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Praise

PRAISE FOR THE SHANGHAI WIFE

‘A superb debut, conjuring all the mayhem of pre-revolutionary China through the eyes of a young Australian woman. I hope Emma Harcourt writes many more!’

Paul Ham, historian, author and journalist

‘With extraordinary historical and sensory detail, Emma Harcourt brings the world of early twentieth century Shanghai to contemporary readers. Into this lush and complex setting comes a young woman straining against convention. In Annie, Harcourt has created a dynamic and vivid character, a woman both conflicted and courageous, a woman readers will fall in love with.’

Kathryn Heyman, author of Storm and Grace

‘Emma’s book is lyrical and beautiful … she has written a love story as dangerous and exotic as the worlds she describes.’

Caroline Overington, author and journalist

‘An immersive tale of illicit love set in Shanghai during the Chinese anti-Imperialist movement of 1925. Propels you straight to the streets of 1920s Shanghai.’

Nicole Alexander, author

‘It’s got it all, romance, politics, mystery, controversy, forbidden love and death. A great read, travel back to Shanghai in the 1920s and enjoy!’

Beauty & Lace

‘Emma Harcourt’s … writing style is beautiful; riddled with descriptive prose and glorious snapshots of the exotic richness of China’s elegant 1920s, along with the dangers lying on Shanghai’s rabbit-warren of streets … excellently researched.’

Starts at Sixty

‘The Shanghai Wife will delight fans of historical fiction who like to be taken places and told terrific stories, as well as anyone who enjoys experiencing a life lived to the full in one of the world’s most fabulous cities at a very interesting time.’

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About the Author

Photo: Noel Mclaughlin

EMMA HARCOURT is an author, researcher and journalist. She began writing historical fiction while completing the Faber Academy Writing a Novel course and now spends all her available hours either researching history or writing about it. As a young adult she travelled to Florence to learn Italian and fell in love with the place. From there she moved to London where she lived for ten years before eventually returning to Australia to raise her son. She’s now based in Sydney with her teenage daughters. When she’s not writing or researching history, you’ll find her reading in her garden. Emma is the author of critically lauded, internationally published bestseller The Shanghai Wife. Her second book, The Brightest Star, is set in Renaissance Florence.

Also by Emma Harcourt

Also by Emma Harcourt

The Shanghai Wife

Title Page

Dedication

For Mum

Prologue

PROLOGUE

Villa Careggi, 1479

It was the wet nurse who sealed Luna’s fate. So powerless a figure and yet her small act of defiance changed the path of the Fusili family history forever. None could have foreseen the turn of events she would initiate by letting the baby cry. Such an innocent sound and so loud.

*

‘Deliver her to the nuns; I do not want this curse upon my family. Quickly, before my husband arrives.’ Giulia Fusili fell back against the bed. It had taken more energy than she realised to speak.

‘Hold her, signora, just for a moment, and you will surely feel her goodness. She needs her mamma.’ The wet nurse, Livia, thrust the swaddled newborn at her mother but Giulia turned her head away and dug under the coverlet, refusing to touch her baby daughter, for she knew once she had the warm, sleeping bundle in her arms, she would not be able to give her up. The baby’s smell was already more familiar than any other in the room.

‘She’s waking, mistress. Look at her little smudge of a nose and see how she searches for your milk.’ The baby had indeed begun to squirm and she let out a gentle whimper, no louder than the puff of air escaping from the pillow Giulia pressed against.

‘You will be her milk mother now, not I. Take her away.’ Giulia exhaled sharply at another wave of pain as the midwife pressed a cloth to her temple. Giving birth was a pitiable task when there was no reward. She’d thought the birthing pains would stop once the babe was out but her belly was pierced by the same excruciating tightenings as in labour. This was some trickery of the female form, kept secret from young women.

She fixed her gaze on the midwife beside her. The woman dabbed at her brow, squeezed the cloth into the rose-infused water and dabbed again, her expression unreadable. Not for the first time, Giulia wished she’d been born a man. She pushed the woman’s hand away and tried to raise herself more comfortably against the goose-feather pillows. She was not even in her own home and longed for the familiarity of her marriage bed. This room was too grand for a clothmaker’s wife but her husband had been right to insist she leave the city with so much plague about; il segno was like the Devil’s breath, dropping innocents where they stood. So many good families in Florence were suffering, but she was protected here in the hills of Careggi, within the walls of the Medici country estate. Even so, she felt ill at ease to be in this imposing home where Lorenzo de’ Medici and his wife, Clarice, spent much of their time. The open loggia on the first floor was superior to any she’d stood in and the decorated corridors were constantly busy with servants. The lady of the house had been gracious in her welcome, but Clarice was preoccupied by her own baby boy, Giuliano, still a whelp, who she was determined not to lose to an infant death like the twins.

