A vision of Higgins filing the papers away, oblivious to their importance, struck him. These dolts see no urgency about threats from the Chinese. It’s all routine paperwork to them.
“Did the superintendent make an effort to contact Commissioner Lin directly as he did Viceroy Teng?” Give Elliot credit for enforcing the law so far.
“Alas, he left before Lin arrived.”
The dispatch and the renewed suspension of next year’s tea trade will drive Elliot back to Canton, but how long will it take for him to get them?
Elliot’s absence left Charles in a quandary. He wondered how the Chinese would react to a message from a traveling duke if the superintendent had not communicated directly with Lin. His title and connections would mean nothing to the Chinese. He needed to survey the city, something Dan Oliver advised against. The Canton system required foreigners to stay inside the quarter.
“Tell me, does the government have a means of travel through the city?”
The deputy sneered. “The damned Chinese, begging Your Grace’s pardon, don’t believe our government exists.” Charles raised a questioning brow, but the man hurried on, “As good as. No government equals theirs. We can’t arrange a thing. All communication and any travel has to be between merchants: our firms talk to their merchants, the hongs, and the hongs are running scared.”
Sick of inaction and frustrated with constraints on all sides, Charles returned to Zion’s Quarter determined to explore the city of Canton one way or another. That Zambak agreed with him confirmed the importance. He barged into Dan Oliver’s office to find Dan and Bradshaw deep in conversation with two Chinese gentlemen. A young interpreter appeared to struggle with a particularly knotty exchange.
“My apologies gentlemen. I’ll return when your meeting is concluded.” Oliver and Bradshaw stood and bowed deeply. The interpreter, who had been standing, followed their lead.
Odd that, coming from the Americans. I thought they ignored such formality. The two Chinese gentlemen studied the proceedings with serious expressions; Charles assumed the show of respect was for their benefit.
“We were just finishing, Your Grace. Feel free to stay while we say our farewells,” Oliver told him.
“I presume your visitors are merchants.”
After a glance at Oliver, the interpreter made introductions. The Messrs. Kwan, apparently father and son, bowed. After a moment, Charles returned it. He could think of no gain in arrogance. They left soon after.
“What was all that bowing about?” he demanded.
“The Chinese put more stock in it than even you British,” Oliver replied. “I didn’t think it would hurt to have them take you seriously.”
Charles grunted. He was probably right. “Did your meeting go well?”
“They came to reassure us that the new commissioner’s edicts would not impact our business. Traders that shun opium have naught to fear—at least that is what they told us.”
“You don’t appear convinced.”
“It’s true to a point. Some of the other American traders have announced they’re abandoning trade in the stuff, God be praised. Trying to cover themselves and keep their hong relationships strong. We’re walking a knife’s edge here. If your British troublemakers push us into war, we’ll all go down together.”
The sense of time running out drove Charles to blurt out his most urgent thought. “I need to see the city. I want a tour.”
Oliver scowled at the abrupt change of subject. “As if I don’t have enough trouble.”
Bradshaw leaned across the desk. “You know foreigners aren’t free to roam the city,” he said.
“But your hong partners could arrange it, couldn’t they?” He looked from one to the other. They didn’t deny it. “Listen, Oliver. I can return to London with the same set of facts everyone else is feeding the government, or I can try to educate the queen. I can make certain she knows exactly who these people are, how this world works, and the impact of our actions on the lives of the Chinese. I can’t do that running tame inside this building.”
Oliver continued to frown. “I’m harboring a woman as it is. You’ll bring the authorities down on us.”
“That isn’t my intent.” I don’t want the authorities coming down on these people, and I certainly don’t want Zambak in the middle. “If you won’t help me, the East India Company will. I ought to have more leverage there.”
Oliver looked so relieved Charles regretted putting him on the spot. “I should have thought of that in the first place, Dan. You’ve been nothing but kind since the day I met you.” He rose to leave.
“Keep our name out of it if you can.”
He nodded in agreement but made no promises. “Audacious, but correct,” Zambak had said. One way or another, he would inspect Canton from the lowest slums to Lin Zeux’s headquarters before they left.
~ ~ ~
Within days, the impact of the edicts began to be felt inside the clinic. On the occasions she encountered Dr. Peters, his exhaustion and perpetually worried frown made him unapproachable for anything other than sympathy. No servants came to help her under the circumstances.
Thorn, improved, albeit slowly, and his rebellious stomach and bowels settled down, for which Zambak thanked the angels and saints. The urge to plan his funeral and the images of his grave that haunted her subsided.
That morning she found him looking pale and wan but lying peacefully on his cot. He accepted porridge without complaint. “Nursery fare,” he called it with a ghost of a smile. “Do you remember Mrs. Hildegard, Zamb?”
“‘Eat your porridge young man, if you want—’” Zambak began, quoting their old nanny.
“‘—to grow strong like your sire.’” Thorn finished, perfectly mimicking the old woman.
“Oh dear, I’ve turned into a nanny!” Zambak said with mock horror.
“Always were,” he retorted. It was an old joke, and they laughed together. That small moment of sibling accord sent her hopes soaring.
