rowers sent some boats flying across the water, while others were propelled by paddle wheels turned by men on treadmills. Often collision seemed inevitable, but their craft always slid away in time.

  A gaily decorated flower boat glided by, primped and pretty Chinese girls hanging over the railings as they called and beckoned to the Fan-qui with unmistakable gestures. “Don’t even think about going aboard a flower boat,” Gavin said dryly. “They may be the most attractive brothels in the China seas, but they say that Europeans who sample the girls’ wares are never seen again.”

  “My interest was purely intellectual.” The statement was true. Though Kyle found the dark, slender women of the East very attractive, for the most part he’d been celibate during his years of travel. He had loved once, and when his desire for the touch and taste and scent of a woman overcame his better judgment, he was always reminded painfully of how inferior lust was to love.

  Nonetheless, his gaze lingered on the girls until the flower boat disappeared behind a junk. It was easy to understand why many of the European traders who had homes in Macao kept Chinese concubines.

  “There’s the Settlement.”

  Kyle turned to study the narrow, bustling strip of land between the river and the city walls that was the only place in China where foreigners were allowed. A row of structures lined the riverbank, European and American flags snapping in the wind overhead. These were the hongs, huge warehouses where the foreigners stored and shipped their wares, living on the upper floors during the months of the winter trading season. “Strange to think that most of the West’s tea comes through those warehouses.”

  “A trade that creates enough wealth to make men kings.” Gavin squinted against the brilliant tropical sun. “We’ve a reception committee waiting at the water gate. The fellow in the embroidered silk tunic is Chenqua.”

  Kyle had heard of Chenqua, of course. The man was the chief merchant prince in Canton, perhaps the greatest in the world. Besides being head of the Cohong guild, he personally handled the affairs of Elliott House and several of the largest British and American trading companies. A spare man, tall for a Chinese, he had erect posture and a wispy, gray-streaked beard. His immense dignity was visible even across the water. “How did he know that we were arriving?”

  “Information flows down the river swifter than water. Chenqua knows everything that involves a Fan-qui trader. In fact, he has one of his spies with him.”

  “Good Lord. Do the infamous Eight Regulations say that Europeans have to accept being spied on?”

  “No, but I can’t say that I blame Chenqua for wanting to keep an eye on us. You British lot are particularly rowdy, often breaking the regulations from sheer contrariness.”

  “Don’t blame me for the sins of my countrymen!”

  Gavin grinned. “I’ll admit that you’re fairly well behaved for an English lord. When you feel the urge to be outrageous, remember that Chenqua and the other merchants are the ones who will be punished for your sins. Heavy fines if they’re lucky, and it’s not impossible that they and their families could be arrested and tortured or strangled to pay for Fan-qui crimes.”

  Kyle stared at him. “You’re not joking, are you?”

  “I’m afraid not. This is China. They do things differently here. The Cohong merchants are probably the most honest men I’ve ever met, yet they can lose everything they possess because of Fan-qui shenanigans.”

  The information was sobering. Kyle scanned the group of men clustered on the water gate they were approaching. “Which one is the spy?”

  “Jin Kang is the rather spindly youth to Chenqua’s left. Technically he’s an interpreter who works for the Cohong. They call them linguists, though none are very competent—it’s beneath their dignity to actually study the language of barbarians, so few of them know more than the pidgin English spoken by most of the people who work regularly in the Settlement. Just enough to handle basic trade questions.” Gavin’s voice dropped as they came within earshot of Chenqua.

  A barefoot sailor jumped nimbly from the boat and moored it by the steps that led up to the water gate. As the passengers disembarked in the walled area called the English garden, Kyle saw that Chenqua was even more impressive up close. His dark blue layered tunics were of the finest silk and decorated with embroidered bands around the wide sleeves, while ropes of beautifully carved jade beads hung around his neck.

  His rank was indicated not only by the richness of his garments, but by an embroidered panel on his chest and a blue button on top of his cap. The button was the mark of a mandarin, with the color denoting the official’s importance. A mandarin who offended his imperial masters risked losing his button. To a Westerner, it sounded amusing. Here, the matter was deadly serious.

  Gavin bowed. “Greetings, Chenqua,” he said with pleasure. “I am greatly honored that you have come to welcome us.”

  “You have been too long from Canton, Taipan,” Chenqua said, using the term for the head of a trading house.

  Gavin introduced Kyle, who added his best bow to the formalities. “It is an honor to meet you, Chenqua. I have heard much about you.”

  “The honor is mine, Lord Maxwell.” A shrewd, black-eyed gaze ran over Kyle before the merchant turned back to Gavin. “Forgive my rude haste, but there is a matter of some seriousness. Can you come to Consoo House now?”

  “Of course.” Gavin glanced at Kyle. “With your permission, Chenqua, could Jin Kang escort Lord Maxwell to my hong and see him settled?”

  “Of course, Taipan. Jin, attend to Lord Maxwell.”

  After Chenqua and Gavin left for Consoo House, the nearby headquarters of the Cohong, Kyle turned his attention to his guide. Jin Kang was much less impressive than his master. He wore the shapeless, high-necked tunic and trousers that served as a uniform for both sexes. The garments were a plain dark blue, with only a narrow band of embroidery edging the wide sleeves.

