The Hidden Blade (16 page)

When they finally rose from the table, Leighton excused himself, climbed to his room, and leaned his back against the door that could not be locked from inside. With shaky fingers, he extricated the letter and unfolded the pages.

My dear boy,

I am still in Shanghai, but not for much longer.

This week I agreed to travel to Peking, to see about teaching English to the sons of an important Mandarin. The Mandarin, whose exact identity I have not been told, had engaged someone from Oxford University. But that gentleman apparently changed his mind and an urgent search had to be mounted for a replacement. There are other qualified men in Shanghai, but they already have their ambitions, professions, and families. I, on the other hand, am unattached, and have no demands on my time.

It would be good for me to remain in one place for some time. I do not want to travel anymore, but I still cannot see myself putting down roots anywhere. My heart belongs always to the Sussex downs. To Starling Manor, where I spent the happiest hours of my life.

Every time I open the world map I carry with me, I wish the Earth were flat and could be folded up like a map. So that wherever I find myself, I would be but one quick crease from touching England again. Would that not be marvelous?

Do please write. I long for your news. When I passed through India I gathered up my courage and wrote to your mother. Thanks to reliable consular mail service, her reply found me in Shanghai a fortnight ago. She informed me that you are well. That you write beautifully of your new home on the moors, of your long walks and little adventures with wild Dartmoor ponies. But I dearly wish to hear directly from you, to know all the details of your new life.

You can write to me care of the British Legation in Peking. Even if in the end I choose not to take the tutoring post, I will most likely stay and explore awhile in that ancient imperial city before I head elsewhere. And of course I will always leave a forwarding address for you.

Your faithful friend,

Herb Gordon

P.S. As thrilled as I was to receive your news from Mrs. Atwood, I was also greatly saddened. For some reason, I had come to believe that perhaps Sir Curtis had instituted a wholesale embargo of mail where you were concerned. But as that was not the case…Have you become angry with me at last for my part in the great disaster? I should be too ashamed to beg for your forgiveness, but I do. Not an hour passes that I do not think of how my recklessness has damaged your life. How it has damaged the lives of so many. I can never make it up to you, but please let me try.

P.P.S. As much as I hate the thought of a deliberate cold shoulder on your part, I still prefer it to the idea that Sir Curtis is somehow responsible for your silence. For years I had blithely dismissed your father’s warnings. Now I do not dare put anything past him. Nor can I truly believe, as much as I want to, that the man who had tormented your father so would grant you this easy, picturesque childhood. Has he somehow managed to deceive Mrs. Atwood as to your happiness and well-being? Are you in need of help? If so, please, please let me know.

P.P.P.S. I have drafted and redrafted this letter so many times that my wastebasket overflows with crumpled pieces of paper. Somehow I can never write at any length without all my fears and suspicions leaping onto the page. Please forgive me. I miss you immeasurably.

P.P.P.P.S. Last night I dreamed of the poppy fields just beyond the boundaries of Starling Manor. Do you remember them? Do you remember our picnic there May before last? I woke up with tears on my face.

P.P.P.P.P.S. I feel silly for telling you the following again—I’ve mentioned it in every one of my letters. You must be quite sick of the repetition by now. But here it goes.When your uncle sent me the pistol, I sat shaking for hours with anguish for Nigel, shame and loathing for myself, and above all fear for you, that you will be under his heel for far too many years, with no buffer between you and his cruelty. For that reason, before I departed England, I left you something. Think of Mr. Cromwell. And remember that I worry that this letter may not reach you. Or at least may not reach you unread.

P.P.P.P.P.P.S. Be well, my dear boy. And please don’t think your old Herb is in a constant state of dejection. I am all right. And when I think of you, when I think of how strong and kind you are, it gives me hope. It gives me every hope.

If indeed the world were foldable like a map, Leighton would be in China this very minute to reassure Herb that one of his fears could not be farther from the truth: There was no force in the world strong enough to tear apart the bonds of their friendship.

Upon rereading the letter, something niggled at the back of his mind. He realized after a minute that his mother, in her letters, had never once mentioned any communication from Herb. It was possible that she had withheld that information, but it was much, much more likely that some of her letters had also been intercepted.

He read the letter another few times. Why had Herb mentioned his solicitor? Did he mean that he had left something with Mr. Cromwell in London for Leighton to retrieve? Probably not, giving his warning that he knew this letter might not reach Leighton unread.

It didn’t matter too much for the moment. What mattered was that in the midst of his own grief and fear—not to mention the chaos of uprooting his entire existence—Herb had remembered Leighton and planned for what Leighton might need for the future.

Leighton allowed himself to shed a few tears—for sorrow, for hope, and for all the gratitude in his heart.

Chapter 12

The Bounty Hunter

“Be good,” Mother said to Ying-ying.

She’d become frightfully weak. In the lamplight her face seemed all hollows and shadows. Her hair lay loose on the pillow, the dark strands making her appear even more gaunt.

