The Dragon Earl

by Jade Lee

  "I can't do anything about that! I told you, Uncle Frank will never allow it!" He almost threw his alms bowl again. They were going in circles.

  "The tide is less important than the respect. Do they see you as the earl?"

  "Of course not! They think I'm some thieving interloper."

  "Then make them see the earl. Wear his clothing, look at his possessions, demand his respect. And his woman."

  And there it was: the one aspect that he most wanted to avoid thinking about, the woman. Money, land, even the tide— all were just words written on paper. They meant less than nothing to him. Whether he took the tide or not, the earl's money would land in the estate coffers. The earl's managers would handle that money. He had no intention of changing any of it. As for respect, who cared if someone called him "earl" or "my lord?" Words meant nothing.

  But Evelyn was not nothing. The stiff, prissy girl in pigtails he remembered was now a beautiful woman. The feel of her mouth on his had been like sunlight on a mountain lake, blindingly bright and dazzling, shimmering in his thoughts. Just looking at her brought back a favorite memory of an­other girl, another rime, and his very last English rainstorm. In short, Miss Evelyn Stanton was the one thing, the one part of England that tempted him.

  "A monk does not need a woman," he said to himself.

  "You are not a monk."

  Jie Ke barely restrained his curse. This was an old argument between him and everyone else. "Yes, I'm white. Yes, I was born English. But that is no reason to keep me from becom­ing a monk! Why can't you see your own prejudice? God damn it, Zhi Min!" He whirled around, spinning uselessly be­cause he was so angry he teetered on the edge of madness. "Why are you making this so hard?"

  "I would release you from this task if I could, truly I would," Zhi Min replied. "But there is more to taking vows than sim­ply saying the words. The ceremony splinters a man into shards of glass. If there is any doubt, anything left unresolved, then you cannot put yourself together again." He shook his head. "The process is very painful. Seeing you now, Jie Ke, I know you would not survive."

  Jie Ke swallowed, stunned by the absolute certainty in his friend's expression. "But. . . why? What do I lack?"

  Zhi Min sighed. "You run from your past."

  Jie Ke tried to understand. He didn't—he never did. All he could do is obey, for now, and pray the answer would become clear.

  "Very well," he finally said. "I will wear English clothing. I will eat English food. I will even appear in the House of Lords and demand my tide. But do not ask me to woo the English wife; it is too cruel to her. Do I engage her affections only to leave her and become a monk? Disrupting her wed­ding was bad enough, but now you ask me to toy needlessly with her. That is neither honorable nor holy."

  His friend simply shook his head. "You must dress, act, and live as Ja-cob. Do all that your English parents would want."

  "But she—"

  "Your parents wished you to wed her, did they not? They betrothed you."

  "Yes, of course, but that was years ago, and it had to do with property, not people."

  Zhi Min shrugged. "A wedding between aristocrats is al­ways about money. Surely she knows that. She merely fights because she thinks you are penniless. Once you claim the tide, she will have everything she wants."

  Jie Ke ground his teeth together. Why didn't his friend un­derstand? "But I will not win the tide; my uncle is too pow­erful. Even if I succeed, I will abdicate to Chris. That's who should have had the tide from the beginning."

  Zhi Min did not appear to care. "Then give her enough money before you leave and she will be satisfied." He leaned forward, his expression intense. "Your arguments are as straw—easily knocked aside. Ask yourself why you fight this process so much."

  "I fight because it's cruel—"

  "You fight because she tempts you. So explore your temp­tation. See if it is your true path."

  "It isn't!"

  Zhi Min didn't respond. He simply closed his eyes and resumed his meditations. Obviously the conversation was finished, which left Jie Ke to struggle on his own. And yet, no matter how he turned the task over in his mind, he could not find a way out. He wouldn't toy with a woman. It wasn't fair to either of them, especially since he feared she would prove the one temptation that England truly offered. But that was Zhi Min's whole point, wasn't it? Something had to tempt him to stay in England so that he could freely choose to leave.

  "Fine," he snapped in English. "I will woo her." Then he stomped from the room.

