White Tigress (4 page)

He bowed his head, accepting his fate. "I cannot get a loan, Shi Po. Any moneylender would expect collateral, and I have only two things to offer—the Cheng store and the Cheng home." He straightened his spine. "I will not risk my family's home or livelihood."

Shi Po sighed as if she had expected such an answer. Then she continued speaking, her voice low and relentless.

"Your life is already at risk, Ru Shan, and your family home is the least of it. Do you discount the torments you suffer now? Do not think they will abate. Having once known the peace of the Tao, you will find eternal torment with the unenlightened. Your mind will never be at peace, your bed will never offer you a single night's rest. You will walk endlessly in the dark, lost and alone, for I cannot help you in this. Our time together will be over."

He shuddered with a violence that frightened him. He knew what was happening. What part of him remained in the Tao was revolted by her words, terrified enough to want to shake the very idea from his body. But he could not. Shi Po's words remained, their horror as pervasive as their truth. And so he spoke, barely even realizing what he was saying.

"I cannot continue as I have been. I shall go mad within the month. Already my body is growing weak." He held out his hands to her, revealing the latest of his shames. His hands trembled like an old man's, the unrest of his spirit fully revealed in his rapidly aging body. "I must find my way back to the Tao."

"Then you must buy the white girl. You must establish her in an apartment close enough to see her every day. You must partake of her essence every moment that you can." Shi Po stepped even closer, pressing her point. "And as her water flows into you, your family's fortunes will recover and your pathway back to the Tao will be revealed." She lowered her voice into a seductive murmur. "Your mind will find peace, your body rest. You will return to the middle path with new energy, and as her yin mixes with your yang, the spiritual embryo will be born. You will become an Immortal. You can, Ru Shan, if only you will do what is necessary."

He nearly wept at the picture she created, the dream for which he yearned during every sleepless night, after every intemperate act. "But how will I find the money?"

She bowed her head, slowly and gracefully lifting the veil that obscured her face. And as she did, he saw on her cheek the tear she shed for his sake. It glistened there, her yin essence glittering even in the dim light. In a rare act of generosity, she lifted that drop from her cheek and carried it to his lips, giving it to him. He drank greedily, silently wishing for more. An ocean more. An entire woman's worth more, to cool the yang fire that constantly burned him.

She pressed her lips to his ear, giving him another gift: the means to accomplish his task.

"My husband will loan you what you need."

From the letters of Mei Lan Cheng

20 May, 1857

Dearest Li Hua—

What an amazing day! First wife to Cheng Sheng Fu!

Did you see him at the wedding? Is he not handsome and strong? I know his father picked me because of my embroidery designs. Father says they have a small shop in Shanghai. They want me to design the decoration on their clothing. "Sheng Fu " means "rising wealth." Father says my skills will make his name true.

But I do not care why we are wed, only that I am. First wife! I can barely breathe with all the excitement.

I must go now. He is coming. This
...
tonight. I am so scared. But Li Hua, I will endure anything today. Because I am a first wife!

—Mei Lan

Half an orange tastes as sweet as a whole one.

—Traditional Chinese proverb

~

Chapter 2

Lydia felt absolutely wretched. Her head ached. Her lips felt parched. But mostly she just wanted the entire world—including her aching body—to go away. Unfortunately, she had other matters to attend to first. Like using the necessary.

Now.

She never would have made it by herself. She barely managed to put her feet over the edge of her bed when a groan escaped her raw throat. Then a miracle happened. A maid appeared at her side, silently assisting her to just where she wanted to go.

It wasn't until after she was done, sitting back on the bed with a glass of water gently being held to her lips, that Lydia realized the maid was actually a boy. A young man, really. Chinese. With a bland face and a long queue of black hair that fell halfway down his back.

She would have choked on the water if she hadn't already drained the glass. As it was, she simply stared at him, a dull rush of embarrassment flowing through her entire barely clad body. Unfortunately, right behind it came a full wave of dizziness and even a bit of nausea.

Not good. Not good at all.

And while she was struggling with that, other disconnected thoughts whirled through her foggy mind. What was she wearing? A coarse white nightshirt. That wasn't hers, was it? Where were her clothes? Was she on the boat?

There was something else as well. Something different about her body. But what? She couldn't quite focus her mind on the question. On much of anything. Yet she still found the strength to look at the young man directly and to croak out a question.

"Where am I?"

He didn't respond, merely urged her to lie back in bed. Some small part of her brain registered tiny details of her environment. She lay in a simple bed, well padded and rather large. The room was sparse as well. There was one window, very high up, with decorative lattices over the opening, an ornately decorated screen, and behind that the privy. But where was...

