Dragons in Shallow Waters

by Kane, Clare

  “Although perhaps I only imagine that,” she said, her image sanguine, assured in the mirror as she spoke to me, “for the general impression her appearance bestowed.”

  La Contessa rushed to Nina’s side, pulled her dress up over her shoulder, and assisted Phoebe in arranging Nina’s thick veil of hair, dark and a little damp to the touch, once more into its customary chignon. Wordlessly Phoebe Franklin ironed out the remaining creases in Nina’s dress, placed a cool palm against the young girl’s hot forehead. Then she knelt to pick up a book from the floor, holding it tightly as she steered Nina towards an armchair.

  “You have been reading,” she said, setting the volume in Nina’s lap.

  The effect of this combined effort was, La Contessa felt, that Nina Ward looked more or less her usual self by the time her father appeared in the doorway, followed by Oscar Fairchild, apparently glacially unperturbed by events, but wearing, La Contessa noted, the very suit he had appeared in at dinner.

  “Perhaps he changed from his pajamas,” her reflection said wryly to me. “Perhaps.”

  “And so they had been together?” I asked.

  La Contessa returned to the bed, kissed my forehead sweetly.

  “One assumes,” she said. “You look very forlorn, tesoro mio.”

  “I only wish I might have done something,” I said numbly. The horror of her words, the truth they confirmed, deadened me. So great was the emotion she stirred that I felt unable to contemplate it; instead my breath dimmed, my movements slowed, my very thoughts, terrible and undeniable, crawled, denied me immediate inspection of their contents.

  “Miss Ward is not your responsibility, Alistair,” she said, standing once more. “Sometimes I wonder if I ought to be envious of her.”

  “Envious? Whatever for?”

  “How greatly you care for her reputation,” La Contessa leveled. “And yet you think nothing of mine.”

  She left without further speech, closing the door behind her with a force I judged more pronounced than was her habit. I did not call her name.

  Naturally I returned once more that evening to the Fairchild residence. How might I stay away? Nina’s predicament, her discovery, her assured dissolution, occupied the intervening hours until I could bear solitude no longer. I thought of her reading, recalled the many times I had witnessed her devour a book, shaded by the magnolia tree when the sun blazed or illuminated by candlelight on those long winter evenings when Nicholas and I discussed politics and prose, her presence perpetual, undeniable, but always unobtrusive. I could not fathom that Nina’s most cherished pastime, pure and admirable, learned from her father, could have so unjustly brought about her downfall. Would Nina’s story have been different if her favorite narrative had not been the conventionally and respectably romantic Dream Of The Red Chamber, but instead the Golden Lotus, a Ming dynasty novel that had divided Chinese opinion for centuries as to whether it should be considered a master literary work or a collection of the most base obscenity and filth, a tale in which tender images of maidens playing men’s flutes and young lovers meeting secretly in the grape arbor rapidly gave way to the terrible conclusions of jealousy, madness and death that followed the physical frenzy? I thought too of La Contessa’s words, her unguarded admission of envy, as I crossed the room, a glass of my old, irresolute, malt friend gripped once more between my fingers. Her words affronted me; did she dare to suggest that I might harbor some romantic inclination towards Miss Ward, the daughter of my truest friend in that city of august charlatans? And still her accusation vexed me, for how might I explain the great panic I had lived with that day since I had glimpsed Nina, clouded and faint, walking before me in the Su palace? How might I justify my tremendous sense of responsibility for her welfare, my indubitable discountenance in response to her series of well-intentioned missteps?

  The ladies of the house sewed sandbags in the drawing room, their chatter was muted, amiable in the soft glow of sunset.

  “Very good, ladies,” I said. I admired their creations; patchworks of old dress shirts and nightgowns attached to servants’ uniforms and empty sacks from the storeroom. “You might sew together some gowns for the hospital too. Provisions there are scant.”

  “Have you been to the hospital, Mr Scott?” Lillian asked.

  “I have indeed,” I said and recounted the story of little Siege.

