The Forbidden Orchid

by Sharon Biggs Waller

  “Will he let Holst whip you with that thing he carries?” All of the sudden I felt very cold, even though the night was hot. I bent forward and crossed my arms over myself, not wanting to hear the answer.

  Alex let out a low laugh. “His quirt? Hardly. Holst doesn’t use that for punishment; that’s what the cat o’ nine tails is for. He uses the quirt to start the apprentices to their work. A blow makes them get to work when they are daydreaming, and so they learn to never do it again.”

  “What is a cat o’ nine tails? It sounds gruesome.”

  “It’s a flogger, a whip, made of string with small knots on the end.”

  “Is it painful?”

  Alex snorted. “Yes, it is. I know it is. Holst used it on me about a year after I joined the ship. I suppose I deserved it. I was being cocky, daring an apprentice to a race up the rigging, like boys would do, only the apprentice slipped and fell, broke his wrist. Two lashes is what I got, but two was enough.” He rolled his shoulder as though remembering the pain. “But no, the punishment is nothing that simple.” He cast an uncertain look at me. “I agreed to leave the ship.”

  My breath caught. I felt as though I were dropped back into that pool of water again. My chest clenched, and a whirl of emotions tangled inside me. No matter what I did, or how much I tried to help or to put things right, I only succeeded in hurting people. How could that be? I meant no harm. I only wanted to help, and yet people were hurt, time and again. I felt so ashamed. I added Alex’s punishment to the burden I already carried. Perhaps Papa was right. I should have stayed in Kent. “I’m so sorry, Alex.”

  “For what?” he asked.

  I lifted my hands. “Everything. Where do I begin?”

  “Myshka, what I did was my choice. I didn’t have to help you. I wanted to. We do what we can to help one another, and sometimes it doesn’t always work. But we try anyway.” He looked grieved. He took my shoulders. “Please don’t be unhappy.”

  “How long will you have to stay away?”

  He shrugged. “Until my father calls me back. The ship will return in early spring next year. Possibly then.”

  “What will you do until then? Will you be able to join another ship?” The thought of Alex unable to sail hurt me. I remembered his face, how happy he looked the day I first saw him with Kukla leaping alongside him, his eyes snapping with joy.

  “My father says he’ll try to find a position for me on another ship, but I’d have to start as an able seamen. Second mate positions on tea clippers aren’t easy to find.” Alex looked bereft.

  I stood up. “Wait. Alex, why don’t you go with Papa on his expedition!”

  “What do you mean?”

  I laughed. “The expedition to find the Queen’s Fancy! You’ll be along to help him if he needs it. Oh, Alex, it’s perfect. Please say you will. And perhaps I could go with you! If I’m there as your wife, Papa can’t refuse me. And then you can return to England afterward and wait for your father there.”

  I watched Alex as he thought. For a moment I thought he might refuse; he looked unsure, apprehensive. But then he smiled. “Yes,” he finally said. “Why not?”

  I felt as though the doors to a new world were creaking open. I would set my feet on the path I had only dreamed of. I would help Papa, and I would see those orchids blooming in the forest.

  ALEX WENT OFF TO HIS DUTIES, AND I MADE MY WAY TO OUR CABIN. From behind the mast a shadow stepped in front of me. Holst crossed his arms and leaned against the rail, and as he caught sight of me, a smile sketched over his face.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Balashov.” He said the name with a great sense of amusement, followed by a little snort, as though he found the idea of marriage to Alex to be the bravest sport.

  “Yes, it is. What do you want?” I eyed him warily.

  “No need to fear me; I mean you no harm. I only want a word with you, if you’ll so oblige me.”

  “You are a cruel man, Mr. Holst. Your apprentices are ill-used by you.”

  “I feel that tidbit of information was wrongly reported to you. Did your husband tell you so?”

  “I’ve seen you go about your bullying with my own eyes. That whip you wield.”

