She smelled whiskey as his lips searched for hers. The odor was repugnant but exciting, and the strong fingers gripping her shoulder sent a thrill down her spine. She shivered and twisted closer, feeling fragile and protected in his arms.
“Oh, darling,” he breathed into her ear. “This is wonderful. You smell so sweet.”
Iain had taught Fronah much since their first encounter two months earlier. She was an eager pupil once she overcame her shyness. She had come into his arms five times, each time learning new delights. If she found certain caresses exhilarating, she reasoned, so must he.
Fronah opened her lips, and the tip of her tongue darted into his mouth. His fingertips caressed the swell of her bosom, then traced the cleft between her breasts. When his hand crept lower, searching for her erect nipple, she stiffened. But the sensation was delicious, at once exciting and languorous. Leaning against his firm chest, she traced the curl of his ear with her tongue.
Fronah sighed deeply, her breath incandescent on his cheek. But she struggled when he tried to force her hand down upon himself, and she drew away after dropping a light kiss on his cheek. She knew just how far she would go, even if her restraint was medieval. And she would go riding with him on Saturday.
Now, however, she must get home before the storm broke. The sedan chair would carry her safely to the house on Szechwan Road, where her parents waited for her inspired account of the brilliant conversation of Margaret MacGregor, whose side, they would be pleased to hear, she had not left all evening.
CHAPTER 16
July 15, 1855
PEKING
The small window of the loft above the Old Dumpling King was open to the arid heat of mid-July in the Crooked Sickle hutung. A faint breeze fluttered the heaped flour bags and swirled the steam rising through the gaping floorboards from the caldrons below. Alone at a small table, Master Way sipped his tea and wiped his face with a damp washcloth. Though the breeze was laden with ochre dust and black particles of mule dung, he preferred that familiar discomfort to the stale heat that would otherwise overwhelm the loft. He irritably flapped the washcloth to drive off the buzzing flies.
The deputy chief clerk of the Ministry of Justice had expected tardiness of the visitor for whom he had left off his jewelry and worn a drab gown of second-quality cotton. But he had already been waiting for an hour and a half, and he was not accustomed to being kept waiting. Sighing with annoyance, he turned the pages of the scandalous novel called The Secret Lives of the Mandarins.
Master Way cocked his head when shouts from the cooks welcomed arrivals, but the timbre of those greetings was wrong. He resignedly opened the novel again and was caught up by the misadventures of the old magistrate in his favorite passage. Despite his concentration, his head jerked upright when the cooks hailed a third arrival.
“Hwan-ying, Shao-yeh …” they chorused. “Welcome, Young Lord. We are honored by the custom of the gallant warrior.”
That was the greeting he had been waiting for. He closed the book, composed his spare features in mild deference, and listened for footfalls on the staircase. He waited a further fifteen minutes while mounting impatience frayed his respectful expression.
The slender Manchu nobleman who had been greeted so fulsomely was in no hurry to join the Chinese bureaucrat. The fellow, after all, had been waiting only two hours. The Manchu chatted with the cooks, graciously discussing the choice of dumplings and gravely agreeing that it was risky to eat shrimp that might not have been properly iced on their journey from Tientsin. He sat for ten minutes at the ebony table, sipping jasmine tea, cracking dried melon seeds between his front teeth, and spitting the husks onto the packed-earth floor. Finally he signaled the boy waiter to keep his food and sauntered toward the door to the backyard, where the privy was set against the rear wall for easy access by the scoops of the night-soil coolies.
Master Way heard boots climbing the outside staircase and rearranged his features so that the Manchu would see a humble Chinese deferentially awaiting his pleasure. As he turned down the page to mark his place, the door creaked open. The nobleman’s straight nose crinkled in distaste, and he glanced with casual arrogance at the clerk, who rose and bowed.
“You managed to get here all right, did you?” the Manchu asked.
“Always at your disposal, Sir Jung Lu.” The functionary’s voice was obsequiously low. “I am thrice honored by Your Lordship’s presence.”
