All the Tea in China (7 page)

I glanced up. Uncle Toby’s eyes were filled with sadness. Did he mourn my loss or his own?

“This belongs to you,” I said, handing him the letter. Half of the broken seal pulled away from the paper and dropped to the rug. When I bent to retrieve it, I saw it was the half with the top of the cross. I clutched it in my palm to dispose of later.

Uncle Toby peered at me. “It is for the best, Isabella,” he said again. “Do you understand that?”

I nodded woodenly, unable to speak. Perhaps later I would comprehend what he said, but at that moment only shock and disbelief were my companions. I had been so certain of Snowe’s answer, so certain of God’s call . . .

Uncle accepted my farewell, seeming to understand that I needed time alone. I contemplated seeking Signor Antonio. It would feel good to have a sword in my hand and an obstacle that I could face. Then I remembered that I would have any number of days to practice my fencing and decided instead on a long walk to think matters through.

“Where are you going?” Flora met me at the door.

“I need a walk. Phineas Snowe has refused my request.”

“Has he?” I could tell Flora was trying her best to keep the joy from her expression, but she was not wholly successful.

I headed for the rack and grabbed my pelisse. “I’ll go with you, Isabella,” Flora said, retrieving hers, as well.

“I need to be alone, please.”

Flora set her mouth. “Wounded heart or not, you cannot leave this house unattended. I pledge to walk beside you as quiet as a mouse.”

I could not help smiling in spite of myself. “A mouse who will try her best to give me counsel.”

Flora placed my bonnet on my head and tied the ribbon under my chin, as she had done when I was a girl. “You have always sought my advice,” she said calmly. “Would you cease now, even when you are in such haste to leave me forever?”

I thought about her words as we headed outside. We passed through the quad and Tom Tower, the college’s main entrance at St. Aldate’s Street. A light wind blew, and I wrapped my pelisse closer. Flora and I locked arms, and we headed down the street—toward what, I did not know. They had paved the streets at Oxford when I was a baby, and some said they were as fine as any of the best in London. Not that I traveled even so short a distance with great frequency!

Oxford is a university—and town—with unique architecture. Many of the buildings have spires that reach skyward, nay, toward the heaven of God himself. I longed to raise my arms in mutual supplication.
Why was I not chosen to
do your work?

As we walked together, silent, I thought long and hard. Flora had often called me impulsive, but my destiny, I was certain, lay in the Far East. Surely this was only a test of my resolve to answer God’s calling. Did he not challenge his children in the Bible? If I were to accomplish my task, however, I would have to evade Flora. She was loyal to a fault, but she would not, I feared, hesitate to alert Uncle Toby if she felt my plans endangered my life. I would have to strike a balance between telling the truth and withholding pertinent points of my plan. It was not exactly lying, I reasoned. Merely omitting some of what Flora might perceive to be an unpleasant truth.

“I do not want to leave you or Uncle Toby,” I said at last. I gestured at the buildings of the university as we passed. “But look around us, Flora. What are behind these walls but men striving to learn?”

“Is that not a noble cause?”

“For men, yes. For me, nothing. I believe God wants me to commit myself to a life of service.”

“Then why not here in Oxford? There are plenty in want of Christian charity. We saw them yesterday.”

“That is true, but I feel called to China. After looking at the Gospel According to St. Luke that Mr. Snowe gave me, I felt a peculiar kinship with the strange marks. I have already learned Greek and Hebrew and several other languages. I feel that I could conquer Chinese as well. Surely they need a woman’s touch in that heathen land.”

“Like Miss Whipple, the lady in Mr. Snowe’s group yesterday,” Flora allowed.

I nodded. “Yes! And when I inquired, she admitted that she does not speak Chinese. Miss Whipple stared at me as though such thought were folly.” I stopped short in the street. “God has given me a brain, Flora. I am certain that he wants me to use it. Did he not give me three instances of China—the slippers, the Gospel, and the tea?”

“The tea, I believe, was mere coincidence.”

“I do not believe it was. Nonetheless, I am determined. I must speak to Mr. Snowe myself.”

