Chapter 9 #2
“I’ve heard from other ladies that after some time, the servants who’ve learned some English get poached,” Caroline said.
“Yes, it happens,” Lisan said, “because when they go work for another foreign family, it could be higher up the ladder, perhaps
as head servant. But for the most part, servants prefer a secure position and are very loyal. Some Chinese families have servants
whose own families have been part of the household for generations.”
“Lisan, I must ask. Are you sleeping well?” she said, pouring herself another cup of tea. “You seem rather tired and preoccupied.
Is your bed comfortable?”
“I apologize if you feel I haven’t been giving the work my full attention, Mrs. Stanton,” said the young woman.
“It’s just a bit strange sleeping in a different room.
In a few more days I’ll be used to it.” Her smile and words dismissed Caroline’s concerns, but there was a nervous undertone to the young woman’s voice.
“No, no, my dear,” Caroline said, “your work hasn’t suffered at all, it’s just that you seem rather fatigued. As for sleeping
badly, it’s how I felt during my first few weeks at boarding school. Until then I’d only ever slept in my own little room
at home.” She dabbed the napkin against her lips. “Listen, Lisan, now that the errands are done, I’d like to explore Shanghai
a bit on my own, with the car. Please take a rickshaw or carriage home and go through the arrangements again with Chin.”
Caroline had looked up the address for the Shanghai Land Titles Office and copied it down, so her driver had little problem
finding it. At the desk, she asked if she could take a look at the survey map and deed to Lennox Manor. She gave the elderly
British clerk her most radiant and pleading smile, and he was more than happy to pull out the information she wanted.
“Here we are,” he said, returning from a room at the back. He beckoned to her from a door near the entrance, where he laid
out some maps on a long table. “Ah, as you can see on this map, here is Lennox Manor, the property reference number is marked
right here. And here is the folder with the deeds. Excuse me, there’s someone at the desk. I will leave you to it.”
Caroline pulled out the deeds. Lisan was right. The current owner was a Mr. Liu Fanzhu. Before that, Charles Burnett. Before
that, Mason Burnett. Before that, a Malcolm Armstrong had bought the land from Liu Fanzhu, the same man who now owned the
property.
At one time Mason actually did own Lennox Manor, but now he was merely leasing it and the property wasn’t his to bequeath.
Did Mason think he would buy it back someday without Thomas ever finding out?
Once she told Thomas, surely he would take a step back from his dealings with Mason.
She had proof now that Mason was taking advantage of her and Thomas.
It was a good thing she’d sent Lisan home. She wouldn’t have been able to chat or act normally. She needed the time to take
control of her emotions. She would keep her outrage in check and speak calmly to Thomas later. She would convince him to get
out of whatever business contract he had with Mason and get back to mining, a business he understood. She had to do it. The
motorcar sped along Bubbling Well Road, passing rickshaws and street vendors. The skies were clear, the air warmer than it
had ever been since she’d been in Shanghai. Branches on trees were no longer bare but covered in a haze of pale green. To
her this had always been a joyful first sign of spring.
Upon her arrival back at Lennox Manor, two houseboys darted out the door and hurried to take the boxes and bags of shopping
from the car. Lisan was at the top of the steps waiting to greet her.
“Two things, Mrs. Stanton,” Lisan said. “Your car has arrived and also a driver. Mr. Stanton hired him for you. The car is
in the garage and the driver is sharing a room with Mr. Stanton’s own driver. Also, more of your belongings have arrived.
Two big wooden crates from New York. I had them taken upstairs to the attic above the west wing. Here’s the letter that came
with the crates.”
She handed Caroline a sealed envelope, and Caroline ripped it open. It was from her lawyers in New York, who had been the
Dominics’ lawyers.
In accordance with your instructions, we have sold the contents of the Dominic apartment and appointed a property manager to lease the property to a suitable tenant.
Regarding the two crates we have shipped to you, although you asked us to dispose of “everything inside the apartment that isn’t nailed down,” we did find some personal and family items you may want to keep.
Perhaps once the pain of your loss has lessened, you may even be glad of these reminders of your aunt and uncle, of your parents and your life before its tragedies.
“Oh dear,” Caroline said, with a sigh of displeasure. She was sure that if Thomas had expressed such wishes, the lawyers would’ve
obeyed to the letter. But she was only a young woman, befuddled by tragedy. “I told the lawyers to sell everything, I don’t
want any of it. But, evidently, they had other ideas. I may as well go up and take a look, see what they considered worth
sending all this way.”
They followed the head servant up the service staircase to the attic. Chin switched on the lights and they stepped over the
threshold. Two bare bulbs hung from the sloped ceiling. Empty steamer trunks marked with Stanton and sets of luggage sat neatly stacked against one wall. The newly arrived crates were lined up against the adjacent wall.
Miscellaneous bits of furniture, some broken, were pushed against another wall along with framed pictures, presumably unwanted.
Unwanted by whom? Charles Burnett? His runaway wife? Or perhaps Mason. She would look through them later, just out of curiosity.
The tops of the wooden packing crates were still nailed down and Chin used a claw hammer to pry them open. He bowed on his
way out, leaving the hammer on the floor. Lisan lifted the top off the first crate so Caroline could look in. It was filled
with smaller boxes, straw and paper stuffed around them.
