Chapter 7 #2
when the servants ate together, and she had no intention of starting a personal conversation with others avidly listening
in. But this morning, she had an opportunity, a perfect excuse to seek him out.
Lisan pulled her clothes off the chair where they had been warming in front of the fireplace and dressed quickly. She had
ample time to herself each morning. Caroline always had breakfast with her husband, and after Thomas left she would go upstairs
to change out of her housecoat and into a day dress. Caroline didn’t have a lady’s maid and said she didn’t need one.
“I don’t need a maid, Lisan,” Caroline had said, laughing, when Lisan asked. “I was at boarding school for years and learned
to do for myself. Just come to my room at nine o’clock each morning to button me up.”
Entering Caroline’s small parlor, she picked up the tree penjing from the walnut desk and carried it down to the hothouse.
It was a magnificent structure, a long hall of glass and iron with glass-paneled walls rising above a base of waist-high stone.
Cast-iron medallions decorated corners where slim metal pillars intersected to support a peaked glass roof.
Hot water pipes set into the ground heated the space, and the hothouse was warm and humid, stiflingly so.
Condensation dripped from metal beams and fogged up glass panes.
Long tables held porcelain pots of orchids and ginger lilies.
Ferns grew everywhere, springing from containers and hanging baskets.
A riot of pink and white jasmines clambered up one trellis and coral-red bougainvillea covered another.
“Hello?” she called. “Yao? Mrs. Stanton has a request.”
Yao emerged from behind the bougainvillea trellis, holding a tray of seedling pots. “Miss Liu? Does she want more ginger lilies
in the breakfast room?”
She shook her head and held out the miniature tree. “I told her these could be quite old,” she said, “so she wants to know
what type of tree this is, and how old it is, if you’re able to tell.”
“I’ve studied horticulture and landscaping,” he said, “and penjing was part of the training. Let me see.”
He set down the tray and examined the tree. He put it at the end of a table and crouched down to view it, lifted it up and
examined the bottom of the pot. “It’s a Japanese white pine,” he said, “roughly fifty years old.” He tilted the container
toward her very carefully, lifting it so she could read what was etched into its unglazed bottom. “The person who first potted
this marked the date.”
“I won’t give away your secret,” she said, laughing.
Did she imagine it or was there warmth in his smile? She wanted to keep talking, continue the conversation and learn more
about his past. There was an old copy of Shenbao newspaper on the table, spread open under some empty pots. She pointed at the headline, hoping it was a topic that interested
him.
“There’s a lot of anger at the government for their plans to nationalize provincial railways and use them as collateral to borrow money from foreign banks,” she noted.
“In Sichuan there’s talk of riots,” Yao said. “Sichuan province raised money for their railway project by selling shares to
ordinary people. Thousands of merchants and gentry are furious they’ll lose their investment. Not to mention that the railway
will then be handed over to foreigners.”
She studied the article. “The writer condemns the Sichuan railway company for being so badly run that they’ve laid less than
ten miles of track in four years. At the same time, he condemns the government for taking over local railways to pay back
debts. It seems hopeless.”
“Yes,” he said, “this cannot continue, Lisan. China cannot continue like this or we will pawn away our future. The question
is what model best serves the common citizen, not emperors and aristocrats.”
The Imperial government was beset by infighting, and newspapers such as Shenbao no longer held back criticism. Residents of Shanghai had the advantage of subscribing to foreign-owned papers that covered
the news independently. Of these, Shenbao was the most reliable, according to Master Liu. Next to the family-owned Xinwen Bao, of course.
“I’m not an expert in politics,” she said, “but I feel it must be a democracy of some sort, a complete break from empire.
We Chinese have had absolute rulers for thousands of years and are so accustomed to an emperor that if we merely change to
a constitutional monarchy, I worry we will drift back to an absolute monarchy.”
“Are these revolutionary views because of your foreign school?” he said. She could tell he was teasing. “Do all your classmates
think as you do?”
Lisan laughed. “No, not at all. Some don’t ever think about politics and others belong to families with close ties to the Imperial government. What do you think, Yao?”
