All the Tea in China Page 2

  “Not for long.” She leaned closer for a confidential whisper. “I am with child.”

  My heart sank. Could crueler words be spoken tonight? “Really! That is . . . wonderful. Truly wonderful. You and David are quite blessed.”

  “To be sure. David is the most devoted of husbands,” she said, demurely touching the front of her dress in a maddening way, as though the babe were already making its presence known. She snapped to herself and smiled. “And you? Any prospects?”

  “If the Lord is willing, I shall breathe and rise again tomorrow,” I said with a smile. Prospects, indeed! As though I were in search of a situation!

  Catherine smiled blandly. “How many years has it been since your final Season? No, wait. Let me guess.” She counted on her left-hand fingers and unfortunately soon moved to those on her right. “I remember now. It was the year David proposed to me. My, but that has been a while.”

  “I—”

  “Excuse me, dear.” Catherine patted my arm as though she were my elder, and since she had wed, I suppose she was. “Lady Ransom has asked me to stay particularly close to her tonight. For protection, I suppose, since I am in charge of the family heir.” She giggled in what I knew she hoped was a light manner, but which sounded more like a donkey’s bray. When we were younger, she had confessed that she pursued all manner of different laughter, but there was no getting around the horrible sound.

  “Yes, of course,” I said with a curtsy, but she was already sailing across the room like a stately maternal ship. I had neglected to ask about the unattached gentleman who was supposed to be in attendance tonight, but if Catherine Ransom entertained the notion that I would beg for a man . . . !

  Sighing, I surveyed the room to see who was available for conversation, but at the moment everyone seemed to be paired off. I retreated to the Ransoms’ inner hallway, where I studied Flora’s beautiful handiwork in the giltedged mirror.

  Oh dear! Was that a smudge along the neckline? I leaned closer for further inspection, studying the offending spot. What a pity that—

  “Unless your vision is poor, you will not find your image improved by pressing against the mirror. Though I’ll not gainsay that many ladies oft believe it otherwise.”

  “Oh!” I whirled about with a start, finding myself face-to-face, nay, nearly nose to nose with the most unusual-looking man. He appeared to be but five years my senior, yet he wore thick spectacles, which magnified his eyes most alarmingly. His dark hair was pulled back in a queue, though such style had been out of favor for many years. He also wore an ill-fitting, odd sort of faded silk jacket, along with near threadbare inexpressibles.

  In short, I felt sorry for someone so out of tune with simple fashion. Surely it was my Christian duty to be kind to such a person, no matter his manners. How he had snuck up on me so silently, without my knowledge, was beyond all reason. Why he had spoken to me without introduction was beyond all propriety.

  “Sir, I confess not to vanity but to a wish not to offend others with any displeasing physical display,” I said, attempting a light tone. Surely he would understand a lady’s dismay at seeing her new dress soiled, no matter how slightly.

  “Perhaps what you desire, if you so truly wish not to offend, is the raiment of a monastic, complete with cowl. Then every displeasing aspect of yourself would be truly hidden.”

  With great effort, I kept my mouth from dropping open. Christian duty forgotten, I willed myself to stand straighter and attempted to brush past him. “Excuse me, sir. You forget yourself.” The man thought I was preening! Moreover, he inferred I was unattractive! I did not like to give anyone the cut, but his behavior was inexcusable.

  He moved in front of me, impeding my progress. “Did I offend?”

  “To ask the question is to answer.”

  He smiled knowingly. “Ah, but if you answer the question, it will admit the need for a deeper reflection than any mirror can provide. But perhaps you disagree? Or are you merely . . . disagreeable?”

  I opened my mouth but was checked by a hand on my elbow. “There you are, Isabella.” My hostess had impeccable timing.

  “Lady Ransom,” I said with a curtsy. “I had the pleasure of seeing Sir Henry at the doorway, but you were detained elsewhere.”

  “Yes, and for that I beg your forgiveness.” She pointed her fan at the strange man and smiled. “I see you have met our distinguished guest.”

  He bowed slightly in our direction. “I confess that we have not, Lady Ransom. We were merely commenting on your mirror here.”

