Gai-Jin by James Clavell
God in Heaven, she can blow me to pieces at her whim! How do I make her an ally, keep her an ally? She’s got to be my ally, whatever the cost.
Then laughter from Dmitri and Marlowe brought him back. His world came into balance again. Candlelight, dining table, fine silver, fine friends. Secure in Yokohama, the chop already removed from the safe and hidden away, a letter already written, backdated and chopped that corroborated the loose evidence against the key Board member, another letter implying collusion of the chairman. Without them the Board will collapse into our laps like a bent house of cards, has to, they won’t resist their one and only chance of revenge on Tyler and Morgan Brock. And no need to fear Tess Struan. She’s in my power as much as my future’s in hers.
I’ve a lot to be pleased about. Here I am, twenty-seven, Morgan’s head is almost in the basket, I’m tai-pan of Rothwell-Gornt’s-to-be, head of a splendid table, servants waiting for orders. And she’s there, beautiful, rich-to-be, and loving me however much she tries to hide it, my bride-to-be whatever the outcome—a child by Malcolm only makes the price higher to Tess, a sumptuous but bargain price she will gladly pay!
“Health and a long one,” he toasted silently, raising his glass to Angelique and to himself and to them both together, sure his future was limitless.
His guests did not notice the private toast, too involved in chattering, vying for her attention. Comfortably he watched them. Mostly he watched her. Then he tapped the table.
“Angelique, gentlemen, your attention please. We have mulligatawny soup with sherry, baked fish with onions, olives and iced Pouilly Fuissé, sorbet and champagne, then the roast with potatoes and St.-Emilion—the cook ‘found’ a fine piece of Struan beef…Don’t worry, Ma’am,” he said with a laugh, “it was bought, not stolen. Then chicken pie and, to end, a surprise to end all surprises.”
“And what’s that?” Marlowe asked.
“Wait and see.” He glanced at Angelique.
She smiled her enigmatic smile, the smile that excited him so much, like the Mona Lisa he had seen in the Louvre on a trip to Paris—never to be forgotten.
“I think we must trust our host, Captain,” she said softly. “Don’t you agree?”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
SUNDAY, 11TH JANUARY:
In the night Angelique awoke in a cold sweat, back in time, back in the French Legation, the mama-san’s little bottles on the side table, one already empty, the other ready to uncork and swallow as soon as the cramps began.
Finding herself warm in bed in her own suite, the fire coals still glowing, her night light casting solid shadows, the terror left and her pulse slowed and she waited for the indications. Nothing. No cramp or stomachache. Waiting. Still nothing. Thank God, she thought, I must have dreamed they had begun. She relaxed in the down mattress, watching the fire, not quite awake, good pictures in the coals, happy pictures of the roofs of Paris in the sunset, melding into the summerscape of her dream house in Provence, her baby son contentedly sleeping in her arms. “Jésus, Marie, please don’t let it begin. Please.”
Yesterday afternoon Babcott had arrived, “Happened to be passing, and wanted to see how you were.”
“No need to tell fibs,” she said sharply. “Dr. Hoag said the same thing this morning. The very same words.”
“Steady on, dear Angelique, I really did happen to pass by and I really did want to see you. To reassure you.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, old Hoag said you were a little touchy. Rightly so.” He nodded, smiling. “And to tell you what you didn’t give him a moment to say, that it’s quite possible for your monthly to be delayed, to have slight period cramps that go away to return properly in a day or so. Or even never to return.”
“Why is it you doctors are so wise but know nothing, not really, not even about such a simple matter as having a baby or not having a baby, a process which has been with us a few years,” she had fumed, exasperated and weary of all the sidelong glances of the last few days and the sudden silences as she walked by. “Kindly leave me be, both of you, I will inform you when I need to see you, if ever. Leave me alone!”
He had gone away, chastised, but she did not care. Since last Sunday’s flaming row with Father Leo she had kept to herself as much as possible.
“I hate that man,” she muttered, “hate him for upsetting me so much. He’s vile, he’s no man of God!”