The Manchu baronet dusted the pine stool with an orange kerchief before gathering the skirts of his blue-and-purple gown and seating himself. Cocked carelessly on his high forehead, his red-crowned hat with the upturned black brim carried no insignia of rank.
The nineteen-year-old Manchu had made that much concession to discretion. Otherwise, he bore himself not like the second holder of the lowest hereditary title, which he was, but like a prince of the Blood Imperial. Yet the Chinese sensed another being behind the fresh cheeks and the smooth brow that framed large eyes set straight beneath eyebrows cocked in perpetual astonishment at the antics of lesser men. Despite his cultivated hauteur, the youth’s open features were marked by characteristic Manchu naïveté—and, perhaps, nervousness.
“I’ve left my tea, and the waiter’s keeping my food,” the Baronet Jung Lu directed. “So make it quick.”
“I assure you, sir, I’ll not take an instant longer than necessary. The matter is hardly involved, though the stakes are high.”
“You’ve brought the gold, haven’t you, Master … ah … Master Way, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Sir Jung Lu. But, naturally, on behalf of my client, I must satisfy myself that you have … ah … access. I have no doubts, of course, but on behalf of my client, you understand.”
“You do know who I am, don’t you?” The petty nobleman’s eyebrows rose even higher. “That I’m completely trusted by a certain lady? You know that Yehenala, the Virtuous Concubine, and I grew up together on Pewter hutung?”
“Certainly, sir. But I must be sure. We’re not playing dice for coppers, you know.”
“Otherwise why would I be here? You have brought the gold, haven’t you? It’ll be an expensive business—very costly. So many intermediaries, you know. All those stinking eunuchs. But how else could you manage it? And remember, the lady is as far above me as I am above you. Her name must remain unsmirched.”
“Wu-yi-di …” the functionary replied. “Beyond question, discretion is paramount in all my dealings. Naturally, I’ve brought the gold, the first portion.”
“A portion? I’m not here to waste time haggling.”
“There’s no question of haggling, Your Lordship. Only that my client, who’s from Shanghai, could not convey the full sum immediately. But I assure you …”
“Assurances aren’t gold. Let me see the yellow color.”
“It’s not customary until …”
“Show me!” the Manchu demanded.
Reluctantly but reverently, Master Way placed a cloth-wrapped bundle on the splintered table. He had carried it himself. Wearing his normal splendid gown and jewelry, he could not have borne a demeaning burden. But the minor merchant his clothing declared him would not entrust to a porter the few curios he hoped to sell to a demanding client.
Master Way had expected Manchu arrogance, but not such peremptoriness. Having no choice, he undid the flowered cotton kerchief and spread the cream silk lining.
Jung Lu gasped in awe when the afternoon sun scintillated on the seventy-five taels. He sat motionless while he calculated his own share. After a minute, his hand, adorned with an archer’s thumb ring of white jade, lifted one slipper-shaped ingot. Raising the gold tael to his eye, he read the seal embossed upon its soft surface.
“The Kai Lung Moneyshop certifies, you’ll see,” Master Way pointed out. “There’s no question as to …”
“None, I’m sure, Master Way. Who would dare deceive her? And for this, I must ask also …”
“For this service, you may ask a little more, young sir.” Master Way
now dominated the negotiation; it was always the same when they actually saw the gold. “For performance—after he refrains from checking the criminal’s name—another seventy-five taels, lovely golden taels, enough to …”
“I know what gold will buy. But what, exactly, is the task? I want no complaints afterward—and no insinuations.”
“Therefore, half now and the rest later, young sir. And be assured there will be no insinuations … for my sake, too.”
Master Way was reassured by the nobleman’s sudden timorousness. Though similar gifts passed every day, the intermediaries lived in terror of exposure. Their mutual fear was the guarantee of fair dealing. The gift once accepted, donor and recipient were inextricably bound by the strongest possible common interest: preserving their lives.
Master Way knew that such transactions—he did not like the harsh word bribery—were tolerated. But this transaction was particularly hazardous, and Jung Lu’s fears were justified. If it were even suspected that a virile Manchu nobleman was passing gold to an Imperial concubine to buy the Emperor’s clemency, he and the eunuch go-betweens would lose their heads. The lady would be degraded and sent out of the Forbidden City. She might even suffer strangulation if the Son of Heaven felt his honor impugned.
