The Concubine's Daughter (24 page)

There were many things Ben admired about China and the Chinese, but its treatment of the less fortunate was not among them. Constantly amazed by its people’s capacity for work and their striving for success, he sometimes found himself appalled by the brutality and blind injustice that lurked so close to the simplest encounter. Violence so indescribable
yet so readily provoked in the saving of face, that he had made it his business not to become involved with anything outside the essential demands of the China trade. This policy had seen him through hazardous times and made him one of the richest foreigners in Macao. If it had made him a few sworn enemies along with an enviable reputation and many Chinese friends, this was an unavoidable part of the life he had chosen.

Li had been a part of his household for almost a year. Even in the little time he spent at Sky House, it had become impossible to ignore her. How quickly her ravaged hair had grown … how readily she responded to the simplest word of kindness. Always she had bowed to him, but there was nothing subservient in the gesture. She could meet his eye without looking away; and though the Cantonese dialect often sounded harsh and strident to him, he found her voice almost musical. These things he found enchanting, but above all, he was drawn to the spirit that shone from within her brightly as a flame lights a lamp.

The Fish had given regular reports on Li’s progress—how she spent every centavo of her silver dollar on books and brushes, ink and paper; how she could hold her own in the market with any Tanka fishwife or Hakka vendor. “You tell her something, she remembers. You don’t tell her something, she asks you why. Her mind is already the mind of a scholar, and her heart is already the heart of a woman. She speaks only the truth and can be trusted in all matters.” The Fish had folded her hands and stuck out her chin, a gesture that Ben knew sealed the matter. “This one is no
mooi-jai
.”

Li had grown taller and had filled out, her face aglow with health and a natural appeal more attractive to him than any female face he could recall. Beneath her square-cut
sam-foo
, he could not help noticing her energy and grace of movement.

One morning, so early that light had barely touched the gardens still spangled with a heavy dew, he saw her seated on the balcony of her room poring over an open book. A small stack of others stood at her elbow; paper was laid out with ink and brushes. Something more than curiosity drew him closer.

“These books,” he asked with casual interest, hoping not to startle her. “Where did you get them?” She could not help but spring to her feet and bow, as he picked one at random and examined its cover. “
The History of Sail and Sweep in China
,” he read aloud. She would have kowtowed if he had not told her sharply to stand up. “Bowing is not for scholars whose life has purpose and meaning … such persons receive the bows of others. Are you interested in such subjects as this?” Only when he had pulled out a chair and seated himself did she do the same.

“I can think of no greater highway than the river on its journey to the sea. It is the passageway of the gods,” she said. Ben closed the book and replaced it with care.

“I bought the books in the Old Quarter with the silver dollars you have given me, but I have done nothing to earn them.” She picked up a small pocket book, displaying an open page. “I have recorded the Mexican dollar and its value in Macao money, also the purchases I have made from the bookshop and the amount for each item. When I am able, I will repay this sum with whatever interest the Double Dragon Company may require. It is … a matter of business.”

She spoke with such sincerity, he resisted the urge to smile. “That will not be necessary. I have seen you helping Ah-Kin in the garden and sweeping leaves; a silver dollar is little enough.”

“You have never received my thanks, and this has troubled me.” She felt suddenly close to this man who had done so much for her. “To save a worthless life so bravely is most honorable. To give that life meaning and purpose is greatness. You took away my pain and gave me shoes to fit my feet so that I may walk among the clouds.” She picked up a book and pressed with both hands against her heart. “You have given me books and a fragrant garden to read them in … a close companion who watches over me, a heavenly room of my own to sleep in. I have given you nothing in return.”

“You have not been well,” he said uncertainly. “You almost died from your injuries. You had to learn to walk again, and to heal the terrible wounds in your heart and in your soul. This you did by yourself.”

“My gratitude is beyond measure,” she persisted, “but I am well now and can walk wherever I wish. I will work for you, to pay for my
sung-tip
.”

He cleared his throat awkwardly. “You owe me nothing. To see you well again is reward enough. It is your own courage that has given you the world you speak of. If I have helped, it has cost me little.” It seemed to Li that he almost smiled. “Besides,” he added, “it is good to have young chi at Sky House.” He turned abruptly, as though enough had been said between them, then turned back, offering her his open hand, surprised at the strength of her grip. “I accept and appreciate your words, Miss Li, and I will think carefully about what you have said.”

Ben returned to his study deep in thought. He was aware of the jealousy her presence had caused among those who ran his household; Ah-Ho took every opportunity to make him see that her presence was unacceptable from the Chinese point of view. He was not sure what was best to do. The words of Indie Da Silva rang in his ears:
Well done, Ben; you are a hero, the owner of a half-dead Chinese chippie … yours to do with what you will.

After a pipe and a tot or two of rum, Ben sent for Ah-Ho. The head amah remained expressionless when he told her that Li was to become his personal assistant, responsible for the study and his rooms under his supervision and assisted only by the Fish at his discretion. Ah-Ho fixed her narrowed eyes on the wall behind him as he spoke, the grim set of her jaw leaving no doubt of her feelings. When dismissed, she turned and left his presence without a word, her customary bow little more than a jerk of her head.

Ben would have rebuked her insolence, but he knew she was right. Such an appointment was a promotion over the heads of herself and those beneath her, making a mockery of her superiority. It was, he realized, a serious loss of face. That he would raise the eyebrows of his peers as well, and give the acid tongues of their wives something to wag about, was also certain.

