Chapter

           Fourteen

Sixteen gold petals

Blazing in the autumn air

Noble rays of sun

In the days following the Noh performance, I couldn’t shake Rin’s words from my head. I tried to tell myself that her insinuations didn’t matter, that she was nothing but a fox borrowing the power of a lion, but I couldn’t make myself believe it. She seemed sure that Misaki was a spy, that I might be her accomplice, and there was no doubt she had the connections to make her suspicions heard.

Every day I feared some attempt to expose us — and even though her suspicions were all wrong, it was true that we were hiding something, and any focus on Misaki’s background would surely bring it all to light. I agonised over whether to tell Lord Shimizu, but he had said I should report anything causing Misaki unhappiness and, far from being unhappy, Misaki was blooming. She had now attended two events with people from her husband’s domain and, as she thought, had been welcomed. And her obvious happiness was bringing pleasure to her husband. Though he was seldom at home, I observed how the lines of tension on his face would ease when he gazed on his beautiful, joyful wife.

I didn’t want to be the one who spoiled their pleasure. So I kept my knowledge to myself, and the only one who seemed to notice my preoccupation was Daiki, the painting master, who murmured to me one day as I painted a lotus on a pond, ‘So much tightness in such a languorous flower. I hope nothing is troubling you, Kasumi . . .’

But as days and then weeks passed with nothing to disturb the calm waters of our lives, I began to relax. It seemed Rin had decided not to act on her suspicions — and perhaps they hadn’t been real in the first place; perhaps she had merely been having a bit of sport with the impressionable Aiko. Our secret was safe.

In the first days of the ninth month we celebrated the season of the chrysanthemum in our ikebana lesson with the bright yellow blooms that reminded us of the sun, Amaterasu, the ancestor of the Emperor, and on a rare occasion when Shimizu was home for dinner he suggested that we spend Chrysanthemum Day, the ninth day of the month, in chrysanthemum-viewing. ‘We can go to Somei, where the nurserymen have their displays. In fact, let’s make a proper excursion of it and visit some shrines and temples too. We’ll invite Isamu to come with us.’

On the morning of the ninth day, we rose early. The Chrysanthemum Festival marked a change in season; the light kimonos of summer were changed for heavier lined kimonos, and cool watery patterns gave way to autumnal colours and designs. I helped Misaki choose a kimono scattered with chrysanthemums in yellow, orange and white and a contrasting black obi.

As we waited for Isamu to arrive, Lord Shimizu observed, ‘You never wear the comb from Yabuhara anymore, Misaki.’ I was astonished that he’d noticed.

‘I’ve lost it,’ she confessed. ‘We’ve looked everywhere, haven’t we, Kasumi?’

‘What have you lost?’ Isamu asked, entering the room. As ever he seemed to bring with him the air of outside, crisp and alive with possibility.

‘A comb,’ said Misaki.

‘You remember,’ I said. ‘We bought it from a comb-maker in Yabuhara before we climbed the Torii pass. It’s red.’

Isamu shrugged. ‘Sorry, I mustn’t have been paying attention.’

To him it had meant nothing, but I could recall every word of our conversation; he had joked about buying a comb like that for me. It was always jokes between us; he would never take me seriously. And why should he? I told myself fiercely. Just because I had felt a bond between us from the moment I saw him at the shrine in Tsumago, it didn’t mean he’d felt it too. It was all in my head . . .

Shimizu had ordered the palanquins he kept for himself and Misaki to be brought round to the entrance, and suggested that he could hire conveyances for Isamu and me.

But Isamu declined. ‘I’m sure Kasumi-san prefers to walk,’ he said.

Why was he so sure? I grumbled to myself. Because I was a common girl from the mountains and not a fine lady?

I didn’t contradict him, but when the bearers had raised the palanquins of my master and mistress into the air and led the way through the gate, I said, ‘Perhaps now after nearly four months in Edo I am more ladylike.’

He raised his eyebrows, but said nothing.

‘Haven’t you noticed a difference?’ I persisted, uncomfortably aware that I was letting my tongue travel on ahead of my mind. So perhaps, despite my protestations, I hadn’t really changed at all.

‘I haven’t looked for one,’ he said.

Was this his way of telling me that my behaviour, ladylike or otherwise, was of no concern to him?

‘I suppose there are many fine ladies in the domain mansion,’ I observed, trying to keep the bitterness from my tone.

‘I suppose.’

‘You’ll have to marry one of them one day.’

‘I suppose.’

