All the Tea in China Page 4

  “You must be mistaking our location with London, sir, for one could hardly accuse our humble town of much notoriety or excitement.”

  “Notoriety can well lay claim here if only for the university and its history. To think of Cranmer, Ridley, and Latimer losing their lives here as martyrs for the church . . .” He shook his head in contemplation. Uncle Toby entered with a tray of wine, and Snowe gestured in his direction. “Perhaps your uncle would do me the honor of showing me the locations of their martyrdom at Oxford. It would be a privilege to stand on such ground where three holy men were burned at the stake for their beliefs.”

  Uncle presented us each with a glass of wine. “If you speak of Cranmer, Ridley, and Latimer, I am certain that Isabella would be honored to show you the locations. She is most familiar with that history.”

  “Are you indeed, Miss Goodrich?” Snowe turned his bespectacled eyes on me.

  I cast a glance at Uncle Toby. I was beginning to believe that he was trying to bring Snowe and me together. Inviting him to dinner was one thing, but sending us on a historical tour was quite another. “History is of great interest to me, Mr. Snowe. Particularly church history.”

  Snowe sipped his wine. “What was it Latimer said as encouragement when the flames consumed him? ‘Be of good comfort, Master Ridley and . . . and . . .’ Oh, the words escape me.”

  “‘Be of good comfort, Master Ridley and play the man! We shall this day light such a candle, by God’s grace, in England, as I trust shall never be put out,’” I finished.

  “Yes. That’s it, Miss Goodrich. Well done. You are rather conversant in church history.”

  Was he jesting? Any churchgoing child could recite the words!

  “She is an historian indeed.” Uncle Toby beamed. “Izzy, tell Mr. Snowe about the paper you wrote on the Reformation.”

  “I am sure Mr. Snowe would not care to hear of it, Uncle,” I said.

  Snowe took a long sip of his wine. “Thank you, I would not. While I admire theory and history, I find that quiet lives of useful service are more in keeping with Christ’s commandment to go ye therefore and teach all nations.”

  “Why, that is Izzy herself.” Uncle Toby beamed. “Lately Isabella has been much taken with the Methodists.”

  “Have you done much charitable work, Miss Goodrich?” Snowe asked, his accusing gaze turned on me.

  “Flora and I made some simple frocks and knitted mufflers for the poor,” I said. “Perhaps you would care to discuss your work in China?”

  Snowe smiled smugly. “Your own work is a trifling effort, but an effort nonetheless. I wonder that you have not been challenged with more personal work.”

  “And what, exactly, is your personal work in China?” I persisted.

  He put a finger to his lips, thought a moment, then smiled. “Mr. Fitzwater, I have a unique suggestion.”

  Uncle Toby leaned forward in his chair. “Yes?”

  “Would you and your niece be interested in joining me tomorrow with another from my group as we endeavor to bring some comfort to the poor? Along with my friends, another young lady desires to serve in China.”

  “Oh, will your friends join us?” I must admit I was curious to meet the Tippetts. I had never heard of a married couple desiring to serve the Lord together.

  “Sadly, no. But we all desire to repay the town of Oxford for its generous hospitality. Tomorrow we will deliver baskets of food and blankets to some of the less fortunate, and I would like you and your uncle to join me.”

  My heart stirred. I too often forgot about those beyond our university setting. Oxford had its share of thriving trade and prominent town members, as well as the academicians and servants of the university. Yet Christ Church itself hovered above a collection of unseemly and no doubt disease-ridden hovels, which were too easily ignored in the constant quest for learning and commerce.

  Uncle Toby peered at me. “Is this something you wish to do, Izzy?” he asked softly, evidently reading the expression on my face. To Snowe he said, “My niece is tenderhearted to a fault.”

  Snowe rocked on his heels, digesting this bit of information, one finger still at his lips as though preventing himself from saying more.

  “I would see your group’s work in action, Mr. Snowe,” I said. “Provided Uncle Toby and I will not be a burden to you.”

