'Til Morning Light

by Ann Moore

  Twenty

  When Sean walked into the parlor and saw Chang-Li modeling his prized dog-fur jacket in front of the mirror, he knew the time had come to say good-bye.

  “Ah, Mister Sung! Please to sit.” Chang-Li motioned to one of the great wingback chairs in front of the grate, taking a seat in the other. “Sail tomorrow, so must discuss business now before leaving to Canton.”

  “The bodies are here, then?” Sean was surprised by how quickly time had passed since they’d learned of the deaths of Chang-Li’s brothers; shot, both of them, a week ago, and robbed of their gold.

  “Ah, yes, yes.” Chang-Li nodded. “Already on ship.”

  “It’s good of you to take them all the way back home. ’Twill be a long journey for you, Chang-Li, and I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Chang-Li shrugged. “It is their destiny. Brothers will be returned to ancestral burial and so to not wander alone. And Chang-Li”—he touched his own chest lightly—“will take opportunity to find good wife from high family name. No good Chinawoman here for important Chinaman to marry. Must get from own country.”

  “I guess that’s right.” The few single Chinese women in San Francisco got their living as laundresses or cooks, or in the nighttime trades; Chang-Li clearly had higher aspirations. “She might not be so comfortable having a fan qui boarder about the place; is that what you wanted to speak with me about? Should I start looking for other rooms?”

  “Ah, no, no. Chang-Li make arrangement for new wife house. Mister Sung stay in this house, stay here long time, see to House of Good Fortune and other business. Make much money for Chang-Li and Mister Sung.” He smiled encouragingly. “Yes?”

  “You’ll be gone a long time, Chang-Li.” Sean thought with longing of the increased hours he now spent with his pipe, the intimate relationship he had so painstakingly built with his addiction. “Things may have changed by the time you get back.” Most likely I’ll be dead, he thought. “Could you not leave Mei Ling in charge of the place? I’ll help her out, of course, as long as I can.”

  Chang-Li shook his head vigorously. “Mei Ling is slave! Mei Ling is girl! No good for business—only clean house, wash clothes, serve tea.” He stopped himself then, and forcibly changed his expression. “Mei Ling is very good girl,” he now emphasized. “Work hard. No argue. Follow every order.”

  Sean stared at him, baffled by the about-face, but Chang-Li had regrouped and now pressed his case from another angle.

  “Time is come for Great American Feast Day,” the landlord announced, fingertips pressed lightly together. “Celebration of birth of God called Jesus.”

  “Christmas?” Sean blinked. “Are we talking about Christmas now, Chang-Li?”

  “Ah, yes. Time of many foods and presenting of many gifts.”

  “Well, I suppose that’s one way of looking at it, though I’m not so keen on the holidays myself, anymore.”

  “Yes, yes.” Chang-Li ignored him. “One time, Chang-Li have long talk with Reverend Hopkins of San Francisco Bible Society. Say many good omen at time of birth, say to Chang-Li all men perfect now to Father God because Son God live perfect life as man.”

  It took Sean a moment to wade through the syntax, but then he understood. “Aye, that’s true,” he agreed, though uncomfortable with finding himself in a conversation about the God whom he had so mightily disappointed.

  “Yes, yes. Very good God. Sit in highest place.” Chang-Li indicated the shrine, which did indeed include a religious card with the face of Christ; it clearly occupied the place of honor among all the other gods Chang-Li worshipped, complete with a special offering bowl of food and smoking joss sticks.

  “Didn’t your Reverend Hopkins tell you about the first commandment?” Sean couldn’t resist, knowing Chang-Li prided himself on his knowledge of all things he considered American. “‘Thou shalt have no other Gods before me’?”

  Chang-Li raised an elegant finger. “This God is highest. All other gods after this God!”

  Sean chuckled, wishing he’d been privy to the conversations about religion that must have occurred between Reverend Hopkins and the enthusiastically philosophical Chang-Li.

  “‘Love thy neighbor,’” Chang-Li continued. “Also commandment, but is very hard. Many neighbor is bad. Many neighbor try to take from Chang-Li. But not Mister Sung.” He gave a single nod over the tops of his fingertips. “Mister Sung is very special friend to Chang-Li. Share destiny in many ways.”