I wished I possessed his indifference. Why was I pushing him like this? No wonder he was avoiding responding. It would take more than a few accomplishments to make me a lady. Anyway, I reminded myself, no matter how long I spent in Edo, no matter how ladylike I became, I would never be the daughter of a samurai. He and I could never be together.

The problem was . . . the problem was Isamu. A few months earlier I would have accepted without question the husband my father chose for me, yam-headed though he might be. But now I would detest a yam-headed husband and yearn for someone who was clever and curious and cultured. The defects in my character were becoming more pronounced, not less, I concluded sadly. Coming to Edo had taught me to yearn for more than I could ever have.

It was a relief when we reached the wooded hill on which stood the Ana Hachiman shrine. Lord Shimizu and Misaki alighted from their palanquins to join us, and Shimizu described the winter solstice festival held at the shrine, and the crowds that would gather to buy a charm that promised prosperity for the coming year.

Isamu and I rinsed our hands and mouths as Shimizu and Misaki stepped forwards together to pray at the altar.

‘Shall we?’ asked Isamu as they moved away.

As we walked towards the altar, as we bowed and clapped, I was reminded of the first time I had seen him, praying at the shrine above my village. Now we were praying together. I tried to pray for my family but I was aware of Isamu beside me and though I knew it was hopeless it was him I was praying for. Him and me.

After a brief stop at a teahouse for lunch, we continued on to Somei.

‘Oh, the palanquin is so uncomfortable,’ Misaki groaned in a whisper that only I could hear as she and I walked together towards the crowded pavilion where the chrysanthemums were displayed. ‘You’re so lucky to be allowed to walk.’

Maybe Isamu had done me a favour? This optimistic thought gave my heart a lift that was magnified as the first of the displays came into view.

‘Look!’ I clutched Misaki’s arm as through the crush of people I glimpsed a huge shower of cascading flowers in pink and yellow.

‘Over here, Kasumi.’ Misaki positively dragged me towards a stall at which dolls costumed in robes of chrysanthemums were arranged in different scenes from classic tales.

As we moved along the line of stalls, I saw stems that were higher than my head with flowers the size of pumpkins. There were flowers with petals that were gold on the outside but red on the inside, like a rich merchant’s wife whose cotton kimono was secretly lined with red silk. One nurseryman had created a great dome of flowers, more than two hundred of them, all growing from the same stalk. Others had shaped birds and animals out of flowers.

Coming from the mountains, I had never seen such marvels before, and as we began the journey home I could not stop talking about them. ‘The intricacy of the petals is astonishing,’ I exclaimed to Isamu. ‘I’ve never studied a chrysanthemum properly before, but now — I can’t wait to paint them. And the way they burst like sunshine . . . They would make such wonderful images for woodblock prints, wouldn’t they? Their colours are so vivid.’

Ismau was smiling at my enthusiasm. ‘I’ve seen some prints published to celebrate the festival,’ he said.

‘Will you show me?’

He glanced at the palanquin bearing his uncle before saying, ‘If I have an opportunity.’ I had the feeling he regretted raising the topic.

It was dusk by the time we passed through the guard post at the corner of our street.

‘Thank you for walking with me, Kasumi-san,’ Isamu said as the palanquins were lowered to the ground. ‘I’ve enjoyed your company today.’ For once there was no teasing in his tone.

I felt a strange fluttering inside. Was it possible that he had declined his uncle’s offer of a palanquin because he had wanted to walk with me? Immediately I dismissed the thought; I was reading too much into a polite comment.

‘Will you be having dinner at home?’ Misaki asked her husband as I stooped to rearrange the folds of her kimono, which was slightly creased after her confinement in the cramped box.

‘Not tonight,’ Shimizu replied. ‘I’m going to introduce Isamu to my poetry circle.’

‘And to chrysanthemum sake,’ his nephew added.

Misaki smiled demurely. ‘Kasumi and I will stick to chrysanthemum tea.’

When the men had left we bathed and Misaki changed into a cotton kimono, then Ishi served us soup with seaweed — another dish I was learning to love in Edo.

After dinner we pulled out the box of shells and tried to find scenes with chrysanthemums.

Misaki was trying to persuade me that some rather indistinct dots on a kimono were in fact chrysanthemums when we heard voices. They were just a murmur at first, and I thought they must belong to some men walking down the road, but as they grew louder it was clear they were nearing our gate.

We exchanged looks. Could this be one of the bands of rōnin Shimizu had mentioned? But how would they have got past the guards posted at the end of the street?

Without discussion, we quickly started to gather up the shells that were spread across the floor.

