A Distant Shore (25 page)

“How?”

“By giving him the names of those in Boston who trade in opium.”

Margaret was silent, her mind spinning with this new information. “Do you know such men?” she asked after a moment.

“I believe so. It is no great secret, even if it is not talked about.”

She pursed her lips. “Opium is a vile substance.”

“Indeed, the worst.”

She took a few steps away from him, biting her lip in thought. “And yet there are men here in Boston who trade in the stuff.” She shook her head. “I thought China had forbidden it.”

“And so they have, and rightly so, I should think. Their nation is being enslaved by the poppy. But merchants still smuggle it in through India—whether the ship is British or American.”

“China is at war with England over it.” Margaret had read that much in the papers, but she had not thought America concerned itself overmuch with affairs so far away.

“Yes, and understandably so,” Henry answered with a sigh. “England insists on smuggling opium into China, no matter what the Chinese have to say about.”

“It seems very unfair. And yet men in Boston are engaged in the same activity?”

Henry’s face and voice were both heavy. “Yes.”

“And you must tell Zexu their names?”

“First I must find proof. He will not act without it.” He shook his head wearily. “It is exactly the kind of sly subterfuge I hate, Margaret. I am an honest man, with honest dealings. To ferret out information and then pass it on, a
traitor
—”

“Henry, those men are the traitors!” Margaret exclaimed. “They shame their business and their country by smuggling the awful stuff in the first place. You say the nation of China is being enslaved—then these men are like slave traders! If you keep it from happening, you will be doing a great service not just to the Chinese nation, but to ours.”

Henry turned to her with a tired smile. “You are ever the reformer, my dear, but most would not agree with you. And I confess I do not wish to hand over my countrymen to a man who is more my enemy than not.”

Margaret paused, frowning. “I can understand that, but then what is compelling you to this? Has Zexu threatened you in some way?”

“He has kept my entire crew imprisoned in Kowloon.”

Margaret let out a soft gasp. “Oh, Henry.”

His mouth twisted grimly. “So you see, I am truly caught.”

“Then you must find these men and name them.”

“But how? I can hardly go nosing about their private papers. Zexu will want hard, written evidence—not mere hearsay!”

“No,” Margaret answered thoughtfully, “you can’t go nosing about people’s papers.” She looked up at him with bright eyes. “But I can.”

Henry’s jaw dropped before he snapped it shut and shook his head. “Absolutely not, Margaret. I could never put you in such danger.”

“Danger?” She raised her eyebrows, determined to remain light. “We are speaking of your colleagues, are we not, Henry? The men whose wives I have entertained in this very room?”

“Perhaps, but—”

“I am much better placed than you to discover something,” Margaret persisted. She felt a sudden, surprising flare of excitement at the thought. She’d once been radical—insisting on being tutored against her father’s wishes back in Scotland, starting a charity school for immigrants in Boston’s notorious Murder District. This felt almost like a new challenge. “I could easily slip into a study,” she continued. “During an evening party or musicale—really, it is the simplest thing.”

“Simple!” Henry shook his head, caught between admiration and true terror. “And if you were caught?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “I won’t be.”

“Margaret—”

“If I am caught, I will be embarrassed,” she allowed. “And it will surely sever the friendship. But beyond that—who would want to have it known that I was snooping? If there are secrets to be hidden, the person in question will wish to keep them so.”

“Perhaps,” Henry allowed grudgingly. “But it is a poor man who allows his wife to do his work for him.”

“It is a humble and wise man,” Margaret corrected swiftly. “Who are we talking about, Henry? The Maltons? The Thorndikes?” She named two of the prominent shipping families in Boston.

“Daniel Malton is a churchgoing man,” Henry answered slowly. “And his wife is part of the American Temperance Society. I don’t think he would be involved in such things.”

“You must have thought of someone,” Margaret said, and Henry sighed before admitting reluctantly,

“Robert Forbes.”

“Captain Forbes!” Margaret drew back a little. “But he is from the best of society—”

“Indeed.”

“I have not heard a word—”

“Nor would you. Not that the man makes much secret of it. He has no sympathy for the Chinese, at any rate. But it is hardly fit discussion for ladies.”

Margaret tutted impatiently. “Really, Henry—”

“So he would say himself, Margaret. He does not talk business in mixed company.”

“If he makes no secret of it,” she answered slowly, “then it should be easy enough to find incriminating evidence.”

“Incriminating evidence!” Henry chuckled, the sound without humor. “You sound like one of London’s Bow Street Runners, my dear.”

“And so shall I have to act as one!” She smiled and crossed the room to take his hands. “If only Rupert were here. A U.S. Marshal would do nicely in this situation, I should think.”

