The Hidden Blade

by Sherry Thomas

  Inside his room he did calisthenics exercises that Mr. Hamilton, his old tutor, had shown him. He wanted to be strong, but nimble and fast. Not that he thought he would be literally running away—what were steam-powered transports for, after all?—but he needed to be able to sprint, leap, and pivot if he were to elude a grown man chasing after him.

  He started again on the Parsi and Arabic Bibles, taking to Parsi much more easily—he simply seemed to have a greater affinity for its structure and vocabulary. He also resumed his church attendance. The village church was where he hoped to speak to Mr. Brown, the post office clerk, before or after the service. But he had to be careful not to appear to single the man out, not while Mr. Twombley was nearby.

  It was the middle of autumn before he exchanged more than a nod with the clerk. Another month passed before he learned that Brown was the lead caroler of the village. He promptly invited the carolers to come to Rose Priory, especially since Sir Curtis and Lady Atwood would be spending their Christmas in Italy.

  The carolers arrived at Yuletide, the day after the photographer hired by Sir Curtis came to take Leighton’s portrait. Mr. Twombley, who had been informed ahead of time, was ready with hot punch, cake, and a donation for the church on behalf of the absent master and mistress. Leighton and Mr. Colmes mingled with the carolers. Leighton spoke to several other church elders before he wended his way to Mr. Brown and complimented him on his singing.

  “I’m glad to see you looking so well, young Master Leighton,” answered Mr. Brown. “For a while it was said your health suffered.”

  “I’m glad to be feeling well.”

  “I’m sure the good people who write you faithfully from abroad must be relieved too.”

  Interesting—he brought up the topic before Leighton could. “They are,” said Leighton.

  “I’ve been admiring the stamps on those letters. The American ones are nice—they are. But the ones that come from farther afield are so much more interesting. How I coveted the stamps issued by the colonial office in Shanghai!”

  Shanghai, good gracious. Herb had reached China.

  Leighton was right: All this time, Herb’s letters had been kept from him.

  “And the ones from Shanghai aren’t even regular British stamps overprinted with local currency, but their very own stamps!” Mr. Brown went on. “You don’t suppose, young Master Leighton, that if you were to get duplicates, you might consider trading one of them with me? I’ve a fairly substantial philatelic collection, some of them quite novel and rare too.”

  Leighton thought quickly. “I would. Unfortunately, I don’t have a collection of my own. But Lady Atwood does, and she has asked Mr. Twombley to send all the stamps to her in London. And you know how Mr. Twombley is—hard to get him to deviate from his duties.”

  “Oh, I know that, all right.”

  “But you know what you could do?” Leighton leaned in a little closer and lowered his voice. “You could take the next letter, cut out the stamps, and just give me the rest.”

  Mr. Brown nearly dropped his glass of hot punch. “But that’s a crime, tampering with the Royal Mail.”

  “Not if you have the recipient’s permission. We just don’t want Mr. Twombley to know about it. That’s all.”

  Mr. Brown took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead—it was warm in the drawing room, with the roaring fire and the press of bodies. “Let me…Let me think about it.”

  Leighton nodded and left him to see to the other carolers, praying that it would be only a matter of time.

  By the following March, Leighton had reached the New Testaments in the Parsi Bible, the Book of Proverbs in the Arabic Bible, and the end of Leviticus in the Sanskrit Old Testament, which had arrived by post, a Christmas present from Sir Curtis, who had yet to realize that he actually did Leighton a favor with such gifts.

  The second Sunday of that month was a miserable day, full of high winds and lashing rain. Leighton and Mr. Colmes took a carriage to church, instead of walking as they almost always did. Still they arrived in the sanctuary with their trousers wet to the knees.

  Mr. Brown sauntered up to Leighton and handed him a new hymn book. “A thank-you present for Sir Curtis from the vicar,” he said, “for his donation at Christmas.”

  Any sense of discomfort Leighton felt was immediately forgotten as he saw the small space between the pages—there was something inside, near the very back.

  “Thank you, Mr. Brown.” He managed to sound normal, even as his heart slammed.

