White Tigress

by Jade Lee

  Was the man a baboon? Did he think that Ru Shan could have grown up here, learned this business at his father's knee, and not learned every boy on the street? Every child—now a man—who would stand in his shop now just as Ru Shan did? No one on this street would sell. And certainly not to an ape like this.

  But this man's stupidity was Ru Shan's gain. Perhaps he could create his solution. The Tao often smoothed the way if a man took the first steps and trusted that the rest would be made clear.

  "Oh," Ru Shan groaned in a most un-Chinese-like fashion. "My heart is full of cares today. First, my dearest friend has need of a wife—immediately—and he cannot find one. And now, you come and offer me a wonderful opportunity that I cannot accept. Oh, my pain is deep." Then he moaned and bowed to his knees. In truth, he was hiding his grin. He could not believe the look of surprise and shock on the ghost man's face. Could the man really think he would sell his inheritance to the first person to walk in and offer?

  "Your friend needs a wife?" Lydia's fiancé asked.

  "Oh, most desperately. But he has odd tastes. He wishes for a white woman." Ru Shan shook his head in despair. "No one understands it. He is a dressmaker, you know, but with such strange tastes. He wishes this white woman to help him in his shop. To work with him making clothes. None of us has ever heard of such a thing, but he says he must have one immediately."

  "Or what will happen?"

  Ru Shan let his shoulders droop and bowed again, as if a great weight pulled him over. "Oh, it is most evil. A curse, honorable gentleman. A curse that will not be satisfied by a Chinese girl. He must do these things or die." Ru Shan winced at the lie. No Chinese would speak lightly of curses. And yet, he felt the situation dire enough. "He would treat the woman most honorably, great sir, or the curse will strike him dead. But where would he find such a person? A white woman? To make dresses as his wife? It is inconceivable."

  "Reeeeeeally," the fiancé said. His thick mind was obviously churning.

  Ru Shan smiled. It was indeed as he had suspected. Maxwell Slade was too thickheaded to appreciate Lydia. Indeed, Ru Shan suspected that Lydia had somehow asked the man to buy the Cheng family shop. But Slade clearly had no head for this business at all.

  "An honorable marriage, you say?" the fiancé continued. "To a dressmaker." Then he frowned. "But the man is Chinese."

  Again, Ru Shan bowed to hide his smiles. "Yes, most honorable gentleman. Do you have a woman who would serve? If so, we could meet at the Siccawei mission at four o'clock this afternoon."

  The ghost ape smiled. It was a cold expression, filled with malice. He nodded. "I," he said with a jaunty wave, "shall provide the bride." Then he was gone, taking his foul scent and his stupidity with him.

  Which left Ru Shan to make his own preparations.

  * * *

  Lydia was speechless. She did not for one second believe that Maxwell had seen the error of his ways, had suddenly realized he was deeply and devotedly in love with her, and abruptly wanted to marry her at an out-of-the-way Jesuit mission on the outskirts of Shanghai. He had shown up carrying flowers and falling over himself trying to please her.

  In truth, she was a little sickened by the sight. Had he always been this stupid? Had she been so in love with the idea of love that she'd ignored what was right in front of her? Possibly. Of course, it was also true that she hadn't seen much of Maxwell for many years. Perhaps he had been kinder before. He'd been younger, certainly. And never so cruel.

  Truly, foreign travel did change a person. Now he was here pretending to a love he obviously didn't feel. And that, perhaps, hurt even more than yesterday's dismissal. Yesterday, he simply hadn't wanted her and was looking for the easiest way to extricate himself. Today, he was scheming.

  But what was the scheme? And why?

  The only way to find out was to go along. And so it was that at precisely four o'clock in the afternoon, she found herself carrying a bridal bouquet into a Jesuit mission, feeling more unbridelike than she'd ever thought possible.

  It was a spare building, quiet and not at all filled with the pomp of the churches back home. The altar was simple, lighted by a pair of plain candelabra, and the air was dusty in the way of large rooms that cannot remain clean no matter how many times they are swept.

