He held up a hand. “Am I the devil here?”
“No. Of course not. I am. That’s the point of the aphorism. You make mistakes when you want things too much. You have to stop and ask yourself if it’s right, if it makes sense, or if you’re only deluding yourself.”
She had a point. She truly did.
“You don’t trust me.”
“I don’t know you.”
He glanced at her. “You probably shouldn’t trust me. I intend to change the world. I’ve had a vision in mind for over a decade now: of messages that can be sent in an instant. Local control over the flow of information. I want telegrams to be sent not just by a few companies for the purpose of furthering trade, but by anyone. From peasants in Beijing to the Shehu of Borno. Think about how that will change the world.”
Her eyes were wide and bright on his.
“I’m going to upend the world,” he said, “so you probably shouldn’t trust me. But I am telling you now that you can be a part of this.”
He had her imagination working. He could see it in the faint flush that spread across her cheeks, as if she’d caught the scent of his ambition on the warm breeze between them.
“I have an office in Shanghai,” he told her. “You’ll receive an appropriate salary and I will turn you loose on the most difficult telegraphic encoding the world has encountered.”
“But—”
“Don’t answer yet.” He smiled at her confidently. “I’m leaving with the tide in two days. You’ll have that long to decide if you want to change the world.” He let that thought stretch a long moment between them before he gave her the alternative. “Or if you’ll let the world change you instead.”
Chapter Four
Amelia felt dazed. This morning, she’d awoken feeling trapped by the certainty of Mrs. Flappert’s arrival.
Then she’d met him on her wanderings. Captain… Captain… Oh bother his name anyway. He’d offered her employment. To work on telegraphic code. In Shanghai. To connect all parts of China, first, and then the world.
Honestly, she was half-convinced this was all a dream. She would wake at any moment to the news of Mrs. Flappert’s imminent arrival.
Awakening after this to a world without escape would be crushing.
They had descended the hill now. Residences crowded in between mulberry trees gave way to stone stores and businesses. They passed the Flemings’ mercantile, where Daisy’s puppies were just old enough to leave their mother, then the bank, then the social club.
He didn’t say anything now. There were people about; he’d cautioned her to confidentiality, and so perhaps he didn’t want to expound on his plans for a telegraph. She brought them to a halt just outside the customs house. It was close enough to the water’s edge that the nearest ships—low-keeled enough for river travel at high tide but large enough to survive a bit of an ocean voyage along the coasts—towered overhead. The five hills of Fuzhou rose beyond them.
Like all European architecture, the customs house was wide and blocky, squares upon squares upon squares softened only by stone garlands of laurel leaves above the windows.
Amelia turned to Captain Hunter.
“Did you really want the introduction,” Amelia asked, “or was this all a pretext to speak with me?”
“No such thing as a pretext,” he said. Perhaps he could see the hesitation she felt writ across her face because he leaned in and lowered his voice. “Don’t worry. His name is Waterman. He lives by water and he is a man, remember?”
She looked away.
She’d voyaged once out of Hong Kong through deep waters. She’d thought of the depths of the ocean underneath her—of all the creatures that might be lurking unseen in those leagues of water—and felt her feet itch with the certainty that something was down there where it couldn’t be seen.
That was how she felt right now. As if something waited in the deeps, and she didn’t know what it was.
He gave her a little smile. “If you forget his name again, I’ll remind you.”
Her mother would scoff at that. If I keep telling you, you’ll never learn on your own. You can’t expect people to make your life easy for you, Amelia. How is it that you can remember the most obscure Chinese characters, but you can’t remember someone’s name?
They entered the building. A young man stood to bar their passage, but an elderly fellow near him shook his head.
“It’s all right. She’s with the Acheson family. You must have some message, Miss Amelia?”
“Of course. Thank you.”
They were left on their own. Amelia took them to a back office with a view along the harbor.
That did bring something back to her. Waterman, she reminded herself. His name is Waterman.
She stopped in the doorway and waited for the man to look up. No; not the man. Waterman. That was his name. He set down his pen, and as he did, his eyes lifted. His gaze fell on her; he frowned, then nodded.
“Miss Amelia, isn’t it?”
“It’s Mrs. Smith now.”
“Ah, is it? Time flies. It was a bit ago you were married; I remember now. You hardly seem old enough for that.”
Amelia was well into adulthood—old enough not only to marry, but to have had a handful of children had things gone well in that first marriage. Another of the things that was subtly wrong with her: the relief she’d felt every month when their weekly exercise had once again failed to bear fruit.
“But never mind that. What can I do for you?”
“I’ve come on Leland’s request to introduce a friend of his.” She turned to the captain.
Oh God. Panic ensued. What was the captain’s name again?
She turned back to the man at the desk because at least she remembered his name. She’d told it to herself three times just now. His name was something man? Something about what he did or where he was. Harborman?
Her head was full of answers, every one of them completely wrong.
The captain strode forward. “Captain Grayson Hunter,” he said, “of Lord Traders, Incorporated, out of Maine. You must be Mr. Waterman.”
Oh thank God.
“Lord Traders.” Mr. Waterman’s eyebrow rose. “Well, you lot are stirring things up a bit.”
“Nothing brings me greater joy.”
Hunter, Amelia reminded herself. His name was Hunter. The handsome captain’s name was Hunter, and she would remember it because she was being hunted. He had pointed at her as if she were a pigeon on the wing and he was intending to take his shot. She was prey, and he was on the hunt. At least he was, if by prey one meant a woman who knew Morse code. And if by hunting one meant offering employment.
The conversation didn’t need her input—it jumped immediately to tea and cinnamon, things she knew little about—and she sat and contemplated.
Decide if you want to change the world, or let the world change you. What immense hubris.
What fun, some small part of her mind whispered. She squashed that down.
He’d insulted Amelia’s mother. He’d implied such terrible things about her. Amelia knew better. Her mother worked as a nurse in the missionary hospital when she was needed for no compensation but thanks, and little enough of that. Amelia knew her to be the sort who would make outright gifts to those in need—sailors left in port with no income, women down on their luck. Her kindness wasn’t restricted to Europeans. She would bring gifts to the Chinese women she knew when they gave birth. She was a good woman. She wanted the best for Amelia.