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

buildings were set well back from broad streets and open spaces. Few people were about just then. The noonday sun beat down from a clear blue sky on domes, towers, imperial temples. Nothing, it seemed, could disturb the solid peace of the place, as the mighty heart of British India took an afternoon snooze.

He was so occupied with these thoughts that he hardly noticed, until he looked up, that he had reached the Anglican cathedral of St. John.

He liked the cathedral. There was something reassuring about its simple classical design, rather like St. Martin-in-the-Fields, in London. Handsome, but not too large. Sensible. Anglican.

He hadn’t been in the cathedral for quite a while. And—whether to get out of the sun or from some hitherto-unrecognized spiritual impulse—he decided to step inside. It was almost cool within. He noticed an old woman dusting the choir stalls. No one else. He sat down.

For a minute or two he sat there, enjoying the peace. And since thinking about his situation had not yielded any conclusion, it occurred to him that perhaps he had been led to the church for a reason and that he should pray. But if he prayed, what would he ask for? He wasn’t sure of that, either.

Then he remembered something the chaplain had said when he was a boy at school. “It’s no good asking God for something you want, you know. Because it’s almost certain to be something quite selfish and of no importance to anyone but you. So when you’re in a quandary, don’t tell God what He needs to do. Just try to empty your mind—don’t think about wanting anything—and ask Him to guide you. And with a bit of luck, if you deserve it, He will. And it may turn out to be something you never thought of at all.”

So John Trader closed his eyes and tried to do as the chaplain had said. After all, he reasoned, God had been good to him so far today. He’d led him out of debt. So he placed his future entirely in the Almighty’s hands and asked only: “Send me a sign, Lord, and I shall know what to do.”

And after he had said a prayer or two, he came out into the bright sunlight of Dalhousie Square with a wonderful sense of well-being. I’ll go and share the good news with Charlie, he thought.

—

They stood in the big upstairs room at Rattrays. The big sash windows were open enough to let in some breeze, but not enough to disturb the papers on the desks. The Indian servant in the corner patiently worked the ceiling fan. Charlie’s two colleagues busied themselves with their work and pretended they couldn’t hear every word.

Not only was Charlie delighted for him, but he said something unexpected. “Aunt Harriet was right, then!” he exclaimed.

“What do you mean?” Trader asked.

“Just the other day she had a feeling—premonition, you might say—that you were going to be all right.” Charlie shook his head in wonderment. “Rum thing. Woman’s intuition, and all that.”

“Well, God bless her,” said Trader with feeling. “Have you got anything to drink?”

Charlie grinned and went across to a cabinet at the side of the room. “We have the water of life, Glenlivet Scotch,” he announced, and taking out a bottle and four glasses, he turned to his colleagues, “You’ll join us, gentlemen?”

The two young merchants rose from their desks and, abandoning all pretense that they hadn’t heard every word, congratulated Trader warmly while Charlie poured.

They were all happily toasting the hero of the hour when, from the street outside, came the sound of a band playing. Charlie went to the nearest window and glanced out. “We’ve even got a military band to celebrate the occasion,” he announced. And sure enough, the sound grew louder as the small parade approached. “Last marching band of the season, I should think,” remarked Charlie. “No parades in the summer monsoon.”

“Take the salute, Trader!” cried the two young merchants.

Trader moved to the window and glanced out. It was a small Indian troop. A couple of platoons and a band. Well turned out, playing well. Made one proud to be British. Some carriages were following patiently behind. No one was in much of a hurry that day.

Charlie turned to fetch the bottle and refill their glasses. Trader continued idly to watch the band.

Then he saw her.

—

Agnes and her mother were in an open carriage, the third in the little cavalcade behind the marching band. Just the two of them, a coachman, and a groom. No sign of the colonel. They had their parasols up, but he could see their faces clearly. They were talking to each other, smiling. His eyes rested on Agnes. His heart missed a beat.

And suddenly he knew. It was like a blinding flash of light. He’d asked for a sign. This must be it. Within an hour of his prayer, here she was, quite unexpectedly, right in front of him. Agnes was his destiny, the one he was meant to marry.

He’d asked for a sign. But he decided to ask for just one more, a tiny confirmation. The great sash window was not open quite enough. He’d raise it up farther so that he could lean out, call to Agnes and her mother as they passed. Even with the band playing, they should still hear him. He’d wave. And Agnes must wave back. That was all he asked. If she waved, he’d marry her. He was sure she would.

He grasped the bottom of the window and tugged it up. He heard Charlie ask if he needed help. The thing was damnably heavy. But he wanted to open it himself. That, it seemed to him, was part of the deal. He must pull it up himself. He heaved. It came up a little and stuck. He yanked the bottom to the left and right. It gave. He pulled. The big sash began to slide. Their carriage was almost level with him now. He heaved again. The heavy