  When Mr. Colmes turned around to speak to a yeoman farmer’s wife, Leighton slid out what was between the pages—an envelope missing its stamps, with Herb’s familiar handwriting—and hid it in his pocket. For the rest of the service he sat with his hand hovering near the pocket, touching it every minute or so to make sure that the letter was still there.

  Herb. After all this time.

  Sunday dinner, served at Rose Priory after church, had never been so long. Leighton wolfed down everything and waited, barely able to stop himself from tapping his fingers on the table, for Mr. Colmes to finish each course—Mr. Colmes was not a good liar, so they had decided a while ago that it was safer for both of them for him to know as little as possible of Leighton’s actual plans.

  When they finally rose from the table, Leighton excused himself, climbed to his room, and leaned his back against the door that could not be locked from inside. With shaky fingers, he extricated the letter and unfolded the pages.

  My dear boy,

  I am still in Shanghai, but not for much longer.

  This week I agreed to travel to Peking, to see about teaching English to the sons of an important Mandarin. The Mandarin, whose exact identity I have not been told, had engaged someone from Oxford University. But that gentleman apparently changed his mind and an urgent search had to be mounted for a replacement. There are other qualified men in Shanghai, but they already have their ambitions, professions, and families. I, on the other hand, am unattached, and have no demands on my time.

  It would be good for me to remain in one place for some time. I do not want to travel anymore, but I still cannot see myself putting down roots anywhere. My heart belongs always to the Sussex downs. To Starling Manor, where I spent the happiest hours of my life.

  Every time I open the world map I carry with me, I wish the Earth were flat and could be folded up like a map. So that wherever I find myself, I would be but one quick crease from touching England again. Would that not be marvelous?

  Do please write. I long for your news. When I passed through India I gathered up my courage and wrote to your mother. Thanks to reliable consular mail service, her reply found me in Shanghai a fortnight ago. She informed me that you are well. That you write beautifully of your new home on the moors, of your long walks and little adventures with wild Dartmoor ponies. But I dearly wish to hear directly from you, to know all the details of your new life.

  You can write to me care of the British Legation in Peking. Even if in the end I choose not to take the tutoring post, I will most likely stay and explore awhile in that ancient imperial city before I head elsewhere. And of course I will always leave a forwarding address for you.

  Your faithful friend,

  Herb Gordon

  P.S. As thrilled as I was to receive your news from Mrs. Atwood, I was also greatly saddened. For some reason, I had come to believe that perhaps Sir Curtis had instituted a wholesale embargo of mail where you were concerned. But as that was not the case…Have you become angry with me at last for my part in the great disaster? I should be too ashamed to beg for your forgiveness, but I do. Not an hour passes that I do not think of how my recklessness has damaged your life. How it has damaged the lives of so many. I can never make it up to you, but please let me try.

  P.P.S. As much as I hate the thought of a deliberate cold shoulder on your part, I still prefer it to the idea that Sir Curtis is somehow responsible for your silence. For years I had blithely dismissed your father’s warnings. Now I do not
dare put anything past him. Nor can I truly believe, as much as I want to, that the man who had tormented your father so would grant you this easy, picturesque childhood. Has he somehow managed to deceive Mrs. Atwood as to your happiness and well-being? Are you in need of help? If so, please, please let me know.

  P.P.P.S. I have drafted and redrafted this letter so many times that my wastebasket overflows with crumpled pieces of paper. Somehow I can never write at any length without all my fears and suspicions leaping onto the page. Please forgive me. I miss you immeasurably.

  P.P.P.P.S. Last night I dreamed of the poppy fields just beyond the boundaries of Starling Manor. Do you remember them? Do you remember our picnic there May before last? I woke up with tears on my face.

  P.P.P.P.P.S. I feel silly for telling you the following again—I’ve mentioned it in every one of my letters. You must be quite sick of the repetition by now. But here it goes.When your uncle sent me the pistol, I sat shaking for hours with anguish for Nigel, shame and loathing for myself, and above all fear for you, that you will be under his heel for far too many years, with no buffer between you and his cruelty. For that reason, before I departed England, I left you something. Think of Mr. Cromwell. And remember that I worry that this letter may not reach you. Or at least may not reach you unread.

