The smell of food woke me. This time there was a little bowl of rice, some meat and vegetables. Mr Chen must have left the food and drink so quietly that I never woke, even though he would have to have moved the boxes to get in.

  I was hungry despite the heat, and I ate the food quickly. In another bowl was some clear broth. This I drank off. A jug of water and a small teacup had been provided to quench my thirst. I knew water could make me sick, but I was so hot and thirsty I drank several cups before I went to sleep again.

  This situation continued for three days, until one evening, Mr Chen appeared while I was awake. The sound of tea chests sliding along the floor heralded his arrival, and then the curtain moved to reveal my rescuer and protector.

  “Are you well?” he asked, bowing.

  “Yes, much better. Please come in, take a seat.”

  There was nowhere for him to sit in the traditional sense, so he squatted down so that we faced each other as I sat on the bed with my back against the wall.

  “Is anything you need?” he asked me in his accented English.

  “My clothes?” I replied.

  Mr Chen nodded. “They are cleaned and mended. However, you not be able to wear them. Too heavy. Too hot. I will bring more suitable clothes for you.”

  “More suitable clothes?” I drew my robe tighter.

  “Different. Better for heat.”

  He drew a piece of paper and a pencil from his pockets. “Can you write your name? Where you staying before I found you?”

  I took the paper and frowned at it, wondering why he wanted the information. “Very well. The innkeeper kept my possessions. He will not give them to me until the bill is paid.” I wrote my name: Mrs Charles Ingleford Leighton, and the address of the accommodation. I handed the paper back and Mr Chen studied it.

  Lifting his eyes from the paper, he met my gaze. “It is hard for you to stay here. Very dangerous.”

  I studied him, saw the lines around his eyes which crinkled when he laughed. It was a nice face. “Why? Is someone looking for me?”

  He nodded. “Yes. I hear talk. They think you lost in marsh. They think you dead. Best stay here.” He went to continue speaking, then stopped.

  “And?” I prompted, knowing there was more too it.

  “British not like you here with me. Even in Chinatown not happy. Understand? Not good honour to find here. Also, friends of men who attack, look for you also.”

  “Oh dear,” I said, and covered my mouth.

  “You safe, if quiet and stay here. Later we make plan.”

  I sat back and closed my eyes, thinking through the situation. I had no money and no means of getting more at the moment. I had Charles’ debts. Not only was the accommodation owed money, there were his gambling debts and no doubt I would be asked to defray them, too. I had nowhere to live, and to many of the British here, staying a night with a Chinese man would sink me. At present I could see no way out. “Yes. I agree. I am sorry to put you in this position. You have been so kind to me and you do not deserve ongoing complications.”

  He bowed his head. “I am good person. You hurt near my door. I not walk away. And you have this…Prudential Light.”

  Frowning, I considered his words. “I do not know what that light thing is. It has never happened to me before.”

  “Very interesting. I wish to learn more.” There was a twinkle in his eyes and the ghost of a smile on his lips.

  I leaned my head back against the wall and stared at the ceiling. “What about Mrs Li? Will she not tell people about me?”

  “She like grandmother to me. Also, she saw your light and what it did,. She says you special, good person. Only good people get inner power.”

  “What is this Prudential Light? It sounds strange.”

  “When men hurt you, the light come. It is power. Power from you.”

  I remembered that something unusual had happened, but was not prepared to admit that the light had come from within me. “Why do you call it that?”

  “Some people have inner power. I call this Prudential Light because you tell me your name is Prudence. So I name your power after you…”

  Ah, that was right, I had given my name to him.

  “Well, Mr Chen, I am in a pickle. I have no money, no home, no way to get myself out of here, but I owe you my life. I am very grateful for your kindness.”

  He studied the piece of paper in his hand. “I will seek answer. Maybe later can fix.”

  I was quite astonished by the generosity of spirit I was being shown. I did not know much about the Chinese. Mr Chen was a merchant, that much was obvious, and given the way he spoke he clearly had some education, so he was a cut above the average labourer. However, I did not want to feel more indebted to him than I already was. “I will earn my keep.”

  Mr Chen blinked. “Earn?” His cheeks grew pink, and I frowned, wondering why this had embarrassed him. Then slowly it dawned on me that he had misconstrued my words. I realised that he must have thought I was offering my body, like some common street girl. I shook myself. I had not yet sunk so low, but I was a whisker away from being so.

  “I mean help with your business.”

  “I have many business. Tea. Clothing. Import many things.”

  “I can sew, do embroidery,” I said quickly. “I am also good with design.”

  Mr Chen swallowed and seemed relieved. “Not necessary.”

  “Yes, it is. If you can show me what you sell, I can see if I can improve it. Who do you sell to?”

  Mr Chen stood up. “I cannot talk business with you.”

  “Why not?”

  “It is private.”

  I laughed. “So is my predicament, but you helped me. I can teach you English.”

  “I already speak English.” He stood taller, throwing out his chest with pride.

  “I can teach you better English, and also writing.”

  “I can write.”