  Lydia moved slowly, afraid of what was coming. Two months ago she would have been appalled by the thoughts running through her mind. Would Maxwell try to kill her? Surely not in a church. Neither would he sell her back into slavery—would he? He wouldn't, she reassured herself over and over—and yet he certainly had not brought her here to marry her. One look at his face and she knew all his earlier friendliness had been a lie.

  His gaze flew everywhere but her, scanning the shadows, the pews, the altar. More telling still, when a priest joined them from a side room, he grew more nervous, not less. Then another person stepped into the light, and all of Lydia's thoughts disappeared.

  Ru Shan.

  Her steps faltered, but having seen Ru Shan, Maxwell sped up, dragging Lydia along with him. "Stop," she whispered, but he wasn't listening, and all too soon they stood before the priest and her former captor.

  Ru Shan was dressed handsomely, in what was possibly the most beautiful clothing she'd seen him wear yet. It was black silk with bright yellow embroidery. The stitched character was his family name—a kind of family crest, she supposed—bright and bold in the center of his back, while smaller characters seemed to float upon the lapels. Very simple, very elegant. And in his hands he carried a package folded in coarse brown paper.

  Lydia felt the air closing in about her, her breath thickening until she nearly choked on it. Maxwell had a firm hand on her arm, and he snapped at Ru Shan, "So? Where's the groom?"

  Groom?

  Ru Shan bowed deeply—to her, though, not to Max—and when he spoke, his eyes were on her. "He is here."

  "Here?" Max said. "Where?"

  Lydia began speaking, her voice rising from a hoarse whisper to a near squeak of hysteria. "You're selling me. You're selling me back to him." She shook her head. "No. I won't go back!" She abruptly jerked her arm out of Max's grip, then she fled, running in the opposite direction.

  There were voices behind her—Max's, the priest's—but she couldn't make sense of what they were saying. She didn't even try. She was heading for the door with all speed.

  Except that Ru Shan stood before her, blocking the way. She had not realized how large he was. How solid. Like the mountain that formed part of his name. And he would not let her pass.

  She skidded to a stop, abruptly reversing direction, but he extended his arm, moving swiftly as he followed. Soon she was blocked in, a column at her back, a pew at her side, and Ru Shan before her, preventing movement in any other direction.

  "No!" she said on a sob. "I won't be sold again! I won't!"

  "Sold?" snapped Maxwell. "No one's talking about selling. This is a church, for God's sake. You're getting married."

  She shook her head, tears blurring her vision as she searched for a way to escape.

  Maxwell was continuing to spout words, but they made no sense. The priest was also babbling, his high voice intermingling with Max's, garbling both of their messages. And all the time Ru Shan stood before her, blocking her escape.

  "Breathe easily, Lydia. No one will force you today. You have all the choice here."

  Why she believed him, she wasn't sure. Perhaps it was because he had never lied to her before, even when she'd been in his power. Max, on the other hand, had shown himself unfaithful on so many levels. Ru Shan's words at last penetrated her panic, and she began to calm down. Though her heart still raced, her mind cleared and her body relaxed some. She was still poised to run, but for the moment she would stand and listen.

  While she stood there, trapped between Ru Shan and the furniture, he extended his hand, gently lifting a tear off her cheek. "Stolen yin can be powerful," he said in Chinese, "but it twists and poisons." He threw her tear away. "I did not understand that before, but
I do now."

  She blinked, wondering if she had heard his words correctly. Then Max and the priest were confusing things again. They were there beside her, the priest asking if she was well, saying soothing words that made no sense. Max was bellowing at Ru Shan, demanding to know the meaning of all this.

  And then Ru Shan spoke, his tones low and hard. "What lie did you tell her to bring her here?"

  Max stiffened, drawing himself upright. "Now see here—" he began, but Ru Shan interrupted.

  "What lie did you tell her?"

  "I did not—"

  "Of course you did," Lydia interrupted. She was still finding it hard to breathe, and yet her voice came out clipped and angry. "You said we were to be married."

  Max grimaced. "I said you were going to get married." His voice turned high and wheedling. "It's what you want, Lydia. Marriage. Dress-making. Everything. He'll treat you well. Some curse or something."

