'Til Morning Light

by Ann Moore

  “What was that, Mister Litton?”

  “I’ll write. To my mother. But not tonight,” he added quickly.

  Grace resisted the urge to pat his arm, and instead gave him an encouraging smile when he glanced over at her.

  “That’s fine, then, Mister Litton. Just fine.”

  She climbed down from the wagon seat and helped Mary Kate off, then Jack. The tired children walked slowly toward the kitchen door, but Grace stood a moment longer.

  “You tell me when.” She looked up at Mister Litton, who kept his eyes on the horses. “Anytime a’tall.”

  Litton nodded, and she expected him to drive the horses back toward the stable, but he didn’t; he sat still, reins dangling in his hands.

  “She was always good to me.”

  Now Grace did pat his hand. “Tell her so. When you write her.”

  Litton turned his head and Grace was moved to see the depth of his doubt and yearning.

  “Thank you, missus,” Litton said then, and Grace could have sworn he almost smiled.

  Seventeen

  Chang-Li had increased his wealth considerably in the past year, and so had decided to host a banquet in honor of the God whose birth Americans celebrated with a feast day late in their month of December. This was also a time during which gifts were exchanged, and Chang-Li, priding himself on his knowledge of all things American, had made a list of appropriate recipients, as well. This year, he would also include the fan qui boarder with the unpronounceable name whom Chang-Li now addressed as Mister Sung. The intelligent and Caucasian Mister Sung, though clearly disinterested in personal improvement or well-being, had proved an invaluable asset in the business world of European San Francisco, and Chang-Li knew that it was in his own best interest to look out for the man; Chang-Li understood that their destinies were intertwined, even if Mister Sung did not.

  Thanks in part to Mister Sung, Chang-Li had quietly accumulated several large properties in and around the city. Though the name on the deed was Sean Minor, Chang-Li and Mister Sung had signed a separate agreement that acknowledged their partnership, a partnership that allowed Chang-Li to buy out Mister Sung for a modest commission when such a time as Chinese ownership of properties became acceptable. Mister Sung appeared to take a great deal of delight in subverting what Chang-Li called “the difficulties of Chinese advancement” and what he, Mister Sung, called “those prejudiced bastard sons of bitches.” Chang-Li laughed to himself now, thinking of the glee on Mister Sung’s face each time they successfully bid upon and purchased another property; oh, he did find enjoyment in the odd young man, despite said man’s proclivity for prostitutes, excessive gambling, and opium.

  Mister Sung’s growing affection for the sweet pipe was of minor concern to Chang-Li; there was no danger as long as the man did not become indiscriminate about his choice of dens, the criminal element always on the lookout for a drugged fan qui to roll. And, of course, Mister Sung had garnered something of a reputation in the darker corners of the city, despite his attempt to maintain a low profile: he’d won too much money, too publicly, at the bigger gambling houses, earning the ire of the powerful Mister McCabe, a man with whom Chang-Li had once wished to do business. That opinion had changed, however, as he came to know Mister Sung over porcelain cups of amber tea, over the companionship of their pipes of an evening. Mister Sung, it was quickly apparent to Chang-Li, was brilliant. The man spent too much money on prostitutes and opium, but—and it was an important but—he never ran out; for every dollar he spent, he earned twenty more, the doubloon turned into golden double eagles before Mister Chang’s very eyes. It was a gift; not only had the gods smiled upon Mister Sung, but they had delivered him into the hands of Chang-Li, a wise man himself and one who understood the nature of such a gift. Unlike the Californios, who squandered the gifts bestowed upon them, who used up the men in their charge, then discarded them in favor of new blood, Chang-Li treasured the gift of Mister Sung. He prized Mister Sung. He was determined that Mister Sung should abandon the path of self-destruction, for this was not his destiny; Mister Sung’s destiny was a life as brilliant as his mind, and Chang-Li would help him to realize this.

