"Yes, yes I think so. Christ Almighty!" It took him a moment or two to recover, the surging pain lancing his ardor, that ache remaining, the other pain making it seem more strong. His hands still held on to her, still trembling but without strength. "Jesus, sorry..."
"No sorry, my darling." When, thankfully, she had recovered her own breath, she got up and poured some of the cold tea that he kept beside the bed, her loins restless and cramped and nervous, heart agitated, not wanting to stop either but must, a few more minutes and wouldn't have, must find a way to be safe, him safe, us safe--a voice shouting the litany at the forefront of her mind, "a man never marries his mistress, nothing before marriage, everything permissible after," pounded into her as soon as she could understand.
"Here," she murmured, giving him the cup.
She knelt and watched him, eyes closed, sweat staining his face and dressing gown. In a moment, most of her own unease and disquiet slid away. She put a hand on his knee and he covered it. "Being so, so close is bad for us, Malcolm," she said softly, liking him very much, loving him but not truly sure about love. "It's difficult for both of us, cheri, I want you too and love you too."
After a long time he said with difficulty, his voice low and hurting, "Yes but, but you can help."
"But we can't, not before we're married, not yet, we can't, not now."
Abruptly his pain and frustration crested at having to sit all evening and endure other men dancing her, lusting her, while he could hardly walk where a month ago he knew he was a far better dancer than any one of them, crested.
Why not now? he wanted to scream at her, what difference does a month or two make? For Christ's sake... but all right I'll accept that, that at marriage a proper girl must be virgin or she's a loose woman, I'll accept that a gentleman doesn't wrong her before marriage, I accept that! For the love of God there are other ways.
"I know, we, we can't now," he said throatily, "but... Angelique, but please help me, please."
"But how?"
Once more words choked him: For Christ's sake like girls in Houses do, kiss you and fondle you and finish you--do you think lovemaking is just spreading your legs and lying there like a piece of meat--the simple things these girls will do without fuss of shame and happy for you afterwards, "Hey, you now all same good-ah, heya?"' But he knew he could never tell her. It was against all his upbringing. How do you explain to the lady you love when she's so young and artless or so selfish or just ignorant. Suddenly the truth became rancid. Something in him mutated, changed.
In a different voice he said, "You're quite right, Angelique, it's difficult for both of us. Sorry. Perhaps it would be best if you moved back to the French Legation until we leave for Hong Kong. Now that I'm getting better we must guard your reputation."
She stared at him, unnerved by the change. "But Malcolm, I am comfortable where I am, and near in case you need me."
"Oh yes, I need you." His mouth moved with the shadow of an ironic smile. "I'll ask Jamie to make the arrangements."
She hesitated, off balance, not sure how to proceed. "If that's what you want, cheri."
"Yes, it's best. As you said, being so close is difficult for each of us. Good night, my love, I'm so glad you enjoyed your party."
A chill passed through her but whether from outside or inside she did not know. She kissed him, ready to return his passion, but there was none. What had changed him? "Sleep beautifully, Malcolm, I love you." Still nothing.
Never mind, she thought, men are so moody and difficult. Smiling as though nothing was wrong she unbolted his door, blew him a tender kiss and went into her own room.
He watched their door. It was slightly ajar.
As usual. But everything in their world was no longer as usual. The door and her nearness no longer tempted him. He was feeling different, somehow refashioned. He did not know why but he was very sad, very old, some instinct telling him that however much he loved her, however much he tried physically, she would never in their whole life together ever completely satisfy him.
Using his stick he heaved himself to his feet and hobbled as quietly as he could to the bureau. In the top drawer was the small bottle of the medication that he had secreted away against nights when the idea of sleep became impossible. He swigged the last of it. Heavily, he shuffled to his bed.
Gritting his teeth, he lay down and sighed as most of the pain left him. That he had consumed the last of the peace-giver did not bother him in the least. Chen, Ah Tok or any of the servants could supply him with more, whenever he wanted. After all, didn't Struan's supply part of China?
On her side of the door, Angelique was still leaning against the wall, in turmoil, unsure whether to go back or to leave well enough alone. She had heard him go to the bureau and the drawer open, but did not know why, heard the bed springs creak and his long-drawn-out sigh of relief.
It was just the pain and because we can't, not now, she thought, reassuring herself again, stifling a nervous yawn. And also because he had to sit still at the dance when he is as fine a dancer as I've ever had-- wasn't it that that had first attracted me to him in Hong Kong from all the others?
Not wrong that he wants to make love--and not my fault he was hurt. Poor Malcolm, he's just overwrought. Tomorrow he will have forgotten all about it and everything will be fine--and it's better I move now, there's the other to consider. All will be well.
She slipped into bed and into easy sleep but her dreams were quickly peopled by strange monsters with twisted baby faces, shrieking with laughter and tugging at her, "mamma... mamma," writing on the sheets with her own blood that leaked from the tip of her finger she used as pen, tracing and retracing those characters--the ones from the counterpane imprinted deeply in her mind that she had not yet had the courage to ask Andr`e or Tyrer about.
Something jerked her out of sleep. The nightscapes vanished. Uneasily awake, she glanced at the door, half expecting to see him there. But he was not and she heard, faintly, his heavy, regular breathing, so she settled back in her pillows and thought, It was the wind or a banging shutter.
Mon Dieu, I'm tired, but what a lovely time I had at the dance. And what a lovely ring he gave me.
Humming the polka and envious of John Marlowe's success, and quite sure he could have done as well, Phillip Tyrer half danced up to the door of the House of the Three Carp in the tiny, deserted little alleyway and knocked with a flourish.
Here the Yoshiwara seemed to be slumbering, but not far away the houses and bars on Main Street were bubbling, the night young with the noise of men laughing and raucous singing, the occasional twang of samisen and laughter and pidgin mixed with it.
The door grill opened. "Mass'r, wat?"
"Please speak Japanese. I am Taira-san and I have a appointment."
"Ah, is that so?" the burly servant said.
"Taira-san, eh? I will inform the mama-san." The grill closed.
As he waited Tyrer's fingers drummed on the old wood. Yesterday and last night he had had to spend all his time with Sir William, explaining about Nakama and the Legation, arranging a modus vivendi for his newfound teacher--guilty he had not revealed the vital truth that the man could speak some English. But he had sworn, and an Englishman's word was his bond.
Sir William had finally agreed "Nakama" could be openly samurai--sons of samurai families had been attached to the French and British Legations for short periods in the past, just as Babcott had Japanese assistants. But Sir William had ordered he was not to wear or have swords within the Settlement fence. This same rule applied to all samurai, except Settlement guards under an officer on their rare, and prior-sanctioned patrols.
Further that Nakama was not to dress ostentatiously or go anywhere near the Customs House or guard house, and to keep out of sight as much as possible, that if he was discovered and claimed by the Bakufu it would be his fault and he would be handed over to them.