  “Let me disabuse you of your opinion. On a ship we all depend upon one another to do our work in a timely and efficient manner. A slap reminds them that laziness is not to be tolerated. A ship can be sunk for lack of a ha’p’orth of tar. There are bo’suns much crueler than I. Bo’suns who masthead their charges, sending them to sit in the crow’s nest for hours in rough seas. Whippings with the cat for tiny infractions. But you may carry on believing I’m a cruel man if you must. Your opinion of me bothers me not.”

  “Your opinion of me bothers me greatly,” I said. “I know how you feel about women aboard a ship. You told me so yourself. I must admit that I am wary of you.”

  Holst shrugged.

  “Nothing terrible has happened since I’ve been aboard. Surely that must change your opinion of females and ships.”

  “Yes, it has. And that’s what I wanted to say to you. For now I believe that women are good luck.”

  I was suspicious of him. “How so?”

  He dipped his head down, speaking softly, but I heard him clearly. “You are good luck because you’re taking that Jonah off the ship. That swine Balashov will finally be out of my life forever, and maybe the captain will begin to see sense, finally.”

  “Why do you hate Alex so much? What did he ever do to you?”

  “It’s not what he did to me. It’s who he is, what he’s made of. And it’s not for me to tell another man’s secrets. That’s for him to share with his wife when it suits him.” Holst tipped his hat and then turned.

  I WOKE UP WHEN ALEX LEFT FOR HIS DOGWATCH. I TRIED TO RETURN to sleep, but I couldn’t. I was filled with trepidation. I told myself that Holst’s warning was meant only to frighten me. Alex was nothing but a kind and generous person. Yes, he’d stowed away, but the captain was a wise man, and I couldn’t imagine him taking Alex as his ward if he wasn’t kind. For Holst, it was sour grapes, that was all. Holst was jealous.

  I turned over and stared at the ceiling. So many things were whirling round my mind that I could not calm myself down. I was excited to see China, hopeful that Papa would take me along, and a little thrilled to be marrying Alex.

  I turned over again. My heart was a dolt. It heard the word marriage and leapt to all sorts of conclusions. Friends, we were only friends.

  Finally, when the sun was beginning to break, I rose and began to dress. I was searching for hairpins when I found, at the bottom of the hessian bag, my plait. I ran the long silky plait through my fingers. I couldn’t imagine ever being the girl who wore it again. I didn’t want to be staid Elodie anymore. I wanted her gone. The Elodie I wanted to be craved adventure and a life filled with the pursuit of knowledge.

  I stepped outside as the sun was beginning to rise over the figurehead. I held the railing tightly and watched the water purling under the sides of the ship, the wind snapping the sails.

  I cast the braid over the railing and into the sea.

  PART THREE

  China—Summer 1861

  TWENTY

  We reached China on the tenth of August, mooring the ship on a spit of land called Pagoda Anchorage, a few miles outside of Foochow. From there, Alex told me, Chinese stevedores on sampans would off-load the bales of cotton and wool from the Osprey and replace them with tea chests laden with leaves from the Wuyi Mountains.

  Alex had decided that Kukla would be safer back in England for the time being. A shard of pain rent my heart as I watched Alex hug his dog close and then hand her to Robin, who had promised to take her to my family in Kent as soon as the Osprey docked in London. Poor Kukla whined and cried and tried to leap out of Robin’s arms to follow Alex down the ladder and onto the sampan.

  Then Alex, Papa, and I boarded a
small boat on which we were to be rowed down the Min River to Foochow by coolies.

  The captain stood in the bow of the ship, gripping the railing with both hands and watching Alex, his face filled with sorrow.

  “You’ll see your father again, too, I’m sure,” I said to Alex as the pigtailed coolies rowed the boat away from the Osprey. A ghost of a smile crossed Alex’s face, but he said nothing. He didn’t take his eyes off the captain until the ship was out of sight.

  China unfolded before me in a kaleidoscope of color. My eyes skipped from one sight to the next, gobbling the scene up, committing it to memory, for I had never seen such things in my life. Such beautiful and incredible things. Papa sat gripping the sides of the boat, staring at the shore, responding to my questions with a grunt or not at all. I recognized the signs of one of his spells beginning: the avoiding of questions, the silence, and the visible tension in his body.