  “Can you read and write English?”

  “Some.”

  I climbed to my feet and put out my hand. “Mr Chen, I will repay you through lessons in English elocution and reading and writing. Bring some contracts if you have them, and I will explain the fine print and stop you being cheated. Bring me a book and we shall read together. Show me a sample of the clothing you sell, and I will advise you on how to make it better and give you suggestions on what you can sell to the British. As I said, I can also sew. I have a good eye for women’s fashion. I think I will be useful to you.”

  Mr Chen looked at my hand and then met my gaze, a glint in his dark eyes. “Very well, Miss Prudence, we have agreement.” He shook my hand. And for the first time in years, I felt in some control of my life. I was indebted to a stranger but had the means to pay my way. I felt hope surge through me.

  If only it was not so hot.

  That night our lessons began. I helped Mr Chen with some sounds he had difficulty with and also some words in the contracts he did not understand. He had an agile mind. He showed me his writing both in Chinese characters and in English. He had a fair hand in English, but the Chinese characters were beautiful and flowed as if they had a life of their own.

  “What do these mean?” I asked, pointing to some characters on the page. They appeared on the side of his paper.

  Chen Character here.

  With a smile, Mr Chen explained. “This is my family name, Chen. This is my first name, Yu Tang. It means Jade flower…a white flower.” He drew me a picture.

  I studied his drawing, the rounded petals. “Magnolia?”

  “Yes, ma-no-lia.”

  I repeated the correct pronunciation, and he followed along. It would take time, but I knew he could improve his pronunciation, fluency and comprehension. When I asked him about his education, he said he had been tutored and also attended school. “I learned official language, Mandarin, as I wish to be government official. I also speak my first language Cantonese. I was not successful to be an official, so I came here to earn my fortune.”

  “Are you unhappy being in business?”

  He glanced at me as he thought about his answer. “My life different than I want. I miss family. My mother. My country.”

  “Oh, I see.” It was the first time I had thought about his family and connections. I blinked as I realised I had considered him in isolation, a loner with no one depending on him.

  He drew more characters on the page with his brush and ink. “This is how to write ‘Prudential Light’. It not perfect translation. In Chinese this mean ‘soft light’ or ‘Róu Guang’.”

  * * *

  柔光

  I studied the characters but felt that writing them was beyond me.

  Mr Chen told me that many of the Chinese people in Singapore doing menial work were actually well educated. They came to look for opportunity, to seek a way to find prosperity in the world, often leaving behind their families and even abandoning opportunities for marriage. There were not many Chinese women here, he said, and I recalled that I had seen very few in the short time I had lived in the city.

  After supplying me with his brush and paper, he asked for some ideas for women’s clothing.

  “You could aim for the Indian and local markets,” I suggested. “It is hot in parts of India and here, and British women’s clothing is heavy. Using lightweight materials, you could make dresses like this.” I drew some pictures.

  He showed me some simple blouses. I place one on my lap. “I could embroider the cuffs and collars and make them more attractive to British women.”

  He pondered my drawings, tilting his head this way and that. “Singapore is a place where goods pass through on the way elsewhere. It is possible I could work something with this for the local market first. Then if sell well send other places.”

  That is how we continued in the evenings. Every night Mr Chen and I ate a meal together, which he brought with him, along with other supplies for me. He saw to it that clean water for drinking and washing was left just outside my room every morning and my bucket was emptied. He brought me a new outfit of simple trousers and tunic. All my notions of being a lady were cast aside as I wore pants like a man. They were serviceable and cool, but nothing like as elegant as the clothes he wore. Sometimes he came in a simple satin tunic with trousers underneath, other times they were more elaborate.

  The days were long for me, and incredibly lonely. I tried to sleep when it was hottest. Despite my very sedentary existence, I lost weight and felt weak most of the time. But my injuries were healing and I was slowly becoming used to the food. I passed the daylight hours embroidering some of Mr Chen’s stock—cotton blouses made in China. Mr Chen was pleased because with the embroidery he could charge more for them, and they were selling quickly. He told me he had people in China who were copying my designs and that part of his business was going smashingly. His exact words!

  One evening, Mr Chen returned to the subject that plagued me near constantly. “We must find way to return you to your people,” he said. “The landlord not want release your possessions. Also, where you go? Will you follow your husband?”

  “Do you know where he went?” I asked, unable to disguise the hope in my voice. I didn’t want Charles, but I did want to find my son.

  “No, he was tricky. He did not leave clear path. He did not use his name or your son’s. If anyone saw him. They do not tell me.”

  My hopes were dashed. Charles was hiding from me as he was from his creditors, and I could not think of a way to trace him.

  “Then I must return to England,” I said with a sigh, “but that requires careful planning. I cannot just reappear without questions being asked. I need money for my passage and for essentials and I need my clothes.”

  Mr Chen nodded and slipped his hands into his sleeves as he thought. “You are best to wait for opportunity. I will bring British newspapers when I can. Perhaps you find what you need there.”

