Tai-Pan

by James Clavell

  “Oh, good.” She gave him a hug and he set her down and she looked at the painting again. “Who’s Alcaza—who you sayed?”

  “A friend of mine,” Quance said gravely. “A bearded friend who watches over painters and beautiful children.”

  “It’s very, very pretty,” Sarah said, her face stretched. “Run along, now, it’s past your bedtime.”

  “It’s early,” Karen said with a pout. “And you promised I could stay up till Daddy goes.”

  Quance smiled and cleaned his fingers with turpentine and took off his smock. “I’ll pick up my paints tomorrow, Robb.”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, we’d better be off.” Quance smoothed the startling purple-embroidered waistcoat and put on his gold silk frock coat.

  “I like you, Mr. Quance,” Karen said. “You’re very pretty even though the painting’s awful.”

  He laughed and gave her a hug and put on his top hat. “I’ll wait in the longboat, Robb.”

  “Why don’t you show Mr. Quance the way, Karen?” Robb said.

  “Oh yes,” she replied and danced to the door. Quance followed her out like a peacock.

  “Are you feeling all right, Sarah?” Robb asked solicitously.

  “No,” Sarah said coldly. “But that doesn’t matter. You’d better go. You’ll be late.”

  “I’ll stay if it’ll help,” Robb said tautly.

  “The only thing that’ll help is the coming of the baby, and the ship to home.” Sarah peevishly brushed a lank strand of hair out of her eyes. “And away from this accursed island!”

  “Oh, don’t be ridiculous!” he said, unable to stop himself, his anger swamping his resolve not to quarrel. “Nothing to do with Hong Kong!”

  “Ever since we had it, there’s been nothing but trouble,” she said. “You’ve changed, Dirk’s changed, Culum, me. For the love of God, what’s going on? We’d finally decided to leave—then we’re bankrupt. We’re all frightened to death and quarreling hideously and poor Ronalda and Dirk’s family dead. Then the bullion saves us, but oh no, Dirk grinds you into a corner and you’re too weak to get out, so you swear you’ll stay. Culum hates Dirk and Dirk hates Culum and you’re stupidly in the middle, without the courage to take what’s ours by right and leave to enjoy it at home. I’ve never been late with a bairn before but now I’m late. I’ve never felt poorly before but now I feel like death. If you want a date for all our troubles starting, it’s the 26th of January, 1841!”

  “That’s stupid nonsense,” he retorted, furious that she articulated what long had been simmering in his mind, and realizing that he had equally cursed that day in the brooding watches of the night. “Superstitious nonsense,” he added, more to convince himself than her. “The plague happened last year. The run on the bank was last year. We just didn’t get the news till we were in Hong Kong. And I’m not stupid. We’ve got to have money, lots of money, and a year is neither here nor there. I’m thinking of you and the children and their children. I’ve got to stay. It’s all settled.”

  “Have you booked our passage home yet?”

  “No.”

  “Then I’ll be glad if you’ll do that immediately. I’m not going to change my mind, if that’s what you think!”

  “No, Sarah,” Robb said icily, “I don’t think you’ll change your mind. I was waiting to see how you felt. We’ve plenty of ships available. As you well know.”

  “A month from today I’ll be fit enough and—”

  “You won’t, and going so quickly’s dangerous. Both for you and the child!”

  “Then perhaps you’d better escort us home.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Of course not. You’ve more important things to do.” Sarah’s temper snapped. “Perhaps you’ve another heathen whore ready and waiting.”

  “Oh shut up, for God’s sake. I’ve told you a thousand times—”

  “Dirk’s got one on the island already. Why should you be different?”

  “Has he?”

  “Hasn’t he?”

  They stared at each other, hating each other.

  “You’d better go,” she said, and turned away.

  The door opened and Karen danced into the room. She jumped into her father’s arms, then ran to Sarah and embraced her.

  “Daddy’s arranging our ship home, darling,” Sarah said, feeling the baby kicking violently in her womb. Her time was very near at last, and she was stabbed with untoward fear. “We’ll have Christmas at home this year. Won’t that be wonderful? There’ll be snow and carol singing and wonderful presents. And Father Christmas.”

