“You’re mad,” McFay had told some of them at the Club last night. “The poor fellow’s in terrible shape.”
Dr. Babcott interrupted, “He’ll be up and about before you know it.”
“It’s got to be wedding bells, by God!” someone said.
“Drinks on the house,” another called out expansively, “Good-oh, we’ll have our own wedding, our first wedding.”
“We’ve had lots, Charlie. What about our musumes?”
“They don’t count, for God’s sake, I mean a real church wedding—and a right proper christening an—”
“Jumping Jehovah, are you implying one’s in the oven?”
“The rumor’s they was like stoats on the ship coming here, not that I blame him …”
“Angel Tits weren’t even feeanced then, by God! Say that agin’, impugg’ning ’er ’onor, and I’ll do you, by God!”
McFay sighed. A few drunken blows and broken bottles, both men had been thrown out to crawl back within the hour to an uproarious welcome. Last night, when he had peeped in here before going to bed himself, Malcolm was asleep and she was nodding in a chair beside the bed. He awoke her gently. “Best get some proper sleep, Miss Angelique, he won’t wake now.”
“Yes, thank you, Jamie.”
He had watched her stretch luxuriously like a contented young feline, half asleep, hair down around her bared shoulders, her gown high waisted and loose, falling in folds that the Empress Josephine had favored fifty years before and some Parisian maisons de couture were trying to reintroduce, all of her pulsating with a male-attracting life force. His own suite was along the corridor. For a long time he had not slept.
Sweat soaked Struan. The effort of using the chamber pot was vast with little to show for all the pain, no feces and just a little blood-flecked urine. “Jamie, now what’s the bad?”
“Oh, well, you see …”
“For Christ sake, tell me!”
“Your father passed away nine days ago, same day the mail ship left Hong Kong direct to us, not via Shanghai. His funeral was due three days later. Your mother asks me to arrange your return at once. Our mail ship from here with news of your—your bad luck won’t arrive in Hong Kong for another four or five days at the earliest. Sorry,” he added lamely.
Struan only heard the first sentence. The news was not unexpected and yet it came as violent a slash as the wound in his side. He was very glad and very sad, mixed up, excited that at long last he could really run the company that he had trained for all his life, that for years had been hemorrhaging, for years held together by his mother who quietly persuaded, cajoled, guided and helped his father over the bad times. The bad was constant and mostly due to drink, which was his father’s medicine to cushion blinding headaches and attacks of Happy Valley ague, malaria, bad air, the mysterious killing fever that had decimated Hong Kong’s early population but now, sometimes, was held in abeyance by a bark extract, quinine.
Can’t remember a year when Father wasn’t laid up at least twice with the shakes, for a month or more, his mind wandering for days on end. Even infusions of the priceless cinchona bark that Grandfather had had brought from Peru had not cured him, though it had stopped the fever from killing him, and most everyone else. But it hadn’t saved poor little Mary, four years old then, me seven and forever after aware of death, the meaning of it and its finality.
He sighed heavily. Thank God nothing touched Mother, neither plague nor ague nor age nor misfortune, still a young woman, not yet thirty-eight, still trim after seven children, a steel support for all of us, able to ride every disaster, every storm, even the bitter, perpetual hatred and enmity between her and her father, godrotting Tyler Brock … even the tragedy last year when the darling twins, Rob and Dunross, were drowned off Shek-O where our summer house is. And now poor Father. So many deaths.
Tai-pan. Now I’m tai-pan of the Noble House.
“What? What did you say, Jamie?”
“I just said I was sorry, Tai-pan, and here—here’s a letter from your mother.”
With an effort Struan took the envelope. “What’s the fastest way for me to get back to Hong Kong?”
“Sea Cloud, but she isn’t due for two to three weeks. The only merchantmen here at the moment are slow, none due for Hong Kong for a week. Mail ship would be the fastest. We could get her to turn around right smartly but she’s going via Shanghai.”
After yesterday, the idea of an eleven-day voyage, more than likely with bad seas, even typhoon, horrified Malcolm. Even so, he said, “Talk to the captain. Persuade him to go direct to Hong Kong. What else’s in the mails?”