  “How macabre,” La Contessa commented. She did not sew but sat to one side, smoking a slim cigarette. She waved it in a loose circle, did not meet my eye. “The smell. The smell of death. Smoking is the only way to stop it.”

  “I like the spirit of the name,” Nina said. “It shows some optimism, even if the poor child shall forever bear the burden of this siege.”

  “Siege is not a name,” Lillian said, leaning forward towards Nina, who fixed at once upon the needle she held between two inexpert fingers, avoiding the other girl’s stare. “I rather think they ought to call the baby James.”

  “James,” I repeated. “In honor of Mr Millington, I suppose?”

  “Naturally.” Lillian nodded vigorously. “It is only right that a young man’s life be honored.”

  “And the next shall be named von Ketteler, I suppose,” I said.

  My comment drew ire from Lillian. Momentarily her eyes flashed, and rapidly she looked away in disgust. Nina’s fingers worked rapidly, if a little clumsily, at the sewing together of two fabrics; she worked as though unhearing of our words.

  “Well, Mr Scott, I am most sorry to hear you don’t believe our good friend’s life worth honoring. I would have thought it the right thing to do.” Lillian pushed her sewing off her lap and curled one leg under the other, cat-like in her chair. “That’s quite enough sewing for one day. I don’t suppose a few sandbags will decide life from death when the Boxers storm the Legation Quarter.”

  “Miss Price, forgive me a frivolous remark. It has been a most trying day for us all,” I said.

  “It is quite all right, Mr Scott. I understand your opinion perfectly. You are not alone in caring little for Mr Millington’s fate. Indeed, I found many of my peers most unconcerned for the welfare of Mr Millington when he so valiantly defended us from the Boxers. Each one has his own worries, one supposes. One hopes.”

  Nina frowned, and I allowed myself to observe her. I saw something in her then, I thought, before correcting myself. In fact, I saw neither matter nor mettle in Nina then, but rather the absence of something, the reaction I perceived in the crease of her brow was merely a further drop of nothing, a deeper layer of herself extinguished. She provided no counterargument to Lillian, and did not offer me the solace I might have expected from her, a small, private smile, the open countenance of an ally. Instead she continued her amateur sewing.

  “The baby is a blessing,” Phoebe said. “Hope amidst the darkness.”

  “Yes,” La Contessa said, drawing a final breath on her cigarette. “On this we can agree.”

  “They ought to name him Matthias, a gift from the Lord,” Phoebe continued.

  “Well, I’m afraid he remains a Siege,” I said.

  A bell sounded and I accompanied the women to the dining room, where Oscar Fairchild waited at the head of the table.

  “Mr Scott,” he said, rising. “Delighted you could join us.”

  “Forgive my taking advantage of your hospitality once more,” I said. “Only rations are rather low at the Grand.”

  “I wish I might offer you more.”

  With easy authority Fairchild stood to watch his guests file in. Pietro Mancini took the seat next to his wife, his hand grazed hers as she sat and he uttered a low reprimand in Italian.

  “I have explained to them,” she replied in English, a sweeping gesture taking in the length of the table. “I smoke only for the smell.”

  Mancini muttered under his breath, but our attention was diverted by Lillian, who seated herself by Nina with a theatr
ical sigh.

  “And what might we find on the menu this evening?” she mused.

  “I do apologize,” Fairchild said, leveling with Lillian as he retook his position at the head of the table, “that my humble household cannot meet Miss Price’s requirements under the current circumstances.”

  Immediately it was evident that some abnormality, some out-of-turn event, afflicted those gathered around the table. They voiced the same practiced niceties, but like a puzzle pieced together in haste, as a group they gave an impression of jagged corners, of not quite fitting together.

  “Thank you all for your generosity towards a poor Scotsman,” I said, raising my wine glass after the servants had placed our meals down in front of us. Gone were the days of three courses; now there was a single plate to be enjoyed, or at least tolerated, to chew over and draw out as long as possible.

  “It is our pleasure,” Oscar said.

