Fortune is a Woman

Published by Dell Publishing a division of Bantam Doubleday

Dell Publishing Group, Inc.

666 Fifth Avenue

New York, New York 10103

Copyright © 1992 by Elizabeth Adler

ISBN: 0-440-21146-8

Printed in the United States of America

For my lovely Mom, the one and only Annie Louisa

"Fortune is a woman, and it is necessary, if you wish to master her, to conquer her by force."

—Niccolo Machiavelli,
The Prince,
1513

PROLOGUE

1937

When Lysandra's grandfather, the Mandarin Lai Tsin, knew he had very little time left on this earth, he took her to visit Hong Kong. He was seventy years old, or maybe more, small and thin and very dignified with parchment skin, high cheekbones, and lacquer-black, almond-shaped eyes. Lysandra was seven, her golden hair spiraled past her shoulders in a thousand energetic curls. She had round, sapphire eyes and a delicate creamy complexion, but she didn't think it strange that she belonged to him. He was Grandfather and she was Lysandra, it was as simple as that.

The journey from San Francisco took six days by flying boat with overnight stops at grand hotels in different cities en route and in that time he talked to her about his business and about China while Lysandra listened interestedly.

"I am an old man," he said as the flying boat lifted sluggishly from Manila Bay on the last leg of its journey. "I shall not have the honor of knowing you on your long journey through life into womanhood. I am giving you everything you could wish for on this earth—riches, power, and success—in the hope that your life will be blessed with happiness. I have told you everything, Lysandra, with the exception of one Truth. This Truth is my secret. This Truth is written down and locked away in my private safe in my office in Hong Kong. Only if despair overtakes you and your path in life seems unclear must you read it. And if that day should come, Granddaughter, then I pray you will forgive me and that my Truth will help you choose the right road to happiness."

Lysandra nodded wonderingly; sometimes the Mandarin was very confusing, but she loved him so much that "truths" didn't seem nearly as important as the fact that he had chosen her as his companion.

When they arrived in Hong Kong they drove immediately to the white, treasure-filled mansion overlooking Repulse Bay, where many soft-footed Chinese servants met them, exclaiming at the extraordinary blond hair and blue eyes of the child and the frailty of the old man.

After they had refreshed themselves with baths and food, the Mandarin called for his automobile, a long, elegant, jade-green Rolls-Royce, and drove with Lysandra to the Lai Tsin headquarters, a towering pillared building spanning the block between Queens and Des Voeux roads.

Taking the child by the hand, the Mandarin showed her the bronze lions flanking the entrance, the magnificent reception hall with the walls and floors paved in different colored marbles, the tall columns in his favorite malachite, the jade sculptures, the mosaics, and the carvings. Then he walked with her to each office, introducing her to every member of the staff from the lowliest cleaner to the highest taipan in the powerful Lai Tsin empire. Lysandra bowed respectfully to each one, saying nothing and listening carefully, as she had been instructed by her grandfather.

At the end of the day her eyes were blank with fatigue, but all was not yet finished. Ignoring his chauffeur the Mandarin summoned a rickshaw, and followed slowly by the elegant automobile, they jolted through the busy streets. The rickshaw man wound his way expertly through a labyrinth of narrow alleys to a seedy waterfront area, leaving the chauffeur and the car stranded far behind. Finally, after what seemed an eternity to the tired Lysandra, he stopped in front of a faded wooden shack roofed in corrugated tin. She looked questioningly at her grandfather as he stepped from the rickshaw and held out his hand to her.

"Come, Little Granddaughter," he said calmly. "This is what I have brought you all this way to see. This is where the Lai Tsin fortune began."

She held his hand tightly as he walked to the scarred wooden door, noticing that though it seemed flimsy, it was held by thick metal hinges and fastened with strong locks. The structure had been shored up with bricks and repaired with newer wood and there were spiked metal grilles across the small, high-set windows.

"Only fire could destroy the Lai Tsin godown," the Mandarin said, his soft voice full of confidence, "and that will never happen." Lysandra knew he believed the old warehouse would never burn because the fortune-teller, whom he consulted every week, had told him long ago that though there would be fire, nothing of his would ever be harmed again.

The Mandarin rapped twice on the wooden door. After a few seconds there was the sound of strong bolts being drawn and the door was pulled slowly back. A smiling Chinese man of about forty years bowed low as he bid them enter.

"Honorable Father, please enter with Little Granddaughter," he said in Chinese. The Mandarin's face lit with a smile as he embraced the man, then they stood back and looked searchingly at each other.

"It's good to see you," the Mandarin said, but from the sadness in his eyes they both knew it would be for the last time. "This is my son, Philip Chen," he told Lysandra. "I call him my son because he came into our household when he was even younger than you. He was an orphan and still young and unformed and he became like my own child. Now he is my comprador. He takes care of all the Lai Tsin business here in Hong Kong and he is the only man in the world I trust."