“I haven’t been through them yet, but here …” Greatly concerned with Struan’s sudden pallor, McFay offered the Hong Kong Observer. “Nothing but bad, I’m afraid: The American civil war’s picking up steam, seesawing with tens of thousands of deaths—battles at Shiloh, Fair Oaks, dozens of places, another at Bull Run with the Union army the loser and decimated. War’s changed forever now with breech-loading rifles and machine guns and ri fled cannon. Price of cotton’s gone sky high with the Union blockade of the South. Another panic on the London Stock Exchange and Paris—rumors that Prussia will invade France imminently. Since the Prince Consort died in December, Queen Victoria still hasn’t appeared in public—it’s rumored she’s pining to death. Mexico: we’ve pulled our forces out now it’s apparent nutter Napoleon III’s determined to make it a French domain. Famine and riots all over Europe.” McFay hesitated. “Can I get you anything?”
“A new stomach.” Struan glanced at the envelope clenched in his hand. “Jamie, leave me the paper, go through the mails, then come back and we’ll decide what to do here before I leave …” A slight noise and they both glanced back at the adjoining door that now was half open. She was standing there, elegant peignoir over her nightdress.
“Hello, chéri,” she said at once. “I thought I heard voices. How are you today? Good morning, Jamie. Malcolm, you look so much better, can I get you anything?”
“No, thank you. Come in. Sit down, you look wonderful. Sleep well?”
“Not really, but never mind,” she said, though she had slept wonderfully. Her perfume surrounding her, she touched him sweetly and sat down. “Shall we breakfast together?”
McFay dragged his attention off her. “I’ll come back when I’ve made the arrangements. I’ll tell George Babcott.”
When the door had closed, she smoothed Struan’s brow, and he caught her hand, loving her. The envelope slipped to the floor. She picked it up. A little frown. “Why so sad?”
“Father’s dead.”
His sadness brought her tears. She had always found it easy to cry, to make tears almost at will, seeing from a very early age their effect on others, her aunt and uncle particularly. All she had to do was to think of her mother who had died bearing her brother. “But Angelique,” her aunt would always say tearfully, “poor little Gerard is your only brother, you’ll never have another, not a real one, even if that good-for-nothing father of yours remarries.”
“I hate him.”
“It wasn’t his fault, poor lad, his birth was ghastly.”
“I don’t care, he killed Maman, killed her!”
“Don’t cry, Angelique…. ”
And now Struan was saying the same words, the tears easy because she was truly sad for him. Poor Malcolm to lose a father—he was a nice man, nice to me. Poor Malcolm trying to be brave. Never mind, soon you’ll be well and now it’s much easier to stay, now that the smell has gone, most of the smell has gone. A sudden spectre of her own father came into her mind: “Don’t forget this Malcolm will inherit everything soon, the ships and power and …”
I won’t think about that. Or … or about the other.
She dried her eyes. “There, now tell me everything.”
“Nothing much to tell. Father’s dead. The funeral was days ago and I have to go back to Hong Kong at once.”
“Of course at once—but not until you are well enough.” She l
eaned forward and kissed him lightly. “What will you do when we get there?”
In a moment he said firmly, “I’m heir. I’m tai-pan.”
“Tai-pan of the Noble House?” She made her surprise seem genuine, then she added delicately, “Malcolm, dear, terrible about your father, but … but in a way not unexpected, no? My father told me he had been sick a long time.”
“It was expected, yes.”
“That is sad but … tai-pan of the Noble House, even so. Please may I be the first to congratulate you.” She curtseyed to him as elegantly as to a king, and sat back again, pleased with herself. His eyes watched her strangely. “What?”
“Just that you, you make me feel so proud, so wonderful. Will you marry me?”
Her heart missed a beat, her face flushed. But her mind ordered her to be prudent, not to hurry, and she pondered whether to be as grave as he was grave, or to release the exploding exuberance she felt at his question and her victory and to make him smile. “La!” she said brightly, teasing him, fanning herself with a handkerchief. “Yes, I will marry you, Monsieur Struan, but only if you …” A hesitation and she added in a rush, “Only if you get better quickly, obey me implacable, cherish me hugely, love me to distraction, build us a castle on the Peak in Hong Kong, a palace on the Champs-Elysées, fit out a clipper ship as a bridal bed, a nursery in gold, and find us a country estate of a million hectares!”
