The Last Concubine (59 page)

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Authors: Lesley Downer

Tags: #Fiction, #Historical

BOOK: The Last Concubine
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She drew back and looked at him, frowning. She knew as certainly as she’d ever known anything that she wanted to spend her life with this man.
Dounika
. Somehow. She’d never wanted anything so badly in her life.

Smiling, he smoothed her forehead with his fingers. ‘Your eyes,’ he said. ‘I could never forget those eyes. That mouth. The curve of that cheek. That smile.’

He drew a line across her cheek, around her chin, along her neck. She tingled at his touch. It was as if she’d never known before what it was to be alive.

‘You,’ he whispered. That word again.

They climbed down from the parapet and he pulled her into the grass. The many layers of her kimono ballooned out, making a soft cushion under her. They were enclosed in a bower of tall grasses that rustled and swayed. Down prickled her nostrils; the scents of dried stalks and wild flowers swirled around her. She let herself sink into the softness, dissolve into the fragrance. In this secret place she knew they were invisible.

His face was dark against the sky. The last rays of the dying sun touched his hair, lighting it up like a halo.

She closed her eyes as his lips moved to her throat.

II

‘Look at you, Shin,’ said Taki. ‘You haven’t been eating. We’ll have to fatten you up.’

A shaft of sunlight pierced the wooden rain doors, cutting through the morning air, sparkling with motes of dust and lighting up the steam that wreathed the rice and miso soup.

Shinzaemon sat, composed and impassive, while Haru and Taki fussed around him, filling his teacup, piling rice into his rice bowl,
bringing out dish after dish of grilled fish and simmered vegetables. The room was full of mouth-watering aromas.

Sachi sat quietly, playing the gracious hostess, making sure all was to his liking. Every now and then their eyes met. The sweetness of the evening before still tingled. Beneath her demure façade she burned with fierce joy, as if a fire had been lit within her that could not be put out. She felt her mother’s blood surging in her veins. Like her mother she would grab life. She would have what she wanted, no matter what the consequences.

But in the cold light of day she was more aware than ever of how daunting it was. She had a father now, a powerful official on the southern side. Admittedly he was not a father like Jiroemon had been. He could not expect her to obey him unquestioningly as fathers usually did. But a father was a father and she didn’t want to break with him. Not now, when she’d only just found him.

Sachi knew all too well that she was not free and never could be. Women were property and belonged to their families. In finding her father she had found another set of chains to bind her. In the intoxication of seeing Shinzaemon again she had imagined things might be different. Now she remembered that they couldn’t be.

She looked at Shinzaemon, wiping around his bowl with a piece of pickled radish then washing it out with tea. He was such a soldier, such a
ronin
. She tried to imagine him as a respectable member of society, performing the duties of an adopted son of a government official. The thought made her smile. It was even harder to imagine Daisuké sanctioning a union with a ragged rebel who had fought on the losing side – an enemy, a member of the despised northern army.

But Daisuké had been young himself once. He too had been angry, idealistic, impetuous, driven by passion. Maybe when he saw Shinzaemon he would see himself.

He’d be arriving soon, and Edwards too. She shivered. It was best not to try to imagine what would happen then.

Taki was clearing away Shinzaemon’s breakfast tray when there were footsteps outside. Sachi held her breath. Perhaps it was Daisuké . . . Then came the crunch of animal-skin boots approaching across the courtyard.

Edwards. A spasm of fear cut through her. She had been alone with him and had let him take her hand. Only he knew what had happened between them. Foreigners were so open, so easy to read. If he said a word or gave a hint of it, Shinzaemon . . .

Doors opened and closed, footsteps padded towards them. Sachi could hear Taki’s squeaky voice, telling Edwards that Shinzaemon was back.

The two young men hadn’t seen each other since they had travelled together along the Inner Mountain Road. Shinzaemon had been prickly and suspicious. Sachi had felt his eyes boring into her whenever she spoke to Edwards. As for Edwards, he must have worked out that Shinzaemon was far from a bodyguard, although he too had kept his distance.

She remembered turning to look back at Shinzaemon and Edwards before she and Taki had pushed open the Gate of the Shogun’s Ladies to go into the palace grounds. She could picture them still, on the far side of the bridge – the two giant foreigners and the brawny
ronin
with his bush of hair. But things had changed since then. Edwards had rescued them all on the hill and been kind to Tatsuemon. Shinzaemon was in his debt.

