Olivia was aware that once again she was going to cause her aunt distress. ‘ I’m sorry, Aunt Letitia,’ she said as the maid closed the door behind the Minister and his sedan bearers carried him home through the straight, dark streets, ‘But I have no desire to see Phillippe again.’
‘Not see Phillippe?’ her aunt asked, wondering if she was hearing properly. ‘ But my dear child, you must see Phillippe! He is your fiancé.’
Incredibly Olivia realized that, in the eyes of the world, her aunt was correct.
‘So that is why you have been looking so pale and drawn?’ her aunt said, believing that she at last understood what it was that was so patently disturbing her niece. ‘You believe that Phillippe will not understand about your…your journey to Ch’anghsintien?’ Her plump arm hugged Olivia’s waist comfortingly. ‘Of course he will understand, my dear. Why, he will be as proud of you as your uncle is!’
Olivia doubted that very much. And whether he was or not, it made very little difference to her. She was most certainly not going to marry him.
With something like disbelief she saw that she was still wearing his ring. Had been wearing it ever since she had slipped it back on her finger for the dinner party at the French Legation. As her aunt gasped in horror she removed it and held it lightly in the palm of her hand. When Phillippe called in the morning she would see him. But only to return his ring and officially break off an engagement that she knew she should never have entered.
When Phillippe entered the Harland residence the next day, it was with much more thoughtfulness than he usually displayed. He had discovered to his amazement that his fiancée was being hailed as a heroine.
‘She is trés gallante, your fiancée,’ the Dutch Minister had said to him in undisguised admiration the morning that the Belgians had entered the city safely.
He had accepted the compliment with tight-lipped hauteur, determined that at the earliest opportunity Miss Olivia Harland would be his fiancée no longer. And then other callers at the French Legation had sought him out.
‘Very plucky,’ had been his counterpart’s opinion at the British Legation.
‘A remarkably brave young lady,’ Mr Conger had said to him. ‘You must be very proud of her.’
Phillippe, who had never before been addressed personally by the head of the American Legation, concurred that he was.
The compliments did not stop there. M de Giers, the Russian Minister, also deigned to speak to him in person. ‘A magnificent act of derring-do,’ he said with a stiff inclination of his head. ‘ I congratulate you on having such a courageous fiancée, Monsieur Casanaeve.’
Far from Olivia’s behaviour wrecking his career, it seemed that she was adding it lustre. Despite the consternation at the Boxers’ advance, he was inundated with dinner invitations. Everyone, Sir Claude MacDonald, the Belgians, the Germans, even the Russians, wanted to meet Olivia. All in all, it was a very satisfactory state of affairs and he was astute enough to know that all good will towards him would be instantly lost if it were discovered that he was no longer her fiancé.
He tweaked an imaginary speck of dust from the perfection of his dove-grey suit and adjusted his silk ties reflecting that the new, high-waxed shirt collars suited him admirably. No, he could not terminate his engagement at the present moment, but terminate it eventually he most certainly would. Miss Olivia Harland was far too wilful to make a suitable wife.
He had believed her to be charmingly shy, demurely biddable. Never had he believed her capable of speaking and behaving as she had at Monsieur Pichon’s dinner table. And the way that she had looked at him. Him. Phillippe Casanaeve! The eyes that had once gazed at him so adoringly had flashed with defiance and something else. Had it been contempt? Scorn? No. That was impossible. She had simply been histrionic. Determined to be the centre of attention at all costs. Well, she had succeeded. And she had succeeded in wrecking forever her hope of becoming Madame Phillippe Casanaeve.
He wondered if she would be aware of it yet. Lady Harland was greeting him with undisguised nervousness and the thin smile he was bestowing on her tightened with satisfaction. She, at least, was well aware of the possible calamitous consequences of her niece’s foolish escapade. No doubt Olivia was equally nervous and apprehensive. A moment’s passing glory was little compensation for the loss of a husband as eligible as himself. Well, it would amuse him to forgive her. To enjoy her relief and gratitude. Later, when her name was no longer on everyone’s lips, he would take great pleasure in exacting his revenge for the humiliation he had suffered at his Minister’s dining-table.
