Parlor Games A Novel

THE FORBIDDING ORIENT



SHANGHAI TO HONG KONG—APRIL–JUNE 1890



In late April of 1890 Sue Marie and I established residence at the Queen’s Hotel in Shanghai, a British-style hotel brimming with portraits of the royal family and inhabited by English businessmen and the odd family on tour. We set about regaining our footing by mingling with guests, sometimes as a pair and other times on our own, in the lobby and over dinners in the Kensington Room. Some evenings we ventured out to the Shanghai Gin Club, where we danced with Englishmen and the occasional American.

But all was not well between Sue Marie and me. Barely a month after we’d arrived, we quarreled over how to manage our modest funds. I preferred to open a bank account and require both of us to sign on withdrawals; she wished to keep all the money on hand—under her management, of course. We’d been unable to agree, so she counted out half the money and slapped it into my palm.

The next morning, I surmised the storm had blown over when she asked me to go to the Londoners’ Gift Shop and buy us some rosewater. The errand took nearly an hour in Shanghai’s pedestrian-clotted streets, which required me to navigate among Chinese obviously quite at home with the bump and brush of crowded-in shoulders.

Upon my return, I noticed Sue Marie, outfitted in her deliciously yellow day dress, conducting business at the registration desk. When she spotted me approaching, she turned her back on the desk and worried her hands about her purse.

“Sue Marie,” I asked, “are you going out?”

She stepped away from the desk. “Yes, well, I left a note in the room, but I might as well tell you. I’m leaving.”

“What do you mean, leaving?”

“Leaving, striking out on my own,” she said, perturbation creeping into her voice.

It took me a moment to comprehend. “But we’re partners.”

“I’m tired of you telling me what to do. And San Francisco sure didn’t make us rich.”

“Is that all I am to you—somebody to help you get rich?”

Sue Marie smirked. “We were after the same thing. Don’t play innocent with me.”

“But we’re more than that to each other.”

“Did you think I was looking for a wife?”

The breath escaped my lungs. I felt I might faint. “But you can’t just walk away. Not in a strange place.”

“Can and will. My luggage is already in a cart.”

My mind buzzed with questions. I rubbed my fingers over my temple. “But what will you do?”

She drummed her fingers against her purse and looked around me, toward the door.

I maneuvered between her and the door. “And what am I supposed to do?”

“Do as you please. Find somebody else to play maid for you.”

I knew people in the lobby might be watching, but I couldn’t help myself. I grabbed her arm. “No, Sue Marie, don’t leave like this.”

“Oh, quit making such a scene,” she said, lifting my hand off her arm and nudging her chin toward the door. “Mr. Brosney is waiting for me.”

I turned around. A big-eared young man stood by the door, watching us with wide eyes. I looked at Sue Marie, pulled in my lower lip, and pleaded with my expression. She merely tossed her head. A shiver shot out from my core, convulsing my arms, neck, and head. I could hardly bear the thought of Sue Marie’s abandoning me. “Please, don’t leave me.”

“Good-bye, Pauline.” She walked around me to Mr. Brosney, took his arm, and, without looking back, strolled off.

I stood reeling at the edge of the lobby, as wobbly as an old Chinese woman on tiny pegged feet, dejected and discombobulated, a veritable stranger in a foreign land. How could my own dear Sue Marie cast me off like chattel? I wanted to be alone with the surge of distress welling up in me, with the tears threatening to break. As I turned to retreat to my room, a hefty man in a summery off-white suit swept up to me.

“Excuse me, miss,” he said, his flat-featured face exuding calm and concern. “I couldn’t help noticing. Are you in need of some assistance?”

His British accent struck me as civilized and genuine all at once, and his button nose and pink complexion gave him the appearance of kindliness. He had a soapy, well-scrubbed scent about him, and I guessed from the hints of creases around his eyes that he might be in his mid- to late thirties. Struggling to regain my composure, I folded my hands over my chest. “It was nothing, only a disagreement.”