  Uncle chuckled. “Not me, dear child. I have work to attend to tomorrow. Flora may accompany you. Mr. Snowe, I trust my niece’s curiosity will be satisfied. And perhaps her heart uplifted.”

  Snowe positively beamed. “Miss Goodrich?”

  I glanced at Snowe then Uncle Toby then back to Snowe. “I . . . would be delighted,” I said, hoping that once again I had not spoken or acted in haste.

  What dress does a young lady wear to serve the poor?

  I brooded over it at great length until Flora solved the issue by thrusting a white cotton batiste with vertical blue stripes into my hands. “This will look lovely on you, Miss Isabella. Especially with that new blue-ribboned poke bonnet.”

  Thank goodness for Flora. I had an eye for fashion and normally knew just what to wear, but I was quite at a loss that day. I certainly was not dressing for Phineas Snowe, but I suppose I wanted to make an impression on the young lady who would be joining us. It is quite true that ladies do not dress for gentlemen but for other ladies.

  Mr. Snowe arrived promptly as scheduled, escorting Flora and me to the waiting carriage. There we were introduced to a Miss Julia Whipple, and I knew instantly that all fashion worries had been for naught. She was clothed in the most unimaginative brown cotton dress and matching bonnet I thought I had ever seen. Oddly, she did not seem to notice my clothes, glancing away shyly as we were introduced. No wonder she sought to become a missionary. She obviously lacked the fortitude for society and its graces.

  We spoke little during the ride, which was blessedly short. As the familiar streets around the university gave way to a meaner, dirtier area, Flora drew close to me. Ragged children with dirty faces ran after our carriage, shouting to us for money. Old men in tattered clothes staggered aimlessly down the dirty, unpaved road. A woman wearing an entirely too revealing dress and garish shawl called out to Phineas as we alit from the carriage carrying baskets of food and blankets. He approached her, and she smiled, angling the shawl off her shoulders. However, he spoke a few quiet words, then handed her a loaf of bread. She shrugged but accepted it, then called out to a young girl, who took the bread and ran up the street while the woman moved in the opposite direction.

  “Flora,” I whispered, “is that a Cyprian?” I had heard of women who accepted money from men in exchange for favors.

  “Yes,” she said, her lips tight. “I am sorry that you should see it.”

  I knew such existed, of course, but instead of revulsion, my heart melted. The poor girl was younger than me, I was certain. Miss Whipple seemed equally disturbed, glancing away to shield her eyes, obviously shocked by the brazen display, or perhaps she was afraid.

  I felt a moment of fear myself, then inwardly chided myself. Snowe would not bring us to a desperate situation. He had chosen to do God’s work, but he was also a gentleman. He would not put three ladies in danger.

  Behind the spectacles, Snowe’s eyes seemed sad, or perhaps it was merely a reflection of the sun, which oddly enough did not seem to shine so bright in these sooty streets. He took Miss Whipple’s arm. “Are you all right?” he said.

  She nodded, squaring her shoulders. “Where should we begin to serve?”

  I had no designs on Phineas Snowe, of course, but something in the way he beamed at Julia Whipple’s eagerness made me want to be noticed as well.

  “Perhaps we should split up,” he said. “Miss Goodrich and Miss Florey can take one side of the street, and Miss Whipple and I the other.”

  “If I may differ, perhaps we should all remain together,” I said.

  “I agree,” Flora said, pulling her pelisse closer as several children raced past, their grimy hands outstre
tched.

  “Very well,” Snowe said. “Let us begin.”

  He walked boldly to the nearest door and knocked. A girl of perhaps four and ten answered, her face expressionless as Snowe stated we were there to provide food and clothing.

  She stepped back without a word, hanging her head. We entered the cramped home, or should I say hovel, for though it was obviously carefully tended, there was no ignoring the decrepit nature of the rotting beams and walls, the decayed wood floor, and the bugs that scuttled into the walls. A poorly ventilated chimney allowed smoke to seep into the room, while something vile smelling bubbled in an iron pot over the fire. We ladies coughed. Loud snores emanated from behind a curtain in the corner of the room.

  An elderly woman rocked in a chair by the fire, staring at us blankly.

