“It’s an insurance,” he said, folding it and replacing it with care. “Now it goes back to a safe place, with details of the Affaire Angelique, in case anything nasty happens to me.”
Abruptly she laughed, unbalancing him. “Oh, André, do you think I’d try to murder you? Me?”
“It would wreck any financial arrangement Tess might offer, may be forced to offer, and put you in the dock.”
“How silly you are.” She picked up her glass and sipped her champagne and he noticed, disquieted, how steady her hand was. She was watching him placidly, thinking how foolish he was, foolish to let her know he had done what he had done and was a total cheat, but even more foolish to rile against Hinodeh for preferring the dark—perhaps he looks awful naked—and more foolish to scream about the price he paid, because both are insignificant if she’s everything he says she is. “I’d like to meet this Hinodeh. Please arrange it.”
“Eh?”
Amused at his expression, she said, “What’s so strange about that? I have an interest in her, I’m financing her, the love of your life. Yes?”
Shakily he got up and went to the sideboard and poured brandy. “Would you like some?”
“No, thank you.” Only her eyes had moved.
Again he sat opposite her. A draft played with the flame and made her eyes glitter. “A hundred. Please.”
“When do I stop paying, André?” she asked pleasantly.
The brandy tasted better than the wine. He faced that question. “When she’s paid for, before you leave.”
“Before I leave? You mean I can’t leave until then?”
“When she’s paid for, before you leave.”
She frowned and went over to the desk and opened a side drawer. The little purse contained the equivalent of about two hundred Mex in gold oban. “And if there’s no money?”
“It will come from Tess, there’s no other way. She’ll pay, somehow we’ll make that happen.”
“‘We’ will?”
“I promised,” he said, the whites of his eyes bloodshot. “Your future is my future. At least on that we both agree.”
She opened the purse and counted half. Then, not knowing why, put them all back and handed it to him. “There’s about two hundred Mex there,” she said, smiling strangely. “On account.”
“I wish I understood you. I used to.”
“Then I was a silly young girl. Now I’m not.”
He nodded slowly. Then took out the envelope and held it to the flame. She let out a little gasp as the corner caught and then it flared and he put it into an ashtray and together they watched it curl and twist and die. He crushed the ash with the bottom of his glass.
“Why?” she asked.
“Because you understand about Hinodeh. And like it or not we’re partners. If Tess doesn’t pay you I’m a dead man.” He stuck out his hand. “Peace?”
She put her hand in his and smiled. “Peace. Thank you.”
He got up. “I’d better check on Prancing Cloud. If Tess’s aboard, it will speed things up.”
After he had gone she sifted the ashes but not a single word could be seen. Easy for André to forge a copy and tear it up and present it as the original and burn it—and still have the restored original secreted away for later use. That’s just the kind of stratagem he would adore. Why burn the false one? To make me trust him further, to forgive the blackmail.
Peace? The only peace from a blackmailer is when the deadly exposure he threatens you with no longer needs to be hidden. In my case that’s when she has paid, and the money banked. And after André gets what he wants—Hinodeh, perhaps. What is it she wants? She hides from him in the dark. Why? Because of his color? To titillate? For revenge? Because he’s not Japanese?
I know now that the act of love can go from terror to ecstasy to delusion, with every variation in between. My first time with Malcolm was in the light, the second in darkness and both were beautiful. With him. of the other life always in the light and he was beautiful and deadly, his color beautiful, everything beautiful and deadly and terrifying and blindingly powerful, nothing like my husband, Malcolm, whom I truly loved. And honored—and honor still, and will forever.
Her sharp ear caught the toot of the cutter’s steam whistle. She opened the curtains and saw the launch hurrying away from their jetty, port and starboard lights clear, Albert MacStruan in the cabin. In the roads Prancing Cloud was scarcely visible, downing sails and easing for moorings.
Her mind swirled aboard and in her mind she saw her enemy—as ever, thin-lipped, pale-eyed, tall and stiff-backed, bony and badly dressed—then sped away to the outer harbor and Malcolm’s burial and she smiled, glorying in that victory, the sound of her heart pulsing in her ears. Then she curled up in her chair again—his chair, their chair, another victory—and watched the dark become darker, only riding lights to be seen, hardly able to contain her excitement.