He cocked his head in a consoling pose. “Are you quite all right?”

I heaved out a deep breath. “I’ve just had a shock.”

“Come, let’s sit in the lounge. At least let me get you some water.” He escorted me to a table in the hotel lounge and ordered a glass of water. After Mr. Hugh Carlyle introduced himself, he turned his most earnest attention to my distress.

“Can I provide any assistance, Miss Townsend?”

“No, no. She was my traveling companion.”

“Forgive me if I seem to pry, but has she caused you a problem?”

“She’s decided to go off on her own, which was totally unexpected.”

“Ah, she’s abandoned you. I say, even at twenty paces, her heartlessness chilled me to the bone.”

“Yes, I thought we were dear friends.”

“No true friend would behave in such a manner. She’s proved her brutishness, and I daresay you deserve better.”

“I thought I could count on her.”

“And now you’re left by yourself?”

“Completely.”

“You know no one else in Shanghai?”

The way he put it quite upset me, bringing the cold reality down on me as it did. Why, I was barely acquainted with the hotel neighborhood, to say nothing of the city of Shanghai. I patted a hand over my heart to calm myself. “Not a soul. And it seems such a forbidding place.”

“I can remedy that,” he said, with a decisive dip of his head. “Will you permit me to show you around? Shanghai has such sights to see.”

I swallowed some of the cool water the waiter had placed in front of me. The flush of my skin and quivering of my nervous limbs subsided. I summoned my most grateful smile. “I feel better already.”



Three days later, on a sunny June Saturday, Mr. Carlyle hired a mule-drawn carriage and toured me around Shanghai. First we wove our way through the shopping district and took in the wares displayed in their wide windows—intricate ivory carvings, elegant water paintings, fine cloisonné, and lovely silk carpets. Well-dressed foreigners strolled the streets, mingling with Chinese women in colorful silk robes and men in muted and flowing wide-sleeved garb. The sight of all these exotic scenes and goods and the singsong cacophony of Chinese voices filled me with childlike wonderment.

“Can we stop, please?” I asked Mr. Carlyle. “So I can explore that shop?”

“Of course,” he said, grinning so broadly I wondered if the delight he took in my enthusiasm exceeded even my own pleasure.

We sauntered through the aisles of a curio shop filled with jade and ivory carvings and stone chops of milky gray, burnt orange, and endless other variations on earthy tones. When a miniature horse statue—a proud, muscular stallion with a mane of thick, swirling coils—caught my eye, Mr. Carlyle indulged me with its purchase.

Next we traveled to the Jing’an Temple and strolled the perimeter of its interior court. Before the steps to one of the temple buildings, a Chinese man paused and crouched. An old stooped woman—his mother, I surmised—leaned over his backside; he circled his arms around her legs, lifted her onto his back, and carried her up the stairs.

“Why, I’ve never seen anything like that,” I remarked, taking Mr. Carlyle’s arm. How amazing it all was. Here I was in China, worlds away from my own family. I imagined recounting this scene to Maman and Gene and watching their eyes sparkle with awe. My older brother, Paul, with his misguided notions of familial duty, would probably have scoffed at this, or, for that matter, any of my stories.

“Yes,” said Mr. Carlyle. “The Chinese are quite devoted to their elders. They’re a very honorable people.”

“They are, aren’t they? I’ve never felt a bit afraid among them. Not even in large crowds.”

After we’d covered the temple grounds and buildings, Mr. Carlyle asked, “Shall we tour the business district?”

On the drive through Shanghai’s busy streets, I could think of little other than the harmony and closeness among these people and my devotion to my own family. And whenever my thoughts turned to family, I remembered my dear papa. How intrigued he would have been by China. Papa, who had dreamed of sailing all the way up the St. Lawrence Seaway and across the ocean to France, would have relished tales of my Shanghai adventure.

