China

by Edward Rutherfurd

  Once a week Miss Grant would bring John into Uncle Adalbert’s small library, where he could show the old man the progress he was making. On the whole these performances went well, and though it wouldn’t have been appropriate to spoil the boy with praise, Adalbert would give him an approving nod and thank Miss Grant for her good work. But if occasionally John stumbled on some word or answered his great-uncle’s simple questions incorrectly, requiring his guardian to reprove him, Adalbert sometimes noticed a trace of sulkiness or even hostility in the child, which, if he were not so young and orphaned so recently, might have called for severity. Miss Grant had a pleasant way of coaxing John along, however, and rather than risk losing such a good governess and have the trouble of finding another, Adalbert kept his thoughts to himself. He did once ask Miss Grant if she thought the boy might be a little moody, but she assured him that John gave her no trouble at all.

  “You may be strict with him, should it be necessary,” he said to her kindly, and left the business in her hands.

  He was rather proud of himself when in due course some other children were found with whom, under the eye of the governess, John could play, as children liked to do. And he soon found that these visits could be timed to coincide with one of the long walks he took on the nearby ridges or upon a day when he had to be away.

  One of his duties as guardian was to look after the boy’s inheritance until he should come of age. This he did assiduously, going up to London every few months to interview the men of business who invested the capital and to inspect the two houses, let to tenants, that the estate also owned. When he first took the inheritance in hand, he had observed that the late Archie Trader had already doubled his niece’s dowry and invested very successfully himself as well, so that, given another twenty years, he might have built up quite a handsome fortune for his family—a circumstance that only confirmed the old lawyer in his poor opinion of the stockjobber, that he should have put all this at risk for an unnecessary journey to France.

  It was after one of these visits to London, where a tenant in arrears had already put him in a bad temper, that Uncle Adalbert returned home in the evening to be met at the gateway by the kindly Miss Grant, who was looking apologetic. “I’m afraid,” she confessed, “that boys will be boys.”

  If she thought this was a good opening, however, she had still failed to understand her employer,

  “What is the matter, Miss Grant?” he asked tersely.

  “Cricket, I’m afraid. The other children were teaching John how to play. I was watching them, and we were well away from the house. It turns out that he has an excellent eye, and he’s extraordinarily strong for a little fellow his age. The very first time he was to bat, he was bowled an easy ball, and he hit it, quite magnificently…” She looked at him hopefully, hoping this tale of prowess would mitigate the news that was to follow.

  “What of it, Miss Grant?” Adalbert cried impatiently.

  “I never imagined he could hit it so far, but I’m afraid it went through a window on the second floor,” she added eagerly. “It’s entirely my fault, of course,” she said firmly.

  “Where are these children?” he demanded.

  “They all went home. There’s just me and John here now.”

  Perhaps if John had looked penitent, perhaps even if he had smiled, run up to him, and asked forgiveness, Adalbert might have reacted differently. But as the lawyer came across the lawn to where the boy was standing, holding the offending cricket ball, he noticed only that the child was looking at him sullenly.

  And it came into the lawyer’s mind that he was being put upon. His life had been thrown into disorder, he was being obliged to spend precious days in London dealing with disagreeable and dishonest tenants, and now this boy, who showed no gratitude, no family affection, but only looked upon him, his long-suffering benefactor, with insolent sullenness, was quite content to break the windows of his house like a rioter or a revolutionary.

  “Are you sorry for what you have done?” he asked menacingly.

  “Yes, Uncle.” He was lying, of course. He was hardly even taking the trouble to look as if he was sorry.

  “If this is how you and your friends behave, then they need not come here anymore.” He did not really mean it, but he wanted to shock the boy. He did not understand that to the child, it meant that he was to be denied all his playmates forever.

  No words. Only that sullen look again. The lawyer decided to try to shame him.

  “What would your dear mother think if only she were here today?” That seemed to have got through. He saw the boy’s face pucker up, as if he were about to cry. But still, for Adalbert, it was not enough. “Neither your behavior nor your sullen looks come from your mother,” he observed coldly. “No doubt you get them from your father, whose thoughtlessness has killed your mother and left you an orphan in my unfortunate care.”

  “Oh, sir!” Miss Grant’s cry of shock might, in a moment, have made the lawyer turn. But he never had time to do so.

  What took place happened so fast that it took all three participants by surprise. For suddenly, his little face smitten with pain and then suffused with rage, the boy grasped the cricket ball and hurled it with all his force at his great-uncle. And whether John’s aim was devastating, or more likely as the result of sheer chance, the ball struck the old man smack in the middle of his forehead between the eyes. Reeling from the shock of the missile, he fell backwards even before his knees had time to buckle. And there he lay, openmouthed, staring up from the grass at the sky, quite motionless.

  Seeing him obviously unconscious, Miss Grant ran into the house crying for water and leaving John alone.

  Slowly the boy went forward. His great-uncle’s face looked strangely grey. There was no sign of life at all. He had killed him.

