‘His wife,’ Madame Chamot called over her shoulder as Lewis shouted at them to hurry. ‘He misses her so much that it is destroying him.’
A burning brand was thrown on to a nearby rooftop and immediately gushed into flame. There was no time for further speech. There was only the urgent, desperate necessity of gaining open country before the Boxers should surround them and trap them within the burning buildings.
Olivia dug her heels into the sweating flanks of her pony, galloping out of Ch’anghsintien only yards behind Madame Chamot. She could see Lewis wheeling his horse around to protect their rear as the Boxers surged into the deserted streets. His face was white and taut with pain. She could see the blood oozing through the bandaging of his shirt.
‘Dear God, don’t let him die!’ she prayed aloud as she galloped free of the last of the buildings. ‘Don’t let him faint! Don’t let him fall!’
He was galloping abreast of her. She could smell the sweat and heat of his horse; see its mane flying; its neck outstretched, glistening with sweat.
The noise of hoofbeats and the rattle of the carts filled the air. Her gown had slipped from her shoulder and her hair had fallen from its pins but she was uncaring. She could not fall behind. Could not fail him. Fresh flames shot skywards behind them. One rifle shot and then another whipped past them in the darkness, and both Auguste Chamot and Lewis wheeled their horses round, firing back.
‘No, please no!’ she cried aloud, trying to rein in and failing. He had only one arm. He could not ride and handle a revolver at the same time. It was crazy. Suicidal. To fire his revolver meant that he had reined his horse to a standstill; that he was being left further and further behind them.
She turned her head, the desperate tears wet on her cheeks and then sobbed with relief. He was only yards behind her, his white teeth flashing reassuringly.
‘They’ve dropped back,’ he shouted. ‘This time they’re going to satisfy themselves with burning and looting.’
As he spoke there came a great whoosh of flame and building after building caved inwards. Olivia looked away. Ch’anghsintien was being destroyed, but its European inhabitants were safe.
Dawn was breaking as their exhausted mounts trotted wearily through the great South Gate. They were greeted with wide-eyed disbelief and Madame Chamot looked across at Olivia and laughed. ‘I think it would be best if you came with me to the hotel before you are seen by your fellow countrymen. You do not look at all as a respectable young lady should.’
With sudden realization, Olivia looked down at herself. The midnight-blue silk gown was scarcely recognizable. Her white-stockinged legs and ankles were showing indecently. Her bosom, its exposure acceptable at the dinner table, was attracting blatant and appreciative stares from the crowds who had heard of their arrival and had come running to see if the story of the Belgian rescue was true. The gardenia that had pinned back her hair had long since fallen free and she was aware that she must look more like a gypsy than the well-brought-up niece of Sir William and Lady Harland.
‘That arm needs seeing to immediately, mon brave,’ Auguste Chamot was saying to a bone-weary Lewis.
Olivia turned to Madame Chamot. ‘If I could borrow a dress, I would be grateful.’
‘I have a golf skirt and shirtwaist that you might find suitable wear over the next few days,’ Madame Chamot said practically. ‘The sooner a doctor looks at Lewis’s arm, the better.’
Olivia agreed fervently. In the pale light of early morning his fatigue could be clearly seen. The bones of his face seemed to have sharpened, the lines running from nose to mouth, white and deeply etched. He looked like a man on the edge of collapse and even as Olivia watched, he swayed in his saddle. Auguste Chamot tried to urge him towards the hotel but he would not do so until the last of the Belgians had left under safe escort for the safety of their legation.
‘Will you have a storm to face when you return home?’ Madame Chamot asked her as they wearily entered the hotel.
Olivia thought of the fury she would be met with and nodded. Madame Chamot smiled. ‘ If the storm is very bad, remember that we could not have managed without the extra ponies that you and Lewis brought to us. And Lewis would not be alive now if it were not for your expert bandaging.’
Dr Poole from the British legation was already assisting Lewis up the curved ornate staircase. Olivia watched him, her eyes dull. It was over. Once again they were no longer together.
