The Palace of Heavenly Pleasure (8 page)

Temples were rather easily adapted for diplomats' holiday homes. There was nothing to be done about the green curlicued roofs and complicated wooden rafters, or the inset panels complete with carved dragons and large red pillars made of solid tree-trunks because these were part of the structure, but a lot could be achieved with imported wallpaper and clever lighting. A few sofas and
chaises-longues,
a solid mahogany dining table and a pianoforte, fine paintings on the walls, a copy of Landseer's
Dying Stag
and a portrait of Lady MacDonald's grandfather in Waterloo uniform, blended well with the lacquer screen, lanterns and Ming dynasty chairs; a delightful mélange of modern urban chic and tasteful
chinoiserie
. The two windows, which had had to be hacked out on either side of the original Hall of Worship, gave much-needed light, and Lady MacDonald had chosen elegant yellow curtains to compensate for the desecration. The foreigners were, on the whole, observant of local sensitivities—these were, after all, places of worship they had commandeered—and it was considered bad form to destroy any paintings, carvings or other works of religious art that they might find on the walls. That was where good English wallpaper came into its own. Lady MacDonald recalled how she had been startled on the first night she had stayed here by the faces of ancient, flaking demons and
bodhisattvas
grinning in the candlelight from a fifteenth-century painting on the back wall. A layer of William Morris had made all the difference and, what was more, the flowered design went very well with her Persian carpets.

Proud as she was of the inside of her house, she was prouder still of the garden she had fashioned out of the courtyard. She had knocked down the outer wall and one of the shrines and planted a lawn that stretched to the edge of the cliff. She had laid out flower beds and herbaceous borders and, with the white garden chairs and tables, the swing and the roller, she was confident that if the house was still China, the garden was unquestionably Surrey.

It was here that the uniformed houseboys, their long queues hanging down their backs, were busily lining up the crystal on the sideboard and laying out the last of the silver on the four long tables neatly spaced under the shade of the willow trees. The white of the servants' jackets and the starched tablecloths blazed brilliantly against the restful background of green lawn and fir-covered hillside. They worked quietly and efficiently, but they were conscious of the scrutinising eyes of Lady MacDonald, who was making some last minor adjustments to the flower arrangements. She was dressed in a wide, feathered hat and a tight-waisted taffeta dress of a subtle and becoming violet, and the oversized pair of garden scissors were somewhat incongruous in her fashionably gloved hands. Sir Claude, on the other hand, blazered, white-bagged and straw-boatered, was a picture of ease as he smoked his long cheroot, looking idly over the drop to the yellow plain below.

Much admired by his more temperamental European colleagues for his imperturbability, the canny analysis behind his short, enigmatic observations, his understated but natural authoritativeness—a typical English pro-consul, they judged, more mandarin than the mandarins—Sir Claude was actually a shy man, whose deep reserve was often mistaken for coolness or arrogance. He was respected rather than liked by his subordinates in the British Legation. Nearing fifty he had the colouring of a younger man, a full head of sandy hair and red, bony cheeks. A blond moustache waxed to thin points stretched out way beyond his ears at either side of his narrow, freckled face. It quivered as he moved, and seemed strangely detached from his face, rather as if a yellow bat had chosen to balance on his lips. Thin eyebrows frowned above pale, searching eyes. A tall man, he walked with a slight stoop, but even in the casual clothes he was wearing today, the deliberation of his movements evoked an aura of ceremony and grandeur. Under Sir Claude, the Legation functioned with an Imperial style, which extended even to its picnics.

Sir Claude was never the man to boast about his achievements, but he had been responsible for several diplomatic successes in this posting, not least for the negotiations that had dramatically increased British territory and influence in China. He had been the moving force behind the leasing of Wei Hai Wei as a new colony and, almost as an afterthought, the acquisition of the New Territories in Hong Kong; he had also secured from the Chinese government the recognition that the Yangtse valley was a British sphere of influence. He had ably countered similar aggrandising moves from the other powers in the scramble that followed China's unexpected defeat by Japan in 1895. Sir Claude was now keeping a wary eye on the activities of the Germans in Shantung and the Russians along the whole land border. Only yesterday he had received a worrying cable from his consul in the remote outpost of Kashgar, describing suspicious troop movements in the mountain passes leading to India. He had invited the Russian minister to the picnic and would choose a moment gently to communicate a veiled warning. It was not Sir Claude's style to seek confrontation when a quiet exchange behind the scenes might defuse tension.

