Gai-Jin by James Clavell
After the Governor and his entourage had left, Sir William had suggested a leisurely lunch, guiding Seratard to their substantial cellar. “We deserve a celebration, Henri. What would you like to drink? We were truly lucky last night—apart from André, poor chap.”
“Yes. Pity. The will of God.” Seratard frowned, still looking at labels. “Ah! Montrachet, ’51. Two bottles?”
“At least two. George is joining us. Might as well taste a Margaux—I recommend the ’48, Château Pichon-Longueville—and a Château d’Yquem with the pudding.”
“Perfect, shame we have no cheese. No chance Yoshi will appear now?”
“If he does we won’t see him.”
“At the Club meeting you said dinner tonight. You want to discuss something special with the others?”
“Yes.” The cellar was cool and pleasant. A few glasses stood on a sideboard beside the racks. Sir William selected a half bottle of champagne and began to open it. “I think we must pretend the fire is not the disaster it really is and press ahead against Sanjiro, and his capital Kagoshima.”
“Now?” Seratard was very surprised. “But surely sending the fleet when we’re so exposed is highly dangerous, isn’t it? Tempting them?”
“Very, but that’s my point. My proposal is that we send British warships only, keeping your flagship and the Russian here, with the armed merchantmen. We cancel sending army units for the proposed landing and send only marines. Simply make it a sea bombardment.” He popped the cork and poured. “That’ll make Ketterer’s mission much easier, he never liked the idea of commanding a seaborne landing. Now he can stand off in the bay and pound the devil out of them. Health.”
The two men touched glasses, Seratard churning the proposal around to find the pitfalls, any places where his adversary had planted mines to disrupt French interests. There were none. On the contrary, this helped his long-term plan to ingratiate himself into Yoshi’s confidence, making him realize the British were the barbarians, not the French, and that France, which he equated with himself, could be trusted to be more patient and far seeing. “Marvelous vintage, William. En principe, yes, but I’d like to consult my Admiral.”
“Why not? Then that’s what we’ll do …”
Lunch had been pleasant. In good time they were aboard and now Sir William swung nimbly on deck as the cutter tied up alongside the Brock wharf, an unheard-of happening. He saw Gornt with a clerk beside some trunks near the jetty steps. “Hope you didn’t mind, Mr. Gornt,” he said. “I commandeered the cutter, it’s under my flag, not Struan’s.”
“My pleasure, Sir William. How was the meeting?”
“Damn fellow didn’t turn up. Didn’t expect us, I suppose.”
“He’s lost face from here to Timbuktu.”
“Quite.” Which was the whole idea, Sir William thought with a secret smile, and pointed to the trunks. “You’re not leaving, surely?”
“No, suh, but I am going to Hong Kong by tonight’s packet to arrange building supplies for ourselves and others.”
“Good idea. Have a safe journey and safe return.” He raised his hat and walked off with Seratard. Tyrer, sick with tiredness, reeled after them, hardly acknowledging Gornt.
“Put these aboard, Periera,” Gornt said. “Tell the Captain I’ll be aboard in good time. Oh, hello, Doc.” Hoag hurried up with some coolies bowed under a sea trunk and bags.
“I say, Edward, heard you’re on the Atlanta Belle too.” Hoag was out of breath and harassed, his clothes and hands bloodstained and filthy, eyes red-rimmed. “Could I prevail on your people to put these aboard for me, I’ve still a dozen or so arms and legs to set and burns … thanks awfully.” He rushed off, not waiting for an answer.
“Put ’em aboard, Periera.” Gornt frowned. Why is Hoag in such a hurry to leave? he asked himself.
Everything packed that should be, everything done to ensure Brock’s would operate correctly while he was away: which traders to give credit to, which to deny; tomorrow or the next day Choshu representatives were due to discuss arms shipments—a nice business to acquire for himself when the Brocks went under and, as also planned, he acquired the premises and staff here at…well, fire-sale prices. He laughed to himself at the joke. Next, the Yoshi coal concession that he had heard might be transferred from Struan’s to Seratard through the late André Poncin’s trading company, might still be available to offers. He had instructed his shroff to make such an offer secretly.
Periera was left in charge. Last night, hearing from Maureen that Jamie’s new offices were gone, he had planned to appoint Jamie, but to his surprise this afternoon Jamie had thanked him and refused, saying he thought he would be able to restart his own business.
Jamie would be more icing on the icing, he thought. Doesn’t matter, Jamie’ll take over for me when this is all Rothwell-Gornt’s. He felt in his pocket.
Norbert’s chop was there and the two backdated letters for Tess. His money belt was heavy with more than enough Brock silver Mex and gold for expenses. Good. All done.
Now for Angelique.
“Hello, Edward,” she said, her smile warm. This was the first time she had received him in her upstairs boudoir. Ah Soh stood by a wine cooler and he noticed the door to the bedroom was closed, curtains were drawn though the light had not yet completely gone, oil lamps lit, the room feminine, inviting, her manner demure, odd. His tension increased.
“White wine for a change,” she said pleasantly. “La Doucette. Bourbon if you wish.”
