All the Tea in China (2 page)

Her eyes shone as I departed, and she whispered in my ear that I should remember every fashion detail. She also squeezed my arm and warned me not to spend too much time with Uncle Toby, who would no doubt encourage me to more intellectual conversations than a young lady of my age should pursue.

Tobias Fitzwater, my uncle, had raised my sister Frederica and me but was better known as the dean of Christ Church at Oxford. Though he had never claimed to understand the dreams and whims of girls or young women, he had taught Freddie and me—just as he did his students—to reverence God first and education second. My sister scorned her knowledge once she reached her first Season, but I embraced it heart and soul.

If Uncle Toby knew nothing of proper behavior for girls, I could claim equal ignorance. When, as a child, I observed some of his students fencing, I demanded to take up the sport. My dear uncle readily indulged my desire, and I had no maternal figure to advise against its impropriety. Flora was as devoted to my uncle as she was to me, so she guarded our secret even when my practice grew more scandalous as I gained in age.

Uncle Toby and I rode in silence to the Ransoms’ until he squinted in the dim light of our carriage. He angled his spectacles further down his nose. “Do I see a new pair of slippers on your feet?”

“You do,” I said proudly, sticking out a foot for his inspection.

He studied it, then checked the other slipper, his expression sober. “Where did you get these?”

“Flora had them made for me. Solomon said it was a special pink silk that made him think especially of me. Why do you ask?”

“This is Chinese writing on the toes, were you aware?”

“I assumed as much. Solomon said the silk came newly from the Orient.” I twisted my neck to study the symbols from Uncle Toby’s perspective. “Do you know what they mean?”

“I am afraid not. Far be it from me to judge society
,
but I cannot help but think it will frown upon such foreignness in fashion.”

That was odd. Uncle Toby had never commented negatively on anything I wore. Still, he was so involved in his studies, he scarcely took notice of his own appearance, let alone anyone else’s. “I am sure that Catherine Ransom and all the other ladies will have more to worry about than the slippers on my feet,” I said with a light air.

Uncle Toby raised an eyebrow. “You are not hoping to impress anyone tonight, are you?”

“Why do you ask?”

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I have been meaning to speak to you of this for a while now, Izzy, but have worked up neither the courage nor the proper words. Perhaps I should best be plain.”

“By all means.” I nodded. Uncle looked quite serious, a rarity for a personal exchange between us. Our conversations, though oftentimes lengthy, were usually limited to scholarly discussions.

“Not all are intended by God for matrimony,” he said.

“Indeed,” I said, wondering why he spoke of himself. Uncle Toby had never wed, preferring to pour all of his affection into his studies—and in raising Freddie and me, of course.

Uncle Toby nodded.

I waited for him to proceed. He looked away, obviously flustered. I continued to wait.

He shifted uncomfortably. I shifted as well, studying the tips of my slippers as though some answer could be found there. At last it dawned on me that Uncle Toby did not intend to say more.

I smiled broadly, then felt an involuntary chuckle tickle my throat. Uncle stared as though he were riding with a lunatic. “I did not envision humor as your response,” he said.

“I did not envision matrimony as a subject you would broach tonight.”
Or rather, broach then retreat!

He looked troubled again. Apparently the situation was uneasy for him, but I could not imagine what sort of participation he sought from me.

“Sometimes,” he said, then seemed to draw courage. “Sometimes men are so enamored with finding a diamond that they fail to see the pearl among them.”

I shook my head, bewildered. Now he was speaking of jewels. I patted his hand. “You are quite a riddle, Uncle Toby.”

His shoulders slumped in a sigh of evident defeat, then he smiled at me fondly. “I fear that I am, my dear. I fear that I am.”

Sir Henry Ransom waited at the doorway to greet us as we alighted from our carriage. He ushered us inside his spacious home, and anticipation fairly took my breath. Or maybe it was the smoky aroma of the multitudinous candles. The crystal chandelier glowed above the generous main room, while wall sconces reflected their own kindred flames. Striped and solid velvet chairs were artfully arranged for conversation. Later, I knew, dinner would be served in the massive dining room. The Ransom home was as comfortable as it was large, like a portly woman with her finest jewels.

