The China Bride

by Mary Jo Putney

  It had taken years to accumulate her secret wardrobe. Chenqua made her a small allowance, and sometimes Fan-qui traders would give her money when they were especially pleased with tasks she had performed. Those hoarded coins had gone to furnish her room, and for women’s clothing and adornments.

  Since Chenqua forbade her to leave the house unless she was dressed as a man, she would pretend to be looking on behalf of a sister when she haunted the used-clothing stalls. She’d even walked to the far side of the sprawling city so no one would recognize her as she sought garments large enough to fit.

  Gently she removed the blue silk robe that was her special pride. Though worn and patched, it had once belonged to a grand lady, a tall Manchu woman from the north, perhaps. She removed her male garb and unbound her breasts, then pulled on undergarments and trousers. The silk was smooth and sensuous against her skin.

  She tossed her cap aside and undid the long queue that marked her as a male, raking fingers through her thick hair to loosen it. After a thorough brushing, she dressed it high on her head in the elaborate style of a court lady, securing the dark coils with long hairpins tipped in chased gold. They had been a gift from her father to her mother.

  A touch of perfume at her throat, a brush of color on her lips. Then she donned the richly embroidered robe. Even the jade beads that slipped through loops to secure the garment felt luxurious against her fingertips.

  Last came her jewelry: jade bangles for her wrists, ropes of glass and carved wooden beads, the delicate handkerchief every lady carried. Straightening to her full height, she lifted her head high as if she were a great beauty.

  Her mother, Li-Yin, had been beautiful. Li-Yin had loved telling the story of how Hugh Montgomery bought her as his concubine as soon as he laid eyes on her. At first she’d been terrified of the huge barbarian, with his strange red hair and gray eyes! But he’d been kind to her, and soon she was grateful to have him as her master.

  Troth had listened to the story again and again, imagining that one day a Fan-qui gentleman would see her and fall instantly in love. She’d been very young then.

  She skimmed her hands down the coat, the embroidered roundels faintly rough against her palms. Peonies for spring, bats for good fortune. Feeling deliciously feminine, she slowly pirouetted, the heavy silk swinging away from her body. Would Maxwell find her pleasing if he could see her now?

  Her glance touched the mirror on the opposite wall, and her expression crumpled. East or West, she was ugly. Why did she torment herself by dressing up and pretending to be what she could never be? As a girl in Macao, she’d admired the beautiful Fan-qui ladies with their varied hair colors and features. With her hulking body and huge servant-girl feet she would be less conspicuous among them than with the delicate Cantonese ladies, but never would she be considered pretty.

  A rap sounded on the door. “Jin Kang?”

  It was Ling-Ling. “Lovely Bell” was Chenqua’s Fourth Lady, the youngest, prettiest, and liveliest of his wives, and Troth’s closest friend in the household. Not wanting to be caught in her forbidden garments, she called out, “A moment, Ling-Ling.”

  Swiftly she removed her finery and folded it back into the chest, then pulled on her trousers and tunic. There wasn’t time to replait her hair, but as Ling-Ling called impatiently Troth yanked out the pins and shook it loose over her shoulders. Only then did she open the door.

  Ling-Ling entered, exquisitely made up and swaying gracefully on her tiny bound feet. Her “golden lilies” were only three inches long, a fact of great pride to her. She looked up at Troth, surprised. “What a lot of hair you have, and with that odd yellow color. Not properly black. Your Fan-qui blood, of course.”

  Troth suppressed a sigh. Her friend was nothing if not forthright. Dressed in a queue, Troth’s hair looked decently dark, but loose it showed rusty highlights. “We can’t all be as fortunate as you, Ling-Ling.”

  “Very true.” Smiling mischievously, Ling-Ling perched on the only chair. “You’ve unbound your breasts, I see. You’re so large.”

  “More of that dreadful Fan-qui blood.”

  Ling-Ling nodded. “The barbarians are enormous, aren’t they? And so hairy. The last time my lord entertained some at dinner, I watched from behind a screen. How horrible it would be to belong to one!”

  “A terrible thought. You might have ended up with a child like me.”

