Seratard's lip curled. "I detest that man, he's so uncouth, boorish, and quite revoltingly British."
Angelique was watching the departure of the clipper from the tai-pan's suite, upstairs.
A few passersby saw her at the window, then hurried on wet and chill, wondering what would happen to her. One of these was Tyrer, ashore after delivering the dispatches. She looked so lonely there, so funereal in her black, never black before, only the colors of springtime. For a moment he stopped, tempted to see her, to ask if he could help in any way but decided not to, there was still so much to do before his rendezvous with Fujiko, a monthly payment to Raiko for "past services pending the conclusion of the contract," and then there was his lesson with Nakama that had had to be postponed because of all the work for Sir William.
He groaned at the thought of all those phrases and words that he still wanted translated, and the new note to Anjo that Sir William had deliberately wanted Nakama to translate, not exactly not trusting him, but to gauge a Japanese reaction to a short, undiplomatic Anglo-Saxon harangue. Even worse he was behind in his journal and had had no time to write his weekly letter home. It had to catch the mail ship whatever happened.
In the last mail his mother had written that his father was ill: ... nothing serious, dear Phillip, just a chest flux that Doctor Feld treats with the usual bleeding and purging. Sorry to say, as always, it just seems to weaken him even more. Your Father has always hated Camomile and Leeches. Ugh!
Doctors! Illness and agony seem to follow in their wake. Your cousin Charlotte took to her birthing bed four days ago, as healthy as ever could be. We had arranged the midwife but her husband insisted on having the doctor deliver her and now she has Childbed Fever and isn't expected to live. The baby boy is ailing too. So sad, such a nice young lady, not yet eighteen.
News from London: The new Underground Railway, another first in the world, will open in four or five months! Horse-drawn Trams are all the rage and the Christmas Season promises to be the best ever though there are riots in some of the Factory Towns. Parliament is debating and will pass a law prohibiting horseless carriages from going more than 2 miles per hour and they must have a warning Flagman walking in front of them!
Measles is Everywhere, many deaths, Typhoid's not too bad this year. The Times reports that Cholera is raging again in Wapping and the dock areas, brought by an India merchantmen.
Phillip, I do so hope you are keeping your chest wrapped and wear woolens, woolen underwear and keep windows closed again the terrible Fluxes that abound in the night air. Your Father and I wish you would come back to Sensible England, though from your letters you seem to be pleased with your progress in Japan's language. Does the Penny Post (what a joy!) work for you from the Japans as well as for us to go there?
Your father says this Government is Ruining our country, our morals, and our Glorious Empire. Did I tell you, now there are more than eleven thousand miles of railway tract in Britain. In barely fifteen years stagecoaches have vanished...
The letter went on for pages, enclosing all kinds of cuttings she felt interesting, and they were. Wonderful for Phillip, keeping him in touch with home. But between the lines he read his father's illness was not an easy one. His anxiety intensified. For all I know he's already dead he thought, gravely concerned.
Standing there on the promenade in the rain, a tweak of pain came up from his stomach. Sweat abruptly wet his forehead, perhaps it was the rain, he didn't know for certain, only that he was sure he was feverish. Maybe I've really caught something--the pox or something! Oh my God, perhaps Babcott's wrong and it's not just the White Man's Burden--Gippy Tummy or normal squitters or some such rheum. Oh my God, even though Andr`e swore by all that's holy, Raiko too, that Fujiko was as clean as clean, perhaps she isn't!
"Oh for goodness' sake, Phillip,"
Babcott had said this morning, "you don't have the pox, you've just eaten or drunk something bad.
Here, here's some of Dr. Collis's tincture.
That'll cure you by tomorrow and if it doesn't, we'll give you a good burial, not to worry! For Christ's sake, how many times do I have to tell you: drink only boiled water, or tea."
He mopped his brow, the light fading but no letup in the wind. Certainly he felt better than in the night when he had the runs. Wasn't for Babcott, or Collis's magic, I would have to have missed the funeral--not the funeral, Malcolm's sending-off. How bloody awful!
Poor fellow! Poor Angelique! What will happen now, he asked himself, perturbed, took his eyes off her and hurried for the Legation.
Angelique had seen him. When the clipper was swallowed by the dark she drew the curtains and sat at the desk. Her journal was open. Three letters were sealed and ready for the mail ship: to her aunt, enclosing a sight draft on the Bank of England for fifty guineas, the second to Colette with a ten-guineas money order, both of which Jamie had arranged for her using part of the money Sir William had allowed her to keep. She had considered using one of Malcolm's chits that were in the desk, backdating it, using the chop from the safe but thought that unwise for the moment. The money for her aunt was just to help, to Colette to buy the best medicines against her lying-in time.
I may or may not be there in time, she thought.
Hope so.
The last letter was to be delivered by hand. It said: My dear Admiral Ketterer, I know it was only through your kindness that we were married. I thank you from the depths of my heart and swear, whatever power this poor woman may have in the future, that I will use it in or out of Struan's to wipe out all sales of opium and equally dastardly arms sales to natives as my husband had sworn to do.
Again, with all my heartfelt affection, Angelique Struan.
Signing Angelique Struan pleased her very much. The two names went well together. It was enjoyable to practice the signature, the swirl of the S somehow helping her to think.
My scheme with Edward, where on earth did all those lovely ideas come from? It's excellent--if he does it as I want. That should convince Tess I'm not an enemy. But her son was her son and I wouldn't forgive, not if he had been my son, I don't think I would.
The way ahead's fraught with disaster, so much to go wrong, can go wrong, Andr`e's still a slavering dog waiting to be muzzled, or put down--yet, in truth, so many ways to go right--the correct coffin is en route, Malcolm's ready and waiting for tomorrow, I can still go to Hong Kong by mail ship if I want, I'm sure Edward wants to marry me and he of all people understands a rich wife is better than a poor one, I have Malcolm's blank chits and his chop that no one knows about--and twenty-eight days to go and not like last time, Blessed Mother, thanks be to Merciful God--I pray for his child.
Ah Malcolm, Malcolm, what a good life we would have had, you and I, I would have grown up without all the awfulness, I swear I would have.
Making an effort she shook off her melancholy and rang the bell on the desk. The door opened without a polite knock, any form of knock. "Missee?"
"Tai-tai, Ah Soh!" she snapped, ready for her.
"Missee-tai-tai?"
"Send Chen here, chop chop."
"You eat here, down'stair, Missee? Er, Missee tai-tai?"
Angelique sighed at the permutations Ah Soh could find to avoid calling her tai-tai.
"Listen, you piece of donkey dung," she said to her sweetly, "I'm stronger than you and soon I'll be paying the bills and then you will sweat," and was happy to see the dark eyes in the flat face cross. As Malcolm had explained, speaking in correct English directly at Ah Soh, not pidgin, that the maid could not understand would make her lose face. Such twisted logic these Chinese, Angelique thought. "Chen, chop chop!"