Culum smiled, touched by the sincerity in Brock’s voice.
For the first time he liked and trusted him. “Of course,” he said.
“How much time do you think you’ll need, Tyler?” Struan asked bluntly. He saw that Culum was softening in the face of their false amiability, and he felt that pressure would make them show their true colors. “We should na keep the youngsters like hooked fish, and there’ll be a lot to plan. We have to make this the greatest wedding Asia has ever seen.”
“As I recalls it,” Brock said curtly, “it be bride’s Da’ wot gives wedding. An’ I be quite compitent in knowing wot be right and wot be not.” He knew that Struan had him hooked and was playing him. “So any plan for wedding be our’n.”
“Of course,” Struan said. “When will you let Culum know?”
“Soon.” Brock got up. “We be joining the ladies.”
“How soon, Tyler?”
“Now, you heared Da’,” Gorth said hotly. “Why rile him, eh?”
But Struan ignored him, and continued to stare at Tyler.
Culum feared that there would be a fight, and that this would change Brock’s mind about their marrying at all. At the same time he wanted to know how long he would have to wait and was glad that Struan was pressing Brock. “Please,” he said. “I’m sure Mr. Brock won’t—will consider the idea carefully. Let’s leave it for the present.”
“What you want to do is your own affair, Culum!” Struan said with pretended rage. “But
I want to know now. I want to know if you’re being used or if they’re cat-and-mousing you, by God.”
“That’s a terrible thing to say,” Culum said.
“Aye. But I’ve finished with you for the moment, so hold your tongue.” Struan whirled back on Brock, knowing that his rebuking Culum had pleased both Brock and Gorth. “How much time, Tyler?”
“A week. A week, no more, no less.” Brock looked at Culum and again his voice was kind. “No harm in asking for time, lad, and no harm in asking for answer man to man. That be proper. A week, Dirk. Do that satisfy thy godrotting bad manners?”
“Aye. Thank you, Tyler.” Struan walked to the door and opened it wide. “After thee, Dirk.”
Safe in the privacy of his quarters aboard
Resting Cloud, Struan told May-may all that had happened.
She listened attentively and delightedly. “Oh good, Tai-Pan. Oh very good.”
He took off his coat and she hung it in the wardrobe for him. A scroll fell out of the sleeve of her tunic gown. He picked it up and glanced at it.
The scroll was a delicate Chinese water-color painting with many characters. It was a fine sea-landscape and there was a tiny man bowing before a tiny woman below vast misted mountains. A sampan floated off the rocky shore.
“Where’d this come from?”
“Ah Sam got it in Tai Ping Shan,” she said.
“It’s pretty,” he said.
“Yes,” May-may said calmly, awed again by the marvelous subtlety of her grandfather. He had sent the scroll to one of his minions in Tai Ping Shan, from whom May-may bought jade from time to time. Ah Sam had accepted it unsuspectingly as a casual gift for her mistress. And though May-may was sure that Ah Sam and Lim Din had examined the picture and the characters very carefully, she knew that they would never know that it contained a secret message. It was too well concealed. Even her grandfather’s private family chop was cleverly overlaid with another. And the verse—“Six nests smile at the eagles, Greenfire is part of the sunrise, And the arrow harbingers nestlings of hope”—was so simple and beautiful. Now, who but she could know that he was thanking her for the information of the six million taels; that “greenfire” meant the Tai-Pan; and that he would be sending her a messenger, bearing some form of arrow as identification to help her in any way possible.
“What do the characters mean?” Struan was asking.
“Difficult to transtalk, Tai-Pan. I dinna know all the words, but it says, ‘Six bird houses smile at great birds, green fire is in the sunup, arrow brings’ ”—she frowned, seeking the English word—“ ‘brings little hope birds.’ ”
“That’s gibberish, by God.” Struan laughed.
She sighed happily. “I adore you, Tai-Pan.”
“I adore you, May-may.”
“This next time we build our house, first a feng-shui gentlemans, please?”
CHAPTER THIRTY
At dawn Struan went aboard the
Calcutta Maharajah, the merchantman that was taking Sarah home. The ship belonged to the East India Company. She was to sail with the tide in three hours, and seamen were making last-minute preparations.
Struan went below and knocked on the door of Sarah’s stateroom.
“Come in,” he heard her say.
“Morning, Sarah.” He closed the door behind him. The cabin was large and commodious. Toys and clothes and bags and shoes were scattered about. Lochlin was querulously half asleep in a tiny crib near the porthole.
“You all set, Sarah?”
“Yes.”
He took out an envelope. “This is a sight draft for five thousand guineas. You’ll get one every two months.”
“You’re very generous.”
“It’s your money—at least, it’s Robb’s money, na mine.” He put the envelope on the oak table. “I’m just following his will. I’ve written to arrange the trust fund that he wanted, and you’ll be getting the papers on that. Also I’ve asked Father to meet the ship. Would you like to have my Glasgow house until you find one you like?”
“I want nothing of yours.”
“I’ve written our bankers to honor your signature—again according to Robb’s instructions—up to the amount of five thousand guineas once a year in excess of your allotment. You must realize that you’re an heiress, and I must advise you to be careful, for many’ll try to take your wealth away. You’re young and there’s life ahead—”
“I want none of your advice, Dirk,” Sarah said witheringly. “As to taking what’s mine, I can look after myself. I always have. And as to my youth, I’ve looked into the mirror. I’m old and ugly. I know it and you know it. I’m used up! And you sit nicely on your godrotting fence and play man against man and woman against woman. You’re glad Ronalda’s dead—she’d more than served her stint. And that clears the way nicely for the next. Who’s it to be? Shevaun? Mary Sinclair? The daughter of a duke, perhaps? You always set your sights high. But whoever it is, she’ll be young and rich and you’ll suck her dry like everyone else. You feed off others and give nothing in return. I curse you before God, and I pray that I live to spit on your grave.”
The child began to wail pathetically, but neither heard the cries as they stared at each other.
“You forgot one truth, Sarah. All your bitterness comes from your belief that you picked the wrong brother. And you made Robb’s life a hell because of it.”
Struan opened the door and left.
“I hate the truth,” Sarah cried to the emptiness that surrounded her.
Struan was slumped morosely at his desk in the factory office, hating Sarah but understanding her, and tormented by her curse. “Do I feed on others?” he unwittingly said aloud. He looked at May-may’s portrait. “Aye, I suppose I do. Is that wrong? Do they na feed off me? All the time? Who’s wrong, May-may? Who’s right?”