During Confession he had said, “Perhaps you should ask forgiveness for this sham marriage you took part in, my child—oh, I know you were cajoled, tricked. Even so, it’s a sin.”
“I wasn’t cajoled, Father, and it’s not a sin or a sham,” she had said. “It’s perfectly legal according to law.”
“Heretic law? It’s false. You blind yourself. Of course it is not lawful and not valid in the sight of God.”
“It is in the sight of English law,” she said, seething. “It is in the sight of God, it is!”
“Ah, my poor child, it’s not and you know it’s not. The Church does not recognize a heretic marriage, let alone by a simple sea captain. You’re not married in the sight of God.”
“I am, Malcolm’s Church recognizes my marriage, his law does, my husband’s law does. I’m married legally.”
“How foolish you are. Don’t blind yourself. You’re Catholic, the True Church does not recognize such a marriage. Repent, my child.”
“I’m married and that’s the end of it!” She had got up.
“Wait! It’s not the end, my child, to give you absolution you must admit your sins, to come before Him blameless! How can I give you absolution?”
“Their God is the same as our God, my God,” she had said, tears of rage and frustration blinding her. “I can worship Him in their Church as well as here.”
“You risk damnation and Eternal Torment. Excommunication, the sacraments withdrawn from you. Beware, your mind has been taken by the heretics, pray for forgiveness …”
She had fled.
André and Seratard were in the congregation. Later André had asked what the trouble was and she had told him. He said, “Thousands of Catholics are happily married under Protestant dogma, and vice versa, whatever Church hierarchies claim.”
“André, am I married or am I not?”
“You are, according to British law, and British naval law, until a British court says you are not.”
“But not according to the Church?”
“To their Church, yes, subject to the above, to ours, no. You already know the answer to that, no.”
“I hate that man.”
“He’s a priest. Not all of them are good, we both know that too. Listen, Angelique, about your … your time, please, as soon as you know, one way or another, please tell me privately so we can begin to plan. Henri expects any day to have the French Ambassador’s approval that you are a ward of the State. Don’t worry, I promised we will guard you and your interests and we will,” he said, and left her to brood.
Not married according to the Church? Then to hell with the Church of Rome, she had thought, sick with apprehension. Beware! Never admit that openly, never. You are French, French people understand about Catholic Rome, its corruption and heresy and about misguided popes. Every night in her prayers she asked, implored, the Blessed Mother for guidance and succor.
Monday and all the other days dragged, always eyes and unspoken questions so she went out less and less. To pass the time she read and slept and read and wrote letters and began a story about a French girl who was cast ashore in Yokohama. This stopped abruptly and she burned the pages as she started to relive Kanagawa and him and the nights and days with Malcolm and their one night on Prancing Cloud.
Prancing Cloud had left. She had been glad to see that harbinger of ill wind disappear into the distance.
Since her promenade when she had talked again with Gornt—learning nothing new—by mutual consent they had decided not to meet for a few days. Twice she had invited Maureen Ross to tea, the second time deliberately receiving her in
The only person she had enjoyed seeing was Phillip Tyrer. He had been sent by Sir William with best wishes for a quick recovery, bringing the latest London papers with him and presenting her with flowers he had purchased in the village. “By Orders of Her Majesty’s Government,” he had said in French with a flourish, his boyish grin and joie de vivre infectious.
For an hour or more he had chatted, mostly in French, relating the latest rumors. About his trip to Yedo, about Nakama-Hiraga who had vanished without a trace, creating a diplomatic problem for Sir William, and about his Captain, Abeh, “who’s still waiting and seething at the North Gate.”
“What’s going to happen, Phillip?”
