“A moment if you will, my lady,” Oliver said when Zambak attempted to follow. “Hezekiah will see your brother settled.” He cut off her protest. “I know you wish to follow, but he’s had a bit of the poppy, and that ought to see him through the night. Go see him settled. Come back when you are satisfied. I need a word.”
Someone showed Charles to a private room, as tidy as it was tiny, with the same cheerful acquiescence. Not the largest of the Canton factories, Oliver’s had been dubbed “Zion’s Quarter,” for his refusal to deal in narcotics. Since it doubled as a supply depot for American missionaries, included a printing house for their newspapers, and housed a clinic run by some of them, the name fit. Warm water, clean clothing, and bread appeared. The place ran as smoothly as his uncle’s manor at Chadbourn Park, for all its air of democracy.
An hour later he sat in eager anticipation over a savory dinner, chatting gratefully with his host.
“The lady has joined us!” Oliver beamed.
Charles turned around to see Zambak enter, scrubbed and gowned, and he gasped for breath. She wore Chinese clothing, a wonder in pale blue silk that enhanced the blue of her eyes. The wide sleeves of the jacket and the hem that came to her hips were outlined in darker blue while an underskirt in the same blue fell in folds beneath it to a hem also outlined in the darker blue. Chinese women lacked her height, so the skirt failed to cover her ankles, for which Charles breathed a prayer of thanks when he eagerly examined them. The entire jacket had been elaborately embroidered with pink and yellow flowers, a masterwork.
“How on earth did you find this treasure, Captain Oliver?” Zambak asked. “I’ve never worn anything this lovely.” Since her usual wardrobe, from the finest modiste in London, had been augmented by trips to Paris, the compliment was enormous, perhaps more than Oliver realized. The dress suited her.
Oliver beamed. “I fear William Bradshaw, my factor, will have to find another gift for his wife.” He indicated the other man at table.
The factor smiled. “May I say the clothing becomes you, my lady, and you are welcome. I’m glad we could help in your need. I’ll find another for Maud.”
Zambak held out a hand to the man. “I’m grateful, and you must be as well since we’ve avoided scandalizing that shy young gentleman who is watching over my brother.” If she missed wearing trousers, she gave no sign.
Bradshaw chuckled. “Unfortunately, you won’t be able to go about outside, but you will brighten Zion’s Quarter.”
“Not go outside at all? Will they arrest me?”
“More likely me for transporting a woman here,” Oliver grumbled. “Sit please. Bradshaw has much to tell you both.”
Charles lifted a questioning brow and followed Dan Oliver’s lead, tucking into dinner.
Bradshaw, a raw-boned New Englander, wasted no words. “The emperor means it this time. He has appointed a high commissioner to end opium use entirely. Lin Zexu’s reputation is one of absolute integrity and unbending opposition to crime. They are going after the trade from the top down. Chasing out the gunboats from Whampao and Lintin was just the start.”
“That being the top?” Zambak asked.
“Yes, my lady.”
“Explain please,” Charles said. “What does it mean for the Chinese?”
“Those who buy, sell, or use the stuff are subject to execution,” Bradshaw told him.
“Surely not!” Zambak’s horror reverberated around the table.
“Chinese laws tend to be harsher on paper than in actual practice. They’ve never enforced the laws before, not like this, so it is hard to say, but it is likely they will at least make an example of some.”
“What of foreigners who smoke opium?” Zambak asked, her voice just above a whisper. She didn’t have to spell out the reasons for her concern.
“They’ve never gone after foreigners before either. However, our contacts, the hongs—the merchant companies—our equivalent on the Chinese side—tell us the special commissioner is known for rigid law enforcement.” Bradshaw made no attempt to hide his worries.
“Don’t high commissioners sit in Peking and issue edicts from there, only to have them be ignored here?” Charles asked.
