Son of Fortune (38 page)

“Come outside,” Aiden said. “We won't go far,” he promised. But where could they go outside Chinatown? He couldn't take her to a café or a hotel lobby or a theater, and certainly not a saloon. No Chinese would be allowed in any white establishment except for the worst Barbary dives. He could not bring her to the Worthington house with no lessons as an excuse. The night was too cold to sit outside for long. But they could walk at least. They could have another hour.

“There is a hill nearby,” Aiden said. “You can see the ocean from the top. Well, just the bay, actually, but it's lovely in the moonlight. I will bring you safely back. Before the festival ends. I promise.”

She twisted her fingers harder into his sleeve. Her whole body was trembling.

“I will go with you.”

He took her hand, his heart soaring. He had no idea which way to go. “Do you know how to get to Washington Street?”

“I don't know streets outside,” Ming said. “I only know from the main street here to the temple and to Silamu Xie's house.”

Of course. No woman was allowed to wander freely through these streets even in daylight. Aiden looked up at the sky. During the long sea voyage, the stars had become a familiar map, but here the city chopped the sky into tiny patches that could tell him little. In the forest, the moss on the trees would point him north. But right now there was nothing that offered guidance through the maze of Chinatown at night.

“Where I met you tonight—which way is that?” he asked. Ming pointed.

“Can you keep us headed opposite, then?” Even if she didn't know the streets, she would at least have more sense of this warren than he did. She could read the shop signs and know if they were going in circles.

“I will try.”

Despite the full moon, it was dark in the narrow passages. There were no streetlamps, only occasional faint stripes of lamplight seeping through the slats of wooden shutters. But Ming managed to navigate with only a few dead ends and soon guided them to the edge of Chinatown. She hesitated at the boundary as if she were on the edge of a chasm. Aiden longed to just take her hand and run with her, but they still could not be seen walking together. A white man and a Chinese boy inside of Chinatown could be explained. The boy could be taking him to an opium den, a gambling house or one of the wretched basements where women were forced to work as prostitutes. But out here they would certainly be suspicious. So they walked apart, resisting the urge to even look at each other.

After two blocks, the streets became less crowded and the fog grew thicker, offering disguise. They eased closer to each other, close enough that the white puffs of their breaths mixed in the chill air. Ming slipped her hand into his. They were alone now. The rules were gone for now. They stopped by a mossy stone wall, neither one guiding the motion of their bodies, and tumbled into each other. Her braid lay across her chest and pressed between them like a rope as they kissed. Her forehead was fringed with wisps of foggy hair that brushed against Aiden's face. He could almost feel her body through the baggy clothes. Small as she was, she was not frail.

“I know a place we can go,” Aiden said with sudden inspiration. “A place indoors.” The Larsons' house had caught fire last spring and was being rebuilt. Aiden knew it was still unfinished. He had seen Mrs. Worthington and Mrs. Larson visiting in the conservatory two days ago, looking at furniture catalogs. “If you want to.”

Ming nodded. Aiden took her hand. Nothing more would ever go wrong in the world. They ran together through the misty street, past iron gates and yellow windows, past Grace Church, then up a steep, short hill behind it. The house was completely dark, as he had hoped it would be.

“Who lives here?” Ming whispered as he led her around to the back.

“No one right now,” he said softly. “There was a fire last spring,” he explained. “It's being rebuilt. There is a loose window in the pantry that we used to sneak my friend in after curfew.” Aiden paused, looking for a watchman, but there didn't appear to be anyone around. Anything worth stealing—barrels of nails, slabs of marble or planks of wood—would need to be hauled in a cart, and the streets at the bottom of the hill were guarded well enough to prevent that. Aiden saw, to his great relief, that the small pantry window was still easy to jostle loose.

“No one will come here?” Ming asked in a shaky voice. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely,” Aiden said. “Give me your knee.” He cupped his hands and boosted Ming over the high sill, then pulled himself up and wiggled in. The house smelled of damp plaster and sawdust. The dining room was newly papered with French wallpaper, an intricate pattern of flowers, fruits and vines. All the salvaged furniture had been stored here, stacks of chairs and iron bedsteads, sofas and tables covered with sheets. The room was even a little bit warm. There was an iron stove with a bed of carefully banked coals. Plaster and paint would never dry in the damp. Aiden opened the stove vents, stirred the embers and tossed in a few lumps of coal from the hod nearby. Then he shut the iron door, leaving only glowing stripes of light peeking around the edges to illuminate the room.

