‘You may,’ she replied distantly, wishing she had not dismissed the amah. Captain Verran’s attentions were all very flattering – there was no denying he was a handsome fellow – and if she had not been married she might have been tempted to encourage his advances. He had a roguish charm which both repelled and attracted her at the same time. ‘Is my husband back yet?’ she asked.
Verran shook his head. ‘He’s spending the night on board the Buchan Prayer. He asked me to give you his apologies.’ Verran took a step into the room and kicked the door to behind him with his heel. ‘So it’s just you and I tonight.’
‘And the servants.’ She rose from her chair to face him. ‘I think it would be more appropriate for you to spend the night on the Golden Dragon.'
‘In my cramped cabin? When you have so many rooms in this big, fine house of your husband’s? You could give the servants the night off, you know.’
‘Captain Verran! I shan’t report this conversation to my husband, but I think you had better leave at once.’
‘Your husband!’ Yerran spat contemptuously. ‘You think I don’t know he neglects you?’
‘If he does, that is between my husband and myself.’ She did not fool herself into thinking that her marriage to her husband had been a fairy-tale romance; more in the way of a business arrangement between her father and her bridegroom. As the daughter of the great John Keane she had always been aware that she could not hope to marry for love. But her husband treated her with respect, albeit a respect marked with cold formality, even when he was fulfilling his marital duties: to him, lovemaking seemed a chore necessary to provide himself with an heir to his financial empire, rather than an opportunity to display any warmth or affection towards his wife. But as the wife of the tai-pan she lived in a state of luxury comparable with that of the lesser European royalty. She knew she had no cause for complaint. Besides, she had sworn to love, honour and obey her husband, and it was a vow she meant to keep.
Verran moved closer to her. ‘I could make you happy. Happier than he’s ever made you.’
‘You could ruin us both. Please, Captain Yerran. Do not make me ask you to leave a second time.’
He stared intensely into her eyes with a fervour that sent a chill down her spine – a chill which had nothing to do with desire and everything to do with fear – and for a moment she feared he might try to force himself on her there and then. She reached behind her and picked a brooch with a long pin off the dresser. But then his customary smile slipped greasily across his face and he backed off.
‘You need time to think about it, I can tell. That’s fine by me. You’ll come round to my way of thinking sooner or later. You know you want it.’
‘I think I am a better judge of what I do or do not want, Captain Verran,’ she said tightly. ‘Good night to you, sir.’
He grinned and touched the peak of his cap to her, before turning on his heel and heading for the door. He was halfway through it when he stopped and turned. Her heart pounded with fear, but he stayed with one hand on the doorknob. ‘Oh, I forgot to mention. Your husband asked me to tell you he wishes you to throw a ball at the factory next month. On the twenty-fourth.’
‘A ball?’ she echoed in astonishment. Her husband never threw balls.
Verran nodded. ‘The finest this colony’s ever known.’
‘It’s short notice, I must say. The twenty-fourth… that’s less than four weeks away!’
‘The invitations are to go out before the end of the week.’
‘Who’s to be on the guest list?’
‘Why, everyone who’s anyone. Mr and Mrs Bonham, naturally, and General Staveley and his family. The other traders, of course, and the officers of the garrison. Oh, and the officers of any navy ships in the harbour. I dare say Mr Bannatyne will let you have the full guest list at his earliest convenience.’ Verran touched the peak of his cap again, and went out.
Mrs Bannatyne sat down with her head swimming. The news that her husband intended to host a ball had put all thoughts of Verran’s unwelcome advances from her mind. When she had been a child, in the old days before Sir George Grafton had retired to Britain, the balls at the factory in Canton had been the finest in all Hong Kong. Social entertainments were a vital part of the China trade, a chance for the tea merchants to show off their wealth and opulence. In China, appearances were everything. Perception was more important than reality. If a man appeared to be bankrupt, then he might as well be bankrupt. But since Bannatyne had taken over the day-to-day running of the company, balls had become a thing of the past. It was Bannatyne’s way of saying that Grafton, Bannatyne & Co. was far too successful to need to impress anyone.