“Wine, please, Ma’am. I’ve never seen you look better.”
“Nor you, my friend. Please sit here, by the fire.” Her afternoon, blue-black mourning dress was new, the cut enhancing, the neckline square-cut and modest. But for his pleasure, and hers, she had draped a multicolored silk shawl around her shoulders, the effect startling, a breath of spring on this January day. “Ah Soh, wine,” she said, and when they had the glasses, “Wait outside! I want, I call!” The maid shuffled out and carelessly banged the door closed.
Gornt said softly, “She’ll have her ear hard against it.”
Angelique laughed. “To hear secrets? What secrets could there be between us? To a safe journey, Edward!” She sipped and put her glass down. “You’re all packed?”
“Yes, yes, I am. You look wonderful and I love you and would like an answer to my question.”
Her fan slid open and she began using it as it should be used by a young lady of quality with an eligible man of quality—and ones of dubious reputation—to tantalize, flirt, to promise but not promise, to give answers, or avoid them, to questions that were dangerous to acknowledge openly.
The fan fluttered. “I admire you greatly, Edward.”
“No more than I admire you. But a yes or a no?”
The fan snapped shut. Then she smiled and opened a box on the bureau, handed him an envelope. It was addressed: Mrs. Tess Struan. “Please read the letter. I am sending it by Hoag to Hong Kong in answer to hers.”
Her handwriting was neat:
Dear Mrs. Struan, thank you for your letter, and generosity.
I agree to everything you requested: I solemnly swear and agree freely to relinquish all and any claims to your son’s estate, I agree never again to use the title Mrs. Struan, I agree I am Catholic and was never married according to my Church, I agree never to set foot in Hong Kong except for transshipping, nor will ever try to contact you and any of your family, I agree to remove myself from these premises within the week, and accept, with sincere thanks, the offer of a trust of Two Thousand Guineas a year until I am dead.
The space for her signature was blank and then below it: Verified as a true signature by Sir William Aylesbury, Minister Japan, and another space for his signature and date.
Gornt looked up. “You can’t mean this. This gives her everything.”
“Didn’t you advise me to accept her conditions?”
“Yes, but to compromise—to renegotiate.”
“Ah, yes, I remembered that. If you agree I??
“But surely you know this yields everything—how can I, or anyone, negotiate for you?”
“There’s a second page.” She took it out of the box, her fan slid open and began to move. Gently.
Again he concentrated. The writing was not so clear and here and there smudged—could those be tear stains, he asked himself?
Dear Mrs. Struan, for obvious reasons this part must be separate as it is just between us, and no concern of Sir William. Again I thank you for your generosity. The kind offer of a third thousand if I remarry, or marry as you would say, within a year, I cannot accept because I do not intend to remarry or marry, whichever you consider correct …
Again he looked up at her, startled. “Is this my answer?”
The fan fluttered. “Finish it,” she said.
Now his eyes flashed down the page:
Before God, I cannot avoid the belief I was married, though freely relinquish any public and legal pretension to that state as above. I will not take another… I do not wish to hurt or offend you but to marry again … no. It is my intention as soon as possible to settle in London. I feel more English than French, my mother tongue English rather than French, my aunt was my real mother.
I will never use the Mrs. title, as I have agreed, but I cannot stop others here referring to me as such. Sir William will not accept Angelique, or Angelique Richaud, but insists that I sign as Mrs. Angelique Struan, née Richaud, to make the above binding, for, according to him, and his understanding of English law, that is presently my legal name until I remarry.
“Has he said that?” he asked sharply.
“No, but Mr. Skye says, if asked, he would have to agree.”
“Ah.” Gornt nodded thoughtfully, gulped some wine and went on reading, slower and more carefully:
Should any of the above be unsatisfactory, please draw up what you further require, give it to Mr. Gornt, who tells me he is going to see you again then return here almost immediately, and I will sign it. I commend him to you, he was a very good friend to your son, and has been kind to me—he advised me to accept your kind conditions, as Mr. Skye was against. Sincerely yours…Angelique.
Gornt sat back, exhaled and stared at her, awed. “It’s marvelous. Marvelous. You agree to everything but still hold the sword of Damocles over her.”
The fan stopped. “How so?”
“You plan to live in London, therefore under English law, a latent, obvious threat. Never once do you use ‘husband,’ but that threat is there, you put me squarely on center stage as friend to both sides and in a perfect negotiating position. And however devious she is, whatever she draws up for you to sign, you can shed more tears and sigh ‘Duress,’ and would win. Twenty-four-karat marvelous!”
“Then I should ask Sir William to witness my signature?”
“Yes,” he said, enthralled by her, so clever and daring, and dangerous. Perhaps too dangerous. “This is checkmate.”
“How so?”
“Tess is safe in only one way: if you remarry, and you’ve blocked that.” Though the fan stopped, her eyes watched him over the edge. Then the movement began again and he handed her back the letter, thinking, Devilishly clever—for you, but not for me. “Skye advised you brilliantly.”
“No one advised me, except you—something you said guided me.”
His heart skipped. “No one else has seen this?”
“No. And no one else will. It can be a secret between us.”