‘Oh, Olivia, there you are, my dear,’ her aunt was saying flusteredly as Olivia entered the room.
For a second his resolution wavered. She was wearing a blouse of white lace, boned high at the throat, the sleeves long and full and fastened tightly at the wrists by rows of pearl buttons. Her skirt was of deep lavender and instead of sweeping the ground, merely skimmed her neatly booted feet. Instead of being freezingly prim, the stark severity emphasized her softly rounded breasts and the curve of her hips and was stunningly and unknowingly sensual.
As he fought down his first, instinctive surge of desire, he noticed with annoyance that she was betraying neither nervousness nor apprehension. He crossed the room quickly towards her, taking her hand in his and pressing it warmly against his lips.
‘Olivia! How could you behave so recklessly? I have been beside myself with worry!’
‘Have you, Phillippe?’
He looked up sharply, believing for one incredible moment that there was mockery in the low, measured tones.
She was looking infuriatingly beyond him to her aunt. ‘ Would you excuse us for a few moments, Aunt Letitia? I would like to speak to Phillippe alone.’
Letitia Harland gasped in agitation. She could not leave them alone. If she did so, then Olivia would hand Phillippe back his ring and the engagement would be broken. There would be no splendid marriage service in the cathedral. No envy amongst her friends at the excellent match that Olivia had made.
‘No…’ she began to say and then wavered. Never before had she realized how firm Olivia could look. Cornflower-blue eyes held hers steadily and instead of continuing with her refusal, Letitia found herself saying weakly, ‘Very well, dear. But only for a few moments. Remember that you have had a very trying experience and are not…are not quite yourself as yet.’
With this last despairing indication that nothing Olivia said was to be taken seriously, she unhappily left them together and went in search of a darkened room and sal volatile.
Phillippe waited expectantly for his fiancee’s apology. Her coolness, when he was certain that she was inwardly trembling in fear of his disapprobation, both irritated and aroused him. Her behaviour had shown that she would not make a compliant wife, but he was becoming increasingly aware that she would be a damnably exciting mistress.
‘I’m sorry, Phillippe,’ she said at last, her voice low and with the faint trace of huskiness that he had always found so entrancing, ‘But I cannot marry you.’ She held out her hand and the emerald sparkled in her cupped palm. ‘I hope you will understand and…’
‘Pardon?’ he said incredulously, wondering if his command of English had temporarily deserted him and he had misunderstood what she was saying.
‘I cannot marry you, Phillippe,’ she repeated with sincerity but without regret.
He stared into the beautifully etched, pale oval of her face and felt suddenly cold. She was not pretending. She was not waiting for him to contradict her. For him to forgive her for her rash and reckless behaviour. He had been about to circle the enticing narrowness of her waist with his arm and press her close against him. To murmur that of course he forgave her. To take advantage of their being alone and slide his hand down over the erotically pristine lace and caress the small breasts that were rising and falling so tantalizingly. Thwarted desire choked him and then hard on its heels came anger. How dare she release him from their engagement! Mon Dieu! The
news would spread like wildfire. There would be speculation. Perhaps even ridicule.
‘No!’ he said explosively, his nostrils pinched and white. ‘ I will not have my name on the lips of every gossip monger in Peking!’
‘I’m sorry, Phillippe,’ she repeated, and as she turned slightly the morning sun fell through the window full on her face. With something of a shock he saw that her eyes were bruised with grief and lack of sleep. For him? Was she releasing him because she knew of the embarrassment that she had caused him?
His breath caught in his throat and he stepped towards her, closing her fingers over the ring, inhaling the fragrance of her hair and skin. She froze instantly and he knew that her grief and lack of sleep was not for him. His pale eyes hardened.
Then for whom? The answer came instantly, almost robbing him of speech. Sinclair! It was Sinclair who had accompanied her from the Western Hills to Peking. Sinclair she had ridden to Ch’anghsintien with. His breath hissed between his teeth. He had still not exacted his revenge for the humiliating way Sinclair had struck him to the ground in the portals of the legation. And now he was to be the cause of further public humiliation.
‘Sinclair!’ he spat, his face so contorted by rage and hate that it was scarcely recognizable. ‘When did he take your virginity? On the way to Peking? In the fields around Ch’anghsintien? Is that how he took you? On the earth like a Chinese? Like his wife?’