  P.P.P.P.P.P.S. Be well, my dear boy. And please don’t think your old Herb is in a constant state of dejection. I am all right. And when I think of you, when I think of how strong and kind you are, it gives me hope. It gives me every hope.

  If indeed the world were foldable like a map, Leighton would be in China this very minute to reassure Herb that one of his fears could not be farther from the truth: There was no force in the world strong enough to tear apart the bonds of their friendship.

  Upon rereading the letter, something niggled at the back of his mind. He realized after a minute that his mother, in her letters, had never once mentioned any communication from Herb. It was possible that she had withheld that information, but it was much, much more likely that some of her letters had also been intercepted.

  He read the letter another few times. Why had Herb mentioned his solicitor? Did he mean that he had left something with Mr. Cromwell in London for Leighton to retrieve? Probably not, giving his warning that he knew this letter might not reach Leighton unread.

  It didn’t matter too much for the moment. What mattered was that in the midst of his own grief and fear—not to mention the chaos of uprooting his entire existence—Herb had remembered Leighton and planned for what Leighton might need for the future.

  Leighton allowed himself to shed a few tears—for sorrow, for hope, and for all the gratitude in his heart.

  Chapter 12

  The Bounty Hunter

  “Be good,” Mother said to Ying-ying.

  She’d become frightfully weak. In the lamplight her face seemed all hollows and shadows. Her hair lay loose on the pillow, the dark strands making her appear even more gaunt.

  “Yes,” Ying-ying said, holding her eyes as wide open as she could, afraid that if she blinked, her tears would come falling down.

  It would not do to cry before those who were desperately ill. She must appear cheerful and optimistic, even if they both knew that those would probably be Mother’s last words to her.

  As Amah led her out of Mother’s rooms, Da-ren strode in. It was the first time that Ying-ying had ever been in his path. She and Amah hastily stepped aside and curtsied. He did not acknowledge them as he hastened to the deathbed of his beloved.

  That night Ying-ying did not sleep. Toward dawn Little Plum came, her eyes red, and said that Fu-ren was no more. Da-ren did not leave until past noon. When he came out of Mother’s rooms, he had to brace a hand on the doorjamb.

  He stood under the overhanging eaves, looking wan, exhausted, and—Ying-ying realized to her shock—infinitely lonely.

  She remembered Mother’s tone when she’d mentioned the reforms he wanted. She’d been afraid for him, afraid of what might happen if he was thought to be causing too much trouble at court.

  He had probably been losing supporters for his cause. And now he had lost his greatest solace in the world.

  Da-ren wiped eyes with his sleeve and marched out, calling for Bao-shun as he went.

  Ying-ying wept again, this time for him.

  Mother’s funeral was a grand monstrosity. Though she had never crossed Da-ren’s threshold, she was accorded all the pomp and circumstances of a favorite concubine of a man of his station: twenty Buddhist monks and ten Taoist priests chanting sutras and prayers, a gaggle of hired mourners tossing paper coins high in the air along the route of the procession, and a catafalque so enormous that it took sixty men to carry.

  And there was Ying-ying, one lone small relation, swaddled in mourning white, with Amah by her side, Cook and Little Plum a few steps behind, walking the long way from home to the cemetery amid the dolorous music the monks made, the hired mourners’ expert bawling, and the grunting and shuffling of the pallbearers.

  They burned a small mountain of paper money—special underworld currency—by the fresh mound of her grave. Before they left, they placed bowls of rice before Mother’s tombstone, so that she would not go hungry in the afterlife.

  “Why does the money need to be burned for her to use but not the rice?” Ying-ying asked Amah on their way back.

  Amah said nothing.

  A month later Little Plum brought home the man she had been secretly seeing, a jade polisher, and asked Amah for her freedom to leave and marry. She had been in Mother’s service for eight years, from the day her family had sold her into domestic work at age twelve. Amah, now the de facto mistress of the household, granted her wish.

  Little Plum left on the day of her wedding, all dressed in red, a red veil over her head, in a fancy red sedan chair hired especially for the occasion. Ying-ying cried. Little Plum had been part of the household for as long as she could remember.