  The bay was filled with graceful fishing boats, each one’s bow painted with a black-and-white eye. Alex told me the Chinese believed the painted eye helped the boats see their way through the water. Foochow, ahead of us, was beautiful, with a long bridge stretching out into the water. There were two pagodas towering over the walls of the city, one black and one white, each level stacked on top of the next like a wedding cake. The striking hills beyond tumbled off into the distance to mysterious places unknown. I felt an eager tug, yearning to explore them. I hoped my exploration of China would not begin and end in Foochow. Alex and I had decided not to tell Papa about our plan to travel with him until we were on land. Then we would present our idea as a fait accompli. And hope he would accept it.

  As our boat drew farther away from the ship I saw ravages of the recent war marking the beauty of the land. The sampan rounded Pagoda Anchorage, and I saw the many graves of the dead, the earth still freshly mounded on top. They lay in the shadow of the destroyed fortresses, blown to bits by Western cannon. Beggars dressed in rags, their limbs covered with suppurating wounds, gathered at the end of the bridge, crying out to us, their hands outstretched, as the sampan passed.

  When we arrived on the shore, a band of coolies rushed to our boat, grabbing at our luggage and arguing with one another in Chinese. Papa jumped out of the boat and away from the men, not noticing or caring that he was standing in water.

  I shaded my eyes from the sun. “Are you all right, Papa?”

  “Of course I am,” he said, fixing me with a glare. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “You’re in the water.”

  He ignored me and waded to shore.

  Alex sorted everything out, giving the job of carrying our luggage to the first coolies who had arrived, and then caught me by the waist and swung me out onto the shore.

  Two men ran off to find us transport, which arrived in the form of three sedan chairs. The sedan was an odd conveyance where the traveler sat in a little windowed box suspended from two poles, which were then borne aloft on the shoulders of two coolies.

  “I can walk,” I insisted. “I don’t wish for these men to bear me. They are not mules!”

  “It’s considered poor form to walk,” Papa said, his tone short and dismissive. “If you walk, you’re saying you can’t afford coolies, and we’ll have trouble dealing with people. Saving face is very important to the Chinese. You’re in a new land, Elodie, and you must try to follow its customs.”

  Reluctantly I climbed into the odd conveyance and gripped the armrests, my shoulders tense. I sucked in my breath as the chair rose up. It felt exceedingly odd to be hefted into the air in that fashion, and I didn’t care for it one bit.

  Papa’s chair bearers set off in front of me, and Alex’s behind me.

  Apprehensive about how Papa would react to our decision to join him, I tried to distract myself with the scene passing by my little window. I didn’t know what I expected Foochow itself to look like. I suppose I expected it to be similar to England, but with an Eastern bent. I couldn’t have been more wrong. It was old, so old as to be medieval. There was little planning to the city, and most of the buildings were thrown up higgledy-piggledy. Some leaned against their neighbors, giving the impression that they only stood upright by the grace of the other buildings. If the first building in the line was struck down, the rest of the buildings would probably collapse like a line of dominoes. The smell coming from the houses was oppressive, particularly in the heat of the day. They smelled of rubbish and outhouses and spoiled fish.

  Narrow cobbled alleyways snaked through the town in a confusing labyrinth. The roofing of the houses jutted out over the narrow path so that only a chink of sunlight streamed through. I could imagine that rain tunneled through in a sheet of water, soaking everyone who tried to make his way through the street during a rainstorm.

  The inhabitants of the houses on these alleys were using the space to hang their washing, pen their pigs, and send their children and dogs out to play. Two little boys dressed in blue pajamas ran up to my chair and touched it, obviously on a dare. When I smiled down at them, the younger of the two screamed and ran away as though he had seen the devil himself. The second boy lasted a few moments longer before he too dashed off, crying. “Don’t be afraid,” I called out through the window, hoping they would come back so I could get a better look at them, but they of course didn’t understand what I was saying, and disappeared into one of the huts.

