31
I languished in my room, wondering what had happened. Fog swept in from the sea, and a malaise enshrouded the house, which was as silent as a tomb until that evening, when I heard footsteps. I went to the door, and to my surprise it opened at my turn of the knob; Hitchman had forgotten to lock it. I crept to the stairway and spied Kuan and Nick in the hall below.
“Have you found any sign of my son?” Kuan asked.
Nick shook his head.
“Keep looking,” said Kuan.
They parted company and disappeared from sight. I realized that T’ing-nan must have gotten out of the house and run away. Everyone was apparently occupied with bringing him back. I felt pity for the boy, who had lost his mother and was now abroad in a strange land, and for his father, too, because Branwell had taught me the torment that ensues when a loved one goes missing. But T’ing-nan’s disappearance spelled opportunity for me.
The clock struck eleven o’clock, its chimes echoing through the empty house. I dressed in my cloak and bonnet and stole downstairs. The front door was unlocked; preoccupation with finding T’ing-nan had rendered the household careless. Outside, the dense, swirling mist obscured my vision of anything beyond twenty paces distant. It muted the sea’s roar and settled upon me, damp and chill. As I hastened along the road towards Penzance, I had a disturbing sense of being watched. I paused to listen, but heard nothing.
At last I reached town and ascended the streets. Houses were densely packed in the twisted tangle of alleys. Their windows cast oblongs of faint light on the moist, slick cobblestones. Cats prowled past me; I heard them foraging and screeching in the darkness. The clattering of clogs heralded the approach of village folk who loomed suddenly out of the fog then disappeared. Smoke rose from chimneys atop the crooked slate roofs. I breathed the smells of fish frying, the salt sea, and the effluvium trickling from drains. Somehow I located Oyster Cottage, a tiny house built of rough-hewn stone, streaked brown by the weather. I rushed up the crumbling, uneven steps and pounded on the door.
“Mr. Slade!” I cried.
Mr. Slade immediately opened the door, pulled me inside, and held me while I sobbed from relief and lingering fright. “What are you doing here?” he said. “What’s happened?”
I became aware of his body’s heat warming me through the white shirt he wore, and my face pressed against the skin bared by his open collar. Embarrassed, I stepped away from him and tried to compose myself.
“I ran away,” I said, and explained the circumstances that had allowed my escape. “I had to see you.”
“I’m glad you’re here,” Mr. Slade said. “I’m even gladder to see you safe.”
His voice was rough yet gentle, his gaze warm with something more than the happiness felt by comrades reunited. Could it be that my absence, and the danger to my life, had increased his affection for me? Flustered, I turned my attention to my surroundings. We stood in a small room with whitewashed walls and a low, slanted ceiling. The window was open to vent smoke from the fireplace. A table held books, papers, and a burning lamp. There was one plain chair where Slade had apparently been sitting at the table, and an armchair in the corner.
“You must be tired,” he said. “Come, rest yourself.”
He seated me in the armchair, then drew his chair opposite me and perched on its edge, leaning forward. I noticed how quiet the house was. There was no sign of Slade’s fellow agents. The ease I’d learned to feel in his presence vanished. The room seemed too small, the dim lamplight too intimate, and Mr. Slade too close. I could see the dark stubble on his face, the reflections of the lamp in his eyes. But I should not allow myself to be distracted by personal thoughts. Quickly I told Mr. Slade about Kuan and what he’d said to me.
“So Mr. Kuan is a Chinaman,” Mr. Slade said, amazed and enlightened. “That explains his strange accent and his connection with Isaiah Fearon, the China trader. It’s a wonder that he’s made such inroads into British society. But we knew he had a brilliant mind.” Mr. Slade shook his head, deploring Kuan. “It’s a pity that he has applied it to waging a personal war against us.”
“Perhaps he has a good reason.” My words, spoken without conscious thought, surprised me.
“What are you talking about?” Mr. Slade frowned in surprise even greater than mine.
“His family was murdered by opium dealers who were in collusion with British traders.” Although I knew Kuan had done wrong, something in me wanted to explain his motives. “His homeland was invaded by ours.”