“Not this one. Reports of his approach have thrown the hong community into panic.” Bradshaw leaned forward and gestured with his fork for emphasis. “A message sent en route arrived yesterday. It named names.”
“Names?” Charles asked, acutely aware that the opportunity to see the commissioner’s arrival would provide unexpected value to his report.
“Fifty-four Chinese merchants known to have traded in opium. The worst of it is, the list was accurate. The Chinese community is frightened, and the opium traders are scurrying to shore up their relationships.”
“That explains Jarratt’s urgency to come here,” Charles murmured.
“An end to the opium trade would be a good thing,” Zambak said.
“A blessing,” Oliver agreed. “If it can be done without exploding into war.”
Zambak caught Charles’s eyes, and he knew she shared his thoughts. We have to stay. I can’t walk away from the opportunity to observe this high official before it’s too late. I just pray I can get the Haydens out of Canton in one piece when I’m finished.
Chapter 21
Lovely as it was, Zambak found the jacket of the elaborate clothing Bradshaw gave her to be impractical in a sickroom. A heavy shirt tied at the waist and covered with a canvas apron suited her better. She retained the silk skirt as a sop to the sensibilities of the men who seemed determined to protect her from their own ogling.
Alexander Peters, Boston physician and practical man, agreed with her decision. She had been drawn to the missionary doctor quickly. Tall and gaunt, his fundamental kindness lightened what might otherwise have been an off-putting austerity, and his professional expertise boosted her flagging confidence.
Thorn slept much of the night thanks to the opium they’d given him in a tincture the night before. His moaning, filtering through the wall to the tiny cell she occupied next to his, had awoken her before dawn however, and the war had begun.
His first words to her in the morning had been to demand his pipe. When she refused, he called her selfish and turned his back to the wall.
By midmorning, she no longer had time to consider it, though nursing had so far proved to be less repulsive as she expected. “Just a wee bit, Zamb,” Thorn begged. “Take the edge off.” He rubbed his legs to soothe the ache.
“Walk with me, Thorn. Doctor Peters says—”
“I’m weary of your Peters, Zamb! Damned chapelgoer. Probably begrudge a man good whisky too,” he complained. But he walked. So far Thorn had been more cooperative than she anticipated as well.
“Walking feels good, Zamb. Why don’t we walk outside? I can show you around the parade grounds,” he said. “I feel better. Truly.”
“We can’t, Thorn,” she said. “I’m confined to the factory. Oliver doesn’t want me seen.” Her brother laughed at that.
“No women in Canton. You still can’t obey the rules—I should have warned them that ordering you not to do something just incites you to do it.” His laughter sounded sincere. Still, he never could fool her for long. He’ll try to scamper back to his friends as soon as he is well enough. He’s holding on for that.
Thorn took four more laps of his ten-by-ten room before he sank the bed and yawned spasmodically. “Need sleep, Zamb. Just a bit. Enough to get me rest.”
When she laid a hand on his back, he jerked away. Her hand came away wet. What horrified her more than the profuse sweating, which Peters had warned her to expect, were the protruding bones of his back. Thorn had become as devoid of flesh as any starving wretch might be.
“Sit for a while. I’ll fetch a clean shirt.” She picked up the empty water pitcher. “More
water as well.” The clinic had supplied her with a half dozen Chinese cotton shirts, neatly folded on the little dresser in her room.
“Just a few drops of poppy juice in it, Zamb. Peters won’t know,” Thorn pleaded.
She didn’t answer him. It had already become hard to say no. Sticking to her determination would take every ounce of strength she had. She forced herself to remember Temperance’s words, “He will die without help.” This is the only way. The only way.
Zambak locked the door behind her. She hadn’t taken two steps before the door handle rattled and her brother tried to open it. Her heart almost broke in two. We have caged him like an animal. You couldn’t stand it, Zambak. How can expect your brother to endure it? She stood in the hallway, one arm tight against her stomach, until she heard him return to his cot. She forced herself to repeat, This is the only way. The only way.