Lysandra's blue eyes widened and she stared interestedly back at the man as the Mandarin took her hand and walked with her through the long, narrow warehouse. Its shelves were dusty and empty, lit by a single naked light bulb swinging gently on the end of a long flex. Lysandra peered nervously into the shadowy corners, jumping back suddenly as her eyes met another's; but it wasn't the rat or fierce dragon she had been expecting, it was a young Chinese boy.

Philip Chen said proudly, "Sir, may I have the honor to present my son, Robert."

The boy bowed low as the old man inspected him.

"When I last saw you, you were three years old," the Mandarin said quietly, "and now you are ten—almost a young man. Your eyes are steady and your brow is broad. You will do well to inherit the trust we place in your father."

Lysandra stared curiously at him: he was small and stockily built with strongly muscled arms and legs and he was dressed Western-style in cream twill shorts, a white shirt, and a gray blazer with a school crest on it. As the Mandarin turned away, the boy's curious eyes, half-hidden behind round wire spectacles, met hers for a long moment. Then he bowed formally and turned to follow his father and the Mandarin to the door.

"I was hoping to entertain you at my home," Philip said sadly, "but you are so tired."

"To see you for these few moments was enough," Lai Tsin replied as Philip's head rested for a moment against his shoulder in a farewell embrace. "So that I could thank you for being my good son. And to ask you to guard the Lai Tsin family and their businesses the way you have always done, even though I will not be here."

"You have my word, Honorable Father." Philip stepped back, his face stern with the strain of holding back his emotion.

"Then I can die in peace," the Mandarin replied quietly, and taking Lysandra's hand he walked slowly to the waiting rickshaw.

As they rode down the narrow street he commanded her to look back at the old wooden godown. "We must never forget our humble beginnings," he told her softly. "If we forget, we may believe we are too clever, or too rich, or too important. And that would bring bad joss, bad luck to the family."

A small treasure trove of gifts from the Mandarin's many business associates awaited Lysandra back at the mansion on Repulse Bay. As she opened the packages, exclaiming with delight over perfect pearl necklaces and exquisitely carved jade figurines, silken robes and painted fans, he cautioned her again. "Remember, the gifts are not because these people are your friends, but because you are a Lai Tsin."

Many years later Lysandra had cause to remember his words.

***

At the end, when the Mandarin lay dying on a cool October day in San Francisco, only Francie, the beautiful Western woman known as his concubine, was allowed at his bedside. She bathed his fevered brow with cool cloths, held his hand and whispered words of comfort. He opened his eyes and gazed at her tenderly.

"You know what to do?" he whispered.

She nodded. "I know."

A look of peace crossed his face and then he was gone.

The Mandarin Lai Tsin's bones were not sent back to China to be buried with his ancestors, as was the custom. Instead, Francie hired a splendid white yacht, and decked it with festive red bunting, and, accompanied only by Lysandra and wearing beautiful white mourning clothes, she scattered his ashes far across San Francisco Bay.

It was what the Mandarin had wished.

PART I: Francie and Annie

CHAPTER 1

1937

Tuesday, October 3rd

Annie Aysgarth was a small, plump woman with large, expressive brown eyes, shiny conker-brown hair cut in a fashionable bob, and a permanent furrow between her brows. "Put there by years of worry" she always said. She was fifty-seven years old and had been Francie Harrison's friend for almost thirty years, and she knew all there was to know about her.

Annie owned and ran the luxurious Aysgarth Arms Hotel on Union Square. She was as snappy as a Jack Russell terrier, as stubborn as a mule, and as soft-hearted as a chocolate cream. She was also president of Aysgarth Hotels International, a subsidiary of the Lai Tsin Corporation, with hotels in six countries. Annie Aysgarth had come a long way for a Yorkshire lass.

She walked briskly through the thickly carpeted corridors of her San Francisco hotel, looking in at the oak-paneled Dales Lounge to see that the fire was glowing in the huge Elizabethan stone fireplace, as it did every day, summer and winter alike, and that the waiters in scarlet hunt-jackets and breeches stood ready to fulfill the guests' requests for brandy or coffee. She checked the malachite-and-chrome cocktail bar, nodding to the five busy barmen, pleased that, as usual, it was crowded with the city's rich and glamorous young people. She then sauntered through the opulent, gilt-mirrored dining room, pausing here and there to exchange pleasantries with a regular diner or nod to a familiar face. She smiled as she overheard the familiar whispers that of course she must be the famous Annie Aysgarth, that this had been her first hotel and was her favorite. She was a damned fine-looking woman and worth millions, they said.

Her antennae were so tuned after all these years that she would have noticed a rug an inch out of place, an ashtray unemptied or a guest waiting too long for his order. She loved her hotel; she had practically built it with her own hands from ten rooms to two hundred. She knew every inch of the place and exactly how it worked, from the miles of electrical wiring to the intricacies of the steam-heating system. She could have told you exactly how many Irish linen sheets were in the linen rooms on each floor and how many pounds of prime Chicago beef the chef had ordered that week, how many room-service waiters were on duty that night and the names of the guests checking in or out tomorrow.