Tai-Pan (61 page)

He saw her darting for the razor-sharp stiletto that she used for embroidery. He reached her just as she was starting to turn it into herself, and grabbed the haft of the knife. The point glanced off the whalebone of May-may’s corset. He hurled the knife aside and tried to hold her, but, raving in Chinese, she pushed him away and clawed at the dress, mutilating it. Struan quickly turned her around and undid the hooks and eyes. May-may ripped the front apart and fought out of the gown and out of the corset and slashed at the pantaloons. When she was free, she stamped on the dress, screaming.

“Stop it!” he shouted, and caught her, but she shoved him away, berserk. 
“Stop it!”

He smashed her flat-handed across the face. She reeled away drunkenly and fell across the bed. Her eyes fluttered, and she lost consciousness.

It took Struan a moment to overcome the hammering in his ears. He pulled the bedclothes off and covered May-may.

“Ah Sam! Lim Din!”

The two petrified faces were at the broken doorway. “Tea—quick-quick! No. Get brandy.” Lim Din returned with the bottle. Struan lifted May-may gently and helped her to drink. She choked a little. Then her eyes trembled and opened. They stared at him without recognition.

“You all right, lass? You all right, May-may?” She made no sign that she had heard him. Her frightening gaze fell on the mutilated dress and she cringed piteously. A moan escaped her and she mumbled something in Chinese. Ah Sam came forward reluctantly, consumed with terror. She knelt and began to scoop up the clothes.

“What did she say? Wat Missee say-ah?” Struan kept his eyes unwaveringly on May-may.

“Devil clotheses fire, Mass’er.”

“No fire, Ah Sam. Put my room. Hide. Hide. Savvy?”

“Savvy, Mass’er.”

“Then come back.”

“Savvy, Mass’er.”

Struan waved his hand in dismissal at Lim Din, who scurried away.

“Come on, lassie,” he said gently, terrified by the fixity—and the madness—of her stare. “Let’s get you dressed in your usual clothes. You have to come to the ball. I want you to meet my friends.”

He took a step toward her and she backed away abruptly like a snake at bay. He stopped. Her face twitched and her fingers were like talons. A wisp of saliva gathered in a corner of her mouth. Her eyes were terrifying.

Fear for her swept him. He had seen the same look in other eyes. In the eyes of the marine, just before his brain had blown apart, on the first day of Hong Kong.

He sped a silent prayer to the Infinite and gathered all his will. “I love you, May-may,” he said softly, again and again, as he walked slowly across the room. Closer. Slowly, so slowly. He towered over her now, and saw the talons ready to strike. He raised his hands and gently touched her face. “I love you,” he repeated. His eyes, dangerously unprotected, willed her with the vastness of their power. “I need you, lassie, I need you.”

The madness in her eyes changed to agony, and she fell sobbing into his arms. He held her and thanked God weakly.

“I’m—I—sorry,” she whimpered.

“Dinna be sorry, lassie. There, there.” He carried her to the bed and sat with her in his arms, rocking her like a child. “There, there.”

“Leave . . . me, now. All . . . all right now.”

“I’ll do nae such thing,” he said. “First gather your strength, then we’ll dress and we’ll go to the ball.”

She shook her head through her tears. “No . . . can’t. I—please . . .” She stopped weeping and, easing herself out of his arms, stood up, swaying. Struan caught her and guided her into bed, helping to pull off the tattered clothes. He settled the bedclothes over her. She lay limp in the bed and closed her eyes, exhausted.

“Please. All right now. Must . . . sleep. You go.”

He stroked her head gently, pushing the obscene ringlets out of her face.

Later he was conscious that Ah Sam was standing in the doorway. The girl came into the room, tears streaking her cheeks.

“You goa, Mass’er,” she whispered. “Ah Sam watchee, nev’ mind. No fraid. Can.”

He nodded wearily. May-may was deep asleep. Ah Sam knelt beside the bed and softly, tenderly, stroked May-may’s head. “No fraid, Mass’er. Ah Sam watchee werry wen Mass’er come by.”

Struan tiptoed out of the room.

Culum was the first to greet Struan when he returned to the ball.

“Can we start the judging?” he asked brusquely. Nothing could destroy his euphoria over his new-found love, and her brother, his new-found friend. But he still played the game.

“You should na have waited,” Struan harshly replied. “Where’s Robb? God’s blood, do I have to do everything?”

“He had to leave. Word came that Aunt Sarah’s labor pains have started. There seems to be some trouble.”

