Gai-Jin (52 page)

Now he was watching her, torn between happiness and frustration, frantic that he was hobbled.

“Don’t fret, Malcolm,” Hoag had said this evening, wanting to calm him, the simple act of dressing a nightmare of pain and awkwardness. “This is the first time you’ve been up. It’s only a month since the accident, don’t worr—”

“Tell me that once more and I’ll spit blood.”

“It’s not just the pain that’s tearing you apart. It’s the medication, or lack of it, and today’s mail. You got a letter from your mother, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” he had said in total misery, and sat on the edge of the bed, half dressed. “She…well, she’s furious, never known her so angry. She’s totally opposed to my engagement, to my marriage … if I listened to her, Angelique is the devil incarnate. She …” The words tumbled out of him. “She dismissed my letter,
dismissed
it and said, here read it:
Have you gone mad? Your father’s not dead six weeks, you’re not yet twenty-one, that woman’s after your money and our company, she’s the daughter of an escaped bankrupt, the niece of another felon, and, God help us, Catholic and French! Are you out of your mind? You say you love her? Rubbish! You’re bewitched. You will stop this nonsense. You-will-stop-this-nonsense! She has bewitched you. Obviously you are in no frame of mind to run Struan’s! You are to return without that person as soon as Dr. Hoag permits it
. ”

“When I permit it. Malcolm, will you do as she says?”

“About Angelique, no. None of what she says is important, none of it! Clearly she didn’t read my letter, doesn’t give a fig for me. What the devil can I do?”

Hoag had shrugged. “What you’ve already decided: you will be engaged and in due time married. You are going to get better. You will have lots of rest, lots of good soups and porridge and stay off the sleeping draft and painkillers. For the next two weeks you will stay here, then you will go back and face the”—he had smiled kindly—“the future with confidence.”

“I’m very lucky to have you as a doctor.”

“I’m very lucky to have you as a friend.”

“Did you get a letter from her too?”

“Yes.” A dry laugh. “I did, now that I think of it.”

“And?”

Hoag had rolled his eyes. “Enough said?”

“Yes. Thanks.”

Now, watching her dancing, center of a universal admiration, and lust, breasts in large part fashionably revealed, slender ankles enticing eyes to seek further under the billowing hoops of apricot silk, he felt himself hardening. Thank God for
that
, he thought, much of his rage evaporating, at least that’s working, but, Christ, I know I won’t be able to wait until Christmas. I won’t.

It was nearing midnight now and she sipped champagne and hid behind her fan, fluttering it in a practiced manner, teasing those around her, then gave the glass away as though bestowing a gift, made her apologies and went gliding back to her chair that was beside Struan. Close by was an animated group of Seratard, Sir William, Hoag, other Ministers, and Poncin. “La, Monsieur André, your playing is superb. Isn’t that so, Malcolm darling?”

“Yes, superb,” Struan said, not feeling good at all, trying to cover it. Hoag glanced over at him.

In French she was saying, “André, where have you been hiding the last few days?” She looked over her fan at him. “If we were in Paris I would swear that you had given your heart to a new lady friend.”

Poncin said lightly, “Just work, Mademoiselle.”

Then, in English, “Ah, sad. Paris in the fall is especially wonderful, almost as breathtaking as spring. Oh, wait till I show it to you, Malcolm. We should spend a season there, no?” She was standing close to him, and she felt his arm go loosely around her waist, she rested her arm lightly on his shoulder and toyed with his long hair. The touch pleased her, his face handsome and clothes handsome and the ring he had given her this morning, a diamond with other diamonds surrounding it, delighting her. She glanced at it, twisting it, admiring it, wondering how much it was worth. “Ah, Malcolm, you will enjoy Paris, in season it’s truly wonderful. Could we?”

“Why not, if you’d like to.”

She sighed, her fingers discreetly caressing his neck, and said as though taken by a sudden thought, “Perhaps, do you think,
chéri
, do you think we could honeymoon there—we could dance the night away.”

