The Blue Rose Read online

  Father Cho could not be swayed.

  At last, Sir George turned to Father Li with a cold contemptuous expression. ‘I suppose you wish to desert us too?’

  But the young priest shook his head. ‘I will stay. I will rely on your protection. I must be Mr Plum.’ He drew himself up, put on an expression of superciliousness and disdain. ‘I will wear your clothes and hats, and they will not know me.’ He gestured at Sir George’s breeches and frockcoat.

  It was clear Father Li thought he could disguise his Chinese origin with English dress.

  But the idea made David’s heart sink.

  He did not think anyone would be fooled.

  When the brig set forth for Macao, it carried three of the Chinese priests.

  They had paid the barber to come and shave their heads, and glue on long thin plaits of black hair to hang down their backs.

  ‘Where did the barber get the queues?’ David asked. ‘Surely they are not easy to come by?’

  Father Li seemed to understand his words, for he turned and said sombrely, in Latin, ‘Dead men.’

  In Macao, Sir George met the commissioners of the East India Company, and was given a message from the emperor. He read it out to the men that night at dinner:

  His Imperial Majesty says that, as such a great Mandarin has come so far to visit him, he must be received in a distinguished manner …

  A ripple of indignant laughter.

  ‘The idea of his lordship being called one of those heathen mandarins!’ the valet, Anderson, cried.

  Sir George glanced at Lord Macartney, sitting at the high table with a crystal glass of claret at his elbow. ‘My lord, the commissioners say that – despite his welcoming words – the emperor urges us to sail to Canton, to stay with the other Europeans in the enclave they call the Thirteen Factories and speak there with his representatives.’

  Sir George took a moment to read the proclamation more closely. ‘As your Excellency knows, European merchants are only permitted to trade within the confines of the factories. His Imperial Majesty says there is no reason to insist on travelling beyond. The emperor’s mandarins will assess the rarity and value of His Excellency’s tributes to his Imperial Majesty there.’

  Lord Macartney’s bushy eyebrows rose. ‘Tributes? I do not bring tributes. Our cargo are gifts from one king to another!’

  ‘Perhaps the word has been mistranslated,’ Sir George said.

  ‘I suppose it is possible,’ Lord Macartney answered, frowning.

  ‘The mandarins are most insistent that we do not sail any further north, my lord. Go to Canton, they say, and wait upon the emperor’s indulgence.’

  Lord Macartney did not speak, swirling the claret in his glass then taking a sip.

  After a moment, Sir George continued reading. ‘The emperor says there are no pilots available to show us the way north, through the Yellow Sea, to Peking. And, given the shocking accounts of the recent confusions in France, the emperor feels he is justified in taking strong precautions against the incursions of uninvited foreigners. Go to Canton, he says. Follow the established procedures.’

  There was a long silence, then Lord Macartney looked up and smiled.

  ‘I think not. Tell the captain we sail north. To Peking.’

  Through squalls of rain, the small fleet headed north.

  The coast of China was hidden by mist. David stood on the quarterdeck, gazing to the west. But no amount of looking summoned up a glimpse of the land, let alone its forests and gardens. He had to walk out his impatience by striding round and round the quarterdeck, stepping over the coils of rope, counting his steps till he had reached two thousand, which he and Scotty estimated would be a good mile. Then he began again.

  How he longed for good firm ground beneath his boots, and a rolling vista of meadows and woods and hills beckoning him beyond. He remembered the last good tramp he had had, the day before he had said goodbye to his grandparents and sisters and set off for Portsmouth. He had slowly climbed above the mist and rain, and seen one bright star burning out like a beacon of hope in a miraculously clear sky. The mountains had floated in a sea of moonlit clouds. David had lit a low campfire, as red as the last smears of sunset, and then rolled himself in his coat to sleep, weary in body but exultant in spirit.

