“Since you’ve talked about this mysterious something, why not tell me? I’m just a convenient ear.”
“Never, Mary. Not just a convenient ear.”
“That’s kind, but—”
“Mary, I could never take you for granted. You’re too—too kind and too good, too beautiful and exciting. But I’ve discussed with my father and Hilary—”
“You’ve really been collecting opinions, Charles,” she teased.
“I have really.” His solemnity reproached her lightmindedness.
Enthroned on the afterdeck, the Metcalfes and Lady Lucinda appeared to her inflamed imagination a jury sitting silent in judgment. Even the scapegrace Harry was perched quietly on the bulwarks, his vivacious features quite expressionless. She knew she would always remember the moment.
“Mary, we talked about it very much these weeks. My father now finally says all right. Mother still doubts very much. The Metcalfes say they can’t say.”
Charles Sekloong was, this once in his life, determined to be totally candid, though his suit might be impeded by candor. The decision, he felt, was too important for the innocent dissimulation or deliberate evasion that had so often attained his purposes. Still, he felt no compulsion to tell Mary of his fierce quarrel with his father when he first suggested marriage to a European. It would serve no conceivable purpose to tell her that Sir Jonathan had recoiled in unfeigned horror or that he and his son had argued bitterly for weeks thereafter.
Mary Philippa Osgood was misled by her own quick intelligence and by her ignorance of Chinese customs. Instinct told her that Charles was approaching a proposal of marriage. But she could not conceive of his pride’s permitting him to engage in lengthy discussions with his family, much less the Metcalfes, before expressing his wishes to herself. Nor could she conceive that he might be so insensitive to her own pride and dignity as to make a public debate of an intensely personal matter. She was, quite simply, puzzled.
“Charles, what is it?” she asked. “Nothing’s as grave as all that.”
“It is. It certainly is.”
“Then say it,” she prompted impatiently. “Whatever it is. Be easier after you’ve said it.”
“I will. But I’ll do it my way. These last few months, Mary, we’ve been together a lot and I’ve enjoyed every minute, deeply.”
“I’ve enjoyed it, too, Charles. Very much.”
“I’m glad, Mary. I know how much I’m asking you to give up; your rightful place in England and—”
Along with her initial surprise that Charles was, after all, proposing, Mary was incongruously amused. What rightful place? The shabby gentility of a governess, an upper-servant? What place at all had she in England? Then realization came flooding in, realization that he was speaking the words she had feared and, perversely, hoped for.
“—and to live with strangers.” Charles’s words were carefully rehearsed. “Different blood, different ways—it won’t be easy. I’ll make it up to you. We’d travel, though we must live in Hong Kong. My father insists, and I agree. For me, Hong Kong would be barren without you. I—I love you very much.”
“Charles. You’re—dear—very dear to me, Charles. But I can’t be sure—”
Mary was again startled by her own words. Her voice sounded coolly composed, but she was not speaking as she had when she rehearsed the scene in her mind.
“You’re not sure,” Charles interrupted forcefully. “You know what you’re really saying? You’re not saying no. I’m sure you’re saying ‘yes, but not just yet.’ You will finally say yes. I know it.”
“Perhaps, Charles. Perhaps that’s true. But, for now, I must say no. I’m not certain … of anything.”
Her confusion deepening, she listened intently to her own voice as if it were a stranger’s. She should really not be encouraging him in any way, for she knew she must, finally, refuse him. Even if the prospect of such an alien marriage were not intrinsically impossible, his family’s opposition required her to refuse him.
“Charles.” She strove again to explain her bewildering emotions. “It’s not what I thought. Like all girls, I’ve thought about a moment like this … and you flatter me greatly. I was so sure I could say no quite firmly—without hurting you. But, now, I care more about not hurting you than anything else. I don’t know what that means—”
“Then you will say yes.” Charles was, once again, utterly confident, his self-assurance almost overcoming her doubts. “I know it. I’m very happy.”
“Happy? I don’t know. I’m so confused. I certainly can’t say yes. But, somehow, I can’t just now say no. Charles, please don’t press me. Just don’t press … for a while.”