“Be serious. Angelique, listen to me, I’m serious!”
Oh, but I am, she thought, delighted that he was smiling now. A gentle kiss but this time on the lips, full of promise. “There, Monsieur, now don’t taunt this defenseless young lady.”
“I’m not taunting you, I swear to God. Will-you-marry-me?” Strong words but he did not have the strength to sit up yet or reach out to bring her closer. “Please.”
Her eyes still teased. “Perhaps, when you’re better—and only if you obey me implacable, cherish me—”
“Implacably, if that’s the word you want.”
“Ah, yes, pardon. Implacably … etceteras.” Again the lovely smile. “Perhaps yes, Monsieur Struan, but first we must get to know each other, then we must agree to an engagement, and then, Monsieur le tai-pan de la Noble Maison, who knows?”
Joy possessed all of him. “Then it’s yes?”
Her eyes watched him, making him wait. With all the tenderness she could muster, she said, “I will consider it seriously—but first you must promise to get well quickly.”
“I will, I swear it.”
Again she dried her eyes. “Now, Malcolm, please read your mother’s letter, and I’ll sit with you.”
His heart was beating strongly and the elation he felt took away the pain. But his fingers were not so obedient and he had trouble breaking the seal. “Here, Angel, read it to me, will you please?”
At once she broke the seal and scanned the singular writing that was on the single page. “‘My beloved son,’” she read aloud. “‘With great sadness I must tell you your father is dead and now our future rests with you. He died in his sleep, poor man, the funeral will be in three days, the dead must cherish the dead and we, the living, must continue the struggle while we have life. Your father’s Will confirms you as heir, and tai-pan, but to be legal the succession has to be done with a ceremony witnessed by me and Compradore Chen in accordance with your beloved grandfather’s Legacy. Settle our Japanese interests as we discussed and return as quickly as you can. Yr devoted Mother.’” Tears filled her eyes again because of a sudden fantasy that she was the mother writing to her son.
“That’s all? No postscript?”
“No, chéri, nothing more, just ‘your devoted mother.’ How brave of her. Would that I could be so brave.”
Oblivious to everything except the portent of these happenings, she gave him the letter and went to the window that looked out onto the harbor and, drying her eyes, opened it. The air was fresh and took away the sickroom smell. What to do now? Help him to hurry back to Hong Kong away from this foul place. Wait … will his mother favor our marriage? I don’t know. Would I if I was her? I know she didn’t like me, the few times we met, so tall and distant, though Malcolm said she was that way with everyone outside family. “Wait till you get to know her, Angelique, she’s so wonderful and strong …”
Behind her the door opened and Ah Tok came in without knocking, a small tea tray in one hand. “Neh hoh mah, Mass’er,” good day, she said with a beam, showing the two gold teeth of which she was very proud. “Mass’er slepp good, heya?”
In fluent Cantonese, Malcolm said, “Stop speaking gibberish.”
“Ayeeyah!” Ah Tok was Struan’s personal amah who had looked after him since he was born and a law unto herself. She hardly acknowledged Angelique, her concentration on Struan. Stout, strong and fifty-six, wearing the traditional white smock and black trousers, the long queue hanging down her back signified that she had chosen amah as her profession and had therefore sworn to remain chaste all her life and so never to have children of her own that might divert her loyalty. Two Cantonese manservants followed with hot towels and water to bathe him. Loudly, she ordered them to close the door. “Mass’er bar’f, heya?” she said pointedly to Angelique.
“I will come back later, chéri,” the girl said. Struan did not answer, just nodded and smiled back then stared again at the letter, lost in thought. She left her door ajar. Ah Tok grunted disapprovingly, shut it firmly, told the other two to hurry up with his bed bath, and handed him the tea.
“Thank you, Mother,” he said in Cantonese, using the customary honorific for such a special person who had cherished and carried and guarded him when defenseless.