“Don’t know. We hope the problem’s going to go away. Pity of it is we had to describe Nakama, what he looks like now, so there’s not much chance for him escaping. Damn nuisance, ’cause he was a fine fellow and he helped me greatly. I don’t believe a word about him being an assassin. We didn’t get a sausage of info out of the other fellow, Nakama’s friend, whose family are shipbuilders in Choshu. I got him a look around one of our frigates. Nice enough fellow but fairly dumb. He knew nothing about Nakama or would say nothing. Sir William didn’t want to give him to the Bakufu so he let him go. Damn nuisance, Angelique, Nakama aided me tremendously—not only with Japanese, and if it weren’t for him …”
Later they had soup together and at her probing he had admitted, first swearing her to secrecy, that he had a girl, a special girl in the Yoshiwara. “Oh, she’s so beautiful and nice, Angelique, I think I can swing the money for the contract without straining the old Exchequer, the liaison is so comfortable …” and she had been amused by how young he seemed, envying him his simple love, and, compared to him, how adult and sophisticated she felt.
“One day I’d like to meet her,” she had said. “I can easily sneak into your Yoshiwara. I’ll dress up as a boy.”
“Oh, my God, no, you couldn’t. Angelique, you mustn’t.”
It might be amusing to do that, she thought, chuckling, and turned over in her bed, almost asleep. André will take me. I’d like to see this Hinodeh I’ve so much invested in. I wonder how she looks.
On the threshold of sleep her stomach spasmed.
Another cramp, different. Another. Wide awake now. Apprehensively she rubbed her stomach and loins to take the ache away but it did not go away and now she realized for sure it was the old familiar ache with the slightly bloated feeling.
It had begun. The bleeding followed. And with the flow all of her longing and worry and hoping burst. In abject grief she began to cry and buried her head in her pillows, “Oh, Malcolm, I had hoped so much, so much, now I’ve nothing left to give you, nothing left of you, nothing left to give you … oh, Malcolm, Malcolm, I’m so sorry, so awfully sorry … oh God, I’m so awfully sorry … thy will be done …”
Crying and crying; after an eternity, crying herself to sleep, no more tears to shed.
“Missee, wakee! Missee-tai-tai, cawfee, heya!”
“In her waking mists Ah Soh banged the tray on the side table and Angelique smelled the warm, heavenly smell of fresh-brewed coffee—a present from Seratard and one of the few services Ah Soh would and could do properly—wafting around her, bringing her into the day without hurt.
She sat up in bed and stretched, astonished and delighted she felt so alert and so well. The cramps had gone, the ache had subsided into its normal pattern, better than usual, the bloated feeling less than usual.
And best of all, despair had left her. It’s her miracle, she thought, reverently. During the last month in nightly prayers to the Blessed Mother, talking, asking, pleading, one night exhausted by anxiety, she had listened. “Leave it to me, child, it is my decision not thine,” she heard, not hearing with her ears but with her innermost self, “my decision, all of it, rest in peace.” The anxiety had left her.
It was her decision, how wonderful! Angelique would accept her verdict. The Will of God. And she had.
Impulsively she knelt beside the bed, closed her eyes and blessed Her and gave passionate thanks, and said again how sorry she was but thanked her for lifting the burden. Thy Will Be Done, then slid again under the covers ready for coffee and the world. Coffee at this time, nine, was custom on a Sunday, just enough time to bathe and dress for church.
Church! Why not? she thought, I must give proper thanks, but no Confession. “Ah Soh, bring my bath and …” Ah Soh was staring at her, glazed. Abruptly she realized her maid must have seen bloodstains on the back of her nightdress.
Hastily Ah Soh said, “I get bar’f,” and waddled for the door but Angelique was there before her and pushed her back. “If you tell anyone I’ll scratch your eyes out!”
“Ayeeyah, no unn’erstan” Missee-tai-tai,” Ah Soh grunted, petrified by the venom on her mistress’s face and in her voice. “No unn’erstan’!”
“Oh, yes, you do! Dew neh loh moh-ah.” She spat out the Cantonese curse words as she had heard Malcolm use them at Chen once when he was angry with him, and had seen Chen go white. He had never told her what the words meant but they had the same effect on Ah Soh, whose legs nearly gave way. “Ayeeeeeyahhh!”