  “It’s not your fault you have tainted blood.”

  Knowing her friend meant no insult, Troth settled on the bed, stretching out her injured ankle. “Did you come up here for some special reason?”

  Ling-Ling leaned forward in the chair, her eyes glowing. “I think I am with child!”

  “That’s wonderful! Are you sure?”

  “Not quite yet, but I feel it in my bones. I will give my lord a son!”

  “It could be a girl.”

  Ling-Ling shook her head. “I have prayed at the temple of Kuan Yin, and burned joss sticks to her daily. It will be a son. My lord wants that, too, or he would not have released his seed. He will be so pleased.”

  Ling-Ling’s frank chatter had taught Troth much about what happened between men and women in bed. She always listened with queasy interest, intensely curious but feeling that it was improper to hear about such private matters. She couldn’t imagine Chenqua as a lover, though according to Ling-Ling, his kung fu strength was equaled by his amatory endurance. If he’d fathered another child at his age, he was fit indeed.

  “Boy or girl, I envy you, Ling-Ling.”

  The girl tilted her head to one side. “Truly? I didn’t think you were interested in a woman’s life.”

  “I’ve had no choice but to be Jin Kang.” Troth’s mouth twisted. “No man would have me.”

  “No Chinese man would, of course, but a Fan-qui might,” Ling-Ling said thoughtfully. “Such a man would be honored to have a concubine who carried the blood of the Celestial Kingdom.”

  Troth had often secretly studied the European traders, wondering what it would be like to be with one of them. Gavin Elliott in particular appealed to her, for he reminded her of her father: tall and handsome, honorable and clever, courteous to all. But Lord Maxwell—Troth flushed when she thought of him. He had fired both her blood and her imagination, even though any such relationship was unthinkable.

  “Aiiee, is there one you fancy?” Ling-Ling asked eagerly. “Shall I ask my lord tonight when we lie together to give you to the Fan-qui you desire?”

  “No!” Troth made herself shrug as if indifferent. “I may be half barbarian myself, but that doesn’t mean that I want to mate with one.”

  Ling-Ling nodded approval. It was a very proper sentiment.

  A lie, of course. Though marrying a Fan-qui was impossible, Troth certainly dreamed of mating with one.

  Gavin poured a cup of steaming tea into a handleless Chinese cup and offered it to Kyle. “What do you think?”

  Kyle tasted it thoughtfully. Under his friend’s tutelage, he’d become something of an expert at evaluating teas. “Rather bland.”

  “You’re being charitable. It’s dead boring. But…offered at a very attractive price…? I wonder if it’s worth shipping all the way to Boston.”

  Kyle took another sip. “What if you add some kind of flavoring? The basic tea taste is fairly strong. Blending in something else will add interest.”

  Gavin looked intrigued. “Any suggestions?”

  “I’ve had tea flavored with cardamom in India. It has a lovely taste and scent. Or you might try some kind of citrus. Either lemon or orange.”

  His friend nodded thoughtfully. “I’ll order a goodly amount of the tea, and we can start experimenting with flavors. I’ll make a merchant of you yet. Care to help establish a London branch of Elliott House?”

  “You’re expanding your trade into England?”

  “It’s the logical next step. Britain has many more customers than the United States.” Gavin grinned. “When I was a lad in Aberdeen, I quite fancied myself as
the master of one of the world’s great trading companies.”

  “You’re well on your way.” Kyle hadn’t done badly himself. He’d started dabbling in trade to learn whether he was capable of success unrelated to his rank, and he’d found satisfaction and profit in his ventures. Though he was returning to the staid life of an English gentleman, he wanted to maintain his connection with the East, and that was probably a factor in Gavin’s decision to expand Elliott House’s operations. “I think a London office is an excellent idea—it will save me from respectability.”

  It would also give Kyle an excuse for future travel, though not until he’d done his duty by marrying and getting an heir or two. It was a dull prospect, but no longer unbearable, as it had been when he’d left England. Surely he could find a good-tempered young woman who would make him a comfortable, undemanding wife. He did not expect great love. That came only once in a lifetime.