“For a while, all right. But later, I’ll press you again—and again and again. And you will say yes.”
Mary almost yielded to Charles at that moment. His lean, aristocratic jawline was set in determination, and his clear hazel eyes glowed. He was, she realized, offering her not only his own dynamic self, but a position in his own society equivalent to a countess’s in England. If only that society were less outlandish to her, not so different and, somehow, frightening. He engulfed her hand in his own hard palm and her pulse quickened. At a great distance, she heard chains clank as Orchidia’s anchor came up. The rising sails filled, and the bowsprit pointed west into the amethyst twilight. She felt enclosed in a glowing crystal sphere, elated by successive thrills of joy and tenderness.
Yet her wayward thoughts pursued their own awkward surmises. Did she feel conventional triumph at his proposal—and no more? Were not all young women so instilled with yearning for marriage, the true proof of their triumphant femininity, that they might respond as she had to a proposal by any man for whom they felt some fondness? Was she, perhaps, deluded by her own instinctive response and the gorgeous setting Charles had chosen?
Why, she pondered uneasily, had Charles assiduously conferred with his family before speaking to her? She had apparently been appraised in the clan’s councils like a plot of land whose acquisition the Sekloongs were considering. Such cold calculation was, perhaps, normal among families of great wealth but was nonetheless demeaning to herself. Mary indignantly reaffirmed her decision: she would reject Charles because she must.
For the moment, though, she deliberately ignored the nagging voice of both reason and indignation to abandon herself to the pleasure any young woman might properly feel upon receiving such a proposal. Properly, quite properly, could she enjoy that pleasure. She was a female, even before she was a lady, though perhaps, though only an aspiring lady; she was a female before she was the Bandmaster’s daughter. Besides, she was so deliciously secure within her crystal sphere.
Charles was startled but not discouraged by Mary’s equivocal response. He was utterly convinced that he would in time possess the woman he wanted. He had, above all, already borne down his dictatorial father’s violent opposition, for the first time in his life defying the Sekloong—and winning. Charles relived his fierce arguments with his father after he declared his determination to marry Mary. Though the Sekloongs thought themselves at home in English, they had gone at each other in Cantonese tirades like fishermen bickering over their share of the catch.
“You’re not serious, can’t be,” Sir Jonathan had shouted. “She’s nobody—common as yesterday’s cold rice. Worse, she’s a European nobody.”
“That’s rotten hypocrisy, a dog’s head on a sheep’s body. You’re always telling me Chinese must get along with Europeans,” Charles rejoined. “Otherwise no stability—and no business.”
“But not marry them. Offhand I can think of a dozen virtuous Chinese girls of good family who—”
“So you and Mother’re always telling me. Good family—meaning good gold bars.”
“Nothing wrong with gold either,” Sir Jonathan observed. “But I’m thinking of our position. If we chase after them, the Europeans’ll despise us.”
“I’m not chasing. Mary’s willing; I can tell.”
“Willing? Why not?
The Bandmaster’s daughter is doing well for herself. The Sekloongs are very important and very rich. She’s no fool—don’t think she hasn’t thought about gold. I’ve made our name deeply respected by both Chinese and Europeans. Go your way—and both’ll despise us.”
“It’s my life, Father. I’ve pondered ten thousand hours about this. You’re prejudiced, rotten prejudiced.”
Despite his rising anger, Charles carefully skirted the explosive central issue. He could not taunt his father with their own mixed blood. Himself half-European, Sir Jonathan almost invariably appeared in public in the Chinese gentleman-scholar’s long-gown because his Caucasian features appeared so wholly European when he wore Western clothing. He not only retained Chinese nationality, but fought as a Chinese against the social and legal restrictions Hong Kong imposed on the race which made up more than 98 percent of its population. In part because of his mixed blood, he battled for acceptance on his own terms—Chinese terms. But the older man again surprised his son.
“You mean,” he asked hotly, “because of my Irish father?”
“Yes, I do, since you’ve said it. You’re not logical.”
