Mandarin

  “Don’t speak foolishly—and don’t call me Nala. It’s too painful, too dangerous. Now go to the Emperor.”

  “Highness, Prince Kung also told me to request your support in other matters. I suppose now, though …”

  “Tell me quickly anyway. Knowledge is never wasted.”

  “As you know, the Emperor gave his assent to setting up the General Office a few months ago.”

  She nodded. The Ko-kuo Shih-wu Tsung-li Yamen, the General Office for Managing Affairs with Foreign Countries, was the fruit of Prince Kung’s new enthusiasm for dealing with the barbarians. After declaring half a year earlier that all Europeans were ferocious beasts untouched by humanity, Prince Kung had recently changed his mind. He now believed the barbarians would honor the promise of peace they had made after extracting humiliating concessions at gunpoint. The Emperor had assented to the establishment of the General Office because he could not be bothered to veto it.

  He had also observed that it was not only superfluous but probably deleterious. The old Li-fan Yüan, the Bureau for Managing Barbarians, could do the job as well—or as badly. It had, after all, dealt adequately with Mongols, Vietnamese, Koreans, and Japanese for centuries. But if Kung wanted a General Office for Foreign Affairs because Europeans conducted diplomacy through Foreign Offices, he could have his new toy. Much good it would do him.

  “For the moment, the Office brings all dealings with the barbarians under one roof,” Jung Lu said earnestly. “But we’ve got to have a modern army. Prince Kung wants to start with a corps called the Peking Field Force, armed with rifles and artillery. I’m to be a colonel.”

  “I congratulate you, Jung Lu. You were never happy behind a desk.”

  “I thank Your Highness profoundly. Of course, the Field Force also requires the Emperor’s assent. Prince Kung hoped you—but you say that’s no use now.”

  “None whatsoever, Jung Lu. Now go … before the Emperor.”

  He drew his hand back when she folded hers in her lap. He clapped his helmet on his head, wheeled, and strode to the doorway. But he turned to look again at her before leaving.

  As the door closed, Yehenala picked up her brush. After a moment, she returned it to the cinnabar holder. Flicking her fingers to dismiss Little An, she told the serving maid to bring her mother-of-pearl-inlaid makeup box.

  She studied her oval face for a full minute in the mirrored lid, frowning at the infinitesimal line between her eyebrows. With sudden decision, she took up a damp powder puff and began to remove her makeup. When her face was free of cosmetics, she studied herself again in the mirror. Smiling in approval, she applied a fresh coat of white powder. As she shaped her cheeks with rouge, she hummed softly. The song, she realized, was “The Warrior’s Return,” from her favorite Peking opera.

  “And a different gown,” she told the serving maid. “I think the hyacinth blue with the phoenixes.”

  Jung Lu would probably not return that afternoon. He might not call on her again until he departed for Peking, if then. He was, thank Heaven, too canny to take unnecessary risks. Still, there was no reason why she should not look her best. Unaccountably, she felt much better, almost cheerful.

  The eunuch called Little An scratched on the splintered door again in the early evening, after Yehenala had eaten a light supper. She saw with astonished delight that the Emperor’s Chief Eunuch, resplendent in an orange robe adorned with Imperial dragons, stood behind her own grinning attendant. In exile the Emperor no longer chose his bed partner by selecting one of hundreds of ivory slips inscribed with his ladies’ names. Nor was the lady carried to his bed by eunuchs, her nakedness wrapped in a silken rug. It was as well that she had put on his favorite robe.

  The Lord of Ten Thousand Years did not receive Yehenala in his bedchamber, but in the Throne Room of the Palace of Perfect Satisfaction, which was redolent of its cedar walls. His sallow face was plump under a simple cap embroidered with the longevity ideogram, and the lines scoring his haggard cheeks had vanished. But a second look revealed that he was not growing healthier. The dropsy from which he suffered, as well as other complaints, had swollen his features. Distended with fluid, his stomach bulged under his plain robe. His eyes dull and his hands twitching, he was obviously in no mood for lovemaking.

  “Respect! Respect!” the Emperor wheezed as she kowtowed. “We are glad someone still renders Us respect.”

