Son of Fortune (39 page)

“You never gave me a letter,” Ming said.

“I meant to. The first time you came to the house. I had it in my pocket, but then everything happened with Peter. I had no chance to talk with you alone to explain.” Even as Aiden was sick with this new truth, sick with having to tell her and sick with his own hand in the awful story, he was beginning to feel a flicker of hope as well. With Jian dead, she would not have to marry Silamu Xie. He could have her love, her magic, all the bones of her. “I had it the second time too,” he went on. “But I was afraid if I gave it to you, that would be the end. That I would never see you again.”

“My brother was made a prisoner in this mine?”

“The workers are indentured,” he explained. “They mine fertilizer for growing crops.” How easily he embraced this lie now! “Jian was unable to convince the manager that he had been brought wrongly. So he wasn't allowed to leave.”

He did not have to tell her all the details. Wasn't it kinder not to? He told her about all the plans her brother had thought up to escape, but nothing of the wretched conditions they lived under. He told about Jian quoting Shakespeare but left out his cruel remarks about the other coolies. He did not mention the rock at all. Ming shivered as she listened but would not move closer to the stove. So he sat across from her, leaving the dark shadows between them. He told her as carefully as he could, and the moon passed fully across one of the new windows before he finished.

“I wanted to help him,” Aiden said. That wasn't really a lie. He had wanted to help Jian. Hadn't he offered to surrender the cargo? “But our ship had to leave quite suddenly. I didn't have a chance to speak with the manager.” Would he really have done it—given up his fortune to save one man? “Then your brother tried to hide on our ship as we were leaving.”

Jian's death, in this telling, was quick and undramatic. Koster discovered Jian was missing. Men rowed out to the ship and Jian was shot. That was what happened. Aiden felt the clutch of panic again at the memory, but in a strange way, he was beginning to believe this version himself. He had done everything he could. Ming sat silently all this time, rocking slightly. When Aiden finished and she finally spoke, her voice was steady.

“You are certain that my brother was killed?”

“I—I saw it all.”

“What was done with his body?”

“There is no place to bury a man there,” Aiden said. “He was given rights as a sailor.”

“He was put into the sea?”

“Yes.”

“You saw this?”

“Yes.”

Ming took a deep breath and stood up. She had stopped shaking, though she moved stiffly, her body strained from the long tension.

“Did my brother have time to know he would be killed?”

“Yes.”

“Was he…brave?”

“Yes.” Aiden said this with no hesitation. That answer, to a loved one, was always yes.

“Does Silamu Xie know that Jian is dead?” she asked.

“I don't know. The news could have come on a faster ship.”

Ming nodded but said nothing. Her eyes were dull with sorrow and fatigue.

“I will take care of you, Ming,” Aiden said. “You don't have to worry. I will take you home to China if you want, to your family. I am—I have money.” He wanted just to go back an hour in time, to lying with her in his arms, fumbling over tree branches and teacups.

“I cannot go back to China,” she said softly. “My family will have shame.”

“We don't have to decide anything right now,” Aiden said. His emotions were churned worse than any storm. He felt exhilarated, for Ming was now free, and relieved, for duty no longer hung over his head. But he could also feel the cold pistol in his hand and see the look of hatred in Jian's eyes. It would change nothing for Ming to know this. It would be no mercy.

“You can't go back to Xie's house now,” he said. “Come home with me. Everyone will be asleep—no one will even know you're there. Tomorrow we will think what to do. I am not as rich as Silamu Xie, but I have enough to keep us well forever.”

Ming nodded. Her face, even in the dim light from the stove, was shivery white. When she stood, her knees gave way. Aiden caught her and held her. She was not goddess of the sun, not plum branches or the North Star, but a girl his own age thrashing out a path to her own life, and he loved her more for that. He eased her back to the sofa, and they sat, holding each other for a long time. The fire died down. The moon set.

“We must fix the house,” she finally said.

“Yes.”

They shook out the sheet together, billowing it up and letting it float gently down, erasing the creases of their lovemaking, shrouding it against their passion. Aiden banked the coals and closed the drafts on the stove, then silently they slipped out of the empty house.