He heard the “can be” and wondered where that led, despondent now but hiding it. The fire in the grate needed attention so he got up and used the poker to give himself time to think. The air was still strong with the smell of smoke and burning but he did not register it, only her.
How in the hell did she figure that all out? It’s totally brilliant, all the pieces are on the board, for both of us. She’s won, she’ll beat Tess, but I’ve lost. I’ll still have to negotiate for her, and now I’m surer than hell I can up her stipend, but Angelique’s conceded nothing and left her game plan open. I’ve lost. I don’t share in the big prize: Her. “So the answer to my question is No, must be No?”
Only the fan moved. “Why?” she asked, without emotion.
“Because the moment you do, you lose the game, you lose all power over Tess Struan.”
“Yes, I would.” She closed the fan quietly and let it rest in her lap. Her eyes never left his, nor their intensity.
For a moment he felt hypnotized, then his mind flared into action, and sudden hope spread through him. “I would, you said, meaning you would. But I wouldn’t? I wouldn’t lose power?”
Now she smiled. It was an answer.
The Mona Lisa again, he thought. Strange how her face changes, how I think it changes, how really devious she is, and how vigilant I’m going to have to be to tame this filly. I still don’t understand but a faint heart never won a fair lady. It took all of his will to keep his feet planted where they were. “I love you for all the usual reasons, and I love your cleverness. Now, formally, please, will you marry me?”
“Yes,” she said.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
“Hallelujah!” Gornt said, light-headed, but did not move from the fireplace.
The fan stopped. “Hallelujah? Is that all?” she murmured, heart picking up tempo.
“Oh, no, but first tell me what are your conditions.”
She laughed. “Should there be conditions?”
“I’m beginning to know the way your mind works—some of the time.”
“When will you board Atlanta Belle?”
“At the last moment. There’s much to … to talk about.”
“Yes. Edward, would our children be brought up Catholic, and would we be married in a Catholic church?”
“Is that a condition?”
“A question.”
He frowned, letting his mind race ahead and all around, wanting to be cautious in this rock-infested sea. “I don’t see why not. I’m not Catholic, as you know,” he said slowly, “but if that’s what you want it would be all right—” The final piece of the jigsaw blinded him with its power. “Hallelujah!”
“What?”
“Just an idea. We’ll talk about in a minute. Now, no more games, Angelique,” he said, chiding her. “Conditions? What’s in that magic mind of yours?”
She got up. On tiptoe she touched her lips to his in a gentle kiss. Her lips were soft and breath sweet. “Thank you for asking me, and for what you’ve already done for me.”
He rested his hands on her hips. Both noticed that their bodies seemed to fit though neither acknowledged it.
“The conditions?”
“Tell me what they are, Edward.”
Now that she had answered the main question, and had given him the keys, he was in no hurry. “I’ll guess three,” he said, amused. “If I’m right, you’ll tell me the rest?”
“Agreed.” His body, hard against hers, was pleasing to her. And so was her soft curving against him, diverting his concentration. Effortlessly. Careful, it’s her major trump card and this game’s now in its most dangerous stage—to settle the future. Goddam! Easy enough to make the kiss more serious, too easy, and easy then to whisk her off her feet to the bed in the next room and lose—whatever the result—even before you reach the door.
It was more exciting for him to hold back, to wait for the perfect moment—as with Morgan Brock—to accept the fact of his lust and put it aside and try to inject his mind into hers instead. Three conditions? I know at least five, he thought, wanting to win, needing to win as in everything.
“Not necessarily in this order,” he said. “One is that I successfully renegotiate upwards, say at least to four thousand a year. Another that we spend time in Paris and London, say a month every two years—with travelling time, that’ll be about a six months’ trip. Next, that Tess’s trust money, whatever it is,
“You’re so clever, Edward, I know we will be very happy.” The strange smile returned. “Now, five would be better than four, and two months better than one.”
“I’ll try for five though I can’t promise,” he said at once, “and agree to two months in Paris, all other things being equal. What else?”
“Nothing important. We will need a house in Paris, but once you know it you will love it too. Nothing else, except you promise to cherish me.”
“No need to ask that, but I promise.” His arms tightened around her. She rested against him, fitting, feeling protected, though still not sure of him. “You’re more desirable than any woman I’ve ever known,” he said. “That’s bad enough, but your mind is stunning too, and your scheming—no, that’s a bad word—your flights of brilliance …” For a moment he held her away from him, looking at her deeply. “You’re a stunner, whichever way.”
She smiled and did not move out of his arms. “How so?”
“A Catholic marriage.”
“Ah!”
“Yes, ah!” He laughed. “That, my clever young lady, is your dream solution because, together with your letter, it suddenly occurred to me what you’d already decided: a Catholic marriage removes you as a threat from Tess forever. For Tess, a Catholic marriage completely negates the Protestant, seaborne marriage, however lawful, before English law however lawful.”
She chuckled, nestling against him. “If you were to say you thought you could persuade me to marry you, and then, you as a Protestant, were to offer to make such a deliberate sacrifice, surely that woman would be pleased to give you what you want, for both of us, if the requests are reasonable. No?”