Jane Orcutt - All the Tea in China

“Really? I should think that you were quite near the end of your learning experiences.”

“One can never learn all there is in the world. I am always anxious to improve myself. Which reminds me that I have another request for our agreement.” I held my breath. “I would like for you to teach me to speak and read Chinese.”

“We have already set our bargain and the terms upon which it is based.”

“Nevertheless, I would like to learn Chinese.”

He burst into laughter. “You are jesting, of course. Chinese is a particularly difficult language to acquire. I told you and your uncle that back in Oxford.”

I did not so much as smile. “But I am in earnest. It is a long voyage, and I have a skill for languages. I would particularly like to know Chinese so that I can better communicate with the people I hope to serve once we reach our destination.”

“Your destination is Cape Town!” His eyes snapped fire.

Two seamen stopped their work in coiling a rope and turned to stare. I sighed. I might have known that Snowe would fight me. I lowered my voice. “Then think of it as a way for me to pass the time. And perhaps you as well. You must find these voyages tedious. I am sure that you would find me an eager, as well as capable, student.”

He said nothing.

“Can you fault one Englishwoman for attempting to learn about another culture?” I paused. “We could even begin with the Gospel According to St. Luke that you gave me.”

He looked at me with surprise. “Do you still have it?”

“Unless someone has moved it, it is probably still in the straw with the cattle.”

He thought for a moment. “In truth, Isabella, I do find these voyages somewhat tedious. One can only discuss company business for so long.”

“Then… shall we retrieve the Gospel from the cattle area?”

He sighed with resignation, evidently realizing that I was dead set on achieving my purpose. “Very well. Let us fetch the tract.”

We made our way below deck. No man was present, only beast. I preferred to believe that the cattle recognized me, but that would be mere fancy, of course. I recognized my favorite cow right away. “Bossy,” I said sweetly and patted her gently on the broad, smooth skin between her eyes. Snowe waited while I entered the stall and retrieved the book, which was lying just where I had left it, hidden in the straw. Thankfully, it was tucked away near the railing and out of range of the cattle.

“Shall we read it right here or take it above deck?”

“As kindly as the cattle treated me when I was their unwelcome guest, I do not fancy staying here any longer,” I said blandly. Bossy looked at me with her enormous bovine eyes and-I tell no falsehoods here-licked me as a lady’s lap dog would show affection.

“It would seem the cattle, however, would have you visit,” Snowe said, his voice tinged with amusement. He wrinkled his nose. “I admire the sight of pastoral scenes, but I am afraid the stench is somewhat overwhelming. Perhaps we could find a quiet place on deck or, barring that, our cabin.”

Our cabin. I could not become accustomed to that phrase. Somehow it was easier under cover of bedtime darkness to acknowledge that we shared a room. I shivered a little at what would happen to my reputation were the truth known. “Perhaps we could use the cuddy,” I suggested. “We would be out of the way of the crew.”

“Very well.” Phineas helped me back through the gate then latched it securely. He wrinkled his nose once more. “You stayed in here with these beasts for as long as you did?”

I nodded, raising my chin. I did not want him to think me some missish society woman. “I am not someone to trifle with, Phineas Snowe. I can live with one beast or another if it is required.”

He smiled at me and stepped back to allow me first access to the steps leading above deck.

Snowe appropriated a shallow pan from Mr. Gilpin. At his further request, Mr. Gilpin also ordered a midshipman to relieve a sandbag from enough of its contents to cover the bottom of the pan. “Thank you,” Snowe said, leading the way to the cuddy.

Hurrying to keep up with him, I was mystified. “I thought we were to study Chinese,” I said.

“We are,” he said over his shoulder. “Have I disappointed you in any way yet?”

Yet! Yet? Did he mean to make a future with me?

Snowe set the pan on the table and smoothed the sand flat with his hand. From his coat pocket, he withdrew a smooth black stick. I laughed. “Do you always carry that with you?” I looked closer. It was not only smooth but painted with tiny flowers and birds and was more pointed at one end and rounder at the other. Intrigued, I pressed closer. “What is that?”

“It is a chopstick,” he said, holding it up for my inspection. “It is an eating utensil in China.”

I laughed. “How does one use it to eat? It would seem difficult indeed to spear a pea.”

He ignored my mirth and withdrew another stick. “You eat with two of these, held between the fingers like this.” He held them in his right hand so that they looked like natural extensions of his fingers, clacking them together to show me how they could grab and pinch. I was not certain how one could cut roasted beef, but perhaps he had something similar to a knife in his jacket as well.

He put away one of the chopsticks. “For purposes of our lessons, we will only require one.”

“But I thought we would practice speaking first. Why do we need this sand in a box?”

“Paper is scarce aboard ship, and we must make do. As for writing instead of speaking, there are a multitude of dialects in China but the same written language. It has been the only way that people from different areas could communicate. I thought it would be the easiest for you to learn first.”

With the thick end of the chopstick, he drew a character with three smooth strokes. “Chinese does not have an alphabet like English or other languages,” he said. “It is based on pictures to represent ideas.”

“And what is that?” I gestured at the symbol he had drawn in the box.

“Do you not recognize it? It was the symbol that was on your slippers the night we met.”

I leaned closer. “I see it now.” I glanced up at him, cocking my head. “You told me that night that the symbol meant love.”

He stared at me for a moment, his dark eyes studying my own. I felt a peculiar pull between us, something foreign to my nature, something warm and enticing.

Abruptly, he turned and wiped the character away with his hand until the sand was smooth again. “I did not speak the truth that night, Isabella.”

“Then what does it-” No! I would not ask. He heard me voice the beginning of the question, yet he ignored me while he drew figures in the sand. Which Phineas Snowe was I to believe? Had he lied the night of the Ransoms’ party or was he lying now?

Snowe drew a short line, apparently prepared to attend to the business at hand with no other false starts. Well and good. At some point I would learn the meaning of the mysterious symbol.

He cleared his throat. “Isabella, are you paying attention? As I was saying, there are eight basic strokes. You must be careful to make them in the proper order for each character to appear correct…”

We never did open the Gospel that day. I wanted to learn words and characters right away, confident that I could memorize them as fast as he could create them in the sand. Snowe must have sensed my impatience, for at one point he admonished that I must learn the basics first before the bigger lessons would follow.

Though he would not speak it, he did seem pleased by my progress. By the time the crew politely shooed us from the dining room table to prepare the two o’clock dinner, I had learned the eight strokes and the proper order for making them. At first when I watched Snowe create the mysterious lines, I had thought it easy. Then I realized how carefully one must make the hooks and wings that completed some of the strokes. It was difficult enough using a chopstick in the sand. I could only imagine how difficult it would be to create on paper in ink!