The night felt terribly cold. Aiden wasn't sure if the temperature had actually fallen or if they were both just so wrung out. He guessed it was well after midnight, though time had long since vanished. The cold had hardened the muddy ruts in the road, so it was difficult to walk. They did not see anyone else on the streets, but Aiden did not begin to feel at ease until they neared the Worthington home. Hopefully it was late enough that there would be no servants sitting up in the kitchen. All he wanted to do right now was lie in his bed and sleep with Ming in his arms. Even with the stress and confusion, the memories of their lovemaking tumbled through his body like small avalanches.

When he turned the corner and saw the blurry glow of the gas streetlamp by the back gate, Aiden felt a wash of relief. The iron gate was locked, but there was a key hidden behind a loose stone in the wall just inside. Aiden reached his left arm through the bars and felt for it. Suddenly he heard Ming cry out. Aiden saw a shadow lurch out from behind the shrubs. Before he could pull his arm back through the bars, a hard fist slammed between his shoulder blades, knocking him into the gate. Then one large hand grabbed the back of his neck and smashed his face against the iron bars while the other landed hard blows to his side, sending jaggers of pain through his body.

Aiden heard Ming shouting in Chinese and felt the vibrations of a grunted reply. It was Gouzhi, Aiden realized as he struggled to break free. He had come looking for Ming. She was not at home, and this was the only place she would be outside Chinatown. It was over a year since he had last fought a man in the ring, but Aiden's instincts and training were still sharp. Gouzhi's hand wasn't big enough to wrap all the way around Aiden's neck to choke him from behind. So he guessed Gouzhi's next move would be to try to slam his head against the iron bars again. As soon as Aiden felt a twitch in the fingers that signaled Gouzhi pulling him back, Aiden pushed himself off the bars and jerked his head back as hard as he could, smashing his own skull into the man's face.

As Gouzhi fell back, Aiden pulled his left arm free from the bars, jabbed that elbow into the man's belly, then spun around and followed with a strong right hook to the man's eye.

“Run, Ming!” Aiden shouted. “Get away!” Gouzhi staggered but did not fall. In the flickering lamplight, he looked like a stone statue. But he was far quicker than any statue. He lunged at Aiden, slamming a rock-hard fist to his head. Aiden ducked most of it and managed to catch the man's sleeve. He twisted and pulled as he let his own body fall and roll backward, pulling Gouzhi over with him. Aiden kicked him hard in the groin, then rolled out of the way. He scrambled to his feet, but his legs collapsed beneath him. He saw black birds in a black sky. Then he felt the wet swish of Ming's trouser hem against his face and felt her hands grabbing his coat. Her wet socks had slipped down and, insanely, this aroused him. He pressed his face into that wet bunch of sock like it was a perfumed silken pillow. If he could only touch this much of her, the elegant tendons of her bare ankle, he could die happy. He grabbed hold of her ankle and she pulled him to his knees. Strength flowed into his legs and he got to his feet.

“Run!” he gasped. Gouzhi would not be down for long. Aiden pulled her around the corner of the wall toward the front door of the house.

“Go to the house!”

“No!” Ming stopped.

“They will help us.”

“No.” She pulled her arm away. “It is danger to the family.”

“One night won't matter.”

“And danger to me! Xie will know I am there,” Ming whispered. “He will demand me to go back. They will send me back. They must.”

Aiden tried to focus. Silamu Xie would certainly not send a band of men to storm the house tonight, and Mr. Worthington could summon all the guards he needed by noon. But then what? Worthington had lived through the toughest mob years in this city and knew violence too well. He was fiercely protective of the family and would never tempt those fates. Eventually he would return Ming to Silamu Xie rather than risk the man's anger. Aiden heard a grunt and rough steps behind them: Gouzhi on his feet and searching for them.

“This way,” Aiden whispered. He pulled Ming along and they ran to the hedges on the far side of the lawn. They pushed inside the branches and flattened themselves on the ground. The piney scent was luscious, the fat bud tips swollen with resin. If only they were children stealing away for hide-and-seek, it would be a perfect place. No lights came on in the house, but in the last of the moonlight, Aiden could see the shape of Gouzhi standing at the far edge of the lawn. Aiden was pretty sure he would not dare trespass this close to the house. They just had to wait him out, then go—where? Ming was shivering so hard Aiden could hear her teeth chattering. He opened his coat and pulled her body against his, wrapping his arms around her, wrapping them both against the cold and the world.

aradise was nearly empty. And it was warm. Aiden paused in the doorway, keeping Ming behind him in the shadows. There were three men sitting at the bar, steam paddy diggers, Aiden guessed by the mud spatters on their trousers. The two tables nearest the stove were occupied, one by three young women who looked like pretty waiter girls, the other by an old man who seemed quietly glad just to be sitting near them. He had sunken eyes and wore a heavy gray wool coat. One empty sleeve was pinned up with a brooch, a carved gutta-percha oval holding a flower woven from strands of human hair. Keepsakes made of hair had been fashionable during the war, but they always made Aiden shudder.