  Wanting to explore his new surroundings, Kyle said, “If you don’t mind, I’d like to stretch my legs and look around the waterfront first.”

  “As Sir wishes.” Jin’s soft voice was as self-effacing as the rest of him.

  They left the English garden to brave the busy wharves. European goods were being unloaded while crates of Chinese tea and other products were packed into chopboats to be ferried to the trading vessels anchored at Whampoa. Kyle and his companion had to dodge swinging bales and sweating stevedores as they made their way along the waterfront. The intoxicating singsong rhythm of Cantonese filled the air.

  As they moved away from the turmoil of the docks, Kyle studied Jin from the corner of his eye. The young man’s blue cap covered his head from midbrow to the top of the thick queue of dark hair that fell down his back. He was dressed better than a laborer, and a small money pouch hung around his waist, but his downcast eyes and bowed shoulders made him an unprepossessing specimen. Even though he was taller than average, if he stepped into a crowd of his countrymen he’d disappear in an instant.

  Of course, being overlooked would be useful for a spy. Jin Kang must have hidden talents, such as intelligence. Kyle looked more closely. Almost girlishly pretty, Jin had a pale, delicate complexion and features that were subtly different from those of the Cantonese around them. Perhaps he was from northern China. Northerners were said to be taller than Cantonese, and there might be other differences.

 
; Since Jin’s expression gave nothing else away, Kyle turned his attention from his guide to his surroundings. Beyond the wharf area, a floating village of boats was moored together like clusters of houses, leaving just enough water between the rows for a sampan to pass. Each houseboat had a little cookstove at the stern, and often squawking fowl were slung over the sides in wicker cages, awaiting their future as dinner. Whole families lived in a space that made an English laborer’s cottage look large.

  Kyle was about to turn away when a small child tumbled over the edge of the nearest houseboat. He caught his breath, wondering if the fall had been noticed, then realized that a wooden buoy was tied to the child’s back in anticipation of such accidents.

  Hearing the splash, an older sister materialized and fished the child out, scolding ferociously. “That little girl was fortunate to have that floating device,” Kyle remarked.

  He didn’t expect a response, but Jin Kang said, “Boy, not girl.” It was the first thing the youth had volunteered since they’d been introduced.

  “How can you be sure it’s a boy?”

  “No floaters for girls,” Jin said flatly. “Not worth it.”

  Thinking he’d misunderstood, Kyle said, “Daughters aren’t worth saving?”

  “Raising a daughter only to marry her off is like fattening a hog for someone else’s banquet.” Jin sounded as if he was quoting an old proverb.

  Even by the callous standards of Asia, that was harsh. God help Chinese women, Kyle thought.

  Turning away from the boat people, Kyle walked to the square, the open area between the waterfront and the hongs. The space resembled an English fair, teeming with beggars and fortune-tellers, food sellers and loiterers. Kyle attracted glances, but they were brief. This was the one place in China where a European was not an unusual sight.

  A line of blind beggars lashed together on a rope shuffled into the square, wailing mournfully and banging sticks and pans together. The clamor was enough to raise the dead. His expression exasperated but unsurprised, a European emerged from one of the hongs and gave a pouch to the lead beggar.

  The leader bowed, then turned and led his fellows back toward the city. Kyle wondered how large a gift was required to get rid of the rackety crew. “These fellows could teach the London beggars a thing or two.”

  Jin said, “Beggars belong to Heavenly Flower Society. Very old guild.”

  “Ah, a guild. Of course.” A few weeks in Canton would seriously damage Kyle’s capacity for surprise.

  Ahead, a large crowd had gathered around a juggler, who was swinging a rock on a rope to clear people away enough for him to perform. There wasn’t much space to spare in the square. Kyle cut around the crowd, moving to the river’s edge. His gaze was on a brightly flagged mandarin gunboat when he heard a high-pitched shout: “Sir!”

  An instant later he was wrenched sideways as a net full of tea chests fell from a crane and smashed down where he’d been standing. He and Jin ended up in a heap on the ground as dust and wood fragments sprayed them.

  Kyle pushed himself up with one arm, and for an instant his gaze met Jin’s. The young man’s eyes were medium brown, not black, and showed sharp intelligence.

  But the color wasn’t what riveted Kyle. On a handful of occasions he’d met someone and felt an instant, powerful sense of connection. Most recently there had been a ragged holy man in India, who with one glance had seemed to see into Kyle’s soul. The same had happened with Constancia at their first meeting. That bond had lasted until she died, and beyond. Now, strangely, something in this young Chinese man resonated intensely.

  Jin Kang dropped his head as he started to scramble to his feet. As soon as he placed weight on his right ankle, it turned under him and he gasped with pain.

  A crowd had gathered, the stevedores babbling in pidgin what sounded like apologies for the broken rope that had caused the accident. Ignoring them, Kyle said, “How bad is your ankle?”

  “Not…bad.” Jin tried to stand again.