“Sadly he would not have much progress. The opium trade is still legal, you know, at least in this country.”

“But against the law in China. What do you think of this man, Zexu?”

Henry rubbed his jaw, considering. “He is hard and unyielding, and I imagine quite ruthless. But he is also wise and, in his own way, fair—he wants to rid his country of opium, and I can certainly sympathize with that.”

“As can I. I may have never seen the far lands of China, but only last week Caroline Campbell was telling me of men addicted to ether in this country—a terrible thing.”

“So it is.”

“Then I shall do it.”

Henry frowned, and Margaret knew he still didn’t like the thought of her doing anything risky or dangerous—or what he saw as his own responsibility. “And if I forbid it?”

She gazed at him seriously, for their marriage had never held such strictures before. “Would you?” she asked quietly and he stared at her hard before his face broke into a tired smile.

“How could I? I married you for your spirit, Margaret, and that is not one of obedience.”

“Obedience!” she tutted, smiling. “It is surely overrated.”

“I expect so,” Henry agreed as he gathered her into his arms. “Although I wouldn’t much know, having never experienced such a thing.” She laughed, and he pressed a kiss against her hair. “Be careful,” he whispered, all traces of laughter gone. “Be careful, because I’ve had to imagine life without you once before, and I do not intend to do it again.”

Margaret knew he was referring to when she’d had typhoid, before Charlotte had been born. She reached up to press her hand against his cheek. “You will never have to, Henry,” she told him, and then stood on her tiptoes to kiss his lips.

Prince Edward Island, 1839

Harriet stood on the porch of their farmhouse, the early spring wind still sharp with cold, and shaded her eyes against the sun. She could see Allan, no more than a speck in the distance, ploughing a field for an early crop of potatoes. The slighter figure of their thirteen-year-old son George walked next to him. She could see the bulky shapes of their two workhorses plodding through the churned-up soil quite slowly, and wondered if it was the horses dictating the speed of the plough—or her husband.

“Anna?” she called into the house. Anna poked her head out of the door, her mouth stained with strawberry jam. “I thought you were feeding your brother,” she said in exasperation and Anna, always merry, grinned.

“I was! But the oatcakes looked so good, Mam, and the jam’s so tasty…”

“Our last jar until raspberrying time,” Harriet reminded her with exasperation. “But I suppose it was too much temptation for lass to resist.” Harriet came into the house, smiling at the sight of five year old Archie sitting at the table, his mouth as smeared the same as Anna’s. He even had jam in his hair, which was as red as Harriet’s own. Quickly Harriet took a tin pail and cup from the hook by the door. “You watch your brother now,” she said as she wrapped several of the fresh oatcakes in muslin and put them in the pocket of her apron. “I’m going to take something out to your father and brother.”

“I can do it, Mam,” Anna offered, but Harriet shook her head. She knew how her youngest daughter liked to dally, and she had an urge to see Allan for herself.

“You stay here, and clean the jam out of your brother’s hair. I’ll be back soon enough.”

Hauling the bucket, she stepped out into the bright sunshine of a March morning, the river glinting diamond-bright in the distance. The distinctive red soil of the island came up in clouds of dust as Harriet walked the worn path towards Allan and George’s plodding figures.

It had been a mild winter, but Allan had seemed to feel the cold more than usual. He never complained, but Harriet had noticed how he’d wince as he rose from a chair, or rub his chest after hauling wood. He was only in his mid-forties, but the farming life was a hard one, especially in this harsh land. Anxiety ate away at her sense of peace now as she came towards him.

There was more gray than brown in his hair now, she realized with a pang, and more lines on his face. His shoulders were still broad and strong, but a bit more rounded than they had been a few years ago. Forty-six last December, and he looked every year of it and more. But then she probably did as well, Harriet reminded herself. She was no fair flower anymore, if she ever had been.

Allan turned as he heard her approach, a smile creasing his tired face. “Harriet! You’re a sigh for sore eyes. I thought you’d send Anna with the water.”

“I had a hankering to see you for myself,” she said, and set down the pail. Allan called the horses to a halt and wiped his brow.

“It’s warm out here, even though it’s only March. A cup of cold water will be welcome, won’t it, lad?”

George nodded his agreement and Harriet handed them both tin cups of water and watched as they drank it all. “Perhaps you should hire another boy to help with these fields,” she said, keeping her voice mild and light. She knew how Allan resisted the idea that he was getting older and needed help. In truth, she resisted it herself; he was still a man in the prime of his life—or so she prayed. Yet worry ate away at her peace of mind, for she could not deny to herself that Allan was moving a little slower than he had even a year ago.