“I’m only a gardener,” he said, “and what I mostly think about is what to do about this hothouse. It’s a wilderness. Chin
doesn’t know how to prune or thin out plants. He did water and keep the heating system going for the past three years, but
I’m still trying to get the humidity right.”
“How long has Chin been at Lennox Manor?” Lisan asked, hoping to nudge the conversation in a different direction. “He keeps
very much to himself. Have you ever talked to him?”
“He does keep to himself and never socializes with the house servants,” Yao said. “He thinks the cook gossips too much. He’s
willing to chat with me though, and I did ask why he stayed here for so long looking after Mr. Burnett on his own. He said
he couldn’t work anywhere else, he won’t leave Lennox Manor. And that ended the discussion.”
“There’s nothing in Chin’s manner to make me think he’s particularly devoted to Mason Burnett.” Lisan’s brows creased. Chin
was an extremely capable head servant. She doubted he’d have trouble finding work in any foreign household.
“Do you know whether he was here when . . . when Mr. Burnett’s son died?” she asked.
“I don’t know if he was here when young Mr. Burnett lived at Lennox Manor or only since Master Mason moved into the house,”
Yao said. “All I know is that Chin believes all other cities inferior to Shanghai.” He smiled, a slow, amused lift of his
lips that made her want to move closer. His smile reassured her, gave her the courage to ask what she’d been wanting to know
since she first saw him.
“What about you, Yao?” Lisan said. “Are you originally from Shanghai?”
“No, not at all,” he said. “I’m from the north. Peking. I came to Shanghai when I was, well, perhaps fourteen.”
She paused before asking. “Your family?”
He shook his head. “They gave me up, sold me as a bond servant to . . . to a wealthy family. During the Boxer Rebellion, they
fled the city, leaving their servants behind.”
Lisan knew the history of what had happened in 1900. Every school child knew. The Chinese Army, aided by fanatical rebels
known as the Boxers, attacked Peking’s foreign residents, who took shelter inside the grounds of the Foreign Legation. There,
Western military units as well as civilians defended themselves for nearly two months under siege until troops from an alliance
of eight nations arrived to defeat the Boxers and the Chinese Army. The victorious foreign powers then forced China to make
reparations of more than three hundred million dollars, effectively putting the country into a permanent state of debt.
Foreigners weren’t the only ones affected; many of Peking’s local residents also fled the fighting.
“I joined a group of refugees heading for Shanghai,” he said, “and that’s how I ended up here on the streets, where Master
Liu found me.”
After a few months, Master Liu noticed how much Yao enjoyed helping the gardener and sent the boy to live with a friend in
Soochow, a rich and cultured scholar whose garden was famous throughout China. There he apprenticed with the head gardener.
“So you’re not from Shanghai,” she said, disappointed. “It’s just that I’ve always wondered whether we’ve met before we came
to live with Master Liu. Have we?” There, she’d said it. Asked the question that had been unsettling her since he first walked
into the kitchen.
He smiled, a smile that gave nothing away. “I don’t believe so, but I have a very ordinary face,” he said, “very common features.”
No, not common, she wanted to say. I could find your face in a sea of faces.
She picked up the plant and said, “Thank you. I’ll tell Mrs. Stanton this is a fifty-year-old Japanese white pine.”
“Bring that white pine back in about two weeks,” he said, opening the door of the hothouse for her. “I’ll pinch back some
of those buds.”
Come find me, a soft voice whispers urgently.
That was all she could remember, except for scattered scraps of images: the lake and the willow trees, a red dress. It took
all Lisan’s willpower to pay attention to the task in front of her. She closed her eyes momentarily, pushing away the nightmare
that had woken her up just before dawn, tangled in her sheets and moaning. The voice lingered at the edges of her mind, whispering
those three words whenever she let her thoughts slip or her focus drift away from Caroline’s seated figure.
“Most of the guests are people Uncle Mason said we should invite,” Caroline said, scanning the sheets of paper on her desk.
