All the Tea in China Read online

  “I was grinning by the end of the first sentence. What a delight to travel from Oxford to the Orient with headstrong Isabella Goodrich! A well-educated Englishwoman with more than a teaspoonful of courage, Isabella has her heart set on China, even as a certain gentleman fixes his eye on her. Solid research and sprightly pacing make for a pleasurable read. Truly good to the last drop!”

  Liz Curtis Higgs, bestselling author of

  Whence Came a Prince

  “With its rich detail and saucy characters, All the Tea in China is a fun romp around Cape Horn and into China. I loved the spunk of Isabella, the mystery of Phineas, and the allure of a country so distant from our own. Hats off to Jane Orcutt for such an enjoyable read!”

  Marlo Schalesky, author, Veil of Fire

  “Jane Orcutt’s All the Tea in China has been well-defined as a “Rollicking Regency!” Writing with a delightful combination of verve and charm, Orcutt presents Isabella Goodrich as an intelligent, spunky, good-hearted girl who never lacks for adventure . . . or daring. I loved journeying with her from England to China, and from naiveté to maturity!”

  Angela Hunt, author, Uncharted and The Elevator

  “All the Tea in China is a delightful blend of adventure and fun (just watch Miss Isabella Goodrich wield that sword!) along with a fascinating look at a totally different culture. Along with a suspenseful question: will Isabella’s impulsive nature bring fulfillment of her dreams—or disaster?”

  Lorena McCourtney, author, the Ivy Malone Mysteries

  “All the Tea in China is laugh-out-loud good! Jane Orcutt’s delightful characters and quirky plot steep together so well that readers will beg for more.”

  Lois Richer, author, Apple Blossom Bride

  “Jane Orcutt reveals a delightful sense of humor and fun with this exciting read. There is never a lull, and I can’t remember when I had so much fun learning about another culture and learning the art of compassion.”

  Hannah Alexander, author, Death Benefits

  “Waltz right through the debut of the Rollicking Regency series with a lovable, independent heroine who commands both witty conversation and an extremely sharp sword. A delight to both senses and sensibilities.”

  Sandra Byrd, author, Let Them Eat Cake

  “Jane Orcutt’s All the Tea in China is a tale of deftly kept and then revealed secrets and deep insights into man and God. And a rollicking unforgettable heroine. Well written and enticing.”

  Lyn Cote, author, the Women of Ivy Manor series

  A ROLLICKING REGENCY

  All the Tea

  in China

  JANE ORCUTT

  © 2007 by Jane Orcutt

  Published by Fleming H. Revell

  a division of Baker Publishing Group

  P.O. Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287

  Printed in the United States of America

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Orcutt, Jane.

  All the tea in China : a rollicking Regency / Jane Orcutt.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 10: 0-8007-3179-4 (pbk.)

  ISBN 978-0-8007-3179-3 (pbk.)

  1. Title.

  PS3565.R37A79 2007

  813’.54—dc22

  2006103331

  Contents

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  OXFORD, ENGLAND

  FEBRUARY, 1814

  1

  I can abide neither a liar nor a cheat, but you may be wont to think me such while I here relate my little tale. Were I not your humble narrator, even now I would scarce believe it anything but mere fiction. I take pen in resolute hand to assure you that what I am about to recount is truth, not the least of which involves heartbreak, joy, a Chinese translation of the Gospel According to St. Luke, and, oh yes, a rather large sword.

  Perhaps it is best that I start where my journey of a thousand miles began, not with a single step but with the dearest pair of pink silk slippers.

  Soft as rose petals they were and embroidered with a bit of curious white design on the toes. They looked quite lovely peeping from beneath my new white muslin dress with a pink ribbon encircling just below . . . oh dear, let me simply say high above my waist. My modiste assured me the dress was the finest in the county and that during the party no one would be my peer.

  I was, after all, preparing for social battle.

  “This dress will accomplish the task,” I said, twirling on the stool set in front of the mirror. “You do me proud, Flora.”

  My modiste tugged on the hem to allay my motion. She looked up from where she knelt before my stool, mouth full of pins. “I do not know why you asked me to stitch this in such a hurry. If you do not cease your movements, Miss Isabella,” she mumbled, “’twill not be finished in time for the Ransoms’ party tonight. Be still, child.”

  “Child?” I laughed. “I have five and twenty years, as well you know, and you have been with me for all of them.”

  Flora removed the pins from her mouth to permit an angelic smile. “And now the only child in attendance is when little Lewis visits with Frederica.”

  I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. Would I never cease hearing about my older sister’s child? My nephew was a creation of God, indeed, but he was also quite possibly the most disagreeable baby upon which I had ever set eyes. Not only did he wail piteously whenever I attempted to hold him, but he also possessed some rather curious physical traits. It had been my limited experience that most babies lose the red, wrinkled skin and expression so common to them (and their mothers!) soon after birth. But this child—pronounced hale and hearty by the doctor—persisted in retaining the most distressingly mottled skin and ungainly form.

  Shall I describe the child’s face? In deference to his mother, I think not.

  “You are far behind your sister. She already has a babe, yet you do not even have a husband.”