  Gavin added some figures to a sheet of paper he produced from an inside pocket. “I’m late for a meeting at Consoo House. Will you ask Jin Kang to write this letter to Pao Tien, the merchant who sent me this tea sample? I need to place an order.”

  “Can Jin read English?” Kyle asked, surprised.

  “I doubt it. Just read the letter out loud. He’ll translate it into Chinese and add all the right flowery phrases.”

  “I’ll take care of it right away.” Kyle was glad of an excuse to seek Jin Kang out. Perhaps he could learn why the young man had made such an impression on him at their first meeting.

  He was turning to leave when Gavin said, “Don’t forget that tonight is the grand dinner in your honor at the English Factory.”

  Kyle groaned. “I’ve been doing my best to forget it. Why do the East India Company fellows feel the need to give me an official welcome? I’ve already met every Western trader in Canton, I think.”

  “Because there’s damned little to do in Canton. No wives or mistresses allowed, all of us confined to a piece of land not much bigger than a cricket pitch—any excuse for diversion will do. Entertaining a visiting viscount is a good reason to break out the best silver.”

  That made sense. Though Kyle was intrigued by China, he’d go mad if he had to spend half a year living such a restricted life. After only three days, he was already longing for a good gallop through open country. That would have to wait until he went home to Dornleigh. As he threaded his way through the crowded warehouse, he could almost feel a cool English wind on his face. Yes, it was time to return home.

  But he still had a month in Canton. Even if he couldn’t arrange to visit the Temple of Hoshan, he must learn as much as possible about the China trade. When he inherited the earldom and took his seat in the House of Lords, he’d have to deal with issues of trade and foreign policy, and there was no substitute for firsthand knowledge.

  Opium was an integral part of the China trade, and public sentiment back home disapproved of the fact that British merchants were purveyors of drugs. Kyle agreed. A major reason he’d saved Elliott House from bankruptcy was because the American firm was one of the few companies that didn’t deal in opium.

  Of course, America had furs and ginseng and other products the Chinese wanted. Traders from other nations weren’t so lucky. China wasn’t interested in European manufactured goods—but opium from Turkey or British India was quite another matter.

  He entered the office. Half a dozen clerks were there, most of them Portuguese. Jin Kang sat at a corner desk working the odd collection of beads known as an abacus. The thing looked like a child’s toy, but was supposed to be useful for calculations.

  Making a mental note to get someone to explain it to him later, Kyle silently approached Jin. “How is your ankle, Jin Kang?”

  Jin gave a swift, startled glance before dropping his gaze to the abacus again. His eyes were indeed a warm brown rather than black. “It is well, sir.” His voice was so soft it was almost inaudible.

  Kyle drew up an empty chair and sat beside the desk. “Mr. Elliott gave me a letter that he’d like you to write for him.”

  “Of course, sir.” Jin set the abacus aside and pulled paper and other writing equipment from a desk drawer. Kyle watched with interest as the young man ground part of a black cake on a stone, then mixed in water to make black ink.

  When Jin was ready, Kyle slowly read the letter aloud. Using a brush instead of a quill or a pen, the young man painted a column of complex symbols down the page, starting on the right side of the paper and working toward the left. Occasionally he would pause and ask for clarification of a word or phrase. Though his English was slow and awkward, he was conscientious.

  When the letter was finished, Kyle remarked, “Chinese writing is very different from European writing. Elegant.”

  “Calligraphy is a great art. My writing is crude. Fit only for trade.”

  “It looks fine to me. So many different letters. Can you teach me the alphabet?”

  “It is forbidden to teach Chinese to a Fan-qui.” Jin kept his head down. He was capable of carrying on an entire conversation without looking up.

  “Good Lord, why?”

  “It is not for me to try to guess the reasons of the Celestial Emperor.”

  No doubt the prohibition was based on the general distaste of the Chinese for foreigners. Three days in Canton had taught Kyle that even the poorest Chinese looked down on the foreign devils. It was amusing to imagine how enraged a stiff-necked, bigoted English aristocrat would be to realize that a shabby Chinese boatman considered himself superior.