Her hand caught him full across the cheek. ‘How dare you speak of him like that?’ she gasped, her eyes feral as he stumbled under the force of her blow. ‘You’re not fit to wipe his shoes!’
He seized her so savagely that she cried out in pain. ‘ Harlot!’ he hissed, digging his fingers brutally into her shoulders. ‘Whore!’ With a vicious thrust, he sent her sprawling on the floor.
She didn’t give him the pleasure of knowing how much he had hurt her. Instead she lay at his feet, regarding him with contempt. ‘Why do you hate him so much? Is it because he is all the things that you are not? Brave and honourable and kind?’
Swiftly he knelt down and as she shrank away from him, he seized her wrist, holding her fast. His eyes were mere slits and the expression of elation in them terrified her more than all his previous fury. ‘And dead!’ he said with relish, scooping up the emerald ring that had fallen to the floor and thrusting it into his pocket. ‘When the Boxers attack, Sinclair will be the first to fall!’
‘You can’t know that,’ she said, and her voice was no longer steady but naked with fear.
He began to laugh, rising to his feet and smoothing an imaginary crease from the sleeve of his jacket. ‘Oh, but I can, chérie. When the Boxers attack, no one will query from which direction the bullets are fired. And one will be fired at Sinclair, I give you my word.’
‘You couldn’t,’ she said unbelievingly, scrambling to her feet, her face ashen. ‘It would be murder!’
He paused at the door, smoothing his sleekly clipped moustaches with an elegantly manicured forefinger. ‘If it is, chérie, only you and I will know.’
‘Phillippe!’ The door slammed in her face as she ran towards it. ‘Phillippe, no!’ Her fingers slid helplessly around the onyx knob and then she heard the outer door close. He had gone. It was too late.
She leaned against the door, pressing her face against the cool smoothness of the wood. He had not meant what he said. He couldn’t have. It was too monstrous. He had simply been trying to frighten her. Distantly she could hear the singing birds as they twittered in their cages and the faint tinkle of windbells and then there was a nervous tap on the other side of the wood and her aunt called out anxiously, ‘ Olivia? Olivia, are you all right?’
‘Yes, Aunt Letitia,’ she lied, and with a deep, steadying breath, turned and opened the door.
The troops arrived that evening and as Monsieur Pichon had predicted were pathetically few in number. ‘A detachment of United States marines on shore leave, and an assortment of officers and men to guard the Legation,’ her uncle said, pacing his study in agitation. ‘What are the authorities thinking of? We need a fighting force. An army!’
‘The marines did march up Legation Street with fixed bayonets, dear,’ his wife said, her mind not on the troops but on Phillippe Casanaeve. Perhaps all was not lost. He and Olivia had had a lovers’ tiff, that was all. She would invite him to dinner and in a few days’ time all would be well again.
‘The streets were massed with hostile Chinese,’ Sir William continued, ignoring his wife and speaking directly to Olivia. ‘Perhaps now the ministers will realize how great our danger is. It is impossible to tell who is a friend or an enemy. I’m sure I recognized one of Mr Conger’s servants among the crowd but one Chinese looks so like another that it was impossible to be certain.’
‘I think we can be sure of our own servants,’ Olivia said quietly from the depths of a high-winged leather chair, ‘and I think that we should insist that they accompany us when we move into the British Legation.’
‘But good heavens, Olivia, Lady MacDonald will have plenty of servants to see to our needs,’ her aunt cried. ‘And who will look after the house in our absence if they do not? I am sorry, my dear, but that is a very foolish idea. Very foolish indeed.’
Sir William shook his head. ‘No, Letitia. Olivia is right. The servants are Christians and will be gravely at risk if an attack takes place.’
Letitia looked up at her husband’s grim face and her lower lip trembled. She had thought that when the troops arrived there would be no more talk of an attack. How could Olivia remain so calm? She looked so petite and vulnerable as she sat curled up in William’s chair, the lights from the chandelier dancing in the smoke-dark depths of her hair and emphasizing the soft, captivating tilt of her brows. It seemed impossible to Letitia that anyone so prettily feminine should have ridden hard through the night over rough country with only the intimidating Dr Sinclair for company.
