The Blonde Samurai (22 page)

Which was why I found myself staring up at the sky wrapped in blue silk, peeking through the tall trees, rubbing my flat belly with my reddened fingers, wondering what would happen if I
was
with child.

Days later the thought continued to pervade my mind, charging my emotions because I refused to answer this bewildering question concerning my fate as Nami and I rushed about cleaning straw mats, gathering fresh blossoms for the alcove and cooking rice for rice balls with pickled plums at the center, everything we needed to do to prepare for the thanksgiving harvests. A time to view the moon, according to tradition, compose verses and drink sake. And share my futon with my samurai.

And in a moment of candor I shall admit to you that I experienced deep pangs of missing my family, wondering what they would think if they knew their girl Katie was celebrating a thanksgiving harvest similar to the spirited holiday back in America. I believed that Da and Mother believed me well
and in good health, for I was of the persuasion that my dear husband James, would have avoided telling them anything that would jeopardize his financial position.

All these thoughts came to mind that day, dear lady reader, for I knew the paradisaical existence I had been living couldn’t last. I saw the signs everywhere. Shintaro off for long periods of time with Akira and his samurai. Swordsmiths hammering then hand forging each blade, readying strong cutting edges. And Nami. Where her steps were usually lighter than a breeze, she seemed heavy with worry, as if she were watching a fallen blossom caught up on the fast current of a stream, knowing she couldn’t stop its ebb and flow.

To assuage my fears, I nibbled constantly on cooked rice as we worked, my hunger overwhelming me day and night, yet the smell of the vinegar Nami used to pickle the plums made me retch. I caught her watching me when I sneaked off with a porcelain bowl to give my nauseous stomach a place to empty its woes, a sly smile coming over her face that she attempted to conceal but couldn’t. I knew she would never say anything, hint perhaps, but never ask. She kept so many secrets behind that smile, would I ever know her true thoughts? Yet I wasn’t ready to confide in her, for I had been late with the courses before and then came my flow. Would it come again this time?

“Are you writing a new verse to seduce the moon to your futon, my lord? Or me?” I asked, swaying my hips when I saw Shintaro back from the field, sitting in the garden, pen and ink in hand, his quick brushstrokes sweeping up and down the paper like a north wind. Tonight the moon would be full and perfect for viewing.

“My blonde samurai speaks boldly about the art of pleasuring a woman,” he said, never looking up.

“Does that displease you?” I couldn’t resist asking him, placing the white chrysanthemums I had gathered at his feet, though I continued standing.

“No.”

A long silence. As if I were intruding into a world where I didn’t belong.

“You write poetry, Shintaro, yet from what I’ve seen, you prepare for war.”

“You think like a woman, not a warrior.” His tone was gruff, not forgiving.

“I am a woman first, my lord, or have you forgotten?” I blurted out. Why was I speaking to him like this? We had not quarreled, but Shintaro hadn’t come to my quarters since he had returned.
Why?

“Soon the snows of winter will cover our valley, and the steep mountain path will be impassable.” He waved his brush about in the air and in the blinking of an eye sent me into the depths of melancholy. “You are free to leave before then.”

Was this a command disguised as a request?

“I wish to stay here with you,” I insisted.

He grunted loudly, startling me. The emotion I saw on his face surprised me since he was a man who hid his feelings well. Still, no word from him as to when I would take my place in his futon. Was I to be discarded like a dull sword no longer useful?

I decided not to persist in my pursuit of an answer, though this was one time, dear lady reader, I tired of the subtleties that permeated this culture. Grumbling to myself in my own tongue about the futility of trying to understand this stubborn samurai, I returned to my quarters and found Nami removing
kimonos from a cedar chest for washing. I made an effort to hide my emotions from her, but she could see I was upset.

“Lord Shintaro is a man at war with himself,” she told me, running her hands over blue silk, pensive she was, as though she was looking at her own lonely soul. “You can change that.”

I was struck by the sadness in her eyes and the lingering hope in her voice. “
How,
Nami? He wants me to go.”

“No, he wishes you to stay, but fears he will lose you if you do.”

“I don’t understand.”

“My lord knows the day will come when the way of the warrior will meet the same fate as the cherry blossom. A glorious death in the end.” Her face was like the dewy mist, moist with tears one moment then they were gone. “He doesn’t wish you to see that.”