“What?”

“I don’t know. But Mrs. Brock went with him to see if she could help.”

Culum walked off. Struan hardly noticed his going. His worry for May-may returned, and now it was overlaid with concern for Sarah and Robb. But Liza Brock was the best midwife in Asia, and if any help were needed, Sarah would get it.

Shevaun approached, bringing him a brandy. She handed him the glass without a word, and put her arm lightly in his. She knew there was no need for conversation. At such a time it was best to say nothing: Think as much as you like, but no questions. For even the most powerful person, she knew, needed a silent, understanding, patient warmth at times. So she waited and let her presence surround him.

Struan drank the brandy slowly. His eyes flickered over the throng and saw that all was well: merriment here and there, fans fluttering, swords glinting. He watched Brock in private conversation with the archduke. Brock was listening and nodding occasionally, and totally concentrated. Was Zergeyev offering him the license? Mary was fanning herself beside Glessing. Something amiss there, he told himself. Tess and Culum and Gorth were laughing with one another. Good.

And when Struan had finished the brandy and was whole, he looked down at Shevaun. “Thank you,” he said, contrasting the grotesqueness of May-may in European dress and hair style with the perfection of Shevaun. “You’re very beautiful and very understanding.”

His voice was morose, and she knew that it must have something to do with his mistress. No matter, she thought, and held his arm compassionately.

“I’m fine now,” he said.

“Mr. Quance is coming over,” she cautioned him softly. “It’s time for the judging.”

The light green of his eyes darkened. “You’re very wise, Shevaun, apart from being beautiful.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to thank him but she said nothing, only moved her fan a trifle. She sensed that the brandy and silence and understanding—and above all no questions—had done much to bring him to the brink of a decision.

“Ah, Tai-Pan, my dear fellow,” Quance said as he came up, his eyes merry, an alcoholic flush enveloping him. “It’s time for the judging!”

“Very good, Aristotle.”

“Then make the announcement and let’s have at it!”

“Mr. Quance!”
 Like a roll of thunder the words tore through the night.

Everyone turned, startled.

Quance groaned mightily.

Maureen Quance was standing there, her eyes grinding him to dust. She was a tall, big-boned Irishwoman with a face like a piece of leather and a large nose and legs planted like oaks. She was of an age with Quance but strong as an ox, her iron-gray hair in an untidy bun. When she was young she had been attractive, but now with the girth created by potatoes and beer she was overpowering. “The top of the evening to you, Mr. Quance, me fine boy,” she said.

“ ’Tis herself, glory be to God!”

She plodded across the dance floor oblivious of the stares and the embarrassed silence and stood in front of her husband. “I’ve been after looking for you, me fine boy.”

“Oh?” he said in a trembling falsetto.

“Oh it is.” She turned her head. “Top the night, Mr. Struan, and I’ll be thanking you for the lodgings and vittles. Glory be to God, herself has caught the wretch.”

“You’re, er, looking fine, Mrs. Quance.”

“Indeed I feel as fine as a body can feel. ’Twas a blessed miracle from St. Patrick himself that sent a native boat to herself and guided her footsteps to this immortal spot.” She turned her lugubrious eyes on Aristotle and he quavered. “We’ll be saying good night now, me darlin’ man!”

“But, Mrs. Quance,” Struan said quickly, remembering the judging, “Mr. Quance has something that—”

“We’ll be saying good night,” she growled. “Say good night, me boy.”

“Good night, Tai-Pan,” Aristotle squeaked. Meekly he allowed Maureen to take him by the arm and lead him away.

After they had gone, the place erupted in laughter.

“God’s death,” Struan said. “Poor old Aristotle.”

“What’s happened to Mr. Quance?” Zergeyev asked.

Struan explained Aristotle’s domestic tribulations.

“Perhaps we should rescue him,” Zergeyev said. “I took a distinct liking to him.”

“We can hardly interfere between husband and wife, can we?”

“I suppose not. But who’s going to judge the contest?”

“I suppose I’ll have to.”

Zergeyev’s eyes crinkled. “May I volunteer? As a friend?”

Struan studied him. Then he turned on his heel and strode to the center of the floor. The bands played a loud chord.

“Your Excellency, Your Highness, ladies and gentlemen. There is a contest to be judged for the best-dressed lady of the evening. I’m afraid our immortal Quance is otherwise engaged. But His Highness Archduke Zergeyev has volunteered to make the choice.” Struan looked at Zergeyev and began to clap. His applause was taken up, and there was a roar of approval as Zergeyev came forward.

