All this apart from his vast moneylending business. Ayeeee yah, and what a moneylender! Incredible to believe, he was so rich he loaned money at one and a half percent less than was customary and monopolized the industry. And it was rumored that he was in partnership with the Tai-Pan himself, and that with the death of his barbarian uncle new huge riches would come to him.
Among the Triads Gordon Chen needed nothing to improve his position. They knew who he was and he was obeyed without question. Even so, the Triads in the building trade and the stevedore trade and cleaning trade and night-soil-collecting trade, and in the fishing, cooking, and hawking trades, in the laundry, servant, and coolie trades—they too needed to borrow money from time to time and needed houses to live in; consequently they too were filled with great sorrow that their leader’s barbarian uncle had died, and they happily gave the extra week of squeeze. They knew that it was wise to be on the side of the Tai-Pan of Tai Ping Shan; they knew that part of the squeeze would pay for the offerings to the gods—roast suckling pigs and pastries and sweet meats and cooked meats without number, and lobsters and prawns and fish and crabs by sampan load, and breads and mountains of rice; they knew that once the gods had benignly looked upon such magnificence, these offerings would be distributed and that they themselves would feast upon them to the satisfaction of even the hungriest.
So all the people groaned aloud with the mourners, enjoying the drama of death hugely, blessing their joss that they were alive to mourn, to eat, to make love, to make money, to become perhaps—with joss—as rich, and thus have so colossal a face in death before all their neighbors.
Gordon Chen followed the cortege. He was very solemn and rent his garments—but with great dignity—and cried aloud to the gods of the huge loss he had suffered. The King of the Beggars followed him and thus both gained face. And the gods smiled.
When the grave was filled with the dry, sterile earth, Struan accompanied Sarah to the cutter.
“I’ll come aboard this evening,” he said.
Without answering him, Sarah sat in the stern of the boat and turned her back on the island.
When the cutter was seaborne, Struan headed toward Happy Valley.
Beggars and sedan-chair coolies were infesting the roadway. But they did not bother the Tai-Pan; he had continued to pay the monthly squeeze to the King of the Beggars.
Struan saw Culum standing beside Tess in the midst of the entire Brock clan. He approached the group and raised his hat politely to the ladies. He glanced at Culum. “Would you walk with me, Culum?”
“Certainly,” Culum said. He had not talked to his father since their return—not about important things, like how Uncle Robb’s death would affect their plans, or when the engagement could be official. It was no secret that he had asked Brock formally for Tess at Whampoa on the retreat from Canton, and had been gruffly accepted. It was also no secret that because of the sudden tragedy, plans for the announcement had been held in abeyance.
Struan raised his hat again and walked off, Culum beside him.
They strolled the road silently. Others who had seen them with the Brocks shook their heads in renewed amazement that Brock had agreed to a marriage that surely was the Tai-Pan’s brainchild.
“Morning, Mary,” Struan said as Mary Sinclair came up to him, Glessing and Horatio with her. She looked drained and unwell.
“Morning, Tai-Pan. Could I drop by this afternoon?” she asked. “Perhaps I could have a few moments of your time?”
“Aye, of course. Around sunset? At my house?”
“Thank you. I can’t tell you how sorry I am about—about your loss.”
“Yes,” Glessing said. “Terrible luck.” Over the weeks he had become more and more impressed with Struan. Dammit, anyone who was Royal Navy, who was a powder monkey at Trafalgar, was worthy of the greatest respect, by God. When Culum had told him, he had immediately asked, “What ship?” and had been astonished when Culum said, “I don’t know, I didn’t ask.” He wondered if the Tai-Pan had served with his father. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask, but he could not, for Culum had told him privately. “Damned sorry, Tai-Pan.”
“Thank you. How’re things with you?”
“Fine, thank you. Damned lot of work to do, that’s certain.”
“Might be a good idea to put deepwater storm anchors out for the capital ships.”
Glessing was abruptly attentive. “You can smell a storm coming?”
“Nay. But this is typhoon season. Sometimes they come early, sometimes late.”
“Thanks for the suggestion. I’ll have them begin this afternoon.” Damn wise, Glessing told himself. The man bears so much tragedy well. And he’s as canny a seaman as ever sailed the seas. Mary thinks the world of him, and her opinion’s valuable, by Jove. And because of him the fleet’s slamming against Canton, by God, within a couple of days of those devils daring to fire the Settlement. Damn the admiral’s eyes! Why the devil won’t that stupid bugger give me back my ship? Wonder if I dare ask the Tai-Pan to put in a word for me? “Are you going to join the fleet?”
“I dinna ken.” Struan glanced at Horatio. “When did you get back, lad?”
“Last night, Tai-Pan. His Excellency sent me back to represent him at the funeral. I’m glad to pay my respects. I’ll be going back with the tide.”
“It was kind of him, and kind of you. Please give him my regards.”
“He was most anxious to find out how His Highness was.”
“Na so bad. He’s aboard
China Cloud. Why do you na pay him a visit? I think his hip’s damaged, but you can never tell this early. See you later, Mary.” He raised his hat again, and he and Culum took their leave. Struan wondered about Mary. I suppose she wants to tell me about the children. Hope nothing’s amiss. What’s the matter with Horatio and Glessing? They seem so tense and ruffled.
“May I see you to the hotel, Miss Sinclair?” Glessing was saying. “Perhaps you’d both care to lunch with me at the dockyard?”
“I’d like that, George dear,” Mary said, “but Horatio won’t be able to join us.” Before Horatio could say anything she added quietly, “My dear brother told me you asked formally for my hand in marriage.”
Glessing was startled. “Yes, er—yes, I did. I hope—well, yes.”
“I would like to tell you that I accept.”
“By Jove!” Glessing took her hand and kissed it. “I swear to God, Mary, by the Lord Harry, by jove! I swear—” He turned to thank Horatio. His joy vanished. “God’s death, what’s the matter?”
Horatio’s eyes were fixed malevolently on Mary. He forced a twisted smile but did not look away from her. “Nothing.”
“You don’t approve?” Glessing’s voice was tight.