CHAPTER FOUR

SURREY, ENGLAND

Anyone lucky enough to be a guest at Harlinscourt should wake in time to watch the sun rise above the gardens, Jacqueline Ling thought as she sipped the orange pekoe tea that had just been brought to her bedside on an exquisite bamboo tray. Propped up against four layers of goose-down pillows, she had the perfect view onto the pure symmetry of the box parterres, the majestic yew hedges beyond, and the morning mist rising over the Surrey Downs. It was these quiet moments before everyone began to assemble downstairs for breakfast that Jacqueline relished most during her frequent visits at the Shangs’.

In the rarefied stratosphere inhabited by Asia’s most elite families, it was said that the Shangs had abandoned Singapore. “They’ve become so grand they think they’re British” was the common refrain. Though it was true that Alfred Shang enjoyed a lifestyle that surpassed many a marquess at his six-thousand-hectare estate in Surrey, Jacqueline knew it would be a mistake to assume that he had transferred all his allegiances to queen and country. The simple truth was that over the decades, his three sons (all Oxbridge educated, naturally) had one by one taken English wives (all from appropriately aristocratic families, of course) and chosen to make their lives in England. So beginning in the early eighties, Alfred and his wife, Mabel, were compelled to spend greater parts of the year there—it was the only way they would get to see their children and grandchildren regularly.

Mabel, being the daughter of T’sien Tsai Tay and Rosemary Young T’sien, was far more Chinese in her ways than her husband, who was an Anglophile even before his Oxford days in the late 1950s. At Harlinscourt, Mabel set about creating a decadent domain that indulged her favorite aspects of East and West. To restore the nineteenth-century Venetian revival–style house built by Gabriel-Hippolyte Destailleur, Mabel coaxed the great Chinese decorative-arts historian Huang Pao Fan out of retirement to work alongside the legendary British decorator David Hicks. The result was a ravishingly bold mix of modern European furnishings with some of the finest Chinese antiquities held in private hands.

Harlinscourt soon became one of those great houses that everyone talked about. At first, many of the Burke’s Peerage crowd talked about how terribly vulgar it was for a Singaporean to buy one of the finest houses in Britain and try to run it “in the old way” with its mind-numbing number of staff and all the trimmings. But the landed gentry accepted their invitations anyway and after their visits grudgingly had to admit that the Shangs hadn’t mucked it up. The restoration was splendid, the grounds were even more splendid, and the food—well, that was utter heaven. In the decades that followed, guests the world over began to covet their invitations because word got out that Harlinscourt’s chef Marcus Sim—a Hong Kong–born prodigy who had trained with Frédy Girardet—was a genius in both classic French and Chinese cuisine. And it was the thought of breakfast this morning that made Jacqueline reluctantly get out of bed.

She walked into the dressing room adjoining her bedroom and discovered a fire already burning in the fireplace, a vase of freshly cut Juliet roses arranged on the dressing table, and the outfit she had selected for the morning already hanging against the copper warming rack. Jacqueline slipped on her figure-hugging cream fit-and-flare sleeveless dress with iconic pointelle knit trim, marveling at how it had been warmed to the perfect temperature. She thought of weekends at other English estates, where the bedrooms felt like iceboxes in the morning and her clothes felt just as frozen when she put them on. I don’t even think that the queen lives this well, Jacqueline thought, recalling that before Alfred and Mabel had moved in, her godmother, Su Yi, had sent a team over from Tyersall Park to help train the British staff properly. Asian hospitality standards were fused with English manor-house traditions, and even her boyfriend Victor had been impressed the last time he visited. Holding up his Aubercy dress shoes one evening as they dressed for dinner, he said in astonishment, “Honey, they fucking ironed my shoelaces!”

This morning, it was the chef’s eggs that most astonished Jacqueline as she sat at one end of the immense dining table in the Grade II Heritage-listed breakfast room. “Ummmm. How is it that only Marcus can make scrambled eggs like this?” She sighed to Mabel as she savored another forkful.

“Doesn’t your chef do good eggs?” Mabel asked.

