"All the Tea in China" - читать интересную книгу автора (Orcutt Jane)

2

Ever the romantic, Flora once said that every young woman should have at least one secret vice. I would hate to disappoint with something so seemingly useless, but mine was fencing. Uncle Toby had taken me, as a child, to view a student fencing exhibition, and I was enthralled by the flash of blade against blade. I insisted upon being shown the basics, and Uncle laughingly obliged what he thought mere whimsy by hiring a fencing master. We worked first on footwork, then added wooden swords. Both the master and Uncle assumed I would weary of the endeavor, but they indulged my increasing interest as the years went by. Eventually I graduated to real swords and a more skilled fencing master, for time sown in persistence reaped undeniable skill.

I thrilled to the sport for its cat-and-mouse qualities, each thrust and parry designed to work an opponent to my will. When I fenced, I felt as though I were a human chess piece, as well as the player, calculating and executing moves in sequences designed to ensure victory. Had I been born male, I have no doubt I would have been drawn to the military or, more imaginatively, to life as a benevolent highwayman, like Robin Hood. I understood implicitly that fencing should only be employed with the purest of motives, though I, like many other fencers, romantically desired to execute a botte secrète-a perfect thrust that would ensure victory.

To guard my reputation, my practice remained secret for many years. The rattling tongues at the Ransoms’ party only reinforced society’s opinion: young women simply did not fence. How long my rule breaking had been common knowledge, I could not say. But I would not let a few clucking guineas stop me from my favorite pastime. I met my instructor in his salle d’armes the very next day.

Signor Antonio and I sparred diligently, as was our custom. Our fleurets met, parted, and met again, our blades clanging with metal against metal. However, I could scarce keep my concentration as I daydreamed about the Ransoms’ party of the previous night. Flora’s superb work on the new dress still enthralled me, as did the memory of the slippers. They had been works of not only beauty but comfort too. After dinner, we had adjourned to the ballroom, where a four-piece orchestra played for the remainder of the evening.

“Ah! You are slowing. Too much dancing last night, eh?” Signor Antonio beamed. I could see sweat forming behind his mask as we broke. “If you must participate in useless exercise, you must know your limits. Reserve your strength for fencing.”

I nodded as we continued. If only Signor Antonio knew that I had not set even one of my beautifully slippered feet to dance. Phineas Snowe had kept me cornered all night with his fustian chatter, waving off all who approached. Not that any man would willingly dance with me!

Signor Antonio broke free, gesturing with dismay. “Signorina Goodrich, it is not like you to lose your concentration. If you are not willing-”

“I am sorry, Maestro,” I said, bowing. “Please forgive my lack of attention.” I assumed the stance.

Uncle Toby paid poor Signor Antonio handsomely every week not only to keep my unladylike secret but to train me well. Why, I do not know, but I had accepted my practice all these years without question. Before my first failed social season, however, I fretted that the skill would be all for naught. When I thought I would marry, I knew I would eventually have to put away my sword as a childish plaything; it would serve no purpose in my womanly future.

Now, however, I could foresee a future of freedom to pursue my beloved sport. Oddly, the idea of being a spinster did not sadden nor frighten me, but it did leave me yearning for some divine call. An evening with Snowe had showed me one thing: a high purpose would no doubt help me fill the many days of solitude ahead of me. Most of the men with whom I was acquainted were men of leisure or academicians. The former seemed to have no desire for busyness, and the latter found employment enough in mental athletics.

Snowe, however, was a man with purpose. He could scarce sit still for ten minutes last night without resorting to a nervous pace. I could see the hunger in his eyes as he talked about the poor heathen Chinese. He had obviously spent much time among them and desired to improve their lot in life, particularly regarding the spread of the gospel.

If only I had not been forced to play the simpleton young woman. I would have dearly loved to ask Snowe an intelligent question about his work. Most of the evening he spoke down to me, but on an occasional moment, his eyes seemed fixed on a distant spot, and he seemed to speak a trifle more freely. Almost as if he had quite forgotten I was even present.

