'Til Morning Light

by Ann Moore

  Would she leave Chang-Li’s house, she had asked herself? Would she leave the shop, leave Chinatown, leave the city perhaps, and go to another city? Would she marry? Would she hire herself out for work and live in rooms that were hers and hers alone? Would she have children that she could keep, instead of souls to be released before they could become children? These things she had pondered as she lay in her bed at night, considering what it all meant. And Mister Sung—him she pondered, as well. He was not like the other men she had observed—neither Chinese nor European; she knew he visited the flower-and-mist ladies, that he liked Chinese women in his bed, but he did not take his comfort with her even when she had offered herself to him. He looked at her when he spoke, and the tone of his voice was so patient and so kind, so very personal, that it gave her pain in her heart, and she would withdraw from him back into the lowered eyes and nods of servitude. He did not like this, she knew. He wanted her head raised, her eyes engaged—he wanted to know what she thought! This had been very difficult to do, to say what she was thinking! It was far more intimate than anything she could have done to him with her body, and it had been weeks before she’d begun to risk this; she had had to figure out for herself what she was thinking, what she thought about things, what ideas were and why hers should hold any value.

  But Mister Sung had been her guide, had engaged her in the kitchen, on the stair, in the shop, in the street. He was pleased with her ability to recognize the value of the things brought in by others who wished a loan of money, to count money and make change, to hold to her resolve once she’d set a price. He would sit on a cot in the back room, behind the curtain, and listen to her, then come out when the customer had gone, and they would discuss the exchange. Often he appeared to be laughing, and sometimes he would pat her on the back or squeeze her shoulders; once he gently tucked her hair back behind her ear and kissed her on the cheek, though he’d seemed embarrassed by this and had retreated at once to his back room and his pipe.

  Mei Ling put her hand to her cheek now, her fingers brushing the place his lips had touched. What she felt for Mister Sung was different from what she’d felt for any other man, and she understood that this was because she was free to choose him or not. And so the sense of who she was had begun to emerge, and with it her rebirth into the wondrous place that was the world.

  She stood by the window a moment longer; though shops and houses, sidewalks and carriages, would later be splattered with mud, for now the gentle rain showered every bit of the street clean so that it sparkled and revealed its beauty. Few customers would find their way into the shop today, she thought, and was pleased. The day would be her own, the shop her own, and all the things in it. She finished with her dusting rag and returned to the counter, wiping off the case, sliding open the doors beneath, and reaching inside. Her fingers brushed the lid of the wooden box that intrigued her so very much, and this she now withdrew and set on the counter. She had not shown this acquisition to Mister Sung because she knew it held no value. She had loaned money for the things the box held, but neither she nor Missus Smith had bartered a price for the box itself. When Missus Smith had pocketed her dollars for the emerald ring and the ring of green stone that resembled jade but was not, the man’s gold signet ring, and the golden earrings, she had hurried out of the shop, leaving the wooden box behind. Mei Ling had other customers, so the box had gone under the counter. Only later, after closing up, had she pulled it out to have a second look. It was a simple wooden box with the English word “Mother” carved roughly on the top. Mei Ling was convinced that this had been a gift from a son to his mother, and it could not have been the son of Missus Smith or she would never have left it behind. Although the box had been emptied of its jewelry, it held personal effects—the image of a bare-chested man with his fists raised as if in fight, and a letter, its pages yellowed and watermarked.