The well-known companionship that had bound the Baronet Jung Lu and the Lady Yehenala before she entered the Forbidden City would assuredly kindle the basest suspicion if any word of the transaction leaked out. Master Way believed that suspicion would be justified. Even the avaricious petty nobleman would not take such an enormous risk if it were not for his devotion to the Lady Yehenala. That devotion should assure his discretion as much as the threat to his own head.
“The giver, this young Shanghainese Lee, of course does not know the channels,” Master Way continued.
“I should hope not.” Jung Lu reluctantly replaced the ingot, but his fingertips caressed its gleaming surface. “And for this you wish …”
“Only that His Majesty’s vermilion brush does not check my client’s name—no more. All else is arranged.”
“You’re sure? If I … we … make the effort, I want no discontented supplicant complaining of failure. I’m doing this because she wishes it, but she must not be implicated—not in the slightest. You are sure, absolutely sure?”
“Mitigating circumstances exist. With my guidance, there’s no question the Higher Judiciary will confirm the sentence provisionally for after the Autumn Assizes. Then, of course, it’s up to you.”
“I cannot guarantee, but only try.” The Manchu introduced a new issue. “And you swear this matter does not involve the accursed long-haired rebels, the Taipings? You swear it, Master Way? If it turns out otherwise, I’ll slice your neck myself … with my own sword.”
“Your Lordship, there may be whispers. But they are false. Only a few stupid words with the Small Swords, no more. Nothing to do with the Taipings, I swear it on my head.”
“Your head it’ll be. I will not traffic with the Long Hairs, the filthy rebels. My father, you know, sacrificed …”
“The gallant general’s virtuous death is famous. All Peking knows he gave his life to halt the Taipings. I would never be so foolish.”
“You don’t appear a fool, whatever else.” Jung Lu knew the transaction would bring him closer to the unattainable Yehenala. “All right then, I agree.”
“And the gold, sir? Will you now …”
“Perhaps you are a fool, Master Way. I certainly won’t touch it now. Tonight, at the hour of the horse, you will bring it to my villa. And you will come alone and deliver it only to me. Only to me, mind you.”
“As you wish, Your Lordship. Tonight at your villa at the hour of the horse.”
CHAPTER 17
August 8,1855
Peking
THE FORBIDDEN CITY
“We are weary, Nala, very weary.” The Hsien Feng Emperor sighed. “Weary of women and their oily ways, their petty intrigues and their dirty smells. Yet no one cares how We feel. So much is demanded of Us by so many million subjects. However, an heir at last … an Heir is Our duty to Our Sacred Ancestors.”
Crouched at the foot of the wide nuptial bed, still entangled in the great peony-flowered shawl the eunuchs had wrapped around her nakedness, Yehenala, the Virtuous Concubine, stiffened with resentment. For several months the Emperor had not summoned her, but had bestowed his favors on other concubines. More often, court gossip reported, he had assumed the costume and the identity of a junior prince to debauch himself in the Flower Quarter with warp-footed Chinese courtesans and mincing catamites. She had rejoiced when the Chief Eunuch told her His Imperial Majesty had selected from the silken casket the ivory plaque that bore her title in cursive Chinese ideograms and square Manchu script. She had spent an hour in a scented bath, as well as hours painting her face and perfuming her body. Now this sour greeting from the man who had upon many occasions chatted with her so intimately she had almost forgotten that he was the Lord of All Under Heaven.
“Your Majesty’s cares are heavy.”
She consoled herself that he was only a man to be cajoled blatantly and guided discreetly. Actually not much of a man in the nuptial bed.
“Kua …” As always when dispirited, he used the self-pitying term reserved for the Emperor, who was always by convention fatherless. “This Orphan must produce an heir.”
“Your Majesty,” Yehenala soothed, “is the father of us all.”
“One princess of Our getting—just one small female child from all these women.” He slumped against the scarlet bolster. “These chattering, useless, barren women. Heaven knows We’ve tried. But their wombs are dry.”