Surely Edward would be aboard.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
The door to Jamie’s office swung open and Vargas rushed in, out of breath, “Launch’s left Cloud, senhor,” he said, his heavy street clothes still on, hat and head scarf wrapped around his face, telescope in hand. “Four or five passengers.”
“Is she aboard?” Jamie did not look up from the packing case he was filling with papers. When there was no immediate answer his voice edged, “Damn it, is she aboard?”
“I … I’m … I think so.”
“I said to let me know when you were sure, not before!”
“I’m—I’m sorry, senhor, I was at the end of the jetty and looked through the spyglass and thought I’d better report and ask what—what I should do.”
“Go back and meet her, but first make sure all servants are ready, make sure there’s a fire in the tai-pan’s suite, she’ll take that, Mr. MacStruan’s sure to move out.”
“But that will mean she’ll be next door to Mrs. Angeli—”
“I know that, for God’s sake, but that’s the tai-pan’s suite and that’s the one she’ll have!”
Vargas fled. Unable to resist, Jamie hurried to the window. The cutter was nearing shore. Just riding lights outside and dancing in the chop. He focused his binoculars. Vague shapes in the cabin but positively one a woman. No doubt about the bonnet, and no mistaking her tall, erect carriage and the way she rode the pitch and toss and tilt of the boat.
“Shit!” The breath sighed out of his mouth. To steady the image, he leaned against the window. Not much better. One of the shapes he identified as Captain Strongbow more by his height and bulk than anything else. Two other men, no three—one of them MacStruan.
The cutter came in fast, the storm damage on the prow still easy to see, not yet completely repaired. Curious bystanders waited under the swinging lantern on the dock, everyone muffled against the dreaded winter flux with hats and head scarfs that were now obligatory. Difficult to see faces but he thought he recognized André there, and … ah yes, Vervene, Heavenly and, yes, and Nettlesmith. The vultures gathering, he thought, though like me, the main ones are watching from their windows.
Tonight the dark oppressed him. In his room his fire was good but now seemed to have lost its warmth. His throat felt tight and his chest hurt. Control yourself, he thought. She’s not your problem.
Captain Strongbow was first onto the wharf in his heavy sea coat. Still difficult to see clearly but no mistaking him. Then, ah yes, MacStruan. They turned and helped her up. She was wrapped against the cold, stiff-backed, dark clothes, dark bonnet tied with the inevitable heavy scarf. Her size. Shit!
The other two passengers climbed onto the jetty. He recognized them. A moment’s hesitation then he went out and along the passage to the tai-pan’s office. Angelique was peering into the dark through a crack in the curtain, her fire glowing nicely, lamps lit and the room cozy. “Ah, Jamie. I can’t see them clearly. Is she there?”
“Afraid so, yes.” He saw no change in her expression. “Here.” He offered her the binoculars. “I thought you mi
ght like these.”
“No need for me to look, or be afraid, Jamie. Who else?” Her voice was the thinnest it had ever been. “Who’s with her?”
“Strongbow, Hoag and Gornt.”
She turned back to the window to hide but for an instant he had seen the joy that flooded her face. Never mind if Jamie saw, she was thinking, dizzy with excitement. That woman and Edward together? The two of them together, Hoag as well! Doesn’t that portend success, Edward’s success, that he convinced her? “I’ll be upstairs, dressing for dinner. If anyone wants to see me, I’ll come down again. Thanks, dear Jamie.” Impulsively, she hugged him. And left.
He stared after her. Why the joy? If Tess is with Hoag, the heavy guns have arrived. Haven’t they?
He went back to his office perplexed, leaving the door ajar, and continued to pack papers and books, his fingers doing the work, his mind elsewhere: on Tess, the future, the shoya, Nemi tonight, the Noble House that he had given twenty years to—Be honest, you don’t really want to leave and know it’s a bad time to go out on your own—thinking about Angelique’s grim future, tomorrow’s meeting with the Swiss Minister and possible imports from their armament-watch factories, all mixed with the news of the incredible Yoshi meeting, Babcott and Tyrer now in Yedo, the bullion the Bakufu had advanced already counted and accurate—and about Nakama, poor fellow.