All of this might have been mine, for David Ransom and I had been friends since childhood. He and his family rusticated in Oxfordshire every year, and we played explorers and pirates together while young, then later began to eye each other with keener interest.

Then Catherine Allbright became the object of his affection. No words of explanation passed between David and me, but none were needed. We had exchanged no promises save those of a pirate king to his fair lady. Though I would never dream of voicing my doubts, I was at a loss as to David’s selection in Catherine Allbright. Unless it was her well-lined purse. She was the daughter of a prosperous landowner, after all, and I but an orphan. I wished them well on their wedding day.

“Will you be all right alone for a moment, Izzy?” Uncle Tobias asked. “Sir Henry wishes to show me his latest art acquisition.”

“Enjoy yourself, Uncle,” I said, smiling, as he took his leave. “I shall be all contentment.”

“Isabella!”

Then again, perhaps not.

“What a perfectly lovely dress!”

“Catherine!” I returned, kissing the cheek of the blonde beauty who had claimed my childhood friend for her husband. I took note for Flora that Catherine had donned a beastly green silk that made her complexion look like the underside of a trout. “You look lovely too.”

“Not for long.” She leaned closer for a confidential whisper. “I am with child.”

My heart sank. Could crueler words be spoken tonight? “Really! That is . . . wonderful. Truly wonderful. You and David are quite blessed.”

“To be sure. David is the most devoted of husbands,” she said, demurely touching the front of her dress in a maddening way, as though the babe were already making its presence known. She snapped to herself and smiled. “And you? Any prospects?”

“If the Lord is willing, I shall breathe and rise again tomorrow,” I said with a smile. Prospects, indeed! As though I were in search of a situation!

Catherine smiled blandly. “How many years has it been since your final Season? No, wait. Let me guess.” She counted on her left-hand fingers and unfortunately soon moved to those on her right. “I remember now. It was the year David proposed to me. My, but that
has
been a while.”

“I—”

“Excuse me, dear.” Catherine patted my arm as though she were my elder, and since she had wed, I suppose she was. “Lady Ransom has asked me to stay particularly close to her tonight. For protection, I suppose, since I am in charge of the family heir.” She giggled in what I knew she hoped was a light manner, but which sounded more like a donkey’s bray. When we were younger, she had confessed that she pursued all manner of different laughter, but there was no getting around the horrible sound.

“Yes, of course,” I said with a curtsy, but she was already sailing across the room like a stately maternal ship. I had neglected to ask about the unattached gentleman who was supposed to be in attendance tonight, but if Catherine Ransom entertained the notion that I would beg for a man . . . !

Sighing, I surveyed the room to see who was available for conversation, but at the moment everyone seemed to be paired off. I retreated to the Ransoms’ inner hallway, where I studied Flora’s beautiful handiwork in the giltedged mirror.

Oh dear! Was that a smudge along the neckline? I leaned closer for further inspection, studying the offending spot. What a pity that—

“Unless your vision is poor, you will not find your image improved by pressing against the mirror. Though I’ll not gainsay that many ladies oft believe it otherwise.”

“Oh!” I whirled about with a start, finding myself face-to-face, nay, nearly nose to nose with the most unusual-looking man. He appeared to be but five years my senior, yet he wore thick spectacles, which magnified his eyes most alarmingly. His dark hair was pulled back in a queue, though such style had been out of favor for many years. He also wore an ill-fitting, odd sort of faded silk jacket, along with near threadbare inexpressibles.

In short, I felt sorry for someone so out of tune with simple fashion. Surely it was my Christian duty to be kind to such a person, no matter his manners. How he had snuck up on me so silently, without my knowledge, was beyond all reason. Why he had spoken to me without introduction was beyond all propriety.

“Sir, I confess not to vanity but to a wish not to offend others with any displeasing physical display,” I said, attempting a light tone. Surely he would understand a lady’s dismay at seeing her new dress soiled, no matter how slightly.

“Perhaps what you desire, if you so truly wish not to offend, is the raiment of a monastic, complete with cowl. Then every displeasing aspect of yourself would be truly hidden.”