“My Lord is potent—powerful and thrilling,” she murmured, still crouching at the foot of the bed so that her touch would not contaminate his sacred person until he signaled that he wanted her.
“The Court Astronomers have been busy with their horoscopes and their wands. They say this night your fate and Ours cross. Tonight, from our coupling perhaps, an heir …”
“I am honored, Majesty, inestimably honored that, for this instant, this slave’s destiny and My Lord’s join.”
Despite much practice, Yehenala strained to sustain the extravagant speech prescribed by Court etiquette without falling into parody that could sound ludicrous even to his insensitive ears. “I am no more than a she-turtle in the mud, a mud turtle gazing upward at a brilliant comet—My Lord’s flashing course across the heavens.”
“It will be well.” The Emperor slipped off his green silk bed gown and extended his long-nailed hand. “This Orphan will get an heir upon you this night, We know it.”
Yehenala crept on her hands and knees toward the head of the great nuptial bed, slithering over the mauve satin coverlet embroidered with five-clawed Imperial dragons. Her small breasts swayed in the pink light seeping through the half-drawn bed curtains that hung between enormous vermilion pillars. Provocatively, she moved even more slowly than Court etiquette required of a concubine approaching her master. The Emperor’s breath quickened infinitesimally, but his small penis lay quiescent on his plump thigh like a sallow worm.
She had learned that this man enjoyed a woman’s self-abnegation far more than either the preliminary acts of love or the coupling itself. Glancing bitterly at the orange lacquer screen with the great gilt double-joy ideogram that symbolized conjugal love, she deliberately exaggerated the awkward waggling of her hips imposed by her humiliating posture. He would be amused and slightly contemptuous. His delight in her ludicrous movements would fan his ardor. No man, not even a deified princeling who was hardly a man, could feel threatened by a woman crawling toward him with her soft buttocks raised vulnerably.
Lifting her eyes surreptitiously, she saw that the Emperor was smiling in amusement. His pendulous lips curled minutely, revealing his small eyeteeth, and she knew that he was becoming aroused. She also discerned a hint of tenderness in the narrow eyes that normally glinted with petty rage or dulled with self-pity. His eyes were
luminous—and not with passion alone. He was almost sated with passion, this prince who had just passed his twenty-fourth birthday.
Yes, he did feel affection for her, and she treasured the small signs. The Son of Heaven rarely permitted himself to give way to affection for a subject. But his lips now smiled without derision; his blunt nose crinkled; and the minusculely pocked skin over his flat cheekbones wrinkled with tenderness. Although his body was untouched by the tien-hua ping, the heavenly flower disease, which had marked his face, it was, she saw again with sadness, almost as soft as a eunuch’s. His arms and legs were flabby while his abdomen was grossly padded with fat. Even when he was reclining, his belly hung flaccid, half concealing his shrunken, virtually hairless private parts.
“I am coming to you,” Yehenala whispered huskily. “I am coming.”
Her nipples brushed the manicured nails of his small feet, and her hands crept up his plump legs. Her fingernails tantalizingly stroked his thighs, alternately darting toward and drawing away from the penis that stirred feebly. Crawling slowly along his supine length, she bent her head toward his thighs.
As her lips closed, Yehenala marveled at her own excitement and at the rush of affection that warmed her. Giving herself to the task she knew would be prolonged, she knew her own emotion surpassed the grateful awe any well-brought-up Manchu lady must feel at such communion with the Son of Heaven. She was actually moved by affection for the self-indulgent body she thus served with so little response.
Was there, Yehenala wondered, truly a spark of love? Of course there was. Besides, it was her duty to serve him and to love him.
Revulsion, too, she felt at his lordly posture, like a Buddha accepting the adoration of a worshiper, rather than a man with a woman. He hardly stirred in any part of him.
Yet she must serve him, as must any Manchu lady selected for the supreme honor. Not only for herself—though the penalty would be severe if she failed to please him and terrible if she displeased him. Not even primarily for herself, but for the imperiled Ching Dynasty, which desperately required an heir to the Dragon Throne.
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