Tai-Pan

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Culum was the first to greet Struan when he returned to the ball.

“Can we start the judging?” he asked brusquely. Nothing could destroy his euphoria over his new-found love, and her brother, his new-found friend. But he still played the game.

“You should na have waited,” Struan harshly replied. “Where’s Robb? God’s blood, do I have to do everything?”

“He had to leave. Word came that Aunt Sarah’s labor pains have started. There seems to be some trouble.”

“What?”

“I don’t know. But Mrs. Brock went with him to see if she could help.”

Culum walked off. Struan hardly noticed his going. His worry for May-may returned, and now it was overlaid with concern for Sarah and Robb. But Liza Brock was the best midwife in Asia, and if any help were needed, Sarah would get it.

Shevaun approached, bringing him a brandy. She handed him the glass without a word, and put her arm lightly in his. She knew there was no need for conversation. At such a time it was best to say nothing: Think as much as you like, but no questions. For even the most powerful person, she knew, needed a silent, understanding, patient warmth at times. So she waited and let her presence surround him.

Struan drank the brandy slowly. His eyes flickered over the throng and saw that all was well: merriment here and there, fans fluttering, swords glinting. He watched Brock in private conversation with the archduke. Brock was listening and nodding occasionally, and totally concentrated. Was Zergeyev offering him the license? Mary was fanning herself beside Glessing. Something amiss there, he told himself. Tess and Culum and Gorth were laughing with one another. Good.

And when Struan had finished the brandy and was whole, he looked down at Shevaun. “Thank you,” he said, contrasting the grotesqueness of May-may in European dress and hair style with the perfection of Shevaun. “You’re very beautiful and very understanding.”

His voice was morose, and she knew that it must have something to do with his mistress. No matter, she thought, and held his arm compassionately.

“I’m fine now,” he said.

“Mr. Quance is coming over,” she cautioned him softly. “It’s time for the judging.”

The light green of his eyes darkened. “You’re very wise, Shevaun, apart from being beautiful.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to thank him but she said nothing, only moved her fan a trifle. She sensed that the brandy and silence and understanding—and above all no questions—had done much to bring him to the brink of a decision.

“Ah, Tai-Pan, my dear fellow,” Quance said as he came up, his eyes merry, an alcoholic flush enveloping him. “It’s time for the judging!”

“Very good, Aristotle.”

“Then make the announcement and let’s have at it!”

“Mr. Quance!” Like a roll of thunder the words tore through the night.

Everyone turned, startled.

Quance groaned mightily.

Maureen Quance was standing there, her eyes grinding him to dust. She was a tall, big-boned Irishwoman with a face like a piece of leather and a large nose and legs planted like oaks. She was of an age with Quance but strong as an ox, her iron-gray hair in an untidy bun. When she was young she had been attractive, but now with the girth created by potatoes and beer she was overpowering. “The top of the evening to you, Mr. Quance, me fine boy,” she said.

“ ’Tis herself, glory be to God!”

She plodded across the dance floor oblivious of the stares and the embarrassed silence and stood in front of her husband. “I’ve been after looking for you, me fine boy.”

“Oh?” he said in a trembling falsetto.

“Oh it is.” She turned her head. “Top the night, Mr. Struan, and I’ll be thanking you for the lodgings and vittles. Glory be to God, herself has caught the wretch.”

“You’re, er, looking fine, Mrs. Quance.”

“Indeed I feel as fine as a body can feel. ’Twas a blessed miracle from St. Patrick himself that sent a native boat to herself and guided her footsteps to this immortal spot.” She turned her lugubrious eyes on Aristotle and he quavered. “We’ll be saying good night now, me darlin’ man!”

“But, Mrs. Quance,” Struan said quickly, remembering the judging, “Mr. Quance has something that—”

“We’ll be saying good night,” she growled. “Say good night, me boy.”

“Good night, Tai-Pan,” Aristotle squeaked. Meekly he allowed Maureen to take him by the arm and lead him away.

After they had gone, the place erupted in laughter.

“God’s death,” Struan said. “Poor old Aristotle.”

“What’s happened to Mr. Quance?” Zergeyev asked.

Struan explained Aristotle’s domestic tribulations.

“Perhaps we should rescue him,” Zergeyev said. “I took a distinct liking to him.”

“We can hardly interfere between husband and wife, can we?”

“I suppose not. But who’s going to judge the contest?”

“I suppose I’ll have to.”

Zergeyev’s eyes crinkled. “May I volunteer? As a friend?”

Struan studied him. Then he turned on his heel and strode to the center of the floor. The bands played a loud chord.

“Your Excellency, Your Highness, ladies and gentlemen. There is a contest to be judged for the best-dressed lady of the evening. I’m afraid our immortal Quance is otherwise engaged. But His Highness Archduke Zergeyev has volunteered to make the choice.” Struan looked at Zergeyev and began to clap. His applause was taken up, and there was a roar of approval as Zergeyev came forward.

Zergeyev took the bag with the thousand guineas. “Who shall I choose, Tai-Pan?” he asked out of the corner of his mouth. “The Tillman for you, the Vargas for me, the Sinclair because she’s the most intriguing? Choose who’s to win.”

“It’s your choice, my friend,” Struan said, and with a calm smile he walked away.

Zergeyev waited a moment, enjoying the thrill of choosing. He knew that he must pick whom the Tai-Pan wanted. He made up his mind and walked across the floor, bowed and put the bag of gold at her feet. “I believe this belongs to you, Miss Brock.”

Tess stared at the archduke blankly. Then she flushed as the silence broke.

There was loud applause, and those who had backed Tess at long odds screamed with delight.

Shevaun clapped with the crowd and contained her resentment. She knew it was a wise choice. “The ideal political choice, Tai-Pan,” she whispered calmly. “You’re very clever.”

“It was the archduke’s decision, na mine.”

“Another reason I like you, Tai-Pan. You’re a huge gambler and your joss is unbelievable.”

“And you’re a woman among women.”

“Yes,” she said without vanity. “I understand politics very well. My father—or one of my brothers—will be President of the United States one day.”

“You should be in Europe,” he said. “You’re wasted out here.”

“Am I?” Her eyes challenged him.