Dream of a Spring Night (Hollow Reed series) (6 page)

“Thank you.”
 
She pulled the purring cat a little closer as he repacked his case.

“It was my pleasure.”
 
He stood to make her a bow.
 
“My name is Yamada Sadahira.
 
My family is from Kii province.
 
I am delighted to have met you . . . and Lady Dainagon’s cat.”

Her eyes widened.
 
“Kii province?” she cried.
 
“My mother is from there.
 
My father is Oba no Hiramoto.
 
We live in Iga province.”

He bowed again.
 
“You are far from home, Lady Toshiko.”

To his dismay, her tears spilled over.
 
She put the cat aside and got to her feet.
 
As they stood side by side, he realized that she was quite tall.
 
She smiled a little, brushing her tears away with both hands like a child.
 
“Yes,” she said.
 
“But it cannot be helped.
 
Only I have not heard from home in such a long time and I’m worried about my mother.”
 
She paused and then confided in a rush, “I had a dream, you see.
 
A dreadful dream.
 
I’m afraid that she is dying.”

He saw the panic in her eyes and his heart melted.
 
“If you like, I could take a letter to her and report back to you.”

Her face lit up.
 
“Oh, how kind you are!
 
But it is too much trouble.”

“No trouble at all.
 
I’m going home shortly anyway.
 
It will be on my way,” he lied.

“Oh . . . in that case . . .”

           
“Shall I return tomorrow for your letter?”

“Yes.
 
If you are sure.
 
Nobody comes here as a rule.
 
The first half of the hour of the hare?
 
It’s the time of the morning rice, and I can slip away then.”

He bowed again and left.
 

Later in the day, he asked someone about the Oba family and was told that Oba’s daughter was the Retired Emperor’s newest acquisition.
 
Shock and pain struck with equal fierceness: shock that he had mistaken one of the imperial women for a mere child and conversed freely with her, even touched her — and pain that she was not for him.
 
She was fourteen, it appeared, old enough to be bedded and bear an imperial heir.
 
The thought sickened him, and he wished they had not met.

But he had given his word, and the next day, dressed in his best silk robe and court hat, he returned.
 
The courtyard was empty.
 
He waited a little, nervous about being seen, and was just turning to leave, when the green shade moved a little and a small hand gestured.
 
Climbing quickly to the veranda, he asked softly, “Lady Toshiko?”

“Yes,” she whispered.
 
“I don’t have much time.
 
You are so kind to do this.
 
I have thought about it all night.”
 
The hand reappeared and pushed a pale blue folded letter his way.
 
Then, before he could respond, she gave a little gasp and whispered, “I must go.
 
Thank you.”
 

He took the letter and left quickly.

Toshiko’s mother was startled when the visitor was announced.
 
With her husband and oldest son away, she had expected a quiet day.
 

The visitor’s name was Yamada.
 
She once knew someone by that name, but this visitor had come from the capital.
 
Perhaps, she thought hopefully, he was bringing good news about Toshiko.

Her husband was getting impatient and angry because no invitations had come from His Majesty.
 
Their oldest son, Takehira, was looking sullen.
 
He had expected to join the imperial guard long before now.
 
When his younger brother, Yasuhira, brushed off Takehira’s complaints with the comment that only a fool would want to live in the capital among the perfumed dandies, Takehira had punched his face.

But Lady Oba worried mostly about Toshiko.
 
Her daughter was alone at court, without her family’s support or even her own maid, and Toshiko’s father refused to allow her a visit home or her mother to go to her.
 
Only this morning, he had made his feelings clear to his wife.
 
He wished no contact with Toshiko until she achieved success.
 
Lady Oba had tried to argue but that only made matters worse.
 
He and Takehira had stormed off to drown their frustration in pleasure.

She knew where they went because this was not the first time.
 
They were with women in the nearby town, and she was glad to have them gone.
 

But now this Yamada had come, and she felt hopeful.
 
She put on a gown of crimson brocade over pale violet silk and prepared to receive him.
 
The formal reception hall was an old, dark room.
 