  Touché. The battle had already begun, and with Flora, no less! She had long been concerned with my future, since my mother and father passed away soon after my birth. A distant relative hired to care for Frederica and me, Louisa Florey had served as our nursemaid, governess, modiste, and confidante. “Miss Florey” had been shortened to Flora long ago.

  Now that Freddie was happily wed, Flora had turned her attention fully to me. She often suggested particular young men in Oxford as potential husbands, never even attempting to cloak her matchmaking as idle speculation. Fortunately, I had learned to overlook her plainspokenness, for its source was always love.

  “No one is more aware of my solitude, thank you,” I said. “But I am not yet past hope of being wed.” I would be happy with even a disagreeable baby . . .

  Readjusting her position, Flora bumped against the stool, scattering the pins. “Only see what I have done!” She got down on her hands and knees, sighing. “That is probably my punishment for my insensitive words,” she mumbled to herself as she hunted near the mirror and around the stool. “It is quite one thing for me to be a spinster, but you . . .” She looked up and smiled, determined to soften her words. “It is as you say, dear Miss Isabella. You are not yet past hope.”

  I smiled. “Then this should please you. Catherine Ransom told me there would be an extra guest ton
ight.” I paused for best effect. “A male guest.”

  “So that was the reason for a new gown. And now, I suppose, that you with your spontaneous notions have already begun to contemplate the wedding.”

  In truth I had pictured myself standing beside an elegant groom at Christ Church’s chapel, but I feigned shock. “Why, Flora! I only wanted a chance to show off your beautiful handiwork.”

  “Pah. It is my French blood. Only the French know how to sew a proper fashion.”

  “You are but one-quarter French, I believe.”

  She let out a dolorous sigh. “To think what fame could be mine if my ancestors had taken more care with my lineage.”

  I smiled and slipped an arm around her shoulder. “Were Napoleon himself your father, you could not be a better seamstress.”

  “Were Napoleon my father, I would refer to myself as fully British,” she said. “Let us pray then that my work shows off to your advantage tonight. Do you like the new slippers?”

  I wiggled my toes happily. I had small, delicate feet, about which I confess to an equally small, delicate vanity. “They are beautiful, Flora, and the fit most comfortable. Not like that last pair that pinched to no end.”

  “That is peculiar, for the shoemaker used the very same pattern for this pair.” Flora brightened. “Perhaps it is a difference in the silk. When I inquired after his best fabric, he made sure that no one was watching, then he drew out a small bolt of this pink silk. ‘Newly arrived from the Orient,’ he said. ‘It put me right in mind of your Isabella Goodrich, and no one else should have it,’ he said. Then, when the slippers were finished, I saw that his wife had added the embroidery. I could not bear to refuse to pay, because the poor woman is near blindness. The white stitching does look lovely . . . though a trifle peculiar.”

  I bent to stroke one of the slippers and felt an odd little thrill. The design on the toes must be some sort of Chinese symbol, then, if the fabric was Oriental silk. I could envision Solomon’s wife painstakingly copying the patterns, and I was touched by her efforts. “Did he say why he thought of me, in particular?”

  Flora shrugged. “I never know why old Solomon says what he does. One cannot trust everything he says. After all, he is not French, for all that he tries to fashion shoes.”

  I covered a smile.

  “Did Catherine Ransom say anything about this mysterious stranger that is to visit tonight?” Flora said.

  I shook my head, and she sniffed. “Thankfully she is already married, though I would not put it past her to steal this man’s attention too.”

  “Flora! She is a lady, after all. As well as my friend.”

  She sighed. “I am sorry to speak of it, Miss Isabella, but she is no friend to you. I cannot find it in my heart to forgive her. Or Mr. David.” She waggled her finger in my direction. “And I do not doubt for one moment that Catherine Ransom has some other mischievous plan tonight. It is far too suspicious that she would advise you about a male visitor to tonight’s party—she who has never had your interests at heart!”

  Studying the mirror, I adjusted a dark ringlet at my cheek. “She wants only to pair me for the evening with someone suitable. Is that implausible?”

  Flora’s reflection scowled at mine.

  “Very well,” I said, turning to face her. “I will be en guard tonight against Catherine Ransom and her wiles.”

  Flora cocked her head. “Truly? Do you pledge it?”

  “I do,” I said firmly, with the certainty that one day soon—surely!—I would be repeating that expression in the matrimonial setting for which it was properly intended.

  By the time I prepared for the party, my hands were trembling. Flora helped me into the finished dress, then adorned my hair with strings of pearls. She argued in favor of flowers, but when I studied the pearls, they accidentally slipped from my hands to the floor. I looked at Flora triumphantly.

  She sighed. “I suppose you will insist that is the right choice, then.”

  “Of course.” I was not superstitious, but I did believe that sometimes decisions were ordained for us. To my estimation, young ladies should be careful (though Flora called it impulsive) to pay heed.

  Her eyes shone as I departed, and she whispered in my ear that I should remember every fashion detail. She also squeezed my arm and warned me not to spend too much time with Uncle Toby, who would no doubt encourage me to more intellectual conversations than a young lady of my age should pursue.

