Malcolm added in Cantonese, "Remember now, don't wake tai-tai when you wake me."
Tai-tai meant Supreme of the Supreme, First Wife--who was supreme and ultimate law inside any Chinese household, as the Husband was supreme outside.
"Sleep well, Master, ten thousand sons, Missee."
"Tai-tai," Malcolm said, correcting him.
"Ten thousand sons, tai-tai."
"What was that about, Malcolm?" she asked, smiling.
"He was wishing you a happy marriage."
"Doh jeh, Chen,"--thank you, she said.
Chen waited until they had bid the officers good night, and were below--Malcolm using one stick, leaning on her. Ayeeyah, he thought, going forward to the fo'c'sle gangway, all gods great and small, protect the Master and give him a night worth all the pain--past and future--but first consider me and my problems and explain to Illustrious Chen and tai-tai Tess this marriage was nothing to do with me.
From the quarterdeck Strongbow watched Chen go below. "They're all bedded down? The servants?"
"We put hammocks in the starboard sail room. They'll be snug unless we run into a storm."
"Good. You want to have your tea now, Mister?"
"Yes, thanks, I'll be back smartly."
Tonight the First Mate had the midnight to 4:00 A.m. watch and he ran down the gangway lightly. At the stern end of the corridor was the state room. The door was closed. He heard the bolt slide home. Smiling, silently whistling a gig, he headed for the galley.
Malcolm was leaning against the door, aching with anticipation, determined to walk unaided to his marriage bed. She had stopped near the bunk and was looking back at him. The stateroom was well ordered. And warm. The big dining table and sea chairs secured to the deck. So was the roomy bunk, easily enough for two, another of the tai-pan's laws. It was high and its headboard centered against the stern bulkhead, with roped canvas guards against the tilt of the decks when reaching to windward, or tacking under full canvas. Now these were sheathed. Port was a small bathroom and toilet. Sea chest for clothes to starboard. From the beams a gimballed oil lamp cast pleasing shadows.
Both of them hesitated, unsure.
"Angel?"
"Yes, cheri?"
"I love you."
"I love you, too, Malcolm. I'm so happy."
Still neither moved. Her shawl had fallen away slightly to reveal her shoulders and the pale green, high-waisted Empire-style dress, the folds of soft silk gathered under her bosom that rose and fell in time with the beating of his heart. The dress was the most advanced haute couture from the latest L'Illustration that Colette had sent, not yet in full favor, daring in its simplicity. When she had appeared at dinner, Strongbow their guest, despite themselves, both men had gasped.
Her eyes were mirrors of his and now, unable to bear the waiting and his need that seemed to reach out and envelope and smother her, she hurried into his arms.
Passionately. Her shawl dropped unnoticed to the deck.
A little dizzy, she murmured, "Come along, cheri," and took his hand--and part of his weight --said another silent prayer for help, annihilated the past and the future, abandoning herself to the present, she led him to the bunk--resolved to be all that he desired and expected. Ever since today's sudden and unbelievable ceremony she had been planning for this moment, her role, sifting her own ideas and what Colette had whispered how some of the great ladies of the court conducted themselves on the first night: "It's important, Angelique, to be the guide, to control the stallion as a good rider should, with strong hands and tight rein, with firmness but gentleness to remove the initial violence from even the most docile of husbands--to lessen the hurt.
Be prepared..."
His impatience was vast, big hands wandering, lips stronger. "Let me help you," she said huskily, also wanting to begin, and eased the coat off and then the shirt and flinched when she saw the extent of the scar at his waist.
"Mon Dieu, I'd forgotten how badly you've been hurt."
His passion went. But not the thundering of his heart.
Every instinct made him want to pull the shirt or sheet around him but he forced himself not to. The scar was a fact of his life. "Sorry."
"Don't be sorry, mon amour," she said, her eyes spilling, and holding him close, "I'm sorry, so sorry for you and all that horror... so sorry."
"Don't, my darling. It's joss. Soon it'll only be a bad dream, all of it, for both of us, I promise."
"Yes, my darling, so sorry, so silly of me," she said, still holding on to him and, in a moment, when the anguish for him had lessened, angry at herself for her lapse, she brushed away her tears--and with them her momentary sadness--kissed him quickly, pretending it had never happened.
"Sorry, my darling, how silly of me! Sit there for a moment." He obeyed.
Watching him with veiled but shining eyes, she undid the silk belt and then the back buttons and let the gown fall as she had planned. Only a half-slip and pantaloons remained. He reached for her but she chuckled and slid away and went to the sea chest where her mirror and salves and perfumes were, and, taking her time, put perfume behind her ears and then on each breast, teasing and tantalizing.
But he did not mind, consumed with her, enchanted, for she had explained many times, in different words, "We French are different from you, my darling Malcolm, we are open about loving, modest but not modest, so opposite to the English. We believe loving should be like a marvelous meal, one to thrill the senses, all senses, and not the way our poor English sisters, and their brothers, are taught: that it should be done quickly, in the dark, believing somehow the act is squalid and bodies shameful. You'll see, when we're married..."
And now they were. She was his wife, she was coquettish for his delight and he was filled with joy and pulsating. Thank God for that, he thought, monumentally relieved--he had worried for weeks, reliving the Yoshiwara girl, when nothing had worked. "Angel," he said throatily.
Shyly she stepped out of her pantaloons and slip and walked over to the gimballed lamp and turned the wick down, leaving just enough light, more strikingly lovely than he had imagined--the sight of her naked body was like a dream, and at the same time achingly, vividly real. Without hurry she climbed into the other side of the bunk and lay alongside him.
Whispering words of love, hands touching, exploring, his breathing heavy, moving closer, breath catching painfully when he moved, lips hot and kisses passionate. Her own hands tentative, carefully controlled, all her mind concentrated on the picture of happy, innocent first love that she wanted him to have of her-- desperate to please but a little frightened.
"Oh Malcolm, oh Malcolm..."
Murmuring and kissing him deeply, loving him-- praying that what Babcott had said in answer to her questions, "Don't worry, for a time he won't be able to ride comfortably, or dance a polka brilliantly, but that doesn't matter, he can drive a coach-and-four, captain a ship, run the Noble House, sire many children--and be the best husband ever..."
Her need for him was strong now. But she modulated it, checking her own desire, sticking to the plan, helping and guiding and then a sharp gasp, never wavering, now holding him tightly, reacting and reacting until so soon he cried out, her whole body rocked by the contortions of his release and cries that went on and on and then his helpless, panting, dead weight crushing her--but not crushing her.
How odd that I can bear his weight so easily, everything fitting together, she thought, her mouth whispering sweet and tender words, soothing his panting whimpers, content that their first joining had been accomplished so pleasingly.
He was half conscious, lost in some strange plateau, weightless, empty, feeling nothing yet sated with love for this incredible creature who, nude, was all that he imagined and more. The smell and taste and being of her. Every part of him satisfied. Everything worthwhile. In euphoria. Now she's mine and I was manly and she was womanly and oh Christ I hope I didn't hurt her.
"Are you all right, Angel?" he asked huskily, his heart slowing but still hardly able to talk. "I didn't hurt you?"
"Oh no, my darling... I love you so much."
"So, so do I, Angel, I can't tell you enough." He kissed her and began to lift his weight on to his elbows.
"No, don't move, not yet, please, I like you like th-- What is it, my darling?" she said nervously, her arms tightening.
"Nothing, nothing at all," he muttered, dealing with the sudden pain from his loins that stabbed into the base of his skull as he had moved.
Cautiously, he tried again, better this time. And he stopped the groan this time.