  “For your sake, Chang-Li, I hope not.” Sean smiled wryly. “But, since you mentioned Christmas …” he stood up. “I know how much you were looking forward to having your feast, and now you’ve got to postpone all that.”

  Chang-Li shrugged; life simply was what it was.

  “So I wanted to give you your present now.”

  Sean went to the doorway and around the corner into the hall, then returned with a large beribboned box, which he handed to his landlord, his partner, and somehow now, too, his friend.

  Chang-Li’s mouth formed a small O of surprise, but he opened the gift with grave dignity, then abandoned dignity in favor of sheer delight when he saw the superb black silk stovepipe hat that lay inside.

  “It’s from fashionable New York City.” Sean was grinning now. “What do you think? Try it on.”

  Chang-Li placed it carefully upon his head, then stood gingerly and examined himself in the mirror above the mantel, turning to view first his left profile, then his right.

  “So handsome,” the landlord pronounced. “Finest style. In Canton, neighbors will think Chang-Li American High Man, invite Chang-Li to marry daughters.” Smiling with pride, he returned carefully to his chair, lowering himself slowly, head held steady so as not to unbalance the magnificent hat.

  “I knew ’twas made for you and you alone, the minute I laid eyes upon it. Happy Christmas, Chang-Li.” Sean pulled out his pocket watch and glanced at it. “And, now”—he looked out the window—“if there’s nothing else …?”

  Chang-Li eyed him shrewdly. “A man must have pleasure, but too much pleasure may ruin a man. Stay longer, Mister Sung; still business to discuss.” He gestured toward Sean’s chair. “The mist-and-flower ladies will wait; the sweet pipe will not smoke itself.”

  Sean sat down again, abashed, but in good humor. “Point taken, Chang-Li. The nice thing about being on the decline is that it takes so little effort to reach the bottom. Just a bit of leaning in that direction, if you know what I mean.”

  Chang-Li studied him carefully from beneath his new stovepipe, and then clapped his hands together sharply. Sean thought he was calling for the tea tray, but when Mei Ling appeared, her hands were empty.

  “In honor of birth of American God, Chang-Li has gift for honored neighbor, for partner, for friend.”

  Now the landlord motioned Mei Ling forward, urging her impatiently until she stood beside his chair, hands clasped in front of her, head bowed respectfully.

  Sean looked from Chang-Li to Mei Ling and back again, shaking his head as the reality of the gift dawned upon him.

  “Mei Ling hard worker, cook for Mister Sung and wash clothes,” Chang-Li pronounced. “Mister Sung stay here, very comfortable, see to House of Good Fortune; Mei Ling do all thing. Belong to Mister Sung now.” He sat back, delighted with his presentation of the gift. “Happy Christmas!”

  Though stunned, Sean was careful to think before he spoke, wishing to insult neither the man before him nor the young woman who served them so quietly day in and day out.

  “I’m honored by such a gift, Chang-Li,” he began cautiously. “But I cannot accept it. One person cannot own another in America … in California,” he revised quickly as Chang-Li, well versed in the laws of the South, leaned forward and opened his mouth. “The state of California outlawed slavery in 1850, as you well know.”

  Chang-Li swatted this comment away as if it were nothing but an annoying fly. “In China, some girl slave, some girl wife. Each girl have destiny. And so it is.”

  “This is not
China,” Sean reminded him respectfully, though firmly. “Whatever arrangement lies between you and Mei Ling, I’ve never interfered with that. But, as a citizen of California”—and as a human being, he thought, surprised that some remnant of principle remained—“I cannot—I will not—own another person.”

  Chang-Li stroked his chin, his eyes stormy with annoyance. “New wife bring own servant, not want Mei Ling.” Then his eyes cleared and he shrugged. “So Chang-Li will sell Mei Ling to Chinaman know value of good slave, give Mister Sung good horse instead.”

