“Thanks so much,” the Englishman replied. “That’s a great weight off my mind.”
“Perhaps I shouldn’t. But a fresh start is worth trying. A fresh start for a new life.”
“You’ll see, Saul, it’ll work out well. You won’t be sorry, I assure you.”
“Fronah doesn’t know, does she?” Saul asked suspiciously.
“Of course not, Saul. You said I wasn’t to mention it. And when my old mater goes, I’ll make it up.”
“No need, Lionel, as I said. Above all, I don’t want Fronah worried.”
Excused his debt of almost £10,000 as a present from his father-in-law to the infant striving toward life in the bedroom, Lionel should have been delighted because he had calculated correctly. Saul Haleevie was normally as stringent in demanding payment of his accounts as he was scrupulous in honoring his own obligations. Lionel thanked God that his father-in-law looked at a debt within the family differently, but somehow he did not feel the elation of a successful gambler.
Saul Haleevie might cancel his debt, but Lieutenant General Sir Hope Grant would hardly be as magnanimous. The thousand-odd pounds he owed for the porcelains would have to be repaid somehow. The stern Scottish soldier must already have discovered that his promissory notes were just that: empty promises.
Samuelsons wouldn’t pay £10 on his signature, much less a thousand. His brother Rupert would not help, not even to spare the Henriques family another scandal. Rupert had made that quite clear when their mother died a year earlier. Lionel’s quarterly remittance would continue as long as he did not return to England, but there would be no more lump sums, “no further rescue operations.”
How, he wondered desperately, would he raise a thousand pounds? Certainly not from the porcelains he’d had to store in Derwents’ godown in boxes labeled cloth. Only that deception kept Saul from discovering how deeply committed he was. Only by hiding the porcelains had he prevented Fronah’s learning that he had not sold them to repay her father. He would sell them all in an instant if he could, but there was simply no market. He had miscalculated disastrously.
Old Curiosity Soo was stubborn. He could not, he said, dishonor his name by purchasing treasures looted from the Summer Palaces. Besides, he added practically, it would be as much as his head was worth if he were found out. Of course, he’d consider taking them off his old friend Henriques’s hands as a favor. He’d even pay a price Lionel reckoned a hundredth of their value for goods he’d have to trickle onto the market over a number of years.
That proposition was worse than useless, since every Chinaman in Shanghai would know the seller. The old rogue had probably put the word out already. Few native collectors, however avid, would buy the Emperor’s treasures. Not patriotism, Lionel suspected, but self-preservation inspired that refusal. He must either sell at Old Curiosity Soo’s derisory price or not at all.
His predicament would be bad enough if the notes drawn on Samuelsons were his only problem. Sir Hope Grant’s wrath would destroy his position in Shanghai and dispel whatever credibility he still retained in Saul’s eyes. But a greater danger hung over him. If the old crow in the South City carried out her threat, even Fronah would abandon him. He simply had to get hold of more money for that blackmailing crone, though he’d already poured every penny he could find into her hands. Lionel Henriques laughed sourly, and Saul Haleevie looked up from his intent contemplation of his brandy snifter.
“Sorry, Saul,” Lionel said. “Just thinking of the joy when it’s all over. I’m desperately concerned about Fronah. Can’t help it, you know.”
“It didn’t sound like joy to me. But I know how you feel.”
Saul would never know how he felt. The merchant was too pious to lay himself open to blackmail. The pleasure was delightful, but, by God, it was costly—and likely to be much more costly soon. Lionel bit his lip to keep from exclaiming bitterly. He’d almost forgotten the additional threat. If Saul discovered the full facts regarding the silver loan he had negotiated in Hong Kong a few years ago, it would be the end. However, he wouldn’t torment himself with that remote possibility. His present troubles were heavy enough.
Lionel heard the bedroom door close, and after an interminable minute, Dr. William MacGregor shuffled into the dining room. His face was pale, and his forehead was lined with fatigue beneath his disheveled sandy hair. He smiled with an effort.
“A boy, gentlemen,” he said. “I congratulate you both most heartily.”
“And Fronah?” Lionel asked.
“She’s fine, perfectly well. So’s the baby.”