Poor fellow? He’s an assassin, the worst kind. I never felt that, never once did I feel threatened. He must be in Drunk Town or somewhere in the Yoshiwara. If the news flashed to us, someone must have whispered to him and he fled. Damn it! Now I’ll have to cut Tyrer in or Johann …
Voices in the foyer broke into his reverie. A polyglot of voices: MacStruan, Vargas, Hoag, servants bustling around.
No need to greet them. I’ll be summoned soon enough. Depressed, he continued with his work, almost done now.
“Jamie!”
He looked around. And was paralyzed. Maureen. His Maureen in the doorway! Maureen Ross. Navy blue winter bonnet, blue eyes peeping out above the folds of her heavy woolen head scarf. Navy blue topcoat over a dark blue dress. Maureen Ross, twenty-eight. Tall, a fraction taller than Tess—the average height nowadays a little over five feet, Queen Victoria four feet eleven. “Christ almighty,” he said, voice strangled, mind gone.
“Hello to you, Jamie McFay.” She stayed in the doorway, standing straight like her father, her voice lilting. “Can I come in, please?” She unwound the scarf and smiled tentatively.
Now he could see her. Same clear face, not pretty but strong and curiously appealing, hazel freckles, and just as he had last seen her just over three years ago—the dock at Glasgow—though then there were tears at their parting. He had forgotten how her eyes … “Hello, Sparkles,” he muttered without thinking, using his nickname for her. “Jesus Christ … Maureen?”
Her laugh trilled. “I take that as a yes and you’ll no’ be blaspheming anymore, laddie. Once is fair, me coming like a wraith from the night, wanting to surprise you.” Her smile and the lilt to her voice made her more attractive than she really was, and the light that danced in her eyes and the love that she wore like a shield. She closed the door and looked at him again. “You look grand, Jamie, a little tired, but you’re as bonny as ever.”
He had straightened up but still stood behind the desk, his mind jumbled with My God it’s you, not Tess, it’s you, easy to mistake in the dark, almost same height same stiff back—remembering his halfhearted, negative letters over the last year and the final one breaking their engagement, his soundless voice saying, Sorry, Maureen, I wrote you, we’re not getting married, sorry, don’t want to get married, can’t now, now that I’m on my own, worst possible time and why didn’t …
“Och, Jamie,” she was saying from across the room, watching and waiting, her smile deepening, “you canna know how happy I am to see you, to be here at last, aye, the adventures I’ve had will fill a volume.” When he didn’t move or reply, a small frown wrinkled her forehead. “Will you no’ get your wits about you, laddie?”
“Tess!” he croaked. “I—we thought you were Tess Struan.”
“Mrs. Struan? No, she’s in Hong Kong. Such a lady, she arranged for me to come here, didn’t charge me a penny piece. ‘You go see your Jamie McFay with my compliments,’ she said, and introduced me to Captain Strongbow—who gave me a cabin to mysel’—and to fine Dr. Hoag and Mister Smartypants Gornt.”
“Eh?”
“That laddie thinks he’s God’s gift to womanhood but not to me. I’m affianced, I told him, affianced before God to Mr. Jamie McFay. He said he was your friend, Jamie, and Dr. Hoag told me he saved your life so I was nice but kept a distance. Och, laddie, there’s so much to learn, so much to tell.”
“Christ,” he muttered, not hearing her, “easy to make the mistake with the scarf around your face, you and Tess’re both the same size, stand the same way …”
“Huh!” Maureen said, her eyes suddenly fiery. “I’ll thank you no’ to take the Lord’s name in vain, and she’s a mite shorter and much thicker and much older and her hair is grey, mine’s brown and even in the dark I’m not like her!” When her sudden smile at her own pleasantry did not get through to him, she sighed. Exasperated, she looked around the room. She saw the decanter. At once went over to it, sniffed to make sure it was whisky, crinkled her nose with distaste but poured him a glass, and a dribble in another.
“Here.” She looked up at him, close for the first time, a sudden beam covering her. “My Da’ always needed a wusky when the shock of Scotland being part of the British Isles hit him.”
