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

out in their cathedral, but there have been some awful massacres. Our relief force is on the way, but it’s still got to break through some big lines of Boxers. We’ll have to wait. I’ve told MacDonald, but he’s unwilling to announce the news. Bad for morale. And in any case, he doesn’t trust the source.”

“He’s probably right on both counts.”

“Agreed. But Backhouse did say some things that make sense. He says the Chinese court is split. Cixi’s party wants to wipe us out and close the city to foreigners once and for all. The other party fears retribution from our governments. Our own telegraph’s cut off, but the court’s getting threatening cables from Western capitals now.”

“So, two parties in the Forbidden City. I was wondering about that.”

“It goes further. Cixi sent messages to her provincial governors demanding troops.”

“And?”

“Deafening silence. They’re ignoring her. She’s furious, but there isn’t a lot she can do.”

“Interesting. Let’s hope,” said Trader, “that for once Backhouse is telling the truth.”

—

Emily had always known her father was a good man. And the sweltering first half of July saw Trader at his best. Each day he maintained a calm routine. In the morning, dressed in a long linen jacket with big patch pockets, he’d usually spend time with Tom. They’d take a little light exercise, after which he’d turn his grandson over to young Fargo, who’d run about with him and engage in some fielding practice.

In the afternoon, sitting in a wicker chair, he’d draw a book from one of his big pockets and read to the two boys and anyone else who cared to join them. It might be a humorous tale by Mark Twain, or a Sherlock Holmes mystery, or a funny scene from his old favorite, The Pickwick Papers—something to take their minds off the uncomfortable facts of the siege for an hour or two. After the evening meal, when it was a little cooler, and if the firing had died down, he’d walk with her, and they’d talk about family or times past or places far away.

He seemed to have a good effect on Henry, too. Of course, Henry had always been steady as a rock. But she thought he’d been a little strange lately. It was hardly surprising, with all the stress he was under. One moment he’d seem tense—too tense for her even to be able to comfort him at night—but a few hours later she might come upon her husband humming to himself, which was a thing he’d never done before. With her father, however, Henry always became calm and quiet, like his old self again.

The British minister might be under siege, but he still kept up his social obligations. So Emily wasn’t surprised when Lady MacDonald informed her: “We haven’t forgotten about giving a dinner in your father’s honor. Would the day after tomorrow suit, do you think?”

The day of the dinner got off to a bad start. The Chinese began firing a Krupp gun directly at the roof of the MacDonald residence to see if they could bring down the flag flying over it. Emily had wondered if the dinner would take place, but her father reassured her: “The gunners are just bored, my dear. They’ll give it up long before sundown.” Which indeed they did.

Then came a visit from Lady MacDonald. “I was just wondering, my dear, what your father would be wearing. The Italian minister always wears full evening dress, and so can my husband. But with all this going on, some of the men may not be able to. As your father is the guest of honor, I thought I’d better find out what he’d be doing.”

“White tie, unless he’s told not to.”

“Oh, good. And you and your husband?”

“Long dress for me. Henry likes to wear an old black frock coat—it’s quite presentable—and a clerical collar.”

“Yes, there are two other clergymen coming. I’m sure they’ll do something similar. Dressing for dinner’s so easy for clergymen, isn’t it?” She smiled. “Perhaps Henry will be a bishop one day. I do so like those violet clerical shirts they wear, don’t you?”

“I happen to know that Father has worn white tie only once since he came,” Emily informed her, “so his shirt will be all starched and ironed, just as it was when he unpacked his trunk.”

Lady MacDonald’s eyes opened wide. The little laundry they’d set up in the legation was doing a wonderful job keeping everyone’s shirts clean, but there were no facilities for ironing them. A starched shirt had become a rarity indeed. “I am so looking forward to this,” she declared.

And that evening her father played his part perfectly. None of the men looked so handsome. And although the Italian minister was wearing white tie and all his medals, Trader allowed his one eye to rest upon the diplomat’s unpressed shirt just long enough to cause the MacDonalds much amusement.

It had to be said, the British legation did things with style. They dined twenty people. The table was beautifully set, for the legation had still preserved its handsome dinner service, glass, and all the rest.

As for the food…it represented everything that ingenuity could contrive.

They began with soup, made with vegetable extract; then fish paste on toast, curried sparrows, and rissoles. The main course was meat, and this was eaten with solemnity, for it was, after all, one of the precious racing ponies, of which there were only a few left. It was accompanied by tinned peas and potatoes—all washed down, of course, with excellent claret.

It was at this point that MacDonald himself, who had been suffering from dysentery, was obliged to leave the party.

But the rest of them carried on, and Trader had just asked Lady MacDonald what was coming next, and she had said, “I hope you like pancakes,” and he had just replied, “I do, very much,” when a Chinese explosive shell burst into the house somewhere over their heads, and there was a great bang, and the entire ceiling seemed to