The Concubine's Daughter (64 page)

She turned over in her bed, then spoke with no trace of bitterness.
“Lie with the young lord, Siu-Sing; he is clean and kind, and I believe he truly loves you.” She yawned. “Soon you will find your father. I am content to see your happiness.”

On her fifth day in the valley, the barking dogs caused Sing to look out the window. The whine of the army vehicle’s engine carried across the fields as it drew away, leaving Toby to follow the path through the barley field.

It was a day of celebration, the Festival of Hungry Ghosts. Po-Lok and his family had left early for the fishing village of Tai-Po, a two-mile journey by ox cart laden with market produce and excited grandchildren in their festive finery. Ruby had gone with them, as if she had known that this was the day Toby would come.

Sing found herself running to meet him. He walked with a long, easy stride, a large brown paper parcel under one arm, a short leather swagger cane swinging from the other.

His voice reached out to her. “Is it me that you are so pleased to see … or the news I may bring?”

“Both, of course,” she answered breathlessly.

He paused for a moment beside the millpond, observing a family of water hens dipping among the hyacinth. “Can there be anywhere more idyllic than this peaceful valley?” he asked, ducking his head to follow her into the house. Tossing the package on the table by the window, he dragged a wooden chair across the flagstones, looking around the little space with its bright window, well-swept floors, and pots of freshly gathered orange blossom.

“By the color in your cheeks and the light in your eyes, this little place agrees with you.”

“We call it the Honeysuckle House,” she said, bringing a stone jug of fresh, cool orange juice to the table by the window. “Ruby squeezed this straight from the tree before she left this morning.”

He sprawled comfortably in the chair, tossing the cane onto the table beside the parcel. “I have news of our inquiries… . Some of it you will be pleased to hear.”

Sing filled the cups with juice. “What ever it is, I thank you for it, as I thank you for all you have done. I have burned joss sticks to the earth gods for your safety and good health.”

He pretended to bow while seated. There was a moment of hesitation, as though he looked for a place to begin.

“Unfortunately, our Shanghai contacts confirm everything we learned from your father’s partner.” Toby reached across the table to take Sing’s hand in his. “I regret to say it seems that … Captain Devereaux was lost with his ship.”

Sing sat straight, but turned her face to the window. “There is, I am pleased to say, one promising discovery. Da Silva was right—your mother was tutored by an Englishwoman, Miss Winifred Barbara Bramble, a highly distinguished lady long retired but still living in Hong Kong. She is elderly but still very active socially and prominent in affairs of community welfare.”

He waited as she turned to look at him, smiling at her look of anticipation. “The lady was astonished but delighted when I explained the reason for my call. She is eager to meet you, and we are invited to tea this weekend at her home on Stonecutters Island, a minute or two from Kowloon. She told me it was she who ‘snapped’ the photograph you carry. She was matron of honor at your parents’ wedding.”

He pushed the package across the table. “It appears that Miss Bramble is a lady of considerable style and taste. I have brought you something to wear.”

In the parcel, carefully wrapped in layers of paper, was a pink and white dress of the finest cotton. She dared not lift it from the bed of tissue, running her fingertips over the softness of the material. “It’s a summer frock, the kind an English girl would wear to a garden party or a fete. Colonel Pelham’s wife, Margaret, was kind enough to choose it. She insists pure cotton is cooler than silk… . I hope it fits; she had to guess, but has a daughter about your age.

“She said you would need other things, so you will find them in the package too—gloves, shoes, a hat …”

“I have never seen anything so beautiful,” Sing whispered.

He stood up. “You can try it on later. What is it the Chinese say—‘pleasure before business’? It’s a beautiful day. Perhaps we should go for a walk.”

She agreed eagerly. “Let me show you what I have found … a special place that will be our secret.”

They walked the pathways through the fields, over the bridge across the paddies, and up the slopes to the thick jungle of head-high tiger grass that crowned the hilltops. The well-worn track wound past patches recently cut, leaving swaths of short yellow stubble. “We have been taught to cut and tie the tiger grass … it feeds the cattle and burns well when bound with ox dung. It reminds me of the reed-cutters I knew as a child.”

Halfway up the hill, almost hidden by sheltering trees, stood a ruined temple, its roof collapsing with age. “It is the Temple of Tien-Hau, shrine to the Last Tiger. Po-Lok says it has been here for many centuries.” She led the way through its overgrown courtyard and into the dark inner chamber. A group of wooden images, once brightly painted, stood in faded glory, surrounding the central figure raised on an open lotus flower.

“She is the goddess Tien-Hau, protector of fishermen and farmers, sister to the earth gods.” On the wall above an altar was the skin of a tiger. “It is the last tiger to be found on this side of the border. Now its spirit stands behind the goddess, guarding the valley and those who live here.”

Sing reached into a darkened corner. “Kam-Yang has given me fresh joss sticks. We will light three sticks and each say a silent prayer. If Tien-Hau hears us, she will grant any wish.”

It was mid afternoon when they returned to the mill. The sun had lost much of its heat, throwing lengthening shadows among the orange trees. They were alone in the Residence of Eternal Peace, and she knew that there might never be another moment such as this. Even the beautiful things he had brought her must wait. Forbidden thoughts whirled in her head: the white skin of the Tanka girl in the marsh; the rose-petal hands and butterfly kisses of Ruby; the clean scent and honey-colored skin of Toby, the golden hairs on the back of his hands… .
Her heart beat faster as she kicked off her sandals at the door and held out her hand. “You have not seen the room upstairs … let me show you where I sleep.”