  Sean knew full well how savvy Chang-Li could be when it came to getting what he wanted, so he let several minutes tick by before deciding to call the man’s bluff. He was about to tell Chang-Li that he wanted neither horse nor slave, to go ahead and sell the girl, if that was how little she meant to him, when he noticed Mei Ling’s shoulders tighten beneath her tunic, the line of her jaw flexing as she gritted her teeth. What did she think about this? he wondered suddenly. Had she ever had any say at all in the direction of her own life? Sean changed his mind in that moment.

  “Wait.” His voice rang out in the stillness of the room.

  Mei Ling’s jaw did not relax, but she stole a quick peek at him from the corner of her eye.

  “You want me to stay on here and run the business for you, and so I’ll agree to it—but only upon one condition.” He paused for good effect. “That you release Mei Ling from her obligations to you. In other words, Chang-Li, give the girl her rightful freedom and I’ll double your wealth by the time you return with your new wife.”

  Chang-Li’s face remained impassive, but Sean knew he was interested by the ever-so-slight arching of one eyebrow.

  “Let Mei Ling stay in this house for now, and if she chooses to work for us, then pay her what you would any servant. If she doesn’t, she’s free to hire herself out wherever she wants. Either way, her free time is her own and she can come and go as she pleases.” Finished, Sean leaned back in his chair.

  Chang-Li’s eyes traveled the seam of the ceiling as he considered the proposal before him. Mei Ling, it appeared, had quit breathing altogether. Sean kept his face a mask of indifference, afraid to admit even to himself how important this had suddenly become.

  Finally, Chang-Li nodded. “There is wisdom and good fortune in such a bargain as this. The service of Mei Ling remains, but not as slave to feed and shelter, and so, of no annoyance to new wife. And still, protected.”

  The look on Chang-Li’s face allowed Sean a glimpse of the bond that connected the two of them, one more complex than that of simply master and slave.

  “Question.” Chang-Li lifted a slender finger in the air. “Why Mister Sung not make free Mei Ling himself?”

  Sean thought for a moment. “If I did it, then you might never really consider her a real person.”

  A flicker of annoyance flashed in the landlord’s eyes, but he did not let it settle.

  “You would treat her as you always have,” Sean continued. “She would only be a slave pretending at freedom.”

  Chang-Li considered this statement. “It is so,” he pronounced at last. “And so, it will be as Mister Sung says.”

  The landlord looked at his now-former slave girl and spoke to her in their language, and Sean noted that Chang-Li was making an attempt to moderate the sharp tones of command he had previously used with Mei Ling to something closer to civility. Encouraged by this, Mei Ling raised her head and met her master’s eyes, though shyly and with great hesitation, her answers to his questions consisting of one or two short sounds. Twice she glanced at Sean and then quickly away, and finally Chang-Li asked her something to which she nodded.

  “Mei Ling understand now.” Chang-Li informed him. “Choose live here, work for Mister Sung. All thing as before, only Chang-Li pay now.”

  “Ah, but you get me in the bargain, Chang-Li, and we’re making money hand over fist, are we not?” Sean looked at Mei Ling and thought that her stance seemed not quite as subservient somehow, that her posture had altered, even if only by the slightest degree. “You did the right thing, Chang-Li.”

  “Open door and bird fly out.” The landlord shrugged. “Perch on top of cage only.”

  The image rankled Sean a bit, but he wasn’t about to push his luck, and besides, his head was pounding—it was time to bathe his sensibilities in something more potent than tea.

  “Well, this bird is leaving the cage altogether.” He stood and looked around for his hat; Mei Ling got to it first, snatched it up, then brought it to him with head bowed, subservience back in full force.

  “Mei Ling prepare food now,” she said in her quiet voice.

  “Not for me, Mei Ling.” Sean settled the hat on his head and, adjusting the brim, pulled it down low. “I’m going out.”

  “Mei Ling wait.”

  “I’ll not be back ’til late.” He saw uncertainty on her face and was puzzled. “Well, leave it on the table, then. I’ll eat when I get back.”

  Mei Ling said nothing, and Sean exchanged a glance with Chang-Li, who merely shrugged, though his eyes suggested an amusement at some private joke. Irritated, Sean turned back to Mei Ling.

  “I don’t want to find you sitting in the kitchen, waiting for me,” he chided more aggressively than he’d intended. “Take yourself out for a walk, why don’t you?” he tried, sounding angry instead of noncommittal. “Do whatever you want, then! You belong to yourself now, for God’s sake!”