  She tutted. “What a ghastly piece of work it is. But if you two admire it, then I shall consider it fine enough. Mr. Snowe, Miss Isabella Goodrich. Isabella, Mr. Phineas Snowe.”

  I curtsied, and somewhat to my surprise, he followed decorum by bowing.

  “Mr. Snowe is visiting us from China, Isabella. He is with the uh, the uh . . . what was the name of your organization, Mr. Snowe?”

  “No doubt you have heard of the London Missionary Society,” he said somberly.

  I could feel the blood rush from my face. I had no idea he was one of God’s workers. Uncle Toby held such men in high regard and had taught me the same. “Why, yes.”

  He smiled, bowing low. “I am traveling with a husband and wife who seek to become missionaries themselves.”

  “Unfortunately, the Tippetts were called away to London and could not join us tonight. And now I shall leave you two alone,” Lady Ransom said, tapping me lightly with her fan. “I am never one to meddle in discussions of the heart or religion, and something tells me that one or the other is about to transpire. If you will excuse me.”

  Left alone with Mr. Snowe, I felt the obligation, if not quite the desire, to apologize. And yet he was, I reminded myself, practically a foreigner, which explained his lack of fashion sense. I should at least be forgiving in that regard.

  Meanwhile, he said nothing but stared at me until I felt irritation rise anew. “I suppose your travels have kept you away from England for a good many years?” I ventured.

  “A great many,” he corrected, as though I had made another grievous error.

  “In China alone?”

  “Among other places.”

  This was certainly awkward. One had to wonder how he could minister to the masses when he could barely speak to a fellow countrywoman except in innuendo or insult. “And these other places are . . . ?” I asked, resisting the urge to tap my foot.

  “Miss . . . Goodrich, was it?” he said. “You need not feel you must entertain me. Sir Henry invited me tonight not for social, but financial reasons. I am here to raise money for my work. Is there a Mr. Goodrich with whom I should speak—your father? Or perhaps your betrothed?”

  At least we had lack of forbearance in common! “I fear not, Mr. Snowe. You might, however, find favor with my uncle, Mr. Fitzwater, that white-haired gentleman conversing with Sir Henry.”

  “Not Tobias Fitzwater?” His eyes gleamed. “The Oxford dean?”

  “He is a dean, yes. You have heard of Uncle Toby?”

  “Indeed I had hoped to speak with him, as he was a major reason for my visit to Oxford. I understand that he has an interest in Oriental studies.”

  Perhaps that explained why Uncle Toby had recognized the language on my slippers, if not its meaning. “I did not know that about my uncle,” I said, vexed that Mr. Snowe knew anything about Uncle Toby. “Have you perhaps mistaken him for someone else?”

  He pursed his lips. “Tobias Fitzwater is the dean of Christ Church, is he not?”

  I nodded. How did he know this?

  “And he has been at Oxford for, oh, thirty years now, yes?”

  I nodded again.

  Mr. Snowe shifted. “What I fail to understand, however, is how you fit into the picture.”

  “And which picture is that?” I replied, blinking in what I hoped was the manner of all innocence.

  For a moment it seemed that his face darkened, then inexplicably brightened. “Forgive me for nattering on so, Mi
ss Goodrich. Would you be so kind as to introduce me to your uncle?”

  “I should be quite at a loss without your company,” I said. “But follow me.”

  I did not wait for a reply but sallied forth across the room. I could not be rid of Phineas Snowe any too soon. I was only sorry that I would be handing him over to Uncle Toby, who was far too kind.

  Be kind yourself, Isabella. He is a missionary. Be charitable.

  I drew a deep breath as we approached Uncle Toby, who was just finishing a conversation with Sir Henry. Our host bowed, excused himself, and left us alone.

  “And who is this?” Uncle Toby smiled in the stranger’s direction.

  “Phineas Snowe, sir.” He bowed. “But you need no introduction, Mr. Fitzwater. I feel I am acquainted with you already.”