“Your dancing is a delight, Mademoiselle, in whatever city,” Hoag said, sweating and uncomfortable in his overtight clothes. “Wish I could say the same for mine. May I sugg—”

“You don’t dance at all, Doctor?”

“Years ago, when I was in India I did, but stopped when my wife died. She really enjoyed it so much that now I can’t enjoy it at all. Marvelous party, Malcolm. May I suggest we call it a night?”

Angelique glanced up at him, her smile fading, noticed the caution on his face, looked at Malcolm and saw the exhaustion. How awful he’s so sick, she thought. Damn!

“It’s still early,” Malcolm was saying bravely, longing to lie down, “isn’t it, Angelique?”

“I must confess I really am tired too,” she said at once. Her fan closed, she put it down, smiled at him, Poncin and the others, preparing to leave. “Perhaps we could slip out and let the party continue …”

They made their quiet apologies to those around them. Everyone else pretended not to notice them leave but in her wake was emptiness. Outside at the door she stopped a moment. “Oh la la, I forgot my fan. I’ll catch you up, my darling.”

She hurried back. Poncin intercepted her. “Mademoiselle,” he said in French. “I believe this is yours.”

“Ah, you’re so kind.” She accepted her fan, delighted that her stratagem had worked and that he was as observant as she had hoped. As he bent over her hand to kiss it she whispered in French, “I must see you to morrow.”

“Legation at noon, ask for Seratard, he won’t be there.”

She was brushing her hair in front of her mirror, still humming the last waltz she had danced. Which was the best? she asked herself. The best dance? That’s easy, Marlowe and the polka, better than Pallidar and waltzes—you should waltz only with the love of your life, allowing the music to swim your head with adoration and longing, drifting you on the clouds, tingling and wanting as I am tonight, the best day of my life, engaged to a fine man and loved by him to distraction.

It should be the best day, but isn’t.

Strange that I enjoyed this evening, and can act and think calmly, when already the day has passed. I’m overdue—probably with child of a rapist. This must be ended.

She was watching her reflection as though it were another person, the brushstrokes firm, titillating her scalp and head and taking away any cobwebs, astonished that she was still alive and outwardly the same after so much agony.

Curious. Every day after the first has seemed easier.

Why is that?

I don’t know. Well, never mind. Tomorrow will solve the overdue though perhaps even now I shall begin in the night and there will have been no need for all the fear and crying and crying and more fear. Tens of thousands of women have been trapped like I am trapped and still have been made whole without hurt. Just a little drink and everything as before
and no one the wiser. Except you and God! Except you and the doctor, or you and the midwife—or witch.

Enough for tonight, Angelique. Trust in God and the Blessed Mother. The Blessed Mother will help you, you are blameless. You are openly engaged to a marvelous man, somehow you will be married and live happily ever after. Tomorrow … tomorrow will begin the where and how.

Behind her Ah Soh was tidying the four-poster, picking up her stockings and underwear. The crinoline already hung on a rack with two others, and half a dozen new day dresses still wrapped in their sheaves of rice paper. Through the open window came the sound of laughter and drunken singing, and music from the Club that still showed no sign of abating.

She sighed, wanting to be back at the dance. The brush moved more vigorously.

“Miss’y wan thing, heya?”

“No. Want to sleep.”

“Night, Miss’y.”

Angelique bolted the door after her. The connecting door to Struan’s suite was closed but unbolted. By custom, as soon as she had finished her toilet, she would knock, then go and kiss him good night, perhaps chat just a little and return again, leaving the door ajar in case he had a seizure in the night. These were infrequent now, though since he had stopped the night medicine a week ago, he was very restless, hardly sleeping, but never demanding.

Again she sat at her mirror and was pleased with what she saw. Her peignoir was silk and lacy and Parisian—a locally made copy of one she had brought with her: …
and you cannot believe the workmanship, Colette, or the speed of the Chinese tailor
, she had written this afternoon for tomorrow’s mail ship.

How lucky Colette is, her pregnancy a gift of God.

