Her father had come well prepared. No gentleman of the Victorian age traveled without a good supply of formal evening clothes, and Trader’s were pressed tight in the great-ribbed trunk that two servants had staggered to bring into the mission. With his tall frame, black eye patch, perfectly cut evening dress, and courtly manners, he made a distinguished figure. Indeed, he might have been taken for a former ambassador himself. So Emily felt rather proud to introduce him to Sir Claude and Lady MacDonald as they received their later guests.
“You are Emily’s father?” Lady MacDonald couldn’t quite conceal her surprise. “I heard you’d arrived today.”
“I did,” Trader said, with a slight bow and a charming smile.
“Did you come from far?” Sir Claude wanted to know.
“Galloway. Quite a way south of MacDonald country, of course,” Trader added pleasantly. For the lands of that great clan lay in the Highlands and on the Isle of Skye.
“I wonder if you know some people called Lomond down there,” Sir Claude ventured, seeing if he could gauge Trader’s position in the scheme of things.
“My wife’s family,” Trader replied easily. “Our place is called Drumlomond.”
“Pity you didn’t get here earlier in the month,” said MacDonald in the most friendly way. “We set up a little racecourse just outside the city. It all went like clockwork, but the season ended three weeks ago.”
“I thought I noticed some good-looking ponies on my way into the legation,” Trader remarked.
“Well, we’re so delighted you’ve come,” said Lady MacDonald warmly. “I do hope we shall be seeing more of you.” And it was hardly five minutes before she was at Emily’s side. “We didn’t know your mother was a Lomond. I suppose we just associated you with the Anglican mission.”
“Well, I am part of the mission,” said Emily. “Henry’s a cousin of ours, you know.”
“Oh. And does your family farm the land at Drumlomond…?”
“We keep some in hand. But most of the farms are tenanted. It’s not huge. A few thousand acres.”
“Ah,” said Lady MacDonald. “My husband and I were wondering if your father would let us give a dinner party in his honor while he’s here. Do you think he’d like it, and would you and your husband bring him?”
“How very kind of you, Lady MacDonald,” said Emily. “I’m sure he would.”
“I’m so glad,” said her hostess, and touched Emily’s arm before she swept away.
—
The Legation Quarter lay just inside the Imperial City walls, a little to the east of the central Tiananmen Gate. The British compound was the largest. There was a handsome residence with stables and numerous other buildings, including a theater, which had been used for the dinner that night, spacious lawns, tall trees to provide graceful shade, and even a tennis court.
While Emily had her encounter with their hostess, Trader and Henry stood under a tree and surveyed the scene.
“Those are mostly diplomats from the other colonial powers,” Henry observed, indicating a group of gentlemen chatting amongst themselves. “French, Germans, Austrians, Russians, Japanese.” He nodded. “You might think they were here to learn everything they can about China. But in fact they spend their entire time watching one another, making sure no one’s getting more out of China than they are. Same story in Africa, of course. Every European nation trying to grab as much as they can.”
“You left out the Americans.”
“They’re a bit different. See the young man with a face like a Roman general over there? That’s Herbert Hoover. American. Just married a nice girl, by the way. She’s called Lou.”
“I hear he’s prospecting for minerals.”
“He’s found anthracite. Hoover will do a deal with the Chinese. But that’s all. Strictly business. He’s not a colonist—though the Americans do have missionaries.”
“Who are the best people to talk to, if one wants to find out what’s really going on in China?” Trader asked him.
“The missionaries, generally, because we spend our lives with the ordinary people. You have to know someone pretty well to convert them.” Henry looked around, then smiled to himself. “I see a couple of fellows over there who might interest you: Morrison of the London Times and a man called Backhouse, who speaks Chinese. I’d better warn you that Backhouse is a bit of an odd fish. Full of gossip. Would you like to meet them?”
“Absolutely.”
Morrison looked exactly what he was: an intelligent, widely traveled Australian Scot, nearing forty, a professional observer who meant business. Backhouse, still in his late twenties, looked eccentric. Might he be a little mad?
“Unusual name,” Trader remarked. “I believe you pronounce it Bacchus. Isn’t there a Backhouse baronetcy?”
“My father, sir.”
That made sense, Trader thought. Young Backhouse might not be a mad baronet yet; but no doubt he would be, given time.
Having had his own conversation interrupted, to talk to an ancient visitor he’d never heard of, the Times man couldn’t have been overjoyed. But he greeted Trader politely. “Your first time in China, sir?” he inquired.
“Not exactly.” Trader smiled amiably. “I was in Canton during the first Opium War—caught in the siege, as a matter of fact.”
“Really?” Morrison’s face completely changed. “Are you staying here awhile? May I come and talk to you? I’d love to hear your story.”
“Whenever you like.”
“Sir Claude’s going to speak,” Henry broke in. Sir Claude MacDonald’s tall figure was moving towards a low grassy bank on one side of the lawn.
“Do you know how MacDonald got his appointment here?” Backhouse whispered to Trader. “It is said that he had unimpeachable evidence that Lord Salisbury—in his private life, as we might say—was none other than Jack the Ripper. Confronted the great man and told him the price of his silence was to be made minister to Peking.”
The idea of Britain’s massively respectable prime minister as the infamous serial killer was certainly preposterous. “Are your stories always so improbable?” Trader inquired.
A glass was loudly tapped. Britain’s envoy began to speak. “Excellencies, ladies and gentlemen, we
