Chapter 32 #2
“Your father did take part in your upbringing, you know,” Yao said. “It was his idea that you attend St. Clare’s and that
Master Liu let you have more independence. You couldn’t possibly disappoint him.”
Yao sat on the bench and put an arm around her shoulders. She leaned against him, comforted by his warmth, his kindness. Her
life would be upended shortly, but for now, for another few minutes, she was with Yao, whose friendship sustained her more
than food, more than sleep. But in the next moment, he moved away.
“I’m sorry, Princess,” he said, “I forgot myself.”
“Yao, we’ve been . . . been friends, equals while at Lennox Manor,” she said, “and now you decide to get formal? My father gave up his title and position. He’s a common citizen now and so am I. And you know how I feel about the monarchy.”
“That foreign girls’ school,” he said in mock disapproval, “all those notions about democracy and how superior principles
allowed Western nations to dominate Asia. Rather than because they forced their military might upon us.”
“You’re changing the subject,” she said. “Please, no more of this calling me ‘Princess.’ For one thing, it would be terrible
for our new identities if you slip up.”
He laughed, then said, “You look better today. Not so tired.”
To her surprise, she realized he was right. She hadn’t suffered from any bad dreams, she’d slept the whole night without waking,
and for the first time in weeks she felt fully alert. Her life was going to change completely in so many ways, and while the
prospect was daunting, she didn’t feel as overwhelmed as before. Perhaps because she was rested, or perhaps she was getting
used to the idea.
She pointed at the shallow container. “Why are you planting a new penjing when we’re leaving so soon?”
“Because I’m taking it with me,” he said. “Perhaps it will live for a hundred years, starting its life here in Shanghai, cared
for by future generations in Canada.”
In the two days since the fire, Fourth Uncle produced documents that would ease their entry into Canada. All the legal papers,
but also letters of introduction and telegrams confirming arrangements, and for Yao, a bank account. The Chinese community
in Victoria was growing, its small Chinatown eager to welcome new arrivals. The Liu name opened doors, even in Canada.
Unlike the United States, Canada still allowed immigration from China, although there was a head tax of five hundred dollars.
Yao would enter under his own name and his own identity.
Once there, he hoped to find work as a gardener.
Their contacts in Victoria had assured them that given Yao’s qualifications, his chances were good.
A wealthy family by the name of Butchart owned a property with a huge garden the size of a public park and had hired several of their gardeners from Victoria’s Chinese community.
Mr. Zheng, previously of the Liu Motorcar Import Company, would set up a Chinese art and antiques business in Victoria’s Chinatown.
Lisan could work at the shop or try for a job at the new Great Qing Overseas Chinese Public School, thanks to her knowledge
of both English and Chinese.
Rosalie was buried when the freighter was three days out of Shanghai. Lisan knew this because of the feeling that swept her
up like a wave, lifting her on a surge of relief. She gripped the railing and closed her eyes, spoke a silent prayer to the
gods. She pictured Rosalie gazing out from the portrait, her expression serene, at peace. The wave subsided and pulled away,
leaving Lisan with a sensation of gratitude. Then nothing. Not the slightest prickle of obligation, of sadness or fear.
Her hand felt in the pocket of her coat for the envelope. Master Liu had given it to her on the eve of their departure, something
her father had asked him to do before she left China. The envelope contained a letter and a photograph. She hadn’t shared
its contents with Master Liu or with Yao. Not yet. In his letter, her father apologized for the past decade.
I had lost my family, all except for you. I had lost faith in my countrymen, my government, in the role of the Emperor. All was bitterness. Leaving China was not just for your safety. I didn’t feel capable of being a parent.
The photograph was of her family. Not in formal Manchu court robes but in ordinary clothing. Her parents sat on a carved bench
side by side, relaxed and smiling. Her father’s arm rested lightly around her mother’s shoulder; her mother’s hands were folded
demurely in her lap. With them, three girls, the youngest on her father’s lap. She had studied each face over and over, their
unclouded smiles and rounded cheeks, the arch of their brows, her sisters’ and her own. The way her parents leaned ever so
slightly toward each other, as though they wanted to be closer.
Gradually, with each day on the ocean, scraps of memory had returned. Of chasing her older sisters around the courtyard garden;
being dressed for a party in a heavy, embroidered gown; of riding a horse, her father sitting on the saddle behind her, the
safest feeling in the world. The memories were rapidly filling in with more details: the azaleas at the perimeter of the courtyard
garden and the goldfish in its pond, the covered walkway around the courtyard where she could run and play when rain dripped
off the eaves or when the sun burned too hot. Her world had been so small and now she was crossing the Pacific. She put the
letter and photograph back in her coat pocket.
“What are you thinking about?” Yao joined her at the railing. “Of course, there is so much to think about, what a question.”
The Jade Line freighter carried cargo and had room for a dozen paying passengers, but Lisan and Yao were the only ones. Fourth
Uncle had made sure of that.
“I think my memories are coming back,” she said. “Just in bits and pieces though.”
“But it’s coming back, which is better than not at all,” he said. “Soon you’ll remember your father, your family. Good memories, not just sad ones.”
“Yes. Yes, I think, I believe, our family was happy.”
“There’s something else, isn’t there?” he said. “It’s Mrs. Stanton, isn’t it?”
“You mean Eleanor Fontaine,” she said, wishing she were a child so that she could stamp her feet in frustration. “Yao, she’s
an impostor and a murderer, and she is out there spending money that’s not hers, and there’s no way to prove she’s a killer.
Where’s the justice in that?”
“Leave her fate to the gods, Lisan,” he said. “There’s nothing you can do.”
There was one other thing she had to know. “Yao, did you agree to come only because of my father? Because he’s your master?”
He looked at her and reached out a hand. “Of course not. I wanted a chance at a future of my own. With you, if at all possible.
A chance at a life of our own.”
A life of our own, she thought and took his hand, felt his fingers squeeze hers gently. Then he put his arm around her and
she turned her gaze to the ocean, to the first glimmers of sunlight rising from the horizon.