I felt the faintest tip of a fleuret at my heart. A touch. Signor Antonio had not landed one so lethal for years. “Be careful, Signorina Goodrich!”

I could almost see him smile as I bowed. “I am sorry, Maestro.”

“Bah! That is all for today. You are wasting my time.” He waved his hands in the air, pretending anger, but I knew he was secretly pleased. Signor Antonio was not usually a teacher to berate me for carelessness, thank goodness. In truth I believe we both knew that I had surpassed his abilities as my teacher several years ago. Old age and dissipation had overtaken his better days. Signor Antonio had trained under Domenico Angelo, both of them Italians who excelled in the French school of fencing. Though Uncle Toby and I never spoke of it, we knew that Signor spent most of his payment on the wine he loved dearly. After every lesson I somehow managed to send him ’round to Cook for some hearty victuals before his next lesson. Despite his once-proud reputation, he had lately been shunned by many of the students in favor of other fencing masters, ones who taught fencing as a competitive sport and not as a true martial art. I worried about the leanness of Signor’s purse and feared he did not sup well during the week.

We finished, bowing low to each other. “I believe Cook said something about making two extra meat pastries today by mistake, Maestro. She would be pleased if you would help by eating one now and taking the extra one for later,” I said.

“Grazie, Signorina Goodrich,” he said as he did after every lesson. “I would not mind just a taste from your kind uncle’s kitchen. Just a taste, per favore.”

After I changed from my fencing clothes back into my morning dress and adjusted my hair into a less disheveled style, I walked home, accompanied by Flora. We spoke little, for I felt as sober as a vicar. Was fencing to be the highlight of my future? Was there no higher goal to which I should aspire? Surely there was some lifelong service on which I could fix my sights!

Our home, the deanery, was a residence in Christ Church’s main quadrangle, affectionately known as Tom Quad. Normally I marveled at the fountain in the center as I passed, but instead I hurried Flora and myself home. As we entered, I thought to spend time alone in my room, in contemplation of my future, when I passed Uncle Toby in his study. I doubled back. Because he spent much of his time here, it was our accustomed sitting room. Full bookshelves lined the walls, and cozy chairs were arranged in front of the fireplace. Silhouettes of my mother and father-created, I am told, a few years before my birth- stood on the mantel as though watching us. Down through the years, Uncle Toby, Frederica, and I had passed many a pleasant moment together before the fire in either solitary reading, chess matches, or long discussions of political or religious nature.

Now he sat in his favorite leather wing chair, pondering a dusty tome between his hands. Unaware of my presence, he smiled faintly to himself, and I knew him to be lost in a world of literature that excluded all reality.

I cleared my throat at the doorway to gain his attention. Uncle Toby had been known to read straight through dinner if not alerted.

“Oh! There you are, Izzy.” Uncle Tobias looked up, peering at me through the spectacles perched on the end of his nose. He gestured to the high-backed chair beside his own and waved the book in his other hand. “I was just reading the most amazing story. Have you time to share your opinion?”

I admired that he thought me an academic equal, but at the moment my conscience was preoccupied as I sat. “I am afraid not, Uncle Toby, but perhaps you can answer a question for me. How do I learn my life’s calling?”

He shut the book and removed his spectacles. “I had feared that last night would reveal the truth to you. I hoped to soften the blow beforehand, but I-”

“You were nothing but kindness, Uncle.” I patted his hand fondly. “I was a silly goose to be enamored with my new slippers when you tried to speak to me about my future.” I straightened in the chair, feigning maturity as I folded my hands in my lap. “So now I am all attention. How do I learn my life’s calling?”

Uncle Toby smiled anew. “Society would tell you that it is to become some fortunate man’s wife.”

I lifted my nose a trifle. “Society has not helped much in that regard, then. Perhaps I like being unwed.”