His stomach didn’t revolt, but he complained a half hour later that the porridge sat hard in his guts. He clutched his waist in gesture that had become all too familiar to Zambak, and he lashed out in a series of complaints about her dictatorial ways that owed nothing to humor.
Soon, patients desperate to free themselves from opium overran the public rooms and spilled into the downstairs staff quarters. Zambak passed Chinese patients and their families on her way to and from Thorn’s room. She moved her own things above stairs to make room for two more pathetic souls eager to comply with Lin’s edicts.
She couldn’t wall herself off from their suffering; before long, her activity flowed over to rooms besides Thorn’s. His continued improvement meant she could ease her vigil. Peters caught her ministering to a man who had scratched his arms bloody from the devilish itching.
“Lady Zambak, Dan will be horrified, to say nothing of what His Grace might think.”
She glanced over her shoulder and went on rubbing ointment on the ragged, foul-smelling man in front of her. “Dan Oliver fears retribution when the authorities discover I’m here, those authorities that created this crisis. With any luck, they will be too busy to take notice of one woman tucked away in Zion’s Quarter.”
“But . . .”
She stood to face the physician. “You need my help.”
Dark eyes under the shock of black hair liberally sprinkled with gray reflected the doctor’s frown. “It isn’t—”
“Fitting? Proper? Not much about my situation or my brother’s is proper, Dr. Peters, but we do what must be done. To ignore all this suffering is impossible. You can’t do it. Don’t ask me to.”
The respect that overtook his expression and his sharp nod soothed her soul, though they did little for the ache forming in her back. “Very well. When you finish here, pati
ents two doors down need similar treatment.” He didn’t wait for a reply.
She followed him into the hall to find Thorn leaning against the doorframe to his spare quarters. She had quit locking the door when he calmed, but this was the first time he had ventured to the hall. The pained expression on his face, all too familiar, sprang from a new cause.
“You’re acting like a servant. When did you lower yourself to consort with the dregs?” he demanded.
“When you sank into the sewer,” she snapped. “You begrudge these people the same care you got?”
“Care was it? You’ve kept me prisoner here. I see no other doors have locks. You show those peasants more consideration than you showed me.”
“These men are desperate to rid themselves of opium. You had no will to renounce it.”
“No one chooses to leave the embrace of the beloved,” he murmured.
His choice of words made her sick. She swallowed bile, but the acid taste remained. “They do when the alternative is death.”
He snorted. “The emperor making noises again? All bluster. Jarratt said—”
“Not this time, Thorn. The new high commissioner assigned to eradicate the opium trade takes his calling seriously.”
“He’s threatening those who smoke?” Thorn’s outrage left her cold. He couldn’t admit his own degradation.
“Yes, and those who sell it to them, too. He has gone after the owners of opium dens, the hong merchants who deal in it.”
“Not the China traders, I’ll bet,” her brother murmured, lost in thought.
“Not yet, but pay heed. No one who uses opium will be safe, Thorn. No one.” She glared at him, arms akimbo.
“Nonsense. Your commissioner wouldn’t dare touch me, much less Jarratt, Dean, or the rest. Free trade. He can’t interfere with free trade,” he growled.
“Open your eyes!” She grabbed him by the arm to pull him toward the clinic door. “Look at the suffering Jarratt’s “free trade” has wrought. The Chinese are right to demand we obey their laws.”
He yanked himself free and swayed on his feet. Instead of arguing the point, he turned on her. “Your behavior ain’t right, Zambak. If word gets back to London you are here, your chances are dead. No man will have you.” He left her staring after him when he disappeared into his cubicle.
A rustle of cloth alerted her to Charles who watched the conversation from the foot of the stairs. He dressed entirely in black, and he carried a Chinese robe in a green so dark it almost looked black thrown over his shoulder. He wore a bowl-shaped hat.
“He’s right, you know,” he said.
“About being above the law?” she demanded.
“About ruining your chances for a good marriage.”
She rolled her eyes. “You know how little I care about that.”
“I didn’t say dynastic marriage—I said good. You have seen what Temperance and Aaron have—or my uncle and aunt.” He wandered closer and leaned one elbow on the wall next to her. “Don’t you wish for it? You ought to, Zambak.”
The warmth in his eyes pulled her in, driving the breath from her body. Charles wants what they have for himself. This gentle man, locked in union to the hellish Julia, wants domestic peace above all else. For the space of a heartbeat, she longed for it as well, but knew it for the impossible desire it was. “I, Charles? I want to own my life, to not be a pawn in some political chess game. In the unlikely event a choice like the one you describe arises then, yes. I might take it. I have little hope that it will.”
His eyes lit with a fire that burned into her. “Sometimes life surprises us with unexpected gifts,” he said, studying her. His intensity burned deep into her heart and radiated through her. When he leaned closer, she realized he meant to kiss her. His desire didn’t frighten her; it filled her with wonder. Her own yearning to accept him, however, shot terror straight to her core.
Good God, Zambak. You’re lusting after a married man! She pulled away.
