All the Tea in China

by Jane Orcutt

  “We share a cabin. We pretend to be brother and sister. Would it not be better for our ruse to stay in character at all times? Suppose someone should overhear you call me Mr. Snowe?”

  “I had not thought of that.” It did make a certain amount of sense. “I suppose you will want to call me Isabella?”

  “If I may,” he said. His polite tone did not fool me; he would call me what he willed.

  I pretended to agree. “Very well, then. As I was saying . . . Phineas. Have you found a sword for me?”

  He sighed. “These things take time. I cannot simply conjure one out of the air.”

  “Of course not. I would not want you to.”

  We strolled side by side along the deck. The ship rolled gently along the water, and the sun warmed my unprotected head. Yet the touch of Phineas’s fingers on the arm of my new jacket gave me a chill. Who is this man?

  I cleared my throat. “Mr. Snowe—”

  “Phineas.”

  “It occurs to me that I know little of either your background or your current affairs with the East India Company. You have the obvious advantage in that you know a great deal more about me—where I was raised, my family, for example.”

  “Very well, what would you like to know?”

  “Tell me about your family. Are they alive?”

  “I grew up in the north country, near York. My father was an East India naval man and is no longer living.” He paused. “My mother, however, is still alive.”

  “You mentioned before that you have a sister. Is that right?”

  “Yes. My mother remarried, and I have one sister, as I mentioned earlier.”

  “And your involvement with the East India Company? How did that come about?”

  He shrugged. “I have long been interested in tea.” He stopped again and turned to face me. “Tell me, Isabella. Over the no doubt many cups of tea you have drunk in your lifetime, did you ever chance to think about where the precious leaves came from? Or did you, like so many, never think of them as traveling any farther than from your servants’ hands?”

  Had I said or done anything to deserve such a rude tone? And did he think me so dull and uninquisitive as to never imagine life beyond Oxford? “Indeed, I often have thought on such. I have wondered about the hands that grew the leaves, nurtured them to fruition, picked them, carried them to who knows where to be purchased or traded then shipped to England.”

  “I—”

  I had read about tea and was just warming to the subject. “You are right when you say it is our lifeblood. I know the history of tea in our country is varied. For example, did you know that green tea was the popular type imported at first, then gradually black tea became more popular?”

  “Yes, of course,” he said. “Have you ever had green tea?”

  I shook my head. “I do not believe so, but I am interested in trying some.”

  “Tea has been popular much longer in China than in England.”

  “Indeed,” I said. “How many voyages have you made to the Orient?”

  He shrugged. “I cannot recall.”

  “But you speak the language well?”

  “Fluently.”

  He proceeded to walk aft, and I was forced to rush to keep up with him. I could hear the chickens squawking up on the poop deck, and I wondered if Mr. Swinney, the poulterer, were tending them. I also wondered how Bossy and the other milk cow were faring and resolved to check on them later. “Mr. Snowe?”

  “Phineas,” he corrected.

  “Phineas, then.” I sighed. “I know this will be a voyage of great length. Mr. Gilpin has graciously offered to loan me some of his books so that I may read to pass the time. As well as to improve my knowledge.”

  “Really? I should think that you were quite near the end of your learning experiences.”

  “One can never learn all there is in the world. I am always anxious to improve myself. Which reminds me that I have another request for our agreement.” I held my breath. “I would like for you to teach me to speak and read Chinese.”

  “We have already set our bargain and the terms upon which it is based.”

  “Nevertheless, I would like to learn Chinese.”

  He burst into laughter. “You are jesting, of course. Chinese is a particularly difficult language to acquire. I told you and your uncle that back in Oxford.”

  I did not so much as smile. “But I am in earnest. It is a long voyage, and I have a skill for languages. I would particularly like to know Chinese so that I can better communicate with the people I hope to serve once we reach our destination.”

  “Your destination is Cape Town!” His eyes snapped fire.

