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

forget. As well as his rank, the general has juren status. He’s exempt from corporal punishment. He’d get off, free as a bird. But you’ll be destroyed.” Mei-Ling took a deep breath. “Promise me, my child, you must promise me that you will never, ever be unfaithful. I couldn’t bear to see you destroy yourself. Not after all I’ve been through.”

“I don’t know that you’ve been through so much.”

“There are many things you don’t know,” her mother replied. For although Bright Moon was over thirty and had a family of her own, it seemed to Mei-Ling sometimes that her daughter was still in some ways a child.

Had she really understood the terrible danger she could be in?

Bright Moon didn’t respond. She seemed to be pondering. “Mother,” she said at last, “can I ask you a question?”

“I suppose so. What?”

“Were you unfaithful to my father?”

“What a thing to ask your mother!” she cried. “We were a very happy couple.”

“My husband tells people that my adopted father is my real father. It pleases him to have them think his wife is descended from high-ranking gentry. But I wondered if it might be true.”

“I met your adoptive father long after I became a widow. He came through our village on his way to Guilin. He caught sight of me, made inquiries, and then he asked me to become his concubine. I said I would go with him for a year or two if he would pay me the money we needed for your training and education. That’s how it happened.” She might have left a small piece of information out, but everything she had just said was true. “You were already a little girl by then. I did it for you and left you with Mother at home, but it wasn’t long before I was back.”

“So why did he adopt me?”

“When I parted from him, I asked him to help me by finding you a good husband. His adopting you made that easier. He didn’t tell Yao that you were actually his, but Yao jumped to that conclusion, and there wasn’t much point in having a dispute about it.”

“So you got me a rich husband under false pretenses.”

“Nobody ever said it was so. He just chose to believe it. He may not even think it himself, but he probably likes it if others do.”

“So where does that leave me?”

“Married to a good husband. Be grateful,” said Mei-Ling firmly. “He’d have married you anyway, you know. And I’m sure he’s very glad he did.”

“Why does everything have to be a lie?”

“Your kind husband is not a lie. Your children are not a lie. Your home is not a lie. We must build on all the things that are true in our lives. And you have more to build on than most people. That’s how we go forward.”

“Perhaps I don’t want to go forward.”

“You must.”

Bright Moon didn’t answer.

Then Mr. Yao appeared at the far gate of the garden, and their conversation ended.

—

The stranger arrived at the general’s house the following morning. Guanji was in his small library, reading a letter from a collector in Hangzhou, when a servant told him: “There is a man to see you, sir, who says he is your kinsman.”

“You don’t look very certain about it,” Guanji remarked.

“No, sir.”

The Suwan Guwalgiya had grown many branches down the centuries, and as a public man the general always made a point of treating clansmen kindly, even if he wasn’t quite sure who they were. “Show him in, and let’s take a look at him,” he said amiably.

And almost immediately wished he hadn’t.

The fellow was about his own age and height—or would have been if he didn’t stoop so much. But there the resemblance ended. His face was sallow. His clothes were not in tatters, but worn through, which was strangely depressing. An opium addict, Guanji guessed.

“We have something in common, General,” he said.

“Oh?” said Guanji.

“You are ninth generation in descent from our great ancestor Fiongdon; and so am I.”

Was he? Who knew? No doubt he was ready for a detailed rehearsal of their ancestry, but Guanji didn’t want to hear it. “Where do you live?” he asked, hoping it was far away.

“Xi’an.”

Xi’an, one of the four ancient capitals of China. Built and rebuilt on nearby sites, carrying other names—Chang’an, Daxing—the place had once been the entrance to the Silk Road to the west. Also a fort with a big garrison of Manchu bannermen.

And over eight hundred miles away.

“Why are you here?”

“I came to visit Beijing, to see the spirit pole of our clan—just once in my life.”

“A journey in a good cause.”

“It cost me all I have.” So that was it. He’d come for money.

“But then you came here.”

“To see the West Lake. And to call upon you.”

“I am honored,” Guanji said drily.

“I have followed your glorious career for many years.”

And no doubt those of other kinsmen you hope to sponge off, Guanji thought.

“What do you do for a living?” he mildly inquired.

“My father was a bannerman, a soldier,” his visitor replied.

“Mine too. But what about you yourself?”

“Alas, the emperor employs fewer of us now.”

“That’s true. Han Chinese troops have often proved themselves better. I have commanded them myself.” Guanji let that sink in. “So you rely upon the rice and silver to which, as hereditary bannermen, we are entitled,” he went on.

“Which has shamefully been growing less all my life!” the fellow cried indignantly.

“Don’t be absurd,” Guanji told him. “You know as well as I do, the money’s not there. The Taiping revolt ruined the whole Yangtze valley, and the barbarian reparations exhausted the treasury. Besides, there are more Manchu mouths to feed every generation. You know the empire can’t afford the old stipends.”

“Then what are we supposed to do?”

“People sometimes forget, but when the Manchu first conquered China and drove out the Ming, there were huge numbers of bannermen to be looked after. Were they given stipends? No. Most of them were given land and told to farm it, just