My Beautiful Enemy (36 page)

I
t was dusk when she arrived home, a few flame-colored clouds crisscrossing the edge of the sky. Before she dismissed Da-ren’s servants, she gave each one a flask of fine spirits and a handful of coins. They left delighted, full of praise for Bai Gu-niang’s generosity and good wishes for her health and well-being. To the pair of slightly elderly servants who looked after the property, she was equally lavish with gifts, thanking them for having taken good care of her home during her long absence.

The typical Peking residence was a courtyard surrounded by buildings on all four sides. But Ying-ying’s childhood home was a suite of three such courtyards, its spaciousness and luxury a token of Da-ren’s utmost regard for her mother, his beloved concubine.

When Mother had lived, there had been songbirds in cages beneath the eaves. She had also kept dozens of fancy goldfish in large, glazed crocks in the courtyards. The goldfish had been each as large as Ying-ying’s hand, their tales fine as gossamer, their scales gleaming like dearly held dreams.

Now there were no more songbirds or goldfish—Ying-ying was away too often and too long. Besides, she didn’t have much interest in such elegant pursuits—she
was
embarrassingly uncultured, as she had told Leighton.

Where was he now? Had he left England yet? Was he on a steamer sailing over rough seas at this very moment?

Sometimes a dark doubt would slip into her mind. He had broken his promise to her before. What if he had gone ahead and married Miss Chase?

She walked into Mother’s rooms in the innermost courtyard and lit three sticks of incense before her spirit plaque. The one she had taken to England had been a copy. This one was much more elaborate. Da-ren still came regularly to offer
sticks of incense, and sit or walk in her suite of rooms while the incense burned.

Bring him to me safely
, she asked her mother’s spirit.

Unlike her mother, she didn’t need a man to protect her. But she wanted Leighton by her side. She wanted to take him to sweep their daughter’s grave, see the rooms where Master Gordon had lived, and revisit Chinese Turkestan, retracing their route from the edge of the desert to the Heavenly Mountains.

From there they could make the trip that they had wanted to, all those years ago, over the eighteen-thousand-foot Karakoram Pass into India. Now more than ever, she wanted to see the great wall of Himalayan peaks that, as the day faded, turned the color of the setting sun.

Her own rooms were in the same courtyard as her mother’s, along a different wall. As she crossed the courtyard, her ears pricked at the sound of footsteps. Her heart skipped. But then she remembered that the majordomo had told her that as soon as they were ready, he would send some “rolling donkeys”—a complicated pastry made from glutinous rice flour and red bean paste.

Still she went to open the front gate herself—and made sure that her smile betrayed nothing of her disappointment as she bade the two footmen to come into the kitchen. She offered them tea and some of the pastries while she moved the rest onto her own plates. Despite her encouragement, the footmen only dared each accept a tiny bite, declaring that the majordomo would flay them alive if he knew that they had practiced their gluttony on delicacies meant for Bai Gu-niang.

Did she hear the front gate open again? She had shut it earlier, but not put the wooden locking bar into place.

She saw off the footmen with good tips and, this time, made sure to bar the door. Then she slowly turned around, a dagger in her hand. Mother had arranged her home in the style of the scholarly household in which she had grown up, and at first glance, there would appear to be nothing of value in these
courtyards. But Da-ren had acquired for Mother some noteworthy pieces of calligraphy over the years, and an art thief could find items well worth his time.

Night had fallen. Now that the footmen and their red lanterns were gone, the only illumination came from a flickering light in the caretakers’ room. But as she scanned the courtyard, she managed to distinguish the silhouette of a man in the shadows.

She flipped the knife in her hand, holding it blade out.

“Well,” said the man softly, in Turkic, “this is how you’ll always greet me, isn’t it?”

I
t was difficult to suppress her own laughter while at the same time telling him to hush. She took hold of him—such a warm, secure sensation to have his hand in hers. They stole past the moon gate, across the dark, silent middle courtyard, and into her rooms in the innermost courtyard.

She closed and barred her door. Then she lit two candles that were on a pair of elephant-shaped jade candlesticks and turned around to have a good look at him. Good thing that she had put so much distance between herself and the caretakers, for she emitted a short scream: He wore a full beard, as luxuriant as the one he’d sported in Chinese Turkestan, and his hair was almost as long as it had been then.

He laughed as she reached for his face with both hands. “I thought I’d save myself the trouble of shaving while I traveled. And if you don’t like it, you can always put your blade to good use and try your hand at barbering, as you said you were willing to.”

She remembered that long-ago conversation in their cave and gave his beard a slight tug. “So you are calling yourself one of the bravest men in the world?”

“Absolutely,” he said, grinning. “It’s time I gave myself a little credit.”

She touched the tender skin on the inside of her wrist to that dark and much beloved beard, at once soft and bristly. “Well, we won’t find out immediately, because I want you to keep this for a while.

“And this, too.” Her hands threaded into his hair, caressing the curls she had miss desperately, during those long years when she had thought them forever sundered.

“I’m glad you like how I look.” He kissed her, a slow, languid kiss, a greeting of gladness. Then he stepped back a few feet and took her in. “You look altogether different again. Without your dagger I might not have recognized you.”

She was in a Chinese woman’s long blouse that reached to mid-thigh, and a pair of trousers. The dull blue fabric was plain and hardy, intended for the rigors of the road. And the cut of the garment was meant for modesty, not for showing off the figure. She groaned, half in frustration, half in mirth. “Why is it that every time we are reunited, I am always in the ugliest clothes I own?”

“They are not ugly,” he protested. “Besides, why would you ever want anything to distract from the beauty of your features?”