  Uncle Toby bowed, looking at me curiously, as though I could explain this peculiar man’s ways. “He is visiting from China,” I said and watched in revulsion as Snowe sidled closer to my beloved uncle. Odious man! “Obsequious” must surely have been his original Christian name.

  To my distaste, Uncle Toby’s face brightened. “Ah, yes, the missionary. Sir Henry told me about you. You are here to—”

  “To endeavor to raise funds that we might spread the Good News among the heathens in China,” Snowe said, reaching into his coat pocket. “In fact, I brought along this newly translated account of the Gospel According to St. Luke. I believe you have heard of Robert Morrison?”

  “Yes, yes. Quite,” Uncle Toby said, putting on his spectacles and accepting the volume. He flipped through it carefully. “Unfortunately, I do not read Chinese, but I am sure that it is a faithful translation.”

  “You may be certain,” Snowe said, smiling from one side of his mouth.

  “Izzy, did you look at this?” Uncle Toby asked, handing the volume to me.

  Snowe smirked as I accepted it. I felt my cheeks flush. “I do not read Chinese either,” I said, pretending humility that I did not feel.

  “I would not expect you to.”

  “Isabella is quite accomplished in other languages, however,” Uncle Toby said, “and I have no doubt that given time, she could learn Chinese as well.”

  Snowe laughed until the spectacles slid down his nose. He pushed them up again, still chuckling. “Forgive me, but it is a very difficult language. I doubt that it could be acquired by even a woman who wore it on her best slippers.”

  Uncle Toby had been right that someone would notice. I had had no notion that it would be a man. How embarrassing!

  Uncle Toby looked interested. “Would you please be so kind as to translate for us, Snowe? Isabella and I were discussing those very symbols today.”

  “Not at all.” He turned to me. “If you will hold out one of your feet.”

  Face flushing, I extended one. I felt that I should die of mortification, knowing that he had ample glance at my ankle in the perusal.

  “Well?” Uncle Toby asked.

  “They mean,” Snowe said thoughtfully, as though trying to decide. “They mean love.”

  Oh my. That was rather forward.

  Love?

  Uncle Toby looked amused. “I am not surprised, Izzy. It seems the sort of notion that would pass as fashion for you young ladies.”

  “I must disagree, sir,” I said, “for I never felt that young ladies were much concerned with love but with making a good match. The two are seldom the same, in my personal estimation.” David’s marriage to Catherine had taught me that.

  “How wise you are, Miss Goodrich,” Snowe said. “A lady who settles for love generally settles beneath herself. You, I am certain, are too clever to claim less than a marriage that is . . . what did you call it? A good match?”

  I could not tell if he was jesting at my expense, but I suspected as much.

  “Isabella can have a wonderful life without love or marriage.”

  “Uncle Toby,” I murmured. He seemed determined to defend my honor.

  “Really?” Snowe gave me his full attention. “And why are you above both love and marriage?”

  “But I do not think myself so,” I said. How on earth was I to repair this conversation? My dear, it was beyond repair. It was in dire need of termination. I had heard that a lady’s swoon could bring an entire room to a standstill. Dare I attempt it? Yes, I must. One, two . . .

  “Perhaps our Lord has called Isabella to a different life,” Uncle Toby said. “I am certain that a man of God such as yourself, Snowe, can well understand how the Almighty sometimes sets the feet of his children on different paths from others.”

  “Indeed I can. No doubt God will reveal that path to you in his good time, Miss Goodrich.”

  Bewildered by the conversation’s turn, I was nonetheless pleased. Phineas Snowe had uttered what I believed were his first sensible words all evening. “I await his command,” I said.

  Snowe pressed his hands together in a soundless clap. “Spoken like a true disciple! Miss Goodrich, I am delighted to have met you. Mr. Fitzwater, might I have a word with you about my mission work? Miss Goodrich, you will not mind if we excuse ourselves? I fear that our conversation will be entirely too boring for your tastes.”

  “On the contrary, Mr. Snowe. I find discussions of foreign lands most intriguing.” China! The Orient! Oh, to see all the foreign sites and peoples of such places as my imagination could only invent from my reading. Surely I could forbear Phineas Snowe long enough to hear his firsthand tales.

