Back in Peking, Morrison wrote to Mae twice on the first day, twice on the second. Not even a postal card came in reply. His pride could not countenance the notion that she did not care enough to respond. And so his mind focused on other explanations. Perhaps she’d been more ill than Mrs Ragsdale had realised. He castigated himself for not having insisted on seeing her. On the morning of the third day, his correspondence took on a tender tone, solicitous and concerned for her health. But then he worried about sounding too much like a doctor and not enough like a lover. And so that afternoon he expressed himself with greater ardour, straining awkwardly towards the poetic. Meanwhile, with each delivery of the mail sack, his hopes swooped and plunged like a kite riding the capricious breezes of the Peking spring.
But if Morrison fretted, he did not languish. Constitutionally incapable of idleness, he filled these days with rounds of contacts, catching up with correspondence and cataloguing his books. When an acquaintance mentioned the burgeoning coolie trade to South Africa, he investigated the possibility of investing. He hatched a plan to abet the Japanese cause by sparking a run on the Russo-Chinese Bank, the institution that funded the Russian administration in Manchuria.
One afternoon, as Cook set out for the markets, he thought to ask Kuan how Yu-ti was settling in.
Kuan’s gaze flickered at the mention of Yu-ti’s name. He took a moment to answer. ‘Cook not like her to read. He take away her books.’
Morrison did not expect this answer and it interested him. ‘So she reads. That’s unusual for a girl. Ah—but of course. Her father was a follower of T’an Ssu-tung. But wouldn’t Cook find it useful to have a wife who can read and write?’
Kuan shook his head. ‘No. He has old thinking.’ He seemed lost in thought. When he finally spoke, it was with the kind of passion that Morrison had never heard in his Boy’s normally careful voice. ‘Women are human beings, not slaves of men. Not property.’
‘Very progressive thinking, Kuan. You got that from the missionaries, did you?’
‘The ancient sage Mo-tsu talks about universal love, and Buddha about compassion. And Confucius spoke of jen—I think in English you say benevolence. We do not need Christianity to say woman equal to man.’
‘So you say. But T’an Ssu-tung, K’ang Yu-wei and others who’ve spoken about women’s rights—they themselves admit they were influenced by Christian ideas.’
‘Confucius and Mo-tsu and Buddha all came before Jesus. Maybe Christians got their ideas from them.’
‘Maybe so,’ Morrison replied without conviction. ‘Speaking of the reformers, I hear that the anti-Ch’ing movement is gathering steam. Have you heard anything about that?’
‘People are upset about the war. They say foreign powers are slicing up China like a soft melon. They—’
Morrison interrupted. ‘Surely they can see that’s the fault of the Old Buddha, can’t they?’
Kuan measured his words. ‘She is not the whole problem.’
‘If China enjoyed good, sound governance, its sovereignty would not be in jeopardy,’ pronounced Morrison with an air of finality. Something occurred to him. He returned to the previous topic. ‘So, Yu-ti was taught to read and write.’
Kuan nodded, seemingly wary of where this was going.
‘And yet she’s not allowed books or a brush by her husband.’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s a tragedy, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Yes.’
‘So why does a woman who is privileged enough to be able to read and write not do so?’
‘I don’t understand,’ Kuan said, frowning. ‘Maybe my English…’
‘No,’ Morrison replied. ‘It’s not your English. It’s Miss Perkins. I don’t understand it myself. Why doesn’t she write to me?’
The men travelled in silence for a while. ‘You know, Kuan,’ Morrison ventured, ‘it’s too bad Yu-ti wasn’t married to you.’
‘Not good to speak of this. You know yuan fen? We say two people have yuan fen or no. If no yuan fen, they will never be together. It is will of Heaven. Yu-ti’s yuan fen is with Cook.’
Something in Kuan’s expression told Morrison it would not be a good idea to pursue the topic any further. Besides, having brought up the subject of Mae in what he intended to be a light manner, he found himself lost in the morass of his own confused feelings.