  He had been so sure then that he was doing the right thing, leaving England and his family and sailing so far away. He dreamed of finding many rare and wondrous plants, and making his name and his fortune. Perhaps he would even be knighted by the king, as Sir Joseph Banks had been, or made an earl, like Lord Macartney. David imagined stalking into the great hall at Belisima-sur-le-lac, at the head of a procession of servants carrying pots of the finest blue-and-white Chinese porcelain, all planted with roses of the deepest ruby red. He would incline his head and say with cold courtesy, ‘Madame, the rose that you requested. I regret that I cannot name it after you, as I once intended, but that honour must be reserved for my wife, Lady Stronach.’

  Except that he would never marry. He would become a plant hunter, spending his life battling through jungles and scaling high mountains, searching for the rarest, most exotic flowers in the world. He would see such things and go to such places. And Viviane, bound to a man more than forty years her elder, would be sorry.

  Sometimes a whole day would pass without Viviane speaking more than a word or two to anyone.

  She was too afraid of betraying herself in some way. An unwise word, an involuntary quiver of her lips, a flash of expression on her face. So she kept her eyes down and her hands busy.

  Ivo always stopped to speak to her when he saw her, and once or twice intervened when one of the other maids teased her for being hoity-toity, or made her do the dirtiest chores because she was the newest.

  Every evening, when she could, Viviane slipped away and walked by herself in the garden. Tonight the avenue of horse-chestnut trees was blooming with pale candles of flowers. She picked some hyssop and sage and thyme for her bouillon, lifting them to her nose to smell their fresh scent, and wondered if the garden at Belisima was now just a wasteland of weeds.

  Coming slowly through an archway in a hedge, she found Ivo, sitting and smoking his pipe in the dusk.

  ‘Oh, I beg your pardon,’ she said. ‘I did not mean to intrude.’

  She would have turned to leave but he smiled at her. ‘Come and join me,’ he said. ‘You like the garden too?’

  ‘It’s the only good thing about this place,’ she answered, then flushed. ‘A thousand pardons, I did not mean to be rude.’

  ‘Oh, no, I agree,’ he answered. ‘I’d gladly not work here, but there are so few jobs for chefs now, with the nobility all dead or fled.’ He spoke lightly, but she thought there was a shade of bitterness in his voice.

  From over the hedge came the sound of raucous laughter, and then loud singing. Ah! ça ira, ça ira …

  ‘You don’t join the others in the evenings?’ Ivo asked.

  She shook her head. ‘I like the garden better. The beauty and the peace …’

  ‘I’m the same. Maybe it’s because we are both from the country. I often wish I could just go home again, but …’ His voice trailed away. They both knew it was too dangerous to go travelling through the countryside without an urgent cause. The city gates were well guarded, and permission to travel rarely given.

  ‘Why did you come to Paris?’ she asked.

  ‘Things were hard for us. My mother died and my father lost his job. He was a chef too. There was no work in Rennes, at least work I wished to do. And I wanted to see Paris. I wanted to see all the shops, and go to the theatre and the ballet and the opera.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I wanted to do that too.’ Viviane sighed. Her husband had not been interested in music, so she had not seen even one show.

  ‘You haven’t been? Oh, but you must.’ Ivo looked at her in amazement.

  ‘I haven’t got any money.’ Viviane was saving all her coins so that – when Paris at last opened its city gates – she could obtain a pass
and go home to Belisima.

  ‘But the theatres all have nights when you can buy cheap tickets, or even go for free. That’s one good thing about this damned revolution at least!’ Then Ivo realised what he had said, and flushed. ‘I mean …’

  ‘Do not concern yourself,’ Viviane said. ‘I know exactly what you mean.’

  They smiled at each other a little sadly.

  ‘Why don’t you come with me?’ Ivo said. ‘No-one else here is interested in the opera. It will be nice to have the company.’

  She hesitated, not knowing how wise it was to confide in him.

  ‘You need not fear I will importune you with unwelcome advances,’ he said, after a moment.

  She flushed, and laughed, and shook her head. ‘It’s not that … though I thank you. It’s just … I am afraid to go out. I do not much like crowds anymore, or places that are too noisy. Oh, it’s so hard to explain.’

  ‘You’ve seen too much in this past year or so?’

  She nodded. ‘Far too much.’

  ‘But going to the opera is not like going to the fishmarkets,’ he said. ‘Beautiful music, amazing costumes, angelic singing …’

  Still she hesitated.