  The sharpness of his voice startled Mei Ling, and she looked up at him hesitantly, eyes filled with uncertainty.

  “Mei Ling wait,” she repeated shakily, then lowered her head and rushed from the room.

  “She does understand she’s a servant now, and not a slave, doesn’t she?” Sean focused his frustration on the landlord. “That she can do as she likes with her own time?”

  “Ah, yes.” Chang-Li was clearly enjoying Sean’s discomfort. “Mei Ling choice as paid girl is serve Mister Sung. Mei Ling no understand ‘own time.’”

  Sean wanted a drink in his hand this very minute; he licked his lower lip and felt the bump of the scar that remained from the beating, thought of the young Chinese girl who’d tended him so gently.

  “Oh.” The frustration drained away, leaving him tired. “Well, was she never free, then? Is that it?”

  “Belong to old man, then Chang-Li take in trade. Before that”—the landlord lifted his hands helplessly—“many father, many mother, sell youngest daughter for food,” he explained. “Is great honor to save all of family in this way.”

  In trade, Sean thought, the reality of Mei Ling’s life coming into sharp focus; sold. He thought of Grace’s friend Lily Free and of the children Captain Reinders had rescued. “How old is Mei Ling?”

  “China year different,” Chang-Li told him. “All China people one year older on New Year. Mei Ling not know; maybe”—he rattled numbers off in his own tongue—“maybe, in America, Mei Ling twenty year.”

  Twenty years of submission would certainly preclude developing a mind of one’s own, Sean realized, and he saw now that brokering Mei Ling’s release from slavery was only the first step in making her truly free; when the bars of her cage had been removed, so had all context for the life she had lived therein.

  “Well, I’ll help her, then,” Sean resolved and instantly wondered how he was going to manage to teach a vulnerable young woman about the possibilities of freedom while, at the same time, continuing down his own path of enslavement; impossible to do both. “When did you say you’d be returning from China, Chang-Li?”

  “When time is right,” Chang-Li pronounced sagely.

  Sean rubbed a hand wearily over the scruff of his beard and mustache. “You did this to me on purpose, didn’t you, Chang-Li? Wait”—He held up a hand to stop what he knew was coming—“I know, I know. The path unfolds and takes us where it will. Well, I don’t believe that, Chang-Li. We all have choices.”

  “And Mister Sung has made one.”

  “I’ve made a lot of them,
Chang-Li, and believe me—only a handful were any good.” With those words and the image they evoked of his sister’s face, Sean knew he was only minutes away from smoking his way into oblivion.

  “Not to worry,” Chang-Li said confidently. “This choice fit in that hand. Happy Christmas, Mister Sung, happy Christmas.”

  Twenty-one

  It was the afternoon before Christmas and the children were so excited that they rolled over and around each other like a couple of puppies. In the morning, the kitchen had been filled with the rich smell of weeks of delicate baking—butter cookies, yeasty orange rolls and biscuits, tarts and pies with various fillings—but now the roasting chickens were overpowering the sweet scent with their meaty aroma. Grace had prepared weeks before a fruited cake that had been steeping in the doctor’s good brandy; the pudding had also been soaked and was bound in muslin in its container, waiting for tomorrow, when it would be steamed and served with a creamy sauce.

  The doctor had invited his good friend Fairfax for the meal, which would be served by Enid so that Grace and the children might spend the afternoon with Captain Reinders and Liam. Grace had been visiting the captain’s house regularly and had been delighted with Peter’s steady weight gain and the return of his stamina. The Darmstadts would be there, too, of course, but Grace and the children were comfortable with such warm, generous people and always felt welcome in the house.

  As the afternoon light faded, she untied her apron and called to the children quietly.

  “Let’s walk about and see the house in all its glory, shall we?” she asked them, her eyes dancing.

  They went out into the great hall and looked up at the banister, which had been entwined with ropes of ivy livened up by holly sprigs. The house itself was shining and clean, and glowed as never before. Grace had kept on Missus Hopkins to see it through, though it was poor Enid who’d borne the brunt of the work.