  And so to the problem of what to give the man who could have anything he wanted and wanted nothing at all, who had everything for which to live and wanted only to join the ancestors. It must be a most special and important gift, a gift to honor their partnership, to cement the bond Chang-Li wished between them because Mister Sung was the best thing that had ever happened to Chang-Li since finding passage to America. There was, of course, the House of Good Fortune, but Mister Sung was already a partner in that venture, as well. A minor establishment in a sea of pawnshops, under Mister Sung’s sharp eye it had quickly become a gold mine better than any out in the desert. Customers preferred doing business with a white man, even if he did wear his fair hair in a long queue like a Chinaman and hid his opium-sensitive eyes behind green-tinted spectacles. It had taken him a relatively short time to understand the value of certain objects, of mining tools and weapons, furniture, clothing, and jewelry. Guns and precious stones quickly became Mister Sung’s specialty; he’d understood from the start that most of these things were stolen, the act of pawning merely a pretense, the profit to be made upon resale enormous. This game, too, had delighted Mister Sung, and now he spent his late mornings and early afternoons in the shop, rubbing elbows with a different class of profiteer.

  Chang-Li looked up as Mei Ling entered with his luncheon—a bowl of steaming rice flavored with slivers of fresh salmon cooked in sesame oil. There were dumplings, too, and a bowl of clear soup. A feast. He rubbed his hands in anticipation as she placed a tray before his favorite chair and arranged the food in a manner she knew would please him. He got up and crossed the room, thinking how foolish people could be. The Californios liked to say that all Chinese people dined on rats, but Chang-Li always pointed to the proliferation of these rodents in the city as proof that no one was eating them. Chang-Li would never admit to his American friends that as far as he was concerned, rat filled an empty belly as well as any other meat; these fan qui had obviously never known hunger like that which had come with the war and famines in China, or they would not say one kind of food is lower than another. Look at the jungle Indians from the South who ate baked monkey and breast of parrot—here, monkey and parrot were pets, along with the bear, the wolf, the fox, and all kind of birds! Chang-Li sat down in his chair and sighed; he did not understand this concept of pets. A bird in a cage, yes—that was for music. A fox on a leash, no—that was for nothing.

  Mei Ling pushed the tray closer to Chang-Li, poured out his tea, then bowed to him and left the room. Chang-Li watched her go, his head tipped to one side as he considered something he had not before. It was true that Americans did not keep slaves, except in the southern part of the Union, which had been sorely disappointed when California elected to be a Free State instead of slaveholding. Still, everyone knew this did not apply to the Chinese, who maintained a tightly knit community and kept their business to themselves. Indentured servitude was not against any law, and the line between that and outright slavery was easily blurred, especially when no one in authority particularly cared. Chinese slaves knew no other way of life and depended upon their masters to care for them. Mei Ling had always been a slave, someone had owned her before Chang-Li and someone would own her after. That someone could be Mister Sung, if a better present could not be found.

  Chang-Li held his bowl in one hand, ivory chopsticks in the other, lifting to his mouth the savory rice he enjoyed so well. What Mister Sung enjoyed was living outside the law, and so perhaps he would find the gift of Mei Ling as delightful as a stolen ruby necklace or falsified mining deeds. Perhaps she would be the perfect gift.

  But then his hand paused midair, and he frowned. Mei Ling had been with him from the very beginning. Her previous master—an old, old man who should never have set sail with no sons to look out for him—had begun to die on the crossing and had exchanged Me
i Ling for Chang-Li’s promise to return the old body to Canton, there to be buried among the ancestors. Chang-Li had kept his promise, with help from the benevolent society, and had then kept the girl—his first slave, and a sign from the gods that he was destined to prosper. Would he anger the gods, thereby altering his prosperity, if he gave the girl to Mister Sung?

  He set the bowl and chopsticks down and thought about this. Mei Ling was a form of company, this was true, and she warmed his bed on those nights when he wanted a woman but was too tired to go out. Best of all, she brewed his tea perfectly and prepared his meals in the style he liked most of all. On the other hand, Chang-Li was ready to marry, and he had witnessed too many times the discord of a house in which wife and slave were jealous of each other; too many times not to know that when he did find a wife and brought her home, Mei Ling would have to go elsewhere. If Mei Ling belonged to Mister Sung, Chang-Li could still see her now and then, could get her to cook for him the meals he loved, for what if the wife or the new servant was not as talented? Still, he did not foresee marrying in the very near future. There was time yet.