  And then came the awful realization. Every child knew what happened to murderers. They will hang me, he thought. He did not wait even for kindly Miss Grant. He turned and ran.

  When Miss Grant came back with a pitcher of water and began to mop Adalbert’s brow, she noticed that the child had vanished, but assumed he had run into the house. By the time the groom had saddled up and ridden off for the doctor, Adalbert was starting to come around. Miss Grant and the cook helped him to his bedroom, where he lay down with a cold poultice on his head.

  Only after this did the governess discover that her charge was nowhere to be found.

  She searched in the house and in the grounds, down the lane to the village, and at the houses from which his playmates had come. No one had seen him. The groom arrived back with the doctor, who pronounced that Adalbert would have a large bruise for many days, but that his skull did not appear to be cracked. “He must have absolute peace and quiet. If there is any change in him, send for me at once. Otherwise I shall come by again in the morning.” When she told the doctor about the boy’s disappearance, he instructed her not to trouble Adalbert with this news for the time being. “There is nothing he can do about it in his present condition,” he pointed out. “The boy will reappear soon enough, because he will be hungry.”

  She sent the groom up onto the ridge and told him to remain on lookout until sunset. Meanwhile, she went into the woods and searched as far as she could. But darkness fell, and John did not appear.

  She went out into the woods again that night with a lantern and must have walked two miles and more, calling his name. Unable to sleep, she was up again before dawn, walking through the trees. Soon after breakfast, she went to the village and organized a search party.

  It was only at noon, after telling her that the patient was clearly on the mend, that the doctor allowed her, in his presence, to tell the old man about John.

  Adalbert received the news coldly. “The child is evil,” he remarked, his voice suggesting that if the boy disappeared permanently it would be no bad thing. “The answer, however,” he added with a sniff, “is simple.�
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  When the governess heard it, she gave a cry of dismay, for it sounded barbaric. But the doctor was entirely in agreement. “I know where they can be procured,” he said, “but they may not be here before tomorrow.” And kindly Miss Grant could only pray that they would not be needed.

  * * *

  —

  At first, the little boy had been very much afraid. He’d heard Miss Grant calling him, even caught sight of her from his hiding place, and he had wanted so much to run into her arms, for the kindly Scotswoman was the nearest thing he had to a mother. But he knew that he must not, for if he did, she would take him back to the house and then he would be hanged for murder. After she had gone, he walked on until he came to a tiny stream, tinkling through the bracken, where he drank some water.

  The July night was warm, but it was very dark. He listened for any sound of creatures and heard a soft footfall that, he supposed, might have come from a fox. But after a time he was so tired that he curled up and fell asleep.

  At dawn, he realized that he was very hungry. He wondered whether, if he kept on, he might come to any cottages where he could beg some food. But that would be no good. They’d want to know who he was. They might even have been told to look out for him. Could he steal some food? Little chance of that. Most cottagers kept a dog. If he walked for long enough and came to a town where no one would notice him, he could buy something to eat, if he had any money. But he had no money.

  All logic told him he must go home. But then, suddenly forced to grow beyond his years, the determined little boy came to a decision. He would rather die out here in the woods, free and on his own terms, than be thrown in prison and hanged by people who had control over him.

  So it was, at the age of six, and based upon a childish misunderstanding, that John Trader became the man he would be for the rest of his life.

  But he was still very hungry. Hoping that something might turn up, he wandered through the woods, farther and farther from Miss Grant and the gabled house. Early in the afternoon, he came to an orchard where apples were growing, some of which were ripe enough to eat. That put something in his stomach, at least. A little later, he found wild blackberries and gorged himself upon them. By the time he fell asleep that evening, he was seven miles away from his great-uncle’s house.

  They found him at ten o’clock the next morning. The bloodhounds, that is. He was walking across open ground by a big wheat field, and he was very tired. The baying sound the bloodhounds made as they approached was frightening, but when they reached him, he found himself bowled over by two friendly, floppy-jowled dogs who seemed just as pleased to see him as their handler, a burly fellow with big brown whiskers who told the hounds repeatedly that they were good boys.

  Only minutes later he was clasped in the arms of Miss Grant, who hugged him as closely as if she really had been his mother.

  * * *

  —

  He wasn’t punished. For several weeks his life resumed exactly as usual, except that Uncle Adalbert was away a good deal and spoke to him little when he was there, and that Miss Grant sometimes looked sad.

  Then in September, after parting tearfully from Miss Grant, he was sent away to the little boarding school in the country.

  Uncle Adalbert never came to see him there, but parents did not come to see their children in those days, so he felt no deprivation. Nor did he see the old lawyer in the holidays, for Adalbert had found a family with whom he could live in a big house near Blackheath. At least he always supposed that Adalbert had found them, and if the local doctor had obtained their name and if Miss Grant had been sent to inspect them, he never knew of it. They were a jolly family, with a lot of children, and he was happy spending the school holidays there. By the time, at the age of twelve, he went to the big boys school at Rugby, he thought of the Blackheath family as almost his own.