I had been accustomed to think that Britain was good and noble and to respect its intentions, if not always its politicians. I didn’t want to believe that my country would deliberately harm another for no just cause. I had always preferred to believe that people in the Far East were savage, ignorant heathens, and if they only knew better, they would understand that we wanted what was best for everyone. We, after all, were more advanced in science and philosophy; we were Christians, with God to justify our actions.
But now I realized that I had adopted Kuan’s way of thinking. He had personified the Chinese for me, had made them seem human and their suffering real. He was akin to David fighting Goliath, and I could better identify with the small and weak than with the mighty. Though the Chinese were heathens, they were as much God’s creatures as we, and as deserving of compassion. I was dismayed at how much influence Kuan had gained over my mind; yet I felt an irresistible urge to speak for him.
“Mr. Kuan is avenging the death of his wife and children and the humiliation of his country,” I said.
Mr. Slade drew back from me, as much offended as he was puzzled by my vehemence. “Kuan has no right to punish innocent people in Britain for what happened to him in China,” he said. “Isabel White, Joseph Lock, and Isaiah Fearon weren’t responsible for the murder of his family or the attack on Canton. How can you defend that madman?”
All that was rational and moral in me rebelled against my own defense of Kuan; but alas, he had undermined that part of me. I couldn’t admit to Mr. Slade how far Kuan had swayed me towards his side; nor could I stifle my compulsion to make Mr. Slade understand Kuan’s point of view. “The actions of the British government have driven him mad. He’s not to blame,” I said, although I knew this was faulty reasoning. “In his mind, we, as a nation, have done far more wrong than he has. Were China to harm us, or England, in such a way, we should feel and react in kind. Can’t you see that?”
“I can see that Kuan is a criminal,” Mr. Slade said, adamant. “Whatever his justifications are, they don’t excuse murder. And the situation in the East is more complex than he has represented to you. It’s not for him to settle international disputes.”
I flared with anger at Mr. Slade for arguing with me, and at Kuan for suborning me; given that Kuan wasn’t there, my anger focused on Mr. Slade. At that moment I forgot I loved him; indeed, I almost hated him. He seemed a self-righteous brute. Some of my suspicion and disapproval of Kuan had transferred to Mr. Slade; some of my loyalty to Mr. Slade has transferred to Kuan.
“Are you so blindly certain of our goodness and his evil?” I demanded.
Mr. Slade’s response was a look of grave concern for me that extinguished my irrational temper. Now I felt sick that I had allowed Kuan to come between us. I sank in my chair while contradictory impulses battled inside me and Mr. Slade regarded me with caution. The emotion that prevailed was a desire to regain our comradeship.
“Please forgive me,” I said. “I didn’t mean to speak as I did. So many upsetting things have happened to me that I hardly know what I’m saying.”
“Yes, of course,” Slade said, although he seemed not quite convinced by my disclaimer. “Have you learned what Kuan is planning?”
“Not yet,” I said.
There ensued an awkward pause, during which Slade scrutinized me more closely than I liked. I could tell that he thought I was withholding information, and he was correct: Not one word about Kuan’s strange influence on me had I breathed. I s
ensed that Mr. Slade was wondering whether I would share with him Kuan’s plans if I knew them. Suddenly I wanted to flee him as much as I longed to stay with him.
“I must return to the house before Kuan misses me,” I said, rising.
Mr. Slade stood between me and the door. “I have a better idea. You stay here. I’ll fetch my comrades, and we’ll storm that house and capture Kuan.”
“No,” I said. “He sneaked into the house by a secret passage; when he hears you coming, he could slip right through your fingers. I have to go back. Don’t worry; I’ll be safe.”
“It’s not just your safety that concerns me.” Mr. Slade clearly sensed my divided loyalties.
“I’m all right,” I said. “I have to go. Otherwise we may never learn what Kuan intends.”
As much as I feared Kuan, I needed to show Mr. Slade that we were on the same side and that I would do my part. I edged around him towards the door, but he caught my hand and drew me to him. My heart began to pound with the fear that he would force me to tell him how I’d fallen under Kuan’s sway, and an equal fear of what can happen when a man and woman find themselves alone together. Slade touched my cheek; it burned in response. Our faces were so close that I could feel our breath mingle. As he bent his head towards me, how I yearned for the touch of his lips on mine!