She led him up the narrow stairs—to find the little room filled with flowers. The beds had been pulled together, Ruby’s padded quilt smoothly spread and strewn with petals. There was little need of words as she began to loosen the ties that fastened her jacket, letting it slide from her shoulders.

Toby stood for a moment, unable to speak, then whispered gently, “Are you sure?”

“With you I am sure,” she answered in a breath. “You will be the first, and I am honored by it. I do not understand the love of a man, but with you I am happy.” Stepping close to him, she began to unbutton his shirt.

“Wait … ,” he said. Tenderly, he brushed her soft lips with his, her chin, her cheeks, her temples, her eyelids, the warm hollow of her throat. For Sing it was as though a captive bird had at last escaped, soaring into endless space. She found her mouth responding, returning his kisses with an ardor she had never felt before.

She could smell the warmth of his body as he leaned so close she could detect the sap of barley grass he had chewed as they walked through the field. She wondered again at the fairness of his hair, her hand reaching up to touch it, feeling its texture, fine to her as spun silk.

The feeling that welled inside made her suddenly bolder as she pushed her hand through his hair more strongly, letting the weight of it fall through her fingers again and again. She felt his hands close lightly on her waist and then hold her more firmly, their warmth reaching through the thin cotton of her vest.

Toby stepped backward, drawing her with him until the back of his legs touched the bed. Carefully, he lowered his body until he sat on its edge, leaving her standing before him, her hands still buried in his hair. His hands slipped to her hips as he pulled her to him, resting his head against her breasts. She could hear the thud of her heartbeat as his
hands moved cautiously over the swell of her buttocks and down her legs to the backs of her knees, feeling the smoothness of her skin sliding under the coarse weave of cotton.

Quickly, almost roughly, his hands found her breasts, his palms brushing their growing hardness through the vest, its fabric so fine that the darker rings around her jutting nipples were clearly visible. Breathlessly, Toby slid his hands over her shoulders, holding her firmly, his mouth gently teasing through the tight skin of material.

His hands went still as her legs began to tremble, as though he was afraid she would break away from him. She made no move except to draw his cheek closer to her breast. They stayed for moments unmoving but for her fingers stroking his hair.

“Don’t be afraid,” he whispered softly. Standing slowly, carefully, he lifted her chin with a gentle finger. “You must never be afraid of me.”

The thrill of his touch seemed to weaken her limbs, filling her with sweetest wonder. How would it feel if there was nothing between them? Reluctant to detach herself from him, Sing quickly stripped the vest upward and over her head, allowing the eager warmth of his mouth to engulf her completely.

His fingers reached for the drawstring that secured her loose cotton pants. She felt them slip away; a second’s pause, then, more slowly, the silken fabric of her undergarment was removed. She gasped at the heat of his breath upon her skin, then fumbled for the fastenings of his clothes, eager to feel his nakedness against hers, stroking his muscular body in wonder.

He brought her close to the thunder and rain, but drew back until she gasped with longing. Finally, he entered her so carefully that she craved all of him, delighting them both with the passion that uncoiled with such urgency as she drowned in the blueness of his dazzling eyes.

Sing awoke to the voices of Po-Lok and his family returning from the village. The bed beside her showed the hollow of his body in the goose-feather mattress; his scent still lingered.

He had left a sprig of blossom on the pillow with a note:

Sing pressed the fleshy buds between her palms, breathing their tangy fragrance and knowing at last what it meant to love and be loved. She stretched languidly, then glanced at the box Ben had given her with the beautiful dress. She would try it on now and show it to Ruby, but she could scarcely wait for Saturday.

W
hen the storm came
on the following day, Sing and Ruby were high on the hillside, cutting the tiger grass to weave weatherproof capes for the coming winter. In just one more day, she would see Toby again and meet Miss Winifred Bramble, who would tell her about her parents and who might know where her father was buried. Meanwhile, Sing looked back over the cluster of square, whitewashed houses, the circular remains of the walled village, the perfect green lines of cultivation.

The scene, usually so serene to look upon, was suddenly bathed by an early twilight, a brassy glare that made everything unreal. From far below, the distant voice of Po-Lok’s son drifted up, urging mud-caked buffalo through the terraces to the shelter of the barn. She could see the ducks heading for the ponds as though it were the end of the day.

The first gust of wind snatched at Sing’s hat, flattening the grass around her like the sweep of a scythe. At first the change seemed welcome, as the day had begun still and humid. But Po-Lok had warned them that they should not go far up the hillside and must return quickly if the weather changed. Word had reached him that the observatory on the island of Hong Kong had hoisted a storm warning. This was the season of
dai-fong
—the big wind that the Westerner called “typhoon.”

Sing had known such signs before, when the lake looked like beaten copper under a sky of steel, when sampans sailed for the safety of the typhoon shelter and the reed-cutters closed their shutters and barred their doors. Sing had seen dragon winds scouring the surface of the
lake, sending the yellow waters in rolling waves to swamp the reed beds, but passing them over like a beast in search of larger prey. Now she had only to look at the sulfurous hue of the sky, to see more birds soundlessly filling the trees, to know it was time to find shelter.

As abruptly as if a switch had been thrown, thunderheads piled up like molten rock to hide the sun. The valley seemed scorched by an eerie light. A flock of egrets, usually content to prowl the furrows, whirled upward to circle the highest trees.