  The priest began to exclaim, but all Lydia heard was noise. She knew he was chastising Max, loudly defending her honor and expressing outrage at Max's perfidy. At one time, she would have relished the moment. Indeed, after last night, she'd dreamed of such a moment when someone punished Max for hurting her.

  And yet, right now, she barely heard. Her eyes, her ears, indeed her entire body, seemed tuned to Ru Shan. To his dark eyes and tightened lips.

  "Do you understand how unworthy he is?" he asked in Chinese. "That your intended has..." His words faltered as he obviously struggled for the right words.

  "The morals of a monkey?" she finished for him in English.

  Ru Shan nodded, bowing slightly.

  "Yes," she said sadly, because she was sad. "I understand Max's unworthiness." And so too did she understand that all the hopes and dreams she'd had leaving England were equally absent. They'd been lost the moment she stepped off the boat.

  Her former fiancé was beginning to sputter angry words of denial, self-defense, and outrage. Lydia waved him off in weary dismissal.

  "Go away, Max. We are hurting each other, and I can't bear any more." Except part of her was still a young, idealistic English girl who wanted him to fall to his knees begging forgiveness. He didn't, of course. He sighed, the sound coming from deep inside.

  "I know it hurts, Lydia. We've been friends all our lives." He shook his head. "Shanghai changes a person, you know. I'm not that stupid boy from before, happy to have his mum pick his bride. You've changed even more than I" He glanced as Ru Shan. "You're getting married, Lydia. And you get to be a dressmaker. That's what you want, isn't it?"

  Lydia blinked away tears, wondering what would become of her. Could this really and truly be happening?

  Then he said one last thing, one parting shot that crushed the last of her silly, romantic dreams.

  "It would never really work between us, Lyds. You're just not English enough anymore."

  Lydia gaped, her mind reeling, her body going mercifully numb. What did he mean, not English? Of course she was English! But she didn't have a chance to ask him; he was already leaving, his footsteps a heavy echoing sound, and she would be damned if she ran after him. If nothing else, at least she had her pride.

  But what did he mean? Not English enough?

  "Why do you worry about a monkey's howl?" asked Ru Shan, his gentle tones interrupting her thoughts.

  Her gaze was still on the door that slipped closed behind Max, but her thoughts went to Ru Shan. Eventually, her gaze found him as well. Why did she worry about what Max said?

  "Because he represents England," she said, only just understanding the truth of her words. "What he believes is what everyone at home will believe. And what they will say." She swallowed, her eyes tearing. "And because he's right. I'm not a demure English girl anymore, am I?" Her eyes shifted to the priest, a sandy-haired man in his fifties with gentle green eyes. Her knees were threatening to buckle, and she must have swayed because both men grabbed hold of her, one on each arm. They slowly led her to sit in a pew.

  "You are still English," said the priest, his high voice sounding melodic. "But you are in Shanghai now, and that has changed you."

  "I can't go back to being her, can I? The girl I was before I arrived."

  "Of course not," said the priest, but it was Ru Shan who asked the right question.

  "Do you want to? Do you want to be her again?"

  She remained silent a moment, her thoughts slipping gently from one memory to the next, one image to another without rhyme or reason: her childhood with her family, her father's funeral, Maxwell as a boy, Maxwell as a man. Maxwell in Shanghai. The boat. The brothel. Ru Shan.

  In the end, that was the memory that remained. Ru Shan's calm presence as he began to instruct her in the ways of his religion.

  "No," she said without realizing she was speaking. "No, I do not want to go backward." Then she glanced up at the altar, at the very solid mission, built in a simple, European design. It was dusty and dark; enclosed and very, very Caucasian; nothing like the Chinese buildings with carvings and colors everywhere you looked. Their swooping lines and quiet elegance fit Shanghai, whereas the European designs did not.

  "I am like this building—an English design in a foreign place." She shook her head. "I'm impractical and ugly."

  "Not ugly," Ru Shan countered. "Merely different. And you can adapt." Then he stood, bowing at the waist before her. "As can I," he said as he straightened. "Lydia, I wish to marry you."