“I love him, Nami,” I said with fervor in my heart. “What can I do? Help me,
please.
”

She turned and looked at me with truth in her eyes. “Stay and give him the gift you carry.”

I took a breath. “How long have you known?”

“I see it in your eyes…so does Shintaro.” She held out the blue kimono to me. “He fears you will return to your people and forget about everything you have learned. Including him.”

I took the kimono and draped the silky blue garment around me. The scent of my desire lingered, mixed with his, making me yearn for the familiar warmth of my samurai’s body, his hands finding his way beneath my kimono, his lips tantalizing the nape of my neck with his hot tongue…

“Tell him about the child tonight when the moon is full,” Nami whispered in my ear, her cheek flush with mine. “And I promise you, all will be well.”

With a lighter heart, I begged Nami to allow me to accompany her to her favorite spot over the hill to pick succulent beautyberries, all fat and sassy in their vibrant purple skin. I wanted to use their glorious color to brighten the festival arrangement and renew my spirit of this blessed autumn. Bursting with energy and youthful excitement, I was eager to share my news with Shintaro, to feel his strong hands rub my belly when I told him I carried his child.

Wearing large straw hats and long veils hiding our faces, we hiked up the hidden mountain trail and over the ravine to a thickly wooded area dark and dense with pine and fir and thick-leaved evergreen oak, beyond the gorge and washed in a sweep of gold and amber. It was a bold and daring thing to do since we had gone beyond where the samurai outposts could see us, but the beautyberries only grew here beyond the curved bridge crossing a stream. I danced with delight, picking berries and gathering fallen maple leaves, the colors changing as I twirled around and around, reflecting and absorbing the light from the late-afternoon orange sun. Gold then red then dark vermilion. Dusk was at hand. Nami called out to me that we must hurry back, but an unholy fatigue made my legs give way. I lay down on a bed of crimson leaves while she went on ahead, my face hot and perspiring under the heavy veil, but my eyes enchanted by the last of the setting sun’s rays, the intense gold light shooting through the small openings overhead in the thick evergreen woods—

I heard a woman scream, followed by a shot.

Gunfire.

Nami.

I jumped up, tripping over my baskets filled with berries, and ran and ran, my heart pumping so hard in my chest I
could barely breathe.
Who, why?
It was no secret samurai women were often harassed by imperial soldiers when they passed through inspection posts, but we were nowhere near there.

What could have happened?

Over the hill I saw three British soldiers on horseback, the officer among them shouting orders to a native soldier who had Nami in a tight grip, her hat and veil gone, her black hair unloosened and hanging down past her waist as she struggled to free herself.

“Ask her again if she’s seen an Englishwoman in these mountains,” said the British officer, his voice stern, unbending. The soldier restraining Nami repeated his words in the native language, tightening his hold on her arm and making her cry out, but she merely shook her head and said nothing.

They’re looking for me.
Why now after all these months?

I had my answer when I saw another rider approaching on horseback.
James.
Sitting tall in the saddle, his riding clothes out of place along with his pompous attitude. I cannot describe the morose feelings gutting my insides with such nausea I had to hold on to my stomach to keep from spewing its contents. I was completely unnerved at the sight of his lordship, as if something altogether intolerable and repugnant to my soul had been thrust at me and I couldn’t grasp it.

“She’s nothing but a peasant,” James said with disdain, not giving her a second glance. His hard words aroused such deep feelings in me I had to hold myself back from acting foolishly.

“She is samurai, your lordship,” said the native soldier, his hand fumbling between her breasts and drawing her dirk from her obi.

“Samurai?” James said, astonished. “Do you mean those bastards could attack us?”

“Rumors have abounded for months about the rebel samurai,
Shintaro, being holed up in these mountains, but I didn’t believe it,” said the British officer, an uneasiness creeping into his voice. Ever since the Richardson affair a few years ago when an Englishman was murdered by samurai, and his wife barely escaped, the British had been on edge, made more so by a recent attack on two French soldiers. The officer said, “We’ll take her along as a hostage. If she’s from Shintaro’s clan, we’ll
make
her talk.”

