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Elijah swept a dramatic hand. “All. A monopoly on imports and exports.”
Nicholas spoke without taking his eyes off Helen. “The Cohong must be very rich, then.”
His father nodded, tapping his chin. “How rich?”
“In my early days in Canton, the leader, a man by the name of Houqua, became close to the Americans—much to the upset of the British who lost out on the connection!” His laugh was replete with gratification. “Some of the traders from Boston became like his sons. He made them wealthy, but they made him wealthier. Some say the wealthiest man in the world! Richer, even, than your monarch.”
“I’ve never heard of him!” Pen’s eyes widened. “Did you ever meet him?”
“Many times! He honored me once with an invitation to his palace.”
With surprise, Helen observed her brother’s ease as he reclined, heard how free his speech was in response to Pen’s requests. Gone was the tight, unhappy man she’d witnessed socializing in Boston. She realized anew just how much how much their existence had been defined by the dynamics between Robbie and his family, Robbie and Elijah’s taboo love, and her marriage to Robbie.
The Grays had known full well who Elijah was to Robbie and forced them apart as much as possible. In the end, though, even his parents wanted Elijah to accompany Helen to San Francisco, understanding he offered the best chance of luring their son out of an opium den.
Seeing her brother’s gregarious charm with the Siderises, Helen understood how small her world had been in Boston, including her own opinion of him. She had always suspected that Elijah could be himself, or at least more so, when he sailed away from home. Finally, she saw him this way, even as she expanded her own horizons.
Elijah’s eyes closed, as if traveling back to China to describe Houqua. “The man himself was slight, with thin white hair. His beard!” He shook his head. “I’ve seen boys and women with thicker beards. But his power, his prosperity, they were unmistakable. His silk tunics shimmered in the light of the hanging lanterns, his jade jewelry…”
Helen exchanged an amused glance with Sirena as her brother went on, then looked at Nicholas, who was smiling at Elijah’s story.
Vassilis jutted his chin toward the rest of the drawing room. “What of his palace? How did it compare tothis?”
Elijah took in the bountiful artwork from around the world, the fine furniture and luxurious upholstery, and made a dismissive hand gesture. “This space calls to mind…Houqua’s stables.”
Oh, Elijah!
Vassilis looked thunderous for a moment, Pen’s throaty laugh was one of delight, and Nicholas chuckled.
“Once and only once, I was invited across the river to his palace. Remember, we foreigners were trapped like rats in stuffy buildings, scarcely allowed out. Houqua’s estate across the river was a paradise. Ponds, walking paths, colorful buildings. Oh, the succulent and sumptuous feast!”
Pen gripped the bolster cushion, her expression avid. “What was it like?”
Beset by recollections, Elijah’s head turned from side to side. “One person’s meal was enough to feed a sailor on the journey from here to China! The servants brought the first course at noon…and we staggered out after the last course the next morning just before first light.”
Vassilis and Pen looked at each other and spoke as one. “The next morning?”
“The next morning! It was course after course. The sun set—and still we ate. By the time we finally rose, barely able to stand, mind you, the sun was rising again. It was impossible to decline any course. The delicacies I ate that night…why, today, I remain ignorant of what some were.”
At some point later, after Elijah enchanted Pen with more tales, Sirena stepped onto the dark-red Turkish carpet in front of the cushions. “Please excuse me and Helen while we tour some of the house. Captain Miller, I beg you to save some stories of your travels for our humble dinner table.”
He bowed his head in agreement, auburn hair falling onto his forehead. “A captain never runs out of stories, ma’am.”
“My husband must be a secret captain, then!”
Everyone laughed at Sirena’s wry comment, including Vassilis, then Nicholas rose fluidly from the cushions. A slow wave of heat journeyed up from Helen’s chest and up to her cheeks, dispelling the last of the chill from the carriage ride.
Vassilis groaned, rubbing his knee. “That I may lift from these cushions with half your vitality, son.”
Sirena clucked her tongue, but her look was affectionate. “That our son lives long enough to know the pains of age. You’re joining us upstairs, son, eh?”
“I wouldn’t miss it,” he replied, and his and Helen’s burning gazes met.
Before they were out of earshot, Pen returned to questioning Elijah, this time about navigational methods. Knowing her brother’s tolerance for her own intense curiosity, Helen understood Pen was in excellent hands.
As they traversed the drawing room, Helen forced herself to pay attention to the row of paintings they passed instead of the man who walked by her side. “Are any of these yours, Sirena?”
The woman nodded and gestured to a few. Pausing before an oil portrait of a bespectacled man with a large mustache, she cleared her throat. “My father. This was my first work after arriving in England. They executed him on the orders of the sultan before we fled Constantinople.”