  Tobias Fitzwater, my uncle, had raised my sister Frederica and me but was better known as the dean of Christ Church at Oxford. Though he had never claimed to understand the dreams and whims of girls or young women, he had taught Freddie and me—just as he did his students—to reverence God first and education second. My sister scorned her knowledge once she reached her first Season, but I embraced it heart and soul.

  If Uncle Toby knew nothing of proper behavior for girls, I could claim equal ignorance. When, as a child, I observed some of his students fencing, I demanded to take up the sport. My dear uncle readily indulged my desire, and I had no maternal figure to advise against its impropriety. Flora was as devoted to my uncle as she was to me, so she guarded our secret even when my practice grew more scandalous as I gained in age.

  Uncle Toby and I rode in silence to the Ransoms’ until he squinted in the dim light of our carriage. He angled his spectacles further down his nose. “Do I see a new pair of slippers on your feet?”

  “You do,” I said proudly, sticking out a foot for his inspection.

  He studied it, then checked the other slipper, his expression sober. “Where did you get these?”

  “Flora had them made for me. Solomon said it was a special pink silk that made him think especially of me. Why do you ask?”

  “This is Chinese writing on the toes, were you aware?”

  “I assumed as much. Solomon said the silk came newly from the Orient.” I twisted my neck to study the symbols from Uncle Toby’s perspective. “Do you know what they mean?”

  “I am afraid not. Far be it from me to judge society, but I cannot help but think it will frown upon such foreignness in fashion.”

  That was odd. Uncle Toby had never commented negatively on anything I wore. Still, he was so involved in his studies, he scarcely took notice of his own appearance, let alone anyone else’s. “I am sure that Catherine Ransom and all the other ladies will have more to worry about than the slippers on my feet,” I said with a light air.

  Uncle Toby raised an eyebrow. “You are not hoping to impress anyone tonight, are you?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I have been meaning to speak to you of this for a while now, Izzy, but have worked up neither the courage nor the proper words. Perhaps I should best be plain.”

  “By all means.” I nodded. Uncle looked quite serious, a rarity for a personal exchange between us. Our conversations, though oftentimes lengthy, were usually limited to scholarly discussions.

  “Not all are intended by God for matrimony,” he said.

  “Indeed,” I said, wondering why he spoke of himself. Uncle Toby had never wed, preferring to pour all of his affection into his studies—and in raising Freddie and me, of course.

  Uncle Toby nodded.

  I waited for him to proceed. He looked away, obviously flustered. I continued to wait.

  He shifted uncomfortably. I shifted as well, studying the tips of my slippers as though some answer could be found there. At last it dawned on me that Uncle Toby did not intend to say more.

  I smiled broadly, then felt an involuntary chuckle tickle my throat. Uncle stared as though he were riding with a lunatic. “I did not envision humor as your response,” he said.

  “I did not envision matrimony as a subject you would broach tonight.” Or rather, broach then retreat!

  He looked troubled again. Apparently the situation was uneasy for him, but I could not imagine what sort of participation he sought from me.

  “Sometimes,” he
said, then seemed to draw courage. “Sometimes men are so enamored with finding a diamond that they fail to see the pearl among them.”

  I shook my head, bewildered. Now he was speaking of jewels. I patted his hand. “You are quite a riddle, Uncle Toby.”

  His shoulders slumped in a sigh of evident defeat, then he smiled at me fondly. “I fear that I am, my dear. I fear that I am.”

  Sir Henry Ransom waited at the doorway to greet us as we alighted from our carriage. He ushered us inside his spacious home, and anticipation fairly took my breath. Or maybe it was the smoky aroma of the multitudinous candles. The crystal chandelier glowed above the generous main room, while wall sconces reflected their own kindred flames. Striped and solid velvet chairs were artfully arranged for conversation. Later, I knew, dinner would be served in the massive dining room. The Ransom home was as comfortable as it was large, like a portly woman with her finest jewels.

  All of this might have been mine, for David Ransom and I had been friends since childhood. He and his family rusticated in Oxfordshire every year, and we played explorers and pirates together while young, then later began to eye each other with keener interest.

  Then Catherine Allbright became the object of his affection. No words of explanation passed between David and me, but none were needed. We had exchanged no promises save those of a pirate king to his fair lady. Though I would never dream of voicing my doubts, I was at a loss as to David’s selection in Catherine Allbright. Unless it was her well-lined purse. She was the daughter of a prosperous landowner, after all, and I but an orphan. I wished them well on their wedding day.

  “Will you be all right alone for a moment, Izzy?” Uncle Tobias asked. “Sir Henry wishes to show me his latest art acquisition.”

  “Enjoy yourself, Uncle,” I said, smiling, as he took his leave. “I shall be all contentment.”

  “Isabella!”

  Then again, perhaps not.

  “What a perfectly lovely dress!”

  “Catherine!” I returned, kissing the cheek of the blonde beauty who had claimed my childhood friend for her husband. I took note for Flora that Catherine had donned a beastly green silk that made her complexion look like the underside of a trout. “You look lovely too.”