The Blonde Samurai (9 page)

Yes, fan yourself, if you must. ’Tis true I have a sassy mouth and a tendency to say what others are merely thinking. No doubt you told Lady——that when she caught you reading my memoir at your dressmaker’s, telling her you picked up this book to learn more about Japan, being that everything Japanese from porcelain to silks to lacquerware is fashionable in Mayfair drawing rooms, and
not
to be sexually stimulated. I warned you.

Pacing up and down in my bedroom, my arms aching from trying to pull my lacings, I realized that since I was determined to live a separate life from James, I had to do the lacing myself. (As much as I respected Mr. Fawkes, asking him
to perform a husband’s duties was out of the question.) After several tries, I learned to do a decent job of it by reaching behind me and tying the long lacings to a slender bedpost, then walking away, one step at a time, to pull them taut, then untying them and wrapping them around my waist before they slackened too much. Not perfect, but satisfactory.

By the way, don’t you
dare
tell Miss Tuttle at the school for young ladies about my corset indiscretion. It will make her wet her pantaloons.

I settled into a daily routine on the Bluff quite unlike anything I was familiar with in London. Yuko rose at dawn, opened the wooden shutters and heated the water for washing, giggling as she did so. Soon after, I sat down to breakfast, which consisted of cooked rice, miso soup (a native specialty, sour but good), roasted fish and tea. At first, I used the silver utensils provided, though with practice I found success maneuvering the unsplit pair of wooden chopsticks sitting next to my plate at each meal.

After breakfast, I tied myself to the bedpost and pulled my corset lacing tight, then dressed and waited for visitors to call on me. After days of putting myself through this exhausting regimen with no visitors (I blamed it on the rain, but I discovered James had spread the word that his wife was “sickly” from the sea voyage and couldn’t receive visitors. The scoundrel), I abandoned western dress and began wearing nothing but a robe over my chemise. A silk kimono as bright as a daffodil with white flowers embroidered on it and trimmed at the bottom with a thick padding. I abandoned my corset (yes, I know, one scandal after another, but bear with me, please) and allowed the native housekeeper to wrap a wide obi, or sash, around my waist then show me how to use the
wide sleeves hanging down to the floor as pockets. I twirled around in circles as Fusae wrapped the yards of silk around my waist, pretending a lover embraced me, but it was no substitute for a man’s arms.

Wearing my kimono, I was at peace each morning as I sat on the veranda drinking tea and writing, absorbed in the act of what I called “pasting pictures onto the page.” Words took on the job of color, shape and line, giving life to the visions I had seen, smelled, touched, as the cold, misty days continued with a late-winter rain making the road icy. I put off my trip to the settlement since I didn’t wish to venture down the mountain alone until the rain stopped. I had received a post from Mr. Fawkes informing me he would be in Tokio for the next week, setting up meetings for James with railway officials and stockbrokers as well as finding a house for us to live in. I was on my own, so I continued my travel writing, hoping to charm the reader with my picturesque descriptions of the well-kept gardens on the Bluff with tall, lush flowers towering over bunches of moon-faced blossoms and the graceful ferns with willowy tails surrounding the trim houses spread out along floral-decked lanes.

Watch your step as you climb up long flights of crumbling stone steps,
I wrote,
your head bending to admire the overhanging vines of blooms saturated with the overpowering smell of Oriental spice.

I explained how the reader would be delighted and surprised by how many foreign residences were nestled up here together like dollhouses, each one bearing a house number out of sequence since they were numerated by their building date. I was Number 23 Lady. I must admit, I became attached to my little bungalow with its embroidered panels of silk stretched on the doors and the bamboo blinds on the windows threaded with colored beads. They sparkled like iridescent
raindrops whenever I opened or closed them. Stretched embroidered silk covered the ceiling, while an eight-sided lantern enveloped in painted silk gauze hung from the center, casting a warm, soothing light over the main receiving room.

I wore only light slippers in the house since the floor was covered with straw matting, but I was fortunate the previous occupant preferred western furniture such as tables and what my mother called the
commodities of conversation:
chairs. I was grateful for this small luxury since I hadn’t yet perfected the Oriental art of sitting on my legs for long periods of time without them falling asleep.