In the back of the room, at the corner bench where they had sat last time, was Blind Sally, with The Moon curled up tight at her feet.

“Come on,” he whispered to Ming. The atmosphere was quiet, the weary bar girls talking softly, the old soldier nodding off, everyone contentedly to themselves. The light was low, with only two lamps behind the bar and some candles and lanterns scattered around the tables. They should be all right if she kept her head down. He had given Ming his own coat and cap to wear over her Chinese clothes, and no one had noticed her so far as they had walked through the streets of the Barbary Coast. Aiden's first thought had been to take her to Mrs. Neils's boardinghouse, but there was no place in a bunk room full of sailors to hide her there for long. Mrs. Neils had the only private room in the house, and that was little more than a nook just off the kitchen. Besides, Ming couldn't walk that far. Though she hadn't complained, Aiden knew she was near exhaustion, and her feet would be freezing in her thin cloth shoes.

The pretty half-Mexican girl was behind the bar, wiping glasses. She smiled as they entered. Aiden couldn't tell if she recognized him, or if she just smiled for everyone. The Moon gave a woof of warning as they approached the table, and Blind Sally looked up, sniffing and squinting.

“Blind Sally,” Aiden said softly. “It's Aiden Lyn—Madison.” He was so tired he had almost used his real last name.

“And who else?” Blind Sally said suspiciously.

“A friend. We need your help.”

“Ah! A friend!” Blind Sally said. “There's a mystery way to put it.”

“May we sit?”

“Sit!” she demanded. They slid onto the other side of the corner bench, Aiden keeping Ming on the outside, farthest from Blind Sally.

“There's cold come off you like an ice block.” The old woman sat up and waved her crumpled hand at the barmaid. “Girl!”

The barmaid came over to the table.

“Whiskey all around. And something hot with sugar in it. And plenty of sugar. Don't be stingy—they've gone a lost way.”

“The kettle's warm on the stove, Miss Sally,” the barmaid said. “I'll make some tea.”

Ming, looking up for the first time, saw the snarling bear's head on the wall and gave a little shriek.

“A girl?” Blind Sally said in wonderment. “A girl is your friend here now?”

“Yes,” Aiden said.

“Does she speak?”

“I do, ma'am,” Ming said softly.

“A China girl!” Blind Sally whispered. “Hmmm. Ohh—what tangles now? All sorts here of a night.”

The barmaid put two steaming cups of tea and three glasses of whiskey on the table, plus a small jar of sugar and a plate of buttered bread, sliced ham, cheese and apples. It was the loveliest meal ever. Aiden poured half a shot of whiskey and a spoonful of sugar into one of the mugs of tea and gave it to Ming, who wrapped her icy hands around it. She was like a sleepwalker now, silent and dazed, drained.

“We need some place to stay,” Aiden said. “For tonight at least—maybe a few days.”

“I want no Chinese trouble,” Blind Sally said. “They gut you.” She made a quick slashing motion across her belly. “Say with a sharp blade you feel nothing, but I say gutting is painful, sharp knife or not.”

“No one knows we're here,” Aiden reassured her. “Chinese or anyone. We just need a place to sleep tonight. Please. I have money—I can pay.”

“I have a bag of diamonds big as your balls!” Blind Sally snapped. “And a gold platter you could sleep on! You shame to offer coin for love danger!”

Ming recoiled—only from the tone, Aiden supposed, for there was no way any of that would have made sense to her. He squeezed her leg under the table. The Moon unwound his shaggy head for a glance but did not think the tirade enough to rouse himself for.

“I meant no insult, Blind Sally,” Aiden said. “You know that.” He never knew what to think with Blind Sally. She had requested payment for the bullets she had used to drive off his robbers, yet now acted offended that he offered to pay for a bed.

“Girl!” Blind Sally called out again. The sweet barmaid never seemed at all put out by the old woman's snappishness. “Make them in the baron's room!”

