Chapter 8
That evening in the kitchen, the servants’ talk was all about the party, only two days away. Chin had borrowed three extra
house servants to help serve and wash up. Florists would be bringing out-of-season flowers to fill large urns and vases. The
cloakroom had to be staffed at all times.
Chin drilled the servants on the order of events and how they were to behave toward the guests.
“Xiao Wu, Little Liao, you’ll clean the powder rooms every thirty minutes,” he said, fixing them with a stern eye. “All of
them. And Da Wu, you’ll be stationed on the second-floor landing to direct guests upstairs to the ballroom.”
Zhao the cook spoke up. “There will be platters of cakes and I want to scatter edible blooms on the platters. Anything suitable,
Yao?”
“I can find you something.” Yao nodded. “Violets or dianthus and marigolds. Enough for a bowl of petals.”
As she dipped another dumpling in spicy-sweet soy sauce, Lisan watched Yao from under her lashes.
She had just realized something else about him.
His words and the way he spoke were those of an educated person, not a mere gardener.
She knew that in the city of Soochow, famed for its glorious classical gardens, landscapers and gardeners were held in high regard; they often worked closely with the owners of such gardens, men of refinement and scholarship.
Could he have acquired his manners and speech from being around such people?
The two Wu brothers were whispering to each other and Chin startled them with a rap on each of their heads. “Da Wu, Xiao Wu,”
he said. “Are you listening?”
“Yes, Head Servant,” Da Wu said, “only we are a bit worried about all the noise from the party.”
“Yes, the music and talk,” Xiao Wu said, “so much louder than anything we’ve had before. What if it wakes the ghost? Music
he remembers and conversation in his own language.”
Chin gave them a withering look. “Even if a ghost comes screeching through the ballroom, you’ll still make sure all the champagne
glasses are filled.”
Lisan took her leave of the servants, taking a mug of hot sweetened soy milk to the bedroom with her. There was a bit of work
she wanted to finish. She kept a duplicate copy of Caroline Stanton’s plans for the party, and now that most of the RSVPs
were in, she might as well update her copy of the guest list.
The fireplace was more than adequate for heating the room, yet she couldn’t shake off the chill that clung to her, draped
like a damp shroud. She cupped her hands around the mug of hot soy milk and moved to the window. Wind rippled the willow trees
by the lake and rattled her window latch. She would deal with the loose latch in the morning. Lightning spiked, and in the
sudden light she saw a slash of red between the trees. She frowned. How could anyone be out there in all this rain? Thunder
rumbled and then the slight figure was gone. It had been nothing more than a trick of the light, a movement caused by a torrent
of windblown rain.
If only the rain would stop. A watery veil streamed down the roof, curtaining off the house from the rest of the world.
Although at the moment it didn’t matter since she wasn’t interested in going out.
The names on the RSVP list blurred. She rubbed her eyes, desperately tired.
She would lie down, just for a few minutes, then get back to updating the list.
She is climbing the staircase again. Even though she knows it’s a dream, even though she knows what will happen, she can’t
take control of the dream, can’t break free. The hand that grasps hers is soft-skinned, a little damp with sweat, and she
wants so badly to look up and see who she is following but she has to keep her eyes lowered and concentrate on negotiating
the steps. If she looks up, she might trip and they’d both tumble down. When she finally reaches the top of the stairs, the
sun blinds her with its brightness and she can’t see the face of the person who pulled her up the steps. Sharp cracks of sound
and screams as she is hurried along smooth wooden floors and then the blindfold is tied over her eyes, the weight of something
drops onto her shoulders and a gentle voice, a voice she trusts, says, Now jump.
This time when she woke up, it was because she’d been jolted awake by sounds of crying, anguished sobs that tore into Lisan’s
heart even though she knew she was dreaming. Or at least she thought she was dreaming.
Then a woman’s voice whispered in her ear, the words soft but the tone urgent. Come find me.
And this time, she truly woke up.
After a few minutes of restless dozing, she realized it would be impossible for her to fall asleep again. Heaving a sigh,
Lisan got up, wrapped a shawl around her shoulders, and turned on the desk lamp. She may as well get back to work.
The large secretaire desk was an expensive piece of furniture, far too good for someone in her position.
She’d spent considerable time arranging the desk to make her work more efficient: drawers in the lower half held writing paper, envelopes, and file folders.
The upper part of the desk was a bookcase flanked by pigeonholes.
A leather desk pad covered the work surface and just above it were shelves holding Caroline’s expensive monogrammed stationery.
A dictionary and thesaurus rested on the top bookshelf, as well as a Shanghai business directory.
The two most important items, always out on the desk, were an address book and a notebook, her copies of Caroline’s address and appointment books.
There were brass inlays set into the wide band of carved molding that adorned the top of the bookcase. At the center, a brass
medallion stood out in relief. Lisan admired the beautiful rose design etched on the brass, touching it gently. Lamplight
glanced across the circle of rose petals and she noticed the center of the flower was slightly tarnished.
A faint idea nudged her consciousness and she pressed her index finger against the center of the medallion.
A soft click and a section of the ornamental molding sprang out a couple of inches, revealing a shallow drawer. It slid out
smoothly when she gave it a light pull. Lisan scrambled up onto the chair and looked inside cautiously. She lifted out a cheap
notebook with a plain gray cardboard cover, similar to the one she used to keep track of Caroline Stanton’s appointments.
She flipped it open to the first page. And drew in her breath.
Rosalie Burnett. Above it, crossed out, Rosalie Roussel.
Charles Burnett’s runaway wife. Her name had been Rosalie. Rosa? Rosalie? The name Mason Burnett had mumbled when drunk that night. Rosalie Roussel. And this was her diary.
10 Fevrier 1907
Avec la nouvelle année, un nouvel agenda. Je ferai de mon mieux pour y écrire chaque jour et pratiquer mon francais . . .
French had not been Lisan’s best subject; she had only taken two years of it at St. Clare’s.
She heaved a great sigh of frustration. She needed a dictionary to translate Rosalie’s words.
Why had Rosalie left her diary behind? Didn’t she care who found it, or had she simply forgotten it in the rush to leave?