RSVPs had started coming in for the party since the invitations went out two days ago, and she was checking them against the
guest list, something Lisan had offered to do but Caroline wanted to do it herself. “We’ll just have to trust that Mason has
invited all the right people. They’re probably all ‘old China hands,’ as he calls them. And their wives,” Caroline added with
a sigh.
“Almost all have accepted,” Lisan said, “and I suspect the rest of the RSVPs will arrive tomorrow morning.”
“I nearly forgot.” Caroline picked up a business card from the corner of her desk. “Uncle Mason gave me this. It’s the architect
who’s renovating his office. Add Mr. Grey to the guest list and make sure the invitation is delivered to his hotel today.
The hotel name is on the back.”
“Yes, Mrs. Stanton. I’ll write him an invitation right away,” Lisan said.
The American woman was easy to work for and unexpectedly kind. Lisan had soon realized that Caroline was probably no more
than four or five years her senior. Yet there were times when Lisan caught a glimpse of Caroline’s face deep in thought, her
eyes more green than brown, an expression that spoke of knowledge beyond her years.
“Lisan, something I’ve been meaning to mention,” Caroline said. “When we were inspecting the house the other day, I noticed
the servants have pasted paper with writing and pictures beside doors to the kitchen and servants’ quarters. I want them taken
down.”
“Ma’am, unless it really offends you, please don’t do that,” Lisan said, “it would upset the house servants. They’re meant
to ward off evil spirits.”
“Goodness, why?” Caroline laughed. “Is the house haunted? Oh come now, Lisan. You blush so easily. I can tell you know something.”
“The servants get nervous, Mrs. Stanton,” she said, unsure of how much to divulge, “because there was a suicide in this house,
and they worry about the ghost. They’re superstitious and believe the ghost of a suicide to be the most dangerous type of
evil spirit.”
“Really? How interesting.” Caroline tilted her head to one side. “And do you know who it was that committed suicide?” She
looked intently at Lisan, who fidgeted with the pen before finally looking up.
“It was Mr. Burnett’s son, Charles,” Lisan said, deciding there was no way to reveal just one part of the story. “He was heavily
in debt, lost his friends, and then his wife left him.”
There was a long silence. “Uncle Mason never talks about how Charles died,” Caroline said, “or that he had a wife. We assumed he died of some illness. How did Charles die?”
“Apparently, he hung himself.” She looked away from Caroline.
“And where is Charles’s wife, do you know? Is Mason still in touch with her?”
“I don’t believe Mr. Burnett cared to stay in touch,” she said. “He didn’t approve of his daughter-in-law. She was a singer.”
“Well,” Caroline said, “that certainly explains why people keep asking how I enjoy living here. I thought it was because Lennox
Manor is so out of the way, but they were fishing to see what I knew about Charles Burnett. Thank you for telling me, Lisan.
Now I won’t get ambushed by some supposedly well-intentioned person. What was her name, the wife?”
“I don’t know, Mrs. Stanton,” Lisan said, but she remembered Mason Burnett’s confused voice. Rosa? Rosalie?
“No matter, I’m sure some helpful gossip will tell me all the lurid details,” Caroline said. “Well, that’s all for now, Lisan.
Oh, and can you please telephone the dressmaker? Since we will be in the city tomorrow anyway, I may as well drop in for a
fitting.”
“Certainly,” Lisan said. “And I will update the guest list with Mr. Grey’s name before you go out tonight.” The Stantons were
attending a musical that night, a fundraiser put on by one of Shanghai’s many amateur music societies.
“Oh, that stupid charity performance,” Caroline said with a groan. “I despise Gilbert and Sullivan. I would pay the same price
as those tickets—no, more than the ticket price—to not attend. Our headmistress always chose a Gilbert and Sullivan for the
spring musical. She put me in a lead role my final year.”
“You must have a very nice voice, Mrs. Stanton,” Lisan said.
“It was The Pirates of Penzance and I sang the role of Mabel,” Caroline said, “in an awful puffy yellow dress and bonnet. Well, at least I’ll be in the audience
tonight and not onstage.”