The Palace of Heavenly Pleasure (9 page)

Helen Frances saw the black-haired young man smile at the discomfiture of his friend, who, feeling himself mocked, was looking sourly into his wine glass.

Morrison was relentless. ‘Imagine yourself a Chinese coolie in the sticks, Mr Simpson, paddling about in your paddyfield. What would be more fantastical to you? A magic charm or a steam engine?'

Dr Morrison waited, a severe expression on his face. Simpson grinned foolishly.

‘You see my point then. Superstition's real to these people and damned dangerous. I don't suppose that you've forgotten the havoc the Taipings caused in this country just fifty years ago. Can you recall what they believed in?'

‘Well, Christianity, wasn't it?' Simpson rallied. ‘At least, a sort of Christianity, a bit perverted. Christ's younger brother come to earth and all that.'

‘Christianity, did you say? And twenty million dead! And you're not nervous, Mr Simpson? I think that my case rests!'

The black-haired man laughed. Helen Frances saw white teeth in a brown face. She did not really understand what this conversation was about. Was Dr Morrison suggesting that Christianity was a sort of superstition too? She had heard about the Boxers but what were the Taipings? Tom never talked to her about politics. He probably wanted to protect her. She liked that in Tom, but she was still curious, and frustrated sometimes that he would reduce most things to frivolity in her presence.

A clean-shaven American diplomat, Herbert Squiers, to whom she had been briefly introduced at a stopover on the journey, had taken up the conversation. ‘I don't question the powers of superstition, Dr Morrison, but I'm afraid I'm with our friend here in doubting there's any danger from these Boxers. Sure we've had letters from missionaries with a few scare stories about midnight meetings and intemperate rabble-rousing, which we've looked into. But there's nothing solid to write home about. Peasants are all excitable one day, and next day they're happily back in the fields. Nobody's been hurt as far as I know. No mission's been torched. It's all excitable talk, midsummer madness. We're advising our people to stay calm.'

‘And what happens when the first mission is put to the torch? Will you advise your people to stay calm then?'

‘You really believe that that's going to happen?'

‘I don't know, Squiers,' said Morrison. ‘I wish I did. Maybe it is a midsummer madness. I'll tell you one thing, though, the disaffection is real enough. A lot of people had high hopes of the reform movement last year, and though the Mandarinate may be happy that Tz'u Hsi's restored the status quo with her palace coup, the whole merchant class and a lot of the scholar class are very downbeat. God help us if we have a poor harvest.'

‘The Boxers aren't scholars or merchants.'

‘Of course they aren't. But who led on the Jacquerie in the French Revolution? Intellectuals like Robespierre and Danton. No, don't laugh. There's no proof that the Boxer movement has anything to do with the reformers, or the palace for that matter. It's just that in China there are wheels within wheels. And secret societies are just that.'

‘What?'

‘Secret. Take the term Boxer, what does it mean? The Fists of Righteous Harmony. Rather grand, don't you think? Don't tell me that a peasant came up with that name.'

‘So who did?'

‘I don't know. But secret societies are a part of the fabric of this country. Triads. Tongs. They're criminal brotherhoods, but there's something respectable about them as well. They call themselves patriotic societies. Protectors of the people against corrupt dynasties. The White Lotus were heroes who rose up against the Mongols and set up the Ming, and later they turned on the Ming when they went rotten. They still exist, as do the Eight Diagram sect, the Red Fists, the Big Swords, the Big Knives, the Black Sticks. There are hundreds of them, and who knows what tentacles they have through every class of society here? Everybody needs protection. I would bet that these Boxers are linked to one or more of these black societies.'

‘I declare, Simpson,' Helen Frances was startled to hear the black-haired man's voice rise in a languid drawl, ‘I never expected China to be so exciting. Am I to understand, sir,' he addressed Dr Morrison, ‘that I will be endangering life and limb when I leave the safety and protection of the diplomatic community,' he waved his hand sardonically at the party around him, ‘and venture into the wilds of the countryside?'

‘You're Manners, aren't you?' said Morrison, looking at him coldly. ‘I was told you'd be here. No, sir, for the moment I am not suggesting anything of the kind. The Boxers are a disturbing phenomenon but, up to now, they've not attacked a white man. I'm sure, from all I've heard about you, that you can look after yourself anyway.'

