The house in Crane Road was down a quiet cul-de-sac, a single bright light on the wall illuminating a long wooden veranda. At the sound of the car doors shutting, Penelope came first to the window and then the door. She stood at the top of the steps, beneath the bougainvillea, a hand on her hip. “Your dinner would be in the dog,” she said. “If we had a dog.”
She wore a closely cut, yellow silk dress, with a low neck beneath a thick string of dark pearls. Geoffrey shuffled forward and she bent to kiss him.
“He won’t let me have a dog,” she said to Field as she put her cheek to his, the smell of her scent as strong as it had been last night. The floor of the veranda was old and worn, and the planks creaked beneath their feet.
“Good evening, Chang,” Geoffrey said as he handed the servant his jacket. Field took off his own, hesitating a moment before also removing his holster.
“Straight to the table,” Penelope said. “I’m sure you boys have managed to find time for a drink.”
The dining room was smaller than he’d imagined, the silverware on the square, polished table bright in the candlelight.
“Richard, on the far side, beneath Christopher of York—one of our most distinguished ancestors.”
Field glimpsed a large dark portrait of a man in full military uniform. He sat down, taking the linen napkin from the glass in front of him.
“Red wine, Richard?” Geoffrey asked. “It’s—”
“Lamb,” Penelope said.
“Whatever is . . . Yes, please, red.”
Geoffrey stood again and left the room.
“You survived the Volunteers.” Penelope leaned forward as she took out her own napkin. The dress was just as revealing as the one she’d worn at the country club.
“It was a good speech.”
“He can charm.” She sighed. “Which is, of course, why I married him.” She leaned forward again. “You have no idea how handsome and dashing he was in uniform.” She smiled, a gesture that was at once both weary and almost bashful. “Do you know, Richard, you’re a big man, and yet I don’t think there is an ounce of fat on you.”
Field looked toward the door to hide his embarrassment.
“You really must get yourself a girl. It’s a terrible waste.” She sighed, smiling at him. “You always look so hunched up and angry, like you’re about to hit someone.” She smiled again, imitating his posture. “You’re not about to hit someone, are you?”
“I try not to, most of the time.”
“See. You look lovely when you smile.”
Field frowned.
“And now you’re scowling again.”
“So one can’t win, really.”
“Of course not. That’s a woman’s prerogative.” She looked suddenly more serious. “What are you angry about?”
“I wasn’t aware of being angry about anything.”
“Everyone is angry about something.”
“Perhaps you’re right.”
“Do you ever talk about your father?”
“No.”
“Is that wise?”
“Probably not,” Field said, irritated by this unwarranted intimacy.
“Is that why you’re so angry?”
Geoffrey reentered the room, carrying a decanter. Two servants followed, the old man and a shy young girl with a wide, flat face and hair pulled back from her forehead. “A Bordeaux, I thought. Do the trick?”
Field realized his uncle was talking to him. “Yes, of course . . . I’m sorry, we don’t often have wine in the mess.”
“Then we must get you into more civilized accommodation.”
“He could come and live here,” Penelope said.
Geoffrey filled their glasses. “Can you imagine being in a city as exhilarating as this and being stuck with your uncle and aunt?”
“Speak for yourself, darling!”
Geoffrey sat down, pulling his chair in, before reaching for the salt and grinding it over his plate. The window was open, the cicadas noisy. The candle flames flickered in the faint breeze that carried with it the damp, musty aroma of the street. Field ate a mouthful of lamb. It had been cooked with apple and was served with thickly cut, creamy potatoes. It was by far the best food he’d had since arriving in Shanghai.
“This is very good,” he said.