‘It’s okay,’ Misaki said, and I had the feeling it was as much for her own reassurance as mine. ‘Even if they make it past the guard post, Goro is at the gate.’

This was far from comforting, as we all knew Goro usually slept through the night watch. Still, I told myself as the rabble of voices grew louder, surely not even Goro could sleep through this.

And then it seemed the rōnin were flooding through our gate, a confusion of shouts.

‘We have to hide,’ said Misaki urgently.

I snuffed out the lamp. ‘Behind the screen.’ I pointed towards my sleeping alcove, and we rushed to conceal ourselves in the dark space.

‘Maybe they’ll go straight to the storehouse,’ I whispered, ‘and leave the house alone.’

‘I hope they don’t take my husband’s sword from the front reception room; it’s his most precious possession.’

The shouts grew louder, then resolved themselves into discernible speech.

‘We will hunt them down!’

I stifled a scream with my hand. Who were they looking for? Us? Or were they after Lord Shimizu? What would they do when they found he wasn’t home?

‘Whoever did this will pay!’

A roar of approval followed.

This didn’t sound like thieves.

‘Calm yourselves, it’s not serious; just a flesh wound.’ It was Shimizu’s voice . . . or was it? It had none of his usual quiet force.

Misaki looked at me, and in the dim light I saw that her eyes were wide. ‘That was my husband.’

We crept through the reception room to the darkened entryway then, staying in the shadows to avoid being seen in the light flooding in from the lanterns outside, surveyed the scene.

Half a dozen men were milling about the raked gravel courtyard. The heaviness of their tread, the shouts, suggested some sake had been consumed. Surely Shimizu had not brought a bunch of drunken companions home!

Then my master himself staggered into view. By the light burning at the entrance I saw that Isamu was holding him up. His kimono gaped open at the sleeve and he clutched his arm. Blood was seeping through his fingers.

Misaki let out a wordless cry. He wasn’t drunk but injured!

Isamu’s voice rose above the others. ‘Riku, go to the mansion for the doctor.’

Shimizu gasped, ‘Not . . . necessary.’

Isamu ignored him. ‘Please, Uncle; we have to get you inside.’

They had moved away from the group now, Isamu guiding his uncle towards the entrance to our private quarters.

Misaki took a small step forwards, clearly desperate to go to her husband, but reluctant to insert herself into the group of men.

Isamu spoke again, and though he was younger than the rest, his tone carried an air of command. ‘Return to the mansion, all of you. We’ll meet there in the morning.’

There were some more declarations of vengeance, but the men didn’t argue. They stumbled out the gate.

When their voices had retreated, I heard what sounded like a groan of pain.

It was Shimizu, his face waxy and pale in the flickering light, and Misaki ran forwards.

‘Oh, Minoru,’ she cried. She was by his side in an instant. Isamu had one arm around his uncle; in the other he still held his sword.

‘Kasumi, boil some water,’ he called over his shoulder as together he and Misaki half led, half carried Shimizu to the reception room.

I hastily lit a lantern in the kitchen, and stirred the embers that were still smouldering in the stove.

Ishi appeared as I moved to the back door to go to the well and draw water. ‘What is it? I was too scared to come till all those men left.’

‘They were from the domain,’ I explained. ‘The master has been injured.’

‘No! What happened? Is he badly hurt? Was it rōnin?’

‘I don’t know. Someone has gone to the mansion for a doctor. Do you have anything we could use to bandage his wound?’

‘I’ll find something. You go see if your mistress needs help. I’ll take care of things in here.’

I left her to it and went back to the reception room. Shimizu was resting on the tatami, his injured arm folded across his body like a broken wing.

I could hear Isamu’s footsteps outside, pacing on the gravel as he awaited the doctor.

‘I’m sorry . . . to have alarmed you . . .’ Shimizu gasped. There were beads of sweat on his brow.

‘Please.’ Misaki laid a hand on his cheek. ‘Don’t speak.’

At last a shouted greeting from the courtyard told us that the doctor had arrived.

‘Get me some boiling water,’ he demanded curtly as Isamu led him into the room. His eyes fixed on his patient, he asked in a more deferential tone, ‘What have you done to yourself, my lord?’

As he carefully peeled back the blood-soaked sleeve of Shimizu’s kimono, I went to the kitchen to alert Ishi, who carried in a basin of hot water while I followed with strips of linen. We then went back to the kitchen and I busied myself making tea.

By the time I returned to the reception room with a tray, Lord Shimizu’s arm was bandaged and he was sitting up.

The doctor was packing away his instruments. ‘No activity for a couple of days; the wound needs to heal.’ His voice was respectful but firm. He bade us farewell.