‘Could I send a message to my uncle?’ she asked as Madame Chamot ordered baths to be run and clean clothes laid out.
Madame Chamot nodded, and when the bearer came, Olivia handed him a note saying merely that she had returned from Ch’anghsintien and was at present at the Hôtel de Pekin, but would be returning home during the course of the morning.
Once the note was despatched, she accepted the tea that had been prepared for her and then allowed herself to be led upstairs to a comfortable bedroom and a steaming hot bath.
Her muscles ached but she was too aware of Lewis only rooms away to be able to linger in the scented heat of the water.
When she had dried herself and dressed in Madame Chamot’s exquisitely cut golf skirt and shirtwaist, she hesitated outside the door behind which she could hear Dr Poole talking to Auguste Chamot.
She jumped guiltily when the door opened suddenly and she found herself face to face with her fellow countryman.
‘So this is the gallant Miss Harland?’ Dr Poole said, beaming. ‘Delighted to meet you, my dear. Your uncle will be proud of you. Monsieur Chamot tells me that you helped to save not only the lives of the Belgians trapped at Ch’anghsintien, but also the life of my colleague, Doctor Sinclair.’
Olivia tried to look into the room over Dr Poole’s shoulder and failed.
‘Monsieur Chamot is very kind, but I did very little.’
‘You were magnificent, my dear. Magnificent,’ Dr Poole said admiringly.
‘Is it possible… Could I speak to Doctor Sinclair?’ she asked, wishing that Dr Poole would move. That she could see into the room.
‘Doctor Sinclair is asleep,’ Dr Poole said kindly.
Foolishly she wanted to cry. ‘And his arm?’ she asked anxiously. ‘Will it heal?’
‘If he gives it the chance. The tendons were not sliced through. What he needs now is rest.’
Genially he bade her goodbye and Monsieur Chamot escorted him along the corridors and down the stairs.
Olivia remained at the open door of the room. He was lying in the centre of a vast, brass-headed bed, his eyes closed, his hair tousled, his breathing deep and rhythmic.
Tentatively she crossed the thickly carpeted room and gazed down at him. His chest was still naked, but the remnants of his shirt were no longer around his injured arm. Instead, a fresh and expertly applied dressing held the wound together.
She had bathed and changed. She no longer had any excuse for remaining at the hotel. Again, as before, she would have to leave him. Hardly daring to breathe, she leaned over him, lowering her head, her lips lightly touching his brow.
At the touch he turned in his sleep, murmuring a word that she could not catch, and then it came again, clear and full of love.
‘Pearl Moon… Pearl Moon…’
The tears spilled down her cheeks. She loved him but he did not love her. He had never told her that he did so and he had never led her to believe that he did so. She wondered if the pain that she felt would ever ease or if it would remain with her forever. Despairingly she turned away from him and ran from the room, along the landing and down the curving flight of stairs, her heart so heavy that she thought it would break.
Chapter Eight
‘Phillippe informed us of what you had done,’ her uncle said, clasping and unclasping his hands behind his back as his anger at her behaviour was overcome by relief at her safety. ‘It was utterly irresponsible. Totally reckless. It has prostrated your aunt. Doctor Poole has had to attend her.’ He paced the floor of his study, his distress obvious. ‘In all th
e years that you have been in our care, Olivia, you have never once displayed the slightest disobedience… And now this! To ride off at night with a man who has already shown you the grossest disrespect…’ William Harland removed a silk handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow. ‘The entire Legation Quarter will know of it before the morning is out. The gossip will devastate your aunt. It will be more than she will be able to bear.’
Olivia’s heart went out to him, but she could not apologize for her actions, only for the distress that they had caused.
‘I’m sorry that I have hurt and disappointed you and Aunt Letitia,’ she said with such depth of feeling that her uncle halted in his pacing. ‘But I had to do something to help. I knew that there would be no official rescue party.’ Her eyes were urgent. ‘Why are no official rescue parties being organized, Uncle William? There are others beside the Belgians who need help. Is nothing to be done for them?’
William Harland forgot that he was in the middle of castigating her and took hold of her hands.