  “Mr Fairchild, for how much longer do you expect we shall be here?” Nicholas asked. He had not greeted me when taking his seat at the table and I recalled our earlier conversation with the chagrin of justification, wished now I might have waited to approach him with the details later furnished by La Contessa, unassailable and indisputable in the attestation they offered.

  “Mr Ward, I very much wish I might give you a clearer idea, but I’m afraid that I cannot make any prediction at this stage,” Oscar replied.

  “Nicholas, I feel it in my bones. We shall be here least a week more,” I said, looking directly towards my old friend.

  “Very well. At least I shall have time to catalog the books with the care they deserve,” he said gently. I nodded, he returned the gesture, and I felt our connection resumed something like an even kilter, even if the exasperation I cultivated for him had not yet subsided.

  “I shall help you, Father,” Nina said quickly. I noticed she had yet to touch the meat, grey and unappealing, upon her plate. “Then when we return home we shall decide what to do with them.”

  “A wonderful idea,” Oscar said gaily, but Nina kept her eyes on her uneaten food. He directed his next question to Nicholas: “Are there some very precious books in the collection?”

  “It is a little too early to gauge the extent of our collection and quite how valuable it may be,” Nicholas said. “Yet one may assume that any book from the Hanlin is of great scholarly value, at least.”

  “You enjoy reading, do you not, Mr Fairchild?” Lillian said.

  “Why, yes, yes I do,” Oscar replied steadily.

  “In fact, were you not reading last night when the Boxers opened fire once more?” Without waiting for an answer Lillian continued: “When I discovered poor Nina, alone, fearful, in the middle of the night, I knew I needn’t worry so much as you had likely been reading right there by her side. Is that not right?”

  Phoebe Franklin’s cutlery tore into a piece of meat, a high, tight sound bore into my skull. Phoebe ripped the pony meat in two rough halves, pulling it apart along its wispy, terse fringes.

  Oscar cleared his throat. Nina’s face betrayed nothing; her features were icily smooth.

  “Mr Fairchild?” Lillian pressed him. She smiled falsely, widely and expectantly.

  “Yes, Miss Price, you are quite right,” Oscar said finally. “I often find myself unable to sleep these days and I prefer to read to pass the time. Miss Ward favors the same consolation, it seems, and I did indeed come across her in the drawing room. It was most considerate of Miss Ward to leave you to sleep peacefully upstairs, was it not?” He pushed his plate to the side and pressed a napkin to his lips.

  Oscar’s remarks were met with an apprehensive silence as we each unravelled his patchwork of words fashioned into a statement of innocence. Naturally the revelation struck neither La Contessa nor Phoebe Franklin as an unexpected blow, but Pietro Mancini cleared his throat uneasily and I could not bring myself to look at Nicholas, who had taken to cutting a particularly unyielding piece of meat; his knife strained against the rubbery fat of the animal. Lillian Price resumed eating, carefully, with pride, cutlery poised faintly between her fingers like a pair of sharp daggers. Nina, yet to consume a single morsel, looked ahead dully.

  “Well.” Phoebe Franklin rose before the servants had come to clear the plates. “Have we quite finished? How about a game of Whist?”

  “A wonderful idea, Mrs Franklin,” Oscar said.

  Contentedly he followed the missionary. With a brief nod to La Contessa I stepped behind the pair and the Italians followed my lead. Lillian, standing languidly, stretching her arms with relish, allowed her napkin to fall to her seat, smoothed her skirts and announced that she would join us for the game of cards. How slowly, how agonizingly Nina rose from her seat, and fell meekly into line.

  “My work,” Nicholas said by explanation, spurning the invitation to retire to his room.

