China by Edward Rutherfurd (latest novels to read TXT) 📗

embarrassed, glanced away and pretended to gaze at the mountains.

She thought about her friend the prefect’s wife. What was it she’d whispered as they parted? “Don’t forget to look after the boy.”

Mei-Ling shook her head. Silly woman. To think of such a thing, at her age. She felt maternal towards him. Certainly. A pleasant feeling.

She closed her eyes and allowed herself to ponder.

He was certainly a handsome boy. Almost a young man, really.

If one did such a thing, would anybody know? And would they care if they did? What would Shi-Rong think about it? she wondered. She didn’t know. Could the boy be trusted to be discreet? That was a good question. Unlikely, she supposed. But not impossible.

She’d never done anything like that before. There might be no great harm in it now, in such a magical place.

She opened her eyes to find him looking at her again.

Well, she thought, she really didn’t know. Perhaps she would, perhaps she wouldn’t. But if she did, one thing was certain: She’d like it to be her own little secret.

1875

John Trader took a shortcut. Cantered his horse across open ground. The stupid meeting he’d promised to attend at a neighboring estate hadn’t ended until half past noon, and now he was late.

Late for Emily. His favorite daughter.

It had been three years since Agnes had died, rather unexpectedly, mourned by the whole county. And though Emily looked just like her mother, she had a sweetness that was all her own. Even when she was a child, if he was depressed for some reason, his wife would calmly pray; but little Emily would come into the estate office where he was usually to be found and sit beside him and hold his hand and say, “Don’t be sad, Papa.” And then she’d say, “Shall we go for a walk?” And even though he didn’t want to, he’d get up and take her hand and they’d go out into the garden. He’d feel better after that. And sure enough, before long, Emily would appear in the office again with a little painting she’d just made for him, which he would pin to a board propped up on his rolltop desk where he could see it all the time.

Today, she and her husband, Henry, were due to arrive at noon. They could stay only two days. And then? Who could tell?

The big house at Drumlomond came in sight. Built of red sandstone, it was typical of the region: large and square. “It’s a bit of a barracks,” Trader would say fondly. But with its ample spaces, its conservatory, where there was a parrot in a cage, its stables, fishing, and rough shooting, not to mention the barn and the beasts of the home farm, it had been a paradise for his growing children.

The house looked so solid and serene in the autumn sun. They’d renamed the estate using Agnes’s family name, which had pleased everyone very much and reminded the county that its occupants belonged there since ancient times. And if John Trader had bought it with the profits from the opium trade, even the origins of his ownership were fading gradually away into the background. For since British planters had recently learned to grow tea in India and the British public had acquired a taste for the darker Darjeeling brew, the need for tea from China had become less urgent. His eldest son had taken his place in the partnership now, and the business was making far more money importing Indian tea than it was in selling opium to the Chinese.

But Drumlomond wasn’t solid and serene for John Trader. Not anymore. Not since Henry Whiteparish had come into his life and stolen his daughter away.

—

He’d tried to reason with her, that first terrible day when Henry’s letter had arrived. “Do you remember,” he’d asked, “the time you went to Paris?”

“Yes, Papa.” Young ladies were supposed to speak French, but the rudimentary conversation they’d learned from their English governess had been so inadequate that when they tried it out on a young Frenchman who was visiting, he had burst out laughing. Very rude of him. But it was a signal that something had to be done.

Emily had gone. First time she’d been abroad. She’d loved it. Even learned some French. She’d said she wanted to travel again.

“I’m just so afraid you may suppose that going off to China with a missionary is going to be the same sort of thing,” he’d said. “And it really isn’t.”

“Do you think Henry’s unsuitable?”

“Yes.”

“He’s my cousin.”

“I know.”

“I love you, Papa, and I wouldn’t want to do this, but I could elope with him.”

“Elope?” Trader looked at her in astonishment. He’d never heard of anyone eloping with a missionary before. Were missionaries allowed to elope?

—

His strongest support had come from a completely unexpected quarter. The day after his conversation with Emily, Trader was sitting in the library when, a few minutes past noon, a hansom cab rolled up the drive, from which emerged, under a large brimmed hat, and in urgent haste, the unhappy figure of Cecil Whiteparish.

“My dear cousin,” he cried, as soon as the butler had announced him, “forgive me for appearing without warning, but I left Salisbury for London the instant I heard this terrible news and took the train straight to Dumfries.”

Trader led him into the library. “What’s your view of this business?” he asked before they even sat down.

“Why, it must be stopped, of course,” Whiteparish cried. “It must be stopped at once!” He fell back in the leather armchair. “I think,” he confessed, “I need a drink.” And having gratefully received a heavy lead crystal tumbler of the local Bladnoch malt, well filled, he took a large sip, shook his head, and declared: “I blame myself.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Trader mildly. “You could say it was my fault. I invited him here.”

“No. You invited me and Minnie to stay—almost the moment