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

they smacked into the sea wall below. Was there a floundering animal or a carcass floating in the bay below? None that he could see.

Tully was having breakfast when he arrived. He gave Trader a brief nod.

“Hope you weren’t worried about me,” said John cheerfully.

“I knew where you were.”

“Well,” Trader added, with a touch of pride, “that was my first Chinese typhoon.”

“Storm,” Tully grunted. “Typhoon’s worse. By the way,” he continued, “there was a fella here looking for you just now. Did he find you?”

“No. Who was he?”

Tully shrugged. “Never seen him before.”

After changing his clothes, Trader went out on the esplanade to survey the damage further. The grey clouds were still chasing across the sky, but here and there he caught a glimpse of blue. The sharp, salty breeze was invigorating. He felt a pleasant burst of energy and hardly realized that he was increasing his pace. He’d gone half a mile when he heard a sound behind him.

“Mr. Trader?” An English voice, slightly nasal. John turned, irritated by this interruption of his exercise. “Mr. John Trader?”

The man looked about his own age. Slim, not quite as tall. He was wearing a tweed overcoat, not well cut, underneath which John thought he could see a white clerical necktie. And for reasons known only to himself, the stranger had wrapped a brown woolen scarf over his narrow head and tied it under his chin. Trader took an instant dislike to him, though naturally he was polite. “Do you need help?” he asked.

“I came to make myself known to you as soon as I discovered your identity,” the stranger said with a toothsome smile.

“Oh. Why was that?”

“I am your cousin, Mr. Trader,” he exclaimed. “Cecil Whiteparish. I feel sure we are going to be friends.”

He gazed at John expectantly. Trader stared back, mystified. And continued to look at him blankly until he frowned.

Whiteparish. Those distant relations of his father’s. Wasn’t that their name? He’d never known anything much about them. His guardian had mentioned their existence to him once, just before he went up to Oxford. Told him there had been a rift between his father and these people, long ago. Cause unknown. An imprudent marriage, or something of that sort. “I advise you not to seek them out,” his guardian had said. “Your parents never did.” That was all John knew. He’d forgotten about them after that.

And judging by the look of Cecil Whiteparish this morning, his father and his guardian had been right. “I don’t believe I’ve heard of you,” he said cautiously.

“Ah,” said Cecil Whiteparish. “Allow me to explain. My grandfather and your grandfather were cousins…”

“It sounds a bit distant,” John gently interrupted.

If he wasn’t being very welcoming, there was good reason. For Cecil Whiteparish was all wrong. The way he dressed, the way he spoke, the way he carried himself. There was only one way to put it: Cecil Whiteparish was not a gentleman. John Trader might not be a gentleman in the eyes of Colonel Lomond, because he didn’t come from a gentry family. But he knew how to behave.

If Cecil Whiteparish had been to a decent school, if he’d been to the Inns of Court or university or gotten himself into a halfway decent regiment, he’d know how to behave. Such things could be learned. But it was obvious he hadn’t. He even pronounced his own name the wrong way. The young bloods at Oxford didn’t pronounce the aristocratic name of Cecil the way it was written. They said Sissel. But Cecil Whiteparish didn’t know that. In short, he simply wouldn’t do.

As Trader looked at this unwelcome cousin, therefore, he was struck by an awful thought: What if by some miracle he recovered and made his fortune, and courted Agnes Lomond—and the Lomonds discovered that the only family he had was Cecil Whiteparish? How would that make him look? It didn’t bear thinking about.

“What brings you here?” Trader asked tonelessly.

“The British and Foreign Bible Society engaged me. I’m a missionary. I’m hoping you’ll support our work.”

“Hmm.” Trader wondered how to respond. And then a beautiful thought occurred to him. “I’m in the opium business,” he said with sudden cheerfulness.

“Not only opium, I hope,” said Cecil Whiteparish with a frown.

“Just opium,” said John. “That’s where the money is.”

“Not anymore, it seems,” Cecil Whiteparish remarked coldly.

“Oh, I’m sure the British government will come through for us.” Trader gave him a robust smile.

Whiteparish was silent. Trader watched him. Things were going better. If he could just shock his missionary cousin enough, the fellow wouldn’t want anything more to do with him. Problem solved. He returned to the offensive.

“You’ll find Macao’s a friendly sort of place,” he continued blandly. “Some very handsome women here, too, though I don’t suppose you’d…” He trailed off, as if he were uncertain, then brightened again. “To tell you the truth, I’ve got a charming mistress here. She and her mother occupy a little house up on the hill. Pretty little place. My friend Read enjoys the mother, and I, the daughter. Part Portuguese, part Chinese. That’s a wonderful combination, you know: beautiful.”

“Mother and daughter? You are all in the house together?”

“Indeed. I’ve just come from there.” It amused him that he’d made Mrs. Willems the mother of Marissa. But then, come to think of it, for all he knew she might be.

“I am very sorry to hear this,” said Cecil Whiteparish gravely. “I shall pray that you return to the path of virtue.”

“One day perhaps,” Trader acknowledged. “But I don’t plan to yet.”

“True love, the love of God,” the missionary offered, with an effort at kindness in his eyes, “brings far more joy than the lusts of the flesh.”

“I don’t deny it,” said John. “Have you tried the lusts of the flesh, as a matter of interest?”

“There is no need to mock me, Mr. Trader.” Whiteparish gave him a reproachful look.

“I’m afraid there’s bad blood in the family,” Trader confessed. And then, with remorseless logic: “Perhaps we share it.”

Poor Whiteparish was silent. Socially, as