“Sven’s omelets are fabulous, and he can poach perfectly. But there is something about these scrambled eggs that are absolutely divine. Fluffy, creamy, and just the right amount of runny. I look forward to every visit because of them. What is the secret?”

“No idea—I never touch the eggs. But you must try some of this yu zhook. It’s made with Dover sole that was caught just this morning,” Mabel said.

“It’s the cream. Marcus uses the top cream made from our Guernsey cows in the scrambled eggs,” twelve-year-old Lucia Shang piped up from the far end of the table.

“At last—she speaks! That’s the first peep I’ve heard out of you all morning, Lucia. Now, what’s this book you’re so engrossed in? You’re not still reading those Hunger Games vampire novels, are you?” Jacqueline asked.

“The Hunger Games isn’t about vampires. And I stopped reading them ages ago. I’m reading Siddhartha now.”

“Ah, Hesse. He’s quite good.”

“It sounds Indian,” Mabel said, scrunching up her nose at her granddaughter.

“It’s about the Buddha.”

“Aiyah, Lucia, what are you doing reading about Buddha? You’re a Christian, and don’t forget that we come from a very distinguished long line of Methodists.”

“Yes, Lucia, on your great-grandmother Rosemary’s side—the Youngs—your ancestors were actually the first Christians in southern China,” Jacqueline agreed.

Lucia rolled her eyes. “Actually, if it wasn’t for missionaries running amok in China after England won the Opium Wars, we’d all be Buddhists.”

“Shut up, lah! Don’t talk back to Auntie Jacqueline!” Mabel admonished.

“It’s fine, Mabel. Lucia’s just speaking her mind.”

Mabel wouldn’t let it go, muttering to Jacqueline, “Neh gor zhap zhong syun neui; zhan hai suey toh say!”

“Ah Ma, I understand every word you’re saying!” Lucia said indignantly.

“No you don’t. Shut up and read your book!”

Cassandra Shang, Mabel’s daughter (and better known by those in her circle as “Radio One Asia”), entered the room, cheeks still flush from her morning ride. Jacqueline did a double take. Cassandra’s hair, normally parted down the middle and pulled into a tight coil at the nape of her neck Frida Kahlo–style, was rather uncharacteristically braided intricately along the sides but flowing free down her back. “Cass, I haven’t seen your hair down like this in ages! This is a throwback to your Slade days. Looks marvelous!”

Mabel peered at her daughter through her bifocals. “Chyee seen, ah! You’re not a young girl anymore—it looks ridiculous.”

Cassandra felt tempted to tell her mother that you could begin to see the face-lift scars through the thinning hair in her scalp, but she resisted. Instead, she chose to acknowledge Jacqueline’s compliment. “Thanks, Jac. And you look ridiculously perfect as always. New dress?”

“No, lah! I’ve had this old rag for ages,” Jacqueline said deprecatingly.

Cassandra smiled, knowing full well Jacqueline was wearing a one-of-a-kind Azzedine Alaïa. Not that it even mattered what she wore—Jacqueline had the sort of beauty that made anything she put on look drop-dead chic. Cassandra headed to the sideboard, where she helped herself to a single toast point, a dollop of Marmite, and some fresh prunes. As she took her seat opposite Jacqueline, a footman approached, deftly placing her morning cappuccino (made with small-batch, single-origin beans) and iPad next to her.

“Thank you, Paul,” Cassandra said, switching on the device and noticing that her e-mail in-box was unusually full for this early in the morning. The first message came from her cousin Oliver in London:

While she waited for his response, an instant message came in from her sister-in-law India Heskeith Shang. Cassandra looked up from her iPad and announced to everyone, “India just messaged me—apparently Casimir has an opening for his photography at Central Saint Martins tonight and he didn’t tell anyone. She’s wondering if we want to go and surprise him? Lucia, your mother wants to know if you want to go up to London to see your brother’s latest photos?”

“If it’s going to be more pictures of his friends vomiting curry outside of pubs, I’m not interested,” Lucia replied.