  A decade ago, he would have slammed the door or would have sat and pretended to meditate in sulking fury. But he was a man now, and he understood the workings of the uni­verse better. He knew that enlightenment came at odd mo­ments, often when one least expected it. One such moment had happened just a breath ago. He had not thought a new solution would appear in the space between one breath and the next, but one had. And with enlightenment came pur­pose. Finally, he had a viable plan.

  Jie Ke walked too quickly down the stairs. If he were at the temple, monks young and old would have glared at his un­seemly demeanor. But he was in England, where his very pres­ence was an oddity. They would stare no matter how quickly he moved, and so he walked to please himself and to find Evelyn.

  He found his grandmother instead. She was waiting in the central hallway, sitting in a chair usually occupied late at night by an exhausted buder or footman. Her eyes brightened the moment he rounded the bottom of the stairs, and she strug­gled to stand. "Jacob! Jacob!"

  Common courtesy required that he stop and assist her. His monastic respect for all souls demanded that he give her rev­erence, especially considering her age. But the scent of the powder in her hair tickled his nose and he struggled not to sneeze. How strange that he simultaneously wanted to inhale deeply and shove her far, far away from him.

  He didn't want to look her in the eye. He feared it would make his urge to sneeze that much worse. And his headache was coming back, too. So he shifted his gaze downward and ended up seeing her hands. They were frail, her skin like parchment as she gripped her cane. He did not want to see her skin looking so white and thin. He wanted to see Evelyn and set his new plan into motion, and yet his conscience re­quired him to remain by his grandmother. So he locked his knees tight and remained exactly where he was.

  "Are your prayers over then?" she wheezed. Well, it truly wasn't a wheeze. Monk Ming Hai wheezed. His grandmother spoke as he remembered, except without as much authority and with a thin whisper of air around her words.

  "Jacob?" she said again.

  "Hmm? Oh yes, my morning meditations are over for now."

  "You didn't eat anything earlier."

  How would she know that? Gossip, most likely. His every action was probably being dissected by everyone in the sur­rounding countryside, from servant to tided lord. Would his family's murderer hear the gossip? Would he laugh at how ef­fectively he had destroyed everything Jacob loved? Would he—

  "Would you care for tea?" she pressed. "Perhaps eggs? Por­ridge? You used to like Cook's Banbury buns, but I don't know how they are done here."

  A maid came down the stairs, slowly dusting the stairway rail. Another woman peeked her head out of parlor along the hallway, then pulled back before reappearing with a man. Jie Ke had no idea who they were, except that they were obvi­ously a married couple and interested in whatever he said. Had his grandmother said Banbury buns?

  "Jacob, surely you wish for tea. You have been ever so long in those heathen lands—"

  "My dog liked the Banbury buns." He remembered his dog, the feel of its large, lolling tongue slurping wetly about his fingers as he fed it.

  "Yes, well, that dog liked everything. And you would feed him anything, you naughty boy." She smiled, and her face wrinkled. He saw little bits of powder stuck in the creases. When had Grandmother become this old?

  Panic began to clog his throat. His breath shortened, and his mind splintered even more than usual. "I am looking for Evelyn. I nee
d to see Evelyn," he said.

  "Well, Evie is here somewhere, dear. She was most angry at you."

  "I say," interrupted the parlor woman. Her voice was high-pitched and trilled falsely. He had not heard such a thing in China, perhaps ever. He stared at her, wondering if she had an ailment of the throat, but she continued, "I believe Miss Stanton took a turn with Mr. Wilkins."

  "No, no, my dear," said her husband, his voice pitched nearly as high. "Mr. Wilkins went out, but she stayed inside to find me a newspaper. It was still being pressed, you see. And that footman was making a fuss about rearranging the parlor furniture or something."

  "You and your newspaper, dear. Why just the other day . . ."

  There was more from the couple, but Jie Ke lost the sense of the English words. The voices were so strange, and why did the man's hair curl in such a way—in perfect rows like sausages? Did the murderer have curling hair like that, too?

  He forced a breath into his lungs, but got a big whiff of his grandmother's powder instead. It irritated his nose and throat. Putting fist to palm, he bowed just as a fierce sneeze ripped through him. There wasn't room in the hallway to proceed forward, so he pushed his way backwards into a par­lor. Was it a parlor? It didn't matter. . . .

