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

greatest heights, he thought, but having a father who’s a prefect isn’t so bad. The lower fourth rank. Not to be sneezed at. The mandarin square on a prefect’s chest depicted a wild goose. He wore a solid blue button on his hat. That was something for the young man’s friends to see.

First, however, there was the girl to look after. Bright Moon. His new daughter.

He’d promised Mei-Ling he’d find the girl a good husband, and today he was going to make good on his promise. He was quite surprised at his own delight in the business.

Now, in the street below him, his quarry had reached the residence gate. Shi-Rong turned and made his way down to greet him.

—

“I can hardly believe, Mr. Yao,” he said as soon as they were sitting down, “that a whole year has passed since we buried your dear wife.” He sighed. “I know how it feels. It is only a few years since I lost my own.” He nodded sadly. “How are your two daughters?”

“They are well, I thank you, and a great comfort to me,” the merchant replied. “If only my poor little son had not been sickly…His death was a great sadness to me and my wife.”

“I know how devoted you were to each other,” Shi-Rong said.

“She was the only wife I ever had. Most merchants in my position take junior wives, but I never did.”

“You were an exceptional husband,” Shi-Rong agreed. He seemed to hesitate for a moment. “But I wonder—I speak as a friend—if the time might not come when your duty compels you to provide a male heir. You owe it to your ancestors, after all. Who else will tend their graves?”

“It is true. Life must go on.”

According to Shi-Rong’s spies, the life force had already begun to assert itself. During the last three months, Mr. Yao had paid several visits to the best of the local houses of pleasure.

Besides being rich, Yao wasn’t a bad-looking fellow. Still in his forties, he was sturdily built. With his flared nose, his broad mustache turned down at the ends, and his bulbous head thrust slightly forward, he reminded Shi-Rong of a bull about to charge. Certainly not a man to be trifled with. But he’d proved himself a kindly and devoted husband. No question. And he was subtler than he looked.

For instance when, each year, he showed his friendship to Shi-Rong, he always found the most creative ways to do it. Once he’d pointed to an antique vase he’d recently acquired, one of a collection he’d bought, and remarked, “My wife doesn’t like it; I suppose you wouldn’t care to take it off my hands?” And he’d named a trifling sum as a price. Sure enough, when Shi-Rong had shown the vase to a dealer, he’d found that it was worth twenty times what he’d paid. On another occasion, Yao had recommended that Shi-Rong purchase the house of a deceased merchant. “They say the old man hoarded silver in there. I looked around the place, and I couldn’t find any. But who knows, you may be luckier.” And of course, after buying the house, Shi-Rong had discovered a crate of silver dollars most imperfectly concealed under the floor.

Thanks to these discreet favors, Mr. Yao, who owned two of the town’s finest potteries—where production was exclusively reserved for the imperial court—was able to run an illicit business in export porcelain on the side. The profits were large, the gifts in proportion. After taking care of various local officials, Shi-Rong still retained a handsome share for himself.

As it happened, history had done Shi-Rong another favor. Three years after he’d come to Jingdezhen, at the very time when he might have expected to be moved on to another post, a significant event had taken place in the court at Beijing.

For the decade that her son was still a minor, the Dowager Empress Cixi and the late emperor’s widow had continued their rule from behind the throne.

Last year, however, the time had come for the youth to rule in person. And it didn’t go well. The boy took after his useless father. Neither his mother nor the finest tutors nor the wisest counselors could do anything with him. All he knew about his empire and his people was what he’d learned by escaping from the palace into the city whorehouses. He’d been found a suitable wife, but he wasn’t interested in her. He didn’t seem to be interested in anything really, except debauchery—and the fastest way to ruin his health.

And then he died. Was he poisoned? Nobody knew. Did his own mother have a hand in it? Cixi said no. He was her only son, after all. And since his departure was obviously for the best, no one wanted to probe too deeply. So another boy emperor was found.

He was the son of Prince Chun, who’d married Cixi’s sister. Strictly speaking, since he was the same generation as the emperor who’d died, this was breaking the laws of succession. But Cixi wanted it, and she got her way. She adopted the little boy as her own and resumed her role as the imperial mother behind the curtain.

With so many things going on, nobody at court had remembered to move the prefect at Jingdezhen to a new post. Shi-Rong certainly hadn’t reminded them. He just kept his head down and continued to enjoy Mr. Yao’s friendship—as a result of which, by the autumn of 1875, he had considerably increased the modest fortune his father had left him.

“Normally, of course,” Shi-Rong continued, “it is for the family of the bridegroom to find a suitable wife for him, and to put the entire matter in the hands of a matchmaker. But given our friendship, I hope you will not mind if I make a suggestion to you. Should you wish to marry again, my dear Yao, I think I might have a bride for you.”

“Really?” The merchant was interested. “May I ask who?”

“This girl.” Shi-Rong went to