The Blonde Samurai (10 page)

This decidedly pleasant thought hung on the edge of my mind as I wandered up and down the main street in Native Town, detaching myself from the London world of heated indiscretions and whetted whispers. I delighted in the idea, my
pulse racing at the thought of taking a man to my bed, but knowing if anyone found out and the gossip found its way back to London…Yes, dear lady reader, I suspected then I would face your wrath, your scurrilous remarks and perhaps your envy.

I put that thought aside, for the intensity to annihilate my loneliness was too great to be ignored. This delirious thought hummed within me, growing louder as I crossed the street and skirted out of the way of a wayward jinrikisha with its noisy passenger yelling at the driver, before entering a curio shop. I wandered around the shop, my eye dazzled by numerous items, including swords, daggers, spears inlaid with mother-of-pearl, bows and arrows, picture books of flowers and birds and shiny Mandarin coats.

I picked up a square silk embroidery studded with intertwining threads in indigo blue, burnt gold, crushed rubies, then removed my glove so I could run my fingers over the rippling surface of this perfect piece of silk. I wanted to feel its sensuousness stimulating the ends of my fingertips and radiating down to my pussy, my longing for a man inside me reaching such a passion I didn’t hold back a flirty tilt of my head nor deny my Irish tongue a naughty turn of phrase when I encountered a certain tall, charming gentleman.

The delightful young clerk from the steamer.

Mr. Edward Mallory.

“I
would like to buy
silk embroideries,
” I said to the shop owner, a slight man, shoulders hunched, unkempt black hair hiding his eyes, his neck outstretched as if he spent hours peeking around corners watching his customers while he rubbed his crotch. Something he did without shame when I entered his shop. I pretended not to notice his unseemly actions since Mr. Rathbone’s guidebook recommended this open-fronted shop as having first-class curios (the author noted to the traveler that fabric purchases were rolled on a stick and covered with the ubiquitous coarse yellow cotton cloth found in every shop).

I wanted to buy old brocades,
I told the shop owner again, indicating the lovely square I held in my hand, cut from a ceremonial coat from days long ago. He bowed numerous times, shaking his head as if he understood me, but he made no move to show me his wares.

“Silk,”
I repeated.

“Allow me to help you, Lady Carlton.”

I turned, then smiled when I saw the young ship’s clerk tip his hat toward me. Mr. Edward Mallory. Tall, broad chest, good solid features, his face clean shaven without the abundant whiskers favored by so many westerners. He looked so gallant, like a gentleman strolling in Regent’s Park, not a ship’s clerk. Why hadn’t I noticed that about him before?

I tapped the tip of my parasol on the floor, my impatience driving a steady beat that rivaled the beating of my heart.
Or was it because I hadn’t decided to take a lover before?

“Mr. Mallory, what
are
you doing here?” I extended my hand and he bowed over it, but he didn’t follow the European practice of kissing my hand. The late-afternoon shadow cut deep angles into his face, giving him a strong, intelligent look.

“I was looking for you, your ladyship.” His eyes danced over me in a lovely waltz, noting my cinched-in waist and making me grateful I had struggled with the four-poster to lace up my corset.

“You flatter me, sir,” I said, rearranging my black felt hat at a saucy angle. “How did you find me?”

“I saw you come out of the bank,” he said, picking up an ivory carving and pretending to study it. I saw him watching me out of the corner of his eye. My nipples tightened. “When I tried to approach you, a wayward jinrikisha cut me off.”

I smiled, remembering the
kuruma
holding a gentleman passenger bellowing for the driver to go faster. The jinrikisha had raced down the street at a good clip, the nearly nude coolie panting, his chest heaving, his copper-skinned back wet with sweat. The nakedness of these natives no longer shocked me. Was that
also
a factor in my deliverance, my determination to release myself from my staid promise to remain alone?

“What can I do for you, Mr. Mallory?” My voice was teasing, light, pouting. I was behaving as if I’d stepped through a mirror into a different world, but at the same time aware, detached, in control. To evoke the response I wanted from him, I swished my skirts around in a provocative manner, tilting my head just so, lowering my eyes. I saw myself as a temptress creating a mood of mellow sunshine, creamy and smooth, and sinfully rich. Yes, I flirted with him, posing as I did like a play actress, but what of it? No one was privy to my sensual pantomime but Mr. Mallory—and now you. No scheming dowager whispering about me behind my back or snooty baroness squinting to see if I was wearing too much rice powder. Just the handsome ship’s clerk and me. ’Tis a fine memory I have of a fine gentleman.

Mr. Mallory put down the ivory carving with all the nervousness of a man with something on his mind, but not knowing how to say it. “I heard you mention you wanted to buy silk embroideries.”