As if reading her aunt’s thoughts, Olivia raised her eyes to her uncle’s. ‘ Has there been any news of Doctor Sinclair?’ she asked, her clasped hands tightening in her lap.
William Harland frowned. He did not wish to speak of Lewis Sinclair. He found it devilish difficult disapproving of a man he in so many respects admired, but his flagrant kissing of Olivia had been unforgivable. In Sir William’s eyes, it deserved a horse-whipping.
‘I understand that the Chamots have had to keep him under lock and key in order that he comply with Doctor Poole’s instructions and rest,’ he said tersely.
‘Lady MacDonald says that she has it on very good authority that Doctor Sinclair is proving to be a very bad-tempered patient,’ Letitia said with an air of satisfaction at being able to contribute to the conversation. ‘ Monsieur Chamot has had to remove his boots and breeches in order to prevent him leaving his room.’ She faltered as her husband subjected her to a quelling glance. ‘ I am only repeating what Lady MacDonald herself said, William.’
‘Quite so,’ Sir William said, ‘and did she speak of our removal to the Legation?’
‘She has asked that we make arrangements quickly. Sir Claude has said that very soon everyone will be converging on the British Legation as it is situated in the safest position, well away from the Chien Men Gate, and is commodious enough to shelter a large number of people. Our rooms are to be at the rear, overlooking the grounds which I think will be very pleasant, don’t you, Olivia?’
Olivia did not answer. Her thoughts were far away from the British Legation. They were centred on the Hôtel de Pekin and the unruly patient she longed with all her heart to nurse.
The next morning, one sleeve of his jacket hanging loose, his left arm in a sling, the patient in question rapped impatiently on the Harlands’ door, demanding to speak to her.
She had been walking from one bedroom to another with a pile of clothes that were to be taken to the British Legation when she heard the unmistakable deep rich tone of his voice. She froze, her heart hammering so wildly that she thought it would choke her.
‘N
o, I do not wish to see Lady Harland,’ he was saying firmly to the houseboy who had opened the door. ‘I wish to see Miss Harland,’ and without any more preamble he stepped inside.
The landing on which she was standing looked down on to the central, marble tiled hall and she could see him clearly. His hair still curled glossily in the nape of his neck. Despite his injured arm, he still carried himself with cool assurance. But something about him had changed. The strong-boned face was no longer harsh in repose. The hard line of his mouth had softened and once again she was aware that once he must have laughed easily and often.
The blood pounded in her ears. He had come to see her as she had known that he would. She clutched the bundle of clothing tightly. She would not see him. Nothing could be gained by it. Nothing.
There was a rustle of taffeta and her aunt stepped into view. ‘Good morning, Doctor Sinclair, how nice to see you,’ she said unconvincingly. ‘Sir William is not here at the moment and…’
‘It was not Sir William that I wished to see,’ Lewis said pleasantly.
‘Oh!’ Her aunt gazed round helplessly for aid and then, as none was forthcoming, said feebly, ‘Perhaps you would like to come into the drawing-room, Doctor Sinclair?’
‘I would like to see Olivia.’
‘Oh dear! I do not think… Sir William would not be pleased…’
Olivia knew now what it was that was different about him. He was no longer unhappy. The dark inner pain had been eased. She closed her eyes, digging her nails deep into her palm. There could be only one reason for the new lightness of spirit that sat so easily on him. Pearl Moon must have made her own way to Peking. In the hours that he had been confined at the Hôtel, they must have been reunited.
He was frowning slightly. ‘Perhaps if I explain my reasons for calling…’
She couldn’t bear to hear any more. Swiftly she turned and entered the nearest bedroom. The arrangements for their removal to the British Legation were nearly complete. Her aunt would soon have the constant companionship of Lady MacDonald. Knowing that if she paused even for a moment she would be unable to hold back the tears that stung her eyes, she dropped the clothes she was carrying and searched hastily, on the dressing-table for a pen and paper. She would go to the Anglican Mission and work with Sister Angelique. She needed activity. Work so hard that it would push all other thoughts from her mind.
Party in Peking Page 14