I crept closer, sweat pouring down my neck, my back.
I couldn’t let them take her.
I knew she’d die at their hands rather than reveal what she knew. I was but a few feet away, hidden in the dusk of bamboo thickets when the native soldier slackened his hold on her and tossed her dirk to the British officer.

Nami made a run for it.

“Stop her!”
the officer yelled out, and the soldiers raised their rifles, firing off two shots as she disappeared into the thick woods.
Was she hit?
I clasped my hand over my mouth to keep from screaming.
No, no.
I had to do something. Fast.

Ripping off my veil and straw hat, I raced into the small clearing and stood there wild-eyed and savage before they could fire again, my blond hair blowing about my face, my stance straight and unflinching. I locked glances with my husband with an unswerving steadiness. I imagine I presented an ominous threat he’d never expected, but he didn’t look away. A cruel smile turned up the corners of his mouth. I ignored him. I was samurai. I knew what I had to do.

I turned to the British officer and said in an even voice, “I am the Englishwoman you’re looking for.”

I
hear you whispering, see your nose twitching, your finger wagging at me, accusing me of disappointing you with this twist in my tale. Yes, I did return to Kobé with James, yes, I resumed my position as Lady Carlton, yes, I was just as distressed as you are about leaving my samurai and dear Nami.

I would prefer to skip this next part of my story instead of wasting endless pages on James and his boorish games, but so I shall not be dutifully punished by fate, not to mention the critics, I shall raise the curtain on this act, letting your overworked libido rest, since I have no doubt that despite your protests, you
are
curious about what happened to me after I returned to the foreign settlement. Be mindful, several important events took place during this time. ’Tis that part of my memoir I shall recount next and the events that led up to that spring morn in 1875 (are you counting the months since my child was conceived?) when from my belly came a child, a curious sun peeping down at me through the thick bamboo,
the scent of pine easing my birthing pain, the stream gurgling with delight at the sound of a baby’s first cry as I lingered in the blessed godliness of it all.

A late-November day in 1874 and light rain. A chill in the air cut through my thickly lined kimono, keeping me indoors, along with the vicious gossip about me circulating around the foreign settlement. A frenzied mood went on in the parlors and shops, where everyone chattered on about my unexpected reappearance, like a flock of crows on new potatoes.
A wayward wife gone mad with the travails of duty in a foreign post,
was what my detractors said. Not surprising, according to the British Legation, since how else could an American woman not accustomed to the fortitude expected of the wife of an aristocrat be expected to act?

Harsh? Yes, but writing here about my own emotional state, I can pass judgment, evaluate, criticize, accept. I imagine you’re asking yourself if you would have had the courage to return to the domicile of a man who hated you and wished you dead. I believe in my heart you would have, for I perceive you have aligned yourself with the samurai spirit even if you don’t know it.

I learned upon my return to Kobé that James had told the local British consul I’d run off with another man, a Hungarian count of dubious reputation. When that couldn’t be proven, he insisted I’d entered a Buddhist convent. When I asked James why he didn’t accuse me of running off with Mr. Mallory, he admitted that Mallory had penned me a note telling me he was returning to America to propose to the young woman he had left behind. (That made me smile and assuaged my ego, knowing Mr. Mallory’s affections had been otherwise engaged when I flirted with him.) James contin
ued to insist I’d left him of my own accord, but when no sighting of my person could be substantiated by facts, rumors abounded that I’d been taken captive by samurai and was being held against my will. James maintained the story was ridiculous, but even a British lord was not looked upon too kindly if he showed no concern about the alleged compromised virtue of his wife. I’ve no doubt he realized he had to produce me or proof of my demise to save his own skin and
disprove
any innuendos of foul play since stories about his drunkenness and womanizing were well-known in the settlement.

It was with that goal in mind he set off that day with a British officer and two soldiers, along with a native soldier, into the hills. He knew something had happened to me when my horse returned with an empty saddle and I’ve no doubt he believed I had met with an unfortunate end. It was a matter of time before they found my body, or so he thought…strike that…
hoped.
I can imagine how humiliating it was for him when I returned unscathed and tight-lipped about where I’d been…and with whom.