“You’re not looking well, Doctor,” Saul said. “A brandy, perhaps.”
“Looking well? No, I’m not so fine. It was the devil of a breech delivery. Had to use forceps. He’s rather large, your son, Lionel. Ten pounds three ounces.”
“But he’s all right, isn’t he?” The grandfather was more anxious than the father. “Judah’s fine, too, isn’t he?”
“Absolutely, Mr. Haleevie. A perfect specimen and deuced big, as I said.”
Saul beamed in delight. He could forgive his irresponsible son-in-law a good deal more than £10,000 in return for this joy. He splashed brandy into a snifter for the doctor and lifted his own.
“L’chaim! … To life!” he said. “To life—and Judah.”
CHAPTER 40
July 16, 1861
Jehol in Manchuria
THE IMPERIAL HUNTING PARK
When the eunuch Little An brought the small Prince Tsai Chün to her just before dawn, Yehenala had been fully dressed for an hour. Her thick hair, glossy with scented pomade, swept in two crow-black wings off her forehead. The serving maids had spent almost two hours applying full Court makeup over the moistened rice powder that whitened her face. A flock of paired mandarin ducks, the symbol of connubial harmony, floated on her lavender robe, and the summer crown that completed her formal regalia lay on the marble table. The new scarlet tassels glittered beneath wire tracery studded with rubies and garnets around a single splendid pearl. Even her shoes were new, immaculate white kidskin covering their six-inch platforms.
“Hau-chiu, Ma-ma …” the five-year-old Heir Presumptive lisped. “Such a long time, Mama. Somebody said you went away.”
“I’m here now, my treasure,” she soothed him. “I’ll always be here whenever you need me.”
“The Lady Yee is never cross, Mama.” His small body squirmed in her arms, and his agate eyes glinted with juvenile cunning. “Not like you, Mama. She never scolds me.”
“I’m sorry, treasure. Sometimes, your mama thinks of other things. You know I have to help His Majesty, your papa, with important matters. You understand, don’t you?”
“I don’t mind, Mama. But I wanted to see you. I told those stupid eunuchs over and over again.”
“You’ll come to me whenever you like from now on. Soon we’ll be together always, I promise. And today we’ll see your papa and wish him joy on his birthday. We’ll wish him a long, long life, ten thousand years of life.”
“Everyone wishes Papa ten thousand years, Mama. It’s funny. Always ten thousand years.”
“Because your papa is the Emperor, and everyone loves him, treasure.”
“I know that, Mama.” His plump lips curled complacently. “And I’m the number-one prince. Some day I’ll be Emperor, Lady Yee says. After ten thousand years. Mama, are you the Empress?”
“Not yet, treasure, not yet. But some day soon, very soon. Now be a good lad and let me finish getting ready.”
Yehenala set the small boy on his feet. Clumsy in miniature riding boots with rigid soles, he almost fell when he stretched to take the stick of candied crab apples from her hand. He was still the Heir Presumptive, the number-one prince, as he said; she congratulated herself as she watched him lick the sugar from the crab apples. He was still the Heir Presumptive because she had marshaled all her resources to keep his spiteful father from carrying out the threat to disinherit him.
The Baronet Jung Lu had ridden for twenty-six hour
s without a halt, exhausting relays of horses from the Imperial Post Stations, to carry her pleas to Peking. Fearful that his own return would inflame the Imperial rage, Jung Lu entrusted Prince Kung’s reply to a trusted fellow officer.
The Emperor’s best-loved brother sent him an intimate letter, which was profusely courteous but uncharacteristically direct. He was, Prince Kung wrote, appalled by the rumor, which he could hardly believe true, that his wise elder brother planned to disinherit the Heir Presumptive. If His Majesty did so, the Imperial Clan would be distressed and the Mandarinate would be horrified. Already dismayed by the Emperor’s protracted absence from the Northern Capital, the people would be frantic at that apparent proof of the Sacred Dynasty’s instability. The Prince-Administrator did not flatly threaten to resign if his brother acted so rashly. But he ominously regretted his inability to control the consequent disorder.
