feeling. But she knew she sounded haughty, and it annoyed her.
“No, listen.” Benton stopped her, taking hold of her elbow. She started at the familiar gesture, his warm fingers pressing into the firm flesh of her upper arm under layers of linen and wool. “That’s not even why I called. I mean, it is, but there’s something else, too. I have the distinct impression that Harley has been asked to leave school permanently.” Benton spoke quickly, with urgency.
“Leave?” Sibyl echoed, eyes wide.
“I can’t account for it any other way.”
“But why?” Her dark eyes searched his, but they betrayed no secret knowledge to her.
“I don’t know yet. That’s why I telephoned. He didn’t say anything to you?” Benton still held her elbow, more gently now that she wasn’t pulling away.
“He never says anything to me anymore,” she said, her voice almost a whisper.
As Sibyl gazed up into Benton’s concerned eyes, she sank into a curious sense of déjà vu.
Harley, slow down! she cried in her memory as a ten-year-old boy skidded through the drawing room, just missing a vase with his elbow. He was snagged, squirming, by a laughing man in his twenties, the son of her father’s business partner, his clear gray eyes shining with mischief.
Gotcha . The young man grinned, wrestling the boy to the carpet and pinning him over sputtered protests.
What’re you thinking? Can’t you see what kind of damage you could cause? You should be more careful , her sixteen-year-old self demanded of the wiggling boy as Benton held him firm, elbow on the boy’s back, laughing. Ben, let him up before Papa sees.
Sibyl sighed, remembering. Things had seemed so much more straightforward, when they were younger. She wasn’t sure what had changed.
Benton’s eyes softened as he watched her. She looked up into his face.
“What I wouldn’t give,” she said, “to be able to know his mind.”
Interlude
International Settlement
Shanghai
June 8, 1868
Shabby , Lannie thought. He stood behind the shoulders of his shipmates, in a long, narrow room, lit by lanterns and smoking oil lamps. The furniture looked European, of medium quality, since cast off: heavy armchairs upholstered with threadbare silk, horsehair stuffing spilling out through their bellies. The walls were hung with landscape scrolls, illuminated by calligraphy that he was helpless to read. Lannie both recoiled from and felt attracted by the strangeness.
Along one side of the room stretched a bar, crowded with Western stools, on which a few men perched, backs hunched. Upstairs, a woman’s voice sang high and wailing, eerie, and to Lannie’s ear, tuneless. The room smelled musky, and Lannie fidgeted, too hot in his overcoat but unwilling to remove it. He dug his hands deeper in his pockets, balling his fists to give himself confidence that he didn’t otherwise feel.
A woman approached the knot of sailors, in her fifties, dressed in a hooped Western skirt and long corkscrew curls, brushed over her ears in a way that reminded Lannie of his mother. The woman’s hair was glossy black, shot through with ribbons of steel, and her face was locked closed. She wasn’t Chinese, exactly, though her eyes were narrow and glittered black in the lamplight. Lannie stared, unaware of his open mouth until one of the other men chucked him under the chin with a knuckle and a gruff laugh.
The woman rested a bony hand on the shoulder of their agreed ringleader, a merry fellow of about twenty-five named Richard Derby. He was a Salem Derby, but Lannie didn’t know where he hung on that august tree. None too high up, if he was shipping out himself. But Dick was a modest man, compact and well spoken, and Lannie trusted him.
Now Dick stood, eyes twinkling, his head bent in conference with the woman, letting her hand linger. Lannie could tell that negotiations were under way. At first there seemed to be disagreement, nothing too substantial, as she was smiling, mouth open to show
“No, listen.” Benton stopped her, taking hold of her elbow. She started at the familiar gesture, his warm fingers pressing into the firm flesh of her upper arm under layers of linen and wool. “That’s not even why I called. I mean, it is, but there’s something else, too. I have the distinct impression that Harley has been asked to leave school permanently.” Benton spoke quickly, with urgency.
“Leave?” Sibyl echoed, eyes wide.
“I can’t account for it any other way.”
“But why?” Her dark eyes searched his, but they betrayed no secret knowledge to her.
“I don’t know yet. That’s why I telephoned. He didn’t say anything to you?” Benton still held her elbow, more gently now that she wasn’t pulling away.
“He never says anything to me anymore,” she said, her voice almost a whisper.
As Sibyl gazed up into Benton’s concerned eyes, she sank into a curious sense of déjà vu.
Harley, slow down! she cried in her memory as a ten-year-old boy skidded through the drawing room, just missing a vase with his elbow. He was snagged, squirming, by a laughing man in his twenties, the son of her father’s business partner, his clear gray eyes shining with mischief.
Gotcha . The young man grinned, wrestling the boy to the carpet and pinning him over sputtered protests.
What’re you thinking? Can’t you see what kind of damage you could cause? You should be more careful , her sixteen-year-old self demanded of the wiggling boy as Benton held him firm, elbow on the boy’s back, laughing. Ben, let him up before Papa sees.
Sibyl sighed, remembering. Things had seemed so much more straightforward, when they were younger. She wasn’t sure what had changed.
Benton’s eyes softened as he watched her. She looked up into his face.
“What I wouldn’t give,” she said, “to be able to know his mind.”
Interlude
International Settlement
Shanghai
June 8, 1868
Shabby , Lannie thought. He stood behind the shoulders of his shipmates, in a long, narrow room, lit by lanterns and smoking oil lamps. The furniture looked European, of medium quality, since cast off: heavy armchairs upholstered with threadbare silk, horsehair stuffing spilling out through their bellies. The walls were hung with landscape scrolls, illuminated by calligraphy that he was helpless to read. Lannie both recoiled from and felt attracted by the strangeness.
Along one side of the room stretched a bar, crowded with Western stools, on which a few men perched, backs hunched. Upstairs, a woman’s voice sang high and wailing, eerie, and to Lannie’s ear, tuneless. The room smelled musky, and Lannie fidgeted, too hot in his overcoat but unwilling to remove it. He dug his hands deeper in his pockets, balling his fists to give himself confidence that he didn’t otherwise feel.
A woman approached the knot of sailors, in her fifties, dressed in a hooped Western skirt and long corkscrew curls, brushed over her ears in a way that reminded Lannie of his mother. The woman’s hair was glossy black, shot through with ribbons of steel, and her face was locked closed. She wasn’t Chinese, exactly, though her eyes were narrow and glittered black in the lamplight. Lannie stared, unaware of his open mouth until one of the other men chucked him under the chin with a knuckle and a gruff laugh.
The woman rested a bony hand on the shoulder of their agreed ringleader, a merry fellow of about twenty-five named Richard Derby. He was a Salem Derby, but Lannie didn’t know where he hung on that august tree. None too high up, if he was shipping out himself. But Dick was a modest man, compact and well spoken, and Lannie trusted him.
Now Dick stood, eyes twinkling, his head bent in conference with the woman, letting her hand linger. Lannie could tell that negotiations were under way. At first there seemed to be disagreement, nothing too substantial, as she was smiling, mouth open to show
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