He had found that his method of diplomacy harmonised well with that of the Chinese. He had struck up a practical working relationship with the officials at the
Tsungli Yamen
. Together they had resolved a number of thorny issues. Sir Claude had been proud of his intervention in the autumn of last year, after the Empress Dowager Tz'u Hsi, the real power behind the throne, had deposed the Emperor in a palace coup following the young man's abortive hundred-day reform movement. A wave of executions of the Emperor's servants and advisers had followed and the Legations, knowing the reputation of the Empress Dowager, expected the worst for her nephew. The diplomats' fears seemed confirmed when the palace issued a bulletin announcing that the Emperor was ill and that ‘all medical treatments had proved ineffective'. It had been then that Sir Claude had delivered a note to the
Tsungli Yamen
urging the palace that it had better find a cure, for the Emperor's death at this juncture would have an effect on the western powers that would be disastrous for China. The result was that the Emperor achieved a remarkable recovery, albeit in continued confinement in the Summer Palace. Sir Claude had been gratified, however, to see him produced at a reception that the Empress Dowager had organised in December, her way of showing the foreign community that on this occasion she had taken their advice, at least as far as the prevention of murder was concerned.

The occasion itself had been unprecedented in other ways since, for the first time ever, the old lady had requested to meet the wives of the ministers from each Legation. He did not know which had more astonished him: the sedate tea party between the mythical Dragon Empress and the respectable corseted matrons of the diplomatic community, or the repeated murmur from the old tyrant's lips, ‘One family. One family.' There were different interpretations of this enigmatic remark. He personally was encouraged, believing that the Dowager, while throttling reforms, was at least convinced of the need for engagement with the powers. He tended therefore to dismiss the rumours of antiforeign martial-arts societies gathering in the countryside, and the excitable beliefs of some of his colleagues that a xenophobic movement was being brewed by the palace. He had yet to hear an authenticated account of this ‘Boxer Movement', as it was beginning to be called, which would convince him that it reflected anything more than the usual local dissatisfaction among the peasantry that anyone who had lived in China for more than a few years had come to expect. Without being complacent about the problems the country faced, Sir Claude felt justified in having said in the report he had recently sent back to the Foreign Office that there was ground for cautious optimism that Great Britain's influence and trading stake would be uncompromised in the years to come.

The dust of the cavalcade was visible at the bottom of the hill. It would take them another twenty minutes to negotiate the winding path that led to his villa. Savouring a last puff of his cheroot, Sir Claude made his way to the gate, ready to receive the select and fashionable of Peking's foreign community.

*   *   *

Helen Frances cautiously sipped her champagne and looked with wide eyes at her fellow guests. She had never been to a gathering where so many languages were being spoken at once and by such an imposing array of people. When Tom had told her that they had been invited to a picnic she had thought it would be something along the lines of the outings she had had with her aunt to Ashdown Forest. She had imagined a small, casual group of friends gathered round a rug on the grass, chicken drumsticks, hard-boiled eggs and sandwiches, with perhaps a canter after lunch or a tour round one of the temples that Tom had told her could be found in the Western Hills. She had not conceived that the setting itself would be a temple, transformed into a luxurious mansion filled with exotic furniture. Nor that there would be a full meal in a manicured garden, with grander placings than in the dining room of the Hôtel de Pekin or the captain's table on the liner that had brought them here. And she certainly had not expected that everyone would be in such splendid dress.

It was true that some of the men in the party, including their host, were wearing comfortable country clothes, but in the circumstances it was an exaggerated insouciance. Many of the European diplomats had come in top hats and frock-coats. The Russian minister was displaying his medals. And the quiet Japanese minister, accompanied by his tiny kimono-clad wife, appeared to be in Court dress. Even so, the men were dowdy in comparison to their wives, who might have been presenting themselves at Ascot or the Henley Regatta. Helen Frances gazed in wonder as the Countess Esterhazy, a guest at the Austrian Legation, sailed by in a shimmer of blue organdie and peacock tails, laughing at a
bon mot
from the dapper French military attaché, who was dancing attendance behind her. Wide, feathered hats fluttered like a breeze through flowering cotton or mustard fields. Some of the women were wearing riding habits, as Helen Frances herself was, but the difference was that theirs might have been designed for the Windsor Hunt, with skirts cut in elegant velvets, shining black hats trailing transparent blue silks, jackets tightened round the waist to reveal the full magnificence of the female form. Helen Frances, in her brown travelling clothes and sturdy bowler, felt as out of place as a governess at a ball.

