Gai-Jin (141 page)

“Good. You want to have your tea now, Mister?”

“Yes, thanks, I’ll be back smartly.” Tonight the First Mate had the midnight to 4:00
A.M.
watch and he ran down the gangway lightly. At the stern end of the corridor was the state room. The door was closed. He heard the bolt slide home. Smiling, silently whistling a jig, he headed for the galley.

* * *

Malcolm was leaning against the door, aching with anticipation, determined to walk unaided to his marriage bed. She had stopped near the bunk and was looking back at him. The stateroom was well ordered. And warm. The big dining table and sea chairs secured to the deck. So was the roomy bunk, easily enough for two, another of the tai-pan’s laws. It was high and its headboard centered against the stern bulkhead, with roped canvas guards against the tilt of the decks when reaching to windward, or tacking under full canvas. Now these were sheathed. Port was a small bathroom and toilet. Sea chest for clothes to starboard. From the beams a gimballed oil lamp cast pleasing shadows.

Both of them hesitated, unsure.

“Angel?”

“Yes,
chéri
?”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too, Malcolm. I’m so happy.”

Still neither moved. Her shawl had fallen away slightly to reveal her shoulders and the pale green, high-waisted Empire-style dress, the folds of soft silk gathered under her bosom that rose and fell in time with the beating of his heart. The dress was the most advanced haute couture from the latest
L’Illustration
that Colette had sent, not yet in full favor, daring in its simplicity. When she had appeared at dinner, Strongbow, their guest, and Malcolm, despite themselves, had both gasped.

Her eyes were mirrors of his and now, unable to bear the waiting and his need that seemed to reach out and envelop and smother her, she hurried into his arms. Passionately. Her shawl dropped unnoticed to the deck.

A little dizzy, she murmured, “Come along,
chéri,”
and took his hand—and part of his weight—said another silent prayer for help, annihilated the past and the future, abandoning herself to the present, she led him to the bunk—resolved to be all that he desired and expected. Ever since today’s sudden and unbelievable ceremony she had been planning for this moment, her role, sifting her own ideas and what Colette had whispered how some of the great ladies of the court conducted themselves on the first night: “It’s important, Angelique, to be the guide, to control the stallion as a good rider should, with strong hands and tight rein, with firmness but gentleness to remove the initial violence from even the most docile of husbands—to lessen the hurt. Be prepared …”

His impatience was vast, big hands wandering, lips stronger. “Let me help you,” she said huskily, also wanting to begin, and eased the coat off and then the shirt and flinched when she saw the extent of the scar at his waist.

“Mon Dieu
, I’d forgotten how badly you’ve been hurt.”

His passion went. But not the thundering of his heart. Every instinct
made him want to pull the shirt or sheet around him but he forced himself not to. The scar was a fact of his life. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,
mon amour,”
she said, her eyes spilling, and holding him close. “I’m sorry, so sorry for you and all that horror … so sorry.”

“Don’t, my darling. It’s joss. Soon it’ll only be a bad dream, all of it, for both of us, I promise.”

“Yes, my darling, so sorry, so silly of me,” she said, still holding on to him and, in a moment, when the anguish for him had lessened, angry at herself for her lapse, she brushed away her tears—and with them her momentary sadness—kissed him quickly, pretending it had never happened. “Sorry, my darling, how silly of me! Sit there for a moment.” He obeyed.

Watching him with veiled but shining eyes, she undid the silk belt and then the back buttons and let the gown fall as she had planned. Only a half-slip and pantaloons remained. He reached for her but she chuckled and slid away and went to the sea chest where her mirror and salves and perfumes were, and, taking her time, put perfume behind her ears and then on each breast, teasing and tantalizing.

But he did not mind, consumed with her, enchanted, for she had explained many times, in different words, “We French are different from you, my darling Malcolm, we are open about loving, modest but not modest, so opposite to the English. We believe loving should be like a marvelous meal, one to thrill the senses, all senses, and not the way our poor English sisters, and their brothers, are taught: that it should be done quickly, in the dark, believing somehow the act is squalid and bodies shameful. You’ll see, when we’re married …”

And now they were. She was his wife, she was coquettish for his delight and he was filled with joy and pulsating. Thank God for that, he thought, monumentally relieved—he had worried for weeks, reliving the Yoshiwara girl, when nothing had worked. “Angel,” he said throatily.