With great effort, I kept my mouth from dropping open. Christian duty forgotten, I willed myself to stand straighter and attempted to brush past him. “Excuse me, sir. You forget yourself.” The man thought I was preening! Moreover, he inferred I was unattractive! I did not like to give anyone the cut, but his behavior was inexcusable.

He moved in front of me, impeding my progress. “Did I offend?”

“To ask the question is to answer.”

He smiled knowingly. “Ah, but if
you
answer the question, it will admit the need for a deeper reflection than any mirror can provide. But perhaps you disagree? Or are you merely . . . disagreeable?”

I opened my mouth but was checked by a hand on my elbow. “There you are, Isabella.” My hostess had impeccable timing.

“Lady Ransom,” I said with a curtsy. “I had the pleasure of seeing Sir Henry at the doorway, but you were detained elsewhere.”

“Yes, and for that I beg your forgiveness.” She pointed her fan at the strange man and smiled. “I see you have met our distinguished guest.”

He bowed slightly in our direction. “I confess that we have not, Lady Ransom. We were merely commenting on your mirror here.”

She tutted. “What a ghastly piece of work it is. But if you two admire it, then I shall consider it fine enough. Mr. Snowe, Miss Isabella Goodrich. Isabella, Mr. Phineas Snowe.”

I curtsied, and somewhat to my surprise, he followed decorum by bowing.

“Mr. Snowe is visiting us from China, Isabella. He is with the uh, the uh . . . what was the name of your organization, Mr. Snowe?”

“No doubt you have heard of the London Missionary Society,” he said somberly.

I could feel the blood rush from my face. I had no idea he was one of God’s workers. Uncle Toby held such men in high regard and had taught me the same. “Why, yes.”

He smiled, bowing low. “I am traveling with a husband and wife who seek to become missionaries themselves.”

“Unfortunately, the Tippetts were called away to London and could not join us tonight. And now I shall leave you two alone,” Lady Ransom said, tapping me lightly with her fan. “I am never one to meddle in discussions of the heart or religion, and something tells me that one or the other is about to transpire. If you will excuse me.”

Left alone with Mr. Snowe, I felt the obligation, if not quite the desire, to apologize. And yet he was, I reminded myself, practically a foreigner, which explained his lack of fashion sense. I should at least be forgiving in that regard.

Meanwhile, he said nothing but stared at me until I felt irritation rise anew. “I suppose your travels have kept you away from England for a good many years?” I ventured.

“A
great
many,” he corrected, as though I had made another grievous error.

“In China alone?”

“Among other places.”

This was certainly awkward. One had to wonder how he could minister to the masses when he could barely speak to a fellow countrywoman except in innuendo or insult. “And these other places are . . . ?” I asked, resisting the urge to tap my foot.

“Miss . . . Goodrich, was it?” he said. “You need not feel you must entertain me. Sir Henry invited me tonight not for social, but financial reasons. I am here to raise money for my work. Is there a Mr. Goodrich with whom I should speak—your father? Or perhaps your betrothed?”

At least we had lack of forbearance in common! “I fear not, Mr. Snowe. You might, however, find favor with my uncle, Mr. Fitzwater, that white-haired gentleman conversing with Sir Henry.”

“Not Tobias Fitzwater?” His eyes gleamed. “The Oxford dean?”

“He is a dean, yes. You have heard of Uncle Toby?”

“Indeed I had hoped to speak with him, as he was a major reason for my visit to Oxford. I understand that he has an interest in Oriental studies.”

Perhaps that explained why Uncle Toby had recognized the language on my slippers, if not its meaning. “I did not know that about my uncle,” I said, vexed that Mr. Snowe knew anything about Uncle Toby. “Have you perhaps mistaken him for someone else?”

He pursed his lips. “Tobias Fitzwater is the dean of Christ Church, is he not?”

I nodded. How did he know this?

“And he has been at Oxford for, oh, thirty years now, yes?”

I nodded again.

Mr. Snowe shifted. “What I fail to understand, however, is how you fit into the picture.”

“And which picture is that?” I replied, blinking in what I hoped was the manner of all innocence.

For a moment it seemed that his face darkened, then inexplicably brightened. “Forgive me for nattering on so, Miss Goodrich. Would you be so kind as to introduce me to your uncle?”

“I should be quite at a loss without your company,” I said. “But follow me.”