Now, when she looked at Edwards, she saw a human being, and not just a human being but a man. But to Shinzaemon he probably looked like a creature from another planet. As for Edwards, he might not even recognize Shinzaemon with his short hair.

The great hall seemed to shrink as Edwards came stomping in. As he strode through the shaft of sunlight that cut across the room, his straw-coloured hair shone like spun gold and Sachi caught a whiff of his exotic odour – meaty, pungent, smelling of foreign spices, animal hide and other unidentifiable smells. It gave her a feeling of doors opening, of wide open spaces, of fresh winds blowing and possibilities. When Edwards was around Sachi knew that there were other worlds, other ways of doing things.

She felt a pang of sadness to think that this link with the great wide world was now severed for her. And – though she hardly dared confess it to herself – she was sorry that she would no longer be able to see him. She could see now that when she had
enjoyed his company, it had been to console herself. She had been flattered by his attentions and touched by his romantic talk. She had thought Shinzaemon dead, but now he was back she knew her heart belonged to him.

Edwards looked startled to see Shinzaemon, but he quickly pulled himself together and bowed politely. Sachi looked at the two bowing heads. The youths were sun and moon, two sides of the same coin. One with yellow hair, one with black. The smooth diplomat and the rugged soldier. They were both part of worlds that women knew nothing of and were no doubt eager to talk men’s talk, to discuss politics and the war. But there was also an unspoken suspicion. Each would be wondering exactly what the relationship of the other was with these women. With Sachi.

‘So Tatsu . . .’ asked Edwards.

‘Thank you,’ said Shinzaemon. He was at his gruffest and most formal. ‘He is well. We were together. At Wakamatsu.’

He barked out the name with a spark in his eye, as if to make it clear that he knew very well which side the English supported.

Sachi was listening hard. She was dying to know what Shinzaemon had done, where he had been, everything that had happened since she had last seen him. She imagined tales of heroic exploits, of brave men fighting to the last, holding out against impossible odds. But his lips were pressed firmly together and she dared not ask.

‘Did you come back together?’ asked Edwards.

‘Tatsuemon rode north,’ said Shinzaemon. ‘To join the Tokugawa Navy. Maybe you heard – Admiral Enomoto commandeered the best Tokugawa warships and sailed for Ezo. He’s leading the resistance from there. After the castle fell a lot of men were heading over there to join up.’

Edwards nodded. ‘The war hasn’t been kind to the northerners,’ he said.

‘It isn’t over yet,’ Shinzaemon grunted.

‘But you came back,’ said Edwards pointedly. His tone was polite but there was a note of triumph in his voice, as if he’d spotted a crack in Shinzaemon’s armour. As if he couldn’t resist the chance to snipe.

Shinzaemon was no coward, Sachi knew that perfectly well.
There must have been a good reason why he had not ridden north with his comrades but had headed back to Edo instead. She knew that it wasn’t just to see her. Something had happened, something terrible.

Shinzaemon’s shoulder moved a fraction, although she doubted that Edwards even noticed. At another time, in another place, Shinzaemon would have been reaching for whatever weapon was to hand. Instead he made a mighty effort and sat immobile as a rock.

There was a voice in the entrance hall. Daisuké came breezing into the great hall as casually as if it was his own home, without bothering to wait to be announced. He looked big, happy, confident, handsome, a man who had achieved everything he could possibly dream of. There was only one thing missing to make his happiness complete: Sachi’s mother.

He stopped short when he saw Shinzaemon and Edwards and looked from one to the other, his heavy eyebrows rising. A frown of surprise flitted across his broad, smooth, slightly jowly face.

Sachi ran forward to greet him.

‘Father,’ she said, bowing.

Shinzaemon and Edwards were on their knees. Edwards introduced himself.

‘So you are with the British Legation,’ said Daisuké. ‘I know Satow-
dono
. He has been very generous to us. The English have been very generous in supporting our cause. I am indebted to you for your kindness to my family.’

He bowed deeply. He was all politeness. Edwards was a foreigner and a guest in their country. Nevertheless Daisuké looked at him sharply as if he was wondering what on earth he was doing there.