  No, he decided, this was not a decision to be made lightly. He would have to give it considerable thought, would have to consult the astrologer and spend time at the joss house of his fellow Confucianists. Also, perhaps he might visit the Taoist and Buddhist temples; there were many wise men in the city, and certainly Chang-Li should not rule out any options.

  And in the meantime, for additional good fortune, he would continue his private tradition of offering at the sacred houses of the Holy Romans and the First Presbyterians, the Emanu-Els and the First Congregationalists; he would present tokens of his esteem to the mayor, the city inspectors, the policemen who patrolled his quarter, the bankers at Wells, Fargo, Adams and Company. He would put away the yellow squares of silk that fluttered over his doorway, replacing them with festive red and green, and in the front window of the House of Good Fortune, he would place a small wooden barn where the gods Mary, Joseph, and Jesus would stand, surrounded by sacred animals.

  Chang-Li nodded, pleased with himself for having arrived at so many good decisions, and finished his meal in peaceful contentment. He was going to enjoy himself this year. This American feast day was his favorite; he had even learned some of the songs. Setting his chopsticks to one side, Chang-Li clapped his hands and began to hum merrily.

  Eighteen

  “Ah, Missus Donnelly, you do spoil us around here.” Wakefield rubbed his hands in anticipation as Grace set a tray down on his desk. “Is that what’s been driving me mad all morning?”

  “Sorry about that, sir. ’Tis brown bread steamed in molasses.” She handed him the plate. “I learned to make it in Boston. Thought you’d like it with your coffee.”

  He took a piece and tasted it as she filled his cup. “Delicious,” he said around the bite in his mouth. “Pure ambrosia.”

  “That’s what you said about last night’s apple dumplings,” she teased. “And the two are nothing alike.”

  “Perhaps not in appearance,” he allowed. “But each is so perfectly made as to inspire rapture.”

  “Ah, go on with you.” Grace laughed. “I could put a bowl of cold porridge down and you’d say the same.”

  “But you never would. And for that I am eternally grateful.” He took a sip of his strong, black coffee. “Sit down. Have a cup of coffee with me.”

  Grace shook her head. “I’ll have my tea with Enid in the kitchen.”

  “Please. Just for a moment. I wish to speak with you about something important.”

  Grace sat down in the chair across from him, sure that she knew what was coming.

  “If it’s about William … Mister Shew, I mean. I know he’s your friend and all, only I don’t feel right about going on.”

  “Poor William.” Wakefield chuckled sympathetically. “He’s quite smitten, but I expect you know that already.”

  Grace sighed and bit her lip. “He’s a fine man and good company. He treated Mary Kate and myself to a wonderful meal at a place called Delmonico’s, and then he took us to see Lola Montez do her spider dance. They say she’s really Irish, Miss Montez—born in Limerick. Is that true, do you know?”

  Wakefield’s eyebrows went up. “I have no idea, but her dancing is quite—titillating, I’m told. I take it, though, you weren’t swayed by William’s charming choices. He has the pick of the ladies, you know—didn’t you go riding with him last Sunday?”

  “Aye. He took us all out in his carriage, and it was so clear and nice. He wants to go again next Sunday, but …” She looked down at her hands.

  “But you feel your understanding with Captain Reinders does not encompass a friendship with Mister Shew,” Wakefield clarified. “Not to mention the fact that Mister Shew is interested in pursuing a friendship more deep than the one you had imagined. Am I right, Missus Donnelly?”

  “Oh, aye,” Grace agreed fervently. “’Tis my own fault. The poor man. So good to us, and I told him about Peter, so I thought ’twas all out in the open. And I admit I enjoyed his company. So much. So very much. But then, he—” She stopped, feeling herself blush to the roots of her hair.