The barmaid went back behind the bar and fetched a ring of keys from a hook. She brought the money box over to the table, where Blind Sally then pulled it onto her lap. She took out her enormous pistol to guard it. Aiden and Ming ate hungrily and gulped the sweet, milky tea, dosed with the whiskey. Everything felt a little better.

The barmaid returned with a lamp. “The room is ready.”

“Go on, then,” Blind Sally said.

The barmaid led them through a curtain at the back of Paradise, showed them the outhouse, waited for them to use it, then led them upstairs. The stairs were steep, hardly more than a ladder, and so narrow Aiden had to turn sideways. At the top were four doors that opened outward onto a landing not more than a yard square, so small that only one door could ever swing open at a time. The barmaid slid a key into one of the locks and squeaked the door open. There was a bed inside the room. Inside the entire room. Wall to wall, front to back, except for a foot-wide aisle by the door. A gigantic headboard nearly touched the ceiling. It was of some dark wood, carved completely with cherubs, clusters of grapes and apples, flowers, great leafy vines and birds. A shorter but equally elaborate footboard pressed against the other wall so tightly the spindles had gouged the wall. Aiden wondered if the room had been built around the crazy bed. The walls were thin, partitions more than walls, made only of unplastered boards. Covering those makeshift walls were at least twenty oil paintings, heavy dark portraits of stern ancient people in gilded frames.

“It's very nice,” Aiden said, wondering if Gouzhi had actually hit him hard enough for hallucinations. “Thank you.”

The room had one window, with a flour sack nailed to the frame for a curtain, and a narrow shelf with a jug of water, a tin cup and a small stack of newspapers. The barmaid set the lamp down on the shelf.

“There's a chamber pot beneath the bed if you need—but you empty it yourself, not me.”

“Yes. Of course. Thank you. What is your name?”

“Avia.”

“Thank you, Avia. May I ask, please, we would like it if no one knew we were here—especially the Chinese girl.”

“No one asks anyone's business here,” Avia said. “Though you'd do best to stay in the room, miss, and not be seen.”

She left them then, and Aiden latched the door. Ming sat on the edge of the bed, still silent and numb.

“You're safe,” Aiden said. He knelt and slipped off her wet shoes. He unrolled the damp socks and pulled off her trousers, the hems heavy with mud. There was nothing sexual about any of this now—only something like peacefulness. He pulled back the rough blankets and nudged her between the coarse sheets. He climbed in beside her and pulled the heavy blankets up over them, spooning up against her back with an arm around her. Ming took his hand in hers and pressed it against her chest. She was still shaking, not constantly, but in little spasms like an injured bird.

Aiden woke disoriented, but strangely calm. He opened his eyes and saw Ming, wide awake, her brown eyes gazing at him. A thin gray light washed through the narrow window, painting the room in watercolor softness and lighting up the flour sack's proclamations.
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Her face was luminous above the rough gray blanket.

“Hello,” he said. What a strange glory this was—like waking up in mythology. He touched her hand and it still did not seem real. “You are so beautiful.”

“I did not choose it.”

“But you still are.”

“You fight in your sleep,” she said.

Aiden sat up in alarm. He saw there was a bruise on her cheekbone and slight swelling at the corner of her eye. “Did I hit you?”

“No, this was from Gouzhi. You fought against the little angels.” She reached up and stroked one of the carved cherubs on the headboard. The dark portraits stared indifferently across the room at each other.

“Is this…” She hesitated. “A usual sort of house?”

“No,” Aiden laughed. “Not at all.”

“These are ancestors?” Ming said.

“I suppose,” Aiden said. He stroked her hair. “Do you feel all right?”

“I don't know how I should feel. I am in mourning for my brother. I am joyful to think I will not marry Silamu Xie. I am afraid of what will come.” She smiled shyly. “And I am happy to be with you.”

Her body moved toward his, as naturally as the morning. What began as comfort soon flamed into passion again. It was different this time—slower, intuitive, their bodies tuned to each other so that every touch and movement rippled back and forth between them. They could stay forever, Aiden thought as they lay curled together after, right here on this wall-to-wall bed. He would buy soft quilts and smooth sheets and fluffy down pillows, paints and brushes and paper for Ming to paint with, bags of cookies and bread and ham, piles of books, dresses with lace and jars of cream for her skin (though she didn't need it—her skin was perfect—but girls always wanted creams), and day after day could pass in perfect love.

“I must tell you something,” Ming said. “I am feeling shame to my brother. The story he told you, of how he learned to swim? That is not the truth.”