‘Dear child, there is nothing anyone can do. The Boxers are now in complete control of the countryside. Troops have been sent for and we must simply await their arrival.’
The expression in her eyes told him exactly what she thought of such passivity and in his heart of hearts, William Harland agreed with her.
Horrific stories were circulating in the city of the atrocities perpetrated by the Boxers whenever Europeans fell into their hands. Atrocities which would have been perpetrated against his own family if Lewis Sinclair had not saved them. Lewis Sinclair who had refused to wait for the promised troops and had ridden out twice from the city and brought others to safety. If he himself had been younger, he would, like his niece, have most certainly insisted on riding with him. The knowledge dispelled the last of his anger.
‘What you did was foolish, Olivia, but brave. I am proud of you, dear child. Very proud.’ He blew his nose vigorously. ‘And now you must go upstairs and make your peace with your aunt. The last twelve hours have been a great strain on her nerves.’
He waited until she had left the room and then sighed deeply. Letitia’s constitution was not suited to stress. She needed constant comfort and reassurance and in the present situation there was none that he could give. The Boxers would attack, of that he was sure. And the small number of troops that had been sent for would not be enough to deter them. He sighed again and though he could not forgive Sinclair for the scandalously intimate way he had taken his leave of Olivia, only days ago, he wished heartily that there were more men like him in the city. They would be needed. Every last one of them.
Olivia was greeted by her aunt with open arms and copious tears. ‘ Olivia! I thought I would never see you again! Are you safe? Are you hurt?’ and then, before Olivia could reply, ‘ How could you do such a thing to me, Olivia? To ride out alone with that man! When I think of what people will say. Never, never will I be able to attend a public function again. The shame of it has almost killed me! Doctor Poole has said that my nerves are so delicate they astound even him. Your poor uncle did not know how to explain your behaviour to Phillippe. He will abandon you, Olivia. You cannot expect a man and especially a Frenchman, to countenance you riding out at night with a man of Doctor Sinclair’s reputation! A man who is married to a Chinese! Oh dear, I feel quite faint again. You uncle says that Lady MacDonald has invited us to stay at the Legation. All British residents in the city are removing themselves there, but how can we go now? How can I possibly face people after what has happened?’ She began to cry again and Olivia slipped her arm around her shoulders.
‘It is not half as bad as you think, Aunt Letitia,’ she said comfortingly. ‘The talk in the city is of the coming troops and whether or not the Boxers will attack. No one is interested in whether I rode out with Doctor Sinclair or not. They have far more important things to worry about.’
Letitia Harland shook her head vehemently, refusing to believe it. ‘ I’m sure I can hear Lady MacDonald’s voice now! She must be downstairs talking to your uncle. She will be asking that we do not embarrass her by accepting her invitation. Oh, I can’t bear it! I wish we had never come to this horrid country. I wish that we were in Bath and that none of this was happening.’
The bedroom door opened and her husband stepped into the room. ‘That was Lady MacDonald,’ he said, crossing to the bed and taking her hand as she wailed in anguish. ‘She wishes me to inform Olivia that Sir Claude is very proud of the part she took in saving the lives of the Belgian engineers and their families.’
Letitia Harland’s wailing ceased. She looked at her husband as if she could not believe what he was saying.
‘The Belgian Minister has also called to express his gratitude and has asked that, when Olivia has rested, he be allowed to thank her personally.’
‘Oh!’ Letitia Harland’s hand fluttered to her hair and her husband knew that she was already thinking of her wardrobe.
‘Lady Glencarty, Madame Pichon and Mrs Conger have also called and expressed their admiration for Olivia’s part in the Belgians’ rescue.’
Letitia Harland wiped the last of her tears away with a lace-trimmed handkerchief and leaned back against her pillows. ‘Then everything is all right!’ she said with relief. ‘Phillippe will not be angry any more. Olivia will not be thought fast and we shall be able to accept Lady MacDonald’s invitation and move into the Legation until the troops arrive and the Boxers are chased back to wherever they came from.’