  When Jin’s face twisted, Kyle took hold of the younger man’s arm to steady him. “Which is the Elliott hong?”

  “That one.” Jin gestured toward a building in the center of the row.

  “Can you walk that far with my help?”

  “It is not fitting for you to aid me! My master, Chenqua, would not like it.”

  “A pity, since I have no intention of overlooking the fact that you saved me from being crushed.” Supporting Jin, Kyle started toward the hong. The young man managed to hobble along reasonably well. Probably the ankle was only sprained.

  As they crossed the square, Kyle again recognized how much strength was contained in Jin’s slight body. He was incredibly fast as well, to have knocked Kyle out of the path of the tea chests without being injured himself. But now he was shaking, probably in mild shock from the ankle injury.

  They reached the gate that led into Elliott’s hong. Kyle identified himself to the porter, then helped Jin through a set of wide doors. They entered a vast storage area rich with the scents of sandalwood, spices, and tea.

  Jin gestured to the right. “Office there.”

  A narrow aisle between stacked boxes of export porcelain was just wide enough for them to pass. They entered the office, creating a stir among the half dozen workers. A man with an air of authority got to his feet and said with an American accent, “Lord Maxwell. We’ve been expecting you.”

  “You’re Morgan, the senior manager, I presume? Elliott always speaks most highly of you. Order a pot of tea for Jin Kang,” Kyle said. “He’ll also need someone to examine and bind his ankle. He just saved me from being flattened by a load of tea chests when a hoist broke.”

  “There’s a doctor at the English Factory.” Morgan gestured to a young Portuguese, who scurried off. “Well done, Jin.”

  Kyle helped Jin Kang to the nearest chair. The young man’s hunched posture conveyed acute embarrassment at causing so much disruption, and he was still shaking. Was he really so much in fear of Chenqua? Or had Kyle violated some taboo by touching the young man?

  Kyle had a great deal to learn about China. A pity he had only weeks in which to do it.

  Chapter 3

  Chenqua looked up from his writing table, brush poised in his hand. “The new Fan-qui, Maxwell. What is he like?”

  Troth tried to set her jumbled thoughts in order. Her master had no interest in Maxwell’s handsome face, broad shoulders, or disturbing touch. “Maxwell is a decent and thoughtful man, I believe. Not a troublemaker, but…used to getting his own way.”

  Chenqua’s eyes narrowed. “Fortunate that he will be here only a month. Keep a close watch on him.” He bent to his writing again, dismissing her.

  She limped from the room, using the cane Maxwell had found for her. He’d also walked her to the wharf after the binding of her ankle, though mercifully he had not touched her again.

  She’d tried to send him away, but he’d insisted on waiting until she was safely in a boat that would carry her to Chenqua’s palace on Honam Island, across the water from Canton. Of course his solicitude had not been for Jin Kang as a person, but because of the service she had rendered. Like a faithful watchdog or a horse, she had done her duty and would be treated accordingly.

  Face impassive, she climbed the two flights of steps to her small room at the top of the house and locked the door behind her. Then she folded herself onto her low, narrow bed, shaking. Not from the pain of her twisted ankle—she had experienced her share of kung fu injuries and knew the hurt would heal quickly.

  But she would not soon recover from Maxwell. Not since her father’s death had a man touched her in kindness, and she was shocked by her reaction. Perhaps if she hadn’t gazed into those piercing blue eyes she would not have been so unsettled. Or if he hadn’t touched her foot and ankle, which were very private and erotic to a Chinese lady.

  His touch had been quite impersonal—he would have done the same for anyone needing support. But she, foolish woman, had been left trembling wit
h shock and yearning, her female yin energy aroused and seeking the balance of his male yang. She had wanted to press against him, feel the length of his body against hers.

  What would it be like to have such a man look at her with desire?

  She stared dry-eyed at the ceiling, not allowing tears. It was not her fate to be concubine, wife, or mother. She must be content with the comfort of her life. She had a full belly, a certain respect from her master, and blessed privacy in her small room. She even had a measure of freedom, more than any other female in the house. But that was because she was not considered truly female, any more than she was truly Chinese.

  Her gaze moved over her sanctuary. She had arranged it with painstaking care, using the principles of feng shui, harmonious placement. There was no clutter, only a handful of furnishings that she loved. The bed, a chair, a table that served as a desk. A soft carpet in shades of blue and cream, storage chests in several sizes. An embroidered wall hanging portrayed the world in Taoist symbols of water, earth, air, and fire.

  In one corner she had created a small family shrine where she could honor her father and mother, who had no one else to remember them and care for their ghosts. Her father had raised her to believe in the Lord Jesus, but in China, older gods also walked, and it would not be wise to neglect them.

  Opposite her bed was the lacquered chest that contained her most private possessions. Perhaps indulging her secret self would relieve her emptiness. Moving awkwardly because of her aching ankle, she knelt by the chest and fished out the key that hung on a silk cord around her neck.

  The scent of sandalwood wafted out when she unlocked the chest and lifted the lid. At the bottom of the chest were her father’s Bible, other English books, and the padded silk box that held her jewelry. On top were her treasured female garments.