Gai-Jin (106 page)

He was convinced that Edward Gornt would not suit the Brocks for long, and nothing on the voyage back had made him change his mind. From time to time he had seen a strangeness behind the eyes. The bugger’s just wishywashy, out of his depth and knows it, he thought, watching him reading Morgan’s letter. Never mind, if anyone can make him grow up I can.

Gornt folded the letter, pocketed it and the sheaf of money the envelope had contained. “Sir Morgan’s so generous, isn’t he?” he said with a smile. “I never thought he’d … I can’t wait to begin, to learn … I like work and action and I’ll do my best to please you, but I’m still not sure if I should leave Rothwell’s and … well, I never thought he would ever consider I would maybe be good enough to head Brock’s in Japan if or when you retire. Never.”

“Sir Morgan’s a tough master, difficult to please, like our tai-pan, but
straight if you do what you’re told. A month will be enough. Can you handle a gun?”

“Oh, yes.”

The sudden directness surprised him. “What kinds?”

“Handguns, rifles, shotguns.” Again the smile. “I’ve never killed anyone, Indians or the like, but I was second in the Richmond skeet-shoot four years ago.” A shadow went over him. “That was the year I went to London to join Brock’s.”

“You didn’t want to leave? Didn’t like London?”

“No, and yes. My mother had died and—and my father, he thought it best I should be out in the world, London being the Center of the World, so to speak. London was grand. Sir Morgan very kind. Kindest man I know.”

Norbert waited but Gornt volunteered nothing more, lost in his own thoughts. Sir Morgan had only told him Gornt had spent a satisfactory year with Brock’s in London, with Tyler Brock’s last and youngest son, Tom. After the year he had arranged the junior post at Rothwell’s. “Do you know Dmitri Syborodin who runs Cooper-Tillman here?”

“No, suh. Only by reputation. My parents knew Judith Tillman, the widow of one of the original partners.” Gornt’s eyes had narrowed and Norbert noticed the strangeness in them. “She didn’t like Dirk Struan either, loathed him in fact, blamed him for the death of her husband. The sins of the father do pass onwards, don’t they?”

Norbert laughed. “They do indeed.”

“You were saying, suh? Dmitri Syborodin?”

“You’ll like him, he’s Southern too.” The landing bell sounded. Norbert’s eyes glittered with anticipation. “Let’s get ashore, there’ll be action soon enough.”

“Man wan’ see tai-pan, heya?” Ah Tok said.

“Ayeeyah, speak civilized, Mother, and not gibberish,” Malcolm told her in Cantonese. He stood at his office window, binoculars in his hand, and had been watching the mail ship unloading passengers. He had seen Norbert Greyforth and now he was feeling very good. “What man?”

“The foreign devil bonze you sent for, the foul-smelling bonze,” she mumbled. “Your old mother is working too hard and her son won’t listen! We should be going home.”

“Ayeeyah, I’ve told you not to mention going home,” he told her sharply. “Do that once more and I’ll pack you off on the next dirty little lorcha where you’ll puke your heart out if you have one, and at the very least the God of the Sea will swallow you up! Send the foreign devil in.” A smile crossed his face and some of his good feeling returned.

She went off grumbling. For days she had been harping on a return to
Hong Kong, as much as he told her not to. So much so, he was sure she had had orders from Gordon Chen to harass him into obeying.

“By God, I won’t until I’m ready.” He hobbled back to his desk, glad that his score with Norbert would soon be settled and his whole glorious plan put into effect. “Ah, ’morning, Reverend Tweet, kind of you to be prompt. Sherry?”

“Thank you, Mr., er, Tai-pan, bless you.”

The sherry went in a nervous gulp though Struan had deliberately chosen a big glass. “Admirable, er, Tai-pan. Ah yes, thanks, I’ll have another small one, bless you.” The untidy sack of a man settled with an uneasy smile in the tall chair. Tobacco stained his beard. “What can I do for you?”

“It’s about myself and Miss Angelique. I want you to marry us. Next week.”

“Eh?” The Reverend Michaelmas Tweet almost dropped his glass. “Impossible,” he stuttered, his false teeth chattering.

“No, it isn’t. There’s lot of precedent for condensing the banns that have to be read out on three succeeding Sundays in church into one Sunday only.”

“But I can’t … you’re a minor and so is she, and worse, she’s Catholic and there’s no possible way …. I can’t.”