  “Everyone under Heaven renders Your Majesty infinite respect,” she replied, still crouching. “How would any human dare otherwise?”

  “That’s all very well, Nala. All very well for you to say. This Orphan gets precious little respect nowadays.”

  Again that self-pitying term. Really, he needed a nursemaid rather than a concubine.

  “Oh, get up, Nala, get up. Come and sit at my feet.”

  Yehenala mounted the four steps to the yellow-carpeted dais where golden standards flaunting enormous peacock tails flanked the golden throne that stood before a gold-mounted marble screen. When she sat on the edge of the dais, he looked at her dully for a minute before glaring at the two eunuchs, who slipped out of the Throne Room. Despite great practice in assessing his temper, she could not tell whether his eyes were contemptuous or appealing.

  “We have summoned you … That is, We have caused you to come to Us …” His tone was imperative, but his words were disconnected. “This Orphan … We would amuse Ourself. Yes, amuse Ourself by listening to your counsel. Heaven knows, We hear much counsel … mostly not very amusing.”

  “This slave awaits Your Majesty’s command.” She must be very careful. “To the limit of your slave’s poor ability, she will serve Your Majesty.”

  “Of course you will, Nala, of course you will. You wouldn’t dare do otherwise.” He paused for almost a minute before resuming inconsequentially. “We have been thinking, only thinking, mind you. The Virtuous Concubine is not always obedient. Nonetheless, We have been thinking. We are, perhaps—mind you, perhaps—of a mind to restore the Heir Presumptive to your care.”

  “Your slave rejoices at Your Majesty’s magnanimity. She prostrates herself devotedly.”

  “Be silent, woman, and listen. Your counsel, We said. What do you think of Our younger brother Prince Kung?”

  “A good man, Majesty, Your slave ventures to believe. Not always as stalwart as he might be. But he grows in wisdom, and he is utterly loyal.”

  “So We think. However, that’s another matter. It’s done now. He has ceded all the territories north of the Amur River and east of the Ussuri to the Russians. Four hundred thousand square miles. That scamp of a brother of Ours says he had no choice. If the Russian Ambassador hadn’t promised support, he couldn’t have faced down the French and the British. Their terms, Kung claims, would have been far worse.”

  “Majesty, the position was impossible. Your Majesty’s generals behaved disgracefully. If only they had not been so cowardly! Prince Kung had no choice.”

  “No more talk about our fleeing to preserve Our person and the Dynasty? No more reproaches, Nala? You know now We were absolutely right, don’t you?”

  “Your Majesty,” she breathed.

  “Of course We were right. But this new matter. The Russians are offering guns and officers to train Our troops. Kung wants to form a new modern army. Wants to call it … what was it? The Peking Field Force, that’s it. The core of new armies, he says. What do you think, Nala?”

  “A brilliant idea, Majesty. All barbarians are evil and treacherous, but we must use barbarians to control barbarians. When the Armies of the Yangtze have crushed the Long-Haired Rebels, then Your Majesty will possess powerful new forces with modern weapons. Your Majesty can then drive out all the barbarians.”

  “A capital idea, Nala. Just what We thought. A woman, a woman of all things, with more sense than all Our ministers. We are truly of a mind to restore the Heir to your protection.”

  The Chief Eunuch slipped from behind the marble screen and leaned over to whisper in his sovereign’s ear. After listen
ing intently, the Emperor waved the eunuch away and turned again to Yehenala.

  “Yi Kuei …” His voice was bleak. “Virtuous Concubine, We are informed that you received the officer Jung Lu in your chamber this afternoon. Is that true?”

  “It is, Majesty.” She was only minutely alarmed. “Jung Lu brought a message from my sister in Peking. Your Majesty may condescend to recall that we grew up together, Jung Lu, my sister, and I.”

  “You admit it, then?”

  “Of course, Majesty. It is true, and no harm—or disrespect—was intended. My senior eunuch and a serving maid were, naturally, present.”

  “Mitigation, but not sufficient, Yi Kuei, not at all.” His cheeks were flushed scarlet, and the veins bulged in his temples. “We decide what is proper in Our Court. We may have prudently decided to vacate the Forbidden City for a time, but We have given no orders that permit such lewdness.”