A sudden disturbing thought quenched my desire. Was Mr. Slade trying to seduce me because he truly wanted me, or did he have another, less flattering purpose? Perhaps he knew that his command over me had weakened and he sought to ensure my obedience. Kuan had poisoned my relationship with Mr. Slade. Once I would have eagerly welcomed his kiss; now I turned my face away. Mr. Slade hesitated, then dropped my hand. I couldn’t look at him, so I know not whether his face showed hurt because I’d rejected him or vexation that his ploy had failed.
“Goodbye, then, Miss Bronte,” he said, cool and formal. “Take care.”
I fled the house in fear that I’d ruined the hopes I still cherished even while I distrusted Slade’s motives. Outside, the wind had risen; the fog receded towards the sea. Midnight must have come and gone; the houses were dark. The moon and stars glowed through shreds of mist in the black sky as I rushed through the town and along the road. I had an even stronger sense of being followed than before. I imagined I heard footsteps echoing mine, and someone else’s breaths. At last I reached the cove, where the sea’s thunder drowned all other sounds. I crept down the path towards the house. Lights shone in the windows, and I despaired: The searchers had returned home during my absence. Even if Kuan, Hitchman, and Nick didn’t know I wasn’t in my room, I dared not attempt to sneak past them. How I wished I hadn’t come back! Had I been thinking clearly, I would have encouraged Mr. Slade to raid the house. As I hesitated in the darkness some twenty paces from the house, a hand seized my wrist and pulled me into a stand of pines on a ledge overhanging the sea. I cried out in alarm.
“Miss Bronte, you be quiet, or I throw you in water,” T’ing-nan said.
His menacing voice, and my knowledge of his character, told me that his threat was in earnest. I said, “Where have you been?” His face was dirty and streaked with tears, his clothes disheveled. “Everyone’s been looking for you.”
“I try run away,” T’ing-nan said. Shivers and whimpers disrupted his breathing. “But no place to go.” He clutched at me. “You help me go back to China!”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t,” I said, amazed that he would think me willing or capable of such. “I’ve no money; I don’t even know how one goes about traveling to China.” Although I’d known how much he longed for his homeland, I hadn’t imagined him desperate enough for this. “Besides, your father would never approve.”
“Please!” T’ing-nan, all but a grown man, burst into hysterical sobs. “You must help. I have nobody else!”
Lights shone down the path. T’ing-nan and I froze silent. His eyes gleamed with panic in the sudden illumination. I have no doubt that mine did the same. We heard Hitchman say, “I heard voices over there.”
Rapid footsteps behind two moving lanterns approached us. T’ing-nan shrank into the trees and whispered urgently, “Please! No let them catch me!”
I had even more to fear than did T’ing-nan. As the light spilled over me, I was momentarily blinded; I then discerned Hitchman and Nick carrying the lanterns. They saw me; it was too late to evade them.
“Miss Bronte, what are you doing out here?” Hitchman demanded.
Two choices lay before me: I could help T’ing-nan hide and face questions I didn’t want to answer, or I could give him away in the hope that it would protect me. “I came outside for a breath of air,” I said. “I heard a noise, and I went to investigate. I’ve found T’ing-nan.”
I pointed at him. As Hitchman and Nick shone their lanterns on him, he looked wildly around him for escape. But they blocked the path, while behind him was a vertical drop to the roaring, foaming sea. T’ing-nan wept in despair. He let Nick lead him up the path, but as he went by me, he muttered, “Someday you be sorry. Someday I make you pay.”
Hitchman walked me to the house. “Well done, Miss Bronte. But in the future, obey orders.”
I thanked Heaven that he had believed my story. After he locked me in my room, I knelt and prayed to God to help me survive. I tried to sort out my confused feelings. Certainly I had allowed myself to feel too much sympathy towards Kuan. Now that I was away from Mr. Slade, I thought better of him, and I chastised myself for throwing away an opportunity that might not come again. I hoped I hadn’t alienated him forever. I hoped I would live long enough for us to reconcile.
There was a knock at the door. Hitchman appeared and said, “Kuan wants to see you.”