She wondered if her husband was bankrupt. If he was, she would be the last person to find out. He never let her know anything about the business. At the beginning she had wanted to become involved, not for power or for riches, but simply so that she would have something to talk about with a man with whom she had nothing in common. She had chosen his work because nothing else seemed to interest him, but he insisted on keeping her at arm’s length.
She sighed. As the hostess, she would be expected to make all the arrangements. Until now she had often wished they would hold balls again at the Hong Kong factory, if only so she had something to do with her time. She had never hosted a ball in her life, but she suspected they required a great deal of organising.
* * *
‘Have I done something to offend you?’ Peri asked in a low voice, so that none of the others would hear.
‘To upset me?’ Killigrew was genuinely astonished. ‘No. What makes you think that?’
‘I cannot help thinking you have been avoiding me over the past month. Turning down my father’s invitations. Turning down my invitations.’
‘Please don’t take it personally. My duties on board the Tisiphone have kept me busy.’
‘Lord Hartcliffe has had plenty of time for social occasions.’
He smiled. ‘Ah, well, that’s seniority for you.’
She was not convinced. It was obvious something was troubling him, but he did not elaborate, pretending to concentrate on turning the mutton chops on the barbecue he and Hartcliffe had built.
It had been Prince Tan’s idea to hold a ‘pic-nic’ – a new fashion from France – on the south coast of Hong Kong, on the rocky beach at Chek-py-wan where the off-shore island of Ap-li-chau provided shelter from the sea breezes. The gathering was mixed, but predominantly young: Prince Tan and Framjee were the oldest ones present, sitting some way off and talking confidentially. Peri’s father had told her he wanted Prince Tan’s help in setting up a school for the children of destitute Chinese families on Hong Kong, and he was obviously making the most of this opportunity. Mr Strachan had already erected the tent he used as a darkroom and was setting up his camera on a tripod to take some photographic pictures. Elsewhere young clerks and military officers flirted with the daughters of traders and senior officers and diplomats. Only Hartcliffe seemed aloof from such flirtations, sitting with Mr Cavan, one of the young midshipmen from the Tisiphone.
Peri glanced at Killigrew again, but his attention had strayed to where the Reverend Ultzmann was talking with a conspiratorial air to a young Eurasian beauty. Peri instantly felt jealous. ‘You think she is attractive?’ she asked Killigrew challengingly.
‘The Eurasian girl? Don’t you? Who is she?’
‘I do not know, I am sure. She came with Prince Tan.’
He nodded. ‘I saw her on his houseboat when I dined with him last month.’
‘Your chops are burning.’
‘Hm? Oh, Lor’!’ He quickly lifted one of the chops from the griddle with a toasting fork and she held out a plate from one of the pic-nic hampers for him to drop it on. A moment later the second chop had joined it, and she handed the plate to Lieutenant Dwyer, the young officer of the Ceylon Rifles who had helped Cargill take Zhai Jing-mu into custody.
‘Thank you, Miss Dadabhoy,’ said Dwyer. ‘Has anyone told you how ravi
shing you look today?’
‘No.’ She gave Killigrew a hard look, but he was oblivious, staring after Ultzmann and the Eurasian girl as they wandered out of sight behind a rocky outcrop further down the beach. ‘They haven’t.’
‘You’ve been invited to this ball at the Bannatynes’ next week?’
She nodded. ‘Who has not?’ The forthcoming ball was the talk of all Hong Kong. Balls were common enough, but this one was different: this was the first ball at the Grafton, Bannatyne & Co. factory in over a decade.
‘I was wondering if I might be so bold as to ask for the honour of a dance with you?’ asked Dwyer.
‘But of course,’ she said, giving Killigrew a sidelong glance to see how he would react. He was not even listening, curse him. ‘Which one? You’re the first man to ask me, so you may have your pick.’
‘You astonish me, Miss Dadabhoy. I would have thought that young beaux would be queuing up to partner you.’