  His face became deadly pale, and his voice faltered. Stunned by his rage, she waited.

  “We will not restore the Heir Presumptive to your care.” Neither hesitation nor digression now marred his speech. “Instead, We may well remove Prince Tsai Chün from the succession. Born of such a mother, how could he be worthy? We shall, perhaps, choose a nephew. However, We shall not act hastily. We shall consult with Our faithful counselors. But it is likely—very likely—that We shall find a new heir.”

  He smiled in satisfaction. Despite her horror, Yehenala realized that his feeble grasp on reason was slipping. He actually smiled as if he had made a masterly decision. Yet only a fool or, more likely, a madman could fail to see that disinheriting the Heir Presumptive at this moment of crisis would cast the Imperial clan, the Mandarinate, and the people into utter confusion. Such a decision would gravely imperil his throne, rather than consolidate his power. He smiled, and she remained silent.

  “Nothing to say, Yi Kuei? Of course not. Even you wouldn’t dare. Now go. We do not wish to look upon you again.”

  As she walked through the courtyards between the two eunuchs, Yehenala was astonished at her own calmness. Transcending fear, her mind was extraordinarily clear.

  Her position was really no worse and in certain ways, actually better. She now knew she had no hope of regaining the favor of the man who had raved at her irrationally. Since she could expect only hostility from the Emperor, her fate lay in her own hands. She must immediately set in motion certain actions she had already planned. He might yet not disinherit the Heir Apparent, but she must provide against his madness. She must now act to save her son and herself.

  She smiled in the moonlight, and the Chief Eunuch looked at her in amazement. Little An smiled thinly. He knew what she was thinking, and he knew what they must do.

  CHAPTER 39

  June 18, 1861

  SHANGHAI

  Fronah Haleevie Henriques heard the sweet trilling of the thrushes in the garden and smiled in drowsy contentment. The shrieks of the scavenger gulls fighting for scraps on the Hwangpoo sounded like the mewing of kittens rather than caterwauling tomcats. Even the squeals of wooden axles on the Bund drifted through the open windows of the Nest of Joy like a benison, and the cries of the street hawkers in Szechwan Road were a choral.

  The whiff of gas was making her lightheaded, as William MacGregor had warned. She did not feel disoriented, though the physician had also warned she might be troubled by hallucinations. To the contrary, she luxuriated in the well-being that had supplanted both her pain and her fear. She languidly patted her abdomen, which was a rounded hillock under the linen sheet, and smiled again. Although the heat spilled trickles of perspiration between her swollen, tender breasts, she almost wished the infant would delay much longer. It would be delicious to float for days on the tide of euphoria.

  The onset of pain had been sharp, and the contractions had continued for five hours before William MacGregor offered the whiff of nitrous oxide, which laymen called laughing gas. If she had calculated correctly, the child was more than two weeks overdue, but William felt that no cause for alarm. “Quite common in a prima gravida,” he said learnedly. She smiled when he explained: “That Latin’s only medical jargon for a first confinement.”

  The child had been growing in her womb so long he must be immense, Maylu observed, though all barbarians were large and ungainly. Like Lionel, the concubine was certain the child would be male, though Fronah and her mother Sarah were neither as certain nor as eager for a boy. The prospective grandfather had no doubt whatsoever. He already insisted that the boy must be called Judah, though Lionel winced at the atavism and Fronah hovered between resentment of her father’s imperiousness and amusement at his dynastic pride.

  She was also surprised at the detachment from the world she had felt since her abdomen began to swell. Fortunately, the steel-and-whalebone crinolines that supported her sweeping skirts had decorously concealed her condition for almost seven months. She pointed out that advantage to her mother, who still disapproved of European modes. Moreover, the corset, whose constriction she had originally considered the penalty for her emancipation from the outlandish kaftan, was an unparalleled blessing. The maternity model dispatched by Mrs. Bell’s shop at 22 Charlotte Street, London, not only supported her burden but expanded with ingenious springs as that burden expanded.