  ‘Come with me once. Then if you do not like it, you need not come again.’

  So Viviane had gone to the opera with Ivo, at the Theatre de la Porte Saint-Martin. Antonio Salieri’s Les Danaïdes was playing. It was a tragic and rather gruesome tale in which the fifty daughters of King Danaus are betrothed to marry the fifty sons of the family of Egyptus, in order to end a long feud between the families. But Danaus reveals to his daughters that the reconciliation is a trap, and orders them to kill their husbands on their wedding night. All the daughters agree to do so, except one. She is in love with the man she is to marry. After a great deal of heart searching, she tells her betrothed about the plot. He survives, but all his brothers die. In his grief and horror, he attacks the palace of Danaus, slaughtering the king and his daughters, but saving the one who loved him.

  The final scene was set in the fiery underworld. Danaus is chained to a rock, his entrails pecked by a vulture, his daughters tormented by demons. Great spouts of flame and waterfalls of sparks drew gasps of surprise and alarm from the audience. Even Viviane had her hands over her mouth. Smoke billowed out into the theatre, making everyone cough.

  ‘That was wonderful!’ Viviane made her way through the crowd with Ivo. ‘The music, the singing. I’ve never heard anything like it.’

  ‘I wonder how they created those jets of flame! I thought the whole theatre would burn down.’

  ‘Oh, that’s easy,’ Viviane said. ‘That’d be flash powder. It’s made from clubmoss, the little plant they call wolf’s-foot. You pound it up and light a brimstone match, and then throw the flash powder over it. It ignites into a great gush of fire! Or you could mix nitrate of potash with sulfuric acid …’

  She became aware that Ivo was staring at her in amazement, and went red.

  ‘My brother liked to play with fire,’ she stammered. ‘He was always experimenting. He made us fireworks once, for the birth of the dauphin. But he burned off his eyebrows and eyelashes, and was forbidden from ever doing it again.’

  ‘He was lucky not to have been blinded!’

  ‘Pierrick was always doing experiments. He used to make lightning to scare my great-aunt, who was terrified of storms. It was just spirit of nitre and oil of cloves, but it made such a noise and crack of light. I was so grateful to him for it, because she’d go to bed and pull the pillow over her head, and I’d be free for a few hours.’

  ‘So what did you and your brother do with your free hours?’ Ivo asked, laughing.

  Viviane smiled. ‘Oh, we’d go to the kitchen and steal apples and cakes to eat in the mill, or go and visit the weavers in their cottages. Pierrick was sure he could invent a machine to spin and weave cloth with the power of the mill rush. It was one of his favourite places. When we were younger, Pierrick and I used to drop sticks from the bridge, and then run to the other side to see whose stick boat sailed through first. And he’d make all sorts of different designs to make sure his stick would win first.’

  ‘You seem to have had the run of the château,’ Ivo said.

  Viviane’s cheeks burned. ‘Monsieur le Marquis was rarely there.’

  ‘That was lucky.’

  ‘Yes.’

  There was a long silence. They were walking together along the Rue de Vertbois, towards the towers of the Temple. Viviane felt stiff and awkward. She had said too much, revealed too much.

  ‘Where is your brother now?’ Ivo asked. His voice was gentle, his eyes downcast.

  Viviane shook her head. ‘I don’t know. I’ve lost him.’

  ‘He probably wouldn’t be too hard to find, in these days of identity papers and certificates of public spirit.’

  Another silence. Viviane did not dare to make such a search. What if her own papers were scrutinised? What if they realised there was no Rozenn Cazotte?

  ‘You’re lucky to have a brother,’ Ivo said at last. ‘I always longed for one.’

  ‘Any sisters?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘A sweetheart?’ she asked. Anything to keep the conversation on him.

  Ivo shook his head again. He glanced at her, and she saw in surprise that his face was as hot as hers.

  ‘I’m not made for that kind of love,’ he said with difficulty.

  It took a moment to know what he meant, and then her whole body burned with embarrassment. ‘Neither was my brother,’ she managed to say at last.