Macao was rich in pleasures of the flesh, from the discreetly acceptable to dangerous extremes of depravity. Keeping a mistress or two was routine among Portuguese gentry, whose wives were too busy with the
demands of high society to know or care about their husband’s peccadilloes. Even regular attendance at the city’s infamous bordellos was tolerated so long as it remained discreet. But nothing excused the man who allowed himself to be seduced by a servant under his own roof. This, of course, was the only way such a grave mistake could ever take place: The Chinese female was always seen as the scheming seductress, to be beaten and driven from the home, penniless, branded as unemployable by the foreign establishment and as the lowest of whores by her own people for sleeping with a hairy barbarian.

Ben had never paid heed to the opinions of others, but easily recalled Indie Da Silva’s advice as he dressed for his first night as a member of the Macao Yacht Club.

“Remember, Ben, you are about to become one among many posturing hypocrites who would have your throat cut if they could. Because you have European blood they have to admit you—grudgingly, I assure you. Because I am Macanese, the bastard of a Portuguese father and a Chinese mother, I am not worthy to wear such finery or soil the brass handles of their illustrious entrance, although I can outsail and out-navigate the lot of them.”

He had grinned without regret. “I would rather seek the company of a good-hearted whore in a leaky sampan than of the hawkish harridans and two-faced fools who call themselves the ladies and gentlemen of Macao society. These so-called gentlemen will see throats cut without a qualm, cheat at the tables, steal from a friend, bed your wife and daughter if they can, and show little shame if caught.” Indie had scowled his disgust. “They will buy a twelve-year-old
mooi-jai
for the price of a cheap bottle of wine, casually take her to bed, then have her beaten and thrown into the street while they enjoy a good dinner.”

Indie had waited for his words to sink in before making his final point. “But an Englishman never beds his amah, whatever her age and whatever the circumstances. It breaks all the rules. The establishment will shun you for it and the Chinese will see you suffer. As for the girl, she may as well put an end to herself before they do it for her. This is not Edwardian England or even upper-crust Lisbon—this is China, and the
foreign clubs are bastions of godliness among the heathens.” Indie had lit another of his green cheroots. “In other words, Benjamin, my friend, don’t get caught and never, never admit to it, because both sides will cast you out.”

Christmas in Macao was a sad little affair, when expatriate European families made a brave show behind closed shutters with tinsel and fairy lights, bonbons and sugar mice. Devereaux dreaded it with a vengeance. He felt the same about the endless festivals that filled the Chinese calendar, when foreign devils knew they did not belong and retired to the library, the billiard room, or the bar until the streets were safe again.

Ben had no place for superstition in his own life, tolerating it in others as long as it did not affect him too directly or threaten his business. He encouraged ancestral worship in the privacy of the servants’ quarters, and the keeping of shrines to the accepted gods. He had found the beliefs of the Tao and of Buddha to be both interesting and benign, and had learned much in the way of common sense in the teachings of Confucius.

As the New Year drew closer, he realized that something must be done about the girl he had fished from the riverbed more dead than alive, who now decorated his well-ordered life with her charm. She was too young and far too vulnerable to be paid off and left to find her own way. Not that he doubted for a moment that she could fend for herself given half a chance. But, even with whatever arrangements he might make through his more reliable contacts, the fact remained she would be in constant danger.

For a wild moment or two he considered sending her to school in England, or even adopting her, but he was too honest not to face the true measure of his interest. As mindful as he was of the rules of both Chinese and Western society, he had never allowed his decisions to be influenced by the opinions of others.

Li was delighted with the new responsibilities that allowed her to spend much of her time in the great room in which Ben sometimes
worked. He left early and returned late, but she came to know more of him from the things in the room he called his study: the rack that held his collection of pipes, each of a different wood or clay, which she cleaned to perfection and polished with a yellow cloth to deep amber, russet, and rose; the crystal ashtrays; the tiny, ornate bottles of snuff. She never tired of gazing at the photographs that showed the building and launching of his ships. But to Li, the greatest treasures were the countless rows of books—their covers the colors of old wine, the dark greens of mountain pines, the browns of the earth, and all the blues of the sea—extending from the polished cedar floors to the painted sky of the ceiling, reachable by a ladder that slid at the touch of a finger.

Even more imposing was his desk of Tibetan fir, backed by a huge taipan’s chair. Both were decorated with carved dragons surrounded by curlicued ocean crests. In this chair and at this desk, Li allowed herself to dream for stolen moments. She was fascinated by the boats on the rivers of China and by ships on the sea, a world that knew no boundaries, always in search of new horizons.

His adjoining bedroom was larger than the study; its great four-poster bed, the Fish had whispered, was carved from the heart of English oak, as were the giant keels of his ships. A couch and easy chairs of studded leather shone like polished copper on a richly patterned Taiping carpet, before another spacious fireplace with a fender of gleaming brass. A roughly hewn table and chairs stood on the separate balcony, sheltered by the overhanging spread of a lilac tree.

The study opened onto an English garden behind its hedges of box and privet. This was Ben’s private garden, shared with no one but Ah-Kin the gardener. According to the Fish, it was where he talked to his gods and made peace with himself.

One area of the estate was out of bounds: the garages. “That is a place you do not need to see,” the Fish insisted. “The machinery of the devil himself resides behind those walls.” The Fish was unimpressed by the motorcar; she could not understand why the rickshaw, the sedan chair, or the horse-drawn carriage should be replaced by an infernal contraption that assailed the ear and nose, threatening to grind the bones of
simple folk beneath its wheels. Li pretended to agree, but was secretly fascinated by the huge, night-blue car that had fetched her from the Devereaux dock in such splendor and comfort.