At that moment, he struck up a wailing somewhere in the house and his healthy cries carried all the way through to the birthing chamber. When she’d first arrived, Giulia had found comfort in knowing she would be delivered of her firstborn in a house of children, but now she heard the sound of the newest Medici baby with a jealous ear.

The midwife raised the cloth to her brow once more and Giulia lifted her head proudly. This woman had helped birth ten babies in nine years, none of them touched by the Devil as hers had been. She would stare down her judgement.

There was a noise from the side of the room and she saw her friend Elisabetta had not left as she’d asked. Instead she hovered with the cloth bundle in her arms. The cotton had begun to discolour.

‘I thought you had already gone to do my bidding,’ Giulia said. Only hours earlier she’d kissed Elisabetta’s hands as she placed a soothing poultice on her belly; now Giulia eyed her friend wearily.

‘I could not leave till I heard sense from your lips once more.’ The young lady held firm to the bundle which had begun to mark her dress with its seeping fluid. ‘I beg you not to abandon your own child.’

Giulia considered her friend, so sure of herself and still fresh-cheeked despite the hours spent assisting through the birth. Elisabetta had always spoken her mind more freely than any amongst their circle of friends and whilst her forthright nature did not endear her to many, it was one of the things Giulia admired about her. She couldn’t imagine being in this big, strange house without Elisabetta but her well-meaning talk was simply too much right now.

‘Don’t make this harder than it already is. I need you to do my bidding.’

Giulia saw her friend’s brow crease. She steadied herself, preparing to defend her decision, but a flood of warm liquid surged from between her legs and with it another wave of agonising pain gripped her. It was all she could do to stay sitting upright. She shifted in the damp bedsheets and saw how Elisabetta looked at her, how everyone would look at her now—with pity.

‘All I suggest is that you sleep first, regain your sensibilities and then consider your choices. You may feel very differently in the morn.’

‘And give my husband time to blame me for this thing that I did birth? No, I most certainly will not wait for that!’ Giulia was annoyed now; she had little enough energy without wasting it on this argument. ‘Did I not ask you to take the filthy cord for burning? It must go into the fire downstairs without delay, else our sin will fester like maggots feeding.’ She didn’t bother to keep the sharpness from her tone.

‘I am worried for you, Giulia, and for your baby. There are some, myself amongst them, who do not believe the act of conceiving a child is sinful. You and handsome Vincenzio have created a beautiful baby in the image of our Virgin Mother. Can anything be more pure?’ Elisabetta shifted her hold on the cloth parcel as she spoke, her fingers pressing into the soft bulge.

‘Have you looked upon the broken thing?’ Giulia’s voice was fearful. ‘What do you know of motherhood, anyway? You’re lucky to still be whole and as yet free.’ She sighed deeply. ‘This day was to be my glory and it has ended most monstrously.’

As though she’d heard her mother’s words, the baby cried again and so intimate was the sound, it made Giulia’s heart contract with a pain more fierce than that which racked her body. ‘I am spent. Go and do my bidding, I beg you.’

Elisabetta left the room. The wet nurse still waited with the newborn in her arms. Giulia silently cursed the exhaustion that threatened to drag her down with its intensity but she could not rest until the pair was gone. She considered the woman standing by the bed, no more than a girl, heavy breasted after the plague had taken her own babe, and now about to lose her chance at mothering the broken thing she held. The woman’s son had died swiftly, between dawn and dusk of the same day. A flicker of compassion stirred in Giulia but she took a deep breath; this was no time for weakness.

‘Take her away now. Do as I say, Livia. She will be well cared for at the convent and I will still pay you until the end of the month.’

‘Please, mistress, every whelp deserves a mother’s love. The foot can be hidden and her face is pretty enough.’

