Mary Putney - The China Bride

They reached this one just as the guard was moving the wicket aside to open the street for the day's traffic. The guard greeted Troth casually, waving them past with only a bored glance at Kyle.

The door into China had just opened.

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England

December 1832

"You don't ride?" Dominic asked with surprise as he turned from a stall containing a magnificent dark bay horse.

Troth dropped her eyes, feeling as if she'd committed a faux pas. "I'm sorry, no. Only a donkey now and then. I lived in cities, you see."

"Regrettable, but not incurable. That is, if you'd like to learn riding?" The last was an afterthought, uttered as if he couldn't imagine that anyone wouldn't want to ride.

"I should like to try it." Nonetheless, Troth eyed the bay doubtfully. It was very large, and had a challenging gleam in its eyes.

"Don't worry, I won't put you on Pegasus. He's a handful even for me." Dominic stroked the horse's handsome nose, his expression suddenly bleak. "He was my brother's horse, you know. Kyle gave him to me the day before he left England."

Troth had a swift mental image of Kyle galloping across the hills on the horse, his dark brown hair blowing in the wind. The pair of them would have been a magnificent sight. She swallowed hard. She and Kyle had had so little time…

Dominic touched her elbow, guiding her down the row of stalls until they reached a placid chestnut. "Cinnamon will do nicely for learning. Here, give her this." He placed a chunk of carrot on Troth's palm.

She nervously offered it to the chestnut, thinking that the beast could probably take her fingers off if so inclined. Horses might eat grass, but those teeth were large. Cinnamon took the carrot with the daintiness of a fine lady, her soft lips lightly tickling Troth's palm. Charmed, she stroked the horse's nose and received a friendly nuzzle in the ribs. "I think Cinnamon and I shall do well together."

"I'm sure you will." Dominic smiled, but his eyes held the haunted sadness that had been there since he'd learned of his twin's death. He treated her with great gentleness, as if her relationship with his brother entitled her to special care. "Isn't the dressmaker coming today? Have a riding habit made up so we can get you started."

She made a face. "Madame Champier must be here by now. I'd better return to the house, or Meriel will be cross with me."

"Only a fool would risk her displeasure," he said gravely, but there was a twinkle in his eyes. Though he and his wife behaved with propriety in public, it was easy to see the powerful bond between them. Six years they'd been married, yet each still lit up like a candle when the other entered the room.

Troth thought wistfully of their marriage as she walked back to the house. Might she and Kyle have ever achieved such closeness? She doubted it, for his heart had been given elsewhere. But it made a sweet, melancholy dream.

The day was cold, with a stiff wind chasing clouds so sun and shadow changed continually. One of the first things Meriel had done was find a heavy cloak for her new sister-in-law. Properly garbed, Troth found the wintry conditions much less uncomfortable than on her original journey from London to Shropshire.

During her fortnight at Warfield Park, Troth had been accepted seamlessly into the household. The children, Philip and Gwyneth, rushed up to her when she entered the house. "Tarts!" Gwynne said excitedly.

"We're going to the kitchen to help with the Christmas baking," her older brother explained. "Would you like to come with us?"

"I'm sure that Lady Maxwell has other things to do." Their nurse, Anna, came forward and took the children's hands.

Troth brushed her fingers over Gwynne's white-blond hair. "I'm afraid that's so, but perhaps another time? I'm sure the baking will continue for days."

Gwynne left with a melting glance over her shoulder as Anna led them off to the kitchen. Five and three, the children had blithely adopted Troth as an aunt from the beginning, though there had been an awkward moment at their first introduction when Gwynne had asked why Aunt Troth had strange eyes. While Anna blanched at her charge's rudeness, Meriel had calmly said that Troth came from a part of the world where her eyes were normal, and Gwynne's would look very strange. The child had accepted that with perfect composure, and they'd become fast friends.

Troth would have enjoyed the preparations for Christmas, if the holidays hadn't meant that she would soon meet the other members of the Renbourne family. Though Dominic and Meriel had accepted her as if half-Chinese widows of dubious background were normal, Troth feared that others, especially the formidable Earl of Wrexham, would be less welcoming.