I was surprised to find a gleaming white marble washstand clearly installed for western comfort and concealed by a half-open screen painted with birds and flowers, but I shall leave it to your imagination as to the particulars of the necessary place (a hole in the ground). Poking around behind the screen this morning after my ablutions, I discovered an excellent guidebook by a Mr. G. W. Rathbone left there by the previous occupant. It was filled with information about the Bluff as well as a map of Yokohama, which would serve me well today. The rain had stopped and the road was clear. I was determined to go down to the settlement and check on my husband’s financial activities as I’d promised my father. To do so, I needed the use of the pony and carriage Mr. Fawkes had left at my disposal. I wish you could have seen me trotting around the room and slapping my buttocks in front of the house keeper and the maid. It was Yuko who understood what I needed and rushed down the road to bring the carriage with the native groom to my bungalow.

And since it is in my nature to find amusement in an uncomfortable situation, I shall remind you that as much as I
hated wearing the damn corset, I had no choice but to put it on if I was going to go into town to pay a visit to the bank manager.

I laced up.

I shall not bore you with more than the necessary details of my meeting with the German bank manager except to say he puffed on his big cigar incessantly and looked at me as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing: a tall American woman dressed in Paris fashion, replete with bustle and train, claiming to a member of the British peerage
and
insisting on examining her husband’s business accounts. Such an act was unheard of in this part of the world where the financial freedom of a lady traveling with her husband was confined to carrying a chit-book, a written record of her trivial purchases made on credit, items usually found in the fine curio and silk shops.

He demanded I fill out and sign a request form and present my letter of credit along with my signature book, the first page engraved and bearing my signature, for his perusal. I did so with a smile, knowing he wished to check the authenticity of my signature as proclaimed by the signed names of the London bankers appearing on the next line (I must note that an addendum affirmed my father as the securer of the monies drawn on a noted U.S. bank). Grumbling, he handed it back to me, then motioned for me to follow him.

Under his watchful eye, he escorted me to a private room in the rear of the building away from curious customers who, I suspected, would question why he permitted a woman to look over the accounts. With a confident smile I shut the door, thereby clipping off the burning tip of his cigar. I stomped out the flickering ashes with the toe of my boot then
waited until his footsteps faded away before I sat down at the well-used mahogany desk and opened the plain brown leather tome embossed with a round gold seal. I checked each entry, the precise handwriting of the bank clerk noting every debt with James’s large but erratic signature next to each item, his very long loop in the letter
J
unmistakable. I looked for expenses such as lumber for building wooden bridges, horses and oxen for transportation. And bigger items such as small tank engines and corridor carriages. I found none. Instead I noted large amounts paid to his hotel far beyond the cost of his accommodations, clubs and other establishments, as well as substantial monies paid to Lord Penmore and other European gentlemen whom I surmised had
nothing
to do with the railway business.

Snapping the large bound book shut, I marched back into the bank manager’s office, demanding an explanation.

“Who is this Sir——and this Mr.——?” I wanted to know, asserting myself. I was angry and had no wish to be swept aside with a gentle pat on the hand like a titled lady who had signed more chits than she could afford for the month.

“Why do you ask, Lady Carlton?” said the bank manager, narrowing his eyes.

“I see no connotation next to their names proclaiming this is a business expense for the building of the railway from Ōzaka to Kobé.” My father’s investment included completing the twenty-two mile stretch of railway joining these two cities. I pointed out various entries in the account book to the bank manager, among them one with the dubious distinction of having the same name as the local racecourse. “I have no doubt these are gambling debts, Mr.——,” I continued, addressing the bank manager by name, “
not
legitimate business expenses.”

“I assure you, Lady Carlton, you are mistaken. His lordship has provided the bank with invoices that leave no question as to the legitimacy of these expenditures.” He bristled and bellowed but wouldn’t look at me.
The liar.
I wouldn’t underestimate James’s bribing him to fake his accounts.

