Mary Putney - The China Bride

She wasn't sure which was greater-her fear or her anticipation.

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A pile of mail arrived the day before Kyle left Canton, the last he would receive before he arrived back in England. He saved the letters for that night, to read after he finished packing.

His father's handwriting was noticeably shaky as he described the estate business that Kyle would take over when he returned. His sister Lucia's letter was lively and full of the details of her life, along with an uneven but earnest greeting from her oldest child, the Honorable Edward Justice, very proud of his five years.

As always, he saved his brother's letter until last. Close as shadows in boyhood, they'd grown apart when their father sent them to different schools. At eighteen, a fierce quarrel had left them estranged for years. They'd made peace just before Kyle left for the East, but there hadn't been much time to reweave the fabric of their relationship.

The letters had made up for that. For six years they'd written back and forth. Kyle had said things on paper that he would have found difficult to speak aloud, and Dominic had done the same. Though half a world separated them, he felt as close to his brother as he had when they were boys.

He savored the pages, which had been composed a few paragraphs at a time over several weeks. Dominic wrote an amusing blend of personal information and responses to the letters Kyle had written a year earlier. He ended, I suppose you might be home before this letter finds you. I wonder how many letters are chasing you around the Orient, all of them far better traveled than I ?

It's good that you're returning. Wrexham is growing increasingly frail. He misses you, though he'd never admit it. I warn you, though, as soon as you show your face he'll be matchmaking. If anything will keep him alive, it's the prospect of seeing you produce the next generation's heir. You are warned.

He smiled wryly, knowing his brother wasn't joking. The Earl of Wrexham had hated having his heir leave England even though he had a perfectly good spare in Dominic. There would be a list of suitable brides ready when the prodigal returned.

He wrote a quick reply to the letter, even though it wouldn't reach England much before Kyle himself. Then he stripped and packed his Western garments in a small trunk. Gavin Elliott would take it to Macao when he sailed the next day, so Kyle would be able to reclaim his wardrobe for the trip home.

His other belongings were already on the high seas. Troth had been very firm that he take nothing European to Hoshan. The only exception was his pocket pistol and ammunition. The roads they'd be traveling were fairly safe, but one never knew.

He doused the lamp and stretched out on the bed, the sheet resting lightly on his bare skin. In midspring, the nights were already uncomfortably warm. Though he'd developed a tolerance for tropical heat in the last years, he looked forward to England 's cool, invigorating climate.

His thoughts returned to marriage. Some days the prospect seemed perfectly reasonable, even though he could never care for another woman as he had Constancia. Many marriages were contracted without love-success required only kindness, mutual respect, a similarity of background and expectations. Yet when he dreamed of Constancia, he always woke with the bleak knowledge that marriage would be a disastrous mistake, miserable both for him and whatever unfortunate woman he wed.

He'd told no one that he had married Constancia; even Dominic knew only that he'd lost the mistress whom he'd loved with the best that was in him. He'd never met another woman who could match Constancia's warmth and generosity and passion, nor one who understood him as she had. Though she had been dead for six years, she would always be the wife of his heart.

Grieving, he had obeyed her last wish and gone forth to live. But it was one thing to live, and quite another to love.

Kyle slept soundly and rose before dawn the next day, eager to be on his way. First he rubbed his face, throat, and limbs with a lotion that darkly stained his skin. Troth said the effect would last for weeks.

Then he donned the clothing she had provided. The loose blue trousers and tunic were shabby and woven of coarse fabric, purchased from a used-clothing stall. She'd been unable to find old footwear in his size, so she'd bought new shoes and scuffed them until they looked worn.

After tying a money belt around his waist under the tunic, he glanced in the mirror. He looked fairly old and worn himself, and much less like an Englishman.

A knock sounded at the door, closely followed by Gavin. "So you're going to go through with it," his friend said gloomily.

Kyle locked his trunk and handed the key to Gavin. "Did you really doubt it?"

"I suppose not. Have a good journey." They shook hands.

Kyle said, "I'll see you in Macao in a fortnight or so."

He was reaching for the doorknob when Gavin said brusquely, "Don't go, Maxwell. I have a bad feeling about this trip. I've tried to bury it, but my fey Scots ancestors keep whispering in my ear that you're running into trouble. Serious trouble."

Kyle blinked. "Did the fey ancestors say what to watch out for?"

Gavin shrugged wryly. "Premonitions are never specific enough to be much use-but I can't shake the feeling that you're risking your life. Don't go."

Frowning, Kyle went to the window and gazed down at the Pearl River, ghostly in the first predawn light. Gavin would not have said such a thing lightly. Was his trip to Hoshan merely a rich man's whim?

No, his desire was much deeper than that. Perhaps in Hoshan he would discover faith, or wisdom, or something else that would add meaning to his life. Whatever awaited him there, it was worth a risk. "I appreciate the warning, but this is something I must do, Gavin."

His friend sighed. "Then at least be careful, and do what Jin Kang tells you."

"Don't worry, I'll be on your doorstep in Macao before you know it." He left the bedroom and quietly descended the steps to the ground floor. He and Troth had chosen the early hour so no one would see him dressed so oddly.

The vast spaces of the warehouse were almost empty now, the bales of goods once stored here now on their way to Britain and America, leaving only the pungent scent of tea. Later in the day the hong would be bustling as Elliott House employees closed it down for the season. With so much going on, no one would notice his absence.

As they had arranged, Troth waited in a small office at the back of the hong, her expression stern. She'd discarded her respectable clerk's clothing for the shabby garments of a laborer. They'd make a good pair of peasants.

"You're late, my lord. I was beginning to wonder if you'd changed your mind."

"Never that. I was delayed because Elliott came by to say good-bye."

As he crossed the office toward her, she said critically, " You dress like a peasant but move like a Fan-qui lord. Put these under the arches of your feet." She gave him two lengths of thick, hard cord about three inches long.

Obediently he removed his shoes and placed the cords inside, then cautiously circled around the office. "Uncomfortable. Why do I need them?"

"To make you walk like an old man with bad joints and uncertain balance."

"Clever." He scanned the objects Troth had set on the battered table. "That thing looks like a drowned badger."

"Your wig, Grandfather." She handed him a coiled, hairy mass.

Though Chinese men shaved the front half of their heads, in order to stay in position his wig had been made to cover his skull from brow to nape before trailing into a waist-length queue. The coarse hair was more gray than black. He wondered where it had come from, but was just as glad not to know. He arranged the wig on his head. "How does it look?"