  She was so startled by his statement that she laughed. A nervous giggle bubbled out of her, then was quickly silenced. Ru Shan did not comment. He merely gazed at her with dark, fathomless eyes. Then he took a breath, preparing to speak, but she stopped him. She held up her hand and shook her head.

  "No, Ru Shan. Don't. Not yet." And then, while the two men watched her, she walked slowly off. She had no idea where she was going, but was not surprised when she ended up before the altar. She looked at it. At the cross and the candles. At the wood beams and the square building they supported. Finally she turned to Ru Shan. "Yes, I am like this building," she said loudly. "I am solid. Sturdy. I was raised to be a good wife to an Englishman, with room for love and beauty, children, and a future. I am Christian"—she gestured to the cross—"and I am serviceable."

  And empty? she wondered. Was she empty, too? Built only for someone else to fill?

  She stepped forward, silencing those thoughts as she moved back to Ru Shan. "I do not know how to cook Chinese foods or be a Chinese wife. I do not know your Taoist ways, though," she added slowly, "I am interested in learning." She gestured to the room about her. "But you do not want this."

  Ru Shan had not moved except for his eyes. He had watched her wander and now watched her face with the steady focus she had always found so appealing. He tilted his head, frowning in the way of a man who cannot understand why his broken clock will not tell time.

  "The first thing we Taoists learn is not to tell others what to believe, what to do, or how to act. So long as your journey does not impede my own, why would I tell you not to pursue your heart?"

  Her eyes welled with tears at his words. "Ru Shan, my heart is lost. It does not know what it wants or where it will go." She looked about, her eyes landing on the priest, then skittering beyond him to the door and, in her mind, all the way to England. But then she turned away. She could not even decide which part of the world she wished to live in.

  Ru Shan stepped closer. "Then perhaps I shall tell you what I guess of your heart." She had not realized he was so close until she felt his hands gently lift hers. "You wish to design clothing, yes? It was the first thing you asked of me—"

  "No, it wasn't," she interrupted. "The first thing I asked for was my freedom."

  He nodded, and through their joined hands, she felt his body tighten. Why? Did he feel ashamed? Angry?

  "I was wrong, Lydia," he said slowly. Deeply. Then he lifted her hands, drawing them up to his lips, kissing them each. "I bought a pet only to discover a soul. I drew out her yin, only to find it tainted
. I believed she was at fault, only to find the defect in me." He looked into her eyes. "If this building is you, then what am I? A shack in the mountains? My store within Shanghai? If you are lost, then I am equally misplaced. Can we not find our way home together?"

  She swallowed, moved by his words. "But what if our home is not in the same place?"

  He hesitated, then shrugged. "China is a large, large country. Surely there will be someplace here for you."

  She felt her lips curve into a slight smile. "And what of you?"

  "My happiness will be in the bed you make for me, with the food you cook for me." His eyes began to glimmer with humor as well. "With the clothes you design for me."

  "You want me to work in your shop?"

  He nodded. "Isn't that your wish as well?"

  She echoed the movement, though more slowly. "Of all the things we have talked about, that is the one thing I understand the most."

  "You will marry me, then?"

  She hesitated, unsure if she could make the leap as easily as he did. Then he spoke, showing that he understood her fear.

  "In China, you will have more respect as a wife who designs clothing for her husband's business than as a woman alone who works as a designer." He reached out, cupped her face. "And I thought you were built for children as well. Did you not wish for that?"

  She nodded, finding another thing of which she was certain.

  "As a designer alone, you will not find a respectable man. Not in China."

  "And not in England either," she concurred.

  Ru Shan leaned forward, nearly touching her lips. "I wish you to be respectable, Lydia." Then, for the first time ever, he pressed his mouth to hers. His touch was gentle, his lips amazingly warm. They heated her chilled body. He did not push his attentions, merely let her accustom herself to them. And in time, she molded to him; she brushed her lips across his.

  In a most calm and seductive manner, he extended his tongue, using it to trace the curve of her lips, the ever-widening seam between them, and then finally, the opening within. She tried to remain detached, to analyze the feelings within her. Did she want this man as her husband? After everything he had done? After all they had done together? Could she make a home with this man and honor him as she would a husband?