To her left the hallway led to the clinic, tempting her to go that way and ask about the wisdom of using small amounts of the narcotic. Dr. Peters forbade her to enter the clinic, however. “As much as I would be proud to show you our work,” he had said, “we can’t risk our patients reporting that we’re harboring a western woman here.” I’m as much contraband as the opium. Left to her own devices, she might defy that edict outright, but she couldn’t put the doctor’s work at risk. She turned to the factory’s kitchen instead and rinsed out the pitcher, burdened by the sympathetic gaze of the cook’s helpers.
“We’ll bring midday luncheon soon, my lady,” one of them said. “Soup only, as you asked.”
With a shirt under her arm and the pitcher in one hand, she struggled with the key, but managed to unlock the door. She turned the handle, but before she opened the door fully, Thorn pulled it wide, his gaze fixated on the pitcher.
“Did you bring it?” he demanded. He didn’t mean the water.
“Of course. Sit, and I’ll bring you some.” She kept her voice steady, relieved when he sat. She set the pitcher on a tiny table in the corner and locked the door, putting the key in her pocket. His eyes, she noticed, followed the key.
If he tries to take it from me, can I stop him? Unlocking the door with her hands burdened had been unwise. He didn’t overpower her, but he easily might do when he became more frantic, as she feared he would.
“Did you bring it?” he asked again. She handed him a cup of the liquid. He spat it out. “That’s just water!”
“Water is what you need.” She gave him another, which he gulped down. After the second cup, he began to shiver.
“Let me change your shirt,” she suggested.
He said nothing. When she lifted the soaked shirt and pulled it up over his head, he yelped. “It hurts! You have no idea how badly. I ache all over.”
She held the filthy shirt between two fingers and dropped it in the corner before reaching for a soft towel. She attempted to dry his damp skin; he reacted as if she were torturing him.
“I hurt,” he moaned. “You hate me. You’ve always hated me.”
“I love you too much to let you destroy yourself, Thorn. The opium will kill you. You must know that.” She handed him a clean shirt. He twisted it in his hands without attempting to put it on.
“Laudanum would help. If you love me as you say give me just a bit of it. Medicine isn’t it? Can’t hurt.”
“It already did you harm, can’t you see that?”
Demanding turned to begging and, when that failed, anger.
“You think you’re high and mighty because you’re older, but you’re a girl Zambak, just a damned girl. You hate me because I’m Father’s heir and you are not!” he shouted.
“I don’t hate you,” she snapped back. She resented him, though, or at least resented that gender excluded her from inheriting. They both knew it. Once he might have sympathized. Not now.
“I’m the heir,” he repeated. “I give the orders! When I inherit—”
“Keep it up, and you’ll never be Duke of Sudbury. You won’t live long enough!” she shouted back. When his face crumpled and he sank back onto the cot, guilt tormented her.
He can’t help it; that’s the poppy talking. She slipped his arm into the clean shirt. He didn’t complain. He didn’t react at all until she finished, and he rolled over to stare at the wall.
So the day went. He accepted water but rejected soup after three swallows. Zambak had difficulty finishing her bowl, anxiety roiling her stomach. Complaints continued in waves interspersed with sullen silence.
Once he leapt up from the bed and paced while frantically rubbing himself everywhere he could reach. “My skin! It crawls.” He allowed her to rub the lotion Dr. Peters had supplied onto him, but its effects lasted an hour or less.
The doctor himself stopped by in the afternoon to see how she managed. “You mustn’t wear yourself out,” he advised. “This will be a long process.”
Thorn threw insults at him during the entire visit. “If you want my sister, think again. I won’t let some third-rate quack sniff up her skirts!” He snarled at the man’s back when he left, leaving Zambak with a red face. Her sympathy for her brother eroded hourly.