‘Shinzaemon of the Nakamura, domain of Kano,’ Shinzaemon said in his most formal voice. His big swordsman’s hands were pressed to the tatami, the tips of the forefingers touching, and his head with its thatch of bristly black hair was bowed. Sachi had never seen him so punctilious. She glanced at Daisuké. A foreigner was one thing – one had to treat foreigners with politeness and respect – but Shinzaemon was a
ronin
. It was written all over him. He was an outsider with no loyalties, no group, no one
to whom he was beholden. Daisuké would see that straight away.

‘The Nakamura of Kano . . .’ said Daisuké slowly. ‘The lord of Kano came over to the emperor’s side rather recently, if I remember rightly. There was some dissent within Kano, was there not, as to which way to go?’

‘I don’t know much about Kano politics,’ Shinzaemon said hastily. He obviously wanted to avoid being caught up in an awkward political discussion. ‘My father is a samurai of middle rank and a town magistrate. I was sent to Edo when I was young. I’ve spent most of my life here, in the various mansions of the Kano domain.’

Sachi looked at one, then the other. Both Daisuké and Shinzaemon had tossed aside their station in society. Daisuké had started life as a low-ranking artisan but was now a leading figure in the new government. Shinzaemon had rejected the privileges of his samurai status and abandoned his clan to follow his ideals. They had both shaken off the old hierarchical restrictions to make their own way through life. If only Daisuké could see how similar they were.

‘Shinzaemon took care of us on the road, Father,’ she said. ‘We travelled together. He is a great swordsman.’

‘He is like a brother to us,’ Taki added.

‘In that case I am in your debt,’ Daisuké said gravely to Shinzaemon. He looked at him hard. ‘We need to have a talk, young man. I need to know where you stand on things – whether you’re with us or against us.’

Shinzaemon nodded.

‘There’s so much of my daughter’s life I’ve missed,’ said Daisuké. ‘I’m happy to meet you young men who have been protectors to her.’

Sachi heaved a sigh of relief. For the time being at least there would be no confrontation. Taki lit long-stemmed pipes and handed them around. Haru ran to get tea. Shinzaemon and Edwards withdrew to the side of the room and smoked quietly.

‘There’s something important I have to tell you,’ Daisuké said. He was speaking to Sachi. ‘I believe it will make you happy. As soon as I got to Edo I went to the Mizuno mansion. It was your mother’s family home. I wanted to see the house where
she lived and smell the air she breathed. It was a ruin. The Mizunos were close allies of the Tokugawas and had fled. They must have been some of the first to go.

‘Ever since I found you I’ve had a dream that we could live there together, all of us. Now it seems it may be possible. The estates and palaces of the lords who were enemies of the state have been taken into state control.’

Sachi shifted uneasily. She knew very well that by ‘enemies of the state’ he meant loyal servants of the shogun. But she said nothing. It was not for her to argue.

‘They’re to be government offices or accommodation for government officials,’ Daisuké continued. ‘I’ve asked for the Mizuno estate.’

Sachi felt a chill run through her. She had always known her father had huge ambitions – but to think of taking the estate of a family like the Mizuno . . . Even if they were her relatives, it didn’t mean she was entitled to their property. She understood very well that the northern lords had fled, that officials of the new government were to be given their land. But nevertheless . . . It seemed inauspicious. Surely such an action would draw down bad luck on them all.

‘The Mizuno family weren’t particularly powerful,’ Daisuké continued, ‘and the estate is not particularly desirable or spacious. It’s about right for someone of my rank.’

Haru’s plump cheeks had turned pale at the mention of the Mizuno family.

‘There are too many ghosts there,’ she whispered. ‘Too many memories. But maybe . . . we could get to the root of what happened to my lady. Perhaps we could find her.’

‘It belongs to Lord Mizuno,’ said Sachi. ‘Surely we can’t just take his land.’

Lord Mizuno. As she said the name she saw him as if he was kneeling right in front of her. She had been hiding in the shadows behind the princess. Lord Oguri, with his bland courtier’s face, was speaking and Lord Mizuno raised his head. She saw the leathery dome of his shaved pate, the fierce eyes burning like coals, the nose like a hawk’s beak, the pockmarked skin, the thin cruel mouth. It made her shiver. He had had a tic, she remembered. He had left
his sword at the gate but his arm still kept jerking as if he was trying to wrench it out of its scabbard – as if he was expecting attack even in the women’s palace.

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