The Unexpected Wife

by Caroline Warfield

  I can send word to Charles from there, she had thought. It would be hours before she realized how futile that might be.

  Crowds and the need for caution slowed her significantly. Once she bought rice to eat. When she tried to hire a messenger, the scoundrel fled with her reticule and most of her money. She hoarded what little she had in her shoe after that, fearing a greater emergency. By nightfall, she had begun to limp and was still far from her destination.

  A few kind looks came her way, but the local people mostly gave her wide berth. In the end, it was Portuguese soldiers that spooked her. She was not so innocent she did not recognize the lust in the eyes of the tall man who tried to maneuver her toward a dark alley. She didn’t miss the second one who circled around to her other side, outlined against light streaming from the door of a cook shop. She looked around frantically for help; only the blank faces of the Chinese met hers, the faces of people who found it prudent to stay out of the affairs of westerners in troubled times.

  Zambak darted between the two men, overturned the vegetable cart an elderly gentleman nearby attempted to unpack for the night to stop them, and fled. Sounds assaulted her from every side, and shadows nipped at her heels. She ran until the breath left her body and collapsed against the wall of a Buddhist shrine on an unfamiliar street, feeling like a fool for giving in to blind panic, and waited for the area to shut down for the night. It took hours.

  Now she pulled her knees up and assessed her situation with deliberate calm.

  Think Zambak. Think. Where are you?

  A shaft of moonlight illumined the street along which the temple sat. She rose to her knees and peered around the wall. Row after row of low Chinese-style buildings lined the road, shuttered now. She pulled back once when two men came down the road, but neither looked her way. They appeared to be collecting waste. Only the sound of small animals burrowing broke the quiet.

  She examined the street again, building by building. Chancing a glance up, she finally saw it, the outline of a larger temple some streets over rising above the roofline. She sank back and dropped her elbows to her knees, her head to her hands.

  A proliferation of temples here. I must have circled back toward Lin Fung where I started. I can use that as a starting point and find my way if I can figure out which direction it is. She couldn’t.

  She breathed heavily, determined to brave daylight when it came, until something—an intensification of the darkness where she sat perhaps—made her scalp prickle.

  “Found you,” the disembodied voice declared, and her heart stopped.

  ~ ~ ~

  Charles walked, ran, and, in some cases, elbowed his way to the missionary clinic only to find it closed and Temperance’s school as well. Moments later he pounded on the door to their house.

  “Charles, thee are welcome,” Temperance said, opening and inviting him in. “Have thee word of Zambak?” Her worried frown didn’t bode well.

  “I was hoping you did. The impulsive chit sent a note and disappeared. I wouldn’t put it past her to demand an audience with the commissioner.”

  Dan Oliver sat in the rocker, pipe between his teeth. “Aaron and I looked for her in the crowd by the Lin Fung temple with no success. The old fox is holding court up there, and the Portuguese went hat in hand to kowtow.”

  Temperance pressed a cup of tea into his hand; he realized it was shaking. “Have thee eaten, Charles?”

  “Not since yesterday. Maybe the day before, I don’t know.”

  “Thee must eat. I have oat porridge this morning, but perhaps cold ham? Thee must eat.” She studied him with the eyes of a skilled nurse—or mother.

  “She—my wife—died, and I haven’t been able to. Now I don’t have time,” he said.

  Aaron Knighton spoke from the corner. “We regret thy loss, Charles, and the burdens thee have carried.”

  Temperance gripped his arm, a moment of comfort, quickly gone. “Eat now. Thee will think better what must be done.” A steaming bowl appeared in front of him. He wolfed it down while Dan described the situation in the city. He realized halfway through that the American’s words were carefully chosen and spoken with deliberate calm. He glanced around as he ate; Aaron had shuttered their windows and locked them down with iron bars.

  “What are you avoiding?” he demanded.

  “Just waiting for you to fortify yourself. You can’t stay here,” Oliver told him.