“Oh, but you can.” Confidently he parroted what Heatherly Skye, nicknamed “Heavenly,” the only lawyer in Yokohama as well as coroner and insurance agent, had told him. “The fact that I’m a minor applies only in the United Kingdom, not in the colonies or abroad, and only when the father is alive. That she’s Catholic doesn’t matter if it doesn’t matter to me. That ends that. Tuesday the 9th is an auspicious day to be married on. We keep everything quiet until then and that’s when it will be.”

To Malcolm’s amusement Michaelmas Tweet’s mouth opened and closed like a fish but no sound came out. Shakily, the clergyman groped to his feet, poured another sherry, gulped it, then collapsed into the chair again. “I can’t.”

“Oh, but I’ve taken legal advice and I’m advised you can. Also I intend to endow you and your church with an extra stipend—five hundred guineas a year.” He knew the man was hooked, for the offer was three or four times his present salary and twice what the lawyer had advised: Don’t spoil the old fart! “We’ll be in church on Sunday to hear the banns read, Tuesday’s the great day, the same day you get a hundred guineas advance for your trouble. Thank you, Reverend.” He stood but Tweet did not move and he saw his eyes fill with tears. “What on earth’s the matter?”

“I just can’t do what you ask,” Tweet spluttered. “It’s—it’s not possible. You see, your … even if that advice is correct, which I, er, I doubt … your mother wrote to me, she wrote formally, by the last post saying that … that your father had made her your legal guardian and you had been forbidden
to marry.” The tears were flowing down his cheeks, his rheumy eyes bloodshot. “Dear God in Heaven, that’s so much money, more than I ever dreamed, but I can’t … I can’t go against the law or her, dear God no!”

“A thousand guineas.”

“Oh God, don’t, don’t,” the tired old man burst out. “Much as I want the money … don’t you see, the marriage wouldn’t be legal, it’s against Church law. God knows I’m as big a sinner as the next, but I can’t and if she wrote to me surely she wrote to Sir William, who must sanction any such marriage. God forgive me, I can’t …” He stumbled out of the room.

Malcolm stared after him. Speechless, his mind blank, his office suddenly a tomb. The plan, hatched with Heavenly Skye, had been perfect. They would marry quietly, just Jamie and perhaps Dmitri, then he would leave at once for Hong Kong after the duel to be there well before Christmas as his mother had asked and before the news could possibly reach her. Angelique would follow on the next boat.

“Those whom God hath joined together, let no man—or woman—cast asunder,” Heavenly Skye had intoned when he had consulted him.

“Perfect! That’s perfect, Heavenly.”

“Thank you, Tai-pan. The fee’s fifty guineas. Could I, er, could I have a down payment, cash, if you please?”

Fifty guineas was outrageous. Even so Malcolm Struan had given him ten sovereigns, with Noble House chits for the balance, and had walked home, feeling lighter than in weeks.

“You’re in a happy mood today, Malcolm. Good news?”

“Yes, my darling Angel, but I’ll share it with you tomorrow. Meanwhile, when do we see our picture? Your dress was really marvelous.”

“It takes such a time to develop whatever has to be developed. Perhaps tomorrow. You looked so handsome.”

“Wonderful. I think we should have a party ….”

But now, with the party arranged for tonight, it would not be wonderful. He was totally downcast. Perhaps there was a way to force Tweet? Should he have at him tomorrow when the shock had warn off? More money? Sir William? A sudden idea. He rang the bell. “Yes, Tai-pan?”

“Vargas, run over to the Catholic church and find Father Leo. Ask him if he could step by for a moment.”

“Certainly, Tai-pan. When should he come?”

“Now, as soon as possible.”

“Now, Tai-pan? But it’s lunchtime—”

“Now, by God!” Malcolm shouted, so pent up was his frustration that he had to ask others to do the simplest jobs that he could have done himself before the Tokaidō—God curse those swine, God curse the Tokaidō—it’s like B.C. and A.D. for me, except the bad is now, not the good. “Now. Hurry up!”

Vargas was white-faced as he rushed off. While he waited, Malcolm tried to think of ways to strong-arm Tweet, letting his mind brood and, as the minutes passed slowly, becoming ever more infuriated and ever more determined.

“Father Leo, Tai-pan.” Vargas stepped aside and closed the door after him.

The priest tried to hide his nervousness. Several times he had begun to walk here to discuss with the Senhor his conversion to Catholicism, but each time he had stopped, promising himself he would go tomorrow but never had, afraid of making a mistake, stumbling over the words. In desperation he had sought out André Poncin to arrange a rendezvous and had been shocked at the way Poncin, then the French Minister personally—who rarely talked to him—had reacted, telling him such a discussion was premature, advising him God’s work needed patience and prudence, forbidding the approach for the time being.

