Mandarin
Page 80
Jonathan Sekloong was not wholly Chinese, but half European, and his services were invaluable to Derwent, Hayes and Company. He was the “comprador,” the essential link between the British trading firm and its Chinese customers. He had also proved an invaluable channel between the British Government and the Imperial Government when China was forced to lease three hundred and seventy square miles—the so-called New Territories—to Hong Kong for ninety-nine years in 1898. He had been knighted for those services, only the second Chinese to be so honored. But he had refused to accept his knighthood unless he was permitted to build a residence on The Peak, which was tacitly reserved for Europeans. Sekloong Manor was already rising, its vast foundations dwarfing Government House itself. Hilary Metcalfe hoped Sir Jonathan’s elevation would show both communities that their interests were linked and, further, that Chinese and British need not always live apart.
The man himself was almost dwarfed by the flamboyant tales told about him. He was praised by his friends for his acumen, his benevolence, and his energy; he was vilified by his enemies for his cunning, his rapacity, and his “bandit-connections.” In his late forties, his erect form was spare under the Chinese long-gown, and his features were oddly more European than Oriental. His nose was straight and slender with a thrusting Irish-arched bridge; his forehead was high, and his hazel eyes were only slightly almond-shaped. His air of assumed authority contrasted with Prince William’s petulant self-assertion. Yet the Eurasian could not conceivably have been invited to the Royal Ball, however impressive his accomplishments and however great his wealth, if he had not recently received the accolade of knighthood.
“Congratulations, Miss Osgood.” Sir Jonathan’s courtesy broke into Mary’s revery. “May I boldly say that you are the handsomest young lady here tonight?”
Mary smiled her gratitude. Sir Jonathan’s English was marred by the faintest lilt. His accent might have been Welsh, except for the slurred s’s, incomplete vowels, and stilted diction characteristic of Hong Kong’s English-educated Chinese.
“Charles wants so much to dance with you,” Sir Jonathan continued. “Before he takes you away, may I ask if you will soon dine with me and my good friends, the Metcalfes?”
“I’d be delighted, Sir Jonathan.”
“We must celebrate,” the Eurasian continued. “We two broke into Hong Kong’s social fortress tonight. Perhaps it’s less impressive inside than seen outside.”
“Will you dance with me, Miss Osgood?” Charles Sekloong asked formally.
His intonation was slightly more lilting than his father’s, slightly more Hong Kong, and his pronunciation was marred by similar minor flaws. Charles was taller than his father and darker, his skin a golden olive. But his light hazel eyes were set squarely under heavy black brows, and his nose was imperiously arched. Mary surreptitiously studied the long, clean run of his jawline, taking pleasure from the sculptured sweep under the fine skin she had never previously felt looking at a man. His powerful shoulders strained the fine broadcloth of his tailcoat, which had obviously been made on Savile Row, not by any Hong Kong tailor.
Madame Rachelle’s ballgown suddenly seemed dowdy under Charles Sekloong’s disconcertingly direct gaze. She was also intrigued. His manner breathed a passion for living, in which her countrymen were notably deficient. Neither the puppylike John Williams nor the pampered Lord Peter French had ever looked at her with such unabashed, intense admiration. No young man she had ever known carried Charles Sekloong’s aura of self-assured command.
“I’d love to dance.” She smiled.
From H.R.H. Prince William to the son of a Eurasian knight—the spectacle would keep tongues wagging for months. But, she told herself, do what you will—and, even if it’s foolish, do it thoroughly. If the Osgoods possessed a family crest, that would be her motto. She very much wanted to dance with the compelling young man who seemed only a year or two older than herself.
His encircling arms were more powerful than the Prince’s or John Williams’s. She felt herself yielding to their implicit demand. His determination was a full-grown man’s, and his emotions were frankly expressed, regardless of the world’s opinion.
“Magnificent, Miss Osgood, you were, and very beautiful. I reveled watching you with the Prince. You made them look sick—the fools who think they rule Hong Kong.”
“You flatter me, Mr. Sekloong,” she murmured.
“Not flattery, just good observation. You’re like me. You don’t care about these fools, and you won’t let them put you in place—where they’d like to put you.”
“I never thought of it,” she answered half-truthfully.
“You know that hairpin was my mother’s? She gave it to Elizabeth Metcalfe. But she’d love you to wear it. It’s already a bond between us.”
Mary smiled. Charles Sekloong was, in his way, as imperious as Lord Peter French. But nicer, much nicer—and much more exciting. He was quite different from all the young men she had ever known—a man, rather than an overgrown boy.
Mary’s evening passed in a golden haze. She would, she knew, afterward never quite recall the separate details of that night, only the sensation of joy.
Having escaped the stockade Lady Blake had erected around him, Prince William called for more champagne. He danced with Mary twice again, and once, she saw, with the Honorable Rachel Wheatley’s daughter Cynthia. John Williams claimed Mary for three dances. His eyes were bright with pleasure at her success, but his mouth was sulky when she danced with Charles Sekloong.
At half past three in the morning, Prince William at last yielded to Lady Blake’s glances, at first commanding and finally pleading. The orchestra swung into “Good-Night Ladies,” and John Williams claimed Mary from Charles Sekloong for the last dance. When Royalty withdrew, the other guests made their farewells, the older yawning for sleep, the younger bubbling with exhilaration.
John Williams drew Mary’s arm under his own as the open carriage clattered down Garden Road, the driver swaying half awake on his perch. She laid her head sleepily on the red-clad shoulder, finding it comfortable rather than stirring.
“Thank you, John. Thank you for taking me.”
“Mary,” he said softly as they alighted before the bungalow, “Mary—I wonder—”
“Yes, John,” she prompted imprudently.
“Mary, I—I wonder—but no, not yet. Just this.”
His blond hair blotted out the stars, and his lips pressed hard on her own. With a sigh, she responded, her arms around his neck drawing him down to her. But she slipped out of his embrace as his arms tightened possessively.
“Good-night, John. Thank you for a lovely evening.”
“Good-night, Mary.” The melody of the chiming glass beads in the doorway obscured his soft farewell. “A beautiful night.”
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About the Author
Robert Elegant was born in New York City in 1928. He graduated Phi Beta Kappa from the University of Pennsylvania at eighteen and, after voluntary US Army service, studied Japanese and advanced Chinese at Yale and Columbia. In 1951, while he was at Columbia, his first book, China’s Red Masters, was published to wide acclaim. He arrived in Asia as a Pulitzer traveling fellow and became one of the youngest American reporters covering the Korean War, scooping the world in 1953 with his exclusive report that an armistice had been agreed upon.
Elegant’s subsequent career included stints as Asia bureau chief for Newsweek and columnist for the Los Angeles Times. Both Richard Nixon and Henry Kissinger consulted him personally before Nixon made the decision to go to Beijing and reopen relations with China. He has published seventeen books of both fiction and nonfiction, most centered on China. A recipient of several major press awards, his books have been widely translated and many have become bestsellers; he also won an Edgar Award for a political thriller set in Vietnam. Elegant lives with his wife, Rosemary; shih-tzu dogs; and cats in Umbria, Italy, where he is working on more books; writers, he says, never retire.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1983 by Robert S. Elegant and Moira Elegant
Cover design by Andy Ross
ISBN: 978-1-5040-4227-7
This edition published in 2016 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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