China by Edward Rutherfurd (historical books to read TXT) 📕

men awaited them there. One was a thickset fellow accompanied by his son. Read liked the look of him. “Exactly the sort of honest farmer we’re looking for,” he remarked.

It was sad to see the fellow’s wife, though. The best-looking woman he’d ever encountered in that region. The Chinese didn’t like to show their emotion. When she parted from her husband, they hardly touched each other. But tears were running down her face. She stood in the lane at the end of the village, watching them until they were out of sight.

—

Normally Shi-Rong would have ignored the reports, which were entirely confused. Strangers had been seen, heading for the hinterland. One report said they were barbarians. Another said Taiping. No doubt the messages had become altered in transmission. They came from a scattering of villages by the coast that were normally quiet. He hadn’t even been down there for a couple of years.

Two considerations, however, had made him set off with a party of armed riders. One was that he had nothing else to do. The other was that if he wanted promotion from his humble magistracy, he needed some public displays of vigilance—something the governor might mention in his dispatches to the royal court—to bring himself to the emperor’s notice.

And there might be something in the business. He doubted that the Taiping were involved. All the Taiping action these days was far to the north, around Nanjing. A local triad? Triads had attacked the unpopular Manchu authorities near Guangzhou several times in recent years. Triads didn’t usually push far into the hinterland, but he supposed it was possible. Or could it be something to do with the Hakka people? There was always a bit of jealousy and bad blood between the Hakka villages with their big round houses and the neighboring Han peasantry. Any kind of trouble could be brewing these days.

One thing was certain. If there was trouble and he failed to investigate and was afterwards blamed, he could probably forget the rest of his career.

For the truth was that his career hadn’t been going anywhere. He was still only a county magistrate—at the top of the humble seventh rank, but below even a deputy sub-prefect of a province. He’d been moved three times already, but never promoted. Nor did the provincial governor have any particular interest in him. Even his loyal servant Sun had recently retired to a life of Buddhist peace.

The position had many duties. Not only did he preside over a law court, but he was responsible for every aspect of government in the county. He toured the towns and villages. He had to know the merchants and the village headmen. “Remember, you are the Parent of the People,” the governor had told him when they first met. In other words, if anything went wrong, it was his fault.

He’d hoped to be a sub-prefect in the fifth rank by now. But he wasn’t even in contention. He felt alone. He wasn’t in disgrace, just forgotten.

He knew it. And his wife knew it, too. He’d brought her and the children down to the region a year ago. But it had not been a success. She had disliked the humid climate, despised the Cantonese, whose language she refused to learn, insisted on being served noodles instead of rice in her home, and generally made it clear to him and to their children that she didn’t think they should be there. “I don’t know why you can’t get a better posting. I’m sure that when he was your age, my father was at least in the sixth rank,” she once remarked.

A month ago he’d suggested it might be better if they returned to the family estate. “My aunt is getting very frail now. She really can’t cope. And it’s probably healthier for the children,” he said. His little son and daughter were upset to leave him; his wife made a good show of pretending to be. He promised he’d see them soon. And he fully intended to.

For he was no happier with his situation than his wife was. And there was a way out. It wouldn’t please her if he gave up his career, but he was tempted to retire to the family estate nonetheless. He could devote himself to improving the place and to educating his son. He’d been thinking about it increasingly during the last month.

Today, however, he was fully engaged in his work. And he was making rapid progress with his men. They’d ridden through half a dozen villages so far, and nobody had reported anything about the strangers, but there were still plenty of little settlements to visit.

He remembered he’d seen a beautiful woman in one of these hamlets, a couple of years ago.

—

Mei-Ling slept badly that night. The house seemed strangely empty without her husband and their younger son. Her brother-in-law was no help. Soon after the Americans had departed, he’d gone to his room, taken out his opium pipe, and retired into oblivion. Mother had looked grim and said little to anyone. Mei-Ling felt sorry for her, and towards the end of the afternoon she even went to her side and said softly: “Don’t blame yourself, Mother. None of this is your fault. It’s you that keeps us all together.”

Mother had touched her arm, as though to say thank you, but she had shaken her head and gone outside, and Mei-Ling had thought it better not to follow her.

As for the children, her elder son looked so like his father, it was almost laughable. He had a similar character, too—solid, hardworking, kindly. In the months ahead, she hoped that might be some comfort to her—almost as if his father were still there. As for Willow’s children, two of her girls were married now; her third was still in the house, a rather sad, skinny girl, a willow without its leaves, Mei-Ling used to think. And the young boy, her one success.

Years ago there would have been several servants to think