What is it about her? he was asking himself, unaware of the promenade, or gusting wind, surf grinding up the pebbled beach, or the smell of rotting seaweed. Sadness suits her.
Can it be that...
She's a woman now! That is what's different, she has a depth and poise that wasn't there before. She's woman, no longer girl. Is it because of the catastrophe, or because she's no longer virgin--the mystic change they say happens, or is supposed to happen at the transmutation? Or both, with perhaps the finger of God helping her to adjust?
"Christ," he said, despite himself, thinking aloud, "what happens if she has a child?"
"For her sake, I pray she does," the little man said.
When they left, Angelique closed her eyes and breathed deeply. Soon she was soothed and got up and bolted the door, then opened hers.
Her bed was made up, fresh flowers in a vase on her dressing table. She went back into Malcolm's suite, bolting her door, and sat back in his chair.
Only then did she look at the photograph --the first of his parents she had seen. On the back was October 17th, '61. Last year.
Culum Struan appeared much older than his years, forty-two, Tess neither old nor young, pale eyes gazing directly at Angelique, the thin line of her lips dominant.
Tess turned thirty-seven this year. What will I look like when I'm her age--in nineteen years, more than twice my age today? Will I have the same hard cast to my features that shout an unloving marriage and crushing family burdens-- hating her father and brothers, them hating her, both sides trying to ruin the other--that began in her case so romantically, eloping and married at sea, like we did but oh my God, with what a difference.
Her eyes looked out of the window and to the bay and the ships there, a merchant steamer leaving port-- captain and officers on the bridge, the mail ship surrounded by tenders, the Struan cutter there, and Prancing Cloud. Elegant, straining to up anchor and up canvas to sail the wild winds.
That's what Malcolm always said about their clippers, she thought, that clippers sail the wild winds.
She closed her eyes and rubbed them and looked again. No mistake. All day her eyes had an unexpected, startling clarity of vision.
She had noticed it the moment she had awoken this morning, every detail of the room in focus, curtains, dead flowers in a vase, flies circling, four of them. Within seconds there had been a knock and Ah Soh's voice, "Missee? Med'sin man wan you see-ah, heya?" as though, her hearing also more acute, the sound of Ah Soh's footsteps had brought her smoothly out of sleep.
What was even stranger was the clarity of her mind, all the weight seemed to be gone, not the sadness but how clearly it considered problem after problem without consternation, never mixing them, suggesting answers, and never the usual heart-hurting fear, not even a little. Concern yes, that was only sensible, but no more nauseating panic and indecision.
Now she could remember that day and that night in all its details without a crushing, inhuman, insensate blankness. Have I been numbed?
Forever? Is what Dr. Hoag said this morning correct: "Don't worry, you're cured of any problem. So long as you can cry from time to time, and not be afraid to go back in time if that's what your mind wishes to do, then your life will be fine, better every day. You have youth and health, your life is before you..."
Mon Dieu, such platitudes they talk, doctors. After Hoag, Babcott. More of the same. He had been gentle and tall and tender, a tenderness that could turn into heat if she would allow it. No more heat, she thought, not until I am free. And safe. Safe and free.
Her body was rested. No blinding headache, not even a little one, no screams inside. Knowing at once where she was, who she was, and why she was here, and why alone, and what had happened.
Experiencing it again, watching herself in the daymare, conscious of it all but not involved, not truly involved: watching herself being wakened by Chen's wailing shriek, torn out of sleep, seeing herself in panic trying to shake Malcolm awake too then glimpsing blood on her lower limbs, horrified for a moment she had cut herself too deeply and then realizing that it was him, his blood, and that he was dead, dead dead.
Leaping out of bed naked, not aware of it, terrified and shrieking, disbelieving what her eyes and ears told her, praying it was a dream, others rushing into the cabin, Ah Soh, Ah Tok, someone covering her, voices and shouting and screams and questions and more questions until the cabin smashed her into blackness and terror. Now on the bridge, freezing and burning and questions and no answers, her mouth locked, head afire, stench of blood, taste of blood, blood on her loins and on her hands and in her hair, stomach rebelling.
Ah Soh helping her into a bath, the water cool, never enough hot to clean away his death, more sickness and then the blinding poison filling her, drowning her until she saw herself shrieking at Hoag, a picture of ugliness, oh so ugly.
She shivered. Must I look like when I'm old? How old is old? Not very for some. What exactly she had said to Hoag, even now she could not recall, only that the poison had gushed away andwiththe torrent, good sleep came to pass.
I've much to thank Hoag for, and Babcott to loathe for--his sleeping draft began my sink into despair. I'm no longer afraid, no longer in despair, I don't understand why but it's true--thanks to Malcolm and Hoag, to that smelly little lawyer with his foul breath, and to Andr`e. Andr`e is still wise, still my confident and will remain so, so long as I pay. Yes he's a blackmailer. That doesn't matter. To help himself he has to protect me and then, well, there is a God in Heaven and the mills of God grind slowly but they grind exceeding small.
I can deal with my life now, I think, if I'm careful.
Madonna, we agreed so long ago that I had to help myself and could not be dependent on a man or men, like the rest of my poor sisterhood. I know I'm a sinner. Malcolm was truly the only man I've ever met I really wanted, really loved and really wanted to marry, loved as much as a silly teenager could love. Is first love true love? Or is love an adult emotion? I'm adult now. Was my love for Malcolm adult?
I think so, hope so.
But my darling is dead. I accept that. And now?
Tess? Hong Kong? Andr`e? Gornt?
Home? Tess?
One at a time.
First my darling must be put to rest. Properly.
She saw the safe, its door shut but not locked. She got up and opened it fully, reaching into the back, touching a small, concealed indentation. Part of the left wall swung open. In the cavity were some papers, another personal chop, another bag of coins and notes. A bottle of his medicine. A small box.
A week ago Malcolm had shown her the secret hollow, smiling at her. "There's nothing much to hide yet, all the important stuff's in Hong Kong with Mother, papers about being tai-pan, a copy of father's will, mother's will and so on, the tai-pan's chop. This is for," he shrugged, his eyes alight, "for odds and ends and secret presents I might give you, if you're very good and love me to distraction..."
She opened the box. A gold ring, set with rubies. Not very valuable, but valuable enough. The papers were business papers she did not understand, lists of figures.
And no will.
Damn, she thought without anger. It would have made the future more simple. Andr`e had pointed that out.
He had been summoned this morning by Vargas at her request from the list of people who had called and left cards. "Monsieur Vargas, first my tailor, I must have mourning clothes urgently, after him, Monsieur Andr`e, then Mr. Skye --no need to disturb Mr. McFay until I send for him. To anyone else I'm resting, and Monsieur," she added carefully, "please treat all this with the discretion my husband told me you possess. I'll see everyone in the tai-pan's office."
She had seen a flicker in Vargas's eyes at "tai-pan" but he had said nothing so no need to be firm. The office had been chosen with care and when the old dressmaker arrived with Vargas she said, "Please ask how long it would take to make a mourning dress, black, like this." The one she wore was long-sleeved, high-necked, dark blue.
"He says three days. Mourning, senhora?
The color for mourning in China is white."
"I want it in black. Silk. And tomorrow."
"Three days."
"If he takes my other dress, the pale blue one he made for me and dyes it black, how long?"' "He says two days."
"Tell him the widow of the tai-pan of the Noble House requires such a black dress tomorrow.
Tomorrow morning."
The old Chinese had sighed and bowed and went away. Then Vargas announced Andr`e Poncin.
"Hello Andr`e."
"Hello. I've never seen you more beautiful."