  In private moments, she set these two things out on the counter and considered them. The box was given from son to mother—perhaps the image was of this son once he’d become a man; perhaps it was of the woman’s husband, the father of the son; perhaps the letter was from the son or from the husband; certainly it was from someone the mother had cherished. Mei Ling touched the letter with her fingertips. It was of love—she knew that most certainly. The places where the ink blurred were from teardrops that fell upon reading those words. Mei Ling wished she knew the words—she felt a sadness looking at them, but too her heart filled with a kind of yearning. The contents of the box—the box itself—spoke of family, and this was something Mei Ling could only dream of. Sometimes, out of the corner of her eye, she saw the figure of a man bending over a small child, and this she knew was what was left of her memory of her father; of her mother, she remembered more—the hands that dressed her quickly in the mornings and pushed her outside to play, a tired face looming close up and saying something Mei Ling could not understand, but also arms that had held her on a lap and fed her rice. There had been older brothers and possibly sisters, a younger brother, too, though Mei Ling could not remember them, could not remember their names or the names of her mother and father. Her next memories were of scrubbing floors in the house of the grand mistress, of fanning the mistress on sweltering summer days until the fan dropped from her hand and she fainted dead away, only to be awakened by the sting of the willow branch upon her back. How many years was she with the grand mistress? Mei Ling did not know, they blurred together like the words in the letter that had caught teardrops, but they would have been many, as she had the body of a young woman when she entered the Cherry Blossom House, there to clean up the rooms of the flower-and-mist ladies and to serve, herself, when gentlemen found a need for her. Here, she had learned to set free the souls of children who could not come into the world, because she was no mother; three souls she’d left behind as small shrines in the garden of the Cherry Blossom Street house. Why she had been sold to the old man, it was not her place to ask. His house had been gloomy and full of old grudges, the spirits of ill will and revenge, and he had plotted to escape it by sailing to Gum San, where he believed his good fortune would be restored and his return to China glorious. But he had been too old to undertake such a journey, and Mei Ling had known that his illness would also be his end; she had been relieved when he traded her to Chang-Li for the promise of burial in China—she had not wished to return to the house of gloom and despair with the body of her master. Mei Ling had found the number of fan qui in the city to be unsettling and was glad that Chang-Li kept her confined to the house and the limits of the Chinese quarter. He was not a bad master—Mei Ling had two tunics and trousers that were nicely made, new slippers that were replaced as soon as they wore out, and permission to cook as she liked, and so the food was good and plentiful; she also had her own small room in which to sleep and a soft mat for her bed. Also, Chang-Li took his pleasure with her only on occasion and always with care, so that she had only had to free two souls here. He always seemed to know when this had happened and gave her extra money for the apothecary, then left her alone with her sadness for many days together. The last time had been two years before, and Mei Ling wondered if she had used up all the souls that were given her at birth, if no more would come now. This had brought her both relief and distress; sometimes, Mei Ling fanned the fingers of one hand and thought of the souls she had released, the five children she would have if her destiny had been other than that of slave.

  But now Mei Ling was no longer a slave. If she bore a child it would not be drowned at birth or taken from her or sold at a tender age; it would be hers to keep, hers to raise and love. She would be “Mother.” This is what freedom meant to Mei Ling, and again she ran her fingers over the top of the carved box. When Mister Sung asked again what she was thinking, Mei Ling now had something meaningful to tell him—she was thinking about saving enough money to attract a good husband; she was thinking about having children with him and raising them up in America where they would always be free; she was thinking of the children they would have
and how very different their lives would be from the one she had known. This was what she was thinking, she would tell him; this was what she wanted.

  Gently, she folded up the letter, slipped it back into its envelope, laid it tenderly in the box, with the picture of the man on top, closed the lid, and tucked it all away beneath the counter, far back where it would be safe, this most precious of treasures—this symbol of love between mother and child.

  Thirty-three

  “’Tis gone!” Grace burst into the library, cutting short the awkward conversation of Doctor Wakefield and Captain Reinders, both of whom turned to her immediately. “I kept it always in my trunk, but tonight ’tis gone!”

  “What’s gone?” Wakefield set down his drink.

  “The box Liam made for me. I wanted to wear the ring you gave me, Peter. I kept it in there, along with …” Suddenly very white, Grace swayed as if about to faint.

  Both men leapt out of their chairs and sprang to her side, though it was Reinders who guided her to a chair, leaving the doctor behind to pour out a glass of brandy.

  “Drink this,” Wakefield ordered, handing it to her.

  “Drink that,” Reinders said simultaneously, shooting the other man a wary glance. “Then tell us what’s happened.”

  Grace swallowed the brandy and, when the color had come back into her cheeks, set the glass aside.

  “Hopkins must’ve taken it,” she told Wakefield. “She must’ve thought it held valuables. The emerald is, of course, but the other things …” Grace bit her lip in distress. “Oh, Peter! I’m so sorry about your ring!”

