by Gai-Jin(Lit)
Not married according to the Church? Then to hell with the
Church of Rome, she had thought, sick with apprehension. Beware! Never admit that openly, never. You are French, French people understand about
Catholic Rome, its corruption and heresy and about misguided popes. Every night in her prayers she asked, implored the Blessed Mother for guidance and succor.
Monday and all the other days dragged, always eyes and unspoken questions so she went out less and less. To pass the time she read and slept and read and wrote letters and began a story about a French girl who was cast ashore in Yokohama. This stopped abruptly and she burned the pages as she started to relive Kanagawa and him and the nights and days with Malcolm and their one night on
Prancing Cloud.
Prancing Cloud had left. She had been glad to see that harbinger of ill wind disappear into the distance.
Since her promenade when she had talked again with Gornt--learning nothing new--by mutual consent they had decided not to meet for a few days.
Twice she had invited Maureen
Ross to tea, the second time deliberately receiving her in bed to encourage rumors that she had a fever. Their chats were gossipy, ordinary, about fashion, the problems in the Settlement, the life here, nothing serious. Later these visits would be fun when they could discuss more intimate matters and thoughts. Not now. But she liked Maureen who had brought welcome books and magazines and told about Jamie's new office, how he was working all hours, and, shyly, her hope that they would be married soon.
The only person she had enjoyed seeing was
Phillip Tyrer. He had been sent by Sir
William with best wishes for a quick recovery, bringing the latest London papers with him and presenting her with flowers he had purchased in the village. "By Orders of Her Majesty's
Government," he had said in French with a flourish, his boyish grin and joie de vivre infectious.
For an hour or more he had chatted, mostly in
French, relating the latest rumors. About his trip to Yedo, about Nakama-Hiraga who had vanished without a trace, creating a diplomatic problem for Sir William, and about his Captain,
Abeh, "who's still waiting and seething at the
North Gate."
"What's going to happen, Phillip?"'
"Don't know. We hope the problem's going to go away. Pity of it is we had to describe
Nakama, what he looks like now so there's not much chance for him escaping. Damn nuisance, 'cause he was a fine fellow and he helped me greatly.
I don't believe a word about him being an assassin. We didn't get a sausage of info out of the other fellow, Nakama's friend, whose family are shipbuilders in Choshu. I got him a look around one of our frigates. Nice enough fellow but fairly dumb. He knew nothing about Nakama or would say nothing. Sir
William didn't want to give him to the
Bakufu so he let him go. Damn nuisance,
Angelique, Nakama aided me tremendously
--not only with Japanese, and if it wasn't for him..."
Later they had soup together and at her probing he had admitted, first swearing her to secrecy, that he had a girl, a special girl in the
Yoshiwara, "Oh she's so beautiful and nice,
Angelique, I think I can swing the money for the contract without straining the old
Exchequer, the liaison is so comfortable..." and she had been amused how young he seemed, envying him his simple love, and, compared to him, how adult and sophisticated she felt.
"One day I'd like to meet her," she had said. "I can easily sneak into your Yoshiwara.
I'll dress up as a boy."
"Oh my God, no, you couldn't.
Angelique, you mustn't."
It might be amusing to do that, she thought, chuckling, and turned over in her bed, almost asleep. Andr`e will take me. I'd like to see this
Hinodeh I've so much invested in. I wonder how she looks.
On the threshold of sleep her stomach spasmed.
Another cramp, different. Another. Wide awake now. Apprehensively she rubbed her stomach and loins to take the ache away but it did not go away and now she realized for sure it was the old familiar ache with the slightly bloated feeling.
It had begun. The bleeding followed. Andwiththe flow all of her longing and worry and hoping burst.
In abject grief she began to cry and buried her head in her pillows, "Oh Malcolm I had hoped so much, so much, now I've nothing left to give you, nothing left of you, nothing left to give you, oh Malcolm Malcolm I'm so sorry, so awfully sorry... oh God,
I'm so awfully sorry... THY will be done
..."
Crying and crying, after an eternity, crying herself to sleep, no more tears to shed.
"Missee, wakee! Missee-tai-tai, cawfee, heya!"
In her waking mists Ah Soh banged the tray on the side table and Angelique smelled the warm, heavenly smell of fresh-brewed coffee
--a present from Seratard and one of the few services Ah Soh would and could do properly-- wafting around her, bringing her into the day without hurt.
She sat up in bed and stretched, astonished and delighted she felt so alert and so well. The cramps had gone, the ache had subsided into its normal pattern, better than usual, the bloated feeling less than usual.