I cocked my head. “Yes, but the shop owner doesn’t speak English.”

He smiled. “You needn’t worry, Lady Carlton, you shall have your wish.” Sensing he had no idea what I
really
wanted, I remained silent, my newfound liberty to seek my own pleasure teetering on the edge of a precipice. All I needed was a smattering of courage to jump off. I listened intently as he said a few words in Japanese to the shop owner, who nodded and disappeared to the back of the store.

“I’m impressed, Mr. Mallory, how well you speak the native language.” I paused, staring at him, then before I could stop myself I said, “I imagine you’re quite proficient in
many
things.” There, I’d done it, opened my mouth and out popped a sensual innuendo I had no right to utter. Poor Mr. Mallory.

His handsome face flushed, startled as he was by my audacious remark. He cleared his throat several times, but I didn’t hold that against him. On the contrary, his candid reaction made him more attractive to me.

“I’ve made this voyage several times, your ladyship, and spent many days ashore.” He stuffed his hands into his pockets, no doubt to hide his sweaty palms. “I’ve learned enough of the native language to get what I need—”

“And what
do
you need, Mr. Mallory?” I said in a husky voice, biting down hard on my lower lip like a girl from the ramparts in search of a dandy to rub her clit with a gold coin. Yes,
clit.
An abbreviated word of what Hippocrates called the “little pillar” and one which brings an interesting thought to mind as I write this memoir. I was acting a certain way with Mr. Mallory and I am
writing
a certain way, all according to rules men set down. It seems to me when we women pen erotic novels using words
men
created, that often leaves us unhappily searching for words, descriptions and phrases that evoke the sexual experience
the way we women feel it,
not how men expect us to act. Vulgar, sassy. So I’ve made up my own word.
Clit.
Short and to the point. Don’t be offended by my remark, dear lady reader. If I stray from expressions familiar to you, it’s because I delight in finding new ways to titillate you with the language of pleasure.
And
myself.

“Lady Carlton,” Mr. Mallory began, “I—I’d like to ask you if you could, I mean…”

I closed my eyes, pulse racing, trying to catch my breath, at the same time lamenting the presence of a particularly hard stay in my corset poking me in the ribs. I ignored it. I was certain Mr. Mallory was going to ask me to join him for tea at a small restaurant along the Bund. Charming, quiet, intimate. I imagined a passionate, sensual scene, time suspended
in the native setting, the rhythm of two lonely people finding each other in play. It was temptation as I had dreamed it. We’d sit close, very close, sipping sweet, pale yellow tea, our knees touching, fingers entwining under the table, hearts pounding, then he’d ask me to go back to his hotel room with him. I’d sneak upstairs, wait until the corridor was clear, then he’d open the door and I’d rush into his arms, his hands roaming down the small of my back and resting on the rise of my buttocks (yes, I skipped him undressing me—petticoats, corset, stockings, chemise—so eager am I to get to the amorous part of my imagined encounter). He’d whisper in my ear how much he wanted to make love to me, his hands teasing my backside with gentle stroking, his fingers inching closer and closer to—

A cool breeze blowing in my face startled me, daring to invade my daydream, settling over me like the wings of birds flapping in my face with an insistent hum buzzing in my ears. I opened my eyes to see the shop owner unrolling bolts and bolts of silk, the gloriously light material swirling in the air around me like columns of red, blue and green smoke. Beautiful, rich silk with a tropical scent of aromatic oils wafting in the air. Next, the shop owner brought out layer after layer of old silk brocades emitting a gentle odor, incense mixed with dried flowers, I would guess, as if the silk embroideries lay buried in an old trunk for years, the moist atmosphere capturing its spiritual aroma in the fibers and not allowing it to fade.

The thickened cloth meshed with gold threads and sprinkled with designs of pine, plum and peach enchanted me, my heart pounding as my fingers slid over the shimmering fibers as liquid as the rolling sea. Waves of color lulling me into an ebullient state of mind. I wanted to lie naked in the arms of
the ship’s clerk, his fingers persisting in teasing the delightful little hole in my behind I had discovered once upon a dildo, the puckered aperture nestled there and the secret place I’ve yet to speak of (I didn’t tell you, dear lady reader, because I wasn’t sure how you’d react. I believe we’ve turned a different page, you and I, so I’m not holding back).

Eager to continue my flirtation with Mr. Mallory, I chose several old embroideries and three bolts of silk for purchase. I asked the shop owner how much and he held up five fingers. Mr. Mallory haggled with him as the man stared at me over his abacus and moved the frame of sliding buttons, calculating my bill. I reached for the local currency I carried in my drawstring, but Mr. Mallory shook his head then said something to the shop owner in the native language. He shook
his
head and answered back. This went on for a few minutes until the shop owner held up two fingers.