  To my surprise, Snowe knelt beside her and spoke softly. “Is that your husband behind the curtain?”

  She nodded, yet she never ceased rocking. “I wouldn’t try to speak to ’im, though. ’E’s a bit cup-shot, sir.”

  Snowe touched her hand. “I am sorry to hear that, madam. Please accept some of the food we have brought for your family. Do you need blankets?”

  The gentleness of his voice—still a great surprise to me!—must have swayed her vacant expression, for she turned to him then to the rest of us. “Bless ye. Thank ye. We could use a bit of warmth for the cold nights.”

  Snowe nodded at me, and I reached into the large basket I held and placed two coarse woolen blankets on the table. He turned back to the woman. “I wish we could do more,” he said.

  She nodded as if to say she understood. Snowe rose to his feet, and he and Miss Whipple left bread and cheese on the table beside the blanket. He motioned us to leave, and the expressionless girl showed us out.

  Back on the street, I somehow found my voice. “Why was her husband abed in the middle of the day? I have never heard of an ill person snoring like that.”

  Snowe sighed. “He is given to much drink. It is sad enough for him but sadder still for his family.”

  “He should provide for them as a gentleman should,” Flora said.

  “He is no gentleman, Miss Florey,” Snowe said. “He has not the benefit of birth as many in England and therefore finds it difficult to make a better life for himself. I am in agreement that he should provide for his family, however, and I pray that someone will show him the error of his ways. Unfortunately, it cannot be me, for I must return to China.”

  “They are so poor here,” I murmured, glancing back at the house, my heart stirring with pity.

  “They are indeed,” Snowe said. “Yet even they would be richer than many in China.”

  I had no response, for I could not fathom such poverty. I had read of such situations, of course, but literature often made the condition seem noble or the poor at least responsible for their dire situation. The woman and her daughter could not be faulted for the man’s decision to drink. What could I do to help?

  Mr. Snowe took Miss Whipple’s arm again and led the way to the next house. Flora and I fell silently in step behind them, clutching our baskets as though for dear life. I felt like a kitten who had just opened its eyes for the first time and, upon opening them, was quite shocked to learn of its surroundings.

  “My soul and stars,” Flora said, laying a hand over her heart as we entered our home later that day. “I am thankful to be here.”

  I watched through the crack in the closing door as Phineas Snowe drove away in his rented carriage. I reluctantly closed the door. “What is that you said, Flora?”

  She removed her shawl and straightened the mob cap she insisted on wearing in public because she thought it made her look French. “Run upstairs and divest yourself of your clothing, dear. All of it. I plan to boil everything thoroughly before wearing it again. Phew! What a misbegotten part of town.”

  “Those poor people cannot help where they live, Flora,” I said gently. “It is the best they can afford. It is true that some of the men are not good providers for their families, but there were so many widows and children . . . women grateful for the least crumb of bread we brought them. They have no one to turn to, the poor lambs.”

  Flora removed my shawl, grumbling. “That missionary group would do well to stay in Oxford and help them who need it. Instead, they fancy themselves missionaries out to save the Chinese.” She snorted. “At least the Methodisticals stay mostly at home.”

  “The London Missionary Society has a different calling than the Methodists. Both lives of service are worthy.”

  Flora put her hands on her hips. “Listen to you, Miss Isabella. You sound just like that Phineas Snowe. ‘We intend to go into all nations and serve,’” she said, mimicking his somber voice, “‘and in China there is a great need for not only food and blankets but the gospel.’ Such talk! Now upstairs with you, and I’ll draw a bath. Tobias Fitzwater would have my hide if you get a horrible disease from our experiences today.”

  I obediently trotted upstairs and soon found myself unceremoniously tossed into the tub we used for bathing. Flora not only drew my water—as hot as I could stand, I might add—but stayed to scrub me with one of her fancy soaps. “Nothing but French milled will work against this grime,” she muttered under her breath as she attacked even my nails with a scrubbing brush.

  “Ow! Flora, I am quite certain that no vermin could escape your ministrations. Though the soap smells divine.”