And best of all, despair had left her. It's HER miracle, she thought, reverently. During the last month in nightly prayers to the Blessed Mother talking, asking, pleading, one night exhausted by anxiety, she had listened. "Leave it to me, child, it is MY decision not thine," she heard, not hearing with her ears but with her innermost self, "MY decision, all of it, rest in peace." The anxiety had left her.
It was her decision, how wonderful!
Angelique would accept HER verdict. The Will of God. And she had.
Impulsively she knelt beside the bed, closed her eyes and blessed Her and gave passionate thanks, and again how sorry she was but thanked her for lifting the burden, Thy Will Be Done, then slid again under the covers ready for coffee and the world.
Coffee at this time, nine, was custom on a
Sunday, just enough time to bathe and dress for church.
Church! Why not? she thought, I must give proper thanks, but no confession. "Ah Soh, bring my bath and..." Ah Soh was staring at her, glazed. Abruptly she realized her maid must have seen bloodstains on the back of her nightdress.
Hastily Ah Soh said, "I get bar'f," and waddled for the door but Angelique was there before her and pushed her back. "If you tell anyone
I'll scratch your eyes out!"
"Ayeeyah, no unnerstan'
Missee-tai-tai," Ah Soh grunted, petrified by the venom on her mistress's face and in her voice. "No 'unnerstan'!"
"Oh yes you do! Dew neh loh moh-ah," she spat out the Cantonese curse words as she had heard Malcolm use them at
Chen once when he was angry with him and had seen
Chen go white. He had never told her what the words meant but they had the same effect on Ah
Soh whose legs nearly gave way.
"Ayeeeeeyahhh!"
"If you talk, Ah Soh, tai-tai will
..." Furiously Angelique stabbed her long nails to within a millimeter of her eyes and held them there. "Tai-tai do this! Understand?"
"'unnerstan! Sek'ret, tai-tai!" The frightened woman moaned some Cantonese, put fingers to her lips parodying a clamp. "Ah
Soh no talk 'unnerstan'!"
Getting hold of her fury though her heart was still racing, Angelique pushed the woman towards the bed and got into it again. Imperiously she pointed at the coffee cup. "Dew neh loh moh! Pour my coffee!"
Saturated with humility and genuine fear, Ah
Soh poured the coffee and handed it to her and stood there meekly.
"No talk, make all bed, clothes, clean.
Secret!"
"'unnerstan' tai-tai, no talk, sek'ret, 'unnerstan'."
"No talk! Or..." Her nails slashed the air. "Bath!"
Ah Soh scuttled away to get the
hot water but first, breathlessly to whisper the news to Chen whose eyes would turn to heaven and he would say,
"ayeeyah, what will Tai-tai Tess do now," on the run to speed the news on the fastest ship to Illustrious Compradore Chen who had commanded them to inform him at once, irrespective of cost.
The coffee was delicious. It soothed her stomach and spirit and took away the slight tumescence. One of Angelique's true joys in all the world was early morning coffee, most of all with croissants and Colette on the
Champs-Elys`ees at one of the elegant street caf`es, reading the latest Court
Circular and watching the world stroll by.
First church. I will pretend that nothing has happened yet--Ah Soh won't dare to say anything. Who to tell first? Hoag? Andr`e?
Edward? Mr. Skye?
She had already had a discussion with Heavenly
Skye. His advice was that they had no option but to wait, to see what Hoag would do, and after that, what Tess would do. Tess's letter to him had been brief: Dear Mr. Skye: I know my son had dealings with you. Cease and desist in our affairs, my son's and mine. No good will come of it.
"Interesting choice of words," he had commented.
"You sound afraid, as though we've lost already."
"Not at all, Angelique. Our only posture can be to wait. She has the initiative."
"By the next mail I want you to write to Struan's solicitors, asking for an accounting of my husband's estate." This had been an idea Andr`e had given her, favoring opening of an immediate offensive.
"Gladly, if you want to fall into her trap."
"What?"'
"Your only posture is the aggrieved, wronged child-widow who was enticed into an early marriage by a strong-willed man--not the impoverished, rapacious widow of a rich husband, a profligate minor, who had gone against his mother's wishes in marrying an impoverished lady of questionable antecedents--please don't be angry, I only tell you what can, may and probably will be said. You must wait, dear lady, pretending to hope that Tess will behave like a human being should.
If his child was, er, is en route, that would be a great assist."
"And if there isn't?"'
"Let us consider that when it happens, I mean when it doesn't. Lots of time to con--"'
"I don't have lots of time. I will run out of money."
"Be patient..."
Mon Dieu, patience! Men and their patience.
Now that Angelique knew beyond doubt she was not bearing Malcolm's child, she set aside all the ideas she had formulated in the event of a baby and concentrated on the other set.