Late in the afternoon, Thorn sank into fitful sleep, and Zambak slid down the wall to sit on the floor, her head on her knees. A gentle tap startled her. She glanced quickly over at Thorn. He thrashed a bit but didn’t awaken. She opened the door to find Charles. He looked over her shoulder at the sleeping form of her brother.
“How are you?” You, not him, she noticed.
“Tired,” she admitted. “Glad for a respite.”
He nodded. “Can you leave him for a while?”
Peters suggested she do that. He recommended she not wear herself out by constant attendance. She glanced at Thorn. “Yes. Do you need me?” she asked.
“Lin Zexu arrives. His retinue has been sighted. The city is in an uproar. I thought you might like to see.”
She locked the door behind her, untied her apron, and strode toward her room. “Let me change into my jacket.”
She came out to find him leaning against the wall, an amused smile on his face. “Dressing up for an audience, my lady?”
“I can hardly greet—but you aren’t actually suggesting I greet him, are you? Do you plan to?”
“Formally greet the high commissioner? Good God, no. Not today in any case. Oliver thinks we might see the retinue from the roof.” He winged his left arm at her.
She took it with her right grudgingly. “Will I be expected to hide behind you?”
“Perhaps there’s some sort of potted plant you can peer through,” he answered in kind.
His teasing soothed her resentment. As they climbed the stairs, Zambak lay her free hand on his arm. “Thank you, Charles,” she murmured.
“For what?”
“Remembering me. Knowing I would hate to miss this.”
“History, Zambak. How often do we witness it?” He opened the door to the upper terrace where Oliver handed her the telescope he had been using. She focused the sight expertly and trained it to the outskirts of Canton where Oliver pointed. A gilded palanquin swayed toward the city. She counted twenty bearers carrying the commissioner’s chair or holding tall poles with red pennants flowing in the wind. Armed men in elaborate uniforms marched before and behind. A drummer led, and two men holding signs on high poles led the entire entourage.
She handed the telescope back. “The man does know how to make an entrance,” she said. “One hopes he can wield actual power as effectively.”
~ ~ ~
“He means to intimidate, of course,” Zambak commented over dinner that night, good beef and potatoes supplied from the Chinese hinterland and served on porcelain plates in a willow pattern. Charles had seen such designs before on plates made in England. He suspected they were made in China for the American import trade and shipped by
the barrelful on Oliver’s ships.
The silk clothing flattered her still, and her voice sounded firm, but Charles didn’t like the dark shadows around her eyes. She had come reluctantly, leaving Thorn weeping with a Chinese orderly to see to his needs, but she didn’t argue when Peters and Charles insisted she join them and eat. He suspected the opportunity to discuss what she’d seen had drawn her as much as the food.
“Intimidate? Isn’t that what men in power do?” Bradshaw replied. Charles said nothing, happy to watch Zambak take the lead.
“Those that understand real power and know how to wield it use intimidation with precision. His entrance—as much as the list of names—announced an end to business as usual. He will follow it with quick action. You may count on it,” she replied.
“He already has. We heard in the clinic that he demanded several of the hong leaders appear before him in the morning,” Dr. Peters told her.
She nodded sagely. “That would be a classic first move. Make them account for their behavior.”
“You have a shrewd mind for politics for one so young and far from home, Lady Zambak,” Oliver observed. Charles had no doubt the captain meant “for a woman.”
“My father has been a force in the Foreign Office since before I was born,” she replied. “I grew up with it.”
Charles cleared his throat and spoke up. “Lady Zambak learned international relations in the nursery and at the dinner table. Her mother is an ambassador’s daughter nurtured in the great capitals of Europe. Her diplomatic dinners entertain visitors—official and otherwise—from the four corners of the globe. Her aunt—”
Zambak raised a hand to stop him. “These gentlemen aren’t interested in my childhood,” she said. He differed. Bradshaw looked baffled, Peters impressed, and Oliver astounded.
“What about your aunt?” Bradshaw asked.
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