‘So you have spoken to the formidable Lord Trevellyan.’
‘Yes—although what he had to say wasn’t at all pleasing. What does he do? Is he very rich?’
‘I’ve made a lot of money, Marietta—I won’t go into the intricacies of it because you wouldn’t understand—but the days of the small shipping businesses are over. This time belongs to financial wizards with money, power and authority—men like Lord Trevellyan with grand ambitions. It’s about economics and insurance and industrial development. What did he say to you?’
‘He gave me a dressing down for muddying his shoes.’
‘Then I can only assume that coming from Lord Trevellyan it was well deserved.’
‘I suppose it was. I tried to apologise. His wife was more forgiving, though. How does she put up with him? She has my sympathy. She’s very lovely, isn’t she, Papa?’
‘Yes, she is. But—things aren’t always what they appear to be on the surface.’
Marietta looked at him with sudden interest. ‘Why, what do you mean?’
‘Never mind,’ he said airily.
She didn’t ask him to explain, but it left her wondering.
* * *
Arriving at Marietta’s house the following morning, Oliver didn’t recognise the girl dressed in loose black trousers and a long-sleeved, green-and-yellow-patterned tunic, round-toed slippers and one thick pigtail hanging down her back waiting at the gate. She had pencilled thin kohl lines around her eyes to alter their shape. It took him a moment to realise it was Marietta, waiting for him to take her to the native quarter. He was about to walk past her and, seeing his intent, she broke out into peals of laughter. Failing to see what was so entertaining, Oliver turned and looked at her stiffly.
‘I had you there, Oliver. Did you not know me?’
‘Marietta!’ Oliver was deeply shocked. ‘Why are you dressed like that? And whose clothes are they?’
‘I’ve borrowed them from Yang Ling. You said yourself that the native quarter is not a fit place for an English girl to visit, which is why I’ve adopted this garb. It’s going to be such fun. No one will recognise me.’
‘Yang Ling? You have told Yang Ling?’ He sincerely hoped she hadn’t.
‘Of course not,’ Marietta laughed. ‘I wouldn’t dare. She is convinced that Europeans lose face by visiting the native quarter and she would have a fit if she were to find out. Now come along! We are wasting time and if we loiter any longer someone may see us and ask questions.’
Oliver wasn’t enthusiastic about taking Marietta in disguise to the native quarter, but saw no way of making this plain to her without throwing her into a tantrum which would draw unwelcome attention to them. So without another word, they set off on his proposed tour in a light carriage driven by a coolie and drawn by a skinny horse, instead of the more common mode of transport of sedan chairs, which were carried up and down the steep roads of the island. Neither the grilling heat, which beat down on her little flat hat with relentless force, nor Oliver’s attempts to tell her how she should behave when they reached the native quarter and that she must remain silent could dim her enthusiasm.
Their conveyance made good speed, eventually entering the seedy area of China Town, an area where not many respectable Westerners ventured. The streets were lined with shabby establishments with palm-leaf walls and thatched roofs. Bamboo curtains hung in doorways and Chinese writing was on boards dangling above buildings. The streets were narrow, steep and densely packed. The strong smell of hot oil mingled with spice, garlic and incense wafted above the general odours of dirt and decay. Washing was draped like bunting across the streets and heavily laden donkeys trundled along while barefoot children played.
At last the vehicle stopped in front of a large framed house with an open veranda. Marietta followed Oliver inside. The air was oppressive. Several men were taking their ease—Chinese and European—stretched out or sitting cross-legged on heaps of cushions with long pipes before them. The room into which they entered was dimly lit. Marietta’s eyes opened wide when from behind a beaded curtain two girls glided forwards. One had blue-black hair that was drawn back from a face that was pearl-like in its perfection and colour, with large slanting eyes. Her gown of crimson silk clung to her curves. The other girl was almost identical except that she was dressed in yellow. They stood in front of Oliver like dolls. They smiled with perfect teeth between plump red lips.
‘Who are they?’ Marietta whispered, never having seen Chinese women who looked like these.
