Gold Peony And The Sinuous Wife Ch 02

Thanks to Jon B 1969 for the edit.

The two women looked at each other; Jen with masked civility, Helen with barely concealed contempt. "Well at least she has good taste," Jen thought. The emerald green dress the blonde wore, while not overtly sexual, did display her figure to good effect. It showed a body very much like Jen's, with matching curves. Jen estimated the woman's breasts at a cup size lower than her own.

The woman's dress supported her breasts quite well, with just the right amount of cleavage to make an impression. "Probably custom made, imported from France, with a built in bra," Jen noted. The hem fell just above her knees.

The woman wore no stockings. Jen admired the well defined musculature. The woman had good legs. She wore gold leather pumps. "Most likely Italian," Jen thought.

Jen's assessment of the woman's body lasted just half a minute. "Impressive figure," she thought, and she had met many women in her long life. Her eyes moved to the woman's face. The woman ("Helen," Jen recalled) glared at her with the bitter, contemptuous scowl of a superior being gazing upon some disgusting, primordial insect. Jen had been the subject of many similar scowls in her life: haughty mandarins and favored concubines, high-priced consorts and spoiled princesses, self-righteous missionaries and pompous colonial bureaucrats. Even her sister, Bai, often after a disagreement and they had many. Jen long since learned to dismiss such looks. She was, after all, far above them in every way. "A pity though," she thought. "She actually is quite beautiful. The scowl does nothing for her."

Helen's face was near perfect in symmetry, as close to movie star beautiful as her creator could make it. Her eyes were a deep jade green with long-lashed lids, and framed by sculpted brows.

Her nose was well-shaped with a slight upturn. Her lips were thin, made thinner by her frown, but enhanced by deep red lipstick. A crown of light golden hair, flowing in wavelets to her neck, topped her head. "Her dress matches her eyes, her shoes match her hair. She knows how to dress but who's she she trying to impress?" Jen asked herself.

Other than lipstick and a little Kohl around the eyes, Helen wore no cosmetics. She didn't need it, her skin was pale and flawless. Jen could see how such natural beauty would enhance a feeling of superiority. Helen didn't need to prove anything. She knew her beauty and lorded it over everyone else. Jen could tell her, she met her match.

Jen also knew her beauty, and had played this game far longer and better than Helen could ever imagine. Jen also recognized that Helen felt her advantage came from race and breeding. It was an old recognition. Jen grudgingly admitted many Chinese had the same flaw. It was the Middle Kingdom after all. The look on Helen's face was a visage she knew well. Centuries of experience, going all the way back to the long dead and forgotten master who taught her sorcery, taught her to read faces as easily as a children's book.

Helen was coldly assessing her as well, judging, finding her wanting. This white bitch found her beautiful, but only as an excellent example of her race. Helen thought herself beautiful as a universal statement, an example of Anglo-Saxon breeding. Yes, Jen knew this type well.

She was wise enough to recognize this superior feeling within herself. It was regrettable and a flaw. Certainly she had known whites in the past, European and American, who were genuine in their integrity and honor. People who were actually concerned for China and the Chinese, but she remembered the Opium Wars, the Taipeng Rebellion with that demented "Son of God", the Boxer Rebellion, and now the Communists. Yes, China shared a lot of blame, but much of the self-immolation was in response to or because of the western poison, and here was this woman, standing before her, cold and beautiful, representing the worst of that poison. Jen resolved then and there to put this bitch in her place.

"She does look fine for her type," Helen thought. "Probably a prostitute. You never can tell with these people." This one looked at her directly, as if she were assessing her like one of the antiques. Helen, a woman unused to inferiors looking her in the eye, was unsettled. "Curse you James, leaving me with this. . . woman."

The woman came from behind the counter, walking soundlessly to Helen, bold and unafraid. Helen was actually impressed. She sensed no impudence around the girl, and her walk was the quiet grace of a dancer. The only sound from her was the soft rustle of her silk cheongsam against her body.

The lady stopped, clasped her hands together, and spoke. "Greeting Mrs. Morgan, my name is Jennifer Mudan. If I may offer you some tea while you await your husband's return?"

Helen cocked an eyebrow. "Perfect English without a hint of accent. Most impressive Miss Mulan." Helen's haughty tone spoke opposite to her words.

"It's Mudan, bitch,"

Jen thought. She smiled, keeping an outside mask of civility. "Yes, it's amazing what one can learn at UCLA."