“Look here,” said Mr. Carlyle from the open-air seat of our carriage. “We’re coming into the International Settlement. You’ll find some American interests here.”

“But mostly British, of course,” I said, nodding in the direction of the Royal Bank of London.

“The French keep to themselves in a concession just south of here. You know those French—haughty to the end.”

“The trade must be lucrative for everybody involved.”

“Oh, yes. Someday this business district will rival even London’s.” Turning to me, he asked, “Have you ever been to London?”

“No, though I should love to see it.”

He patted my hand. “Then you must let me take you someday.”

My friendship with Mr. Carlyle was obviously blossoming, and I truly appreciated his taking me under his wing. He was a delightful and considerate companion, and I was beginning to think I might entrust myself to his care, at least for the time being. After all, he navigated Shanghai with great ease and demonstrated agility managing the Chinese.

We returned to the hotel, and he invited me, as he had done the previous two evenings, to join him for dinner. It was over our dessert of hasty pudding that he announced, “I’ve business in Hong Kong next week.”

I truly regretted the prospect of parting with Mr. Carlyle, but I had no claim on him. I’d assumed that the owner of a British mining interest would be bound to move on sooner or later. “Oh, and will you be gone long?”

“It’s hard to say. Several executives from other businesses are gathering, and I’m required to be at their disposal.”

“I shall miss your company.”

Mr. Carlyle massaged his chin with his fingertips. “The thing is, I hate to leave you here on your own.”

I bowed my head. Though I had met other men in my few weeks in Shanghai, I felt safest with Mr. Carlyle. When I looked up, he was studying me.

Steepling his fingers, he asked, “Would you care to join me?”

In truth, from my first sight of the Shanghai Harbor bustling with rickshaws, dockworkers, and hunched-over Chinamen speeding along on errands, I’d fallen in love with the Orient. Having heard that Hong Kong also offered wonderful shopping and that its port was among the most beautiful in the world, I beamed at Mr. Carlyle. “I should like that very much.”



Just as I began to put my faith in Mr. Carlyle, I made a most disconcerting discovery—and quite by happenstance. Upon our arrival in Hong Kong, he installed us in the Lu-Chou Hotel, which he explained was sufficiently removed from the one at which his fellow business executives had gathered to spare me “boorish blokes spouting about metals and mining morning, noon, and night.”

The day after our arrival, Mr. Carlyle begged my indulgence. “I’ve an important meeting today, and it’s quite possible I’ll need to spend a few days away on business. I’ll send word later.”

Of course I was disappointed. He’d dragged me all the way to a strange city and then abandoned me. To amuse and occupy myself, I strolled the area surrounding our hotel. June is quite hot and humid in Hong Kong, worse even than Chicago at its muggiest, so I stopped for a respite at a nearby hotel, the grand-looking Olympia, which obviously catered to an English-speaking clientele. Although Mr. Carlyle hadn’t named the hotel of his business compatriots, I wondered if this might be it. The ample ceiling fans cooling its lobby, as well as curiosity, drove me to explore the hotel shop, corridors, and dining room.

To my great surprise and consternation, there, in the open-air dining room at the heart of the hotel, I spotted Mr. Carlyle lunching with a woman and three children. They sat near the middle of the room, on tightly woven rattan chairs, partially shielded by one of the room’s many potted palms. A few minutes of observation revealed that Mr. Carlyle was on quite familiar terms with the foursome, for the two girls and one boy dangled their legs impatiently, and both Mr. Carlyle and the woman I presumed to be his missus alternately chided the youngsters and exchanged the most casual of conversation.

I’d had a late breakfast, but, overcome with befuddlement, I decided to calm myself with a spot of lunch and requested a table on the other side of the dining area. As I strolled past the little family, I offered Mr. Carlyle the slightest dip of my head. His eyes blinked rapidly and he shifted in his chair, as if to warn me against engaging him, which I had not the least intention of doing.