"Max," she croaked. "Where's Maxwell?"

Again, the Chinese man didn't answer, and before long she discovered she was lying back on the bed, her head gently supported by a silk-covered pillow. Truly, it was quite nice to lie here and simply let her cares float away.

She might have done just that if it hadn't been for a flash of memory. Or of nightmare. Or something. She remembered a sickly sweet taste and a dark room with... shackles?

"No!" She struggled upright. She needed to escape. She needed to find Max. She needed...

"Safe."

She blinked. She had heard a word in English. From the young man.

Blearily, she focused on him as he pushed her firmly back on the bed.

"You safe," he said clearly. Slowly.

She nodded, understanding his words, her fear beginning to abate. Why she trusted him, she didn't know. But she certainly didn't seem in danger now. And she was so very, very tired.

"Max?"

"Well. You are well."

No,
she began, but her mouth would not form the word.

She slept.

* * *

She woke quickly the next time, the nightmare fading, only to be replaced by a dreamy reality as confusing as the first. The young Chinese man was at her side again, feeding her something she now realized was not water at all, but weak tea with a tangy flavor. She'd thought it quite strange at first, but now she was beginning to like it.

As always, he assisted her to the necessary, waiting politely on the other side of the screen while she accomplished her business. He laid out a change of clothes for her—another plain white nightshirt—and never spoke except to assure her she was safe.

As she stared at the boy, for she guessed him to be about seventeen years old, questions began to form in her mind. Where was she? She was obviously on land, likely Shanghai. She had unfortunately begun to remember the other house—the one that the captain had taken her to, claiming it was Maxwell's. Well, if that was Maxwell's home, then she was a purple toad.

But how had she escaped that terrible place and come here? Who was paying for this home and the Chinese servant? And who had... performed the change in her body?

That was another thing she had figured out. What before had felt a nameless difference, she now saw in the stark light of day. She was completely shaved. Totally hairless. Not the hair on top of her head, for that remained neatly braided in a long queue down her back. It was all her other hair—from her legs, her arms, and her... From
everywhere.

But who had...? And how? Not this boy. He couldn't—

She didn't know what to make of the situation, and she certainly couldn't ask, even if she thought the man understood English. Her only option was to wait and see. It was probably some traditional Chinese medicine or some such nonsense. One never knew what bizarre customs a primitive culture might have. She didn't have to think beyond that.

But where was she? And how had she gotten here? If she had to guess—and that was all she could do—she figured somehow Maxwell had discovered where she was and rescued her. This little apartment was her new home until she was well enough to speak her vows. Maxwell was always one for observing proprieties.

Yet she couldn't understand why he absented himself so much. Likely some business deal had stolen him away. He had written that he'd saved enough money to buy property, that he was merely looking for the right investment. He would come to her soon enough, bringing roses and an engagement ring. Something large and beautiful to replace the one that had been stolen from her.

So Lydia schooled herself to patience as the Chinese man brought her a thick soup. In truth, she felt much better, and so she smiled brilliantly at him.

"Thank you. Good food."

He nodded. "Good food. Yes."

"You may tell Maxwell I am well enough to see him now. He can come any day."

"You are well, yes."

Lydia sighed. You'd think a man as meticulous as her fiancé could have found a servant who spoke some English. But perhaps they were in short supply, she reasoned. She would have to learn the language eventually. She might as well start now.

But when she tried to converse with the boy, he merely smiled his bland smile and bowed himself out of the room. So much for learning a new language today. Instead, she had to content herself with looking at the decor, sparse as it was, and wondering at the other strange sensations in her body.

First off, her belly seemed to be rumbling quite a bit. Embarrassing, often painful sounds kept emanating from her lower region. It felt like a tiny cauldron was burbling and gurgling away down there. That alone would be bad enough, but whatever was happening gave her the most awful flatulence. It was just as well that Maxwell wasn't around, she told herself firmly. He definitely preferred refined women, and such a noisy body would not appeal to him.

Though she doubted he would mind, of course. He loved her. She simply wanted to appear her best before him. And farting loudly was not at all appropriate when seeing one's fiancé for the first time in nearly three years.

If only he'd thought to give her a book to read or something else to do. Some clothes, perhaps, beyond this basic nightshirt. Even the window was designed for ventilation, not viewing. It was much too high to look out of unless she had a chair to stand on, which she did not. Nor did she have a sketchbook or her charcoals. Or a journal. Not even some stitching.