  Two seamen stopped their work in coiling a rope and turned to stare. I sighed. I might have known that Snowe would fight me. I lowered my voice. “Then think of it as a way for me to pass the time. And perhaps you as well. You must find these voyages tedious. I am sure that you would find me an eager, as well as capable, student.”

  He said nothing.

  “Can you fault one Englishwoman for attempting to learn about another culture?” I paused. “We could even begin with the Gospel According to St. Luke that you gave me.”

  He looked at me with surprise. “Do you still have it?”

  “Unless someone has moved it, it is probably still in the straw with the cattle.”

  He thought for a moment. “In truth, Isabella, I do find these voyages somewhat tedious. One can only discuss company business for so long.”

  “Then . . . shall we retrieve the Gospel from the cattle area?”

  He sighed with resignation, evidently realizing that I was dead set on achieving my purpose. “Very well. Let us fetch the tract.”

  We made our way below deck. No man was present, only beast. I preferred to believe that the cattle recognized me, but that would be mere fancy, of course. I recognized my favorite cow right away. “Bossy,” I said sweetly and patted her gently on the broad, smooth skin between her eyes. Snowe waited while I entered the stall and retrieved the book, which was lying just where I had left it, hidden in the straw. Thankfully, it was tucked away near the railing and out of range of the cattle.

  “Shall we read it right here or take it above deck?”

  “As kindly as the cattle treated me when I was their unwelcome guest, I do not fancy staying here any longer,” I said blandly. Bossy looked at me with her enormous bovine eyes and—I tell no falsehoods here—licked me as a lady’s lap dog would show affection.

  “It would seem the cattle, however, would have you visit,” Snowe said, his voice tinged with amusement. He wrinkled his nose. “I admire the sight of pastoral scenes, but I am afraid the stench is somewhat overwhelming. Perhaps we could find a quiet place on deck or, barring that, our cabin.”

  Our cabin. I could not become accustomed to that phrase. Somehow it was easier under cover of bedtime darkness to acknowledge that we shared a room. I shivered a little at what would happen to my reputation were the truth known. “Perhaps we could use the cuddy,” I suggested. “We would be out of the way of the crew.”

  “Very well.” Phineas helped me back through the gate then latched it securely. He wrinkled his nose once more. “You stayed in here with these beasts for as long as you did?”

  I nodded, raising my chin. I did not want him to think me some missish society woman. “I am not someone to trifle with, Phineas Snowe. I can live with one beast or another if it is required.”

  He smiled at me and stepped back to allow me first access to the steps leading above deck.

  Snowe appropriated a shallow pan from Mr. Gilpin. At his further request, Mr. Gilpin also ordered a midshipman to relieve a sandbag from enough of its contents to cover the bottom of the pan. “Thank you,” Snowe said, leading the way to the cuddy.

  Hurrying to keep up with him, I was mystified. “I thought we were to study Chinese,” I said.

  “We are,” he said over his shoulder. “Have I disappointed you in any way yet?”

  Yet! Yet?
Did he mean to make a future with me?

  Snowe set the pan on the table and smoothed the sand flat with his hand. From his coat pocket, he withdrew a smooth black stick. I laughed. “Do you always carry that with you?” I looked closer. It was not only smooth but painted with tiny flowers and birds and was more pointed at one end and rounder at the other. Intrigued, I pressed closer. “What is that?”

  “It is a chopstick,” he said, holding it up for my inspection. “It is an eating utensil in China.”

  I laughed. “How does one use it to eat? It would seem difficult indeed to spear a pea.”

  He ignored my mirth and withdrew another stick. “You eat with two of these, held between the fingers like this.” He held them in his right hand so that they looked like natural extensions of his fingers, clacking them together to show me how they could grab and pinch. I was not certain how one could cut roasted beef, but perhaps he had something similar to a knife in his jacket as well.

  He put away one of the chopsticks. “For purposes of our lessons, we will only require one.”

  “But I thought we would practice speaking first. Why do we need this sand in a box?”