On the evening of the third day back in Peking, Dumas arrived for a visit. Morrison greeted him warmly and invited him to stay for dinner.
Over Ceylon tea and a plate of Kierluff’s biscuits, the men exchanged news and gossip. Morrison was more than happy to reveal to his colleague Granger’s latest crimes against correspondence. ‘He claims in one breath that the Russians are holding out well at Port Arthur, and in the next implies they are about to crumble.’
‘I admire the man,’ Dumas said. ‘’Tis no simple task to contradict oneself in such a large and generous manner.’
‘Naturally, I declined to pass on his report. He then had the gall to request a credit of five hundred pounds. I am quite sure it would be spent on the syphilitic American whore, an erstwhile resident of Maud’s Brothel, with whom I understand he’s taken up residence. Either the sex or the pox has addled his brain. I refused, of course.’
‘Of course,’ Dumas said, spooning pressed sugar into his cup. ‘Have I mentioned that my wife has taken passage on a steamship. She’ll soon arrive back in China.’
‘Nervous?’
Dumas plucked a biscuit off the plate. ‘I have no doubt that she will take advantage of my contrition in all sorts of unpleasant ways.’
‘For example?’
‘For example, she is prone to nagging about my weight. But I shall defy her, at least on that count, and ask what it matters. She’s not going to leave me because I have a potbelly, so long as it is never again discovered resting against another woman.’ He bit into the biscuit defiantly. ‘Ah. I knew there was something I had to ask you. I hear that The Times has dispatched the famous war correspondent Lionel James to cover the war. How is he getting on?’
‘All right, I believe, though the Japanese have yet to accede to his plan.’
‘Which is?’
‘To set up a wireless communications ship able to report freely from the theatre of war. It’s never been done before. Imagine—James could witness a naval battle, fire off a report and see it published halfway around the world the following day.’
Dumas shook his head. ‘It would be a miracle. But he’ll need the cooperation of the Japanese. Will they guarantee him safe passage, do you think?’
‘Hard to say. I’m not overly optimistic. The Japanese government and navy will certainly be worried by the thought of him getting out reports that haven’t passed by their censors.’
‘It sounds as though he will be thwarted then,’ Dumas observed.
‘Not necessarily.’
‘Have you ever met him?’
‘Yes. In London.’
‘What’s he like?’
‘Serious and self-willed,’ Morrison responded.
‘I cannot tell if you are complimenting or undermining him.’
‘I do like James. But I’ll give you an example. When I met him in London, I asked him to take me to the theatre. I was hoping for a sprightly sort of spectacle, ideally with dancers. He took me to an earnest play about dying kings. Later he told me that it was out of respect for my position that he chose such an entertainment.’
‘I suppose I should consider it fortunate that I haven’t yet been taken for such a respectable man that I can’t be afforded the occasional extravaganza,’ Dumas remarked.
‘Indeed. The point about James is that he is as serious in his purpose as he is in his tastes. I assume he will knock on every door—he’ll knock down every door—if he has to, but he will get his way.’ It occurred to Morrison that there was a lesson in this for him. ‘What are your plans? Do you return to Tientsin soon?’
‘No, I shall be delayed here. Mind if I stay?’
‘Not at all,’ Morrison replied. ‘It’s just that it’s been four days. I am becoming concerned about the reliability of the post and was thinking you might deliver a note to Miss Perkins for me.’
‘I’ve heard that C.D. Jameson leaves for Tientsin tonight. You could send it with him.’
‘Jameson? That rum-soaked homunculus? Don’t you recall that he diddled me out of a luncheon with Miss Perkins when she last visited Peking?’
‘True, but he does go tonight. And I hear he has some business with Mr Ragsdale, so he shall be dropping in on them anyway.’
Morrison made a face. ‘Oh, why not? He owes me.’