Shyly she stepped out of her pantaloons and slip and walked over to the gimballed lamp and turned the wick down, leaving just enough light, more strikingly lovely than he had imagined—the sight of her naked body was like a dream, and at the same time achingly, vividly real. Without hurry she climbed into the other side of the bunk and lay alongside him.

Whispering words of love, hands touching, exploring, his breathing heavy, moving closer, breath catching painfully when he moved, lips hot and kisses passionate. Her own hands tentative, carefully controlled, all her mind concentrated on the picture of happy, innocent first love that she wanted him to have of her—desperate to please but a little frightened.

“Oh Malcolm, oh Malcolm …” Murmuring and kissing him deeply, loving him—praying that what Babcott had said in answer to her questions was true: “Don’t worry,
for a time
he won’t be able to ride comfortably, or dance a polka brilliantly, but that doesn’t matter, he can drive a coach-and-four,
captain a ship, run the Noble House, sire many children—and be the best husband ever …”

Her need for him was strong now. But she modulated it, checking her own desire, sticking to the plan, helping and guiding and then a sharp gasp, never wavering, now holding him tightly, reacting and reacting until so soon he cried out, her whole body rocked by the contortions of his release and cries that went on and on and then his helpless, panting, dead weight crushing her—but not crushing her.

How odd that I can bear his weight so easily, everything fitting together, she thought, her mouth whispering sweet and tender words, soothing his panting whimpers, content that their first joining had been accomplished so pleasingly.

He was half conscious, lost in some strange plateau, weightless, empty, feeling nothing yet sated with love for this incredible creature who, nude, was all that he imagined and more. The smell and taste and being of her. Every part of him satisfied. Everything worthwhile. In euphoria. Now she’s mine and I was manly and she was womanly and, oh Christ, I hope I didn’t hurt her.

“Are you all right, Angel?” he asked huskily, his heart slowing but still hardly able to talk. “I didn’t hurt you?”

“Oh, no, my darling … I love you so much.”

“So, so do I, Angel, I can’t tell you enough.” He kissed her and began to lift his weight on to his elbows.

“No, don’t move, not yet, please, I like you like th—What is it, my darling?” she said nervously, her arms tightening.

“Nothing, nothing at all,” he muttered, dealing with the sudden pain from his loins that stabbed into the base of his skull as he had moved. Cautiously, he tried again; better this time. And he stopped the groan this time.

“Don’t move, Malcolm,” she said tenderly. “Stay still, rest,
mon amour
, I like you like this, please … please.”

Gratefully he obeyed, starting to murmur how much he loved her, so comfortable, so possessed, so peaceful, so utterly satisfied, to drift into sleep, to sleep deeply. The ship’s bell sounded one bell: half-past midnight but he did not stir, and she lay there, calmed and soothed and gratified, her future launched, enjoying the quiet of the cabin, timbers creaking sometimes, waves lapping the hull, savoring the sensation of fulfillment too.

Without waking him, she slid from under him and went to the bathroom and cleansed herself. She sighed and begged forgiveness. A nick with the small knife. André had said, “It’s difficult, almost impossible for a man to tell if the girl’s a virgin or not on their wedding night if he has no reason to suspect. A little fear, a gasp at the right time, a little telltale blood the clincher, and in the morning all will be serene and as it should be.”

What an awful cynic André is, she thought. God protect me from him and forgive me my sins—I’m glad I’m married, and soon off to Hong Kong so I won’t need to think about him ever again, just my Malcolm …

She almost danced over to the bunk. Softly into bed to hold his hand and close her eyes, seeing glorious mind pictures of their future. I do love him so.

Suddenly she was awake, thinking she had felt another earthquake. The cabin was dark, just the barest flame of the gimballed lamp, swaying slightly. Then she remembered dimming it before she slept, realizing the sound that had awakened her was the ship’s bell and not the pealing of the cathedral during the earthquake of her dreams, the earthquake only the ship’s movement, none of the dream bad. Then, seeing him there beside her, she experienced a loving glow, unlike anything before, knowing they were married and that not a dream either.

