Thursday, 6th November

Thursday, 6th November: Dearest Colette: The weeks have rushed by, and tomorrow is my special day, Angelique wrote, aglow with expectation, I feel so good I can hardly believe it. I sleep marvelously, my cheeks are rosy, everyone compliments me and my figure is better than ever... No signs, nothing, she thought.

Nothing. Breasts a little tender but that's just imagination--and tomorrow all will be over.

She was sitting at the bureau in her suite facing the bay, the tip of her tongue between her lips, far too cautious to write anything that could possibly compromise her. What a lucky omen it's his day for my new beginning.

Tomorrow is St. Theodore's day, he's my new patron saint. You see, Colette, by marriage I become British (not English because Malcolm is Scots and part English) and St.

Theodore is one of their oh so few saints. He became British too (he was a Greek) twelve hundred years ago and rose to be Archbishop of Canterbury...

Her steel-tipped pen hesitated as that name brought phantoms from the mists but she would not acknowledge them and they sank back into the depths again... that means he was like the pope of the British Isles. He reformed the Church, cast out evildoers and heathen practices, was oh so holy and kind, particularly to women, lived to be an astonishing eighty-eight and altogether a wonderful man of the True Church. I'm celebrating by having a special fast day, then in three days a party!

Father Leo told me about him. Ugh! I really don't like him, stinky as he is (i have to use a pomander handkerchief in the confessional--he would make you faint, dear Colette). Last Sunday I had the vapors and will certainly miss this Sunday too. Do you remember how we used to do that when we were at school, though how we avoided a scolding I'll never know.

Thoughts of Colette and school and Paris distracted her for a moment and she stared out of the window at the ocean, slate grey and stormy with a sharp wind creating seahorses that ran ashore to woosh up the beach a hundred yards away, the other side of the promenade--merchantmen at anchor, bum boats loading or unloading, the only warship, the frigate Pearl, resplendent with her new mast and new paint steaming for her mooring, just back from Yedo.

But Angelique did not really see any of it, her eyes beguiled by the rosy future her mind was promising. Here, in her suite, it was warm and calm with no drafts, the windows well fitting, a fire blazing in the fireplace, with Malcolm Struan dozing comfortably in a tall red velvet chair, papers, letters and invoices in his lap and scattered about his feet. The connecting door was open. Her door to the corridor unlocked. This was their new custom. Safer, both had agreed, plenty of time in the future to be private.

Some days he would arrive early and conduct his business from her boudoir until noon when he would doze a few minutes until lunch; sometimes he would stay in his own suite and some days he would hobble downstairs to the offices below.

He would always say she was always welcome there but she knew that was only a politeness. Downstairs was masculine domain. She was delighted he was working--McFay had told her that since "the tai-pan has taken charge, everyone's more diligent, we've big plans hatching and our company's humming..."

And so was she. No fear for the morrow. On the contrary, she was looking forward to seeing Andr`e in the evening at the Legation. Together they had hatched an excuse and she would move back there tomorrow for three days while her rooms were repainted, and new curtains made for the windows and four-poster that she had chosen from silks in their warehouse: "But, Angel," Struan had said, "we're only here for a few more weeks, the expense really isn't--"' A laugh and a kiss had changed his mind. La, I begin to love him and adore the game of getting my own way.

She smiled and began to write again: Colette darling, I've more energy than I've ever had. Riding every day--no excursions which make the Settlement restricting--but lots of galloping around the racecourse with Phillip Tyrer, Settry (pallidar), who's the best rider I've ever seen, sometimes with French and English cavalry officers, and not forgetting poor Marlowe who is turning out to be the most dear man but not, I'm afraid a horseman. They all left three days ago to go to Yedo where Sir William and the Ministers are having THE MEETING with the native Cabinet and their king called SHOGUN.

Malcolm is getting better but oh so slowly, he still walks badly but is wonderful-- except on mail days (twice monthly) when he's furious with everything and everyone, even me.

It's only because there are always letters from his mother (i begin to hate her) who complains bitterly that he stays here and doesn't return to Hong Kong.

Three days ago was worse than usual. One of the Noble House clippers arrived, this time with another letter and a verbal summons delivered by the Captain who said: "I'd appreciate it, sir, if you could come aboard the moment we've unloaded the special cargo--our orders are to escort you and Dr. Hoag to Hong Kong rightly smartly..."

I've never heard such language, Colette! I thought poor Malcolm would have apoplexy. The Captain crumpled and fled.

Again I implored Malcolm to let us do what she wants but... he just growled, "we'll go when I decide to go, by God. Don't mention it again!" Yokohama is VERY tedious, and I'd really like to return to Hong Kong and civilization.

To pass the time I have been reading everything I can lay my hands on (newspapers, apart from fashion and Paris life are really quite interesting I was surprised to find, and they make me realize what a scatterbrain I am). But I must prepare for all the soirees I must give for my husband, to entertain his important guests--as well as their wives. So I intend to learn about trade, opium and tea and cotton and silkworms... But one has to be SO careful. The first time I tried to talk about an article relating to the awful state of the French silk industry (which is why Jappaner silkworms are so valuable) Malcolm said, "Don't you worry your pretty head about that, Angel..." I could get NOT one word in even sideways, in fact he was quite irritable when I said Struan's could start a silk factory in France....

Oh dearest Colette, I wish you were here, then I could pour my heart out to you--I miss you miss you miss you...

The steel nib, set into a bone handle, began blotching. Carefully she dried it and cleaned the tip, marvelling that it was so easy, the nib again as good as new. Up to a few years ago the quill pen was commonplace and she would have had to find the special quill knife and cut a new point, splitting it to last but a page or two, whereas these Mitchell pens, mass-produced in Birmingham, would last for days and came in many sizes to please your fancy and your writing.

Behind her, Struan stirred but did not awaken.

Asleep he has a tidy face, she thought.

Neat and strong...

The door opened and Ah Soh barged in.

"Missee, tiffin, you wan' here or downstai', heya?"

Struan had awoken at once. "Your mistress will eat here," he said brusquely in Cantonese, "I'll dine downstairs, in our main dining room, and tell the cook the food had better be exceptional."

"Yes, tai-pan." Ah Soh hurried off.

"What did you tell her, Malcolm?"

"Just that you'd lunch here--I'll be downstairs.

I've invited Dmitri, Jamie and Norbert." He looked at her silhouetted against the light. "You look splendid."

"Thank you. Can I join you? I'd prefer that."

"Sorry, we've business to discuss."

With a great effort he heaved himself upright and she gave him his two walking sticks. Before he took them he put his arms around her and she allowed her body to sigh against him, hiding her anger that she would be cooped up again--nowhere to go, nothing to do, except to write some more or read some more and to wait. Boring boring boring.