The Pillow Book of Lady Wisteria by Laura Joh Rowland Page B

muttered Hirata’s father. “Typical of his kind.”
    Hirata cast him a look that begged him to put aside his envy and prejudices. Captain Segoshi bought tickets from the attendant in the booth, and the party entered the Morita-za.
    Inside, a drafty, cavernous room echoed with a roar of voices. A play had just ended, and on the stage, a lone musician plinked a samisen. Tiers of box seats along the walls held crowds of people awaiting the next performance. More people occupied the floor, which was divided into compartments, separated by raised dividers. Hirata scanned the audience, then saw Midori in a compartment near the stage. The light streaming through windows along the upper gallery illuminated her scarlet kimono. As their gazes met, his heart lifted. She smiled, but quickly turned away. The miai was supposed to seem like a chance encounter, so that if it failed, both families could pretend it had never occurred, and thus save face.
    Hirata led his party along the dividers, past refreshment sellers bearing trays of drinks and food. He halted above the compartment where Midori sat with an elderly woman, two slightly younger female attendants, and two middle-aged samurai. Stricken by nervousness, Hirata knelt on the divider and bowed to the group, as did his companions. Midori darted a wide-eyed, solemn glance at him, then looked at the floor.
    “Greetings,” Hirata said in a voice that quaked.
    The group bowed and murmured in polite reply. Captain Segoshi said, “What a coincidence that we should meet.”
    As he ably assumed the role of go-between and managed introductions, Hirata learned that the crone dressed in black was Midori’s paternal grandmother, and the other women her ladies-in-waiting. The elder of the samurai, a dour man named Okita, was Lord Niu’s chief retainer. Hirata barely noticed these people because his attention focused on Lord Niu.,
    The daimyo was small, but his torso was broad, his posture regal in maroon garments emblazoned with his dragonfly crest in gold. His tanned, square face disturbed Hirata. Its two sides didn’t match. The right half was slightly askew; the eye gazed off into space.
    “Please join us,” Lord Niu said. Only the left half of his mouth smiled at Hirata.
     
    ***
     
    As Hirata and his family settled into the compartment, Midori sat rigid with panic, her heart hammering, not daring to look at anyone. Please, she prayed inwardly; please make our families consent to our marriage! If they didn’t, she was doomed, because love wasn’t the only reason she must wed Hirata.
    During their courtship, they’d enjoyed more time together, and more freedom, than was usual for unmarried young gentlemen and ladies. Their connection with Reiko and Sano placed them in constant proximity, and they’d taken advantage of their situation. While Reiko thought Midori was busy waiting on Lady Keisho-in, and Keisho-in thought Midori was with Reiko, Midori was actually meeting Hirata in deserted gardens or empty storehouses. There, chaste embraces had led to things less than chaste.
    A flush of pleasure and guilt enflamed her as she recalled lying naked with Hirata beneath pine trees at dusk. How much she’d wanted to satisfy him, and to experience the rapture of having him! And how much she now wished they’d exercised self-control, for soon afterward had come the cessation of her monthly blood, a continual nausea, a fullness in her abdomen. Midori had threaded a needle with red thread and stuck it in the wall of the privy, hoping that this ancient folk remedy would cause the blood to come, but to no avail. She was pregnant.
    Now she listened to her companions exchanging courteous pleasantries. None of them knew her problem, not even Hirata. She hadn’t told anyone. She couldn’t admit her shame, or admit that if she and Hirata didn’t marry, she would bear an illegitimate child, disgrace her honor, and ruin herself.
    “Your family has a proud tradition, does it not?” Lord Niu