  Cook, too, departed soon thereafter. Her son’s business had prospered. He would not have her toil anymore. She was to go live with him, and be served by her daughter-in-law.

  Now, in a compound that could easily accommodate a family of ten plus a multitude of servants, Ying-ying and Amah were the only ones left.

  Amah turned out to be not much of a cook. Ying-ying picked at the dishes at dinner and ate mostly plain rice.

  “You can try cooking, if you don’t like what I make,” Amah said one evening.

  “Why don’t we just hire another cook, and buy another girl to clean?” Ying-ying had been given all the sweeping and dusting. Amah had told her it was good for her sinews to be more active. But still, it was menial work. She didn’t care for it.

  Amah laid down her chopsticks. “Come with me.”

  She led Ying-ying to Mother’s old bedchamber, opened a locked chest, and took out a yellow cloth bundle. Inside the bundle was a pile of silver ingots, shiny and pretty. Ying-ying sucked in a breath. She had never seen so much money at once.

  “This is how much Fu-ren used to receive from Da-ren’s treasury every month,” Amah said. She took out less than one-sixth of the silver ingots. “This is how much we get now.”

  Ying-ying bit the inside of her cheek. “Where did you get the silver for Little Plum’s dowry then?”

  It had been a handsome parting gift.

  “Fu-ren was always careful with money. She knew in her heart she’d never see old age. She had some silver set aside for you—for your dowry, in case your luck turned out much better than hers.”

  “Let’s use that money then. Didn’t you tell me no one who’s anyone would have me for a first wife?”

  “Stupid girl. This is for you to live on when you leave here. Or do you really want to live in the wild?”

  Ying-ying stared at Amah. What did she mean? Leave? Where? This was her home.

  “You don’t own these courtyards,” Amah said. “Da-ren does. And when he gets himself another concubine or three, he will have need of this place.�
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  Ying-ying was chilled to her toes. “He wouldn’t turn me out, would he?”

  “He may not—this is a big place. But can you stay on when the new concubines have taken over the best rooms? Can you stand sleeping in the kitchen, and fetching tea and rouge for them all day long?”

  She could not imagine it. Mother had meant so much to Da-ren—how could he ever install anyone else in her place? But Ying-ying was coming to realize that things she could not imagine had a way of happening.

  “You are right: We should be spare with the silver,” she said. “I’ll try cooking.”

  After some days of trial and error, Amah became pleasantly surprised at Ying-ying’s culinary output. Her diced vegetables weren’t perfect cubes, her sliced meat nowhere near as paper-thin as that prepared by Cook, but she proved herself competent in the kitchen, with a deft sense for combining sauces and spices to create dishes that were robust without being heavy.

  “Good,” Amah said. “If you can feed yourself, that’s one less worry for me.”

  There were no more lessons in calligraphy, literature, painting, or music, though Ying-ying sometimes plucked at the zither and tried to duplicate the beautiful, clear notes Mother had so effortlessly created.

  Amah intensified her training. Before dawn Ying-ying rose for her breathing exercises, circulating her chi throughout her torso and limbs. Hand-to-hand combat came after breakfast. Soon Amah introduced weaponry: poles, steel-spined fans, and then swords, which hitherto had all been hidden in the spaces under her kang.

  The swords were long, slender, and surprisingly heavy, their cold, deadly beauty at once frightening and fascinating.

  “Don’t use swords,” Amah admonished, “unless you plan to draw blood.”

  The pole was a good weapon for a beginner, its length offering a defensive advantage. The fan could be used to conveniently incapacitate one’s opponent, its even head, when closed, perfectly suited to deliver blows to acupuncture points, which existed along longitudinal and latitudinal paths. Nerves intersected at these nodes; chi pooled. Just as needles could be inserted there to cure diseases and ease internal blockings, force correctly applied served many purposes, from stopping one’s own bleeding to utterly disabling an enemy. One could kill a man outright with a hard strike at the Jade Door Point behind the skull, or make him cry like a baby by a subtle but persistent pressure to the Tear Points on the sides of the nose.