  Paradoxically, the Chinese Kyle had dealt with personally were the soul of courtesy, and he’d seen what seemed like genuine respect between Cantonese merchants and the Fan-qui with whom they did business. This was a nation of contrasts. “Surely teaching me the alphabet would not be the same as teaching me the language.”

  Jin shook his head, his thick queue swaying. “We have no alphabet.”

  “No alphabet? Then what does this mean?” Kyle pointed at a character.

  “It begs the honor of the merchant’s attention.” Jin set his brush on a porcelain rest, his brow furrowing as he sought the words to explain. “In your language, each letter stands for a sound. Putting them together shows the sounds for a whole word. In Chinese each character is an…an idea. Combining them produces a new idea. It is…subtle.”

  “Fascinating, and very different. How many characters are there?”

  “Many, many.” Jin touched the abacus. “Tens of thousands.”

  Kyle whistled softly. “It seems like a clumsy system. Surely it takes years of study to learn how to read and write.”

  “It is not to be expected that everyone would excel at such a high art,” Jin said stiffly. “Writing, poetry, and painting are the Three Perfections. Skill in all three is the mark of scholars and poets.”

  “Since you can write, does that make you a scholar?”

  “Oh, no. My learning is not fit to take a scholar exam. I have only the skill of a clerk.” His tone implied that Kyle’s question had been absurd.

  “Can you show me how to write a single character? Surely that is not the same as teaching me how to write.”

  The corner of Jin’s mouth twitched slightly. A repressed smile? “You are very persistent, sir.”

  “Indeed.” Kyle examined the ink cake. It was octagonal, with a dragon embossed on one side. “Better to yield now, since I will pester you until you show me.”

  Yes, Jin was definitely trying not to smile. “A humble clerk cannot resist such force, my lord.” He placed a blank sheet of paper on the table. “Watch as I draw the character for fire. The strokes must be made in the correct order.” Twice he drew the same simple, star-shaped character, working slowly so that the strokes were clear. Then he freshened the ink on the brush and handed it to Kyle. “Try.”

  Even to the most casual eye, Kyle’s attempt was not a success. “This is harder than it looks.” He tried again, getting closer to the shape of the character but creating nothing like the elegance o
f Jin’s writing.

  “You hold the brush wrong. Not like an English pen. More straight. Like this.” Jin put his hand over Kyle’s, changing the angle of the brush.

  A strange tingle went through Kyle. What the devil? Jin felt something, too, because he quickly pulled his hand away.

  Could this boy be a holy man like the one in India? Sri Anshu’s gaze could melt lead, and perhaps Jin Kang concealed similar inner fires. Or was the basis of that inexplicable reaction rooted in something that didn’t bear thinking about?

  Though disturbed, Kyle forced himself to act as if nothing had happened. “The brush should be more upright?”

  “Yes.” Jin swallowed. “And held more loosely.”

  Kyle painted the character several more times. Holding the brush differently did produce a more delicate stroke, but he still had a long way to go.

  And he had made no progress toward understanding his baffling response to Jin Kang. Quite the contrary.

  Chapter 4

  England

  December 1832

  Troth awoke in a soft bed with lavender-scented linens. It was night, but flames crackled cozily in the fireplace to her right. She felt warm for the first time in what seemed like months.

  A quiet, familiar voice asked, “How are you feeling?”

  She turned her head to the left and saw the man whose appearance had caused her to faint when she arrived at Warfield Park. Kyle. Yet now that she saw him more closely, he was not Kyle, despite the uncanny resemblance. “You are Lord Grahame?”

  He nodded. “And you are Lady Maxwell, my brother’s wife. Before we start talking seriously, do you need food or drink? Water?”

  She realized that she hadn’t had anything since early that morning. “Water…would be nice.”

  He poured a glass from a pitcher on the bedside table, then piled pillows behind her so she could sit up and drink. His hands were kind, but they were not Kyle’s hands.

  She swallowed thirstily, emptying the glass. Her dizziness faded. “He didn’t tell me that you and he were twins, Lord Grahame.”