  “Oh good, I love Father Christmas. What’s snow?”

  “It’s all white—the trees and the houses—it’s rain that’s become ice. It’s very pretty, and the shops will be full of toys and wonderful things.” Sarah’s voice trembled and Robb felt the knife of her torment. “It’ll be so nice to be in a real city again. Not a—not a wilderness.”

  “I’ll be off now,” Robb said, consumed with grief. He kissed Sarah briefly and she imperceptibly turned her face away, infuriating him once more. He hugged Karen and walked out.

  Mary Sinclair put the finishing touches to her coiffure and pinned into place the tiny coronet of wildflowers that Glessing had sent.

  Her dress—jet-black Shantung silk, bustled and flowing—was worn over many petticoats that rustled as she moved. It was cut fashionably to reveal bare smooth shoulders and swelling breasts.

  She studied her reflection dispassionately.

  The face that looked back at her from the mirror was strange. There was an untoward loveliness in the eyes, no color in the cheeks. The lips were deep red and glistening.

  Mary knew that she had never looked lovelier.

  She sighed and took up the calendar. But she knew that there was no need to re-count the days again. The total would always be the same, and the discovery that had shrieked to her this morning would be the same: You’re with child.

  Oh God oh God oh God.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Culum bowed politely. “Evening,” he said automatically, and another guest dissolved into the festive throng. For almost an hour he had been standing beside his father and uncle, formally receiving their guests, and he was impatient for the ritual to end.

  He surveyed the dance floor. Amid the bare shoulders and multicolored gowns and resplendent uniforms and constantly quivering fans he spied Mary Sinclair. For a moment he was annoyed to see that she was chatting with Glessing. But then, he thought, you shouldn’t be jealous. Mary’s obviously the most beautiful woman in the room and George is quite right to be with her. Don’t blame him a bit.

  Two bandstands had been erected on either side of the circle, one for the navy band and one for the army. When the general had heard that the admiral had agreed to lend his band for the evening, he had done the same.

  The soldiers, scarlet-uniformed, were playing now. Everyone was anxious to begin dancing, but had to wait until Longstaff arrived. And he was late, which was his prerogative.

  Culum bowed to another guest and another, and he noticed with relief that the line was thinning. He glanced shoreward, where a ribbon of lanterns guided the guests from their boats, and saw Longstaff’s cutter hit the beach. Longstaff, the archduke and the admiral were assisted ashore. Good, Culum thought. Not long now. Again his eyes strayed around the floor and this time came to rest on Manoelita de Vargas. She was watching him over the top of her fan. She was very beautiful—stark-white skin, dark eyes, a mantilla in her black hair. Culum smiled and made a slight bow. Manoelita’s eyes crinkled and she fluttered her fan and then turned away. Culum promised himself that he would have at least one dance with her.

  He brushed some dust off his lapels, conscious that he was dressed in the latest English fashion, well in advance of most of the men tonight. His coat was sky-blue, with dark blue silk lapels, tight at the waist and flaring over his hips. Pale blue skin-tight trousers were tucked into soft black half boots. Hair curl
ed over his ears and over his high, starched collar. Robb’s tailor had done a very good job, he thought. And so cheap! Why, on a hundred and fifty guineas a month he could afford dozens of superb suits and boots. Life was wonderful.

  He bowed as another group of guests passed by, leaving in their wake the dankness of ancient sweat overlaid with perfume. Strange, he thought. Now he could smell other people and they did stink. He was amazed that he hadn’t noticed it before. Certainly he felt better, much better, since he had been having a daily bath and change of clothes. The Tai-Pan was right.

  He looked at his father, who was deep in conversation with Morley Skinner. Culum was aware that people were watching him, and that his expression was antagonistic. As far as the guests were concerned, there was no sign that the hostility between father and son had lessened. In fact, it had deepened into cold politeness. Since the game had started, Culum had found it increasingly easier to carry out the deception in public. Be honest, Culum, he said to himself. You no longer idolize him. You still respect him—but he’s a heretic, adulterer, and dangerous influence. So you’re not pretending—you are cold. Cold and cautious.