Stop! No more or the tears and terror will come back. Put the problem
aside. You decided what to do, if it was or if it was not. It is, so the other plan—what else can you do?

An absent touch of perfume behind her ears and on her breasts, a slight adjustment of the lace. A gentle knock on his door. “Malcolm?”

“Come in—I’m alone.”

Unexpectedly, he was not in bed but sitting in his armchair. Red silk dressing gown, eyes strange. At once some instinct put her on guard. She bolted the door as usual, and went over to him. “Not tired, my love?”

“No, and yes. You take my breath away.” He held out his hands and she came closer, heart picking up a beat. His hands were trembling. He coaxed her nearer and kissed her hands and arms and breasts. For a moment she did not resist, enjoyed his adoration, wanting him, and leaned down and kissed him and allowed him to fondle her. Then, the heat mounting too swiftly, she sank on her knees beside the chair, heart pounding like his, and half broke the embrace.

“We mustn’t,” she whispered breathlessly.

“I know but I must, I want you so much…. ” His lips were throbbing and hot and seeking and, pushed onwards, hers responded. Now his hand was caressing her thigh, feeding more fire to her loins, and then the pleasing tormenter moved higher and higher still and she wanted more but drove herself from the ever-pressing brink and again pulled away, whispering, “No,
chéri.”
But this time he was surprisingly stronger, his other arm held her in an amorous vise, his voice and lips ever more persuasive, closer and closer but then, without thinking, he twisted too quickly and pain ripped through him. “Oh, Christ!”

“What is it? Are you all right?” she said, frightened.

“Yes, yes, I think so. Christ Almighty!” It took him a moment or two to recover, the surging pain lancing his ardor, that ache remaining, the other pain making it seem more strong. His hands still held on to her, still trembling but without strength. “Jesus, sorry …”

“No sorry, my darling.” When, thankfully, she had recovered her own breath, she got up and poured some of the cold tea that he kept beside the bed, her loins restless and cramped and nervous, heart agitated, not wanting to stop either but must, a few more minutes and wouldn’t have, must find a way to be safe, him safe, us safe—a voice shouting the litany at the forefront of her mind, “a man never marries his mistress, nothing before marriage, everything permissible after,” pounded into her as soon as she could understand.

“Here,” she murmured, giving him the cup.

She knelt and watched him, eyes closed, sweat staining his face and dressing gown. In a moment, most of her own unease and disquiet slid away. She put a hand on his knee and he covered it. “Being so … so close is bad for us, Malcolm,” she said softly, liking him very much, loving him but
not truly sure about love. “It’s difficult for both of us,
chéri
, I want you too and love you too.”

After a long time he said with difficulty, his voice low and hurting, “Yes, but—but you can help.”

“But we can’t, not before we’re married, not yet, we can’t, not now.”

Abruptly his pain and frustration crested at having to sit all evening and endure other men dancing with her, lusting after her, while he could hardly walk where a month ago he knew he was a far better dancer than any one of them.

Why not now? he wanted to scream at her, what difference does a month or two make? For Christ’s sake … but all right I’ll accept that at marriage a proper girl must be virgin or she’s a loose woman, I’ll accept that a gentleman doesn’t wrong her before marriage—I accept that! For the love of God, there are other ways.

“I know, we—we can’t now,” he said throatily, “but … Angelique, but please help me, please.”

“But how?”

Once more words choked him: For Christ’s sake, like girls in Houses do, kiss you and fondle you and finish you—do you think lovemaking is just spreading your legs and lying there like a piece of meat—the simple things these girls will do without fuss or shame and happy for you afterwards, “Hey, you now all same good-ah, heya?”

But he knew he could never tell her. It was against all his upbringing. How do you explain to the lady you love when she’s so young and artless or so selfish or just ignorant. Suddenly the truth became rancid. Something in him mutated, changed.

In a different voice he said, “You’re quite right, Angelique, it’s difficult for both of us. Sorry. Perhaps it would be best if you moved back to the French Legation until we leave for Hong Kong. Now that I’m getting better we must guard your reputation.”