His eyes twinkled, and he chucked my chin. “I am not sure that I quite believe you on that, dear Izzy, and I wish I could help where you feel society has not. I have no doubt that my poor dead sister would despair to hear you say such words.”

I swallowed, glancing up at the silhouette. From what Uncle had told me of my mother, I knew his words to be truth. Mother would have reveled in Frederica’s chosen life and no doubt been appalled to have a younger daughter turn out to be a… dear, I hate to use this word, but it is becoming more true each day. I am a spinster.

I squared my shoulders. “Nevertheless, Uncle, I know God chooses a path for each of his children. If it is not marriage, I would like to know mine. A life of solitude, perhaps?”

Uncle Toby smiled. “I do hope it is not in a cloister, Izzy. You are far too intelligent to seal yourself away in a life of contemplation.”

“All that seems left to me is to be a governess then.” I sighed. “Some days I fear that is my only ordained path.”

He raised his brows. “‘Fear,’ Izzy? Do not embark on a journey of unhappiness, for I do not believe that we are called to tasks that make us miserable, but rather those that bring joy not only to others but to ourselves, as well.”

“Then I should be a modiste, for I love fashion.”

He frowned. “You are also too intelligent to spend your days hunched over fabric and thread.”

“But I am on the shelf, Uncle. No man has seen fit nor apparently ever will see fit to claim me for his wife.” I sighed. “I know that God orders our every path, but I must confess that I am puzzled. What would he have me do?”

Uncle Toby touched my cheek. “Ah, Isabella, I fear it is my fault.”

“Yours?”

He nodded. “I have raised you with too much inquisitiveness and too much of a thirst for knowledge. It is true that you have learned the ways of fabrics and fans, but you have not, apparently, acquired the secret art that women pass so heartlessly from one generation to another-flirting.”

“Is that the sum of all skills to acquire a husband?” I asked, arching a brow.

“You see?” He laughed. “You are too straightforward by half. Ah, well, I shall look forward to my niece attending me in my dotage then, if no one will speak for you.”

“But Uncle, did you not hear me? Perhaps God has another plan for me. If it includes you, that is good and well, but sadly, I worry that it may not.”

“Then I shall look forward to your telling me of its nature,” he said, reopening his book, then winking. “Once you find it. Good day, Isabella.”

“Good day,” I replied, rising, knowing when I was dismissed.

“Isabella?”

I turned. “Yes?”

“I do not mean to belittle your worry for your future. You are my dearest niece and a great comfort to me. I hope you know that.”

I smiled fondly. “Indeed I do, Uncle.”

He returned to his book, his mind already wandering from me. “If your presence will not intrude on Signor Antonio’s meal in our kitchen, please inform Cook that we will expect one more for dinner tonight,” he said.

“Oh?”

Uncle licked his finger and turned a page. “I invited Phineas Snowe to dine with us. I should like to hear more about his charitable work. You two seemed to enjoy each other’s company last night. I also thought it would be a good chance for you to further your conversation.”

I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. “I’ll make sure Cook knows,” I finally said, turning to leave.

My head began to ache as I headed for the kitchen. Must I endure another night of Phineas Snowe and his condescension? Because I had already acted a role at the Ransoms’, I would be forced to repeat it tonight as well. The thought of smiling endlessly and nodding gamely at his every pronouncement… It would take a great deal of not only physical strength but mental agility to continue the missish role.

I came to a full stop in the hallway. “But why should I? I owe nothing to Snowe.”

Last night had only been a chance to hold my own with Catherine Ransom and the others. Uncle Toby would not expect me to be anyone other than who I truly was, and in the safety of our own home, that is exactly who I would be!

Phineas Snowe arrived at our doorstep at the precise hour for which Uncle Toby had issued the invitation. Flora ushered him into Uncle Toby’s study, raising her eyebrows at me behind his back. She knew from my description of Snowe last night that he wore the same threadbare attire tonight. Either he was more destitute than I believed or he truly had no sense of fashion. I was quite sure that if I had mentioned the name of the dandy Beau Brummel, he would have stared at me like a sapscull.