‘My reputation obviously precedes me.'

‘Adviser to the Japanese army. Yes, I've heard about you. And now I gather you've left all that and got a job with the railway. Where are they sending you?'

Helen Frances felt a rush of blood to her head when she heard him answer, ‘Shishan,' but she had no chance to listen to more because, with bounding excitement, a perspiring Tom was at her side telling her that his team had won the rounders match, and, gosh, why was she standing all alone and forlorn? She must stock up on the bubbly and come and meet his chums from the Legation. As she went she turned her head and saw Manners's blue eyes looking humorously in her direction.

At luncheon, under the trees, she was placed between a quiet Legation interpreter called Pritchett and the French minister, Monsieur Pichon. After a few pleasantries, Monsieur Pichon proceeded to ignore her, speaking loudly across the Japanese minister's wife to Sir Claude, who was at the head of the table. Tom was sitting at the other end, out of conversational range. She was therefore left to Pritchett's company, and since he seemed to be a young man overwhelmed with an attack of terminal shyness, conversation was hard-going. Her eyes began to wander over to the other tables. Lady MacDonald was looking after the white-bearded Sir Robert Hart, head of the Chinese Customs Service and Peking's oldest and apparently wisest resident. Her eyes lingered on the magnificent costume of the Countess Esterhazy, who seemed to be in flirtatious and intimate conversation with the guest on her left. She could not make out who it was because he was blocked by the back of Mr Squiers' large head. Then Mr Squiers moved and she recognised Manners. Quickly she turned away.

‘Mr Pritchett,' she asked sweetly, ‘do you know everybody who's here?'

‘Most,' he answered. ‘Peking's a small community. Don't know some of the visitors. Why?'

‘Oh, nothing really. I was just wondering. I saw some excellent horsemanship this morning on the way out here, some of the riders racing each other.'

‘Ah, yes, that would be the Customs boys showing off. I'm sorry, I didn't mean…'

‘But they
were
showing off. Don't worry,' laughed Helen Frances. ‘There was one in particular, I'm not sure of his name. Manners, I think. He really is an excellent horseman.'

‘I'm sorry, Miss Delamere, I don't really know much about riding.'

‘I love riding,' said Helen Frances. ‘Do you have fox hunts here?'

‘Paper hunts, I think, sometimes, and there's the Jockey Club. I don't myself.'

‘Mr Manners must be one of the leading lights of the Jockey Club.'

‘Henry Manners? The MP's son? No, Miss Delamere, he's a visitor here. There was a cable about him at the Legation.'

‘That sounds rather fascinating.'

‘No, not really. A routine cable. Sir Claude is helping him to get a job with the China railways, somewhere up north. A favour to his father, Lord Beverley, who's something in the Government at home.'

‘So Mr Manners is an engineer, Mr Pritchett?'

The interpreter, who had been avoiding looking into Helen Frances's face, suddenly raised his mournful eyes to glance at her directly, his eyebrows quizzical. ‘I believe he was once an officer in the Royal Engineers and served in India. I understand that Mr Manners has been many things in his time. A colourful personality, Miss Delamere. Most recently he has been in Japan. May I ask why you are so interested? Apart from his horsemanship, I mean?'

Helen Frances was irritated to feel a blush to her cheeks, which she tried to hide with a playful giggle. It came out shriller than she had intended. She hoped that she had not drunk too much champagne. ‘You are being very arch, Mr Pritchett. I'm not interested in Mr Manners at all. Whatever do you mean?'

Now it was Pritchett's turn to be embarrassed and he, too, blushed. ‘My apologies, Miss Delamere, if I spoke clumsily.' He smiled sadly. ‘I often suspect that I am more fluent in Oriental languages than in English.' Seeing that Helen Frances was smiling back at him he took courage to go on. ‘Incidentally, Mr Manners is something of a linguist himself. He speaks good Japanese and has progressed well with his Chinese in the months that he's been here.'

‘You seem to know him well.'

‘Peking is a small town, Miss Delamere. I do not see him very often. He tends to prefer a more worldly society than the ivory tower I inhabit.'

‘The Customs boys?'