‘The entertainment,’ Oliver replied, leaving it at that, not wishing to shock Marietta’s sensibilities by telling her the nature of the entertainment they performed.
Looking around the room lit by oil lamps, Marietta saw there were more girls, some so scantily clad as to be indecent. The crimson-clad woman sidled up to Oliver.
‘You likee me?’ she said, playing coy.
‘Yes, but not now.’
A portly middle-aged Chinese man with long moustaches drooping on either side of his small, fleshy mouth seemed to appear from nowhere, his hands tucked into his sleeves. He bowed respectfully.
‘May I present Tiger Lily and Jasmine. They are offering you their services with the magic of their exquisite bodies. They are skilful and will soothe your aches in some infinitesimal degree, but if their clumsiness is offensive, you should beat them for their correction and your pleasure.’
‘No,’ Oliver said. ‘I have not come for the girls, Mr Chang.’
Mr Chang accepted this and clapping his hands sharply, the girls melted into the background. He paid small interest to Marietta, who had her eyes cast down. Facing Oliver, he bowed in greeting while Marietta felt inordinately pleased with herself when his eyes passed over her without suspicion.
‘It is good to see you again, Mr Schofield,’ he said in silky tones as well as perfect English. ‘Will you honour me by accepting refreshment?’
‘I should be glad to, Mr Chang.’ Turning to Marietta, he said in quiet but firm tones, ‘Wait for me in the carriage. I’ll just be a few moments, but on no account wander off.’
Resentful at being so casually dismissed, but knowing better than to argue, Marietta returned to the carriage, expelling a sigh of exasperation on seeing the driver with his head bowed taking a nap. As time passed and Oliver did not return she became annoyed. The shadows were lengthening and the native quarter was beginning to wake from its afternoon torpor. Deciding she’d had enough, she stood up, then climbed down from the carriage and went back into the building to look for Oliver.
Like a moth blundering in the lamplight she stumbled over the cushions littering the floor. Eventually she saw Oliver. She was disappointed to find he had given in to the temptation to sample the wares. He was reclining on a pile of cushions with a pipe in his mouth, sucking in the vapour from a bowl held over the flame of a lamp, holding it in as long as possible, then slowly letting it out through his mouth. He was already on the blessed edges of oblivion, the strong narcotic having dulled his senses to forgetfulness and Marietta’s presence.
Angry that he could be so irresponsible, forgetful of her disguise, before he could take another pull from the pipe she snatched it from him and, placing her hands on his shoulders, shook him hard.
‘Oliver, wake up. Please pull yourself together.’
When he opened his eyes they were unfocused, his pupils just pinpricks in the centres of his irises.
‘Do not be alarmed.’ Mr Chang suddenly appeared silently behind her. ‘Your companion will wake soon and be none the worse for smoking the pipe.’ Turning his glittering black eyes on Marietta, he saw her more clearly. He opened his slit eyes a fraction wider. ‘Ah, you are English missee.’
‘Yes, I am English missee,’ she repeated crossly.
He moved closer and brushed her cheek. ‘And with skin like a peach. A treasure beyond price. You stay here, English missee. There are many who would pay handsomely for your company.’
Not so naïve that she didn’t
know what he implied, she gasped. ‘How dare you? Despite what I look like, I am a respectable English girl and my father counts for something on the island. Be good enough to wake Mr Schofield and we will leave.’
Ignoring her, Mr Chang took her arm. ‘Not so hasty now, English missee.’
Beginning to get alarmed and feeling a sudden chill when she became aware of furtive figures lurking in the shadows, Marietta shook her arm free. ‘Do not touch me. I warn you that the British Consul knows of our whereabouts and you will be in serious trouble if you try to keep me here.’ Looking at Oliver, she saw him stir. ‘Oliver, wake up,’ she said sharply. ‘You must take me home at once.’
Seeming to remember where he was, Oliver thrust the pipe away. Shaking his head, he staggered to his feet, struggling to fight the opium fumes that fogged his brain. ‘Marietta! Oh God—forgive me—I quite forgot.’