“Ah, Mr. Snowe,” Uncle Toby said, rising from his wing chair. “It is so good of you to join us.”

He gestured Uncle back down. “Pray do not stand on my account, Mr. Fitzwater,” he said, then bowed in my direction. “Miss Goodrich, you look well this evening. Is your health compatible with your appearance?”

“I am afraid I cannot answer that, Mr. Snowe.”

“Indeed?”

I nodded. “If I answer yes, I might stand accused of conceit.”

He frowned. “How so?”

“To answer yes might be construed that I took your comment to mean that my appearance, while ‘well,’ was equivalent with ‘pleasing.’ However, if I answer no, then you would, of course, inquire as to the nature of my negative response. Then I should be forced into prevarication by inventing some imaginary ailment to appease any further questions.”

Snowe glanced at Uncle Toby. “Is it always this difficult to exchange pleasantries with your niece?”

Uncle smiled blithely. “Sometimes it is more so.” He rose. “If you two will excuse me, I will see about procuring a bit of wine before dinner.”

Snowe bowed, and I curtsied at Uncle’s departure. I thought Snowe would continue the subject, but he affected a solemn sort of smile. “Miss Goodrich, I owe you an apology.”

I blinked. This was most unexpected. “Whatever for?”

“I fear that I nattered on at far too great a length last night about my work. You must think me the most dreadful of bores.”

“On the contrary, Mr. Snowe, it is I who should apologize to you. I am sure that any number of guests could have held up their end of the conversation better than my feeble attempts.” I paused. “I was not quite myself last night.”

He smiled. “You were kind to allow me to discuss my life’s mission. It must seem a simple life, compared to what you are accustomed here with your uncle in a thriving town like Oxford.”

“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 outstretched.

“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.”

Teapot in hand, Flora stood frozen. Uncle Toby as well, until a smile lit his face. “I cannot discount any message from the Lord, but you are prone to spontaneity, Isabella. I must wonder if your deduction has been reached in haste.”

“I cannot believe it has been. I feel such a…” I drew in a deep breath. “A rightness about this.”

Flora set the teapot on the table and fled the room, apron at her mouth.

“Why, what is wrong with Flora?” I said.

Uncle reached across the table to take my hand. “It is not every day that a gently bred young woman announces her intentions to give up civil life for that of a missionary. In a country halfway around the world, no less.” His expression softened. “I have my own doubts, Isabella.”

My resolve crumbled. I thought they would be pleased. “But… it is a worthy calling.”

“Indeed it is. For someone like Phineas Snowe. He is a single man with no encumbrances of family.”

“As am I!… Except that I am not a man, of course.”

“Of course. But my dear, have you forgotten Flora and me? Your sister Frederica and her family-Lewis, your nephew?”

I doubted that, of all people in Britain, little Lewis would mind my absence. “I would miss you all, Uncle, but my religious duty must come first.”

“God and king, Isabella?” Uncle smiled.

I nodded. “Please, would you speak to Mr. Snowe on my behalf to ask if I might sail with his missionary group? He told Flora and me that they are to leave in two days. Surely it is not too late for me to join them.”

“Well…”

“Please, Uncle.” I tried to signal my earnestness with my expression. I would never resort to the lowly feminine trick of tears, but to my surprise, moisture welled in my eyes.

Uncle Toby, who could spare me little and knew that I seldom asked for much, sighed. “I will ask him, Isabella. Your agreement must be that you will abide by his decision if he says no. I will warn you in advance that I believe that will indeed be his answer.”

Joy lightened my heart. Of course he would say yes! Had he not complimented me today on my patience as I held squirming, squalling children and fed feeble elderly mouths? His answer would be yes just as surely as it was already God’s!