“If he still refuses your entreaty—”

“He won’t,” I said firmly. “I intend to meet him at dockside tomorrow.”

“Miss Isabella, no! That is no place for a young lady.”

“That is why you are going with me,” I said. “I knew that if you would not allow me on a walk by myself that you would certainly not allow me to speak to Mr. Snowe alone. Though heaven knows I should be perfectly safe from him,” I added, mostly to myself.

“You want
me
to go with you?”

“You said yourself that I could not go alone.”

Flora raised one eyebrow. “You are only going to talk to him?”

“I would go today, but I do not know where he is lodging. I am sure to find him at the docks tomorrow.”

Now it was Flora’s turn to stop dead in the street. “You know that there are no docks in Oxford. He is leaving from London. No doubt he is already there.”

“Then we must take a coach.”

“A coach?” Flora recoiled in horror. “Two women alone?”

“It has been done before,” I said mildly. “Really, Flora. What do you fear? I hardly think we need worry about highwaymen.”

“But . . . but . . .”

I raised my eyebrows. “Yes?”

“But Mr. Fitzwater . . . what will he say?”

“He will know nothing about this,” I said firmly. “We will go to London, speak to Mr. Snowe . . .” I fell silent.

“And then what?”

“And then perhaps he will see that I am in earnest,” I said, trying to sound as positive as possible. I prayed that Flora would not be quick enough to speculate what might happen next, because I did not want to imagine hearing a negative answer from Snowe. Surely my perseverance would please not only him but God, who had called me to a life of mission work.

“How will we get to London?”

“Mail coach, I should think.” I breathed an inward sigh of relief. Flora would follow me anywhere. Indeed, I could not live without her companionship. She was old enough to have been a very young mother to me, but she had always been much more.

“It would be the fastest,” Flora said, thinking aloud. “No stopping to pay tolls along the road.”

“Then it is settled. We must go home and pack some clothes.”

“And tell your uncle.”

“No!” I lowered my voice, aware that we had gathered onlookers. “He would not let us go, Flora. Once we are in London, we will send word that we are well.”

“Or more likely, we shall simply return, errant, and be chastised.”

“Perhaps,” I said, but I knew that Flora was wrong. She had to be.

I packed a few things but was not overly concerned about weighting myself with possessions, including too much money. I took what few coins I had in my possession, but I wanted to rely on God to meet all of my needs. After all, I would start a new life in China. I did take the Gospel According to St. Luke, knowing that it would be useful in that foreign land.

I glanced around the room where I had grown up—my neatly made four-poster bed, the gently worn Aubusson carpet, my writing desk, the cases of my neatly arranged, beloved books . . . My heart seemed to expand then constrict. I could not imagine living anywhere else but here, but I would meet this challenge with determination, just as I had successfully studied fencing so diligently all these years.

The one possession I almost could not bear to leave was my sword. Signor Antonio had purchased it for me years ago, a sword forged by the finest craftsmen in Toledo. A fencer’s skill is determined not only by talent but also by the capability of his weapon. I daresay mine was one of the finest in England. Yet by leaving it, I acknowledged that I intended to abandon selfish desire and anything short of my calling. So be it.

I penned a note to Uncle Toby, explaining my situation. I asked his forgiveness for leaving so abruptly and begged him to pursue the academic studies and travel he had once hoped to undertake. He should consider me as a newly married woman now, for though I had no husband or family, I was determined to wed myself to helping others.

I left the note on my bed, knowing that I would not be missed until after dinner. Uncle Toby would be teaching students all day, and he knew Flora would take care of me when needed. Yet I did not like to think of the look on his face when he learned I had left . . .

Flora and I carried our bundles to the Angel, an inn from which coaches left during the day. Oxford was quite the traveling town, a stop between many routes—London, naturally, a primary destination or origination.

“Maybe we should look for Mr. Snowe,” Flora said. “If we are lucky enough to spot him, it will save us a trip to London.”

She spoke a certain amount of logic, so we proceeded inside the inn. When I was finally able to secure someone’s attention, I inquired whether they had seen Snowe. His was an easy description to relay, but unfortunately, no one had seen him. I was not surprised. There were so many coaches going in and out of Oxford that there were several stops. Perhaps he had even left the day before . . .