  I considered this. If I could travel as a companion to some wealthy girl or an older woman, that would cover some of the costs. “That is a good idea, Mr Chen.”

  The next night, before we ate, Mr Chen asked me to summon my Prudential Light. It would not come.

  I tried pulling strength out of me, using my mind. I tried to defend myself, but as there was no threat, nothing happened. Mr Chen taught me to meditate. He taught me to summon my centre and still nothing happened. We tried for a week or more and nothing happened.

  “If you cannot summon light at will, you must learn other ways to protect yourself,” Mr Chen said.

  I bowed to him. “You are right. Will you teach me?”

  And so, we changed our routine a little. After we’d worked on Mr Chen’s reading and writing and before we ate each evening, Mr Chen taught me how to fend off attackers, using everyday things as weapons. In some ways those simple exercises transformed me, because they gave me the confidence to face the world of men. Often as I ruminated on my life during the day, I would picture myself throwing a letter opener at some prattling man of my acquaintance. It was a terrible thing to consider, of course. Most unladylike. I am not so bloodthirsty as that. However, there have been times when I have pictured what it would be like to shut someone up with a sharp object.

  One day I was excited because Mr Chen made a breakthrough in pronouncing the letter “r”.

  “Very good. Rabbits running around the room.”

  He repeated this creditably.

  “You did it.” I couldn’t keep the smile from my face.

  His cheeks flushed at my congratulations, and I was filled up with admiration. A gentle, kind man who was intelligent. I could not help but compare him to Charles, who had fixed notions, did nothing to improve himself, squandered money on gambling and was malicious to boot.

  Something happened in that moment by candlelight. My heart overflowed with warmth for Mr Chen. Before I knew what I was doing, I reached out and touched his cheek, and something flared in his eyes. I leaned in closer to him, and he to me. Soon our lips met, and instead of mere admiration, there was passion between us.

  Mr Chen left me just before dawn, and I slept the day away.

  You may utter all kinds of words about this, remonstrate with me, accuse me of heinous conduct. You need to understand the context, the way my life was at that time. Mr Chen was my lifeblood. He protected me, he was unfailingly kind, and he was attentive. While I tried to remain impassive, I could not fail to notice all of his good attributes. Yes, he was Chinese and different from me in so many ways: not only in the colour of our skin and the shape of our eyes, but in our customs and language. Yet there existed an understanding between us. Mr Chen never expressed any love for me, not in the way a British man might. It was dangerous for me to love him because I knew that there could be no future in it. But I could tell my feelings were reciprocated, and while I remained hidden, it was possible to dream.

  I recalled what the priest had said to me in Calcutta. I thought he had been only trying to get money from me, but there were essential truths in what he told me. I had lost James, my everything, and I hoped desperately it would not be forever. And now, I did indeed love a man who was very different from me. He said he could see my inner light and that I was born with it. I thought it was something he must tell everyone, but that had turned out to be true, too.

  The lantern had burned low, and I lit a candle to light my way to bed. Everything ached after the hours spent at my desk. It was near three o’clock in the morning. The house was quiet as I slipped between the sheets. As I closed my eyes, I hoped that Milly did not go into labour that early morning, as I was so tired. Who knew writing about the past could be so exhausting?

  Chapter 11

  While I was given a night’s reprieve, Milly’s labour commenced the next evening. When the maid came to inform me, I put away my pen and paper, drew my mind out of the past, and hurried to my niece’s side.

  “Tell me, Aunt,” Milly asked as she walked around the room, rubbing her belly to ease a light contraction. “Tell me again about my parents and how much they loved each other.”

  “Of course, my dear. Faith was younger than me. I remember when she met the young curate, John Jones. He was clever and handsome and humble. Your mother practically fainted when he asked her to dance. There was never anyone else after that.

  “My father was against the match because John Jones had very little money of his own. Your father despised money for money’s sake. He wanted to help the poor, give to the poor. I believe if he had not met Faith, he would have given away his income entirely and lived cheek by jowl with the poor. His vision inspired Faith, who, it turned out, was aptly named. Our parents dabbled in Puritanism, I believe, for why else would they name us after Christian values? Edward’s mother was called Charity.”

  “I am glad they chose Millicent for me,” Milly said, and then gasped. “That one was stronger.”

  I checked my watch. “Closer in time as well. What good fortune that the midwife is still here with Jemima, helping her to tend Louis.”

  As the pain eased, Milly smiled. “’Tis lucky indeed. And I am blessed in Ambrose.”

  “You are. I am glad my opposition to the match did not deter you.”

  Milly laughed. “You were only thinking of my future. Fulton did pretend to be an employee of Edward. And you were not to know he had an estate and a substantial fortune. I did not know either. We hold no grudges against you. Things were not what they seemed.” She walked a short way and then turned back to face me. “If your father was against the match, then how did they marry?”

  I stood up and began to walk beside Milly as she paced the room, her arm resting in mine. “When Father realised the depth of their affection, he allowed the engagement, but he knew that all of Faith’s dowry would be needed to keep them.”

 

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