  “Paper is scarce aboard ship, and we must make do. As for writing instead of speaking, there are a multitude of dialects in China but the same written language. It has been the only way that people from different areas could communicate. I thought it would be the easiest for you to learn first.”

  With the thick end of the chopstick, he drew a character with three smooth strokes. “Chinese does not have an alphabet like English or other languages,” he said. “It is based on pictures to represent ideas.”

  “And what is that?” I gestured at the symbol he had drawn in the box.

  “Do you not recognize it? It was the symbol that was on your slippers the night we met.”

  I leaned closer. “I see it now.” I glanced up at him, cocking my head. “You told me that night that the symbol meant love.”

  He stared at me for a moment, his dark eyes studying my own. I felt a peculiar pull between us, something foreign to my nature, something warm and enticing.

  Abruptly, he turned and wiped the character away with his hand until the sand was smooth again. “I did not speak the truth that night, Isabella.”

  “Then what does it—” No! I would not ask. He heard me voice the beginning of the question, yet he ignored me while he drew figures in the sand. Which Phineas Snowe was I to believe? Had he lied the night of the Ransoms’ party or was he lying now?

  Snowe drew a short line, apparently prepared to attend to the business at hand with no other false starts. Well and good. At some point I would learn the meaning of the mysterious symbol.

  He cleared his throat. “Isabella, are you paying attention? As I was saying, there are eight basic strokes. You must be careful to make them in the proper order for each character to appear correct . . .”

  8

  We never did open the Gospel that day. I wanted to learn words and characters right away, confident that I could memorize them as fast as he could create them in the sand. Snowe must have sensed my impatience, for at one point he admonished that I must learn the basics first before the bigger lessons would follow.

  Though he would not speak it, he did seem pleased by my progress. By the time the crew politely shooed us from the dining room table to prepare the two o’clock dinner, I had learned the eight strokes and the proper order for making them. At first when I watched Snowe create the mysterious lines, I had thought it easy. Then I realized how carefully one must make the hooks and wings that completed some of the strokes. It was difficult enough using a chopstick in the sand. I could only imagine how difficult it would be to create on paper in ink!

  Snowe said nothing of our lessons to me or anyone else at dinner; in fact, he seemed to go to great lengths to remove the sand from the cuddy before everyone arrived. He also tucked the chopstick back into his jacket without a word. I met his secrecy with approval for I had no desire to explain myself to Mrs. Akers or any of the others.

  Miss Whipple joined our group that day, but to my estimation, none of the other passengers were aware of her reputation. Captain Malfort treated her with all courtesy as well, but I noticed that she did not have a seat of honor, only one below the salt. Unfortunately, so did Mr. Gilpin. I might have imagined it, but I believe that he glared at her the entire meal. Could he not be courteous, at least, in the presence of others?

  After dinner, Snowe and I had every intention of returning to our lessons. I was eager to continue, and he, for once, did not seem reluctant. The crew was cleaning the cuddy, so we headed out to the deck. The midshipmen struggled at their lessons, and I noticed that Gilpin drilled Mr. Calow most religiously in knot making. Judging from the cheerful expression on Calow’s face, I had to say that he must have been practicing. Unfortunately, it was far too windy for Snowe and me to contemplate any lessons using the box of sand, so we strolled the deck, staying clear of the midshipmen so that we would not disturb them.

  A gust of wind blew at my hair. “Oh!” I clutched the pins so that they would not be swept overboard. I was certain that my hair was most displeasing to look at and said as much.

  Phineas’s expression softened. “I assure you that is not so,” he said in a low voice, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear then handing me a bit of leather. “You can use this to tie back your hair. Would you like me to keep the pins in my pocket?”

  “No, thank you, the leather should suffice.” I secured my hair, frowning. “My, but I have never seen such an ill wind.”

  Phineas did not respond but stared at the horizon. I followed his gaze and saw billowing dark clouds. The wind seemed to howl, the waves increasing in size as they lashed against the ship. At a superior officer’s command, the midshipmen scattered from their lessons, each one charged with a duty to secure the ship’s safety.

