The Palace of Heavenly Pleasure (103 page)

Henry tried to imagine the hardships they had undergone. Douglas Pritchett had told him something of what they had been through. He had a vision of Helen Frances, in hungry, pregnant state, staggering through the mountains and deserts. It was too painful to contemplate. Again, he closed his eyes. When he opened them, he saw the composed young woman who had once, unbelievably, been his lover, raise a teacup elegantly to her lips. He marvelled, awed by her poise, sensing the strength and courage that lay within her.

It was gradual, like the coming of night, but he became aware of his own unworthiness in comparison; and deep inside him he felt the fires of hope, which had impelled him to come here, begin to fade.

A terrible paralysis overcame him. The coward in him told him to slip away, to avoid the confrontation, but something fixed him to the spot. Like moths to a consuming fire, Henry's burning eyes were drawn to Helen Frances's beauty, yet it did not inflame him; instead, he felt a numbing chill in his veins. The more intensely he looked, the more inaccessible she seemed to become. He peered through the aspidistras in a sort of creeping terror. He felt like a drowning man sinking into fathomless depths, the light of everything for which he yearned fading in a murk of despair and self-contempt. The room captain, an imposing Chinese in a black gown, approached him to ask whether he wanted a table, but there was something in Henry's expression that obviously made him think better of it and, muttering an apology, he backed away.

As he watched, the party at the table made their preparations to move. Mr Dawson signed the chitty. Mrs Dawson leaned her face forward to be pecked. In a rustle of silk and platitude, they said their goodbyes. Henry backed deeper into the pot plants and they did not see him when, like two proud frigates, they passed him imperiously by. He remained hidden when the Airtons followed, Nellie and Helen Frances supporting the doctor by his arms.

She was passing only a few feet away from him. He could see the mole on her neck. He could even smell her scent. He felt an overpowering desire to throw himself forward, to embrace her and kiss her, or to prostrate himself at her feet begging her forgiveness—but he held back, hardly daring to breathe, his frantic eyes following her as she moved with the doctor towards the staircase. He heard her speak, that husky voice he remembered: ‘I'm sure you'll be fine in the morning, Doctor. It can only be a chill.' He wanted to cry out after her, but he remained frozen where he was. In despair he saw the green hem of her dress sliding up the stairs. In a moment she would turn the corner and disappear.

It might have been only the habit of action—or, more likely a last stirring of pride, the inability of the gambler not to make one last throw—but whatever it was it impelled him forward. He leaned on his stick in the centre of the hall, staring after her wildly. Almost involuntarily he found himself calling out her name: ‘Miss Delamere. Helen Frances.' His voice sounded unnaturally loud.

The trio on the staircase turned. The doctor's eyes widened in shock, and he slumped backwards, emitting what sounded like a whimper of fear. Nellie was quick to catch him, a severe expression on her face as she glanced down at Henry. Helen Frances let go of the doctor completely. She stood rigidly on the steps, her hands hanging by her side, frowning as she stared directly into Henry's imploring face. Her lips twitched as if she was about to say something. Her breast seemed to heave—then she hurriedly picked up her skirt, and turned back to the doctor. Taking him by the arm again she helped Nellie bring him to his feet, and in a moment they had all disappeared round the corner of the stairs.

Henry slumped against a pillar, the strength draining from his limbs.

‘Mr Manners?' It was a questioning voice in a light Scottish brogue.

As if ascending from a well, he managed to focus, and saw Nellie looking at him with concern. She took him by the arm, steadying him. ‘Oh dear, I fear you're not well,' she said. ‘I'm sorry if we appeared rude just now, but my husband was not expecting to … Mr Manners, we have so much to discuss. Will you not have a cup of tea with me, for old time's sake?'

Like a patient under sedation he followed her into the tearoom, and sat where she told him to, in a leather armchair. Nellie ordered a pot of tea from the hovering waiter, before turning her clear eyes to face him directly. ‘Mr Manners,' she said, ‘I cannot tell you how thankful I am to see that you are alive and well. A man from the Legation, Mr Pritchett, came to see us this morning, and he told us a little—well, quite a lot, actually, more than he should have done perhaps—about the heroic, and … and patriotic work you were doing in Shishan. Do not worry. None of us will ever breathe a word about it to a soul—but I have to thank you, on behalf of all of us, for the sacrifices you have made on our behalf and for, well, saving our lives—'

She was interrupted by the waiter bringing the tea. By the time he left and the cups were poured, Nellie had become embarrassed, though Henry had said nothing.