“I don’t believe you. You see, I
know
my husband,” I said without hesitation, glaring at him resolutely, my stance not budging. “I shall have to insist you do not pay any more monies to these men from this account.”

“Under whose authority, your ladyship?” asked the bank manager, blowing smoke in my face, the unpleasant scent of a pungent spice making me cough.

“I represent the interests of Thomas O’Roarke of New York,” I said, waving away the wisps of smoke with my gloved hand. “The gentleman whose name appears next to the bankers.” I indicated my father’s signature with my gloved forefinger smudged with ink. “I’m his daughter and I have the authorization to stop any more payments from his lordship’s account.” I laid down the letter from De Pinna Notaries in London giving me such authority.

“Mein Gott…”
began the German, his eyes widening in disbelief as he read it, followed by a guffaw of laughter and a distinct sneer in my direction. He refused to honor my request.

It was unheard of, unfashionable and quite alarming to have a woman making such a ridiculous request in his establishment,
he said, cutting off the tip of a second cigar before he finished the first one.
Would I please leave immediately?

Embarrassment doesn’t begin to express the emotions racing through me. Anger, frustration, disappointment. Why is it that men refuse to see us as intelligent creatures with the ability to think and reason? We
are
more than delicate rosebuds, I wanted to tell him, pink and moist quivering little clitorises trying to survive in a male-dominated society. Yet we
are relegated to either acting like perfect ladies or match girls (
prostitutes,
to you ladies unaware of the deceptive practice of street girls selling matches to gentlemen in hopes of procuring an extra guinea for the service of lighting
their
cigars). All because we crave respect for our talents and our minds, that doesn’t diminish our ability to exude delicacy and refinement in the drawing room
or
the bedroom.

I must admit I allowed my gift of talk to get the better of me, acting more like an Irish rebel aching for a political fight than an aristocratic lady out for an afternoon promenade. I told the bank manager women would someday have the same rights as men, including the right to vote (women in the U.S. territory of Wyoming already enjoy this right, dear lady reader. Can Britain be far behind?). He sputtered and fumed, yelling at me in German and spewing live ashes from his cigar onto the floor as I made my exit. By the holy saints, I had no need of a translation to know I wasn’t welcome for a return visit.

Popping up my parasol, I started walking up Main Street, my head spinning, my plan unraveling, map in hand, not knowing where I was going, but determined not to give up. Since the bank manager wouldn’t explain the questionable entries, I had no recourse left.

I would demand an explanation from his lordship.

But where to find him?

I was tempted to go back and ask the bank manager where I could find the nearest brothel, no doubt where James spent his days and nights when he wasn’t gambling. I imagined the German would have choked on his cigar. I would have to wait until Mr. Fawkes returned from Tokio to ask his assistance in dealing with my husband’s reckless spending.

I kept walking, feeling strangely liberated after my confrontation with the bank manager and restless to become part of this strange new world around me. I reveled in having no social boundaries here (I didn’t count the rebuff by the bank manager since I intended to remedy that in due time), no rules as dictated by the upper class, no fears. I believed nothing could stand in my way of enjoying this new adventure, not even James. I felt confident, flirty.

With my bustle swaying behind me, I livened my step, sweeping by large buildings, residences, stores, offices, the telegraph office and a clock tower. I strolled along the Bund, the street facing the sea, and noted heavy construction of a luxurious new hotel. I joined the already bustling traffic of British, American, French, Dutch, a few Danes and Norwegians, and numerous Chinese going about their business. I reveled in their curious stares (a western woman alone was an unusual sight in Yokohama), but I spoke to no one, though I was tempted. I wouldn’t be scrutinized here as I would be in London for speaking to a man I didn’t know. A fierce wind blew between my legs, rustling my skirts, teasing me. I continued walking, the soft cotton of my drawers rubbing between my legs and setting off a feverish rhythm tapping in my soul, a desire to break free of my solitude. I yearned to move my body to a forbidden beat, gyrating my hips against the nude flanks of a man I’d yet to meet. A vibrant breeze from the harbor hit my nostrils, the salty smell of the sea arousing my need. I dared to seed my mind with a provocative question:
James had his women, why couldn’t I take a lover?