by Kane, Clare
“Barnaby’s mother collected any news about China while he was in Hong Kong,” Nina explained. “She is rather an anxious woman, and I understand reading any news of China, however terrible, eased her nerves somewhat whilst he was overseas. I like to take them out from time to time, to read them and to remember.”
“Mancini’s dead,” I said.
“He is?”
“A skirmish in the Italian Legation,” I said. I did not look to Nina as I spoke, and I wondered if she understood the meaning in my words. “An anxious servant shot him, mistook him for a looter. Of course the servant escaped, and none of his peers have any idea as to where he might have disappeared.”
“Oh.” Nina collected the assorted clippings and placed them inside the envelope once more. “I would say that I was sorry, but I cannot help but feel that perhaps in this particular case justice has been done.”
“That is what I thought.” I reached then for her hand and held it, my thumb brushed the soft surface of her palm.
“I shall put these away,” she said, making to rise, but I gripped her hand more tightly.
“Oh Miss Ward, what a terrible summer we had,” I said, surprised at the strain which exposed itself in my voice.
“I know.” She faced me then. Her eyelids dropped, I wondered if they were shields for tears. “Yet we must go on, Alistair. We are the fortunate.”
“La Contessa was a special woman,” I said finally.
“She will always be remembered by us,” Nina said slowly.
“I suppose you wish to know about Mr Fairchild,” I started cautiously. Nina did not reply, and I interpreted her silence as permission. “He has left China,” I continued. She nodded so gently I wondered if her head had really moved at all. “He has been posted to Japan, it was posited as a reward for his work during the siege, I believe, and Mrs Fairchild has joined him there.”
“I am pleased,” she said, her voice falling somewhere close to a whisper. “Very pleased.”
She looked at me imploringly, and her familiar features seemed to ask me a question: had another solution been possible?
“You do know, Nina,” I said, “that if Mr George had not returned to Peking when he did, I would not have let you down. I only ever wished to protect you, and if I might have become your husband, well, I wish you to know that I would have done so without a moment’s hesitation.”
Her eyes still on mine, Nina removed her hand from our shared hold.
“Oh, Alistair,” she said, and I detected a fissure, gentle but definite, in her voice. “You were never one to be pinned down.”
“But….” I began to protest.
“You did so very much for me. I shall never forget it.” Hurriedly she pressed her lips to my cheek, kissed me briefly. “Thank you.”
We heard the door bell ring, followed by the authoritative step of a servant. Nina stood abruptly, took a step away from me and towards the fireplace. It was with her back turned that Nina greeted her husband.
“Mr Scott!” Barnaby removed his hat in a swift, clean gesture, and stretched out his hand to meet mine. “What a wonderful surprise.”
“Mr George.” I said, standing to greet him. “I have had the pleasure to meet your young daughter.”
“Oh yes, isn’t it marvelous?” Barnaby crossed the room to his wife, kissed her quickly. “You must stay for supper, Mr Scott.”
“No,” Nina said hastily. “I’m sorry, Barnaby, but I believe Mr Scott has another engagement this evening.”
“Correct,” I said. “That is the problem with London, there is always some damned business to which one must attend.”
“I’m not surprised that a man of your talents should be so popular. That is rather a shame, though. Tomorrow?”
“I’m afraid that I am leaving soon for South Africa,” I said gently. “Perhaps I might stop by during my next visit. I am happy at least to know that you are both well.”
“Likewise,” Barnaby said cordially.
I nodded and placed my hat on my head to leave. Nina linked her arm in mine and escorted me to the door.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
“Of course,” I said, though I did not know for what she thanked me. Her fingers circled my wrist still, and she held closely to me.
“I am so very happy to see you,” she said, opening the door and letting go, releasing me to the balmy city.
“As am I.” I paused, nodded and embraced her a final time. “Good luck, Nina.”
“Yi lu ping an.” May the route be peaceful.
I nodded and hurried down the stairs to meet the street, turning to see her enveloped by Barnaby. I waved, but already Barnaby had forgotten me, with his hand placed upon his wife’s shoulder he looked adoringly at her. Nina watched my retreat, eyes distant, heart burdened by words unspoken.
South Africa, June 1902
Dear Nina,
I am so pleased to hear that you are all well, especially little Charlotte. The bloody mess here seems to have finished, so I hope to find myself in London again soon and very much look forward to meeting with you then.
I am most saddened by the news of your father’s death. At least we have the comfort of knowing he died peacefully, certain of his daughter’s future. You brought him great joy and happiness and you must never forget the very special bond you shared. I hope you may find the same peace, contentment and inspiration in your own daughter.
You asked how I am. All I can say is that I am alive. I am beginning to tire of war, I am no longer a young man, and I think it might be time for a change. I have dedicated myself of late to a manuscript of sorts that I wish to share with you. It began as a story of our experience of the Boxers, but the muses were untiring in guiding the narrative towards you, and rapidly it came to be a story about you more than any vicious Boxer or officious diplomat. It is personal, it is private, it is the true story of our Boxer Rebellion. I would not dare to publish it without your approval, and I repeat that it is highly personal, even scandalous. Yet I wonder if we might not change a few names and alter some events in order to furnish the public with a more truthful, or at the very least, a more human account of our woes that summer? I have enclosed it for you to read, and anxiously await your comments.
At first I thought it mere folly to even imagine to publish something so sensitive. Yet you, my dear Nina, are nothing short of an inspiration to me. Not for your courage or your intelligence or your beauty (though you possess much of these qualities), but for your refusal to kneel down before life, to cower in the face of death, to smooth your edges to meet the desires of others. I have lived more than a year of terrible conflict here, seen more lives wasted, more men ruined, more children orphaned, than anyone should ever care to witness. And how they fall, the men! How they fold, the women! How they submit, the children! But not you, Nina. You danced before death, you teased punishment, you laughed at eternity and scorned divinity. And for all that, you burned and raged and glittered and shone, and you lived. And for that, I love you.
Yours always,
Alistair Scott
About The Author
Clare Kane is a London-based author who has lived and worked in Shanghai and Beijing. Her first novel, Electric Shadows Of Shanghai, was published in 2015. A former Reuters journalist, she has a First Class degree in Chinese from the University of Oxford.