She had begged Tom not to leave her alone but he had been whisked off almost as soon as they arrived to take part in a game of rounders that some of the younger men were playing at the end of the garden. She had watched him for a while as he fielded. She saw him leap and catch the ball, roaring, ‘Howzat,' with the others, as he held his trophy high. His red face beamed with happiness, his yellow hair hung awry. She had felt warm with fondness and pride, and he had looked across the lawn at her and grinned. Then Lady MacDonald had scooped her up and taken her to meet Madame Pichon, the wife of the French minister, who had proceeded to test her schoolgirl French to its limits. After some comments about the weather, they had managed to agree that the Great Wall of China was indeed very long, and Madame Pichon was observing, a touch tartly, that that was perhaps the very reason why it was called a Great Wall, when thankfully her attention was diverted to a more interesting conversation, and a flustered Helen Frances was left to her champagne. For the moment she was happy to remain ignored.

She found herself listening to the conversation of a small group of men gathered round Dr Morrison, the famous
Times
correspondent and traveller whom Tom had pointed out to her at the hotel. Her attention was drawn to one of the younger men lounging beside him, a strikingly handsome, black-haired man, with broad shoulders and a relaxed, powerful frame, whose strong limbs were contained in a tight tweed suit of elegant cut. He reminded her of a panther she had once seen at London Zoo, lazy, somnolent, but full of energy and muscle, with a coiled strength behind the sleek skin, ever ready to spring. She had noticed him on the ride out here, cantering past her carriage. She had watched as he pivoted effortlessly in his saddle to shout a jest at one of his friends, one hand steadying the neck of his horse, his blue eyes briefly meeting hers as he turned. He had twitched the reins and the horse had broken into a gallop, disappearing in a cloud of dust. The image of his erect, military bearing had remained in her mind. In the carriage she had not dared ask Mr and Mrs Dawson, the representatives of Tom's company in Peking, who he was. For some unaccountable reason it would have seemed disloyal to Tom. She felt a sudden anxiety in case the man looked up and saw her staring at him now. Another part of her wished very strongly that he would.

‘Yes, I do take the Boxers seriously,' Dr Morrison was saying, in a quiet voice that contrasted with his rough, dogged features. Helen Frances detected the slight colonial accent in his speech. Tom had told her that he was a forthright Australian.

‘Oh, come off it, sir. Spirit soldiers coming out of thin air. Incantations against silver bullets and mumbo jumbo. It's not Africa.' The speaker was a red-haired, stocky young man with a harsh, braying voice. She recalled that he had been one of the riders whom the handsome black-haired man had been racing that morning. She thought that he was probably one of the Customs crowd of whom Tom spoke so disparagingly.

‘No, it's not Africa, Mr Simpson,' replied Morrison. ‘This is a civilisation that had a developed history when your ancestors were dancing around in woad. Superstition's not unique to the races we so grandly dismiss as native, you know. When was the last time you stepped aside to avoid walking under a ladder, or touched a piece of wood for luck?'

‘Old wives' tales, sir. Surely you don't—'

‘Old wives' tales, indeed, but they go deep. I grant you, in the last hundred years or so we western nations may have climbed a few rungs on the ladder of reason and science, but in Shakespeare's time, and that's the twinkling of an eye ago as far as Chinese history's concerned, we ourselves believed in hobgoblins and fairies and jack o'lanterns. Take your Chinese farmer here. He's had no agricultural revolution, certainly no industrial revolution. He lives by the seasons and the harvests, and if Heaven's angry he'll get his crops destroyed in a flood or a thunderstorm. Damn right he believes in gods and goddesses, and magical charms. They're about the only protection he's got. Put yourself in his shoes, Mr Simpson. Imagine that you're a Chinese peasant.'