“Today’s the last day. He asked me aboard the
White Witch tonight.”
“Tess has na indicated her father’s decision?”
“No.”
“Gorth?”
Again Culum shook his head. “They’re leaving for Macao tomorrow. Except Brock. I’ve been invited to go with them.”
“Are you going?”
“Now that you’re back, I would like to. For a week—if he says we can marry soon.” Culum drank some tea. “There’d be furniture to buy and—well, that sort of thing.”
“Did you see Sousa?”
“Oh yes, we did. The land is wonderful, and the plans are already drawn. We can’t thank you enough. We were thinking—well, Sousa told us about the separate room for the bath and toilet you designed for your house. We—well, we asked him to build us one.”
Struan offered a cheroot, and lit it. “How long would you have waited, Culum?”
“I don’t understand.”
“For me to come back. The sea might have swallowed me.”
“Not you, Tai-Pan.”
“One day she might—one day she will.” Struan blew out a thread of smoke and watched it float. “If I ever leave again without telling you where I’m going, wait forty days. Nae more. I’m either dead or never coming back.”
“Very well.” Culum wondered what his father was getting at. “Why did you leave like that?”
“Why do you talk to Tess?”
“That’s no answer.”
“What else has happened since I left?”
Culum was desperately trying to understand, but he could not. He had greater respect than before for his father, yet he still felt no filial love. He had talked for hours with Tess and had found an uncanny depth to her. And they had discussed their fathers, trying to fathom the two that they loved and feared and sometimes hated most on earth, yet ran to at the breath of danger. “The frigates returned from Quemoy.”
“And?”
“They laid waste fifty to a hundred junks. Big and small. And three pirate nests ashore. Perhaps they sank Wu Kwok, perhaps they didn’t.”
“I think we’ll know soon enough.”
“The day before yesterday I checked your house in Happy Valley. The watchmen—well, you know no one will stay at night—I’m afraid it was broken into and looted badly.”
Struan wondered if the secret safe had been tampered with. “Is there na any good news?”
“Aristotle Quance escaped from Hong Kong.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. Mrs. Quance doesn’t believe it, but everyone—at least almost everyone—saw him on the ship, the same that took Aunt Sarah home. The poor woman believes he’s still in Hong Kong. Did you know about George and Mary Sinclair? They’re going to be married. That’s good, even though Horatio is terribly upset about it. But that’s not all good either. We’ve just heard Mary’s very sick.”
“Malaria?”
“No. A flux of some kind in Macao. It’s very strange. George got a letter yesterday from the mother superior of the Catholic Nursing Order. Poor fellow’s worried to death! You can never trust those Papists.”
“What did the mother superior say?”
“Only that she felt she should inform Mary’s next of kin. And that Mary had said to write to George.”
Struan frowned. “Why the devil did she na go to the Missionary Hospital? And why did she na inform Horatio?”
“I don’t know.”
“Have you told Horatio?”
“No.”
“Would Glessing have told him?”
“I doubt it. They seem to hate each other now.”
“You’d better go with the Brocks and find out how she is.”
“I thought you’d want firsthand news, so I sent Vargas’ nephew, Jesus, by lorcha yesterday. Poor George couldn’t get leave of absence from Longstaff, and I wanted to help him as well.”
Struan poured more tea and then looked at Culum with new respect. “Very good.”
“Well, I know she’s almost like your ward.”
“Aye.”
“The only other thing is that the inquiry into the archduke’s accident was held a few days ago. The jury found that it was just an accident.”
“Do you think it was?”
“Of course. Don’t you?”
“Have you visited Zergeyev?”
“At least once a day. He was at the inquiry, of course, and he—he said many nice things about you. How you helped him, saved his life, things like that. Zergeyev attached blame to no one and said that he had informed the tsar to that effect. He said openly that he thought he owed his life to you. Skinner brought out a special edition of the
Oriental Times covering the inquiry. I have it for you.” Culum handed him the paper. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you got a royal commendation from the tsar personally.”
“How is Zergeyev?”
“He’s walking now, but his hip’s very stiff. I think he’s in great pain though he never mentions it. He says he’ll never ride again.”
“But he’s well?”
“As well as a man can be who lives to ride.” Struan went to the sideboard and poured two sherries. The lad’s changed, he thought. Aye, very much changed. I am proud of my son.
Culum accepted the glass and stared at it.
“Health, Culum. You’ve managed very well.”
“Health, Father.” Culum had chosen the word deliberately.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. I want to be Tai-Pan of The Noble House. Very much. But I don’t want a dead man’s shoes.”
“I never thought you did,” Struan snapped.
“Yes, but I considered it. And I know in truth I don’t like that idea.”
Struan asked himself how his son could say such a thing, so calmly. “You’ve changed a lot in the last few weeks.”
“I’m learning about myself, perhaps. It’s Tess mostly—and being alone for seven days. I found I’m not ready to be alone yet.”
“Does Gorth share your opinion of dead men’s shoes?”
“I can’t answer for Gorth, Tai-Pan. Only for myself. I know that you’re mostly right, that I love Tess, that you’re going against everything you believe to help me.”
Again Struan remembered Sarah’s words.
He sipped his drink contemplatively.
Roger Blore was in his early twenties, his face as taut as his eyes. His clothes were expensive but threadbare, and his short frame spare and fatless. He had dark blond hair, and his blue eyes were deeply fatigued.
“Please sit down, Mr. Blore,” Struan said. “Now, what’s all the mystery? And why must you see me alone?”
Blore remained standing. “You’re Dirk Lochlin Struan, sir?”
Struan was surprised. Very few people knew his middle name. “Aye. And who might you be?” Neither the man’s face nor his name meant anything to Struan. But his accent was cultured—Eton or Harrow or Charterhouse.
“May I see your left foot, sir?” the youth asked politely.
“God’s death! You insolent puppy! Come to the point or get out!”
“You’re perfectly correct to be irritated, Mr. Struan. The odds that you’re the Tai-Pan are fifty to one on. A hundred to one on. But I must be sure you’re who you say you are.”
“Why?”
“Because I have information for Dirk Lochlin Struan, Tai-Pan of The Noble House, whose left foot is half shot away—information of the greatest importance.”