  He would have liked to see Miss Grant again, but he never did, though his memory of her remained quite vivid. He did not forget the incident with Uncle Adalbert, either, but he thought about it less each year. As for his parents, they became, in his mind, more like the memory of a memory. And if sometimes, in his bed at night at school, he would have liked to weep, he never did so, even silently, but let his mind drift down into a dark subterranean world, whose hidden streams did service for his tears.

  He kept his promise to his first headmaster and never lost his temper again. Sometimes a black mood came over him and he found it difficult to work, but he kept these moods under control.

  Uncle Adalbert might still consider that his niece’s son was a potential murderer, but he died just before John completed his schooldays, so that young Trader entered the adult world believing, along with everyone else, that he was a pretty decent sort of fellow on the whole.

  He also came of age with a tidy fortune. Uncle Adalbert had tended his inheritance with scrupulous care, and though it did not provide more than a decent private income for a bachelor, that was better than most fellows of his age were blessed with. Of his great-uncle’s fortune he received not a penny. Adalbert had left everything to his old Oxford college, with the injunction that a fellowship was to be endowed, in his name, for the study of law. He left, together with the accounts concerning his inheritance, a note informing John that his father had some distant cousins, named Whiteparish, resulting from an unfortunate marriage, with whom neither of his parents had wished to have any communication. He advised John to follow their example. That was all.

  * * *

  ◦

  As the months of July and August passed up at the hill station, Agnes Lomond decided that on the whole, she was excited.

  Though the family lawyers were in Edinburgh, there was a highly respectable firm of solicitors in Calcutta who had connections with them, and whom her father used from time to time for local matters. As instructed, they had been discreet and assiduous in their inquiries about Trader. And so far at least, the results were promising.

  “His bank references are sound. Odstocks gave him a glowing report,” her father told her. “Everything he told me about his circumstances turns out to be true. That’s what really matters.”

  “So do you like him better now, Father?”

  “You’re the one that’s got to like him,” he replied. But there was a trace of humor in his voice that told her that he was not totally opposed to the match.

  And did she like him? Her father had indicated that Trader might visit once a week; and he’d done so, usually with Charlie.

  They were happy afternoons. Trader was handsome. And now with his black eye patch he had a piratical look that was quite exciting. He was charming. Her father did his best to be civil. The cheerful presence of Charlie always made things easier, of course; but even when he wasn’t there, Trader made himself not only agreeable but interesting.

  Once they talked about Canton and the dangers of the siege.

  “The dangers were exaggerated, I’d say,” Trader said, “mainly to get support from Parliament. If you mean, ‘Could the Chinese have killed us all?’ the answer would be yes. Their numbers are huge. But the fact that we’re all alive shows they didn’t want to. The danger was from the crowd getting out of control. That could have been the end of us, certainly.”

  On that occasion, after tea, her father had taken Trader into the library for a private talk about the military situation. And Agnes was pleased that after Trader had departed, her father had remarked: “Well, he’s no fool. I’ll say that for him.”

  One day, having tea with Agnes and her mother, he talked about Macao and the pattern of life there. “It’s a pretty place and the climate is kind. But it’s small. No big clubs and racecourse like Calcutta. One needs to realize that,” he had said. And Agnes knew that he was gently warning her not to expect too much.

  “I quite understand,” said Mrs. Lomond firmly. “Is the English community pleasant?”

  “Yes
, they are,” Trader replied. “There’s quite a mix: British, American, Portuguese, all sorts of people, really. The social life isn’t grand, but it’s very agreeable.” And he proceeded to tell some stories—nothing scandalous, but amusing—about the goings-on there.

  “I know someone who lives at Macao,” Mrs. Lomond remarked suddenly. “Mrs. Barford. I write to her sometimes.” She watched him as she said it.

  “Mrs. Barford?” His face broke into a smile, and he answered her easily. “I know her well. She was very kind to me when I first arrived. Please send her my greetings when you write.” He looked her straight in the eye. “She can tell you all about me, the good and the bad.”

  “Will you write to her?” Agnes asked her mother after Trader left.

  “I already did,” her mother replied with a smile. “Months ago, when Trader first returned.”

  “Why?”

  “One of the duties of a wife and mother is to discover everything she can about the people her family may encounter. You’ll do it yourself, if you’re wise.”

  “Did she write back? What did she tell you?”

  “That Trader had a reputation for being handsome, charming, a bit moody, but clever. He also had a mistress on Macao. Half Portuguese, half Chinese, something like that. Rather beautiful, apparently.”

  “Oh. How should I feel about that?”

  “If you’ve any sense, you should be glad,” her mother replied. “I should think your Mr. Trader is an accomplished lover—just as your dear father was when I married him, I’m happy to say.”

  “You never told me things like that before.”

  “I’m telling you now.”

  “Is the woman still there?”

  “Sensible question. No, she left the island and is not expected to return.”

  In these private conversations with her mother, only one thing concerned Agnes a little. “I wish he were better born. After all, I am a Lomond. And your family’s old as the hills. I’d be marrying beneath me.”