  The only female children I saw playing were very young, maybe three or four years old. As the chair made a turn around a curve I saw the reason why older girls were not running. A knot of them, about eight years old or so, perched on the curbstones. They sat with their legs stretched in front of them, their feet covered in dirty bandages, their cheeks streaked with tears. They looked up dully as we passed, pain evident in their faces.

  I had read about the ancient practice of foot binding in China, but I hadn’t quite believed it. But here it was before me. The girls’ feet had been broken purposely, the foot folded under the sole and bound tightly with bandages until they were only inches long. The girls would never run and play again. The rest of their lives would be spent hobbling in pain. I thought of Calla and Lily running on their sturdy little feet, skipping and laughing, their pinafores twirling around as they spun about, falling dizzy with joy into the spring grass. My toes curled in my boots. I leaned out of the window as far as I dared, keeping the girls in my sight until the sedan chair turned and the macabre scene vanished behind us.

  Ahead, men with long pigtails and shaved heads loitered in the alley space, and every one of their eyes followed us as we passed by. They were so thin, walking skeletons, with sunken eyes and chests and skin that looked like leather. One of them spat on the ground. “Fanqui,” he shouted, the word bursting from his mouth like a curse. I leaned back from the window and tugged the curtain closed.

  A half hour later, we’d left the town behind us and climbed a steep hill. It was as if we’d entered a different country. Here there were more Western faces than Chinese, and the houses were larger, with tidy gardens enclosed within ominous iron fencing. From the Chinese men’s hostile reaction to us, I wondered if the fencing was meant to keep the Westerners in or the Chinese out.

  Our sedan chairs stopped at a three-storied building set behind a gilded gate. Two male servants ran forward to open it and see to our baggage.

  We went up the cobblestone path to the inn’s front door. Walking on land left me with a curious sensation and caused me to stagger from one side to the other. “Still have your sea legs, myshka?” Alex said. “Don’t fret. A few days will see you right. It takes a little while until the earth stops tilting.” He held out his elbow. “Here, take my arm.”

  I slid my hand around his elbow, relieved to hear his good cheer after his sadness at leaving his father. He sounded like the old Alex.

  The inn was light and airy with tall ceilings and glass windows draped with tartan curtains. The hall was decorated with a mix of British a
nd Chinese furnishings. An oaken credenza stood next to a dainty lacquered cabinet dressed with red tassels. A still life painting of a brown-and-white hunting spaniel with a pheasant clenched in his jaws hung amongst porcelain plates painted with blue temples.

  The innkeeper stood behind a black lacquered reception counter that bisected the room. He was a tiny wizened Englishman, so short he had to stand on an upturned soapbox to see us. Behind him, a clutch of pigeonholes held room keys and letters for the residents. Beyond the hall lay a little sitting room furnished with cushioned divans made of rattan. There was only one guest in the room, and he sat reading a newspaper, a glass of sherry at his elbow. He was around Papa’s age and had the look of a stork—gangly and thin. His face was bedecked with a bushy moustache that overhung his top lip, and his hair was smarmed down to one side with oil. At our approach, he flicked the paper down and eyed us over the top. “Hugh McGregor!” he barked. He dropped the paper and unfolded his long legs, struggling to his feet with the aid of a walking stick.

  Papa noticed him approaching and swore under his breath. “Good god, the day only grows worse.”

  “Who is he, Papa?” I asked, but Papa didn’t reply. He braced his shoulders and gripped the edge of the counter.

  The man smirked as he approached, his long mustache bristling. “As I live and breathe. I believe we’ve ventured into the theater of the absurd! I never expected to see your carcass back in old Foochow.”

  Papa ignored him and spoke to the innkeeper. “Have you two rooms available?”

  “Yes, sir,” the innkeeper replied. He opened a book and set it before him, along with a dip pen and a pot of ink. “How long will you be staying with us, sir?”

  “A night or two,” Papa said, taking up the pen.