  "Jacob! Jacob, dear, what about tea?"

  It was a parlor. White walls and light blue furniture. Blue like Evelyn's eyes. He needed to see her. He needed to not see his grandmother. But why? Why did he fear an old woman? It was indeed fear that pounded through his veins. He couldn't think. He sneezed again. A parlor maid spun around. She had been dusting and now was wide-eyed in terror at seeing him. He bowed to her with all reverence, but that only seemed to frighten her more.

  How ridiculous was this? A panic-stricken monk facing a terrorized maid. He swallowed. She looked like she was about to scream. The duster was shaking in her hand like a wet dog. This was funny. He should be smiling. How could he make her relax?

  He tried to laugh but hadn't the breath. Wet dog? He re­membered wet dogs. There were dogs at the temple, too, but he remembered his wet dog from childhood. The one that liked Banbury buns. Why was he shaking?

  "Evelyn. Miss Stanton." He forced the words out. Now he was wheezing, and sounded like an old man. "Where is she?"

  "I'll find her, sir. Right away!" Then she sidled past as fast as she could.

  Jie Ke backed against the window to give her space. In fact, he wedged himself between a settee and a table to give her room. What was wrong with him? His grandmother was coming in with the high-voiced couple. He needed to be calm. He needed to understand. He knew how to control himself.

  Inhale. Straighten the body. Exhale. Bow the head. Inhale. Press the hands together. Exhale. Quiet the mind. Inhale— "Jacob? Oh dear, you don't look well." Outside. He needed to be outside.

  "Lord Greenfield, I believe we need some tea. Do be so kind as to—"

  "Yes, yes. Of course, of course." The man bobbed his head but didn't leave.

  Jie Ke was shaking. Why was he shaking? Grandmother's powder tickled in his nose again. He backed farther away from the group, but they just pushed in closer. He barely avoided hit­ting his nose on a lampshade while turning away. There were now two more scents added to the powder. It came from the married couple, each of whom had a perfume of sorts. He sneezed again, and the force from that made his head pound.

  "Oh, dear. I do hope you aren't catching ill."

  Greenfield pressed farther forward, holding out a palm-sized ebony box. Snuff! That was the smell on the man.

  "I say, chap, would you care for a pinch?"

  Jie Ke shook his head, though he reached forward a finger anyway. His grandfather had taken snuff. He remembered snuff. Aiee, the pounding in his head made his vision quiver. He sneezed again, this time more violently. All three shrank back in horror. Jie Ke now held his hand suspended over nothing; the snuff box was now a foot away, removed to a safer spot.

  "Please," he said. "I must go outside."

  "What did he say?"

  "Was that Chinese?"

  Had he spoken in Mandarin? He took a breath. Not an­other sneeze. Don't sneeze!

  "Lord and Lady Greenfield!" came a voice from the door­way. "I have been looking for you both! Thank goodness I have found you."

  It was Evelyn. Jie Ke could see her, but he couldn't breathe enough yet to speak.

  "Lady Greenfield, Cook most especially needs to talk to you about your diet request. I do understand about your dif­ficult stomach. Mary here will show you to the kitchen."

  Was the maid there, too? There she was, peering around Evelyn's hip like a frightened child.

  "And Lord Greenfield," his wife-to-be continued, "I be­lieve Mr. Wilkins wants to discuss your horses. Seems one of them is off his feed. You remember where the stables are, do you not? Davis!" She gestured to a footman. "Take Lord Greenfield to the stable and make sure he is well satisfied. Show him every inch of the stable, will you? We wish him to be completely sure of things. Every single inch."

  Evelyn linked arms with the husband and wife, resolutely pulling them out of the room, babbling all the way. The cou­ple could not speak. She didn't give them time. And as they were pulled from the parlor, Grandmother came in even closer. Her powder . . .

  He sneezed again.

  His grandmother took his hand and tugged him out from behind the settee.

  "Come along, dear. Do sit down."