  The British are masters at papering over all varieties of social unpleasantness. How else could our tiny nation come to rule half the world? Only with a sense of righteous belonging, the possession of a very short memory and by adhering to strict social dictates that forbid questioning of motives and suggestions of impropriety. No better example of this tactical British ignorance (taught to our New World cousins during our many adventures across the globe) could be found than in that evening’s pointless game of Whist, marked by pockets of silence and long breaths held between each hand. Oscar Fairchild’s diplomatic training dazzled, at moments one might even have described his manner as approaching gregariousness. The Italians, who constituted the most serious threat to our false peace with their more open, tolerant and frankly Continental approach to the expression of sentiment, displayed an admirably uncharacteristic submission to Phoebe Franklin’s demands. Indeed, after a few rounds we were able to set the cards aside, parting ourselves from our props in order to simply talk amongst ourselves. Fairchild and I smoked cigars without troubling to leave the room. The women, despite previously-held notions that dictated them delicate creatures of sensitive olfactory senses, welcomed now the dark, woody scent of the cigars. Lillian Price chatted pleasantly, as though nothing untoward had occurred at the dining table. The implications of her words were clear to us all, and watching Nina and Oscar now, I perceived their pairing as absolutely logical. Fairchild, his eyes trained on the glowing tip of the cigar he held tightly between his lips, was dynamic, capable, intelligent, and, I would venture, handsome to many women. Nina was sharp, sure of herself, but possessed a pleasant softness of face that suggested a potential pliability to men. In another world, where Oscar was unmarried, they might have made quite an admirable couple. I suppose in those days we were living in another world.

  My eyes swept the room for La Contessa as I took my leave, she shook her head gently. I bowed, left the assembled guests to their small talk. I paused at the front door, my thoughts with Nina. The night was stiff, airless, accompanied by the low rumble of violence. How might she sleep in this house, its walls close and unsparing, its inhabitants all-seeing, ever-knowing, perpetually superior? With dread I wondered if she might return later to that room in which we had constructed an edifice of the most profound pretense, if she might fall once more into Fairchild’s steady arms. And why might she not, her fate already sealed, her soul condemned? I let the skies, ashen and black, and the familiar streets, coarse and stained a deadly crimson, lead me to the Grand. With a final nightcap I wooed sleep, pleaded with restfulness to relieve me, hoped as slumber eventually caressed my eyelids closed that she offered Nina the same solace, that for hours at least we might forget. Sha! Sha! the Boxers called, but I heard them no more.

  IX

  I have never been a keen patriot. A Scot and a man of Empire, I shrugged off the old country as easily as another man might remove his hat. Sometimes, in whisky-tinted nostalgia, I remembered the Scotland of my youth, and the damp mist that had enveloped the heather-strewn hillsides, those persistent droplets of steamed d
ew that settled fresh upon my skin each time I stepped outside, took on a mystical glow. I recalled those few, poor, snatched days of an approximated summer, when the midges feasted upon any inch of exposed flesh and the glens shivered, damp and unshielded, under a hazy trickle of sunlight, and I longed for it momentarily, before an instinct for progress and a desire for adventure corrected my weakness. London, where I had established myself as a young man for a little over a year, held no such wistful sway over my thoughts, in neither whisky nor whimsy. For a few months the sheer size of the place, the quantity of its people, its streets lapped by waves of faces, so numerous I eventually ignored them all, breaking a life-long habit of deciphering stories written in the bridges of noses and wishes exposed in the arches of eyebrows, calmed somewhat the intangible restlessness that had driven me from home. And yet it was not different enough; beyond the aesthetic girth and grime of the city, London’s dissimilarities to home were so minor so as to be superficially inconsequential; these differences were written in a taciturn code of which I often found myself on the wrong side. At the office they teased me gently for the lilt of my vowels, over dinners they discussed the fates of names unknown to my ears, and looked pityingly upon me when I admitted my parents had considered Scotland’s education system robust enough to educate my young mind. How long I had harbored dreams of my metropolitan blossoming, for years I had cradled a steady desire to mold myself a man of the world, and how London had disappointed, making me smaller, self-conscious, and creating a new, wilder thirst for the unknown. And so when my editor said Afghanistan, murmuring that there had been a bit of trouble over there again, Cavagnari killed and war unavoidable now, my mouth moved before my mind. “Yes.”