James Clavell - Gai-Jin

"Then that's what we have to find..."

Where and what is it? he asked himself again, lying quietly on the bed, willing his brain to work clearly on this problem and all the others.

Angelique? No, I'll think about her later --but I know I love her more every day.

Thank God I can write letters now. Must write to Mother again, if anyone should know the jugular it's her, isn't Tyler Brock her father and Morgan her brother but how dare she sneer at Angelique's family? Should I write to Angelique's father? Yes, but not yet, there's time enough.

So much other mail to catch up on, books to order from England, Christmas not so far away, the Jockey Club Charity Ball in Hong Kong, Struan's annual Ball to think about, meetings today: Jamie at least twice, Seratard this afternoon --what does he want? What else is planned for today? Phillip's coming to chat again after breakfast... wait a minute, no, not today.

Yesterday Sir William ordered him back to Yedo, to prepare the Legation for the meeting with the Council of Elders in twenty days.

"Will the meeting really take place, Sir William?"' he had asked when the Minister had visited him. With the fleet no longer protecting the Legation, and extensive though not overtly hostile samurai activity all around them, after a few face-saving days Sir William had considered it prudent to return to Yokohama, ostensibly to prepare for the delivery of the indemnity money.

"I think so, Mr. Struan. Perhaps not punctually, but yes the ceremonial will happen approximately then and we will have taken a real leap forward. If they produce the first payment of 5,000 pounds as promised... well, that will be a very good indication. By the way, I understand you've a steamer due to leave today for Hong Kong, could I prevail upon you to allow one of my staff and some urgent mail to go with her--my wife and two sons are expected soon and I have to make plans."

"Of course, I'll mention it to McFay.

If you want a berth on any of our ships to meet them just say the word."

"Thank you--I was planning two weeks vacation when they do. One gets hidebound, cooped up here, don't you think? Miss the bustle of Hong Kong, that's quite a city though damned if the people at Whitehall appreciate it! Plenty of good roast beef, some cricket or tennis, the theatre or opera, and several days at the races would be most welcome. When will you return?"' When?

News of our Tokaido disaster would have arrived almost a week ago, presuming the mail ship weathered the storm. Mother will have had a fit though showing nothing to outsiders. Will she come here on the first available ship? Possibly, but there's HQ to look after--and Emma, Rose and Duncan. With father dead, me not there, eighteen days is too long for her to be away. Even if she's already aboard there's at least another three or four days to prepare my defenses. Strange to consider her a possible enemy, if not enemy no longer friend.

Perhaps she's friend after all, she always has been, however distant, always attending father with little time for us.

"Hello, my son, how could I ever be your enemy?"' He was astonished to see her standing by the bed, his father also, and this was strange because he remembered his father was dead but it did not seem to matter, quickly out of bed without hurt and chatting with them happily in the cutter crossing Hong Kong harbor, storm clouds everywhere, both of them listening deferentially and approving his clever plans, Angelique sitting in the stern, her dress diaphanous, breasts beckoning, uncovered now, his hands there and lower, all uncovered now, her body writhing against his, hands caressing his face...

"Malcolm?"

He awoke with a start. Angelique was beside the bed, smiling at him, peignoir blue silk rich and discreet. The dream vanished, except the threat and promise of her body, ever pulsating in his subconscious. "I... oh I was dreaming, my darling, but it was about you."

"Oh yes? What?"

He frowned, trying to recollect.

"I don't remember," he said, smiling up at her, "except that you were beautiful. I love your gown."

She pirouetted gaily to show it off. "The tailor you asked Jamie to arrange made it!

Mon Dieu, Malcolm, me, I think he is marvelous--I ordered four dresses, I hope that's all right... oh thank you!" She bent down to kiss him.

"Wait, Angelique, wait, just a second. Look!" Carefully he raised himself, dominating the pain, took both supporting hands away and held them out to her.

"That's wonderful, cheri," she said, delighted, catching his hands. "Ah, Monsieur Struan, I think I'd better take care to be chaperoned all the time now, and never be alone with you in your bedroom."

Smiling she stepped closer, carefully put her hands on his shoulders, allowed his arms to go around her and kissed him. Her kiss was light, promising and avoided his need for more. Without guile she kissed his ear, then straightened, allowing his head to rest against her breast, the intimacy pleasing her--and him very much. Soft silk there, with that uncanny, irreplaceable, special warmth.

"Malcolm, did you really really mean what you said about wanting to marry me?" She felt his arms tighten and the wince of pain.

"Of course, I've told you so many times."

"Do you think, do you think your parents, pardon, your mother, she will approve, yes? Oh I do hope so."

"Yes, oh yes she will, of course she will."

"May I write to Papa, I would like to tell him?"

"Of course, write when you wish, I will write too," he said throatily, then, swamped by her affection, his need overcoming his discretion, he kissed the silk, then again, harder and almost cursed aloud as he sensed her retreat before it happened.

"Sorry," he muttered.

"No need for "Sorry" or any Anglo-Saxon guilt, my love, not between us," she said gently. "I want you too." Then, following her plan, switched her mood, entirely in control, her happiness infectious.

"Now I will be the nurse Nightingale."

She plumped the pillows and began to make the bed neater. "Tonight is a French dinner hosted by Monsieur Seratard, tomorrow night he has arranged a soiree. Andr`e Poncin is giving a piano recital of Beethoven--I prefer him so much to Mozart--also Chopin and a piece by a young man called Brahms." A church bell began, sounding the call to early service, almost immediately to be joined by others, sweeter and more melodious from the Catholic church.

"There," she said, helping him lie back comfortably. "Now I will go for my toilette and return after Mass when you are toiletted."

He held her hand. ""Bathed." You're wonderful. I love y--" Abruptly their eyes went to the door as someone tried the handle.

But the bolt was on.

"I did it when you were asleep." She chuckled like a little girl playing a game. Again the handle moved. "Servants always come in without knocking, they need to be taught lessons!"

"Mass'er!" the servant called out, "tea-ah!"

"Tell him to go away and come back in five minutes."

Struan, caught up in her pleasure, shouted the order in Cantonese, and they heard the man go off grumbling.

She laughed. "You must teach me Chinese-speaking."

"I'll try."

"What's "I love you"?"

"They don't have a word for love, not like us."

A frown went across her face. "How sad!"

She slipped over to the door, unbolted it, blew him a kiss, and vanished into her own suite. Her bolt slid home.

He watched the door, aching. Then he heard the bells change, becoming more insistent, reminding him: Mass!

His heart twisted. Didn't think about that, that she was Catholic. Mother's diehard Church of England, twice on Sundays, Father as well, us too, in procession, along with every other decent family in Hong Kong.

Catholic?

Doesn't matter, I... I don't mind.

I've got to have her, he told himself, his healthy, hungry throbbing ache pushing the pain away. "I must."