‘Apparently not.’
‘Then, since etiquette demands I dance with you no more than three times in one evening, I should like the first waltz, the last waltz, and any polka you care to choose.’
‘I fear a polka might prove to be a little too strenuous for me, but you may have one of the waltzes.’
‘I shall look forward to it.’ Dwyer took one of her hands and kissed it gallantly. As he leaned forward, his chops slid off his carelessly tilted plate. They plummeted towards the hem of Peri’s sari and she jumped back instinctively, tripping over. She felt herself falling backwards, and then a strong pair of arms had caught her.
‘Are you all right?’ asked Killigrew.
‘Yes. Thank you,’ she said breathlessly.
‘My pleasure.’
‘Oh, gosh, I’m sorry,’ said Dwyer. ‘That was clumsy of me.’
‘Yes,’ Peri agreed a little impatiently. ‘Thank you, Mr Killigrew, but you don’t need to hold me now.’
‘Sorry.’ He set her back on her feet.
Dwyer looked mournfully at the chops on the ground at his feet. ‘Oh, rot it! I say, Killigrew. Any chance of some fresh chops?’
Killigrew sighed. ‘By all means…’ He made as if to fetch some more from the food hamper, but Peri caught him firmly by the arm and pulled him away.
‘Help yourself,’ she told Dwyer, linking her arm through Killigrew’s and leading him away.
‘Where are we going?’ asked Killigrew.
‘For a walk.’ She led him down the beach, in the opposite direction from which Ultzmann and the Eurasian girl had headed. ‘Lieutenant Dwyer has asked me to dance with him at the Bannatynes’ ball.’
‘Good for him.’
‘He is rather handsome, do you not think?’
‘He’s not my type,’ Killigrew responded, deadpan.
She released his arm with a gesture of frustration. She had been planning what she was going to say to him today ever since she had learned he would be attending the pic-nic, and he was ruining it all, confusing her with his flippancy and apparent indifference. She took a deep breath and told herself to start again. ‘Mr Killigrew, it may have escaped your attention, but I have a great deal of regard for you.’
‘And I for you, Miss Dadabhoy.’
‘You do not show it.’
‘What would you have me do?’
She glanced back down the beach to where the others sat laughing and joking amongst themselves. No one was watching them. ‘You might kiss me.’
He opened his mouth as if to respond, and for a moment it looked as though he might do exactly as she wished, but he just set his jaw, shook his head sadly and strode on.
She lifted the hem of her sari with one hand and hurried after him. ‘Mr Killigrew, I had hoped that you held me in higher regard than to be completely indifferent to my feelings…’
‘Your feelings are irrelevant to me, Miss Dadabhoy.’
It felt like she had been kicked in the stomach. She stared after him for a moment, feeling humiliated, and was tempted to let him stride away. But she was not going to let him get away so easily. ‘Do you really think so little of me?’
‘Miss Dadabhoy…’
‘Peri, please.’
‘Peri. Please believe me, I hold you in the highest regard. But it can lead nowhere. If I cared nothing for you, it would be the easiest thing in the world for me to seduce you. But I respect you, very much, and I can see no benefit to either of us if we pursue this. We’ll only end up hurting each other.’
‘So proper! So formal! So cold!’ she sneered. ‘You have never been in love, have you, Mr Killigrew? You have no idea of what it feels like to be… to be overwhelmed by such a consuming passion, to have it rob you of all your senses…’ She was hurrying after him so that when he stopped and turned abruptly she tumbled into his arms. He held her close and kissed her with a flood of pent-up passion. She did not know whether to be delighted or terrified, but delight won out and she responded. Then he broke off the kiss and stepped back, staring at her as if he were just as astonished at himself as she were.
‘Mr Killigrew!’
‘I’m sorry—’
‘Do not apologise!’
‘Miss Dadabhoy – Peri – don’t imagine that it’s any easier for me than it is for you. Don’t imagine that ever since I first saw you on Zhai Jing-mu’s junk you haven’t been in my thoughts day and night, that I haven’t wanted to sweep you into my arms and kiss you as I did just then, that I haven’t spent every minute away from you longing for the next time I saw you…’
‘Then why did you turn down all my invitations?’