Its heavy timbers rose from black, polished floors and thick shutters protected it from winter storms and the rain torrents of summer.
 
It was rough and plain — like the men of the Oba family — but it was the most formal room they had, and she did her best to give it a touch of elegance.
 

The southern sets of shutters stood open to the veranda, where her husband had entertained the Emperor and his nobles.
 
The view from there was famous, because the Oba manor overlooked a wide valley of moving grasses, a winding river, and blue hills beyond.
 
The sun was bright, and the greens and blues outside were as intense as the colors on the painted screen she had her maid place behind her.

She was seated on a thick grass mat bound in black and white brocade, and the layers of her many gowns spread handsomely around her.

When the tall young man came in, her first reaction was disappointment.
 
He was

too
soberly dressed — in dark grey silk brocade with a small white pattern — and he wore an ordinary cap.
 
Surely, she thought, a message from the Emperor would be brought by an official in court costume or a senior officer of the guard.
 

The young man approached, bowed,
then
seated himself on the cushion she gestured to.
 
She guessed his age to be about twenty-five.
 
He had a nice face, clean-shaven and a little too long and thin, but his eyes were large and gentle, and stirred a memory.
 
She was still searching his features, when he addressed her.

“My name is Yamada Sadahira, Lady Oba,” he said.
 
“My people are by way of being former neighbors of yours.
 
And since I planned to pay them a visit, the Lady Toshiko asked me to stop here on my way to make sure that you are well.
 
She has suffered from bad dreams and was worried about your health.”

Lady Oba’s heart began to beat so she barely heard the end of his speech.
 
Of course.
 
This must be his son.
 
Her eyes searched the young face again and found there, after so many years, the faint image of the man who had courted her, who had sought in vain to marry her — and she tasted again the bitter despair of her youth.
 

There were differences, of course.
 
Sadamori had looked fiercer than his son.
 
When she had been scarcely older than Toshiko, she had loved this fierceness and his protectiveness of her.
 
But her family had promised her to Oba Hiramoto.
 
A woman’s duty is obedience, and she had obeyed and become an obedient wife to a man she cared little about.

Her visitor was puzzled by her silence.
 
He repeated, “I bring a letter from your daughter, Lady Oba.”

She took a quick breath and said, “Yes.
 
Thank you.
 
How kind of you.
 
You must forgive my rude staring.
 
You are a great deal like your father, you know.”

He looked astonished and then smiled very sweetly, and her heart nearly burst.
 
Just so had his father smiled at her and made her knees turn to water.
 

“Ah,” he said.
 
“You knew my father.
 
That is good.
 
I could not be sure you would remember.”

That brought color to her face.
 
She changed the subject.
 
“Toshiko should not have worried.
 
I am quite well, as you can see.
 
I think of her often.”
 
She wanted to ask about his father, if he still thought of her, but that would be improper.
 
So she waited.

He nodded, still smiling.
 
“When I met your daughter, she was tending to an injured kitten.”

“You saw Toshiko?”
 
She could not keep the astonishment out of her voice.
 
Customs were more casual in the country, but Lady Oba knew that at court a young woman must not be seen by men who are not close blood relations.
 

Or lovers.
 

Fear seized her, and she looked at him with new eyes.
 
Had her daughter’s heart been touched by him — as her own so many years ago by his father — and had this young man, who might have been her son, already seduced Toshiko?

“I am a physician, Lady Oba,” he said, meeting her eyes earnestly, “and was called upon to treat the kitten.”

“Oh, I see.”
 
The relief felt like a cooling breeze on her hot face.
 
Perhaps he thought Toshiko a mere child – no wonder when he must be nearly twice her age.
 
Tending to a kitten!
 
Toshiko’s playful manner evidently had not yet left her.
 
She hoped there was no trouble over the kitten incident.
 

But this particular young man was much too personable to have ready access to her daughter.
 
Lady Oba decided to speak bluntly.
 
“It was very kind of you to offer your assistance and to come and bring me news of her.
 
As her mother, I am worried.
 
Toshiko is only fourteen and has spent all her life at home.
 
She must find it very difficult to adjust to her new duties and to behave with circumspection.
 