  “I got it from Gemma, who visited Bath this summer with the Pembertons.”

  “She is a governess?”

  “Yes.” Flora attacked my hair with the same vigor as my skin. “She’s given up on finding a husband and resigned herself to life with a merchant’s family.”

  “I have abandoned all hope as well,” I said thoughtfully. Flora stopped scrubbing and sat back on her heels. “Now, Miss, you have your uncle and me to look after you. And while we’re not the same as a husband and family of your own, we care about you.”

  “I know you do, Flora. No one could love me more, I am certain. But I must find something to do with my life. I must be of some useful service, or I will go mad with pining. I live within one of the world’s largest and most prestigious universities, and yet I am not allowed to use the knowledge I have gained from the many tutors Uncle has chosen for me. I cannot believe that God would have me content to read books with no one to discuss them with nor to write papers for no one to read.”

  “Miss Isabella . . .”

  “And what is unused learning, anyway, but puffed-up vanity and pride? It is not as though I can teach anyone else, as Uncle Tobias does.” I shook my soapy head. “No, Flora, there must be something higher to which I might aspire. If I pray about it, I am certain that God will reveal his answer.”

  She sighed. “You pray then, and I will retrieve your rinse water.”

  And while she did that, I did exactly as she suggested. After I had dressed, I chanced upon the Chinese version of the Gospel According to St. Luke that Mr. Snowe had given me. I thumbed its pages, marveling at the mysterious foreign characters. They held the very wisdom of God-breathed writing, surely no less in substance than my own authorized King James version. I concluded my prayers and contemplated instead on deciphering the curious Chinese characters.

  I picked at my dinner that night, thinking about all the poor Flora and I had seen that day. What were they dining on this evening, if at all? Flora was right that their existence was squalid and, I must confess, somewhat repulsive. But I could not attach their circumstance to any lack of moral character on their part, as some did. The women kept their homes as tidy as possible and often tended to far more people than their strength allowed . . . not only children but parents, grandparents, and the occasional drunken husband.

  The weight of these women’s fates seemed heavy on my shoulders, and I wanted to pitch forward into my sumptuous food and weep.

  “Is everything all right, Izzy?”

  “Oh, Uncle . . .”

  He patted my hand. “If it
will make you feel any better, I sent word to Mr. Snowe that I would return him to China with a contribution for his missionary efforts. Your recommendation was all I needed.”

  “That is wonderful, but what have I to contribute?”

  “Why, whatever is in my name is in yours as well, dear Isabella.”

  I shook my head. “If you could have but seen the women and children in need of the common things . . .”

  Uncle Toby’s expression softened. “I have tried to shield you from such ugliness in life. The poor we will always have with us, true, but you were born to a better station. It is our responsibility, of course, to help those less fortunate, but you must not let it discourage you from leading your own life.”

  “But I have no life,” I mumbled. I was close to wallowing in self-pity, a most undesirable state, but the emotions of the day had coupled with my own.

  Flora bustled to the table, teapot in hand. “Miss Isabella, would you like some tea? It is a special blend straight off His Majesty’s most recently arrived East India ship. Cook got it at the market just today.”

  “Where is the tea from?” I inquired listlessly. “India, I suppose.”

  Flora shook her head, smiling as though to burst her apron strings. “China! Wouldn’t Mr. Snowe be impressed?”

  I glanced at Flora, and the beginnings of a smile tipped my mouth. She stared at me. “Miss Isabella, are you all right?”

  I turned my attention to Uncle Toby, a full smile in bloom now.

  “Izzy?”

  I clasped my hands in my lap, trying vainly to contain my joy. “I prayed that God would show me my purpose today, Uncle.”

  “And?”

  “The tea! It is from China. Just like the Gospel According to St. Luke that Mr. Snowe gave me. My pink slippers also were presented to me with Chinese letters.”

  Uncle Toby and Flora stared at me.

  Did they not understand? It was obviousness itself. “All three are answers to my prayer. I know what my purpose is! God intends for me to travel to China with Phineas Snowe’s missionary group.”