“If you talk, Ah Soh, tai-tai will …” Furiously Angelique stabbed her long nails to within a millimeter of her eyes and held them there. “Tai-tai do this! Understand?”
“Unn’erstan’! Sek’ret, tai-tai!” The frightened woman moaned some Cantonese, put fingers to her lips parodying a clamp. “Ah Soh no talk, unn’erstan’!”
Getting hold of her fury though her heart was still racing, Angelique pushed the woman towards the bed and got into it again. Imperiously she pointed at the coffee cup. “Dew neh loh moh! Pour my coffee!”
Saturated with humility and genuine fear, Ah Soh poured the coffee and handed it to her and stood there meekly.
“No talk, make all bed, clothes, clean. Secret!”
“Unn’erstan’ tai-tai, no talk, sek’ret, unn’erstan’.”
“No talk! Or …” Her nails slashed the air. “Bath!”
Ah Soh scuttled away to get the hot water but first, to breathlessly whisper the news to Chen, whose eyes would turn to Heaven and he would say, “Ayeeyah, what will Tai-tai Tess do now,” on the run to speed the news on the fastest ship to Illustrious Compradore Chen who had commanded them to inform him at once, irrespective of cost.
The coffee was delicious. It soothed her stomach and spirit and took away the slight tumescence. One of Angelique’s true joys in all the world was early morning coffee, most of all with croissants and Colette on the Champs-Elysées at one of the elegant street cafés, reading the latest Court Circular and watching the world stroll by.
First church. I will pretend that nothing has happened yet—Ah Soh won’t dare to say anything. Who to tell first? Hoag? André? Edward? Mr. Skye?
She had already had a discussion with Heavenly Skye. His advice was that they had no option but to wait, to see what Hoag would do, and after that, what Tess would do. Tess’s letter to him had been brief: Dear Mr. Skye: I know my son had dealings with you. Cease and desist in our affairs, my son’s and mine. No good will come of it.
“Interesting choice of words,” he had commented.
“You sound afraid, as though we’ve lost already.”
“Not at all, Angelique. Our only posture can be to wait. She has the initiative.”
“By the next mail I want you to write to Struan’s solicitors, asking for an accounting of my husband’s estate.” This had been an idea André had given her, favoring opening of an immediate offensive.
“Gladly, if you wa
“What?”
“Your only posture is the aggrieved, wronged child-widow who was enticed into an early marriage by a strong-willed man—not the impoverished, rapacious widow of a rich husband, a profligate minor, who had gone against his mother’s wishes in marrying an impoverished lady of questionable antecedents—please don’t be angry, I only tell you what can, may and probably will be said. You must wait, dear lady, pretending to hope that Tess will behave like a human being should. If his child was, er, is en route, that would be a great assist.”
“And if there isn’t?”
“Let us consider that when it happens, I mean when it doesn’t. Lots of time to con—”
“I don’t have lots of time. I will run out of money.”
“Be patient …”
Mon Dieu, patience! Men and their patience.
Now that Angelique knew beyond doubt she was not bearing Malcolm’s child, she set aside all the ideas she had formulated in the event of a baby and concentrated on the other set.
An immediate onslaught on that woman? No, that comes later, Mr. Skye’s right in that. I have to find out what she is going to do first. To do that I have to tell Hoag or Babcott. Hoag delivered her message so he will have to be the one. No need to have him paw me, either of them. I can tell him. At once or later? Is it worth asking André, or Edward? I don’t think so.
Having no baby to contend with, to consider, makes my life simpler, my chances of remarriage better. Whatever happens, like every girl in the world, I must have a protector, the right husband—or, at length, any husband.
As to my prospects: I don’t have money enough to get back to Paris to set myself up there. I’ve no prospects except through a settlement with Struan’s—no, not with the company, with that woman. Even Edward is tied up in that. Especially him. Without a good settlement for me, and her benevolence on his deal, his marriage interest will evaporate. That’s fair because mine will evaporate quicker. He’s in love with me, I’m not in love with him though I like him a lot, but without mutual financial security the connection has no logic.