I am sure you are aware she serves in His Majesty’s household?”

Young Yamada’s smile faded abruptly.
 
He straightened his back and bowed.
 
“Yes, of course.
 
To be sure, I was not aware of it when I treated her cat, but I have since been informed of the great honor His Majesty has done your family.
 
My felicitations.”

He did not look at all as if he thought it a fortunate thing.
 
Lady Oba inclined her head.
 
“Thank you.
 
I fear that my daughter may suffer criticism if it should become known that . . . she has received your visits.”

He flushed to the roots of his hair.
 
Perhaps it was only his pride she had hurt but with two young sons she had a sharp eye for the signs of infatuation.
 
He reached into his robe and brought out a folded letter.
 
This, too, Lady Oba thought ominous.
 
Why not carry the letter in his sash or sleeve?
 
Why so close to his body?
 
Extending it to her with both hands, he said very stiffly, “Your daughter sent this.
 
I was going to offer to take your reply, but perhaps you will wish to employ another messenger.”

Ah, so he had taken offense.
 
She should have been more circumspect in her reproof.
 
Regretting her bluntness, she turned the letter over in her hands and sighed.
 
“That was ungrateful of me.
 
Please forgive my poor manners.
 
I am terribly worried about her because she has neither friends nor family to protect her.”

He opened his mouth, closed it again, then said merely, “I understand, Lady Oba,” and prepared to rise.

“No, wait,” she cried.
 
“I am sure you will honor a mother’s concern for her child’s future.
 
If you will accept our hospitality, I would be grateful if you would carry my answer back to her.”
 
She bit her lip.
 
Her husband would be in another fury if he found out about this.
 
“It will be best if we don’t mention the matter to anyone else,” she added, blushing with embarrassment.

If he was surprised, he did not show it.
 
He said, “Thank you, Lady Oba.
 
I am completely at your service.”

It was a vague reply, but she did not have the heart to press him further.
 
“My husband is absent, but my son Yasuhira will see to your comfort.
 
And my letter will be ready before you take your leave in the morning.”

As he left, she looked after him, thinking how much she would have liked him if things had been different.
 
If he had been her son, hers and Sadamori’s.

Then she unfolded Toshiko’s letter and read.
 
It was a loving and dutiful letter but one that left too many things unsaid.
 
Her daughter did not mention His Majesty.
 
Did that mean that he had taken no interest in her, or that he had and she was too ashamed to mention their intimacy?
 
Instead, she wrote of insignificant events:
 
the cat, her assignments, the oil they used on their hair, her lovely new clothes, and her friend, Lady Shojo-ben.
 
Not a word either about Doctor Yamada.
 
Lady Oba put the letter in her sash and frowned.

Young Yamada’s manners were good, as were his clothes.
 
He was of good birth, yet only a physician.
 
Like the Obas, the Yamadas were military men and held provincial offices.
 
Why was such a very strong and healthy male a mere doctor, a profession not much better than that of a pharmacist or soothsayer?
 
How could Sadamori have allowed it?
 

She knew her own sons and their ambitions and felt a small pang of envy.
 
Warriors often died young and violently — unlike courtiers, bureaucrats, or doctors
—
 
but
neither Takehira nor Yasuhira were studious types.
 
Their lives were predetermined:
 
They learned how to fight and how to die.

Women learned how to obey.
 
Her daughters were raised to serve men who could advance Oba family interests.
 

Lady Oba knew that her husband had other women, but she was fortunate.
 
She was the only official wife.
 
He bedded his other women elsewhere.
 
In the early years of their marriage he used to come to her bed regularly because he wanted heirs.
 
She miscarried five times before giving him four healthy children.
 
And then she bore a son so sickly and malformed that he died a day after the long and painful birth.
 
Her husband stopped coming to her after that, and she was grateful, as she was grateful for the consideration he showed her by keeping his women in distant towns and villages.

She looked out over the sea of swaying grasses, the silver band of river,
the
blue hills, toward the south where she had grown up.
 
The distance of time and space had turned the memories of her childhood home into a land of lost happiness, a place not to be regained until after death.