“Aiyah, don’t talk like that! It’s fine art. Casimir won an award for his photography last year,” Mabel told Jacqueline, in defense of her favorite grandson.

Cassandra realized that Oliver must be talking about Casimir’s photographs. “Well, I think these photos are going to be quite…daring. I just got an e-mail from Oliver, and apparently he’s already seen them.”

“Oh. Oliver’s back in London? Is he going to come to the show too?” Mabel asked.

“I’m not sure, but India is now saying that Leonard can pick us up in the helicopter on his way from Southampton. We can all go to the opening together and then dinner at Clarke’s.”

“Alamak, another tasteless English dinner.” Mabel groaned.

Cassandra checked her Facebook wall and let out a sudden gasp. “Oh. My. God.” She clasped her hands over her mouth, staring at the photos that flashed through on her iPad. Oliver wasn’t talking about Casimir’s silly little exhibit after all. These were the photos he was talking about.

“What are you looking at now? Another piece of dirty gossip from one of your unreliable kang taos?” her mother asked derisively.

“Jacqueline, you need to see this!” Cassandra said, handing her the iPad. Jacqueline peered at the screen and saw an image of Astrid standing on a turret next to an elephant.

“I don’t get it. What’s the big deal?” Jacqueline asked.

“Oh, you’re on the last photo. Scroll up. There’s a whole series of photos.”

Jacqueline waved her hand over the screen, her eyes widening as she scrutinized the images. “Are these real?”

“Looks pretty real to me,” Cassandra chuckled.

“Dear me…”

“What is it?” Mabel asked.

Jacqueline held up the iPad, and from across the table, Mabel could see the blaring headline:

EXCLUSIVE PICS OF TECH TITAN CHARLES WU’S LAVISH PROPOSAL TO GIRLFRIEND ASTRID LEONG—BUT SHE’S STILL MARRIED!

“Alamak! Let me see! Let me see!” Mabel demanded excitedly. A footman wordlessly appeared at Jacqueline’s side. She handed the iPad to him and he dutifully walked it over to the other side of the table where Mabel was seated. Lucia, clearly not as engrossed in Siddhartha as she pretended to be, rushed over to peer at the pictures with her grandmother, reading aloud:

“The ink hasn’t even dried on Hong Kong tech titan Charles Wu’s divorce papers yet, but this apparently didn’t stop him from orchestrating an over-the-top marriage proposal to his gorgeous girlfriend Astrid Leong. The million-dollar proposal involved renting out the fairy-tale Mehrangarh Fort in Jodhpur, hiring more than a hundred musicians and dancers, and having Bollywood superstar Shah Rukh Khan serenade them while an elephant helped to deliver the ginormous diamond ring. Looking at the pictures, Astrid has obviously said yes, but there’s one small problem—as far as we know, this high-born beauty is STILL MARRIED to Charlie’s arch rival, the Singapore tech wünderkind Michael Teo.”

Mabel squinted at the picture. “Aiyah, hou sau ga! When were these taken?”

“Last weekend, it looks like,” Jacqueline said.

“Last weekend? But isn’t Astrid in Singapore with the rest of the family?”

“Obviously she snuck out of town with Charlie. My God, can you imagine how furious Felicity and Harry are going to be when they see this?” Cassandra said, shaking her head.

“Not only that, but this is a disaster for her divorce case. Michael’s going to have so much new ammunition now. Poor Astrid!” Jacqueline sighed.

Mabel huffed, “Poor Astrid my foot! She should be at her grandmother’s bedside instead of splashed all over the news! How dare that Charlie Wu propose to her again! The cheek of him…still trying to invade our family! I thought Felicity got rid of him years ago!”

“Oh Mother, those two have been in love since day one. If Felicity had let it happen the first time around, the whole Michael Teo disaster would never have happened!” Cassandra said.

“Felicity was right to put a full stop to that nonsense. Those Wus were completely unacceptable! That ghastly vulgar mother of his—I’ll never forget what she did to me!”

“What did Irene Wu do to you?” Jacqueline asked.