‘Because you know as well as I that it is impossible for there to be anything between us.’
She sighed and turned her head away. ‘You could never marry an Indian girl, could you, Kit?’ she said disdainfully. ‘Whatever would your colleagues say?’
‘The devil take my colleagues. It’s you I’m concerned about. If you married me, you’d have to renounce your religion, your people, everything you believe in.’
‘I believe in you.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘For what?’
‘For putting you in such a position. Forcing you to choose between me and your religion was the last thing I ever wanted.’
‘I am not blaming you, Kit. It is not your fault I am a Zarathustrian. If anyone is to blame, it should be me.’
‘For being born into a particular culture? No one can be blamed for that.’
‘What about your religion, Kit? Are you religious?’
‘Not really. I’m an Anglican.’
‘But you go to church?’
‘Regularly. Once a year, for the Christmas carol service.’ He could hardly count divine service on deck every Sunday: attendance was compulsory. ‘If I could become a Parsi I would, Peri. I’ve been reading up on Zarathustrianism. All that stuff about an eternal conflict between good and evil. It makes as much sense as any religion I’ve encountered.’
‘There is not much comfort in a religion which forbids me to marry whom I please. Perhaps I could become a Christian, start a new life in England…’
He shook his head. ‘And then what? Settle down in a country cottage as the wife of a naval officer? Have you any idea of what that’s like? Being left on your own for years at a time? It just wouldn’t work, Peri. It wouldn’t be fair to you.’
‘Do you not think I have the right to make that decision for myself?’
‘Certainly. If you could be certain you were thinking straight.’
‘You think I am making no sense?’
‘All I know is that when I look at you, common sense goes by the board.’
‘Why not go with it?’ she suggested, taking a step towards him.
He moved away, shaking his head with a sad smile. ‘Have you ever noticed that man is an inveterate categoriser?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s like Strachan with his notebooks, looking for new species so he can decide which phylum, order, and class they bel
ong to. Everything has to be battened down and pigeonholed. Everyone, too. I’m a British naval officer, you’re a Parsi lady, and never the twain shall meet. And we all go along with it because we’re terrified of not fitting in.’
‘You do not strike me as the kind of man who worries about fitting in.’
‘Don’t be fooled. I’m as susceptible as the next man. When I was on board the Dreadful the oldsters used to sneer that I have “a touch of the tar brush”. My mother was Greek; and, what’s more unforgivable, it shows in my colouring.’
‘I think it makes you look very handsome.’ He accepted the compliment with an inclination of his head. ‘Nevertheless, the gulf between two different European countries is hardly the same as that between Britain and India, Kit.’
He shrugged. ‘There’ve always been those who’ve treated me as… I don’t know, something inferior. Even when they meant well. When they say things like, “Good work, Killigrew,” I can’t help wondering if what they’re really thinking is: “Not bad, for a dago.”’
‘Are you sure it is not simply your imagination?’
‘No, I’m not,’ he admitted. ‘But the uncertainty only makes it worse. A true English gentleman never doubts himself. So I think I have some idea of what it must be like for your father, trying to be something he can never really be, losing touch with his heritage and ending up being neither one thing nor the other.’
‘You do not strike me as the kind of man who is troubled by self-doubt, either.’
He smiled. ‘I’ve learned to conceal it.’
She moved closer to him and this time he did not move away. She encircled his neck with her arms and felt his arms around her waist. This time the kiss was more relaxed, but nonetheless passionate, as they both allowed it to last. Finally she broke off. ‘Kit! I had no idea Englishmen could be so passionate.’
‘That’s the Greek half of me.’
‘And that is the half you wish to deny?’ she asked incredulously.
‘We’d better get back to the others,’ he said. ‘If we’re gone too long, someone will notice, and you know how tongues wag.’
Killigrew and the Golden Dragon Page 12