She reached Meriel's sitting room to find her sister-in-law cross-legged in the middle of the floor, surrounded by bolts of fabric and trimmings as she chatted with the dressmaker. Delighted by the countess's informality, Troth said, "I'm sorry I'm late."

The dressmaker inhaled, her avid gaze going over Troth. "Oh, milady Grahame, you were right," she said with a lilting French accent. "What a pleasure this will be!"

Troth blinked. "Excuse me?"

"I told Madame Champier that you have a unique beauty, and she is anticipating the pleasure of dressing you," Meriel explained.

Troth felt heat flooding her face. "You mock me."

Meriel rose lithely from the carpeted floor. "You truly don't believe yourself beautiful, do you?" She took Troth's arm and turned her toward a mirror. "Look at yourself, not as a woman who is neither Chinese nor Scottish, but as you are. Your graceful figure, your eyes, your beautiful bones. Even in the plainest of garments you are lovely. Dressed well at the Christmas ball, you will make men stop in their tracks and youths wilt over their poetry."

Troth stared at the mirror, trying to imagine such a wild fantasy. True, her skin was good, her hair thick, and the auburn highlights did not seem odd in England. But she still looked strange, neither Oriental nor European. Of course, Kyle had claimed to admire her appearance. Perhaps the English simply liked eccentric-looking women.

"If you say so," she said doubtfully.

Meriel sighed, but made no further attempts to persuade Troth. Instead, she and Madame Champier began discussing what fabrics and styles would best suit her.

Troth endured the consultations and measuring patiently. What was the English expression-trying to make a silk purse from a pig's ear? But Meriel was obviously enjoying herself, decorating her sister-in-law in the same spirit with which she created lavish arrangements with flowers from the glass houses. Troth owed her the amusement, for Meriel had been kindness personified.

Half a world from her birthplace, she was finally Troth Montgomery, a female and a member of the Renbourne family. She had not felt such a sense of belonging since her father died. It would be hard to leave. Dominic and Meriel had said she could spend the rest of her life at Warfield if she chose, but of course she could not accept their offer. Unlike Meriel's two sweet old aunts, who lived in the dower house and were part of the family, Troth was not blood kin, and she didn't want to wear out her welcome.

Besides, she must go to Scotland. She'd stay at Warfield through the winter, then travel north. Not to find her father's relatives-she doubted they would receive her as kindly as Dominic and Meriel had. But she must see her father's homeland-the compulsion was as strong as Kyle's desire to visit Hoshan. Perhaps she would look for a cottage that could become her home.

She had so much freedom now. She just hadn't realized how lonely freedom could be.

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Canton, China

Spring 1832

The back of Troth's neck prickled as she and her "grandfather" walked through the Dragon Gate into the city of Canton. Though she hadn't said as much to Maxwell, she thought of their passage through the city as a test. She would cancel the journey if his appearance attracted potentially dangerous attention.

If he was discovered in Canton it would be a scandal, but a minor one. The viceroy would express outrage, Chenqua would have to kowtow and apologize, a fine would be paid-but no real damage would be done. Fan-qui traders often chafed at the Eight Regulations, and Maxwell's transgression would be considered a childish prank. Being found in the countryside could not be passed off as a prank, and the consequences would be far more severe.

Still, they were off to a good start. She'd worried that Maxwell might not be serious enough about his disguise, so she was pleasantly surprised at how well he performed as a feeble old man. His slumped shoulders made his height less noticeable, and he kept his head down, though she was sure that behind the layer of gauze his eyes were eagerly scanning the teeming, noisy streets. The less that was visible of his face the better. Even with the bandages, a careful observer might realize that his covered nose was too large, his chin and mouth wrong for a Han Chinese.

His mouth…

Heat washed through her at the memory of his kiss. What a devil he was, to stir her senses so casually! Yet he had not been unaffected himself. She took comfort in that.

She glanced at him over her shoulder, as she had done regularly since they left the hong. Luckily, anyone who noticed would think her merely concerned for her aged companion. She was pleased to see that the swirling crowds were respectful of his gray hair, with people swinging wide to avoid jostling him. Though reverence for age was a foundation of Chinese society, she hadn't fully appreciated how his disguise would spare him from being constantly buffeted by strangers.