  He was a grown man and much stronger than she. He could shove her away with a single finger then dash out the door, but that was cowardly and disrespectful. He gritted his teeth. He would not sneeze again. He stepped away from the window, feeling like it was a Herculean task. He remembered who Hercules was—a Greek demigod. Hercules didn't sneeze.

  "I think tea would be best," intoned Grandmother. He recognized her voice, but when he looked in her face, she was so very old. He sneezed.

  "It's those clothes," she said with a tsk. "You need some proper English clothing."

  He remembered her scolds. No one, not even the most pompous monks, scolded as she did: concerned, disappointed, and so very maternal. If he closed his eyes, he could remem­ber his grandmother as she had been. But he couldn't keep his eyes closed—he wanted to see Evelyn.

  And then there she was, his wife-to-be. She stood in the parlor door, firmly shutting it. Looking over her shoulder, he glimpsed other people in the hallway—another wedding guest and a footman, maybe more. Then the door closed and he remained with Evelyn and Grandmother. If only Grand­mother would leave, too.

  "The tea will be here in a moment," Evelyn said as she came back to the center of the room. She looked down at him, her eyes narrowed, her expression thoughtful. He stared back, wondering what she was thinking.

  "You don't look well," she said flady. "Your prayers go unanswered?"

  "Always," he responded without thought. Then he blanched. That wasn't something he usually admitted.

  "You must be a very bad monk, then," she said.

  He shook his head. "That's just it, I'm not a monk at all. Not a full monk. Not like Zhi Min." He swallowed, forcing himself to focus. He had to get this done now. He needed to return to China where things made sense. He was a man. He did not cower next to settees. And he had something impor­tant to say. "I need your help."

  Her eyebrows shot up. Grandmother leaned forward to touch his hand. He flinched away from her powdered hair and parchment-thin skin. "Of course, Jacob, we will do whatever you need."

  "No," responded his bride-to-be. "No, we most certainly will not."

  "Evelyn!" Grandmother's tone was sharp with censure, but Evelyn didn't appear to care. She had folded her arms across her chest, and her face was set in stubborn lines. Grandmother echoed the stance. Aie-yah, they were going to squabble. Women always squabbled.

  "Stop!" he whispered. It was a quiet word, but he invested it with all his chi strength. Even whispered, the word echoed in the room. Both women jumped in surprise. Fortunately neither spoke. And in the silence, he was abl
e to focus on Eve­lyn. "Do you know what it means to be a monk of Xi Lin?"

  She shook her head.

  "It means study, meditation, and serenity. Serenity of body, mind, and spirit. Most men pledge themselves to such a life at the age of eighteen. I would have done so, had I been al­lowed."

  Evelyn arched her brow at him. "Not a very good stu­dent?"

  "I'm an excellent student," he answered truthfully. "I mas­tered the physical forms by the time I was sixteen. I mastered the holy texts soon after. But I am white, and they look at me as if I were tainted."

  "You are white, dear," said his grandmother. "You don't belong in some foreign temple." She tried to touch him again, but he slipped away to settle farther down the couch. It was an obvious movement and one that hurt her, but he couldn't bear to be touched. Not by her. It made no sense to him, but he did not have the breath to argue. Her powder clogged his throat and made his head pound.

  Meanwhile, Evelyn slowly sat down in a chair opposite him. "So you're . . . what? An apprentice monk?"

  He nodded. "Exactly."

  She leaned back, but he saw intense concentration on her face. That alone gave him hope. She was a person who thought. She didn't just feel, she used her brain. He took a deep breath, feeling the tightness in his chest and between his shoulder blades. He needed to do his fighting forms—that always helped restore his serenity. And when he practiced, she would watch him. He would like that.

  "I want to return to the temple. I want to become a full monk. But in order to do that, the abbot says I must put my English past to rest. I must honor what my parents wanted of me." He looked directly into her pale blue eyes, so like his own. "To do that, I must reclaim my tide and marry the woman promised to me."

  "No," said Evelyn.

  "Of course," said Grandmother.

  "Listen to me!" How to explain the complicated and often mysterious commands of the abbot? "Zhi Min is my judge."

  "I thought he was your friend," inserted Grandmother.

  "He is that too, but he is my judge in this. He must see me embrace everything English."