Two days later, the Baronet Jung Lu himself returned with a second private communication to the Son of Heaven. Prince Chun, the seventh Imperial brother, who was the husband of Yehenala’s youngest sister, also pleaded with the Emperor to change his mind. The Imperial family, he wrote, might split if the Emperor designated a nephew, rather than his own son, Heir Presumptive. Dynastic Law, of course, empowered the monarch to choose his own successor. Any prince of the next generation could offer the obligatory sacrifices to the Imperial ancestors and to his immediate predecessor. But, Prince Chun counseled, it would be unwise to try the loyalty of either the people or the Imperial Guard, since both were devoted to the Virtuous Concubine. When the present crisis had passed, the Son of Heaven could take whatever action he pleased—guided, as always, by Heaven’s inspiration. But not just now.
The Emperor had finally yielded, as he always yielded nowadays. It was less trouble to give in than to insist. Besides, he could not dismiss the urgent advice of his brothers, who were selflessly renouncing their own sons’ chances to mount the Dragon Throne. The Emperor yielded—and sulked. Balked of public revenge, his spite had to content itself with barring Yehenala from his presence, even at ritual Court ceremonies.
That barrier was now to be breached. His brothers had remonstrated with him again when they learned that he planned to exclude Yehenala from the formal celebration of his thirtieth birthday. Even her enemies, who were his counselors in exile, believed that public rebuff would serve no purpose. Since the Emperor had not removed her son from the succession, slighting the Mother of the Heir would only win sympathy for her—and strengthen her position. The Emperor had again yielded with ill grace, and Yehenala was attired for her triumphant public return to Court.
The Lady Yee, governess of the Heir Presumptive, resented being required to allow the small Prince to visit his mother. The scheming Yehenala not only aroused her feminine malice but impeded her husband’s ambitions. The junior lady-in-waiting assigned to accompany the Heir fretted in silence when he soiled his turquoise silk robe with the sticky crab apples. She dared not protest, though she would be chastised if the golden dragon on his chest was smeared with syrup when he joined his father to receive the courtiers’ congratulations.
Yehenala was unaware of the junior lady-in-waiting’s perturbation in her maternal delight at the small figure standing before the silver screen painted with black-necked swans in flight. The baby features were still unformed, but the sparse, high-cocked eyebrows were undeniably his father’s. His eyes and the oval shape of his face, were, however, her legacy. The face that would some day inspire awe beneath the Imperial Crown bore the stamp of the Yehe tribe.
“You must go now, treasure.” She adjusted his cap and patted his bottom. “Your papa’s eager to see you.”
“Why can’t I come with you, Mama?”
“You must stand on the dais beside your papa’s throne. But ladies stand below. That is proper etiquette.”
“Etiquette, always etiquette!” the Prince protested. “But We must act properly, mustn’t We?”
“Yes, treasure, always. And you mustn’t say We … not yet.”
He put his chubby arms around her neck and rubbed his face against hers, smearing her makeup. Unconcerned, she hugged him tighter before reluctantly releasing him. As Little An opened the door, the junior lady-in-waiting was already scrubbing the crab apple smears with the damp cloth she always carried.
Yehenala savored her coming triumph while her maids repaired her makeup. For the first time in two months, she had embraced her son, joyous at holding him and proud of his intelligence. His brief visit was itself a significant political victory. Her triumphant appearance at the Birthday Rites would be not only a personal vindication but a major political victory.
Perhaps the Emperor was really changing, she pondered, not merely yielding to the pressure exerted by his brothers and his counselors. He had a year earlier reached thirty sui, the age at which, the Sage Confucius had pronounced, a man stands erect, having become fully adult. The barbarians, she knew, reckoned age from the actual date of birth, and he had actually lived in this world just thirty years today. Perhaps the Hsien Feng Emperor, who was notoriously tardy in maturing, would today begin to act like an adult, rather than a pampered child.
He had shown a flicker of independent judgment in his rebuke of the Court Astronomers, who prepared astrological forecasts. While her maids put away their brushes and pigments, Yehenala reread the Imperial Rescript issued the preceding day. It was a model of good sense. Recalling that the astronomers had earlier warned that the appearance of a great comet presaged the wrath of Heaven, the Emperor remarked with asperity that they had now declared the conjunction of the planets most auspicious for his birthday.