‘There I go,' she said, ‘pouring it all out in a rush. You probably think I prepared this speech long beforehand. Well, I didn't, but I mean it sincerely. We owe you our lives, Mr Manners.' She paused, her expression a little agitated, but she forced herself to continue. Behind her, the violinist launched into a merry polka. Raising her voice only a fraction, she persevered: ‘We also owe you something else, Mr Manners, though it shames me to say it. We owe you an apology. We—we misunderstood your motives, and then when you were wounded—on our behalf—my husb—we … we left you for dead.' Her voice cracked slightly on the last word, but she quickly controlled herself. ‘It was a crime that will haunt us for the rest of our lives. We will have to live with that guilt, Mr Manners. Yes, it was unpardonable. I—I understand why at first you avoided us just now at the entrance to this tearoom … I saw you among the aspidistras—but even if you never choose to speak to any of us again, I would like you to hear just once how truly, truly sorry we are, and if, if you can ever find it in your heart to forgive…'

She stopped in astonishment, her cheeks flushed in confusion. Henry Manners had leaned back in the armchair and was laughing. ‘I'm—I'm sorry, Mrs Airton,' Henry recovered himself, catching his breath. ‘But—excuse me—it's just very, very funny. Ironic, really. You see…' There was a bitter look in his eyes. ‘Don't you see? The reason I came here today was to ask for your forgiveness, for handling things so—so very badly.'

The polka finished and there was a polite round of clapping.

Nellie's face was still flushed. ‘I—I'm not sure I understand you, Mr Manners.'

‘Oh, Mrs Airton…' Henry took a deep breath. A waiter passed. Henry caught his arm and told him to bring him a brandy, a double brandy, and be quick about it. ‘I'm sorry,' he muttered. ‘I need something stronger than Darjeeling if I am to say this. I lack your inner strength,' he added, a trace of his old sarcasm returning to his voice.

Nellie stared at him in some perplexity.

‘Before you honour me with any more apologies,' he continued, ‘it might be better if you knew the end of my grubby little story.'

‘Mr Manners, I—'

‘Indulge me. I'm sure you've heard how we managed to get the train going again. You should have stayed with us, by the way. It would have spared you the terrible trials you underwent in the wilderness…' He raised his hand to stop Nellie interjecting. ‘No, don't apologise again. You did what you thought was best in the circumstances. I understand—believe me, I do. I don't blame you, or Dr Airton. You had the children and Helen Frances to think about, and I looked done for. I
was
done for. You have nothing with which to reproach yourselves. Anyway, I deserved it.

‘No, please don't interrupt, let me have my say. Your people talk about miracles. You might say it was a miracle that saved me. No, not one of your divine kinds of miracle. A very human miracle, consisting of courage, generosity, resourcefulness, and sheer grit on the part of two rather unlikely Chinese—Lao Zhao the muleteer and Fan Yimei the prostitute—who bound me up and somehow, God knows how, drove the train to safety.'

‘A miracle can be a miracle for all that the agent is a human one,' murmured Nellie.

Henry's hard eyes rested momentarily on her face. ‘You may be right at that,' he said. ‘Anyway, I survived, though I shouldn't have. I didn't deserve to after everything I had done in Shishan. I hadn't really thought about it up to then. Those last few weeks in Shishan I'd been too busy being practical.' He repeated the word bitterly. ‘Practical.'

‘You were practical, Mr Manners. You were faced with some terrible decisions, but you did what had to be done to save our lives.' Nellie spoke gently.

‘Oh, yes, I did what had to be done all right.' Henry laughed, draining the brandy that had been brought to him. ‘Didn't I just? But you do have a rather overblown estimate of my character if you think I was there nobly saving lives. Didn't you say that Pritchett had told you? I was doing my bit for the greater glory of the British Empire, Mrs Airton.'

‘Your duty, Mr Manners, you did your duty.'

‘My duty! I should drink to that. Boy, bring me another brandy. Yes, Mrs Airton, my duty. I thought a lot about my duty as I bounced on that coal tender, and lay strapped up in the bed of the military hospital afterwards. And it had a comforting ring. It certainly did. All those people killed—I didn't save everyone, did I, Mrs Airton? At that time I thought you and Helen Frances were dead as well. Failed there as well. Never mind. As you say, I'd done my duty. The guns were safe, and so was the gold. I could comfort myself that Her Majesty's Government would be proud of me.'