“’Morning,” Malcolm said weakly.

This was the first time any of the Protestant traders had ever invited him into an office. Throughout the Protestant world, feelings against Catholics and their priests were seriously antagonistic, accusing them of bloody pogroms and religious wars, recent and never to be forgotten, reminding them of the iron control they exercised over their converts and countries they dominated—Protestants equally loathed by Catholics, and according to Catholic beliefs, heretic.

“The Blessings of God upon thee,” Father Leo murmured tentatively. Before leaving his little bungalow adjoining the church he had hastily said a prayer that the summons was about what he had prayed so hard for. “Yes, my son?”

“Please, I want you to marry Miss Angelique and me.” Malcolm was astonished that his voice sounded so calm, abruptly appalled that he was not only saying it but had actually sent for the priest, whilst understanding clearly the implications of what he asked—
Mother will have a fit, our friends and our whole world will think I’ve gone raving mad …
.

“God be thanked,” Father Leo had burst out in ecstatic Portuguese, his eyes closed, arms lifted up to Heaven. “How marvelous are the ways of God, I thank Thee, thank Thee for answering my prayers, may I be worthy of Thy favor!”

“What?” Malcolm stared at him.

“Ah, senhor, my son, please forgive me,” he said in English again. “I was just thanking God that in His mercy He has shown you the light.”

“Oh. Sherry?” was all Malcolm could think of to say.

“Ah, thank you, my son, but first will you pray with me?” At once the priest came nearer and went on his knees, closed his eyes and put his hands
together in prayer. Embarrassed by the man’s sincerity—though disregarding his prayers as meaningless—and unable to kneel anyway, Malcolm stayed seated and closed his eyes and said a small prayer to God, sure that God would understand this momentary lapse, trying to convince himself it was quite all right to have this man do what was needed.

That the ceremony would probably be invalid in his world was unimportant. It would be valid for Angelique. She could join his marriage bed with a clear conscience. And once the initial storm in Hong Kong had settled and his mother won over—or even if she wasn’t—as soon as he was of age next May a proper ceremony would correct any little wrong.

He half opened his eyes. Father Leo was lost in the jumble of Latin. The prayer dragged on, and the blessing. When it was over Father Leo got to his feet, the little coffee beans of his eyes sparkling in his swarthy jowls. “Please allow me to serve the sherry, to save you pain, senhor, after all now I am your servant too,” he said jovially. “How are your wounds? How are you feeling?”

“Fair. Now …” Malcolm could not bring himself to call him “Father.” “Now, about the marriage, I th—”

“It will be done, my son, it will be done marvelously, I promise.” How wonderful are the works of God, Father Leo thought. I have not broken my promise to the French Minister, God has brought this poor youth to me. “Don’t worry, senhor, it is the will of God you have asked me, and it will be done for the Glory of God.” Father Leo gave him a full glass, and poured one for himself, spilling a little. “To your future happiness and God’s mercy.” He drank, then sat in the chair with such friendliness—the chair that such a short time ago had been occupied with such rejection—that Malcolm was further unsettled.

“Now, your wedding, it will be the best, the biggest ever held,” the priest said, and rushed onwards, his enthusiasm vast, and Malcolm’s spirits drooped lower, for he wanted this temporary wedding to be kept quiet. “We must have a choir and an organ, and new vestments and silver goblets for Communion, but before those details, my son, there are many wonderful plans to discuss. The children, for instance, now they will be saved, they will be Catholic and saved from Purgatory and the agonies of eternal Hellfire!”

Malcolm cleared his throat. “Yes. Now, the marriage should be next week, Tuesday’s the best day.”

Father Leo blinked. “But there’s your conversion, my son. That takes time and y—”

“I …well, I don’t want to convert, not yet, though I agree that—that the children will be Catholic.” They’ll all be brought up properly, and be intelligent, he reasoned, feeling sicker by the moment. They’ll be able to choose for themselves when they’re adult…What am I thinking about? Long before
that we’ll be properly married in a proper church. “Please, next week, Tuesday, that’s the day.”

The eyes no longer smiled. “You’re not going to embrace the True Faith? What of your immortal soul?”

“No, no, thank you, not at the moment. I—I will … I will certainly consider it. The—the souls of the children … that’s important …” Malcolm tried to sound more coherent. “Now, the marriage, I’d like it private, a simple ceremony, Tuesday wo—”