“Yes,” Ying-ying said, holding her eyes as wide open as she could, afraid that if she blinked, her tears would come falling down.

It would not do to cry before those who were desperately ill. She must appear cheerful and optimistic, even if they both knew that those would probably be Mother’s last words to her.

As Amah led her out of Mother’s rooms, Da-ren strode in. It was the first time that Ying-ying had ever been in his path. She and Amah hastily stepped aside and curtsied. He did not acknowledge them as he hastened to the deathbed of his beloved.

That night Ying-ying did not sleep. Toward dawn Little Plum came, her eyes red, and said that Fu-ren was no more. Da-ren did not leave until past noon. When he came out of Mother’s rooms, he had to brace a hand on the doorjamb.

He stood under the overhanging eaves, looking wan, exhausted, and—Ying-ying realized to her shock—infinitely lonely.

She remembered Mother’s tone when she’d mentioned the reforms he wanted. She’d been afraid for him, afraid of what might happen if he was thought to be causing too much trouble at court.

He had probably been losing supporters for his cause. And now he had lost his greatest solace in the world.

Da-ren wiped eyes with his sleeve and marched out, calling for Bao-shun as he went.

Ying-ying wept again, this time for him.

Mother’s funeral was a grand monstrosity. Though she had never crossed Da-ren’s threshold, she was accorded all the pomp and circumstances of a favorite concubine of a man of his station: twenty Buddhist monks and ten Taoist priests chanting sutras and prayers, a gaggle of hired mourners tossing paper coins high in the air along the route of the procession, and a catafalque so enormous that it took sixty men to carry.

And there was Ying-ying, one lone small relation, swaddled in mourning white, with Amah by her side, Cook and Little Plum a few steps behind, walking the long way from home to the cemetery amid the dolorous music the monks made, the hired mourners’ expert bawling, and the grunting and shuffling of the pallbearers.

They burned a small mountain of paper money—special underworld currency—by the fresh mound of her grave. Before they left, they placed bowls of rice before Mother’s tombstone, so that she would not go hungry in the afterlife.

“Why does the money need to be burned for her to use but not the rice?” Ying-ying asked Amah on their way back.

Amah said nothing.

A month later Little Plum brought home the man she had been secretly seeing, a jade polisher, and asked Amah for her freedom to leave and marry. She had been in Mother’s service for eight years, from the day her family had sold her into domestic work at age twelve. Amah, now the de facto mistress of the household, granted her wish.

Little Plum left on the day of her wedding, all dressed in red, a red veil over her head, in a fancy red sedan chair hired especially for the occasion. Ying-ying cried. Little Plum had been part of the household for as long as she could remember.

Cook, too, departed soon thereafter. Her son’s business had prospered. He would not have her toil anymore. She was to go live with him, and be served by her daughter-in-law.

Now, in a compound that could easily accommodate a family of ten plus a multitude of servants, Ying-ying and Amah were the only ones left.

Amah turned out to be not much of a cook. Ying-ying picked at the dishes at dinner and ate mostly plain rice.

“You can try cooking, if you don’t like what I make,” Amah said one evening.

“Why don’t we just hire another cook, and buy another girl to clean?” Ying-ying had been given all the sweeping and dusting. Amah had told her it was good for her sinews to be more active. But still, it was menial work. She didn’t care for it.

Amah laid down her chopsticks. “Come with me.”

She led Ying-ying to Mother’s old bedchamber, opened a locked chest, and took out a yellow cloth bundle. Inside the bundle was a pile of silver ingots, shiny and pretty. Ying-ying sucked in a breath. She had never seen so much money at once.

“This is how much Fu-ren used to receive from Da-ren’s treasury every month,” Amah said. She took out less than one-sixth of the silver ingots. “This is how much we get now.”

Ying-ying bit the inside of her cheek. “Where did you get the silver for Little Plum’s dowry then?”

It had been a handsome parting gift.

“Fu-ren was always careful with money. She knew in her heart she’d never see old age. She had some silver set aside for you—for your dowry, in case your luck turned out much better than hers.”

“Let’s use that money then. Didn’t you tell me no one who’s anyone would have me for a first wife?”

“Stupid girl. This is for you to live on when you leave here. Or do you really want to live in the wild?”

Ying-ying stared at Amah. What did she mean? Leave? Where? This was her home.

“You don’t own these courtyards,” Amah said. “Da-ren does. And when he gets himself another concubine or three, he will have need of this place.”

Ying-ying was chilled to her toes. “He wouldn’t turn me out, would he?”

“He may not—this is a big place. But can you stay on when the new concubines have taken over the best rooms? Can you stand sleeping in the kitchen, and fetching tea and rouge for them all day long?”

She could not imagine it. Mother had meant so much to Da-ren—how could he ever install anyone else in her place? But Ying-ying was coming to realize that things she could not imagine had a way of happening.

“You are right: We should be spare with the silver,” she said. “I’ll try cooking.”