“Not logical! By the Nine Dragons, not logical! Is it logical to go crawling after the Europeans? Is your spear so finicky it must pierce a European target?”
“You’re talking about the lady I’m going to marry.”
“Marry, hell! Just bed her and get it out of your system.”
“Wonderful advice from a good Catholic father!”
“Don’t come the religious line on me. I know your habits. You’ve had half the sing-song girls between here and Canton. Don’t try piety on me.”
“Mary’s different. She won’t be a concubine or a mistress, not this woman. I don’t want her that way, and she’d never—”
“Try gold,” Sir Jonathan advised curtly. “Enough gold and jewels make even a female Buddha surrender.”
“She won’t take anything but marriage,” Charles reiterated. “And I don’t want—”
“You don’t want. You’re suddenly so damned moral. I’ve spent my life building a kingdom for you and your descendants. A Chinese kingdom needs a Chinese crown-princess, not the fortune-hunting daughter of an English mummer—a musician, practically a strolling actor.”
“That’s rubbish. Her father holds rank. They call him Mister. He’s a gentleman.”
“Some gentleman, a boozy, beery old devil-head always rutting on the flower boats. But no European can make you a proper wife. We need—need, I tell you—an alliance with a great Chinese family.”
The battle had raged for more than a week, while Lady Lucinda and Harry walked wide of the angry father and son. Sir Jonathan had finally yielded, prudently withdrawing from the battle he realized he could not win. He was, Charles suspected, convinced that his son would relinquish his purpose if his father appeared to acquiesce—or that, alternately, he could buy Mary off or frighten her away. That was his way, as it was also his way to wring every advantage from circumstances he disliked but recognized he could not prevent.
“If you must, you must,” Sir Jonathan sighed. “Somehow I’ll make the best of it.”
“Father, I swear. I won’t marry for years—if ever—if I can’t marry Mary, if you block it.”
“Ever? A long time indeed! But I yield to your blackmail. You know I want many grandchildren, many heirs as soon as possible. Go ahead, then.”
“Thank you, Father.”
“For what? Giving in to the inevitable—if it’s really inevitable? You know I don’t want a breach between us. You can’t afford a breach either, for all your brave talk. The family comes first.”
“I feel thankful—”
“It’s not for you, but for the family, the Sekloongs. I’ll even assist your suit. Then, if she won’t you can blame only yourself.”
Sir Jonathan’s reluctance had not abated, but his over-riding realism had forced him to give his grudging consent. Armed with that consent and elated by his first victory over his father, Charles Sekloong thereupon proposed marriage to Mary Osgood in the twilight over the South China Sea.
An impassioned proposal was, Mary had been taught, every young woman’s brightest dream. It was perhaps every other young woman’s dream; it had become her own particular nightmare.
Not one, but two, ardent suitors sought her hand. The first was a hero, his dauntless courage attested by the Realm’s highest award for valor. John Williams was also a man of solid value, totally dependable as well as valorous. The second suitor was more attractive—darkly handsome, masterful, and passionate. Charles Sekloong was also the heir of a wealthy knight who would certainly grow even richer. She need but choose between them. Yet Mary Osgood could not decide which she wished to marry—if, indeed, she wished to marry either. John Williams and Charles Sekloong each posed practical problems as well as offering different prospects, and the North Country common sense of the daughter of a penniless warrant officer counseled her to choose very carefully.
John Williams was part of her own world, the Regiment she knew too well—and the England she knew well enough. She could accurately assess her feelings toward John in the light of her own direct experience. However unromantic it might seem, she must also assess her prospects with John in the same clear light.
She did not really know Charles Sekloong’s world, which she had entered less than six months earlier. Colonial Hong Kong was far removed from all her previous experience. His background and his blood were both mixed, and she had seen only the glittering surface of the Sekloong clan. Marrying Charles would mean not only taking a husband, but entering a wholly alien milieu. She would assume responsibilities and enjoy privileges within a complex structure of which she knew only the exterior. Little in her experience qualified her to weigh Charles’s proposal as deliberately as she must. She did not even fully understand her own feelings, the reasons for the passionate attraction Charles exerted upon her. How much was she drawn to the man himself and how much was she lured—as well as repelled—by his exotic background?