  “Come on, Culum laddie,” Robb whispered uneasily.

  “What, Uncle?”

  “Oh, nothing. Just that tonight’s a night to celebrate.”

  “Yes, it is.” Culum read the troubled expression in Robb’s eyes but said nothing and turned back to greet other guests and to watch Mary and occasionally Manoelita. He decided he would not tell Robb what had happened between the Tai-Pan and himself on the mountaintop.

  “You haven’t met my nephew Culum,” he heard Robb say. “Culum, this is Miss Tess Brock.”

  Culum turned. His heart twisted, and he fell in love.

  Tess was curtsying. The skirt of her dress was huge and billowing, white silk brocade over cascading petticoats that broke like froth from beneath the hem. Her waist seemed incredibly small below the swelling low-cut bodice. Her fair hair fell in soft ringlets on her bare shoulders. Culum saw that her eyes were blue, her lips inviting. And she was looking at him as he was looking at her.

  “I’m honored to meet you,” he heard himself say in an unreal voice. “Perhaps you’d honor me with the first dance.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Struan,” he heard her say, her voice bell-like, and she was gone.

  Liza had been watching carefully. She had seen Culum’s expression and Tess’s response. Oh Lord, let it happen, make it happen, she thought as she followed Brock across the floor.

  “I did na recognize little Tess, did you?” Struan was saying to Robb. He too had noticed the exchange between his son and the Brock girl, and his mind was churning with the advantages and dangers inherent in a Culum-Tess match. Good sweet Christ!

  “No. Look at Brock. He’s busting with pride.”

  “Aye.”

  “And look at Mary. I’d never have thought that she could be so—so stunning either.”

  “Aye.” Struan watched Mary a moment. The black dress enhanced the ethereal luminous pallor of her skin. Then he scrutinized Manoelita. Then Tess again. She was smiling at Culum, who was smiling back, as obliviously. Good God, he thought, Culum Struan and Tess Brock.

  “Damn Shakespeare,” he said involuntarily.

  “Eh, Dirk?”

  “Nothing. I’d say Mary is in the race for the prize right enough.”

  “She’s not in the same class, by God,” Quance said as he strolled past and winked. “Not with Manoelita de Vargas.”

  “Or Shevaun, I’ll wager,” Struan said, “when she deigns to honor us with her presence.”

  “Ah, the delectible Miss Tillman. I hear she’s only wearing pantaloons and gossamer. Nothing else! Great spheroids of Jupiter, eh?”

  “Ah, Aristotle,” Jeff Cooper said, coming up to them. “Can I have a word with you? It’s about a painting commission.”

  “God bless my beautiful soul! Really don’t understand what’s come over everyone,” Quance said suspiciously. “Nothing but commissions all day long.”

  “We’ve suddenly realized the perfection of your work.” Cooper said quickly.

  “And it’s about time, by God, and that’s the immortal truth. Me price is up. Fifty guineas.”

  “Let’s discuss it over a champagne, eh?” Cooper winked surreptitiously to Struan over Quance’s head and steered the little man away.

  Struan chuckled. He had spread the word to keep Quance occupied and away from wagging tongues—until the judging. And he had effectively marooned Maureen Quance aboard the small hulk by withdrawing all the longboats.

  At that moment Longstaff and the archduke and the admiral came into the light.

  There was a roll of drums and everyone stood as the bands played “God Save the Queen.” Next they played, haltingly, the Russian national anthem, and finally “Rule Britannia.” There was a round of applause.

  “That was most thoughtful of you, Mr. Struan,” Zergeyev said.

  “It’s our pleasure, Your Highness. We want you to feel at home.” Struan knew that all eyes were on the two of them, and he knew that he had chosen his clothes wisely. In contrast to everyone else, he wore black, except for a small green ribbon which tied his long hair at the nape of his neck. “Perhaps you’d care to lead the first dance?”

  “I would be honored. But I’m afraid I don’t know any ladies.” Zergeyev was wearing a brilliant Cossack uniform, the tunic draped elegantly on one shoulder, a dress sword at his jeweled belt. Two liveried servants were obsequiously in attendance.