‘Quieten your tongue else I’ll cast you out at the same time. Foolish chit of a girl. You are too young to understand.’ Giulia turned to the window where the daylight was beginning to fade. ‘So much damage will come.’ Her voice was pained. ‘All because of this deformed babe. I have no doubt the good people of Florence will blame me. I would do ever so myself. They will paint me as a wretch who bore a demon in her womb. My husband’s eye will begin to wander and I will be turned out, the Fusili name lost to me …’ Her voice dropped to a whisper as she fumbled with her hair and rolled it into a knot. ‘Vincenzio has been working diligently to build his business so that we may enjoy a better life. What would this do to him … to our future?’ She clutched her hands together to still their shaking.

The baby snuffled and squirmed and Livia rocked the small bundle, shaking her head as she watched her mistress, but she said no more. The door closed quietly behind her as she left.

Giulia lay back. She would bear other children for her husband, of this she was sure, and the firstborn must be strong and healthy: a son and heir whose looks would rival those of the Medici princes. She must pray.

In the next room, the baby squirmed with longing for her mother’s familiar feel and smell. The wet nurse, believing there was no immediate urgency to depart for the convent, settled herself comfortably against the bolster of her bed and opened her blouse. ‘Eat, little one, hush now,’ she crooned softly, rocking herself back and forth as she pressed the baby’s face into her bosom. It was a relief to feel the pressure of her milk ease and she sang a lullaby as the baby drank. The tune was one she’d sung to her own darling babe. Had it already been one moon? This baby girl sucked much more strongly and Livia cursed the heartlessness of her mistress. Still, her husband would be angry as the Devil himself if she came home without a wage and she would need this lady’s good word if she was to find another position.

In her chamber, Giulia crossed the floor on all fours to kneel in front of the image of the Virgin and Child that rested in a gilded frame atop the wooden dresser. She supposed that most women suffered this crippling tiredness after the birthing and sucked in another lungful of air. The hard floor pressed uncomfortably into her knees, a poor distraction from the belt of pain that tightened in her belly again and again.

‘Hail Mary, full of grace, our Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death.’ Then she added her own prayer: ‘Heavenly Mother, forgive me my sins, so that I may bear children in your perfect image. I ask this not out of pride, but for my most cherished husband.’ She sat back on her haunches and cradled the weight of her empty belly. Blood droplets filled the cracks in the wood. ‘I ask this in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.’ She did not rise until the final supplication was fulfilled then crept back to her bed, whispering incantations. ‘May God give me a child without fatigue or danger, a baby boy who makes urine of silver and gold.’

It had been three days since her labour began under a waxing Moon after two sennights confined to her chamber in this vast country villa. Vincenzio had been due to join her, but the arrival of a shipment of English wool had been delayed and so he’d remained in the city to negotiate a fair price; he trusted no one else. The business was doing well and Giulia was proud of his ambition. Still, was it not a husband’s place to be with his wife at a time like this? His journey north through the contado would not be long, yet the country road was poor and uneven, dipping into valleys and along dangerous ridges. She’d heard talk of brazen attacks on travellers too since the return of il segno. Her heart raced. What if Vincenzio had been attacked? She could not do this without him. She whispered an entreaty to St Christopher and crossed herself three times, listening hopefully for the sound of horses’ hooves, a rare occurrence these days since her host had shut the estate to all except the most essential suppliers and expected guests like Vincenzio Fusili. Despite Giulia’s protestations, even the local doctor had been denied entry, for fear his ministrations to the sick of the village would put them all in jeopardy.

So it was that Clarice Medici’s woman had assisted at Giulia’s birthing. The midwife said that a baby born under the eye of a full Moon carried dangerous possibilities of godless dark magic and a lifetime of ill health. The portent in her words had scared Giulia so she’d pushed as hard as she could to get her baby out before that ominous Moon glowed whole. But her baby did not come quickly. She ignored the woman’s entreaties to stop pushing; this was what she’d been born to do and her absolute conviction of bearing a son and heir for her master kept her focused through the increasingly frequent bouts of agony. Still she could not force her son into the daylight, and when the dusk closed in on the night of the Moon’s fullness, Giulia felt an overpowering dread. She cried out unremittingly as the pain consumed her mind and body, and when her daughter was born malformed and small, she cried out again with disappointment and horror at the thing that slipped from between her legs.