I was correct in my assumption that James had not contacted my family, believing he would soon possess definitive information about my demise and he could play the grieving husband.
The bastard.
I feared what my da and sainted mother would think should they find out from another source about my adventures, so I posted a letter to them (I prayed Da would understand since he was a man who had spent his life in the line of political fire). I left out the impending birth of my child should James intercept the letter. I was three months pregnant, my belly slightly swollen, my breasts tender, fuller, but the unpleasantness in the morning had subsided, though
I suffered fatigue from the slightest task. I prayed my husband wouldn’t notice the subtle changes in my figure before they became apparent since I intended to return to America to have my baby (Shintaro would approve since custom dictated a samurai woman return to her parental home to birth her child). In my naiveté I deemed I could take on the British aristocracy and flaunt tradition by having my child, then seek a divorce from James. Since I had already doomed myself to an afterlife of torment in the eyes of the church, I decided one more sin on my lengthy list mattered little. Without a blink of an Irish eye, I lied to my husband about my trips to the shopping street where I secretly visited the old swordsmith and asked him to pen a note to my samurai, telling him that as soon as I became a free woman I wished to return to the village. I admit my knowledge of the written native language was wanting, so I have no idea what he wrote, but he didn’t seem surprised when I made my request. Later I learned Shintaro had visited his curio shop (in disguise) to inquire about me. (I was remiss not to previously mention that when I told my samurai about the shop, he smiled, the warmth and naturalness in his eyes telling me the old swordsmith was indeed a friend and former samurai and loyal to his lord, Shintaro.) When I returned in two days and asked the old swordsmith if the flowers in the hills would blossom in the spring, he nodded and said all was well. I took that to mean that Nami was safe…and my message delivered.

Explaining what happened to me at the British consul in Kobé was a more delicate matter. I described the same scenario over and over, never veering from my story that I took refuge in a Buddhist temple after I fell from my horse and how the samurai woman befriended me but I was unaware of her identity. I never mentioned her name or gave him a descrip
tion during the questioning. When prodded, I refused to say any more, though I don’t believe the British officer interrogating me believed me. But I was Lady Carlton and as such, wielded power in refuting anything to the contrary.

Two weeks later, I faced new challenges. I wouldn’t be able to hide my condition much longer and had written to Mr. Fawkes in Tokio and asked him to inquire about a sailing date to Vancouver since the northern ports were a better destination during the winter months. I received a letter from him with a sailing schedule, which I dutifully kept from James. I feared another savage attack upon my person from him, though he made no mention of the day when he taunted me with my dagger. I doubt he had any memory of what happened, so intoxicated was he, but that didn’t stop him from deciding to show his dear wife how lonely he had been without me.

“I’ve missed you, Katie,” he said, putting his hands on my shoulders, surprising me by using my given name. I quickly tucked the letter and sailing schedule into my kimono sleeve as he tried to kiss me, his touch repulsing me. “A man gets lonely here all by himself.”

“Are there no plump bottoms to tempt you, my dear husband?” I pulled away, determined to remain aloof.

“Nothing as pretty as yours,” he slapped my arse, causing me to react with a start. With a subconscious gesture, I held my stomach. Though I detected no movement, I knew the baby was growing inside me, I
knew.

“Don’t
ever
touch me again,” I said, straightening my shoulders. I found his company distasteful and had managed to keep away from him, but this morning he surprised me as I set about making sweet ginger tea with ginger root and honey.

“I don’t care where you’ve been these past few months,” he said, nuzzling his face in my hair. “I’ve allowed you to play your game, but it’s over.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said.

“It’s time you did your duty.”

“Duty?”

“Yes, my father, the duke, is quite ill and eager for me to produce an heir as soon as possible.”

“I want nothing to do with you,” I cried out, spilling the hot tea and scalding my hand. I grabbed a linen towel and dipped it into cool water then applied it to my skin. “You’re a braggart and a thief.”

“No one calls me a thief.”

“No? You swindled money from my father,” I said, then told him I wished to have the marriage annulled. He balked at that, but I told him I could prove my accusation since I had examined the books in Yokohama and had no doubt a bank audit would show I was telling the truth. In exchange for an annulment no criminal charges would be filed against him. (I prayed Da’s investment in the railway would make up for his lordship’s gambling losses.) To my surprise, he agreed, most likely to be done with me so he could return to London and snare another heiress who could bear him a child. I should have seen that being distant around my husband was the wrong move, dear lady reader, as if I were hidden from him by veils, my body cloaked and unattainable seducing him more than naked flesh. A temptation he couldn’t resist. I had no idea he had one final play in mind later that evening.