  “It doesn’t seem quite right,” the missionary doctor had joked. “The daughters of Eve are spared the punishment of Eve in the enlightened nineteenth century. Modern medicine and engineering have banished the pain and the danger of perpetuating the human race.”

  Maylu volubly objected to male interference in the female business of reproduction, and her mother was dubious. Nonetheless, William MacGregor’s humor and wisdom had sustained her. Everyone, particularly her husband, was so attentive that her pregnancy had been nothing like the protracted ordeal she had originally feared. Since Lionel returned from Peking in mid-November of last year to rejoice at her news, she had known the happiest days of her life.

  Lionel was transformed by his experience in North China and, she flattered herself, by her love. Tears had started in his light-blue eyes when she told him he was soon to be a father. Again as ardent as he was during the first month of their marriage, he had, nonetheless, controlled himself because of his concern for her and their unborn child. William MacGregor, who was professionally inquisitive, had laughed when she told him her husband no longer shared her bed. But she knew that Lionel was nobly denying himself, even if the doctor insisted there was no danger whatsoever until the seventh month.

  The spring of the year 1861 had been glorious, brilliant with azaleas and fragrant with honeysuckle. Despite Derwents’ increasing financial difficulties, Lionel generously gave her most of his time. They made excursions into the countryside and enjoyed many dinner parties, even more frequent now that more respectable ladies lived in the Settlement. Though her father’s delicacy prevented his confiding in her, she knew that he too was well pleased with her husband—and not only because his first grandchild would soon lie in the mahogany cradle of Foochow lacquer. Lionel told her he had settled his debt to her father by selling a few of his porcelain treasures from the Summer Palaces. Saul was also delighted by Lionel’s gift: a matching pair of three-foot-high vases of the Kang Hsi reign painted with yellow dragons rising from blue billows. Her mother, who had adored her son-in-law almost from the beginning, was now smugly triumphant at the proof of her good judgment.

  The city itself seemed perpetually en fête. Her elder brother Aaron was the only Shanghailander who brooded darkly on China’s future and his own. Her younger brother David and Gabriel Hyde were “having a whale of a time playing soldier,” as Lionel laughingly put it, though the Taiping tide had receded. Newly secure from rebel attacks, the foreign community rejoiced at Lord Elgin’s having humbled Manchu pride—and ensured that trade would increase still further. Though horrified by Lionel’s account of the vindictive destruction of the Summer Palaces, Fronah too was confident that a new era of peace and prosperity had begun when the a
mbassadors settled in Peking. Not only she herself but her entire world burgeoned with new promise in mid-June of 1861.

  The contractions had begun twenty minutes apart, increasing in frequency until pain transfixed her at three-minute intervals. After William MacGregor’s whiff of laughing gas, her muscles relaxed and the pain receded. She felt only fuddled pleasure for almost an hour before she was again gripped by pain.

  Moisture seeped between her thighs an instant later, and a gush of fluid soaked her nightdress. It was not painful, just unpleasant.

  “The waters have broken,” her mother said authoritatively. “It won’t be long now.”

  “Mrs. Haleevie, it could be several hours,” William MacGregor remarked from a great distance. “It’s a breech, you know.”

  Absorbed by the struggle beginning inside her body, Fronah shut out the intrusive voices. She would, she decided, distract herself by thinking of pleasant things. She would think of Lionel. To her surprise, that thought made matters far worse. At that moment she hated him, and, lanced by shafts of pain, she swore aloud in Shanghainese.

  Maylu smiled grimly. Her countrywomen often swore at the men whose pleasure inflicted pain on them. The concubine was astonished when Fronah’s tone altered. She was praising her husband, babbling of her love for him and reciting his virtues.

  Lionel Henriques sat unspeaking with Saul Haleevie under the tented-ceiling of the morning room. They had waited interminably, it seemed, since Fronah’s pains began just past noon, almost six hours earlier. Lionel was drinking his fifth whiskey-and-soda, while his normally abstemious father-in-law sipped brandy. Silence lay heavy between them, though not entirely because their thoughts were in the bedroom above.

  “I’ll do it,” Saul said abruptly, “even if it’s a girl.”