‘Clearly.’ She raised a knowing eyebrow. ‘What a complete idiot I have been. I thought you had come to buy the drug for an acquaintance when all the time you wanted it for yourself.’
Swaying slightly, Oliver regarded her for a moment with a closed expression, then leaned in with a confidential whisper. ‘There you have me, Marietta. I will confess that I am here to purchase the narcotic for my own use. As you have witnessed yourself, I am rather fond of the odd pipe. It’s quite common, you know.’
‘I don’t dispute that, but how could you, Oliver?’ Marietta found the idea of smoking opium frightening. Her imagination was already vibrant. She was aware of what happened to people who took mind-altering substances, that it ruled its addicts with its weapons of need and distrust. Once in its grip, there was no escape. She sincerely hoped that, where Oliver was concerned, his indulgence in this particular vice was a passing phase. ‘Now pull yourself together for I think there is some villainy afoot. I think your Mr Chang wants to keep me here.’
Taking his arm, with great difficulty she managed get him on to the veranda, relieved when no one tried to stop them and ignoring the pipe smokers who rose and drifted away into the shadows.
‘Devil take it,’ Oliver mumbled, stumbling to his knees and grabbing at a post to keep himself from falling flat on his face. ‘I’m all at sea.’
‘It jolly well serves you right,’ Marietta scolded.
Suddenly a tall, lithe black-haired man materialised from across the street. ‘Get up, man,’ he retorted as he hoisted Oliver to his feet.
‘Thank you,’ Oliver muttered. ‘I am much obliged.’
Marietta’s head spun round on hearing the strong authoritative tones. Suddenly she wished the ground would open and swallow her up. She lowered her head to hide her face, for there was no one in the whole world she would so much dislike to discover her in this disguise as Lord Trevellyan.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Max demanded of Oliver.
Oliver’s eyes darted about, but he saw there was no escaping Lord Trevellyan’s interrogation. ‘I—came on behalf of a friend to collect a package, and before I knew...’
‘Like hell you did,’ Max ground out. ‘You knew what kind of establishment this is—that not only is it a house of ill repute, but that Chang deals in narcotics. If you are hell-bent on self-destruction, young man, you are going the right way about it.’
Marietta was about to move behind Oliver when a warm hand on her shoulder pulled her back and spun her round to face him.
‘Wait. Are you with him?’
Knowing there was no escape, Marietta raised her head and met his gaze, her eyes wide with horrified embarrassment. She saw astonished recognition in his eyes and tried to shrink away, but he held on to her shoulder, his fingers digging into her soft flesh.
‘Miss Westwood. Just as one might have expected. What an absolutely tiresome girl you are.’ She flinched before the exasperation in his voice. ‘I might have known—although I didn’t expect to meet you engaged in yet another mad escapade quite so soon. It leaves me wondering what the devil you’ll get up to next.’ He rounded angrily on Oliver. ‘Have you no sense? You must have known it was the height of dangerous folly to bring a young girl to a place such as this. Not only does Chang deal in opium, but slaves are his speciality—the younger the better, and the fairer the skin the higher the price.’
‘I hadn’t meant to bring her, but...’
‘She insisted.’ Max fixed his fierce gaze on Marietta. ‘Do you go out of your way to court danger and excitement? I suppose it’s pointless me asking if your father knows you are here?’
Marietta shook her head.
‘Then he should.’ He looked at Oliver with severe approbation. ‘It would be advisable for you to leave now, Mr Schofield. I’ll escort Miss Westwood home.’
Eager to be gone, Oliver didn’t raise any objections as he was hoisted up into the rickety carriage. Turning his attention to Marietta, Max took her arm and almost dragged her across the street to a waiting sedan chair.
‘Kindly take your hands off me,’ she snapped, angry and resentful of his interference. ‘I don’t want to go anywhere with you.’
‘That’s too bad. Get in.’
‘I most certainly will not.’
‘Shut up,’ he hissed, his voice like acid.
As he shoved her inside without gentleness, her ill-fitting shoe came off and dropped into the street. Cursing softly, he picked it up and thrust it into her hands. In a silky, dangerous voice, he said, ‘Be still. I am averse to leaving you to the mercy of an opium-soaked idiot.’