  He shrugged. “We need to leave. How is that new?”

  “Warnings came last night—some Portuguese official who preferred not to be named sent word to McIlroy. Lin plans to surround every British household tonight.”

  “Hold us hostage in our houses?” Ruthless even for Lin Zexu. It horrified him.

  “At very least. The evacuation has turned into a rout,” Dan said.

  Charles glanced around at the shuttered windows, the food stocks piled on Temperance’s dry sink, and her children at her skirts. “If I stay here, I put you in danger,” he said.

  Dan shrugged. “Probably. Maybe even if you don’t. These stubborn fools insist on staying in any case.”

  “We are not British, Daniel,” Temperance said. “And our calling is here.”

  “Lin may distinguish between Yank and Englishman, but the rabble won’t if unleashed,” Dan said sternly.

  She shook her head. “We have friends here. We will stay.”

  Charles pushed to his feet. “Thank you for feeding me, Temperance. I’ll remove one hazard from your home at least.”

  “Wait! Where are you going? You have a few hours at best.” Dan rose with him.

  “I have to find Zambak first,” Charles said.

  “You’ll find her faster with help. I already sent for some of my crew. See, here.” He spread paper on the table and sketched out a crude map of Macao on its peninsula, the port on the lee side and the other facing the sea. They agreed to begin at the northern Border Gate and fan out. Dan’s third mate and another seaman, both Chinese, would take the sea approach where the fishing boats tied up and go around to the port. Dan and Aaron would come down the other side, scour the area near the seminary, and search the commercial area around the harbor. Charles insisted on beginning at Lin Fung Temple and searching down the center of Macao.

  “Meet us in the harbor, Charles. Promise us. If we do not find her, the final place to look will be on the boats. The lady will not thank thee if thee lag behind,” Aaron said with the conviction of a married man who knew his woman’s needs, and the need of two souls to protect one another.

  “Don’t wait for me,” he replied, hafting his haversack and reaching for the door.

  Dan started to object, but Charles waved a staying hand. “I will go to the harbor, but if we get lost in the confusion, I’ll look for Elliot’s vessels for preference. If I can’t find them, I’ll take what I can—and yes, I’ll search for her on the boats.”

  His grim determination kept his fears at bay when he made his way toward the Lin Fung Temple.

  Chapter 41

  Sun beat down on Charles where he lay, parched and hungry, on the deck of the Reliance two days later. Elliot commanded rationing of food and water throughout the floating city that lay at anchor at the mouth of the Pearl River between Macao, Hong Kong Island, and Kowloon. War junks prevented them from going ashore for supplies, and Elliot chose not to risk outright confrontation with women and children aboard, at least not until reinforcements arrived.

  “Water, ‘r Grace.” Filipe stooped over him, a half cup of liquid in his hand.

  “Give it to the children.” Charles didn’t care if he lived or died.

  “Cap Elliot say ‘tell ‘s Grace not to be idiot.’ Drink.”

  Idiot? They had sent word to every ship in the godforsaken refugee fleet after Oliver and Aaron hustled him onto the Reliance to no avail. Zambak
had not made it to the boats, and Elliot refused to put Charles ashore. He considered stealing a dinghy in an insane moment the night before and would have if he had any idea where to look. He could only pray that Lin had her and that the commissioner chose to be merciful. It seemed unlikely.

  He dragged himself to his knees and took the cup Filipe offered. The boy jumped up and stared at the bridge. “Something happening, ‘r Grace,” he said.

  Another damned message? The officers sent dispatches back and forth like old women exchanging gossip at a tea party. Charles glanced up idly. Something in the posture of the officers was different, and he sharpened his gaze. He stood to investigate as a cheer went up from the nearest merchant ship and began to spread.

  He sprinted to the bridge. The first officer grinned and handed him the spyglass. Three ships approached from the southwest, the Union Jack flapping from their masts and cannon bristling from their sides. The navy had arrived, or enough of it to give Elliot a show of force.