“The crates are labeled,” Lisan said, pointing to a piece of cardboard at the top of the open crate. “Silverware. Porcelain. Crystal. Shall I ask Chin to bring those down to the butler’s pantry and put them with the rest of your table settings?”
“No. Because I won’t ever use them,” Caroline said. “I don’t want these place settings on my dining table. They can stay here
in storage. All this belonged to the Dominics and I don’t want to be reminded of that life. And besides, they’re so ugly.
Look.”
She pulled out a box of polished wood and set it down on top of the other crate, opened the hinged lid. It was a canteen of
silverware, the inside of the box lined in blue velvet, the cutlery expensive and heavy, ornate swirling patterns on the handles
traced in gold. She opened another box, which contained a carving set, a long fork and matching straight knife, both with
antler handles.
Caroline opened another box and handed Lisan a cut crystal champagne coupe, every inch covered in a diamond design. “Truly
hideous,” she said to Lisan, who handed it back silently, nodding assent.
“I asked the Dominics’ lawyer to sell everything at auction,” Caroline sighed, “the apartment in Manhattan and all its furnishings,
everything. But the lawyers advised keeping the apartment for now and Thomas agreed. And now they’ve sent me what they decided
is of sentimental value.”
“Perhaps they thought you would change your mind,” Lisan said, “once you were grieving less. They were being kind.”
“Well, since these things are here,” Caroline said, “let’s see what they considered of sentimental value.”
Lisan moved aside the lid of the second crate, which was labeled Caroline Vessey bedroom. Caroline rummaged through the boxes inside. She unwrapped small knickknacks that she recalled had been on a fireplace mantel:
a collection of ceramic cats, some seashells, and a Dresden shepherdess. She shook her head and Lisan wrapped them up again,
put them back in the crate.
Caroline took out a pair of cushions embroidered with petit point roses.
“I made these,” she murmured, sinking to the floor beside the crate.
“Mrs. Dominic was adamant that young ladies should be skilled at decorative needlework. I’ll take these, they’d suit the chairs in my parlor.
Oh, and this Waterford crystal water jug and matching tumbler.
They used to sit on the bedside table. I always liked them. ”
She found a desk set, the base a two-inch thickness of green onyx holding a fat gold fountain pen and an oversize paper knife.
“Italian, a gift from Mr. Dominic. It’s too heavy and completely wrong for my desk,” Caroline remarked. “I may give it to
Uncle Mason. Or ask Thomas to take it into his office. Put it over there.”
The small pile of items on the floor was growing. She stood to lean into the crate and took out another cardboard box. A school
photo album. Bad memories. She would burn those.
Something brushed past her feet and she gave a startled cry. Her legs gave way and the box dropped back into the crate. A
small, dark creature ran along the wall and vanished through a gap between the floor and wall. Caroline could hardly breathe
as she shrank back against the rough wood of the crate. She pressed a hand against her heaving stomach.
“I’ll have Chin put down some rat poison,” Lisan said, kneeling down beside her, “but I’m afraid you can’t avoid rodents or
cockroaches in Shanghai. The best we can do is keep them from being obviously visible.”
“Yes, yes, tell Chin to put down poison. We can’t have vermin running over our guests’ shoes.” She struggled to calm herself,
took a deep breath. She moved away from the wall where the rat had gone to hide. “I’m done for now with these crates. Lisan,
let’s look through the bits of furniture over here. Maybe I can find a little footstool to put by the fireplace. And there
are some pictures, let’s see them.”
Lisan nodded and began sorting through the pile of miscellaneous furniture.
“Nothing useful here in the way of furniture, Mrs. Stanton,” Lisan said, “but you might find this picture interesting.” She pulled out a framed painting, a fan-shaped watercolor of chrysanthemum flowers painted on silk.
“Look closely,” she said, bringing the picture into the light so that Caroline could inspect it.
“This isn’t a watercolor—the flowers and leaves are all embroidery.
It’s probably from Soochow, a town famous for fine needlework as well as its gardens. ”
“Astounding,” Caroline said. “The workmanship is exquisite. The petals look so real. My goodness, there are actual veins on
the leaves. My petit point roses are ridiculously crude compared to this. The wall above my parlor fireplace is empty. This
will look very fine. What else do we have?”
“Some more paintings,” Lisan said.
A landscape of windmills. A still life of autumn fruits and a dead grouse. Caroline made a face and they both laughed. The
last picture in the stack was an oil portrait, a woman in a red dress. The portrait was in a square frame, about two feet
wide. The woman was Chinese. At least, Caroline thought she was Chinese. She was young and entrancingly beautiful, eyes dark
and serene, cheeks rounded. Her lips were slightly parted, as though about to speak, lending a schoolgirl innocence to her
features.
“How interesting,” Caroline said, leaning in for a closer look. She pointed at the brass plate fixed to the lower edge of
the frame. “Rosalie Roussel as Tosca. Tosca, as in the opera. This Rosalie must be an opera singer. Isn’t she beautiful?”
There was no answer. Lisan was staring at the painting as though mesmerized.