A Distant Shore (16 page)

Henry inclined his head in acknowledgement. Despite what he’d said to Zexu, he knew war was imminent. Zexu seemed almost to relish the prospect, or perhaps just the hoped-for end of the opium trade. He could hardly blame the man; opium was a dreadful thing indeed. Still, he had hoped to finish his business in China before aggression broke out. It appeared now he would not… if he escaped China at all. He had no idea what Zexu had planned for him or his men, but with a stomach like a stone he acknowledged that a sailing master and his crew could disappear in this teeming country with terrible ease. Margaret would never even know what had happened to him.

“I could,” Zexu said thoughtfully, “have you and your crew arrested for suspicion of trading in opium. In this country men have been executed for less.”

A cold sweat broke out on Henry’s back and fear crawled along his spine. It was no more than he’d considered during his three long weeks of confinement, and yet stated so plainly, so coolly, brought a fresh wave of terror. He thought of Margaret, the anxiety shadowing her eyes when he’d told her he intended to sail for China, the brave tilt of her chin when he’d said goodbye. How he missed her, and Charlotte too. He longed to see them again, to hold them in his arms, to tell them he loved them just once—

“Mr. Moore?” Zexu’s voice was sharp. “You have nothing to say to this?”

“I am innocent,” Henry replied steadily. “And you know it. If I had dumped a load of opium off my ship there would be traces of it in the wood, on the floor of the hold. You must have searched it thoroughly before you scuttled it, and seen there was nothing.”

Zexu stared at him, smiling faintly. “You are a brave man, Mr. Moore.”

“And an innocent one. I despise the opium trade as much as you do, Mr. Zexu, and I have no part in it, nor will I ever have.”

Zexu was silent for a long moment, long enough for Henry to wonder if his execution was about to be ordered. Then finally he spoke. “If that is the case, then I may have some use for you, Mr. Moore. In your own country, rather than mine.”

Relief made him almost tremble. “Indeed,” he managed.

“Indeed. I know there are traders out of Boston who are smuggling opium to this country. They are wily, and they attempt to escape me, but I know they exist. You will return to Boston, Mr. Moore, and you will find the names of those who trade in opium. You will also provide me with evidence, so these men may never trade with China again.”

Henry stared at Zexu in disbelief. No one spoke openly about the opium trade, but he surely knew that the most powerful men in Boston and indeed in all of America were involved in it. They made no great secret of it, at least not to their colleagues, but it was not spoken of in drawing rooms—and certainly not in China. His livelihood and perhaps even his life might be at risk if he attempted to expose them. “You ask a great deal, Mr. Zexu,” he finally said.

“It is true, and to ensure that you are as good as your word, Mr. Moore, your crew will remain here in Kowloon.” Zexu smiled, although his eyes were still narrowed and shrewd. “Until you have given me evidence. I look forward to hearing from you.”

Chapter Eight

Boston, 1838

Isobel closed the lid of her trunk, her hands shaking. She took a deep breath and smoothed down the front of her dress, trying for calm. She was packed, ready to leave for Calcutta, and then on to Burma, on the morning tide.

Drawing a shaky breath, she turned away from her trunk, pacing her room with restless agitation. She had not, she acknowledged, had a moment’s peace since she’d written to Mr. Anderson and accepted George Jamison’s proposal by proxy.

George Jamison.
Her future husband
.

Dear heaven, how had this come about? How had she agreed? She’d nearly made up her mind to reject Anderson’s suggestion when Margaret had swept in with all of her sunny optimism and fiery determination, leaving Isobel quite overcome in her wake.

“But you cannot back down now!” Margaret had exclaimed when Isobel had haltingly told her of Mr. Anderson’s unusual suggestion, and her resolution to reject it. “Not when you—and I—have both worked so hard for this to come to pass! Think what an adventure it will be, Isobel.”

“I’m not sure if I wish for that kind of adventure any longer,” Isobel had answered wretchedly. Since her interview with Mr. Anderson she’d tormented herself with visions of a life in Burma—the heat, the deprivation, the flies, and not to mention far worse things. Children dying in the cradle. All manners of dirt and disease. And a husband who might not be nearly as accommodating or kind or even handsome as she hoped.

“You seemed quite determined when I last spoke to you,” Margaret countered robustly. “Of course, it’s natural for you to experience a twinge of nervousness—but a twinge, Isobel, only! If you back down now there won’t be another opportunity.”

Isobel had stiffened in affront. “How can you be so sure?”

“Because you are almost thirty years old,” Margaret said bluntly. “Your childbearing years are nearly behind you. A man wants a wife who can give him children—I know.”

Isobel knew Margaret had struggled with her own infertility for many years before she’d fallen pregnant with Charlotte, but she was quite sure Henry had been kind and understanding, and in any case Margaret was a happy mother now.