Sir William gazed down at her in fond exasperation. It would be cruel to disillusion her and tell her that the troops would barely be sufficient to protect the Legation Quarter. He merely patted her hand said, ‘ Olivia has not rested since she returned to the city. She needs sleep, Letitia.’
For the first time Letitia noticed the paleness of Olivia’s complexion and the blue shadows beneath her eyes. ‘ Rosewater,’ she said, thinking ahead to the Belgian Minister’s visit. ‘ You must put pads soaked in rosewater on your eyelids when you sleep, Olivia.’
‘Yes, Aunt Letitia,’ Olivia said, knowing that she was far too tired to do any such thing. She kissed her aunt on the cheek and as she turned wearily to make her way to her own room, she heard her aunt say musingly, ‘Do you not think it odd, William, that Doctor Sinclair’s wife is not with him in Peking?’
‘No,’ her husband replied with an abruptness that was unusual in him. ‘Sinclair had no intention of remaining in the city. He was riding north when he came to our aid. If it were not for us, no doubt he would be with his wife at this very moment.’
‘Oh dear,’ Letitia Harland said helplessly. ‘ No wonder he looks so fierce at times. He must be most dreadfully worried about her.’
Olivia closed the door with an unsteady hand, her heart shrinking and tightening in the depths of her chest. Lewis Sinclair was most dreadfully worried about his wife. His concern for her was the reason for the deep frown that so often pulled his brows together when he thought himself unobserved.
She remembered the first time that she had seen him clearly. When she had looked across at him after recovering from her foolish faint, her head on his jacket, the evening sky stained crimson as the villa burned. She had been awed by his fearlessness and then he had turned his head and his gaze had inadvertently met hers and she had been shocked at the expression she had surprised in their dark depths.
There had been no exhilaration that the danger was over. No relief that the Boxers had fled. Instead there had been only pain. Inner pain, shattering in its intensity. It had confused and shaken her and she had told herself that she had been mistaken, but now she knew quite well for whom he had felt such anguish. It had been for Pearl Moon. In that moment, as her aunt and uncle and Lady Glencarty had stood helplessly by in the gathering dusk, he had known that his own brand of honour demanded that he escort them back to Peking and delay his return to his wife. And circumstances had dictated that his return be delayed indefinitely.
A shudder ran through her and she hugge
d her arms, stifling it with difficulty. How he must have resented them. Yet, apart, from the curtness that her aunt found so disconcerting, he had given no sign of it. And there had been the other times. The times when he had looked across at her and smiled and her spine had tingled. The time in the garden, when he had kissed her.
On the ride to Ch’anghsintien she had known that she loved him and had dared to hope that her love was returned. She knew now that she had mistaken the comradeship of danger for something more. Something she could never have. It was his wife’s name he had uttered in his sleep. His wife that he yearned for. His wife, who held his heart.
Wearily she lay down on the bed. She would not see him again. There was a limit to the hurt that her heart could bear and if she were to see him again, she might very well find that the limit had been exceeded. She pressed a hand to her aching temples. Perhaps her aunt was right after all. Bath would be a much simpler place to live than Peking. Simple, and safe—and unutterably dull.
That evening, for her meeting with the Belgian Minister, she dressed in a gown of pale lemon silk and the pride in her aunt’s eyes told her that she had been forgiven for her reckless behaviour. The Minister was charming; the interview was pleasant; and her aunt was radiant at the honour she felt was being shown to them.
As the evening came to a close and the Belgian Minister courteously took his leave of them, she whispered to Olivia, ‘Phillippe has sent a bearer to say that he will be calling in the morning.’
‘Phillippe?’ She had not spared Phillippe one single thought since she had left him at Monsieur Pichon’s dinner table.
‘Yes.’ Letitia Harland’s eyes glowed as she thought how happy the two young people would be to be reunited. ‘No doubt your uncle told him how very fatigued you were after your…your expedition.’ Despite the fact that she was assured the European community viewed Olivia’s escapade as admirable and not scandalous, she was still unable to mention it without a shiver of alarm. ‘I am sure that he would have been to see you hours ago if your uncle had allowed him to.’
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