Cassandra rolled her eyes. “That’s ancient history, Mum. Please don’t bring it up again!”

“That! Woman! Tried! To! Steal! My! Seamstress! I found this girl, Minnie Pock, who did the most wonderful tailoring. She had a little shop next to Fitzpatrick’s on Dunearn Road, soooo convenient, and she could replicate all the Nina Ricci, Scherrer, and Féraud dresses I loved so perfectly.”

“My goodness, Mabel, those Louis Férauds were fakes? They looked like they came straight from his Paris boutique!” Jacqueline lied.

Mabel nodded indignantly. “Yes, I had everyone fooled. But then that Irene Wu came along and tried to hire the girl to work in their tacky ‘mansion’ full-time! So then I had to go and hire her full-time!”

“So you won?” Jacqueline asked.

“Yes, but it should never have happened. I had to pay Minnie Pock almost fifteen percent over what Irene offered to pay her!”

“It was 1987, Mum. Time to get over it,” Cassandra said.

“People like the Wus…they never know when to stop. And now look what’s happened? Once again they are dragging our family name into the mud. Who sent this article to you anyway?”

“Mrs. Lee Yong Chien posted it to her Facebook page,” Cassandra replied.

“Mrs. Lee Yong Chien is on Facebook? I don’t believe it! The old lady can’t even draw her own eyebrows!” Mabel exclaimed.

“Rosie, that adopted daughter she treats like a slave, does everything for her! Ever since Mrs. Lee discovered Facebook, she’s been posting like a fiend. Every other day there’s either annoying photos of her grandchildren winning some award or pictures of some funeral she’s attending.”

“Aiyah, if Mrs. Lee knows about this, then the whole of Singapore will soon know. All her mah-jongg kakis will find out about this!” Mabel surmised.

“Ah Ma, I don’t think you understand—this is on Facebook. The whole world can already see this,” Lucia informed her.

Mabel tut-tutted sadly. “Then I truly feel sorry for Su Yi! This is happening at the worst time. I thought Astrid was her last hope, but one by one all her grandchildren have disgraced her. How is she ever going to close her eyes in peace? No wonder she changed her will yet again!”

“Really?” Jacqueline and Cassandra gasped in unison.

Jacqueline sat bolt upright in her chair. “Is this why Alfred rushed back to Singapore?”

Mabel looked a bit flustered. “Aiyah, I’m not supposed to say anything.”

“Say what? What did Dad tell you?” Cassandra prodded, leaning forward in anticipation.

“Nothing, nothing!” Mabel insisted.

“Mum, you are so bad at lying. You clearly know something. Come on, spit it out!”

Mabel stared down at her bowl of porridge, looking conflicted.

“Oh well, there’s no use trying to force her. After all these years, your mother still doesn’t trust us. So sad.” Jacqueline sighed, giving Mabel her seductive, sideways stare.

“See what you’ve done? You’ve insulted Jacqueline!” Cassandra scolded her mother.

“Hiyah! You two! I know you are both such big mouths. If I tell you, you must promise not to say anything, okay?”

The two ladies nodded in unison like obedient schoolgirls.

Mabel, who had grown up surrounded by staff and usually spoke in her unfiltered manner with no thought to their presence, did the rare thing of making eye contact with George, the head footman, who immediately recognized her signal for privacy. George gestured quickly to the four other footmen, and they made a discreet exit from the morning room.

As soon as the door closed, Mabel said in a hushed tone, “I know your father had a big meeting with all the lawyers from Tan and Tan two days ago. Very hush hush. And then Freddie Tan went off to see Su Yi. By himself.”

“Hmmm,” Jacqueline said, digesting this intriguing new tidbit.

Cassandra winked at Jacqueline. “Don’t worry—I’m sure you’re still in the will!”

Jacqueline laughed lightly. “Come on, I am the last person to expect to be in Su Yi’s will. She’s already been so generous to me over the years.”

“I wonder what she did this time?” Cassandra mulled.

“Well, until these pictures leaked, I actually thought Astrid might have a chance at inheriting Tyersall Park,” Jacqueline theorized.