He did not turn around. He had no idea what to do or say now. But he did not have to think or move or speak. Ming came over silently and stood before him. She pulled her braid over her shoulder and untwisted the glossy strands. She slipped the loops from the cloth buttons and let the quilted jacket fall open. She took his hand and kissed his palm. Aiden picked her up and carried her to the couch. Little puffs of dust rose from the sheets as their bodies fell together.

fterward, when their skin had cooled and their breathing eased and they lay together tucked into the curl of the sofa, the sheet scrunched into ridges beneath their bodies, Aiden still could not stop touching her. Her skin was like nothing that could exist in the world.

“Your skin is so smooth, it's like…” What was it Christopher had said? “It's like a teacup.”

“A teacup?” She laughed.

“A—a fancy teacup,” he fumbled. “A teacup made of”—for his very life and the fate of the world, he could not remember the word
porcelain
—“the finest kind of clay.”

“Oh?” Her dark eyes danced with amusement. “Well, thank you.”

“And your arms are like branches!”

“Branches?”

“From plum trees—with blossoms that are swaying in the wind. Oh God.” He laughed and rolled over as much as the narrow couch would allow. “I'm trying to say how beautiful you are.”

“So I am clay and branches,” she said lightly. “Next you will say I am bread and water?”

“Oh yes.” He kissed her neck, her shoulder, her heart. “You are most definitely bread and water.”

“So common?”

“As common as air is to a drowning man.”

She pushed him away, looking into his eyes, with just a velvet inch between their bodies. “Can I also be one thing—grand? Can I be—a bit of starlight?” She pointed to the faint sparks appearing through the window. “From that little one there?”

Aiden sank his fingers into the black river of her hair. “You can be no little thing.” His breath collected in the dip of her throat, and he breathed it back saturated with her. “You are the North Star. Without you, I am dashed upon the rocks and lost.”

“Do not say that.” The playfulness vanished. Her voice was sad now. “I am not that.” She sat up, one soft hand trailing down his arm. “I cannot be even bread and water to you. We must go back now. The festival will be over soon.” The golden firelight showed chill bumps on her skin. She picked up the cotton shirt and slid her arms into the coarse sleeves. “My maid will be punished if she returns without me.”

“When can I see you again?”

“You cannot. It is impossible.”

“But that was before—this!” Aiden sat up and took her hand.

“I said impossible!” Ming pulled her hand away. She had the same tone of command that had forced Gouzhi back to his place on the bench. “That doesn't mean maybe, or if the stars are in order, or if—if—” She choked up. “It means impossible.” She pushed her feet into the trousers, then jumped up, keeping her back to him. She pulled the baggy trousers up and tied the drawstring. She all but vanished in the dark clothes in the dim light.

“Wait,” Aiden said. “Have I done something wrong? Have I offended you?”

“No, I am sorry. Not at all.” Ming's eyes filled with tears. “It is just a fact.”

“I know there are difficulties,” Aiden said, groping for his own trousers. “But we can figure them out.”

“There is nothing to figure out.”

“Ming, I love you.”

“I am to be married.”

“Married?” Aiden froze. It was like a brick to the face. “You're engaged?”

“‘Engaged' is your word. It is different for Chinese.”

Aiden stood still, trying to understand the words she had said.

“Do you love him?”
Do you love me?
was what he really wanted to ask.

“It doesn't matter,” Ming said.

“Of course it matters! Was tonight—was this all false?”

“No. Do not think that.” Her hands reached out and her body moved toward embrace, but then she stopped herself. “There is nothing false in my heart for you. Never think that.” The slow tears spilled over and rolled down her cheeks. “I don't know what love is. Only from stories and songs. But when I first saw you at the banquet, my heart became joyful. Every time after that we are together is beautiful, and all the time we are apart is a beautiful ache. So I think that is love. But it does not matter.”

“Of course it matters! It is the only thing that matters!” Aiden grabbed her shoulders, small and cold and shaking. She pulled away.

“I am sorry, Aiden. I never thought yesterday that we would be this way tonight. I thought only that we would walk together in the festival for an evening. That it would be a small time with feeling love and to be free—and then I could remember the rest of my life one happy night.”

“Are you sorry that we have been together this way?” Aiden asked.

“No.” She touched his face, then his chest, her hand weighing on his heart. “I am sorry only that I am selfish. I wanted to know how it feels to be like the bride in the arms of the man who loves her. And who she loves.” She brushed the tears off her cheeks. “For this I give you my apology.”

