Mary Putney - The China Bride

Kyle had a great deal to learn about China. A pity he had only weeks in which to do it.

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Chenqua looked up from his writing table, brush poised in his hand. "The new Fan-qui , Maxwell. What is he like?"

Troth tried to set her jumbled thoughts in order. Her master had no interest in Maxwell's handsome face, broad shoulders, or disturbing touch. "Maxwell is a decent and thoughtful man, I believe. Not a troublemaker, but… used to getting his own way."

Chenqua's eyes narrowed. "Fortunate that he will be here only a month. Keep a close watch on him." He bent to his writing again, dismissing her.

She limped from the room, using the cane Maxwell had found for her. He'd also walked her to the wharf after the binding of her ankle, though mercifully he had not touched her again.

She'd tried to send him away, but he'd insisted on waiting until she was safely in a boat that would carry her to Chenqua's palace on Honam Island, across the water from Canton. Of course his solicitude had not been for Jin Kang as a person, but because of the service she had rendered. Like a faithful watchdog or a horse, she had done her duty and would be treated accordingly.

Face impassive, she climbed the two flights of steps to her small room at the top of the house and locked the door behind her. Then she folded herself onto her low, narrow bed, shaking. Not from the pain of her twisted ankle-she had experienced her share of kung fu injuries and knew the hurt would heal quickly.

But she would not soon recover from Maxwell. Not since her father's death had a man touched her in kindness, and she was shocked by her reaction. Perhaps if she hadn't gazed into those piercing blue eyes she would not have been so unsettled. Or if he hadn't touched her foot and ankle, which were very private and erotic to a Chinese lady.

His touch had been quite impersonal-he would have done the same for anyone needing support. But she, foolish woman, had been left trembling with shock and yearning, her female yin energy aroused and seeking the balance of his male yang. She had wanted to press against him, feel the length of his body against hers.

What would it be like to have such a man look at her with desire?

She stared dry-eyed at the ceiling, not allowing tears. It was not her fate to be concubine, wife, or mother. She must be content with the comfort of her life. She had a full belly, a certain respect from her master, and blessed privacy in her small room. She even had a measure of freedom, more than any other female in the house. But that was because she was not considered truly female, any more than she was truly Chinese.

Her gaze moved over her sanctuary. She had arranged it with painstaking care, using the principles of feng shui, harmonious placement. There was no clutter, only a handful of furnishings that she loved. The bed, a chair, a table that served as a desk. A soft carpet in shades of blue and cream, storage chests in several sizes. An embroidered wall hanging portrayed the world in Taoist symbols of water, earth, air, and fire.

In one corner she had created a small family shrine where she could honor her father and mother, who had no one else to remember them and care for their ghosts. Her father had raised her to believe in the Lord Jesus, but in China, older gods also walked, and it would not be wise to neglect them.

Opposite her bed was the lacquered chest that contained her most private possessions. Perhaps indulging her secret self would relieve her emptiness. Moving awkwardly because of her aching ankle, she knelt by the chest and fished out the key that hung on a silk cord around her neck.

The scent of sandalwood wafted out when she unlocked the chest and lifted the lid. At the bottom of the chest were her father's Bible, other English books, and the padded silk box that held her jewelry. On top were her treasured female garments.

It had taken years to accumulate her secret wardrobe. Chenqua made her a small allowance, and sometimes Fan-qui traders would give her money when they were especially pleased with tasks she had performed. Those hoarded coins had gone to furnish her room, and for women's clothing and adornments.

Since Chenqua forbade her to leave the house unless she was dressed as a man, she would pretend to be looking on behalf of a sister when she haunted the used-clothing stalls. She'd even walked to the far side of the sprawling city so no one would recognize her as she sought garments large enough to fit.

Gently she removed the blue silk robe that was her special pride. Though worn and patched, it had once belonged to a grand lady, a tall Manchu woman from the north, perhaps. She removed her male garb and unbound her breasts, then pulled on undergarments and trousers. The silk was smooth and sensuous against her skin.

She tossed her cap aside and undid the long queue that marked her as a male, raking fingers through her thick hair to loosen it. After a thorough brushing, she dressed it high on her head in the elaborate style of a court lady, securing the dark coils with long hairpins tipped in chased gold. They had been a gift from her father to her mother.

A touch of perfume at her throat, a brush of color on her lips. Then she donned the richly embroidered robe. Even the jade beads that slipped through loops to secure the garment felt luxurious against her fingertips.

Last came her jewelry: jade bangles for her wrists, ropes of glass and carved wooden beads, the delicate handkerchief every lady carried. Straightening to her full height, she lifted her head high as if she were a great beauty.

Her mother, Li-Yin, had been beautiful. Li-Yin had loved telling the story of how Hugh Montgomery bought her as his concubine as soon as he laid eyes on her. At first she'd been terrified of the huge barbarian, with his strange red hair and gray eyes! But he'd been kind to her, and soon she was grateful to have him as her master.

Troth had listened to the story again and again, imagining that one day a Fan-qui gentleman would see her and fall instantly in love. She'd been very young then.

She skimmed her hands down the coat, the embroidered roundels faintly rough against her palms. Peonies for spring, bats for good fortune. Feeling deliriously feminine, she slowly pirouetted, the heavy silk swinging away from her body. Would Maxwell find her pleasing if he could see her now?

Her glance touched the mirror on the opposite wall, and her expression crumpled. East or West, she was ugly. Why did she torment herself by dressing up and pretending to be what she could never be? As a girl in Macao, she'd admired the beautiful Fan-qui ladies with their varied hair colors and features. With her hulking body and huge servant-girl feet she would be less conspicuous among them than with the delicate Cantonese ladies, but never would she be considered pretty.

A rap sounded on the door. "Jin Kang?"

It was Ling-Ling. "Lovely Bell" was Chenqua's Fourth Lady, the youngest, prettiest, and liveliest of his wives, and Troth's closest friend in the household. Not wanting to be caught in her forbidden garments, she called out, "A moment, Ling-Ling."

Swiftly she removed her finery and folded it back into the chest, then pulled on her trousers and tunic. There wasn't time to replait her hair, but as Ling-Ling called impatiently Troth yanked out the pins and shook it loose over her shoulders. Only then did she open the door.

Ling-Ling entered, exquisitely made up and swaying gracefully on her tiny bound feet. Her "golden lilies" were only three inches long, a fact of great pride to her. She looked up at Troth, surprised. "What a lot of hair you have, and with that odd yellow color. Not properly black. Your Fan-qui blood, of course."