‘This cynicism doesn't become you, Mr Manners.' She had to speak loudly above the polonaise.

‘Ah,' said Henry, sipping his brandy. ‘So Pritchett didn't tell you about the thirty pieces of silver I got for my pains, then? Well, he wouldn't, would he? That's top, top secret. Belongs in the cupboard with all of the rest of the Queen's dirty underwear.'

‘Mr Manners!'

‘Forgive me, Mrs Airton. I've become unused to polite company. Please forgive me. Sometimes my passion gets the better of me.'

‘I still do not see why you are reproaching yourself. Terrible, terrible things happened—but you were not to blame.'

‘Well, that's very generous of you to say so. I, on the other hand, think that I should have handled things much better. All those innocents executed. The nun. The Millwards. Tom. What happened to Helen Frances—oh, God, what happened to Helen Frances … I should never have … never have…'

‘You're not God, Mr Manners,' said Nellie, reaching for his hand, but he pulled it away violently.

‘On the contrary, Mrs Airton,' said Henry, in the quiet after the polonaise, ‘I believe that I sold my soul to the Devil.'

‘You poor, poor man,' breathed Nellie, and, slightly flustered, drank down her tea, which had gone cold on the table.

‘You know, when I left the hospital,' continued Henry quietly, ‘I became a madman. Yes, I think quite truly that I was mad. All I wanted was vengeance, to hit back. I should have allowed myself time to recuperate, but I didn't. I didn't mind the pain of my wound, which hadn't properly healed. Some other power was driving me. The Allied forces were marching on Peking then. God knows why they waited so long in Tientsin, but I was glad because I had my opportunity for revenge. I joined a company of scouts—well, free-enterprise marauders, to be more exact. We rode ahead of the troops and we killed, Mrs Airton, that's what we did, we killed. Probably quite indiscriminately, although we justified it at the time.'

‘Mr Manners, you don't have to tell me this,' said Nellie.

‘No, it wasn't very nice, and don't think I'm proud of myself. I'll spare you the details, except one. Every Boxer, every Chinese who came into my sights, or was pitted on the point of my sabre, had the same face. Do you know whose it was? It was Major Lin's, Mrs Airton.'

‘That's horrific,' muttered Nellie, a chill running down her spine.

‘Do you know? Even after the Legations were relieved I saw him, every time I went out. He was the beggar on the street corner. He was the merchant in a shop. He would have been that waiter over there,' he said.

Nellie gazed at him in alarm.

‘I told you I was mad—or half mad. It didn't stop after we ended the siege. I came over the city walls with the American marines. There was quite a bit of fighting still to do. Yes, quite a lot more blood was spilled after that. Then I looted. I had some companions who were quite as mad as I was—and we were thorough, Mrs Airton, but you must understand that I was not interested in the loot. I wanted to destroy. I took a delight in the fear I saw on people's faces, Major Lin's face.'

‘You poor, pathetic man,' said Nellie. ‘Please don't go on.'

It was as if Manners had not heard her. ‘One day, in one of the back
hutongs,
we burned a merchant's house. For no good reason, really. My companions were irritated because they hadn't found any gold or jade there. The merchant had been clever and hidden it, I suppose. Or he never had any. Anyway, we burned his house. I did my bit. We'd retired to the street, and were watching the flames through the mansion gate. We thought we'd cleared everyone out. We weren't murdering at that time, you see, although we did do other things. Yes, we did many other things … Anyway, I was surprised to see a little girl come running out of one of the buildings, screaming in pain because her robe had caught fire. I don't for the life of me know why I did it, but I ran in and snuffed out the flames on her back with my jacket. It was as I was carrying her out—she was scared, but not badly hurt—that the burning gatehouse collapsed on me. The child was all right, but I—well, as you see, I've lost the use of this leg. Serves me right, I suppose you'll say. A few days after that, Pritchett called me into the Legation, paid me my thirty pieces of silver, and told me that my services would no longer be required. I've kept to myself since then. I don't believe I'm mad any more. It's rather worse, actually. I don't think I really like the prospect of going on living. Call it remorse, if you like. You missionary types should be quite pleased. Seems I've belatedly discovered a conscience. A rather full one, as it happens.'