All the Tea in China Read Free Page B

good many years?” I ventured.
    “A great many,” he corrected, as though I had made another grievous error.
    “In China alone?”
    “Among other places.”
    This was certainly awkward. One had to wonder how he could minister to the masses when he could barely speak to a fellow countrywoman except in innuendo or insult. “And these other places are . . . ?” I asked, resisting the urge to tap my foot.
    “Miss . . . Goodrich, was it?” he said. “You need not feel you must entertain me. Sir Henry invited me tonight not for social, but financial reasons. I am here to raise money for my work. Is there a Mr. Goodrich with whom I should speak—your father? Or perhaps your betrothed?”
    At least we had lack of forbearance in common! “I fear not, Mr. Snowe. You might, however, find favor with my uncle, Mr. Fitzwater, that white-haired gentleman conversing with Sir Henry.”
    “Not Tobias Fitzwater?” His eyes gleamed. “The Oxford dean?”
    “He is a dean, yes. You have heard of Uncle Toby?”
    “Indeed I had hoped to speak with him, as he was a major reason for my visit to Oxford. I understand that he has an interest in Oriental studies.”
    Perhaps that explained why Uncle Toby had recognized the language on my slippers, if not its meaning. “I did not know that about my uncle,” I said, vexed that Mr. Snowe knew anything about Uncle Toby. “Have you perhaps mistaken him for someone else?”
    He pursed his lips. “Tobias Fitzwater is the dean of Christ Church, is he not?”
    I nodded. How did he know this?
    “And he has been at Oxford for, oh, thirty years now, yes?”
    I nodded again.
    Mr. Snowe shifted. “What I fail to understand, however, is how you fit into the picture.”
    “And which picture is that?” I replied, blinking in what I hoped was the manner of all innocence.
    For a moment it seemed that his face darkened, then inexplicably brightened. “Forgive me for nattering on so, Miss Goodrich. Would you be so kind as to introduce me to your uncle?”
    “I should be quite at a loss without your company,” I said. “But follow me.”
    I did not wait for a reply but sallied forth across the room. I could not be rid of Phineas Snowe any too soon. I was only sorry that I would be handing him over to Uncle Toby, who was far too kind.
    Be kind yourself, Isabella. He is a missionary. Be charitable.
    I drew a deep breath as we approached Uncle Toby, who was just finishing a conversation with Sir Henry. Our host bowed, excused himself, and left us alone.
    “And who is this?” Uncle Toby smiled in the stranger’s direction.
    “Phineas Snowe, sir.” He bowed. “But you need no introduction, Mr. Fitzwater. I feel I am acquainted with you already.”
    Uncle Toby bowed, looking at me curiously, as though I could explain this peculiar man’s ways. “He is visiting from China,” I said and watched in revulsion as Snowe sidled closer to my beloved uncle. Odious man! “Obsequious” must surely have been his original Christian name.
    To my distaste, Uncle Toby’s face brightened. “Ah, yes, the missionary. Sir Henry told me about you. You are here to—”
    “To endeavor to raise funds that we might spread the Good News among the heathens in China,” Snowe said, reaching into his coat pocket. “In fact, I brought along this newly translated account of the Gospel According to St. Luke. I believe you have heard of Robert Morrison?”
    “Yes, yes. Quite,” Uncle Toby said, putting on his spectacles and accepting the volume. He flipped through it carefully. “Unfortunately, I do not read Chinese, but I am sure that it is a faithful translation.”
    “You may be certain,” Snowe said, smiling from one side of his mouth.
    “Izzy, did you look at this?” Uncle Toby asked, handing the volume to me.
    Snowe smirked as I accepted it. I felt my cheeks flush. “I do not read Chinese either,” I said, pretending humility that I did not feel.
    “I would not expect you to.”
    “Isabella is quite