Four bells? 2:00
A.M.
Or 6:00
A.M.
? No, silly, it can’t be, or there would be light outside the portholes and Malcolm said he had to go ashore before we slip anchor for civilization to beard the Dragon in her lair—no, to greet a mother-in-law I will charm and beguile who will quickly love me and be the perfect adoring grandmother.

She watched him in the half-light. He was sleeping on his side, his head cradled in his right arm, his sleeping face without care lines, breathing soft, his body warm with his good, clean manly smell. This is my husband and I love him and am only his and the other never happened. How lucky I am!

Her hand began to touch him. He stirred. His hand reached for her too. Not quite awake he said, “Hello, Angel.”

“Je t’aime.”

“Je t’aime aussi.”

His hand sought her. She responded. Caught unawares he flinched and turned to her, held his breath as a pain leapt to the back of his eyes, and then, as it passed, exhaled.

“Je t’aime, chéri,”
she said, and leaned down to kiss him, and between kisses whispered, “No, don’t move, stay there, stay still,” and added with a little laugh, her voice husky with need, “Lie still,
mon amour.”

In moments passion swamped him. Aroused and throbbing, everything forgotten, now sensuality shared and now moving slowly and slowly and then quicker and slow again and deeper, her voice throaty, urging him, him reacting, on and on, stronger and stronger, all his glands and muscles and yearning centering, centering until she was near and very near, and going and near again, holding her, helping her, thrusting until she sensed her body vanish, her weight vanish, everything vanish and she collapsed on
him, her spasms and cries pulling him further into her, his muscles stretched to the limit by his final thrust. Then and then and then he too cried out and was weightless, his body grinding of its own accord, pumping of its own accord, until the last, frenzied, so welcome spasm passed and all movement ceased.

Only panting breaths mixed, sweat mixed, hearts mixed.

In time he became conscious. Her sleeping weight on his chest was as nothing. He lay there in wonder, vibrantly aware, euphoric, one arm holding her safe, knowing she was comely as ever a wife could be. Her breath cooled his cheeks, long and slow and deep. His head was cleansed and future clear, without a shred of self-doubt. Utterly sure that he had been right to marry her, certain that now he could end the conflict with his mother and that together they would end the Brocks, as he would end Norbert, end opium sales and cannon sales, and persuade Jamie to stay, and he would rule Struan’s as it should be ruled—as the tai-pan would want it ruled. Until, with the fullness of time, he would have done his duty and made the Noble House first in Asia again, to pass it on to the next tai-pan, the firstborn son they would name Dirk, first of many sons and many daughters.

How long he lay there he did not know, supremely confident, joy-filled and in ecstasy, his arms around her, loving her, breathing her breath, more happy than he had ever been, could ever be, his lips telling her he loved her, his mind easing him into sleep in blissful warmth and away from the memory of that awesome, marvelous, agonizing, writhing, ultimate burst of immortality that had seemed to him to tear him apart.

WEDNESDAY, 10TH DECEMBER:

In the grey dawn Jamie McFay hurried up from the Drunk Town jetty and turned the corner. Around it he saw Norbert and Gornt in No Man’s Land, waiting where they should be waiting, noticing without interest the small bag in Gornt’s hand that would contain the duelling pistols they had agreed on. Apart from the three of them—and acres of flies—the foul, weed-covered dump was desolate. He had passed no one except drunks huddled and snoring in the corners of shacks, sprawled on benches or in the dirt. He had not seen them.

“Sorry,” Jamie said, out of breath. Like them he wore a topcoat and hat against the morning air, heavy and damp. “Sorry I’m late, I ha—”

“Where’s the tai-pan of the Bloody House?” Norbert asked rudely, shoving his chin out. “Is he yellow or what?”

“Go fuck yourself,” Jamie snarled, his face as grey as the dirty sky. “Malcolm’s dead, the tai-pan’s dead.” He saw them gaping at him and he still could not believe it either. “I’ve just come back from the ship. Went to fetch him before dawn and … well, they … he’d spent the night aboard
Prancing Cloud
. He was …” Words failed him. His tears welled and again he relived the going there and seeing Strongbow at the gangway, pale and frightened, yelling out long before he had come alongside that young Malcolm was dead, that he’d sent their cutter for a doctor but, for Christ’s sake, he’s dead.