Zergeyev took the bag with the thousand guineas. “Who shall I choose, Tai-Pan?” he asked out of the corner of his mouth. “The Tillman for you, the Vargas for me, the Sinclair because she’s the most intriguing? Choose who’s to win.”

“It’s your choice, my friend,” Struan said, and with a calm smile he walked away.

Zergeyev waited a moment, enjoying the thrill of choosing. He knew that he must pick whom the Tai-Pan wanted. He made up his mind and walked across the floor, bowed and put the bag of gold at her feet. “I believe this belongs to you, Miss Brock.”

Tess stared at the archduke blankly. Then she flushed as the silence broke.

There was loud applause, and those who had backed Tess at long odds screamed with delight.

Shevaun clapped with the crowd and contained her resentment. She knew it was a wise choice. “The ideal political choice, Tai-Pan,” she whispered calmly. “You’re very clever.”

“It was the archduke’s decision, na mine.”

“Another reason I like you, Tai-Pan. You’re a huge gambler and your joss is unbelievable.”

“And you’re a woman among women.”

“Yes,” she said without vanity. “I understand politics very well. My father—or one of my brothers—will be President of the United States one day.”

“You should be in Europe,” he said. “You’re wasted out here.”

“Am I?” Her eyes challenged him.

Struan entered the house quietly. It was almost dawn. Lim Din was sleeping beside the door and he awoke with a start.

“Tea, Mass’er? Breakfas’?” he asked sleepily.

“Lim Din bed,” Struan said kindly.

“Yes, Mass’er.” He padded away.

As Struan walked down the corridor, he glanced into the living room and stopped. May-may, pale and motionless, was sitting in the leather chair, watching him.

When he came into the room, she got up and bowed gracefully. Her hair was piled on her head and pulled back, her sloe eyes delicate, her eyebrows arched. She wore a long and flowing Chinese robe.

“How are you, lass?” he asked.

“Thank you, this slave is well now.” The pallor and the cool green of her silken gown added to the immensity of her dignity. “Would you brandy have?”

“No, thanks.”

“Tea?”

He shook his head, awed by her majesty. “I’m glad you’re better. You should be in bed.”

“This slave begs you to forgive her. This slave—”

“You’re na a slave and never have been. Now, there’s nothing to forgive, lass, so off to bed.”

She waited patiently until he had finished. “This slave begs you listen. She must say in own way what must be said. Please sit.”

A tear slipped from the corner of each eye and skidded down the whiteness of her cheeks.

He sat, almost mesmerized by her.

“This slave begs her master to sell her.”

“You’re na a slave, and you canna be sold or bought.”

“Please to sell. To anyone. To whorehouse or to another slave.”

“You’re na for sale.”

“This slave offended you beyond bearing. Please to sell.”

“You have na offended me.” He got up and his voice was metallic. “Now, off to bed.”

She fell onto her knees and kowtowed. “This slave has nae face before her lord and owner. She cannot live here. Please to sell!”

“Get up!” Struan’s face tightened.

She rose. Her face was shadowed and ethereal.

“You’re na for sale because no one owns you. You will stay here. You have na offended me. You surprised me, that’s all. European clothes do na suit you. The clothes you wear I like. And I like you as you are. But if you dinna want to stay, you’re free to leave.”

“Please to sell. This is your slave. Until an owner sells, a slave cannot go.”

Struan was near exploding. Control yoursel’, he told himself desperately. If you lose your temper now, you lose her forever. “Go to bed.”

“You must sell this slave. Sell this slave or order her to go.”

Struan realized that it was useless to argue or reason with May-may. You canna treat her as a European, he told himself. Deal with her as though you’re Chinese. But how’s that? I dinna ken. Treat her as a woman, he ordered himself, deciding on a tactic.

He exploded with pretended rage. “You are a miserable slave, by God! And I’ve a mind to sell you into the Street of the Blue Lanterns,” he shouted, naming the worst of the seamen’s streets in Macao, “though who’d want to buy a dirty baggage slave like you I dinna ken. You’re nothing hut trouble and I’ve a mind to give you to the lepers. Aye, by God! I paid eight thousand taels of good silver for you, and how dare you make me angry? I was cheated, by God! You’re worthless! Dirty slave—how I’ve put up with you these years I dinna ken!” He shook his fist in her face, and she recoiled. “Am I na good to you? Eh? Generous? 
Eh? Eh?”
 he roared, and was pleased to detect fear in her eyes. 
“Well?”