  ‘Really?’ He looked at her full in the face. ‘Do you mean …’

  She nodded and laughed, all embarrassment falling away from her. ‘Oh, yes! Pierrick was always much more interested in boys than girls.’

  ‘I might have to meet your brother.’ Ivo grinned. ‘That’s another good thing about the Revolution. Boys like me and your brother used to be burned to death. But now it’s only aristocrats who need to fear.’

  By 1 July, the flotilla was close to the Chu-San Islands, the most easterly point of China. Progress was slow because, as the ships began to approach the shore, hundreds of junks and sampans crowded around them, the fishermen within gesturing in astonishment.

  ‘They have not seen ships like ours before,’ Scotty said.

  ‘I wonder what they think of us,’ David replied, and was answered by loud hootings of amusement as the Chinese gestured towards the naval officers in their powdered wigs and cocked hats.

  Soon the ships were immobilised by a floating city of little boats, all tethered together, while the locals clambered up to the decks. The soldiers were tense and alert, but there was so much good humour in the faces of the men who swarmed up the ropes that the admiral told the men to be at ease, and let the sightseers come.

  The Chinese were amazed at everything. They fingered the embroidered facings of the men’s coats and were thunderstruck by their pockets, putting their hands in and out so many times that everyone began to feel uncomfortable, and took great care to keep their snuffboxes and watches safe in their hands.

  The fishermen wanted to explore the whole ship, so David found himself escorting small parties around, showing them the hammocks on the cannon deck where the sailors slept, and his own tiny hole in the wall that he shared with the other gardener, John Haxton. Then, with Lord Macartney’s permission, he showed them the ambassador’s great cabin.

  Hanging on the wall was a long silk scroll which depicted the Emperor of China, dressed in an elaborately worked yellow robe, a red hat on his head, pearls about his neck.

  The Chinese men instantly prostrated themselves, pressing their foreheads to the ground again and again.

  It was hard not to laugh.

  David met Lord Macartney’s eyes in amusement, but they waited patiently till the men had finished their ko-tow, then accepted their many low bows of thanks with equanimity.

  ‘It is a good thing that I do not need to pay homage to the em
peror every time I enter my cabin, else I’d never get any work done,’ Lord Macartney said, as David ushered the visitors out.

  For the first time, David wondered what the consequences would be if Lord Macartney refused to prostrate himself before the emperor.

  He felt a sharp twinge of unease.

  The admiral was able to secure the services of one of the fishermen as a pilot, and he guided them through the hundreds of small islands, atolls, shoals, reefs and sandbars till the ships came into a bay where they could drop anchor.

  Then David was able to set foot on the soil of China for the first time.

  He could not help being disappointed. The island was bare, with few trees. One or two low mud-coloured houses, stands of ragged-looking bamboo, and small fields cultivated into rice-paddies.

  A peasant gazed at them in open curiosity. When Father Li spoke a few words to him, he rather unwillingly allowed them to look inside his dwelling. It was flimsily constructed of timber and rice straw, with hanging mats parting it into sleeping and living quarters. The floor was beaten earth. Two small spinning wheels of uncommon design stood near the hearth, still rotating slowly, but there was no sign of the women who must have been sitting there just moments before.

  Dissatisfied, David and his friends returned to the Lion, and the next day the flotilla set sail once more. Slowly the ships glided through the channel, steep islands rising out of the water on all sides. It felt like they were floating through a drowned valley, and that they must run aground on a submerged mountaintop at any moment.

  At last Ting-hai came into view. A walled city, set on the harbour with mountain peaks behind. David saw tall pagodas over the wall, and his heart quickened in excitement.

  The Lion dropped anchor, and an official in a long robe with a bird gorgeously embroidered on his chest came aboard to ask their business. He was dressed in a heavy silk robe, with a black hat upon his head, and a string of heavy coral beads about his neck. His beard was long and white, and the nails of his smallest fingers had been allowed to grow to extraordinary lengths. He was accompanied by a servant in a loose indigo smock who carried all his pens and seals and papers in various pouches and bags suspended from his girdle. The servant had a cringing servile manner that bothered David. He wanted to tell him sharply to stand up like a man.