Certainly his gaze was fastened to her face, a gaze of admiration, hunger, and delight. Her heart thumped happily. “Well, if you put it like that.”

She pulled him to the edge of the
kang
, a raised brick platform that could serve as both a sitting area and a bed—Amah, in fact, used to sleep on this very one. She kicked off her shoes and sat cross-legged on the
kang.
“Now tell me how long have you been in Peking and how did you know to find me here? I was just at my stepfather’s residence and no one mentioned any foreigners asking after me.”

He mirrored her action and situated himself so that they were knee-to-knee. “I arrived a week ago. And as for how I knew you were here . . . I used a matchmaker.”

She blinked at the word she had never heard associated with herself. “You used a what?”

He lifted the hem of her blouse and felt the fabric between his fingers. “I didn’t think a man—a foreigner at that—sniffing after you at Prince Fei’s would be welcome. So I asked at the British Legation if there was a way I may inquire into your whereabouts without raising too many suspicions or besmirching your reputation. And one diplomat, who has been in China for twenty years, suggested using a matchmaker: Matchmakers are almost always women and it is their business to ask about the young women of a house.

“It wasn’t until three days ago that we found a suitable matchmaker, a very clever one. Not only did she discover your address, but when she learned that you were not expected back for a few days, she greased the palm of someone to let her know as soon as you returned. And I came here the moment I received her message.”

Ying-ying laughed, monumentally amused. “That would make her the first matchmaker to have ever come for me.”

His eyes widened in disbelief. “Really?”

“Yes, really.”

He shook his head, still incredulous. “Well, if I were her, I would be overwhelmed by the honor.”

She leaned in and kissed him on his cheek. How wonderful to see herself as he did, as this rare, magnificent creature coveted by one and all. “Since you have sent a matchmaker after me, may I assume you are no longer engaged to Miss Chase?”

He laid a hand on her knee. “That engagement was doomed from the moment I saw you at Waterloo station, even if Miss Chase never had any designs on your safety.”

Ying-ying was accustomed to direct violence. But the idea of “killing with a borrowed knife”—as the Chinese called plots such as Miss Chase’s—quite chilled her. She was glad
of the warmth of his hand permeating through the cotton of her trousers.

“So you found evidence that it was indeed Miss Chase who alerted the Centipede to my whereabouts?”

A look of distaste crossed Leighton’s face. “She dispatched a footman to give a cable to be sent from the village post office. And the clerk at the post office remembered the message, because it was unusual. His recollection of the message matched almost word for word the notice in the paper.”

Ying-ying sighed. “She seemed so wonderful at first.”

“For a while I was similarly deceived. I never loved her, but I thought her a lovely person. In fact, when Mrs. Reynolds would look at me with some anxiety, I interpreted it as concern that I was not good enough for her niece. Only later did I begin to understand she was afraid that
I
wouldn’t be happy, married to Miss Chase, because at some point I might see through her.”

“I hope Mrs. Reynolds’s life hasn’t been made too unpleasant—the Chase women might blame her for bringing me to your attention,” said Ying-ying. She remained quite fond of Mrs. Reynolds.

“She can fend for herself. In fact, she called on me before I left and asked me to convey both her regards and her apologies. She hopes that she can still call on you when you are next in England.”

Ying-ying was far happier than she had expected to be at the thought that Mrs. Reynolds still wished to remain friends. “Of course—except I probably can’t ever go back to England.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure. Given that the Centipede is actually dead, those in charge of security matters have begun to come around to the view that perhaps you two were enemies after all. I’d guess that in a year or two you’d be able to take a stroll on the Embankment without anyone batting an eye.”

She didn’t have any burning desires to return to England, but the news quite gladdened her—he had properties and
connections there and she didn’t want them to be separated every time he visited his home country. “I must say you are that most welcome of visitors, one who comes bearing nothing but excellent news.”

He lean forward. “Actually, I do have a piece of bad news.”

“Oh?” she tensed.

He nodded rather ominously. “After much consideration, I have decided that you are right, and these are the most extraordinarily ugly clothes I have ever seen. We need to get rid of them as quickly as possible.”

She stared at him a moment before bursting into laughter. “Well, then, what are we waiting for?”

M
uch, much later, after they had made love several times, they tiptoed to the kitchen in the first courtyard and smuggled back some pastries, a pot of tea, and two buckets of warm water. They washed each other, flicking water playfully all the while. When she had dried herself, she put on some new clothes, so they could sit down at the table to drink tea and dine on pastries.

But all Leighton managed was to gawk at her, in her blouse and trousers of pale lavender silk, her person lovely beyond compare.

She tossed a pastry at him. “Don’t just eat me with your eyes. Have some food, too.”

The pastry was sticky and barely sweet—and delicious for all that.

Her childhood bed in the inner room was where they decided to sleep. It was also a
kang
, but had been padded with more blankets. As they undressed and lay down, she asked about his leg, which had hurt for two days while he was crossing the Indian Ocean but not since. He asked about the treasure; she recounted the trip to Ning-hsia Province.

At the end of her story, she told him, “You would have been
at home there, in that particular Buddha cave. It was the work of men who believed, when they had every reason to despair.”

He stroked her hair. “You were always a good reason to believe.”

She smiled, her eyes shining in the lambent candlelight. “So what do we do now?”

“I believe we have a preexisting agreement in place that requires us to marry as soon as possible. What must I do to make that happen and how many matchmakers must I hire?”

His determination pleased her—she nuzzled her lips against his beard. “If Master Gordon were alive, he could have spoken to my stepfather on your behalf. But since he is not, perhaps the head of the British Legation might do, if he can vouch that you are a man of character.”