The candles lit to help the midwife through the final stage of birthing gave off a cloying heat. Giulia’s fresh nightgown was already wet with sweat and blood. She called for assistance but the midwife was yet to return from emptying the pail of dirty water. Giulia tugged the linen sheet up around her throbbing breasts, recoiling at the fetid smell; how fast the sheets had soiled again. She pulled her nightshirt over her head, letting it drop to the floor. Then she reached for one of the folded lengths of linen on the table beside her bed and slowly wrapped it around her chest. She pulled another length of linen to her and stuffed it between her legs. There was one more clean nightshirt hanging from a hook on her bedhead. She managed to tug on it till it fell into her hands and was grateful to the generosity of her hosts for such fine cotton. At last she could lie back again, exhausted but infinitely more comfortable.

The last of the dusk light slipped away in the square of sky Giulia could see through the window. Hurrying to make space for the impatient Moon, she thought, so that its glow might bewitch them all. She shifted onto her side and watched the door instead. Vincenzio must surely arrive soon.

From somewhere outside, there was a whistle and the rumble of barrels rolling across the courtyard. She thought of her own empty house and wondered how her husband had managed without her housekeeping skills. For a moment her mind turned to the horrible possibility that Vincenzio had another woman in her place. She shook her head; her husband loved her, of that she was sure, though would any man wait for a sickly wife who bore him crippled offspring? She must get back to Florence as soon as she could.

Yet here she lay, exhausted and weak, which she would not mind if she had a son to nurture as her body recovered. She looked over to the empty crib. Bedridden, she would be vulnerable to rumour and blame. Only her husband could stop such vicious talk.

Giulia called for her servant Camilla, an older widow who had been her companion since before she was married. Camilla must wait on Vincenzio; Giulia could not trust any of the household servants. The woman stood in the doorway staring at her mistress whilst fingering a string of wooden rosary beads. Usually, the rhythmic click soothed Giulia, but not this evening.

‘Come in, come in.’ Giulia tried to keep the tiredness from her voice. ‘I am not dying.’ Even though the bloodied cloths and pails of pinkish water had been cleared away, Giulia supposed Camilla still saw a room of evil. She sighed and continued in a gentler tone, ‘Is everything laid out for the master’s arrival?’

Camilla nodded.

‘Make sure they serve him the wine we received from the Lana Guild. It arrived last week. The vintage is ready to drink. Don’t let his cup run empty.’

‘Is that not the wine set aside for the baptismal celebration?’

The question was innocent but Giulia was in no mood to be challenged. ‘What if it is? Do not question me today of all days; I have barely the wit to speak.’

The rosary beads clicked loudly in Camilla’s hands.

‘Forgive me, Camilla.’ Giulia wiped her brow and breathed deeply. ‘I did not mean to sound harsh, only this day has drained the very marrow from my bones. Tonight the wine is needed.’

Giulia blew out the candle closest to her, but still the room felt unbearably warm. The air caught in her nostrils. Another rush of hot liquid seeped from between her legs.

‘Did you finish sorting the linen? I will need more before the night sets in. The birth has left my body in a pitiable state.’

‘I will fetch clean sheets,’ Camilla answered but she did not move.

The first star shone beyond the glass-panelled window. Giulia took a deep breath and silently offered a prayer to the heavens that tonight there would be stars in the sky to balance out the full Moon’s wanton light. She felt an urge for the sting of cold air upon her cheek.

‘Come, come, Camilla, I am not contagious! Must I even ask you to open the window?’

The woman skirted round the bed, crossing herself discreetly as she went. Giulia saw herself as the maid must: a pale-faced, weakened mistress. She breathed through the stab of pain in her abdomen as she raised herself to sit again and frowned. From her maid’s demeanour she guessed the household was already talking and any further frailty now from her would be taken as a sign she was most assuredly to blame for the baby’s deformity.

‘Get rid of all these candles so that I may breathe clean air. And pass me the stone. I will flush this curse out myself.’

Giulia clutched the cold, waxen rock in her hand and rubbed it across her belly until another wave of pain overtook her. She would take on whatever challenges the Heavenly Mother saw fit to send her way, as long as Mary kept her in Vincenzio’s favour.

Camilla curtseyed and crossed herself, stopping by the window momentarily to acknowledge the full Moon. Giulia heard her soft incantation, ‘Benvenuta Luna che mi porti fortuna’, but did not chastise her servant, for surely they could all do with some luck this night.

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