James Clavell - Gai-Jin

"Sire!" One of his most experienced captains was pointing upwards. Unnoticed in the excitement, the storm clouds had taken most of the sky and threads reached out for the moon. "So sorry, but the road back to Kyoto is difficult and we don't know if those cunning dogs have another ambush waiting."

Ogama thought a moment. "Cancel the reserve! Take fifty horsemen and harry them to death. If you bring me either head, I will make you a general, with ten thousand koku. Break off the battle!"

Instantly his captains hurried away, shouting orders. Ogama sourly peered into the gathering dark where Katsumata and his men had vanished. "By my ancestors," he muttered, "when I'm tairo, Satsuma will be a Choshu protectorate, the Treaties will be cancelled and no gai-jin ship will ever pass my Straits!"

Then he turned his horse and, with his personal guards, spurred gladly for Kyoto. And destiny.

That same evening in the French Legation at Yokohama the party and recital Seratard had arranged in Angelique's honor was a great success. The chef had surpassed himself: fresh bread, platters of stewed oysters, cold lobster, shrimps and prawns, baked local fish spiced with ginger and garlic served with leeks from his own garden, and tarte au pomme, the dried apples from France only used on special occasions. Champagne, La Doucette, and a Margaux from his home village of which he was very proud.

After dinner and cigars, great applause had heralded Andr`e Poncin, an accomplished though reluctant pianist, more applause after each piece, and now, almost midnight and after three encores, there was a standing ovation as the last lovely chord of a Beethoven sonata died away.

"Marvelous..."

"Superb..."

"Oh Andr`e," Angelique said breathlessly in French from her place of honor near the piano, her mind cleansed of the lurking misery by his music. "It was beautiful, thank you so very much." Her fan fluttered charmingly, eyes and face perfection, new crinoline over hooped petticoats, low-cut, shoulders bare, the fine green silk cascading in gathered tiers accentuating her wisp of waist.

"Merci, Mademoiselle," Poncin replied. He got up and raised his glass, his eyes barely veiled. "a toi!"

"Merci, Monsieur," she said, then once more turned back to Seratard, surrounded by Norbert Greyforth, Jamie McFay, Dmitri and other traders, everyone in evening dress with ruffled silk shirts, vivid waistcoats and cravats--some new but most old, crumpled and hastily pressed because she was to be there. Some French army and naval officers, uniforms heavy with braid, dress swords added to the unaccustomed splendor, British military equally like peacocks.

Two of the other three women in the Settlement were in the crowded, oil- and candle-lit room, Mabel Swann and Victoria Lunkchurch.

Both stout, in their early twenties and childless, wives of traders, both cross-eyed with jealousy, their husbands tethered sweatily beside them.

"'Tis time, Mr. Swann," Mabel Swann said with a sour sniff. "Yus. Prayers n'bed with a nice English cup of tea."

"If you're tired, my dear, you an Vic--"

"Now!"

"Thee, too, Barnaby," Victoria Lunkchurch said, her Yorkshire accent as heavy as her hips, "and put dirty thoughts out of thy head, lad, afore I belt thee proper!"

"Who me? Wot thorts?"

"Those thorts, thee'n that foreign baggage there, may God forgive thee," she said with even more venom. "Out!"

No one missed them or knew they had left.

All were concentrating the guest of honor, trying to get nearer, or if they were within the circle, to stop being elbowed out.

"A splendid evening, Henri," Angelique was saying.

"It's only because of you. By gracing us you make everything better." Seratard mouthed gallant platitudes while he was thinking, what a pity you're not already married and therefore ripe for a liaison with a man of culture. Poor girl to have to endure an immature bovine Scot, however rich. I would like to be your first real lover-- it will be a joy to teach you.

"You smile, Henri?" she said, suddenly aware that she had better be careful of this man.

"I was just thinking how perfect your future will be and that made me happy."

"Ah, how kind you are!"

"I think th--"

"Miss Angelique, if I may be so bold, we're having a race meet, this Saturday," Norbert Greyforth broke in, furious that Seratard was monopolizing her, disgusted that the man had the rudeness to speak French that he did not understand, detesting him and everything French, except Angelique. "We're, there's going to be a new race, in, er, in your honor. We've decided to call it the Angel Cup, eh Jamie?"

"Yes," Jamie McFay said, both of them Stewards of the Jockey Club, equally under her spell. "We, well we decided it will be the last race of the day and Struan's are providing prize money: twenty guineas for the cup. You'll present the prize, Miss Angelique?"

"Oh yes, with pleasure, if Mr. Struan approves."

"Oh, yes of course." McFay had already asked Struan's permission, but he and every man within hearing wondered about the implications of that remark, though all bets against an engagement were off. Even in private, Struan had given him no clue though McFay had felt duty bound to report the rumors.

"None of their rotten business, Jamie.

None."

He had agreed but his disquiet increased. The captain off an incoming merchantman, an old friend, had slipped him a letter from Malcolm's mother asking for a confidential report: I wish to know everything that has happened since this Richaud woman arrived in Yokohama, Jamie.

Everything, rumour, facts, gossip and I need not stress that this is to be a serious secret between us.

Bloody hell, Jamie thought, I'm committed by holy oath to serve the tai-pan whoever he is and now his mother wants... but then a mother has rights, doesn't she? Not necessarily, but Mrs. Struan has because she's Mrs. Struan and, well you're used to doing what she wants.

Haven't you done her bidding, her requests and suggestions, for years?

For the love of God, stop fooling yourself, Jamie, hasn't she truly been running Culum and Struan's for years, and neither you nor anyone has ever wanted to face the fact openly?

"That's right," he muttered, shocked by the thought he had been afraid to bring to the front of his mind. Suddenly uncomfortable, he hastily covered his lapse, but everyone was still concentrating on Angelique.

Except Norbert. "What's right, Jamie?" he asked under the buzz of conversation, his smile flat.

"Everything, Norbert. Great evening, eh?"

To his great relief, Angelique diverted them both.

"Good night, good night, Henri, gentlemen," she said over general protests. "I'm sorry but I must see my patient before I sleep." She held out her hand. With practiced elegance, Seratard kissed it, Norbert, Jamie and the others awkwardly and before any one else could volunteer, Andr`e Poncin said, "Perhaps I may escort you to your home?"

"Of course, why not? Your music transported me."

The night was cool and overcast but pleasant enough, her woolen shawl decoratively around her shoulders, the bottom ruffle of her wide, hooped skirt dragging carelessly in the dirt of the wooden sidewalk--so necessary during the summer rains that transformed all roads into bogs.

Only one small part of her mind dragging with it.

"Andr`e, your music is wonderful, oh how I wish I could play like you," she said, meaning it.

"It's only practice, just practice."

They strolled along towards the brightly lit Struan Building, speaking companionably in French, Andr`e very aware of the envious glances of the men streaming across the street to the Club-- boisterous, packed, and inviting--warmed by her, not with lust or passion or desire, just with her company and happy chattering that hardly ever required an answer.