“I don't want your apology! I want to be with you. No one can force you to marry! Come away with me now. I have money to keep us!” Aiden felt a thrill of excitement. He did have money and so, for once, he could fix something. “We can make a new life. There must be some place we can be together. New York, maybe!”

“I want with all my heart to be with you.” Ming smiled sadly. “But the arrangement cannot change. I must marry Silamu Xie.”

“What?” Aiden's insides turned to lead. “What do you mean? Silamu Xie is married already. He has a wife. I know he has a wife.”

“Yes,” Ming said. “But soon—two days or maybe three from now—she will die. She has been ill for a long time. After the mourning period, I will become his wife. It is arranged.”

Aiden felt a wash of guilt, but also relief. It was sad, of course, but with Lijia dead, his duty would be released.

“I—I'm sorry that his wife is sick,” he said, trying to choose his words carefully. “But it doesn't mean you have to take her place!”

She pulled the dense black waterfall of hair over her shoulder and combed it with her fingers. “I was brought here from China only for this agreement—to marry Silamu Xie,” she said in a toneless voice. “It was arranged long ago between our families.”

“I don't understand. It was arranged while he was already married?”

Ming began to braid her hair, moving the heavy strands slowly, as if that might weigh down time. “It takes six months to sail to China,” she said. “Silamu Xie sent his emissary more than one year ago. His wife had been ill for a long time and Xie believed that she would die before I arrived. So my family was told she was dead. There are many years of trouble between our families. This marriage was supposed to bring the families together—for greater business.”

The fire had burned down and was only embers now, casting a low red glow on the emptiness of the room.

“My brother Jian came from China with me as my guardian,” Ming went on. “When we arrived and learned this wife was still alive, Jian was angry at the deceit. He said it is trickery to make me number two wife. It is disgrace for me to be number two wife.”

Aiden felt a buzz creep up the back of his skull. This could not be happening. Jian might be a common Chinese name. Arranged marriages were common enough. The trembling he felt might be an earthquake. Please, God, let it be an earthquake. But Ming did not seem to feel any earthquake. She was buttoning up the quilted cotton jacket, closing the fabric around her throat with grim resolution.

“Xie said we will wait for number one wife to die,” she went on. “My brother said no, the insult is too great. The agreement is broken.” Ming smoothed out the baggy jacket, tugged on the hem, then sat on a crate, folding her hands, shifting back into the guarded servant, the untouchable object. “My brother can be”—she drew herself up in an imperious pose—“very haughty and without grace. He cursed the house of Xie. He told me our trunks will not be unpacked and we will leave in the morning. That night he vanished. Silamu Xie's wife did not bear him children. He wants a son. He promises when we are married my brother will return.”

Aiden felt like all the blood had drained from his body. There could still be an earthquake. There could be a tidal wave.

“You said your name was Ming.”

She looked at him, puzzled. “Yes.”

“What is your full name?” Aiden had to concentrate on how to make words come out.

“Lijia Ming Zhang. I use only Ming here.” Her voice was floating away now, and it seemed she was sliding backward down a long tunnel away from him. “It may be silly, but I think it is a way I may keep something of myself. Aiden, what is wrong? You look—ghostly. Why do you shake? What have I said?”

There was no way to say it but plainly—no outcome but a landslide. “I know of your brother,” he said. “I didn't know that you were Lijia. I thought you were her maid.” His throat was drier than it had ever been from the guano.

“Her maid? What do you mean? How do you know my brother? Where is he?”

“I'm sorry. He's—there was an accident. He asked me to take a message to you. I searched for you. I'm so sorry,” he said.

“I don't understand,” Ming said. “You searched for me? But here I am! He is all right?”

“No,” Aiden said. “No, he died.”

“How could you meet my brother? How do you know it was really Jian? It wasn't Jian! I am sure! You don't know!”

“He told me a story,” Aiden said softly. “About how your father tied a rope around him to teach him to swim. He held Jian from a bridge, and you ran up the bank and threw flowers in the water and you told him to reach for them, and so he learned to swim.”

Ming began to tremble but she did not cry. Her expression was blank.

“Tell me everything,” she said.

“I met your brother in Peru,” Aiden said. “Silamu Xie sent him there to work in a mine. I was on my ship—Christopher Worthington and I owned a ship—and I met your brother. He told me he had been kidnapped and asked me to take a message to his sister Lijia. But Jian said Lijia was the wife of Silamu Xie. I went to the banquet hoping I would find her. Xie said his wife was unable to attend. So I thought you were her maid or companion. Then I thought that you might be able to take a letter to her to explain about her brother. Also, I was already in love with you.”