Witnessing Mr. Carlyle with his family distressed me a great deal, and after lunch I hired a sedan to take me to the harbor. There, from the shelter of my covered chair, I spent a long hour watching junks and sampans crisscross the choppy waters while I contemplated my plight. The scents of onion cakes and boiling oil wafted my way from a nearby lane thick with open-air food shops, but they only stirred nausea in me. I could not have felt more alone and dejected, on my own now a world away from all that was familiar to me. First Sue Marie had deserted me, and now it appeared that Mr. Carlyle, whom I had grown quite fond of, had deceived me.



When I returned to the Lu-Chou Hotel late that afternoon, I found Mr. Carlyle nursing a drink in our suite. He’d drawn the curtains on the room’s southern windows, leaving the room darkened but unavoidably overheated.

He jumped to his feet. “Where have you been?”

I opened my eyes wide and blinked to adjust to the room’s darkness. “I’ve been wandering aimlessly, worrying about what’s to become of me.”

Despite the room’s warmth I noticed his collar remained buttoned to the top. He plopped his drink down on the side table. “Did you enjoy your lunch at the Olympia?”

I untied my hat ribbon and cast the hat on the sandalwood dresser. “How could I, distressed as I was?”

“It was altogether annoying, you sitting there, spying on me across the room.”

Ripping my gloves off, I gripped them taut in my hands. “I in no way disturbed you or your lunch companions.”

He leaned back on his heels and softened his tone. “Yes, well, my sister and her children surprised me with a visit.”

“Your sister?” I asked. “Where is she visiting from?”

“Liverpool.”

“Then she’s very far from home herself.” Did he truly expect me to believe he was this upset about being discovered with his sister? “Perhaps I can keep her and the youngsters company while you attend to your business.”

“I would rather you not.”

“You’ll at least introduce me, won’t you?”

Mr. Carlyle’s usually placid face flushed to radiant pink. “I’ll do no such thing.”

“And why not?”

“It wouldn’t be proper.”

I flopped my gloves on the easy chair and planted a hand on the chair back to steady myself. “If she’s your sister, and I’m your companion, what’s not proper?”

“I don’t want you upsetting my family.”

“And what about me? You never told me you had family here.”

“They’re only visiting briefly. I didn’t know they were coming.”

“And do you intend to strand me in a strange city?”

Mr. Carlyle’s arms stiffened at his sides. “No, of course not.”

“You’ve put me in terrible straits.”

“I’ll pay for your return to Shanghai.”

“You led me to believe I was more than a dalliance.”

The sinews of his neck tightened. “I did not.”

“How dare you? You invite me to travel with you, and you don’t mention any family. What do you take me for?”

“I regret the circumstances.”

“You deceive me, and regret is the best you can muster?”

He threw his hands up in resignation. “I’ll pay you. I’ll write a check right now.”

“And how much do you believe my inconvenience is worth?”

“A thousand pounds.”

I gasped. Having acquainted myself with the British currency, I understood this to be a sizable amount. Mr. Carlyle’s wealth obviously exceeded his capacity for honesty. “A thousand pounds?”

He must have thought I judged the sum to be inadequate, for he rushed to defend it. “It’s plenty. You can live in style for a year on that.”

Mr. Carlyle appeared altogether willing to part with his money, and I had Maman and my family’s sorry finances to consider. I glared at him, holding my head high. “And you can go back to your wife and pretend nothing happened.”

“Leave my family out of this.”

“I believe my troubles are worth a good three thousand pounds.”

After I impressed upon him the dismal state of my—and his—plight, Mr. Carlyle agreed he’d done me wrong. He wrote a check for the amount I requested and packed up the remainder of his belongings.

I was alone again, though with sufficient funds to make a fresh start and wire a goodly sum to Maman. For why, fair reader, had I ventured to strange lands if not for my dear family’s sake? But Hong Kong had left a bad taste in my mouth; I wished only to leave the city and the vexation it had visited on me far behind.