She betrayed no hint of sarcasm. A less perceptive person might have thought it a simple attempt at humor, but Helen missed nothing. The temperature in the room fell below freezing. The heat between the two women rose to near boiling.

A faint blush bloomed across Helen's frost pale face. "Ahem! Right, well. I thank you for your offer." She was tempted, in her own refined way, to tell this. . . woman what she could do with her tea, but decided some time alone was needed to regain her composure. "I believe I shall have some tea, thank you," she accepted with brittle frigidity.

"Not that I will trust anything you make you yellow bitch!"

"As you wish," Jen coolly replied and left the room.

Helen wandered the shop, silently cursing James. "You better be quick, you son of a bitch." She knew she should have divorced the bastard years ago, when his flaws in character and as a man became apparent, but however well-born, her financial situation was nowhere near as good as her husband's. It was better to wait, bide her time.

The detective she hired to follow Jim worked out perfectly. The photos he took secured her position. It didn't matter that it was a simple meeting with a business partner, looking to invest in a new luxury hotel, or that the showgirls were future employees in a new show, or the partner's teenage son had just come out of the pool. What mattered was perception. The boy had tripped and fallen against James, the position looked compromising, and the hidden detective took the crucial picture at just the right moment. Some further doctoring and she had blackmail.

Helen could have divorced Jim for a healthy alimony, but a greater payday loomed in the person of his father. She would divorce when old Howard died and Jim got his share of the estate. Helen savored that day. "I'll take him for everything he's worth," she thought.

Helen browsed around, appraising some of the antiques with grudging admiration. "The person who owns the store has a good eye," she thought. Her privileged upbringing taught her to recognize quality. "Why would the seller of such antiques need to deal in opium?" she asked, appraising a bronze urn with a discerning eye. It looked like a Tang dynasty piece, with a man and a woman, snake-like tails entwined, emblazoned on the side. "Impressive."

Helen's ire softened slightly. She was even tempted towards a purchase, but such an act felt like surrender. "Buying something would give that bitch some kind of satisfaction," she thought. It seemed silly, but Helen couldn't help but think her earlier encounter with, "What is her name? Jane?" was something of a declaration of war.

She couldn't figure out her feelings. "What is it about that. . . woman?" she wondered, settling into a vintage Manchu chair. Yes, she was a chi. . . Chinese, and she hated them, but something about this one. . .

A memory, a sliver from the past; the hot, humid day, Chun in the wardroom, her soft golden melons, the kiss, flashed through Helen's mind, quickly buried under a tide of anger, revulsion. . . betrayal. "I hate her," she thought, ignoring the heat on her face. . . or the heat between her legs.

Jen, meanwhile, leaned against the table, waiting for the water to boil. The tea leaves were from the old country, the best variety. "Madame Wu insists on the best," she chuckled. She prepared some spices and included mint. "Why am I doing this?"

Jen was perplexed. Her experience with women spread across centuries. Women like Helen were met, dueled, seduced or discarded. They encompassed all kinds from all classes and races but this one woman. . .

Helen's obvious misery wasn't lost on Jen. It didn't excuse her arrogance and snobbery but, "Something, or someone, hurt her in the past." It shouldn't have mattered. Mortals' past pain shouldn't concern her, except in rare cases of intimacy, and Jen hadn't been intimate with another since. . . well, the woman turned out to be a disappointment.

The teapot whistled. Jen poured two cups and steeped the leaves, lost in thought. "The bitch deserves a good spell," she thought. "Something simple, a little humiliation." A major spell could lead to complications.

Jen searched her memory. Her best spells were written down and hidden but mainly as a contingency. Her brain contained centuries of magic. One spell in particular stood out. "Nuwa's dance, yes, that would work. It varies, depending on the level of power used. It'll have her dancing to my tune in a heartbeat."

Jen began a chant. The words of power were a blend of ancient Han, Hindi, and languages extinct since well before the Yellow Emperor put brush to paper, passed down through hidden temples tended by dying priests. Nuwa the goddess, creator and shaper of mankind, was alleged as the originator of the spell.

She clenched her fist tightly over a cup, using her nails to cut the skin until several drops of blood fell into the tea. Next, as the final part, she hissed like a snake, completed the chant, and spat into the tea, now a potion. "A little more ginger to mask the taste, some honey, and voila. Let's see how the bitch likes it," she chuckled.

Helen brooded in her chair. She heard someone clear her throat and glanced up. Jane or June or Gin, whoever, was holding a tray with two steaming mugs. "I made cups for both of us. It's an ancient blend, very rarely drunk. I hope you enjoy it."