  Mr. Gilpin caught sight of us and approached. The wind had intensified so quickly that he was forced to shout. “The captain has ordered everyone below deck. We’ve encountered a squall. Mr. Snowe . . . ?”

  “Right,” he yelled. “I will see my sister to our cabin.”

  Gilpin nodded then turned to bark an order to the crew about the sails. Snowe led the way, and I obediently followed. The wind had increased so violently, the waves turned so treacherous. We had had such smooth sailing till now that I had been lulled into thinking that our journey would be no more dangerous than a boat ride on the Thames. The Dignity, though large, suddenly seemed quite vulnerable as she listed first to port then starboard, buffeted among the waves. To my way of thinking, it would take but one swell to heave her on her side. I had read of shipwrecks, of course, even East India Company shipwrecks, which suddenly pushed me beyond my books and daydreams into ruthless reality.

  The ship rocked to and fro most alarmingly. Rain pounded our heads and backs like myriad dull daggers. I cried out, surprised by the painful force. Snowe turned back and wrapped his arm around me, raising his coat to shield me as much as possible from the onslaught.

  We staggered safely below deck, but to my shame, I whimpered. “We are almost there, Isabella,” Phineas said soothingly. “We will be safe.”

  He led me into the cabin and closed the door behind us. Rain and wind blew through the porthole, and he struggled valiantly to shutter it. Yet I could still hear the raging noise beyond.

  I stood in the middle of the room, dripping, wetter than I ever imagined possible, and all I could do was cry. I was not a female easily given to tears, and I was embarrassed by the emotion that washed over me. I tried to turn away from Snowe so that he would not see my weakness. To my surprise, however, he touched my face. “You should get undressed,” he said softly.

  I stepped back in horror, tears abated. “Wh-what? I most certainly will not!”

  He moved to his side of the room and raised the canvas between our hammocks. “You need to get out of your wet clothes, Isabella,” he said. “Otherwise, you might take ill.”
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  I heard a flint strike, then saw a candle’s glow. “I will light this long enough for us to see by, then I’ll douse the flame. We do not want to risk a fire.”

  Even though he could not see me, I nodded, already divesting myself of the sodden clothing. I let them fall to the floor, not caring that the ugliest dress in Christendom would have to dry before I could wear it again. My nightgown was dry, and I slipped into it eagerly, shivering from the chill.

  “Isabella, I have an extra blanket that I would like to bring you,” he said. “Will you be alarmed if I approach your side of the canvas?”

  “N-no,” I said, teeth chattering as I climbed into my hammock and pulled my only blanket up to my chin. “You may approach.”

  Tentatively he lifted the end of the canvas, his eyes downcast so as to avoid mine. I tried not to look at him either, but I could not help notice that his hair was unbound and he was wrapped in a blanket. Whatever else he wore, I could not tell. In truth, I did not want to know!

  He handed me the blanket and hastened back to his side. I heard him blow out the candle, and what meager light we had was now gone. I settled into my hammock, trying to find some warmth. Even the extra blanket did not seem to help much. Snowe must have heard my shivering. “Are you very cold?”

  “I’m afraid that I am,” I confessed. “I cannot get warm.”

  Rain, or perhaps waves, lashed against the porthole most cruelly. A flash of lightning jagged across the pane, and my hammock tilted at an alarming angle. I cried without thinking. “Phineas!”

  “It will be all right, Isabella,” he said, his voice an anchor of calm. “It is but a small storm, I am certain. It will pass, the sun will shine, and you will wonder why you were so frightened.”

  Aggravating man! “I know why I am frightened,” I said, amazed at the high pitch in my voice, a distinct opposite of his own. “I am afraid of being killed. I . . . I do not want to drown. If you have any sense, you would be afraid of the same thing!”

  “I will not let you drown. I promised to keep you safe, and I will not go back on my word.”