  God help the city. A fully armed frigate sailed into view accompanied by two other ships. Charles focused closely. He made out the Hyacinth close behind the Volage. He handed the telescope to the second mate. When he got it back, the HMS Bridgetown came into view. McGuffin! Thank God for the sight of a friend.

  Late that afternoon, two seamen rowed Charles and Filipe, sitting on Zambak’s trunk and happily bearing the haversack, to the Bridgetown. The duke left, happy to escape the miserable women and children in Clara Elliot’s care. Elliot for his part appeared equally relieved to be rid of his troublesome guest.

  McGuffin grinned down as he scrambled up the rope ladder and landed on the deck with a graceful leap, Filipe stumbling up behind him. The captain made an ostentatious bow.

  “Welcome aboard my little kingdom, Your Grace,” he said, managing to be welcoming while reminding Charles that aboard ship titles mattered little. The captain ruled. He clapped Charles on the back. “Rumor has it conditions have not been great. I have an interesting bottle of rum in my cabin that may ease the pain.”

  Charles doubted rum would ease what caused his anguish, but there would be time enough to explain that to McGuffin.

  A cry stopped them halfway across the deck. “Ahoy Bridgetown!”

  “More guests? Did you bring an entourage, Murnane?” Charles stared across the sea while the captain pulled a spyglass from his coat. A fishing boat approached, bobbing in the choppy sea. He grabbed the telescope from his friend’s hand.

  Thorn Hayden clung to the mast with one arm and waved the other, continuing to shout “Ahoy.” After the initial shock, Charles ignored him, his eyes fixed on the bow of the boat.

  Zambak stood tall at the bow, facing forward with her hair billowing about her face like a cloud of light.

  How in God’s name did they manage this? He didn’t care. He just gave thanks.

  ~ ~ ~

  The cheers and catcalls still echoed when Charles stopped kissing her. She didn’t care. She grinned and gave the crew a snappy salute, setting them off again. Filipe danced from foot to foot, Thorn frowned, and an austere-looking navy captain had a suspiciously pink face.

  “If I may suggest, my lady, perhaps we can continue this reunion—and clarify what has happened—in my cabin?”

  She knew as soon as Elliot told her Charles had transferred to the Reliance that Julia had died, or he wouldn’t be there, and her brother—pleased to be in command of the rickety vessel—had directed the fisherman to continue on.

  She clung to Charles and would have made love to him on the deck or followed him to the moon. No disapproving military man would stand in her way. Charles, however, appeared a bit sheepish. He laced his fingers with hers and tugged her toward the cabin. Silly man. Have it your way.

  On their way, she heard the captain give orders to set sail for Madras. In answer to Charles’s question, he explained they had come only to deliver arms and supplies. “We’ve no dog in this fight, more’s the pity,” he said. “We’ll leave the nonsense to Elliot and the others.” Her Majesty’s navy apparently thought two additional ships sufficient to subdue the situation for the time being. They were probably right. It wouldn’t be long before the shooting started.

  Zambak considered the journals she and Charles so carefully kept and knew they were too late. She thought fleetingly of Lin and his honor, of the girls in the Ladies’ Seminary, and of Temperance. She could do nothing for any of them when it did. She could only move forward and hope to influence the future.

  McGuffin sat them around his table while Zambak’s brother monopolized the conversation, and Charles simply caressed her with his eyes in ways that caused her nether parts to quiver and heat to radiate up from her chest.

  “I just asked myself the worst place she could go and headed that way,” Thorn explained. “I knew she couldn’t stay away from Lin’s big show up by the temples. After I got away from Hugo—”

  That caught Charles’s attention. He pulled his eyes from hers and grabbed her hand instead, small consolation. “When did you leave Jarratt? I thought you were hell bent on sinking into the opium tar.”