He escorted me to the attic chamber, where Kuan sat at his desk. A single lamp burned. His face above his dark clothing seemed to float in the dim room, like an Oriental god above an altar in a temple. The smell of incense completed the illusion. He dismissed Hitchman and invited me to sit.
“A thousand thanks for restoring my son to me,” he said.
“I’m glad to be of help,” I said, relieved that he apparently intended to forgo punishing me for leaving the house. I was sorry I’d betrayed T’ing-nan, but he was safer here than wandering alone.
Kuan’s luminous black gaze studied me. “Your hair is wet with mist. Your cheeks are red from the cold night air.”
Fear trickled into my heart. Did he suspect I’d been outside longer than I’d implied when Hitchman found me? But he merely said, “You must have some wine to warm you.”
He produced a bottle and poured a goblet for me. The wine gleamed ruby red. I am wary of imbibing liquor-perhaps from fear that it will enslave me as it has Branwell-and I would have declined, but I was wary of offending Kuan. I accepted the goblet and drank. The wine was sweetly potent, with a bitter aftertaste.
“You deserve a reward for finding T’ing-nan,” Kuan said. “What shall it be?”
What I wanted was that he should go back to China and never harm anyone again. What I said was, “I should like to hear the rest of your story.” Then God help me convey the information to Mr. Slade and effect Kuan’s capture!
Kuan nodded. “Your choice pleases me.” He resumed his tale as though we had never been interrupted: “After I took revenge on the men who killed my family and the Canton officials surrendered to the British, I could not remain in Canton. I had taken no care to conceal what I had done, and word that I had slain the opium gang spread through the city. My life as I had known it was over. I was a criminal, with the law after me. I fled into hiding in the delta. In the meantime, other events transpired.”
His eyes looked inward and far outward at once, searching memory and space. “The war did not end with the truce. The British weren’t satisfied with the money paid them for the opium that had been destroyed. They remained determined to conquer China, and they sailed their warships up the river. Brave folk in the country villages rose up to resist the barbarians. It was in one of these villages that
my men and I had found shelter. The residents formed militias, arming themselves with cudgels, swords, match-locks, and spears. I became commander of my village’s militia. My appetite for revenge extended beyond the Chinese gangsters who had slaughtered my family, to the British traders who were ultimately responsible.”
Kuan paused, and his gaze concentrated on me. “Miss Bronte, you’re not drinking your wine. Do you dislike it?”
“No, it’s fine,” I said, and sipped more, although the bitter taste put me off and my head was getting light.
“We fought a valiant, losing war against the British,” Kuan went on. “By October they had occupied and looted two major cities, Tinghai and Ningpo. Chinese resisters everywhere were massacred, their houses burned, their families killed.”
The wine blurred the room around me; visions of bodies drenched in blood and piled high in the streets flickered before my eyes, while gunfire and screams rang inside my head. These illusions were even more frighteningly real than those Kuan had inspired in the past. My glass was empty, and he refilled it. I drank in spite of a terror that he had doctored it with some potion that induced trances while it eroded the will.
“We, in our small efforts at fighting the barbarians, were like gnats buzzing around a giant. We were only delaying their inevitable victory,” Kuan said, his hypnotic voice weaving through my confused thoughts. “I wasn’t satisfied to fight to the death or to run away. I began to plot alternate strategies against the British. During my forays through the delta, I had the good luck to meet Tony Hitchman. He was captain of a merchant ship, the son of a duke with a proud heritage and no wealth. One night in Canton, Hitchman quarreled with the captain of another ship and stabbed the man to death. He was arrested, convicted of murder, and sentenced to hang.”
I felt a chill of terror; my intimation that Hitchman was dangerous was now confirmed.
“While Hitchman was in prison, the war broke out,” Kuan said. “During the confusion, he escaped. He fled to the marshes outside Canton, where a band of my soldiers caught him. They would have killed him, but I realized that he could be valuable. I ordered my men to desist. We gave him food and shelter. In return, he taught me English and captained the ship that brought us to Britain. Here, he introduced me to people who helped me establish a foothold in the West. We made perfect partners. I had allies in the form of my loyal retainers and the soldiers from the militia. Hitchman had maritime skills and advantageous connections.”
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