“Bad news, my son,” Ah Tok said—the tidings had rushed through the Chinese community.
“Bad news.” He sipped the tea. It tasted very good.
“After you have bathed you will feel better and then we can talk. Your Honorable Father was overdue his appointment with the gods. He’s there now and you are tai-pan, so the bad has become good. Later this morning I’ll bring some extra-special tea I’ve bought for you that will cure all your ills.”
“Thank you.”
“You owe me a tael of silver for the medicine.”
“A fiftieth part.”
“Ayeeyah, at least half.”
“Ayeeyah, a twentieth part, Mother.” With hardly any thought he bargained automatically, but not unkindly, “And if you argue I’ll remind you you owe me six months’ wages paid in advance for your grandmother’s funeral—her second.”
One of the servants chortled behind her but she feigned not to notice. “If you say so, Tai-pan.” She used the title delicately, the first time she had ever said it to him, watching him, missing nothing, then snapped at the two men sponging and cleaning him carefully and efficiently: “Hurry up with your work. Does my son, the tai-pan, have to endure your clumsy ministrations all day?”
“Ayeeyah,” one of them unwisely muttered back.
“Take care, you motherless fornicator,” she said sweetly in a dialect Struan did not understand. “Just get on with it and if you nick my son while shaving I’ll put the Evil Eye on you. Treat my son like Imperial jade or your fruit will be pulverized—and don’t listen to your betters!”
“Betters? Ayeeyah, old woman, you come from Ning Tok, a turtle-dung village famous only for farts.”
“A tael of silver says this civilized person can whip you five out of seven times at mahjong this evening.”
“Done!” the man said truculently even though Ah Tok was an accomplished player.
“What’s all that about?” Struan said.
“Servants’ talk, nothing important, my son.”
When they had finished they gave him a fresh, crisp night shirt. “Thank you,” Struan said to them, greatly refreshed. They bowed politely and were gone.
“Ah Tok, bolt her door, quietly.”
She obeyed. Her sharp ears heard the rustle of skirts in the adjoining room and she resolved to increase her vigilance. Nos
ey, foreign devil toad belly whore with her Jade Gate so hungry for the Master a civilized person can almost hear it salivating …
“Light the candle for me, please.”
“Eh? Are your eyes hurting you, my son?”
“No, nothing like that. There are safety matches in the bureau.” Safety matches, the recent Swedish patent, were usually kept locked away as they were highly sought after, therefore had a ready sale and therefore had a habit of disappearing. Petty theft was endemic in Asia. Uneasily she used one, not understanding why they would not light unless the side of their special box was struck. He had explained why but she only muttered about more foreign devil magic.
“Where do you want the candle, my son?”
He pointed at the bedside table within easy reach. “Here. Now leave me for a little while.”
“But, ayeeyah, we should talk, there is much to plan.”
“I know. Just wait outside the door and keep everyone away until I call.”
Grumbling, she walked out. So much talk and bad news had exhausted him. Nonetheless, painfully he balanced the candle on the side of the bed, then lay back a moment.
Four years ago on his sixteenth birthday his mother had taken him to the Peak to speak privately: “Now you are old enough to learn some secrets of the Noble House. There will always be secrets. Some your father and I keep from you until you become tai-pan. Some I keep from him, and some from you. Some I will now share with you and not with him, or your brothers and sisters. Under no circumstances are these secrets to be shared with anyone. Anyone. You promise before God.”
“Yes, Mother, I swear it.”
“First: perhaps one day we may need to give each other personal or dangerous information in a private letter—never forget, anything in writing may be read by alien eyes. Whenever I write to you I will always add, p.s. I love you. You will do the same, always, without fail. But if there is no p.s. I love you, then the letter contains important and secret information, from me to you or you to me only. Watch!” Shielding the paper she had prepared, she lit some safety matches and held them under the paper, not to fire it but to almost scorch it, line by line. Miraculously, the hidden message appeared: Happy Birthday, under your pillow there’s a sight draft for ten thousand pounds. Keep it secretly, spend it wisely.
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