  “Say no more, Missus Donnelly. Artists are passionate by nature and William is no exception. In his defense, I will say that the sight of a lovely young woman in an open carriage on an autumn day shakes even the best man of his resolve.” He smiled at her. “Shall I have a word with him on your behalf?”

  “No, sir. Thanks for the offer, but I’ll speak to him myself about it next week when I go down to see the exhibit.”

  “It’s quite remarkable,” Wakefield reflected. “That portrait of you is … well—” He broke off. “I have to admit, when I saw that, I did wonder if poor Captain Reinders had a rival on his hands.”

  “Was I wrong to sit for it, do you think, Doctor?” Grace asked frankly.

  “No, Missus Donnelly, I do not, though certainly I am no judge of these things.” He laughed again, this time at himself. “I do know that William Shew will leave behind a true record of history and that you, madam, are a deserving part of that. There are two similar portraits, I believe he said. What will you do with yours?”

  Grace didn’t hesitate. “I’ll have it framed for Peter, for Christmas, if he’s returned by then.”

  “And if he hasn’t?”

  “Then it’ll be ready whenever he does.”

  “Right and fitting,” Wakefield pronounced. “At any rate, it wasn’t your many suitors I wished to discuss, Missus Donnelly, but your daughter.” He leaned back in his leather chair. “She is a frequent visitor to my library.”

  Grace’s stomach tightened. “I’ll have a word with her about that, sir. She’s been told not to bother you.”

  “She’s no bother,” he said quickly. “Very polite and respectful, that girl. Very intelligent, I’ll have you know.”

  “Aye.” Grace blushed again, though this time with pride. “Smart as a whip, and only had a bit of schooling here and there.”

  “That’s what I wanted to speak with you about,” he said. “She should be getting regular lessons.”

  Grace nodded soberly. “I suppose that’s right, but she already reads better than most grown people, writes well in a fine hand, and can figure her numbers with the best of them.”

  “Do you play chess?” he asked suddenly.

  “I never have,” she replied, eyeing the board on the end of his desk and wondering if he was about to offer her a game.

  “Mary Kate does,” he announced. “I showed her a few basic moves one afternoon and then we played ourselves a game. She understood it immediately. Chess is very complex,” he added. “Mathematical. Women are usually quite challenged by mathematics.”

  “Are they, now?” Grace kept her voice neutral, though the comment irritated her—her gran had run a business that called for keeping accounts, and her mam had handled the household money until the day she died. She knew plenty of women who figured as well as, if not better than,
men. Sometimes the good doctor struck her as a bit limited in his thinking.

  “Yes, they are,” Wakefield continued, oblivious to her darkened eyes. “Which means your daughter has a rare mind. One that deserves more than just a rudimentary education. She could go far, you know.”

  “Not as far as medical college, though, seeing as how she’s a girl, and all. Isn’t that right, Doctor?” Grace asked, then regretted the sharp tone in her voice.

  Wakefield winced and put his hand to his heart. “Direct hit, Missus Donnelly. Not only do you keep me well fed, but humbled, too.” He set his cup down. “I don’t believe that women—as a rule—have as great an intellectual capacity as men, that’s true. But I’m not so limited in my own thinking as to ignore the possibility of an exception. I believe your daughter, Missus Donnelly, is an exception. Perhaps not medical college, but certainly some form of higher learning.”

  “I agree she’s very bright. But I don’t know that more schooling is the right thing for Mary Kate.”

  Wakefield frowned. “I must say I’m surprised. You’re clearly an intelligent, forthright woman—why wouldn’t you want your daughter to be educated?”

  “I do want her to be educated,” Grace insisted. “But sending her to school’s no good.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Grace regarded him frankly. “Well, Doctor, we’re Irish, as you well know—poor emigrant Irish, and it’s not served us well in the schooling of my children. Mary Kate’s first master, in Boston, was an Englishman with his own way of doing things. Mary Kate spent most of her time standing in the corner until her speech improved, Irish accents being an affront to the man, I suppose.” The muscle in her jaw twitched. “I went to get her early one day and there she stood, tears running down her face. I lost my temper with that daft eejit of a man, and he expelled her—too stupid to learn, he said to her face.”