  Thorn grimaced. “Sorry, Charles. You wouldn’t be wrong. Hugo kept talking about the poppy, that deep peace, and the elation when—well. Like he knew.” His hands shook, and Zambak wondered how close he had come.

  Her brother addressed her directly then, as if he read her thoughts. “He wanted to pull me into it, and I wanted to go—oh God how I wanted to go—but when we got there, I saw something. The door to the opium den opened, and they threw a man out. Threw him into the street! I bent over to check on him, and Hugo pulled on my coat. When I told him we couldn’t just leave him in the street, do you know what he said?”

  She reached over and took one of his hands while he swallowed convulsively. She waited for him to go on.

  “Hugo said, ‘The damned fool let the poppy kill him. Deserves to die in the gutter.’” Thorn’s misery tore at her heart as words poured out of him. “I remembered the family at Peters’ clinic, Zamb, and thought it could have been me lying there and you not even knowing I died. And I remembered what Charles said about you being in danger. Went to Elliots’, but you were missing, and I had to find you. My responsibility wasn’t it?”

  “Thank God you did,” she said, “I never could have convinced those fishermen to get us out of Macao.”

  He managed the shadow of a smile, swiftly gone. “I hate opium—and I love it. I may always. But you did your best to free me from it, and I owed you my protection. Charles called it duty, and it is, but family, Zamb, it’s more than that, isn’t it?”

  Her heart turned over, and moisture prickled her eyes. She pulled her brother into an embrace. “I love you, Thorn. I’m proud of you. Father will be proud too,” she told him over the thickness in her throat.

  “Maybe. Maybe eventually,” he said. When she let him go, he stared at his lap, shame in the droop of his shoulders.

  McGuffin handed her a cup of tea, and she sat back down next to Charles. She sniffed it gratefully and took a sip.

  “Different,” she said and took another. “I like it. What is it?”

  “Grows wild in Assam—Northern India.”

  Charles leaned over and kissed the side of her head, drawing a glare from Thorn. “You made a spectacle of my sister out there, Charles. Should I call you out? What are your intentions?” he demanded.

  “Entirely honorable,” Charles said with a gentle smile. “And I’m free to say so, so you can withhold the challenge.”

  The three men sat in self-satisfied agreement a moment too long. An interminable, chaste—frustrating—voyage loomed in front of Zambak.

  She looked at McGuffin. “Tell me, Captain, is it true you can marry people?” Charles rewarded her with a smile so intimate she wished the others to the devil at that moment.

  Th
e captain cleared his throat. “I can my lady, but let me be clear. I am the law on this ship. Whether a marriage I perform meets muster with the Church of England on land is another matter. You would have to consult them in Madras. Your mother may not be best pleased with a havy-cavy marriage.”

  “Let me be clear, Captain. I intend to share a cabin with the Duke of Murnane. I don’t give a fig how legal your marriage might be on shore as long as it satisfies His Grace’s sense of honor for the length of the voyage.” His fingers squeezed hers, and joy bubbled up.

  And so it was. They married before the mast in front of a crew of strangers with the setting sun at their backs while Macao disappeared over the horizon. Her brother beamed at them, and Filipe danced a jig. He danced late into the night, learning a hornpipe and listening to seaman sing. The entire ship celebrated their joy.

  The Duke and Duchess of Murnane, snug in the captain’s cabin, didn’t join in. They didn’t sleep either.

  ~ ~ ~

  A very private and long-awaited celebration went on past dawn in the narrow confines of McGuffin’s cabin. Zambak, spent and boneless, lay sleeping in her husband’s arms when the first pale light shown through the window. Tranquil and vulnerable, the treasure in his arms filled the empty spaces in Charles’s heart and healed his soul.

  He had worshiped her with his body through the night as his vows commanded. His fears that the first rush of passion long denied might cause her discomfort or pain vanished in her enthusiastic response, giving love even as he poured his into her. Now, his breathing moved with hers, and his heart matched the gentle beating he could feel against his chest.