“Astrid? Never, lah! Su Yi is so old-fashioned, she would never leave that house to a girl! She might just as well leave it to her own daughters!” Mabel insisted.

“Then if it’s just the boys, my bet is on Eddie. I hear that he’s really been working overtime to be the number-one grandson. He apparently won’t leave her side!” Cassandra reported.

“I’m not sure it will be Eddie. Su Yi told me herself that she can’t take him seriously,” Jacqueline said.

“Well then she’s running out of contenders. No way she would ever let one of the Leong boys get ahold of the house, but maybe one of the Aakaras?” Mabel wondered.

Cassandra snorted. “That would be too ironic for words! Would she really spite Philip and Nicky—the only true Youngs left—in favor of those foreign grandsons getting Tyersall Park? I think not.”

“Maybe she’s had a change of heart, then. Don’t you think Nicky might have been reinstated?” Jacqueline said.

“Definitely not. He’s still banned from the house! My sources tell me that he goes over there every day groveling on his knees, hoping to see her, but he still can’t get in. Why would she suddenly give him Tyersall Park now?” Cassandra argued.

Mabel scrunched her face. “That stupid boy. Giving everything up for that ugly girl.”

“Come on lah, Mabel, she’s not ugly. She’s quite pretty, actually. She’s just…not the kind of beauty one would have expected for Nicky,” Jacqueline remarked diplomatically.

“I know what you mean. Rachel is pretty, but in a very conventional way. Her lack of style doesn’t do her any favors, either,” Cassandra said.

Jacqueline smiled. “I wish I could tell her that she needs to grow out her hair by another four inches. That medium-long length is just so American.”

Cassandra nodded in agreement. “And her nose is a bit too rounded. Her eyes could be a bit bigger too.”

“And have you seen the way she sits? So frightfully common.” Mabel sniffed.

“Uggh! I can’t bear to listen to any more of this!” Lucia shrieked in anger, pushing her chair back dramatically. “You’re all talking about Rachel as if she was some kind of show dog! What does it even matter what she looks like, as long as they love each other? Uncle Nicky gave up everything to be with her. I think that’s sooooo romantic! I can’t wait to meet her. And you’re all wrong—I know what’s going to happen to Tyersall Park, and it’s certainly not what any of you think!”

“Shut up, Lucia! Stop making up stories!” Mabel scolded.

“Ah Ma, you and Auntie Cassie just chatter on and on about so much rubbish but none of you have a clue what’s really going on! Do you ever listen to what Grandpa and Daddy talk about?” With that, Lucia stormed out of the breakfast room, the ladies staring openmouthed after her.

“What utter nonsense!” Cassandra scoffed.

Mabel shook her head gravely. “Can you believe how rude that girl has become? I knew Bedales would be all wrong for her—those teachers do nothing but keep encouraging her confidence! My goodness, back in my day at the Convent, if I had talked like that, the nuns would have beat me blue black with a wooden ruler! Neh kor suey neui moh yong, gae!”

Jacqueline’s eyes narrowed. “On the contrary, Mabel—I don’t think she’s useless at all. I think you have a very smart little girl on your hands. Smarter than I ever realized…”

The interiors were given a marvelous face-lift in the mid-1990s by David Mlinaric, coinciding with Mabel’s own (much less marvelous) face-lift.

Cantonese for “fish porridge.”

Cantonese for “This half-breed granddaughter will be the death of me.”

Cantonese for “so crazy.”

Hokkien slang for “contacts” or “connections.”

Cantonese for “so shameful.”

Malay slang for “mates” or “buddies.” Although, should you really be calling the cheating scoundrels who try to screw you at every mah-jongg game your buddies?

Mabel, like many other well-born women of her generation, attended Singapore’s venerable Convent of the Holy Infant Jesus. These days, the nuns have long since retired, and by most accounts, corporal punishment is no longer practiced.

Cantonese for “This lousy girl is useless.” (A refrain heard by Cantonese daughters since the beginning of time.)