Lord Shimizu lifted a cup of tea awkwardly in his left hand. When he saw the rest of us watching with concern, he assured us, ‘It’s only a scratch. It will heal quickly.’

‘What happened?’ I burst out.

Misaki gave me a reproving look, but Isamu answered, ‘We were at the Yaozen restaurant when we were attacked.’

‘But who would attack a meeting of a poetry circle?’

Isamu looked at his uncle, who put down his cup, the movement making him wince.

‘Ah, the poetry circle . . .’ He was staring at the cup — Misaki and I had earlier fetched a set of cups painted with chrysanthemums from the storehouse, in celebration of the day. He turned it so that he could see first one painted flower then another, but he was clearly distracted. At last he said with a sigh, ‘I suppose it’s time I told you the truth.’

My heart began to beat in expectation. Shimizu lifted his steady gaze to meet his wife’s fearful one. ‘The poetry circle is just a cover. In fact the group is made up of men representing the domains that support the Shogun, and senior members of the Shogun’s government. Some domains are reluctant to be seen to be publicly condoning the negotiations with the foreigners, so we have been holding secret meetings to discuss the treaty terms. Only high-ranking officials are included, and we always dress informally and meet in restaurants and teahouses. As far as anyone outside the group knows, we are meeting to discuss literature.’

That explained why Shimizu and his companions were frequenting the lively district of Yoshiwara; it was a good disguise.

‘But our last three meetings have been attacked. Our enemies — those who oppose any form of treaty with the foreigners — seem to know where and when our meetings are held. The Shogun has spies following everyone in the circle, looking for a weak link, but so far we have no clue as to who is passing on the information. I still find it hard to believe there’s a traitor among us.’ He passed his left hand across his face wearily.

‘Three meetings?’ I asked. Of course I had no right to speak, to question, but Shimizu didn’t seem to mind.

‘I wasn’t present at the first one: it was the night we saw the fireworks.’

‘So the fight . . .’ Misaki began.

‘It was not really as innocent as I made out.’

‘And the second attack?’

‘That was on Tanabata.’

I thought back to the evening when Shimizu had come home so upset. I recalled him in the garden with his sword the day after.

‘And tonight was the third. We were in a private room in the restaurant when our meeting was disrupted by masked men.’

Isamu added, ‘There was no doubting the reason for the disruption; they were shouting, “Sonnō jōi! Revere the Emperor, expel the barbarians!”’

I said to Isamu in alarm, ‘You were in the meeting too?’

‘Not inside. I was guarding the door.’

‘But they didn’t come through the door,’ said Shimizu. ‘They were concealed behind a screen.’

‘So the owner of the restaurant had let them in?’ I exclaimed.

‘They had booked a room nearby, claiming to be merchants travelling from the north. They knew ahead of time that we would be there,’ Isamu explained.

‘But if they are from the sonnō jōi movement, shouldn’t they be attacking the foreigners rather than our own people?’ I asked.

‘They oppose negotiations with the foreigners. They see us as the enemy as much as the barbarians.’

Revere the Emperor, expel the barbarians . . . Was it a coincidence that the attack should fall on Chrysanthemum Day, a day celebrating the Emperor? The yellow blossoms that had earlier brought me such joy seemed poisonous now. I put down the cup I was holding as if it burned my hand.

‘But don’t they understand that the Shogun is trying to save us from foreign attack?’ I said indignantly, remembering the discussion between my master and his nephew as we climbed the Torii pass. ‘That things will be worse for us if we don’t negotiate?’

‘I’m afraid their idealism doesn’t allow for pragmatism,’ Shimizu said.

‘You have to stop the meetings,’ Misaki urged. ‘What if you’d been killed?’ Her face was stricken.

‘Then I would have died honourably serving my lord and the Shogun,’ said her husband calmly. ‘The meetings will continue. They must. And we will find the traitor.’

‘It has to be someone in the circle.’

Shimizu shrugged. ‘Perhaps. Or perhaps not. Men talk to their wives, servants overhear.’

Suddenly I understood the significance of what Rin had been saying. She knew about the previous attacks, that there was a traitor — of course she did; as the daimyo’s sister-in-law there would not be much in the domain that she didn’t know. And she thought the traitor was Misaki! That it was Misaki — perhaps with my aid — who had given the details of the meetings to the circle’s enemies.

And now there had been a third act of violence. If Rin truly believed Misaki was a spy, surely she would say something now. And if Misaki was found to have lied about her background, who would believe she was telling the truth when she denied the accusations of spying?