We secured our seats in the mail coach. Only four people were allowed to sit inside, even though the seats were abominably small. It was unladylike of me, but I had to elbow a rather ghastly man of corpulent stature to gain seats for Flora and me. I could not imagine that someone would refuse to give up a seat for ladies, but there is no accounting for manners—or lack thereof. Unfortunately, Mr. Corpulent was forced to sit atop the coach, and as we drove off at breakneck speed, I prayed that we would not topple over.

I had no illusions that the drivers or the guard would accommodate passengers. We were secondary to the mail and only allowed to ride with it, Uncle Toby had told me long ago, to help allay the expense of its travel. Passengers on their maiden ride might believe that the nattily scarlet-clothed guard was there for their protection, but I knew better. His presence was strictly to oversee the mail safely stowed in the boot underneath his post at the rear of the coach. He carried a yard-long tin horn to signal innkeepers of the mail’s arrival, as well as to call passengers back to the coach and blow at the toll keepers, who rushed to open the gates.

By the time we reached London some six hours later, I was quite pleased to be rid of the whole traveling arrangement. I thought I might never rid myself of the seemingly constant blare of that tin horn, nor the guard’s continual hastening and corralling of us passengers from each stop back to our seats. The ride itself was no bargain either. Flora and I both felt as jostled as potatoes in a poor man’s sack. I believe Mr. Corpulent fared poorly during his ride atop the stage. His fingers seemed curled into a permanent state from clinging to his seat.

When we had collected our baggage, we found ourselves at loose ends. Flora, of course, had been to London as often as I, yet she could not stop gawking at the ladies who passed us by.

“Look at that darling shawl,” she said. “And the stitching on the hem of that skirt. Why, I could accomplish that with a little work, as well.”

“Flora, we are not here to study the latest fashion,” I reminded her. “We must find our way to the docks. It would be dreadful if we missed Mr. Snowe.”

After much inquiry, we found another coach, this one public, to take us to the East India Docks. It seemed no time at all before we were on the main street outside the entrance to the docks. We watched in awe as carts conveyed loads and loads of spices and tea up the Commercial Road.

“Where are they headed?” Flora said.

“The East India Company has warehouses in the City,” I said. “I believe they sell their wares at auction there.”

Flora gripped my arm and pressed so close to the coach window that I half feared she would hang her head outside like a hunting dog spying its prey. “Look,” she said, her eyes wide.

The street was thronged with vendors, sailors, and people of both dubious and reputable natures. I could not imagine that such sights should provoke her curiosity. “What is it?”

“There,” she whispered, pointing beyond the dock walls.

“Where? I don’t—”

Then I saw where she gestured, above the dock walls, for I, too, could see the masts of many ships. The thought that they conveyed people and cargo beyond our native soil made my flesh tingle. Oh, adventure! Surely it was meant to be mine at last.

When the carriage arrived, we scrambled to disembark, find our luggage, and avoid the crowds that pressed against us, milling to and fro with much more purpose than we seemed to possess. We spent much time gawking until we had the presence of mind to begin inquiries as to the location of Phineas Snowe’s ship.

A kind sailor tipped an imaginary cap. “Sorry, miss, but this here are the West India docks. Ships headed to India. You must be wanting the East India docks, where the East Indiamen sail to China.”

“Yes, of course,” I answered stupidly, grateful that the pleasant worker pointed out the direction where we should be. Normally, the distance—a good half mile, I estimated—might have necessitated that we find another means of conveyance. Our prospects did not look good, so—grateful that we had brought only one bag each— Flora and I hefted our baggage and walked. By the time we had passed between the proper dock walls, Flora was panting with exertion. Sailors and dockhands and even the occasional well-dressed man of commerce jostled us without thought.

I pulled Flora to the side of a vendor hawking food to the workers. She clutched her chest, and I worried that her heart was amiss. I searched her face. “Are you all right?”

“I just . . . need to . . . catch my breath.”

“Poor Flora.” I smiled. “I forget that you are unaccustomed to such exertion.”