Clutching her shoe, taking judicious note of the taut set of his jaw and feeling the first tendril of fear coil in the pit of her stomach, Marietta did as she was told. She didn’t think she could escape and, anyway, she would only enrage him further. Besides, if she didn’t let him vent his wrath now, he would undoubtedly tell her father—which he would probably do anyway. She shot him a mutinous, measuring look. He looked dangerous and invincible. She already knew he had a vile temper. She judged from the ominous look in his silver-grey eyes that he was even now considering shaking her for her idiocy. Rather than give him the satisfaction, she sat frigidly in the sedan while he walked briskly along side.
Steeling herself to endure the journey home, she sat in angry silence all the way, relieved when the coolies carrying the sedan halted outside the gate. She scrambled out, impatient to be rid of her persecutor.
Chapter Two
Instructing the coolies to wait, Max looked down at Marietta, his face hard. ‘I’ll have a word with your father before I go.’
‘He isn’t at home.’
‘Then I’ll catch up with him later. He should know what his daughter gets up to in his absence—for your own good, you understand.’
‘No, I do not understand,’ she flared. ‘Tell me, Lord Trevellyan, are you really as heartless and unfeeling as you sound right now?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘You’re a monster. Why are you talking to me like this?’
‘Someone has to.’
‘What I do has got nothing whatsoever to do with you. I would be obliged if you would mind your own business.’
‘When I find a girl of your age in one of the most notorious opium dens in Hong Kong, I make it my business.’
‘It’s also a place where brothels and gambling dens thrive,’ she flared, ‘which leads me to question the purpose of your own visit to the native quarter, Lord Trevellyan.’
He raised one sleek, questioning brow. ‘And you know what a brothel is, do you, Miss Westwood?’
Her face turned scarlet with embarrassment and she found she couldn’t look at him. ‘Yes—at least—I think so.’
Max was shocked, for such things were never discussed with an innocent girl. ‘Damn it, there are some things a girl of your age shouldn’t know about.’
Marietta didn’t, not really. One day she had asked Oliver to explain what a brothel was, having overheard some young men making ribald remarks among themselves about such establishments. In a roundabout way Oliver had told her what a broth
el was, firmly stating that, of course, he never visited them. She had always taken everything Oliver said as the gospel truth—but today had changed all that.
‘I can’t see why not. I’m seventeen, Lord Trevellyan, not six, and I cannot for the life of me understand why a man would want to visit such places if he is in love with his wife.’
‘Brothels are full of married men, Miss Westwood,’ he replied drily. ‘When you are older you will no doubt realise that. Why did you go there? What made you want to?’
She shrugged. ‘It was the adventure, I suppose, the excitement of doing something different.’
‘Something wrong, more like. Just what did you think you were playing at, doing something as lunatic as going to a place like that? Have you no brains at all?’
‘Don’t speak to me like that. I won’t listen.’ Her hands were trembling now, and her legs felt weak beneath her. I’m usually so strong, she thought. Why do I feel like a child? She knew why it was. She was in the wrong. In a fit of pique, Marietta threw her shoe at Lord Trevellyan, almost hitting him in the face, before turning on her heel and flouncing off.
‘Miss Westwood.’
Marietta paused and scowled back at him. She beheld a face of such dark, menacing rage that she shuddered. ‘What?’
‘That’s a nasty temper you have there. You could have taken my eye out.’
‘I’m only sorry I didn’t take your head off.’ On that note she left him and stalked away.
Max watched her disappear down the drive, her ridiculous fat plait bouncing against her back and her shins exposed like a couple of white sticks beneath her wide trouser bottoms and wearing only one shoe. Although he was accustomed to being assaulted, it was usually by someone of his own age and sex, not an angry young woman. Tiresome though Miss Westwood was, she didn’t lack personality, perhaps to be expected of Monty Westwood’s daughter. He was a man fond of breaking regulations, who believed his nefarious dealings in Hong Kong were a well-kept secret—it was hardly surprising that he had fathered such a little firebrand.
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