The Palace of Heavenly Pleasure by Adam Williams

country clothes, but in the circumstances it was an exaggerated insouciance. Many of the European diplomats had come in top hats and frock-coats. The Russian minister was displaying his medals. And the quiet Japanese minister, accompanied by his tiny kimono-clad wife, appeared to be in Court dress. Even so, the men were dowdy in comparison to their wives, who might have been presenting themselves at Ascot or the Henley Regatta. Helen Frances gazed in wonder as the Countess Esterhazy, a guest at the Austrian Legation, sailed by in a shimmer of blue organdie and peacock tails, laughing at a bon mot from the dapper French military attaché, who was dancing attendance behind her. Wide, feathered hats fluttered like a breeze through flowering cotton or mustard fields. Some of the women were wearing riding habits, as Helen Frances herself was, but the difference was that theirs might have been designed for the Windsor Hunt, with skirts cut in elegant velvets, shining black hats trailing transparent blue silks, jackets tightened round the waist to reveal the full magnificence of the female form. Helen Frances, in her brown travelling clothes and sturdy bowler, felt as out of place as a governess at a ball.
    She had begged Tom not to leave her alone but he had been whisked off almost as soon as they arrived to take part in a game of rounders that some of the younger men were playing at the end of the garden. She had watched him for a while as he fielded. She saw him leap and catch the ball, roaring, ‘Howzat,’ with the others, as he held his trophy high. His red face beamed with happiness, his yellow hair hung awry. She had felt warm with fondness and pride, and he had looked across the lawn at her and grinned. Then Lady MacDonald had scooped her up and taken her to meet Madame Pichon, the wife of the French minister, who had proceeded to test her schoolgirl French to its limits. After some comments about the weather, they had managed to agree that the Great Wall of China was indeed very long, and Madame Pichon was observing, a touch tartly, that that was perhaps the very reason why it was called a Great Wall, when thankfully her attention was diverted to a more interesting conversation, and a flustered Helen Frances was left to her champagne. For the moment she was happy to remain ignored.
    She found herself listening to the conversation of a small group of men gathered round Dr Morrison, the famous Times correspondent and traveller whom Tom had pointed out to her at the hotel. Her attention was drawn to one of the younger men lounging beside him, a strikingly handsome, black-haired man, with broad shoulders and a relaxed, powerful frame, whose strong limbs were contained in a tight tweed suit of elegant cut. He reminded her of a panther she had once seen at London Zoo, lazy, somnolent, but full of energy and muscle, with a coiled strength behind the sleek skin, ever ready to spring. She had noticed him on the ride out here, cantering past her carriage. She had watched as he pivoted effortlessly in his saddle to shout a jest at one of his friends, one hand steadying the neck of his horse, his blue eyes briefly meeting hers as he turned. He had twitched the reins and the horse had broken into a gallop, disappearing in a cloud of dust. The image of his erect, military bearing had remained in her mind. In the carriage she had not dared ask Mr and Mrs Dawson, the representatives of Tom’s company in Peking, who he was. For some unaccountable reason it would have seemed disloyal to Tom. She felt a sudden anxiety in case the man looked up and saw her staring at him now. Another part of her wished very strongly that he would.
    â€˜Yes, I do take the Boxers seriously,’ Dr Morrison was saying, in a quiet voice that contrasted with his rough, dogged features. Helen Frances detected the slight colonial accent in his speech. Tom had told her that he was a forthright Australian.
    â€˜Oh, come off it, sir. Spirit soldiers