All the Tea in China (17 page)

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.”

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.”

I laughed in spite of my fear. “Your word? When am I to trust your word?”

“Believe me on this if nothing else, Isabella Goodrich. I
will
keep you safe.”

The ship lurched, my hammock swayed far to the right then back again violently. I feared that it would be loosed from its mooring and I would be flung across the room. Even the canvas shielding me from Snowe’s view flapped about.

Everything righted for a moment, and in the interim, I mentally took myself—and Snowe—to task. How could he be so calm and undisturbed over there? It was I who wanted to be a missionary and help the poor and downtrodden, yet I squeaked like a mouse at the first sign of danger.

The ship rolled, and I clutched the sides of my hammock, praying fervently. If the apostle Paul experienced and survived half my fear when his ship wrecked, I could well understand why he earned the title of saint!

“Isabella, you are interested in swords and fencing, yes?”

Where did
that
question originate? “Yes, of course!” I answered, keeping one eye on the porthole. Lashed by the waves and wind, it appeared that any moment water would burst in and overtake us.

“If you would learn about the Chinese, you should learn some of the stories they tell, great myths about powerful men and women who battle for justice against villains.”

His words had the obvious desired effect of piquing my curiosity. “You speak of heroes? Women?”

“Yes, not only men. Often they were wanderers who were skilled in combat but only fought when necessary,” he said.

“To right wrongs?”

“Yes.”

“They sound much like knights of British myth. Like King Arthur and his knights of the round table.”

“It is not quite the same,” he said. “These heroes, called
hup
, were not nobility. They could be, of course, but could also come from a humbler background. They did not have quests, either, but were often wanderers.”

“So they roamed the countryside with no purpose?”

“Their goal was adventure, and they could be hired, but they did not seek to line their pockets so much as to uphold honor and justice. Their word could not be violated.”

That prevents you from numbering yourself among them,
Phineas Snowe!
I do not know why he spoke of such warriors when he was so far from them himself. However, listening to his description took my mind off the storm outside, and indeed, I believed I felt myself warming. “Tell me more,” I said. “Do you know any actual stories, or is your purpose merely to inform?”

“I have heard a
mo hup
tale or two.
Mo
means having to do with martial arts, the military, or war, and
hup
is the hero of the story. It also means chivalry.”

“Like King Arthur and his knights.”

Snowe sighed. “As I said, it is not quite the same, Isabella.”

If there was anything I preferred to fencing, it was a well-told story. Storm and danger receded, and I settled into my hammock. “Then spin a tale and let me judge for myself.”

Spin he did, his words holding me spellbound. He told the tale of Wo-Ping, a
hup
who appeared in a village called Hu-King one day with little more than his sword. In exchange for food and a place to sleep, he worked for a farmer near the village. The next day another
hup
arrived, a woman, Mei. The villagers suspected her motives, and though she was lovely, she had a heart as hard as the soil after a rain. Unfortunately for the villagers and Wo-Ping, they did not know about the sword she kept hidden in the haystack nor how wrong they would be about the condition of her heart.

I did not know if Phineas merely recounted a story he had heard before or if he wove the tale even as he spoke it, but something happened to me that night as he sought to calm my fears of the storm. I no longer heard the voice of Phineas Snowe, but the narrator of a great tale. He drew me into the land and the characters with their struggle for
yi
, or righteousness. I was transfixed by the notion of a woman who hungered and thirsted for such.

Just as he reached a crucial point in the story, he suddenly stopped speaking. I was all but poised at the edge of my hammock, waiting for him to continue.

“We are past the storm,” he said.

“Storm? There is no storm in Hu-King. Go on.”

“I spoke of the
Dignity
, Isabella.”

I blinked. I no longer saw the village or the woman with the sword but the canvas hanging between my hammock and Snowe’s. I rolled over to face the porthole and saw that the sun was shining once again. We had survived.

“Are you warmer now?” he said gently.

“Yes, thank you.” I spied my discarded clothing on the floor. “But I am afraid I have nothing to wear. I cannot be seen in my nightgown, after all.”

I heard him rise from his hammock, then the rustle of clothing. “Perhaps Julia Whipple has something else that you may borrow. In the meantime, perhaps you should rest. I do not want you to catch a chill. I will bring you some tea.”