Helen glared and said nothing. She didn't rise from the chair. An awkward silence passed as the women stared at each other.

"What is she playing at?" Jen wondered and then revelation. "Son of a bitch! She wants me to bend down to serve her!"

Hindsight later told Jen such action was proper customer service but, at the time, it seemed another power play on Helen's part. "Swallow it Jen," she thought. "Let her drink the tea. We'll see who bends then."

Helen didn't say a word as she took a cup. "About time she learned to serve her betters," she thought.

Jen felt some relief,

"She picked the left cup."

It was a risk guessing which one Helen would pick, but Jen had made greater bets in her time.

The aroma from the tea caused Helen to lift an eyebrow. It felt familiar and new, evoking childhood memories of teatime in the garden, under the rose pavilion, the plum tree in bloom, mother in her pink dress, Chunhua standing near. . .

Nostalgia, the happy/sad moment of longing, threatened to grasp her heart, just for a brief second, before Helen brutally extinguished it. "Weakness!" she raged, silently. "I cannot be weak before this woman!" She settled into the chair without so much as a thank you.

"Well!" Jen thought. She walked to the front desk and leaned back against it, sipping her tea, quietly watching Helen.

The tea was a bit strong, but otherwise exquisite. Helen reluctantly acknowledged the woman's skill. She sipped her tea, watching the woman from the corner of her eye

"What is her name again? June? Judith?"

The air was thick with tension, punctuated by the tick of the clock. "Why is she staring at me like that? What does she want?" Helen felt warm and flushed. "Is there something in the tea?" she wondered briefly, and then dismissed it. Her discerning tongue could distinguish the brand, and taste the spices, mint, and honey, plus a flavor she couldn't define, but nothing to indicate a drug. Still, the woman's gaze, impassive but vigilant, made Helen nervous. "I would appreciate it if you didn't stare at me."

"Oh! I'm sorry. I was just wondering what you thought of my tea," Jen replied.

"It's. . . good," Helen muttered.

"I'm so happy you like it," Jen responded with a catlike smile.

"What is she up to?" Helen asked. She never trusted Chinese when they smiled. It always seemed to mask something.

"I beg your pardon?" Jen asked.

"What?" Helen replied.

"You asked a question?"

"I didn't. . . " Helen colored briefly, surprised she queried out loud, not enough for the woman to hear, but the tone gave her the gist. Helen was not a woman to put her foot in it. Such candidness seemed crude, but given the venue, her hate for her husband, and this seemingly impudent Chinese woman, she threw away her sense of propriety for a direct attack. "Well, I was wondering about your profession."

"I. . . I beg your pardon?" Jen repeated, knowing full well the implied insult.

"I'm curious, given the business, how well does Mr. Cheng pay you. . . as a clerk?"

"I am paid quite well, thank you," Jen replied, in a voice brittle as glass. Her anger was rising, something a part of her found disturbing. She was normally calm in the face of such insults.

"I'm sure you are," Helen countered, goading. "Perhaps your other activities help with the income?"

"And what, may I ask, are you implying?"

Helen, unaware of the razor thin ice beneath her feet, pushed forward. "Well, the way you dress and considering your boss' side business, I just assumed he hired you for. . . other work. . . besides cashier," Helen smirked.

Jen's golden skin gained a reddish hue, then turned a lighter shade. She calmly set down her tea cup and strode quietly to Helen, who sat in her chair looking as if she just finished dispensing the day's gossip.

Jen leaned in very close to Helen's ear and speaking low, in a voice pregnant with menace, said, "I wear the cheongsam in tribute to my culture. Cheng isn't my boss, merely my employer, and what I do, what I wear, what I think of Cheng's side business, and how I make my money, is none of your fucking business you miserable, spoiled, arrogant, white bitch."

Helen's face turned red and then stone white.

"How dare she. . .?"

While Helen could gut a person with words, she was not a shouter when tempers were lost. She was cold, and her response was cold and cutting, and so she sealed her fate. "Well then, if that is what you choose to wear, I daresay it states quite a bit about your culture, doesn't it?"

Jen long prided herself on giving as good as she got. She could eviscerate an enemy as good as Helen, in fact more so from experience in the poisonous environments of countless imperial palaces and dynasties. If Helen had known this fact, her own esteem would have been greatly advanced, because she managed to accomplish a feat which eluded countless concubines, courtesans, and princesses through all the dynasties of China: she made Jin Mudan lose her temper.

To Be Continued.