Stricken, his face flushed red, and he stood straighter. “Zambak, I—”
“What have you done to your face?” she asked. She didn’t know if he meant to apologize or express disappointment. She couldn’t bear either of them and was grateful when he let her turn the subject.
“Walnut juice.”
She felt her lips twitch into a smile. He always finds a way to amuse me. She loved that about him.
She reached out to the robe he had thrown over his shoulder and rubbed the silk between her fingers, refusing to meet his eyes. “Lovely,” she murmured, “And dark. No one looking close will mistake you for Chinese, however. Neither that hat you wear nor walnut juice will fool them for long. Is that why you are here? With Oliver and Elliot gone to Macao you found someone willing to guide you into the city?”
“I assumed you would want to know. It took little enough pressure at the East India Company factory to produce a guide.”
“And an interpreter?”
“One and the same,” he said, cupping her cheek with one hand and drawing her face to his. “I wish it were you.”
“I do too. Your life may depend on it.” She forced a smile, suddenly fearful for him and determined not to beg him to stay. She had urged him to go; she couldn’t stop him now. “Be careful, Charles. I’ll be waiting to hear what you discover.” Any information he gathered would enhance their report; a month before that would have been her greatest priority. Zambak didn’t know when her hopes had shifted, but she understood deep inside her soul that the man had taken priority over the mission.
Chapter 24
Charles pushed away from the wall. He needed to speak to Peters before he took to the streets. “The high commissioner contacted the clinic—directly,” he told her. “I need to know the details.”
“Peters never mentioned it!” Her mood shot off in a new direction. One moment she gazed at him with emotion he didn’t dare name. The next her hackles rose, and she growled at him. He could almost hear the words in her head: No matter what I say or do I’m only a woman to these men, never a colleague. He found her passion delightful to see but feared she would explode with the resentment that shook her.
“From appearances both you and he have your hands full here,” he soothed. “He probably forgot.” An unladylike snort met that lame attempt. “Actually, your work may be precisely the cause of the contact. Lin wishes to know how best to help the poor wretches give up their opium.”
She trailed after him until he stopped at the clinic door to say good-bye; the fire in her eyes stopped him. He shook his head as she followed him into the clinic, past a disapproving assistant, past numerous Chinese witnesses, directly into Dr. Peter’s office. The poor man looked utterly spent, but not so much he couldn’t frown up at Zambak for disobeying the rules.
Charles spoke before the physician could object to her presence. “We understand you’ve heard from Commissioner Lin. What does the man want?”
“Miracles,” he replied, running a hand through his disordered hair. He gestured to pieces of paper covered in formal Chinese script. “My lady, you know—”
Her expression stopped him mid sentence. “What miracles?” She gestured toward the pile of paper.
“I had one of my servants read it out loud. Sometimes things get lost between spoken and written Chinese. My reading had been accurate enough, though.”
“You read Chinese?” Zambak couldn’t keep the awe from her voice. “Learning spoken Cantonese dialect has been difficult, but . . .” She reached for the missive and pulled her hand back. Charles wondered how long it would take her to learn to decipher the characters if someone would read it out loud to her.
Peters acknowledged his skills. “It is frowned upon by the Chinese who view their written language as some treasure to preserve, but yes. It has proven useful in our mission efforts, and the Chi
nese choose to ignore our efforts.”
“Lin must know if he contacted you. What’s in his message?” Charles demanded.
“As I said, he asked for miracles. He wants advice on treating addicts.”
“Give the man credit for compassion,” Charles said.
“And thorough strategic thinking. He attacks the problem on every level,” Zambak added, impressed. “What did you tell him?”
“Nothing yet. I fear ‘fluids, isolation, and skin potions’ will not meet his expectations.”
“You will add your observations about the length and course of the treatment and that sort of thing. Help set his expectations,” she told him.
“His interest in your work is important Peters. When Oliver returns, he will want a full report—Elliot as well,” Charles told him. He quickly outlined his planned foray into the city, listened while Peters suggested ways to avoid being more conspicuous than he had to be, and accepted the physician’s instructions about how to gauge the mood of the crowds and recognize signs of trouble.
Some of it puzzled him. “Chains?”
“Particularly among the higher classes. If you see a wealthy merchant with chain around his neck, he’s a marked man. Avoid him.”
Charles absorbed what he could and returned his attention to the papers strewn on Peter’s desk. “This contact is stunning. He reached out to a foreign entity.”
“Not Her Majesty’s government,” Peters observed.
“No, but vital all the same.” His words were directed at Peters, but his eyes were on Zambak. “I’ll leave you two to discuss it. I’ll want to know more when I return.”
Grateful for shadows cast by narrow walls and, for once in his life, his slight frame, Charles slipped out of Hog Lane and followed his guide through winding streets and narrow tradesmen’s alleys outside the city walls to the gate of to the Old City, tunnel like in its thickness. He rated the walls strong but not impregnable. Direct bombardment would bring down the brick eventually, but direct bombardment would not be his first choice. When they reached the main gate to the old city the guard balked briefly until silver coins, discretely passed, did their work.
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