In her perplexity, Mary turned to her mentors, the Metcalfes. Since Charles had talked with them even before speaking to herself, she could quite properly consult the brother and sister who had, despite the brevity of their friendship, become beloved surrogate parents.
“You want counsel on a matter of the heart?” Hilary Metcalfe boomed. “I’m flattered, but it’s not really my line. Who am I to advise a young lady on matrimony?”
“You and Miss Metcalfe.” Unabashed, Mary appealed to his affection and to his loquacity. “It’s not just my heart, but my life and—I hope I won’t shock you—my prospects.”
“You couldn’t shock me,” Hilary Metcalfe replied. “Only a damned fool forgets the harsh, practical questions, and you’re no fool. Far from it. Only a brave girl’d admit she’s worried about the prospects.”
Elizabeth Metcalfe’s plain features were suffused with concern, and her cascade of necklaces was, for once, silent. She sat quite still in the woven-cane chair beside the embroidered screen that masked the fireplace.
“Well, what do you want?” Metcalfe demanded. “Am I to decide for you? Are we?”
“Just advice,” Mary smiled. “You’re not usually mean with advice.”
Hilary Metcalfe hunched his big head between his shoulders, momentarily stricken by the laughter sparkling in her violet eyes and the soft swirl of the red-gold hair that tumbled around her shoulders in blithe defiance of fashion. He contemplated the swell of her breasts beneath the tight, high-necked bodice of apple-green shantung, and he admired the curved sweep of her legs outlined by her light skirt.
“And advice you’ll have. You may even take it. Hong Kong’s a little far for the Fishing Fleet to venture; but you’ve got a fine catch—two fat fish on the line.”
Mary had heard heavy jests about the young ladies of good family, but uncertain matrimonial prospects, who sailed to India in the autumn to pass the season with friends or relations—and, they hope
d, to catch a husband. They were ungallantly called the Fishing Fleet.
“Hilary, stop playing the goat.” Elizabeth Metcalfe leaned forward indignantly, and the beads on her deep bosom clucked their own admonition. “Mary’s not amused.”
“Well, then, to our muttons—or your fish, my dear,” Hilary Metcalfe resumed. “I’ve known Charles since he was a baby. Good chap, somewhat too malleable, but bright—and prospects almost unlimited. If Jonathan’s worth less than two million at this moment, I’m a longshore coolie. Two million pounds, not Hong Kong dollars. Soon he’ll be richer—much, much richer.… Charles, as I said, good chap. Mind you, he’s not his father. Jonathan’s extraordinary, damned near a commercial and political genius—no more than a fly’s whisker between Jonathan and genius. Charles, now, Charles. A few peccadilloes with the ladies, but that’s expected. Make you a willing, wealthy husband.”
“And what would you advise?” Mary had known instinctively that her hot-blooded suitor was not inexperienced, and the confirmation of that knowledge enhanced rather than detracted from his animal appeal. “Shall I say yes or no?”
“That is a direct question, isn’t it?” Metcalfe temporized. “Damned direct. These modern misses don’t mince words, do they?”
“Hilary, what would you advise Mary—yes or no?”
“If I must, then I’d say … No. Jonathan’s my closest friend, but I can’t say I know him—really know him. It’s almost thirty-five years since we studied Mandarin together … met him then, when he was less than fifteen. We’ve worked together ever since, and I’m closer to him than anyone else outside the clan. But sometimes you reach a certain point—and the shutters come down. He’s my closest friend, but I don’t really know him.”
“But, Mr. Metcalfe, you’re talking about Sir Jonathan—and I’m asking about marrying Charles. It’s not the same thing.”
“It is, you know. Exactly the same thing. I’m talking about a family—a Chinese family, despite the Western blood and the Western influence. The son is the father, since the family’s indivisible. I’d say no, definitely no.”
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