  Uncle Toby pressed my hand. “The Ransoms are in want of your company to keep the party amiable.” He smiled. “You must not waste what should be a convivial time.”

  “Of course, Uncle,” I said, knowing that I was being dismissed. Perhaps it was for the best. I had yet to make note of any gown save Catherine’s, and Flora would want a full accounting when I returned home. And there was still the eligible man who was supposed to be in attendance. “You will want this back, Mr. Snowe,” I said, handing him the Chinese translation of Luke.

  He bowed, his thick spectacles sliding down his nose. He pushed them back as quickly as he rose, his smile peculiarly unctuous. “It would honor me were you to keep it.”

  “Thank you,” I said, curtsying as he and Uncle Toby headed for a quiet corner. I could hear Snowe’s voice, cheerful and animated now, and wondered again at the strange man.

  As for other strange men, it was far past time to search for the eligible one who was due to be in attendance tonight. I oddly sensed that my future depended upon him.

  Finding myself unengaged, I tried to watch the doorway to see the mystery man arrive. He should be handsome, certainly, but even if he were not, a pleasing disposition and intelligent demeanor would suffice. Despite her faults, Catherine knew men, and she would match me with no one less than I deserved.

  Unfortunately, my watch was curtailed when I was drawn into a conversation with which obligation demanded I pay strict attention. Mrs. Marston complained bitterly about her verrucas, and though I would have liked to politely disengage myself from discussions of oozing and the merits of potatoes planted in the garden at midnight, she was the oldest woman in attendance and therefore due the courtesy of my attention. Lady Ransom soon joined us and proceeded to expound upon the vagaries of the Methodists. Here, at last, was a discussion with merit, though of course I could not share the extent of my true opinion. Freddie had repeatedly warned me that I should never reveal the depth of my mind or then I would have nothing left to show.

  Several other women joined us, and I gradually realized that no one in the circle was within twenty years of my age. The other young women, all engaged to be married or already wed, huddled in conversations of their own. In between discussions of Mrs. Marston expounding on colonics and elderly Mrs. Gentry bellowing (she being rather hard of hearing) herbal remedy suggestions, I could hear the prittle-prattle of my peers.

  “. . . scandalous education . . .”

  “. . . uncle even permits her to use a sword!”

  Of course I knew their tal
k to be directed at me, but one gaze in return, and they smiled charmingly at me as though I were a child or a pet dog begging for treats.

  Dinnertime arrived at last, and I consoled myself with the thought that surely Mr. Mysterious had managed to sneak into the party without my notice. At last I would see him, for he could not possibly bypass the meal.

  “Isabella, you simply must sit next to me,” Catherine said, drawing me to her side at the lengthy table loaded with platters of food. “I have the most delightful person selected for your dinner companion.” She leaned toward me confidentially. “The man of whom I spoke, Izzy.”

  “Really?” I tried to hide my excitement, craning my neck to watch the others as they sat at prearranged places. Deep in conversation with Mrs. Marston (but hopefully not about her verrucas), Uncle Toby took a seat directly across from me.

  “Here he is,” Catherine said, holding out her hands past me. “How good of you to grace our humble table with your presence, Mr. Snowe.”

  My heart sank nearly to my knees as I watched Phineas Snowe take her hands. “The pleasure is all mine, Mrs. Ransom.”

  Catherine brayed with laughter, then placed her hands on my shoulders. “I have taken the liberty of seating you next to—”

  “Isabella Goodrich, was it not?” His eyes seemed to twinkle maliciously behind those horrid spectacles.

  “You two are well suited as dinner companions,” Catherine said, her face a warm mask of smiles.

  “But he is not, that is . . .” I searched the doorway, hoping desperately to see my dashing, ideal gentleman at last. “We met earlier,” I finished lamely.

  “I am delighted,” Catherine said. “For I can imagine no two people more predisposed to like-minded conversation. After all, Isabella, you have always been the intelligent one among our little crowd.” She took the arm of her doting husband, David, who seated her with great solicitation. “Isn’t that right, my love? You always said that Isabella Goodrich was quite the bluestocking.”