Pritchett laughed softly. Their mutual embarrassment earlier seemed to have put him at his ease. ‘It's what passes here for a fast set. B. L. Simpson and his colleagues, and some of the military attachés.'

‘I wouldn't dare to ask what they get up to.'

‘And I certainly wouldn't dare to tell you, even if I knew.'

‘So am I to take it that Mr Manners is a wicked man, Mr Pritchett?'

‘I think I said a colourful one, Miss Delamere.' He leaned back to allow a servant to take away the remains of his first course, his lobster half touched. ‘May I ask you where you and Mr Cabot…?'

‘My fiancé.'

‘Yes. May I ask where exactly you'll be going when you leave Peking? Your father's in the chemicals business, I believe, somewhere in the north?'

‘He works in a place called Shishan. That's where we're going.'

‘Ah,' said Pritchett. ‘Shishan.' His eyes twinkled with sad merriment. ‘And you said it was Mr Manners's horsemanship that interested you?'

This time Helen Frances found herself laughing quite naturally. ‘You have discovered me, Mr Pritchett. Yes, I did hear today that Mr Manners is also going to Shishan and I was trying to sound you out about his character. Will you forgive me?'

‘You were very skilful. I hope that I have not said anything to turn you against your new neighbour.'

‘On the contrary. You have made him into the most intriguing personality. I'll enjoy meeting someone who is so … colourful.'

And attractive, she confided to herself. What a wicked thought. She really must not drink any more wine. As the waiter laid the main course in front of her—roast beef and Yorkshire pudding—she stole a glance in Manners's direction. He had his head back and was laughing loudly at a sally from Countess Esterhazy, his white teeth shining under his small moustache. She looked down at dear, honest Tom, who seemed to be replaying his rounders game with the salt and pepper cylinders on the tablecloth. One of his friends looked on, contributing to the tactics with some bread rolls. The Legation wife sitting between them appeared manifestly bored. Good old Tom, she thought fondly.

‘If you are going to Shishan, Miss Delamere,' Pritchett was saying, ‘can I be so bold as to give you a word of caution?'

‘About Mr Manners?' she asked, surprised.

‘I would hardly presume to do that,' said Pritchett. ‘No, I do not wish to alarm you, but have you heard of the Boxers?'

‘Nobody seems to talk about anything else,' she said, ‘but Mr Squiers was saying just now that his Legation does not consider them to be anything more than a midsummer madness.'

‘That is the official position of our Legation as well. I hope we're right. But I do have Chinese friends who are inclined to a different view. Shishan is a long way from here and not yet connected to the railway. I only caution, keep an ear open and if you hear of anything disturbing, don't consider it any dishonour to leave, at once, and advise Mr Cabot and your father to do the same. I would be privileged if you would write to me to let me know what the situation in Shishan is from time to time. There. That's what I wanted to say.' He gave his sad smile.

‘Why, Mr Pritchett, how very sweet of you. Of course I'll—I'll take what you say very seriously, and I'll certainly write to you. It'll be a pleasure. Indeed it will.' What a funny, mournful little man, she thought. ‘But now, no more talk of these dreadful Boxers.'

After the third course, a rather ambitious lemon blancmange, the ladies left the gentlemen to their brandy. The exception was the Countess Esterhazy who, to the outrage of some of the Legation wives, not only insisted on staying with the men but even demanded a large cigar, which was lit for her with humour by Sir Claude himself, ever the perfect host. The chatter over the coffee in Lady MacDonald's living room inevitably focused on the numerous liaisons the Countess was supposed to have had with leading figures at the Austrian and Russian courts. There were rumours that during the short time she had spent in Peking she had not discouraged admirers. Madame Pichon, no doubt anxious to preserve the reputation of the French Legation's military attaché, observed that there was even a young Englishman who appeared not indifferent to her charms. Why, at lunch today … At which point a graceful Lady MacDonald had asked Mrs Dawson whether she and her young friend might not be tired after the exertions of the day, and Mrs Dawson, exchanging knowing looks with her hostess, had remarked that, yes, she was a trifle fatigued. Which was why Mrs Dawson and a frustrated Helen Frances were led to a small, simply furnished room at the back of the temple where they were told they could lie down for the afternoon.