“Take off your clothes.”

“You’re mad, James, completely
mad.
”

“I have decided that part of the stipulation of the annul
ment you desire will be that I enjoy your naked body for one evening.”

“If you take me to your bed against my will, there can be no annulment.” I panicked, upset at his daring move to invade my quarters when I was at my toilette, applying camellia oil and lemon juice to the reddened skin on my hand.

“Did I say anything about fucking you, my dear wife?” He smirked. “Instead, I will enjoy watching another woman touch you, her lips suckling your breasts, her tongue delving into your pussy…before I fuck
her.
”

Before I could catch my breath, a young singsong girl appeared (no doubt James had bought his way back into the graces of the local madam), wearing a pale sea-green tunic and trousers so sheer I could see her small dark nipples pointing through the silk and the dark patch covering her pussy trimmed into a perfect triangle.

“I won’t do it,” I cried, tossing the vial of oil at him.
“I won’t!”

“If you want an annulment, you’ll do as I say.” He ripped my kimono off me and tossed it aside. I wore only a thin cotton chemise underneath, accustomed as I was to no longer wearing a corset, my full breasts peeking over the low-cut lace and arousing an interest in his eyes that alarmed me.

“
Let me go,
James.”

“No.” He ran his hands over my breasts, warm and tender, making me cringe, then he cupped them in his hands, pulling the cotton taut to emphasize their fullness. “I may have been too hasty in agreeing to an annulment when you have so much to offer your husband.”

“You will be disgraced, James, if I reveal what I know about your phony gambling losses, your title worth nothing when you’re penniless.”

That angered him, his eyes spewing fire. “You’re treading on dangerous territory, my dear wife. It’s unfortunate you returned, but I shall make the best of it.” He ripped the tunic off the Chinese girl and pushed her toward me. “Touch her, Soong Li, like this.” He made obscene gestures with his hands, touching my breasts, belly, pussy.

Bowing, the pretty girl put her hand on my breast then slid it down to my belly. I pushed her away, crossing my arms over my midsection, her dark eyes meeting mine, confused, then seeing how I protected my belly from her touch, she shook her head and backed away. She knew I was with child, but she said nothing. She tried to run, but her refusal to arouse me angered my husband. He hit the girl hard, making her cry out, her lip bleed.

At that moment I hated him more than ever, his abuse of defenseless girls setting off an intense, savage anger in me that couldn’t be stopped. I placed my body between them to protect her when he attempted to slap her again, but this time his hand struck my cheek, knocking me off balance…there was a moment of struggle, then I went down, my head slamming against the straw mat…my body screaming with pain.

“Did you know your wife was expecting a child, Lord Carlton?”
I could hear a man’s voice saying, impersonal yet curious. I was struck by fear despite the pounding in my head.

“A child?” James.
His voice was not without bitterness as he continued,
“That’s impossible.”

“Milord?”
More curiosity in the man’s voice.

“My wife had a fainting spell,”
I could hear him blustering, shock making him stutter.
“I had no idea she was in such a condition.”

“She has suffered internal bleeding from the fall. I’ve given
her laudanum for the pain.”
If James called in a physician, he must have been worried I’d leave this earth under his roof and he’d hang for it.
“She must stay in bed or she will lose the child.”

Lose the child.

I heard no more. I lay still, trying to steady my breathing, no scream from me, my throat tight, dry, as if the possibility of losing my baby was beyond my comprehension. I couldn’t open my eyes, so heavy were they with me straining so hard to open them, moisture gathered at the corners, but some thing deep within me came back to life in a shuddering sigh. All I could think of was what he’d said.
She will lose the child.
I couldn’t.
No, no no…

“So my dear wife is a sinner like the rest of us.”

James leaned over me, grabbing my arm and holding me in a tight grip, his breath heavy with the smell of brandy. “No court will grant you an annulment now. And I will
never
give you a divorce.”

“Your threats mean nothing to me, James,” I insisted, using the last of my strength to pull away from him.