Since We came to the Throne, he then observed with somewhat more regard to appearance than truth, We have consistently refused to credit auspicious omens, with good reason, considering the spreading rebellions in the South and the pitiable state of Our people. He had been unable to refrain from expressing the hope that the present auspicious conjunction of the planets portends happier days and the speedy end of the rebellion. The spoiled child was speaking again. But he had directed the Court Astronomers not to report the new omen to the Historical Chroniclers for inclusion in the annals of the reign, so that all men may know We possess a devout and sober mind.
Though self-serving, the Rescript demonstrated not only sobriety but maturity. Besides, no Emperor could govern effectively if he did not look to his own interests. Perhaps the tide of his mind was truly turning.
Yehenala rose when Little An scratched on the door. It was unseemly to feel eagerness, and it was undignified to display eagerness. But her eunuch knew how she longed to return to Court.
“I’m ready, Little An,” she said. “The palanquin, it’s here?”
“No, Highness.” His face was grim. “I have not summoned the palanquin, Highness. Your presence is not requested.”
“It has already been requested. Summon the palanquin immediately.”
“It would not be wise, Highness. I have already taken it upon myself to tell the escort you are ill.”
“Ill? How dare you?”
“Highness, the Lord of Ten Thousand Years has forbidden you to appear at the Birthday Rites.”
“Forbidden?”
“Specifically, Highness, forbidden. I am stricken with grief.”
Yehenala spat Manchu obscenities. She hurled her crown to the floor and ground her high-platformed shoes on the gold filigree. The wires snapped, and the great pearl crumbled into powder. She snatched up her inkstone and drew her arm back to throw it at Little An.
As abruptly, she replaced the inkstone and sat in her high-backed chair. Raging would not help her. She must consider the implications of the Emperor’s monstrous insult. For two minutes she sat unmoving.
“He believes he can humiliate me with impunity.” Her formal tone concealed her fury. “And he is absolutely correct!”
“Correct, Highness?”
“For the moment. You did well to tell the escort I was ill. Help me off with the rob
e. I must go to bed immediately. And see that the Imperial Guard learn that I am ill.”
“They won’t believe it, Highness.”
“I do not wish them to believe it—only to behave as if they did. I want no demonstration. Not just yet.”
“Highness, whatever you say, this will be a scandal.”
“Of course, but the Guard must not protest yet. Tell them I command them to behave normally. There must be no provocation.”
“And that is all, Highness?”
“No, not quite. Messages must go to Peking. Prince Kung must act. The Emperor is obviously not in control of himself. His mind is unbalanced.”
“Highness!” the eunuch murmured in reply to her lèse-majesté.
“Tell me, Little An, what are the eunuchs saying? They don’t believe the Emperor’s condition is improved, do they? Who actually drafted the Rescript to the Court Astronomers?”
“Highness, the Son of Heaven is not improved, but grows worse. And I hear Prince Yee drafted the Rescript.”
“The Emperor still takes deer’s blood for his health?”
“Deer’s blood among other remedies, herbal and animal. But he does not improve. His mind wanders, and his body grows weaker.”
“Well, Little An, we must do everything we can to assist the Emperor.”
“Highness, you do mean everything we possibly can? Everything?”
“Little An, it is our duty to help the Emperor.” Her voice was divested of all emotion. “We must do everything we possibly can.”
She paused for a moment, then flatly repeated: “Everything!”
CHAPTER 41
August 3, 1861
SHANGHAI
The veranda of the Nest of Joy was an islet of light as the tide of dusk crept over Shanghai on August 3, 1861. Furry-winged moths hurled themselves against the bulbous glass shades shielding the hurricane lamps, the constant impact a roll of drums under the shrill chorus of the locusts in the oleanders. Some dropped into the saucers beneath the lamps, while others fluttered away stunned—to renew their assault as soon as they recovered. The candles were ringed with dying moths, wings scraping on the tile-topped table. The most vigorous swooped triumphantly—to flare bright in the flames. The glass shades were soon choked with charred bodies.
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