An immediate onslaught on that woman? No, that comes later, Mr. Skye's right in that. I have to find out what she is going to do first. To do that I have to tell Hoag or Babcott. Hoag delivered her message so he will have to be the one. No need to have him paw me, either of them. I can tell him.
At once or later? Is it worth asking
Andr`e, or Edward? I don't think so.
Having no baby to contend with, to consider, makes my life simpler, my chances of remarriage better. Whatever happens, like every girl in the world,
I must have a protector, the right husband--or, at length, any husband.
As to my prospects: I don't have money enough to get back to Paris to set myself up there. I've no prospects except through a settlement with
Struan's--no, not with the company, with that woman.
Even Edward is tied up in that. Especially him. Without a good settlement for me, and her benevolence on his deal, his marriage interest will evaporate. That's fair because mine will evaporate quicker. He's in love with me, I'm not in love with him though I like him a lot, but without mutual financial security the connection has no logic.
Always back to that woman, whatever idea comes up, Angelique thought, not a little pleased with the way her mind was working, coolly logically, not worrying, simply examining all aspects as a prudent woman should.
I can last a month or two, no more--if I don't give any more money to Andr`e. Soon my chits will run out, any day Albert can get orders to stop my credit and throw me out. I can almost read her spiteful mind. Never mind, I can move to the French Legation. But they won't support me for very long.
Sir William? No reason for him to do more than he has. Andr`e is the only one outside her grasp who can help. Think clearly,
Angelique, that's wrong! When Andr`e sees that the money is drying up or has dried up, no telling what he may do in desperation. He could sell Tess that awful paper, he could give her proof about the... about the past. He's a cynic, callous enough or clever enough to have kept proof I paid for the medicine with the earrings I lost. He'd settle for much less money than I would. Even so he's the only man here evil enough to combat her.
Edward will go against her but only up to a point.
He won't lose Rothwell-Gornt.
Should I get Edward to go back to Hong Kong at once? Or Hoag, he's a friend, a sort of friend and he's the one she sent to me? Or
Andr`e? Not him for then I wouldn't sleep a moment knowing he was in Hong Kong with that woman, unwatched.
For her church was a huge success, even with her melancholy. She had dressed as usual in black, a medium veil covered her hat and face. Prayerbook in hand she had set out on the blustery day, and when she passed the Catholic church on the promenade, joining the throng that headed for Holy Trinity, and went up its path and entered the church and sat in the empty back row, at once going to her knees and beginning to pray, a current went through the nave, already half full, echoed by latecomers, the current gathering strength and swooping through the Settlement and into Drunk
Town.
"Godalmighty, the Angel's gone to church, our church..."
"Holy Trinity? Bollicks she's
Catholic..."
"Bollicks or not she be in't Holy
Titties, bright as a berry, all dress in red and no knickers on..."
"Oh for God's sake, don't spread rumors..."
"That's no rumor, she don't never wears knickers..."
"In Holy Titties? Holy God! Is she become one of us'n?"
"Old Tweety'll wet hiself with glee
..."
Maureen and Jamie had been behind her. They hesitated beside the last pew, readying to say,
May we sit with you? but Angelique was still kneeling as if in prayer and did not acknowledge them though aware of their presence; and not a little envious of the joyous green of Maureen's dress and coat and matching hat, with its plume of yellow chiffon hanging down her back. In a moment they moved on, shoved ahead by the press of the others and not wanting to disturb her--which was what she wanted.
After her initial passionate prayer of thanks for the strength to conquer her vast disappointment, she stayed on her knees, the hassock comfortable, and, protected by her veil, watched wide-eyed to see what would happen. This was the first Protestant service she had witnessed.
There was not as much reverence as in her own church but it was packed, braziers spotted here and there against the damp, and everyone mobile was in attendance. The stained-glass windows were rich, the altar and trappings throughout more stark than she was prepared for.
Others would have stopped to greet or to nod, filled with degrees of delight or bewilderment, ready to sit beside her. But they did not, again not wishing to interrupt. Gornt chose an opposite pew.
So she was left alone and soon the service began. First hymn and she imitated the others, standing when they stood, sitting when they sat, praying when they prayed but always to the Blessed Mother, listened to the sermon that the Reverend Tweet stuttered, completely undone by her presence. More hymns and chanting and the plate, an embarrassed moment as she fumbled for a few coins, another hymn and the blessing and then it was over to an audible, well-earned relief.
The congregation stood as the vicar went into the vestry preceded by an ancient altar boy. Most began to shuffle toward the exit, palates ready for the traditional Sunday lunch, the best meal of the week:
roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, roast potatoes for the lucky ones who could afford a joint from the last shipment of ice-frozen