  “That’s easily remedied,” Struan said breezily. “Perhaps you’d care to choose. I’d be glad to make the formal introduction.”

  “That would be very impolite of me. Perhaps you’d decide who might care to honor me.”

  “And get my eyes scratched out? Very well.” He turned and began to cross the floor. Manoelita would be the best choice. That would greatly honor and please the Portuguese society on whom The Noble House and all the traders relied completely to supply clerks, bookkeepers, storesmen—all those who made the companies function. Mary Sinclair would be almost as good a choice, for she was strangely intriguing tonight and the most beautiful woman in the room. But nothing would be gained by choosing her, except Glessing’s support. Struan had noticed how Glessing was close in attendance on her. Since he had become harbor master his position of influence had increased. And he would be a very useful ally.

  Struan saw Manoelita’s eyes widen and Mary Sinclair catch her breath as he headed in their direction. But he stopped in front of Brock.

  “With your permission, Tyler, perhaps Tess could lead the first dance with the archduke?” Struan was pleased with the rustle of astonishment he could feel.

  Brock nodded, flushed with pride. Liza was ecstatic. Tess blushed and almost fainted. And Culum cursed and hated his father and blessed him for giving the honor to Tess. And all the traders wondered if the Tai-Pan was making peace with Brock. And if so, why?

  “I don’t believe it,” Glessing said.

  “Yes,” Cooper agreed worriedly, knowing a peace between Brock and Struan would not work to his benefit. “Doesn’t make sense.”

  “It makes very good sense,” Mary said. “She’s the youngest and she should have the honor.”

  “More to it than that, Miss Sinclair,” Glessing said. “The Tai-Pan never does anything lightly. Perhaps he hopes she’ll fall down and break a leg or something. He hates Brock.”

  “I think that’s a very unkind thought, Captain Glessing,” Mary said sharply.

  “Yes it is, and I apologize for saying aloud what everyone’s thinking.” Glessing regretted his stupidity; he should have realized that such exquisite innocence would defend that devil. “I’m irritated only because you’re the most beautiful lady present and you undoubtedly should have the honor.”

  “You’re very kind. But you mustn’t think that the Tai-Pan does things maliciously. He doesn’t.”

  “You’re right and I’m wrong,” Glessing said. “Perhaps I
can have the first dance—and take you in to dinner. Then I’ll know I’m forgiven.”

  For more than a year she had been considering George Glessing as a possible husband. She liked him but did not love him. But now everything was ruined, she thought.

  “Thank you,” she said. She lowered her eyes and fluttered her fan. “If you promise to be more—more gentle.”

  “Done,” Glessing said happily.

  Struan was leading Tess across the floor. “Can you waltz, lass?” She nodded, and tried to keep her eyes from the Tai-Pan’s son. “May I present Miss Tess Brock, Your Highness? Archduke Alexi Zergeyev.”

  Tess stood paralyzed, her knees trembling. But the thought of Culum, and the way he’d looked at her, bolstered her confidence and restored her poise.

  “I’m honored, Your Highness,” she said, curtsying.

  The archduke bowed and gallantly kissed her hand. “It’s my honor, Miss Brock.”

  “Did you have a pleasant voyage?” she asked, fanning herself.

  “Yes, thank you.” He glanced at Struan. “Are all English young ladies so beautiful?”

  No sooner had he spoken than Shevaun swept into the light on Tillman’s arm. Her dress was a mist of green gossamer, its skirt huge and bell-like. The outer dress was knee-length to dramatize the tiers of a dozen cascading emerald petticoats. She wore long green gloves, and there were birds-of-paradise feathers in her red hair. Incredibly, her bodice was without supporting sleeves.

  “I’m sorry we’re late, Your Excellency, Mr. Struan,” she said, with a curtsy in the silence. “But I broke a shoe buckle just as we were leaving.”

  Longstaff pried his eyes off the décolletage and wondered, with all of them, how the devil the dress was supported and if it would come down. “Your timing is always perfect, Shevaun.” He turned to Zergeyev. “May I present Miss Shevaun Tillman from America. Oh, and Mr. Tillman. His Highness, Archduke Alexi Zergeyev.”