And she was just a nearly-dried up spinster.

“You do not mind speaking plainly, it seems,” she said stiffly, but Margaret wouldn’t let her stand on pride or formality.

“Only because I care for you, and want to see you settled and happy!”

“In Burma?” Isobel cried. “Do you even know what kind of place it is?”

“Isn’t Mr. Judson, whom we heard speak, in Burma?”

“Yes, but—”

Margaret put her hands on her hips. “Where did you think you would go, as a missionary’s wife, Isobel?” she asked, one eyebrow arched, a small smile twitching her lips. “Canada?”

“I don’t know!” Isobel wrung her hands, too distraught now to take offense at her sister-in-law’s gentle teasing. “I didn’t think about it at all, I suppose. It was too much to concern myself with. And in truth,” she admitted, her voice falling to a whisper, “I was more concerned with the man in question.”

“And what do you think of the man in question now?” Margaret asked.

“I’ve only one letter to educate myself on him! How am I to know anything?”

“It depends on the letter. Surely he’s written of important matters?”

Isobel’s gaze slid away from Margaret’s. “I suppose…”

Margaret held a hand out. “Let me read it.”

Isobel, both scandalized and embarrassed, blushed. “Margaret! It’s private.”

“Private, is it?” she countered with a smile. “Then he must have written of important matters indeed.”

“Perhaps,” Isobel allowed. George Jamison had written of his family in Philadelphia, his determination to aid Mr. Judson’s translation of the Bible into Burmese, and his love of the game of chess. None of it, Isobel feared, really gave her a sense of the man himself. What kind of husband he would be… if he would be gentle or funny or kind. If he would love her… or she would love him.

Margaret cocked her head, sweeping her with a thoughtful gaze. “And yet you are still unsure?”

“We are talking of
marriage,
Margaret,” Isobel answered, as stern as a schoolmarm, with Margaret her unruly pupil. “Hardly something to be entered lightly!”

“Indeed. But it was my impression you had already considered the matter to some length.” Isobel didn’t answer and Margaret continued gently, “which makes me think this is nothing but last minute nerves, Isobel. Quite understandable, but you must not let it stop you.”

“And you would see me travel all the way to Burma?” Isobel asked, her eyes filling with tears. “And never see you, or Mother or Father or Henry, again?”

“I would see you happy,” Margaret answered, taking Isobel’s cold hands in hers. “Wherever that may be. And I would pray that we might see each other again—Mr. Judson has returned from Burma twice already, after all.”

“Even so…”

“Are you really thinking of refusing? Continuing your life as ever?”

Isobel choked back a gulping sob and blinking rapidly, shook her head. “No… No, I am not. I’m just so afraid, Margaret. More afraid than I ever thought to be.”

“Of course you are,” Margaret soothed, and embraced her. “Of course you are. But you will go.”

And so she’d written to Mr. Anderson, and told her parents, and now she was ready and packed, her whole life ahead of her… so why did it feel as if everything were ending?

“Isobel?” Her mother appeared in the doorway, several starched handkerchiefs, embroidered with lace, in her hands. “I thought you could use a few more handkerchiefs. I did the lace myself.”

“Oh, Mother.” Isobel took them with a watery smile. “Thank you.”

“You’re packed, then?” Arabella asked, glancing at Isobel’s trunk with something close to apprehension.

Isobel nodded. “Yes… I only have to wait now, I suppose.”

“Cook has made you a farewell supper with all of your favorite dishes,” Arabella said, her smile as watery as Isobel’s. “Pigeon pie and Washington cake.”

Isobel smiled, remembering how just a few short months ago she’d been so tired of the staid, predictable suppers Cook put on. Tired of everything about her life, and yet now she knew she would miss it all, almost more than she could bear.

“That’s very kind of her,” she said, her voice choking a little, and Arabella took a step towards her.

“Dear Isobel, I know I was… harsh when you first suggested this plan. I thought it outlandish and dangerous, and I still do, but even so you go with my blessing, and my prayers. Please know that.” Her mother blinked back tears and so did Isobel.

“Thank you, Mother,” she said, and kissed her cheek.

The last young pupil had trickled out of the First School into the September sunshine, and Maggie moved around the room stacking primers and slates. She and her Aunt Margaret had been teaching at the school for a month, ever since it had reopened after the summer, and Maggie had enjoyed every bit of it.

Of course, there had been other enjoyments to be had in Boston; her aunt had made good on that promise. Maggie had two new day dresses
and
an evening gown now, all from a fashionable modiste on Tremont Street. She’d gone to dinner with her Uncle Ian and his wife Caroline in an actual restaurant, and a fancy one at that. The Tremont House Hotel was considered quite the best place to dine in Boston, and Maggie had been overwhelmed by the seven-course meal she’d shared with her relatives.