The spell broke. Jamie laughed and took her in his arms and hugged her, welcoming her, and the glasses almost spilled out of her hand. “Watch it, laddie,” she gasped, managed to put them down and hugged him desperately—all the waiting and standing there, seeing his shock and not the welcome she’d hoped for, trying to be strong and adult, not knowing what to do or how to say that she loved him and could not bear the thought of losing him so she had gambled, gambled and left her sanctuary, she had put her trust in God, took her prayerbook and Bible and her father’s derringer in her purse and set out blindly on ten thousand miles of fear. Inside. But not outside—oh no, never, that’s not the Ross way!
“Och, Jamie laddie, laddie …”
“It’s all right,” he murmured, wishing her trembles away.
In time the shuddering stopped and she released herself, untied her bonnet and let her long plait of red-brown hair uncoil. “That’s better,” she said. “You’re a bonny man, thank you.” She handed him his glass and took hers and touched glasses. “Scotland forever,” she said as a toast, and sipped. “That tastes dreadful, Jamie, but I’m powerful pleased to see you, I canna say it any better.”
Her smile was more tentative now, some of her confidence gone. His embrace had been like a brother’s, not a lover’s, oh God oh God oh God. To hide from him she looked around as she took off her coat and gloves. Her dress was warm and well cut, another shade of blue and showed off her curves and hourglass waist. “Your Mr. MacStruan says you can use your suite and I can have the rooms next door until we have a place of our own. Have you packed up your rooms yet, Jamie?”
“No, not yet.” Confused, not knowing how to start but start he must. Soon. “This … all my papers and books were first, I was starting upstairs tomorrow. Everything, the furniture here and upstairs, belongs to Struan’s.”
“Never mind. We can buy our own.” She sat in the chair opposite the desk and looked at him. Hands in her lap. Waiting. Sure that now she had to bite her tongue and wait for him to begin. She had done her part by arriving. Perhaps done too much, arriving unannounced, but she had thought about that carefully and done the best she could by writing the letter, and had imagined this meeting hour after hour in the nauseating months at sea, during the storms and once, in the China seas off Singapore, during a mutiny of Chinese steerage passengers, pirates amongst them, that had been put down bloodily. Jamie was her lodestar and now th
e time of reckoning had arrived.
“He’s a bad man, this Jamie McFay,” her mother had told her when she announced her decision. “I’ve said it and said it, and he’ll do you no good, lassie. His letters are anything but encouraging, just the reverse.”
“I mean to go, Ma darling. Will Da’ lend me the money?”
“Aye, if you ask him.”
“I mean to go. I must. I’m twenty-eight. I’m old. Past normal marriage age. I’ve waited so long and would wait another three years if need be but … it’s now or never. I’ve decided. Do you understand, Ma?”
“Aye. I understand. But … well, at least you’ll be with him, you’ll be with your man, if you marry, not like me.”
She had seen the tears and listened to advice never given before, secrets never whispered before, and then her mother said, “Bless you, lassie, go with God, lassie. Let’s tell thy da’.” He was a Major, Indian Army retired, twenty-five years service, eighteen of those with the newly formed Gurkha Regiment, home on leave only every two or three years, before being forced to retire from wounds a decade ago, loathing retirement.
“Aye lassie, go wi’ my blessing on two conditions,” he said. “If he spurns you, tell him I’ll find him and kill him, second, if ever he rapes you, hurts you, cut off his balls—I’ll lend you my kookrie, young Duncan won’t need it for ten years yet.”
“Yes, Da’.” The kookrie, the Gurkha knife, was his most prized possession. She was the eldest of three sisters, with a brother of eight, and the first to leave home—children of Britain were children of the Empire.
Jamie put more coal on the fire and moved his chair closer before he sat down. He took her hand. “Maureen, three months ago I wrote to you.”
“You wrote many a letter, not enough,” she said lightly, to give herself more time to prepare.
“In all my letters for the last year I tried to point out as best I could that this is no place for a lady, it’s not India where there’s a regimental life an—”
“I’ve never been to India, as you know, Jamie, my ma only went once and never again.” She held his hand in both of hers. “Dinna fash yoursel’, this place can be bonny, never fear. That’s the job of a woman. I can make it bonny.”
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