Smiling, I paid him and waited for him to wrap my purchases. “What did you say to him?” I asked Mr. Mallory.

He laughed. “I told him a great lady wanted to buy his wares and he should be ashamed of himself for trying to cheat you.”

“You
are
a wonder, Mr. Mallory.” I continued dropping hint after hint, alluding to my romantic interest in him, and still he acted the perfect gentleman. My skin crawled, as if tiny silkworms had escaped from the beautiful brocades and found their way into my drawers.
I had to do something.
I couldn’t wait for
him
to make the first move. “You must drop by for tea,” I said casually, though inside I quivered as I withdrew my visiting card from my beaded reticule and handed it to him. “I’m staying on the Bluff at Number 23.” I lowered my eyes. “I’m home afternoons.”

“Will his lordship also be there?” he asked eagerly. I didn’t
answer him. My mouth was parched, my mind distracted. Not exactly the answer I’d hoped for from a would-be lover.

I attempted a smile. “No. He’s staying at a hotel on the Bund.” I experienced a curious rush of hope as I said, “I’m all alone.”

He looked disappointed, which did nothing for my ego, fragile as it was and me making a fool out of myself like a hussy raising up her petticoats to show off her trim ankles when she stepped over a rain puddle.

“I’m glad I could be of service, milady.” He tipped his hat again, then turned to leave the shop.

I panicked. He was going away without inviting me to tea. “Mr. Mallory, you indicated you wanted to—to ask me something?”

He turned, thinking a moment, then, “I don’t mean to be a bother, your ladyship—”

“We’re both Americans, Mr. Mallory. Call me Katie,” I insisted with a fluidity for breaking protocol that no doubt surprised him.

He drew in his breath, then let it out. He also took his hands out of his pockets. They were indeed sweaty, I noticed, but for a different reason than what had crossed my mind. He said bluntly, “I need a job.”

“A job?”
I asked, surprised. “What about your position with the Pacific Mail?”

“I’ve left their employ. I had a position lined up here in Yokohama as a clerk with the railway, but the job fell through because of an error in the paperwork at the hiring office.” He glanced at me briefly. “I don’t have much money left and I—”

“You want me to ask my husband if he can help you find employment,” I finished the sentence for him, my face sullen,
as a great disappointment rushed through me and I struggled to maintain a proper demeanor.

“Yes. You were so understanding aboard ship, not like the other first-class passengers with their snobbish attitude and barking orders. I thought you might be able to introduce me to Lord Carlton.”

“I see.” I crushed a silk remnant in my palm, marring its beauty, then wrapped a loose thread around my finger until it hurt. My pride hurt more. “How can my husband help you?”

“Word is that his lordship is working with the mikado’s government on completing the railway line from Ōzaka to Kobé.”

“Yes, that’s true—”

“I’m aching to be a part of this exciting new venture, Lady Carlton. If I could just get a chance to show what I can do, I know there’s opportunity here for a man willing to work hard and get his hands dirty.”

“Seems I’ve heard those words before, Mr. Mallory,” I said aloud, thinking about my father and knowing he was once young and ambitious like this likable fellow. I put down the piece of silk, letting go of both the fabric and my fancy of taking this gentleman as my lover. How could I not do as he asked? “I’ll be happy to help you—”

“Help in what manner, my dear wife?” said a man’s voice behind me. Hard, cutting, the dominant tone making me stiffen. “Or shouldn’t I ask?”

James.

I didn’t have to turn around to know his lordship was spying on me.

“May I present Mr. Edward Mallory?” I said, not losing a step. I wasn’t going to let my husband get the better of me.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lord Carlton,” Mr. Mallory said, extending his hand.

James ignored his goodwill gesture. “Haven’t I seen you somewhere, Mallory? At the cricket club? Or was it the rifle range? I’m considered a rather good shot with the pistol,” he said, glaring. I took in a deep breath, wondering if he had seen the American aboard ship. I wouldn’t put it past my husband to accuse me of having a shipboard romance. I had to do something. I couldn’t subject Mr. Mallory to his impudent line of questioning.

“Mr. Mallory, I mean, Edward is an American and a friend of my family,” I said quickly, keeping my distance
and
my virtue intact.

“Who just happens to be in a silk shop in Yokohama,” James said, smirking. “You amaze me, my dear wife, with your brazenness. If Lord Penmore hadn’t seen you rushing down the street with Mallory following you I may have believed your story.”

“My intentions toward Lady Carlton are honorable, your lordship, and I take issue with your cheap insinuations,” Mr. Mallory said, clenching his fists, his calm demeanor taking a stance I never expected from a ship’s clerk.