  “Damn the ring. It’s easily replaced. I know what else you kept in that box, Grace, how much it meant to you.”

  Wakefield looked from one face to the other. “What?” he demanded. “I insist you tell me.”

  Reinders saw that Grace’s eyes had filled with tears and he put a steadying hand on her shoulder.

  “Things that belonged to Grace’s second husband, Morgan McDonagh. Jack’s father. His wedding band, a letter from him … and a picture of Mighty Dugan Ogue, a very dear friend of Grace. Am I right?” He looked down into her face and she nodded in surprise. “Liam told me once that you kept your best treasures in that box. He was proud to have made it for you, you see,” he explained. “I asked him what treasures, and he told me.”

  “I’m sorry, Peter,” she repeated tearfully.

  “For what? For honoring the memory of a man you loved, for keeping his things for his son? You don’t have to apologize to me for that, Grace. I know you love me.” Reinders stopped, aware of Wakefield’s presence. “Is there anything we can do to get the box back?”

  Grace shook her head. “’Tis two weeks since she left the house. We’ve been so busy, I’d no cause to look in the trunk. Then you asked me to come out, and I wanted to wear your ring.” Her eyes filled again. “I don’t wear it every day, you see, as I’m working and don’t want to ruin it. I put it there for safekeeping, only now—”

  “I’m afraid this is my fault,” Wakefield interrupted. “Abigail confessed to me that Hopkins sold off most of her jewelry, though she believed the money was going to the child. I asked Enid to see if anything else was missing in the way of household silver and such, and she went over it all. You’ve been here such a short while,” he apologized to Grace. “And you were already doing so much for Abigail, that I didn’t want to burden you. It never occurred to me that Hopkins would steal from you, as well.”

  “You didn’t know I had anything worth stealing.”

  “No,” Wakefield insisted. “No, that’s not it. I just didn’t think of it. I’m so very sorry, Missus Donnelly. Grace. This is quite terrible.”

  “They were only things,” Grace said bravely, though her heart cried out His things; the only things left of him.

  Comfortingly, Peter gave her shoulder a quiet squeeze, and then he asked, “Where did Hopkins do business, Doctor? Would your sister know? I don’t care about the emerald, but maybe whoever bought it also took McDonagh’s ring, and we could at least see about getting that back.”

  “I asked Abigail that very thing when she told me about the jewelry, but she had no idea. I’m so very sorry.” Wakefield looked forlorn, but then the expression on his face brightened considerably. “Now, hold on a minute!” He turned to Grace. “After we saw Enid’s father, the Mulhoney boy was waiting for us—he said he’d followed Hopkins to Chinatown and then to the ticket agent. I intended to pursue the matter, but after we found Abigail … well, everything else went directly out of my mind.”

  “You think she sold the things in Chinatown?” Reinders brought him back to the point.

  “According to Davey, yes. No doubt she took Missus Donnelly’s box when she stormed out of here that day, so this pawnshop would be the likely recipient of its contents.”

  Grace stood up. “Will you take me to the Mulhoneys?” she asked Peter. “And then to Chinatown?”

  “Of course.” Reinders picked up his hat.

  “Let me.” Wakefield put a hand on the captain’s arm, then instantly removed it when he saw the look on Reinders’ face. “What I mean is, I may be able to identify some of Abigail’s jewelry, as well. The shop will be closed tonight, but we could go first thing in the morning.”

  Grace sat back down. “He’s right, Peter. ’Twould do us no good, rushing about the city tonight. Nothing for it but to wait ’til tomorrow.”

  “I know this is all terribly distressing,” Wakefield said, “but since there is nothing you can do about it tonight, why not carry on with the lovely evening Captain Reinders has arranged? It would be a shame to have that ruined, as well. Could you manage, do you think, Grace?”

  Reinders frowned, not at all pleased with Wakefield’s suddenly informal means of address.

  “There’s no need for that. Missus Donnelly is upset and entitled to whatever privacy she may need.” He knelt down beside Grace and spoke gently. “We can go to dinner anytime, and concerts are a dime a dozen these days. Get a good night’s sleep and I’ll call for you in the morning.”

  Grace looked at him, stricken. “Oh, Peter. You’ve gone to so much trouble—a table at the Maison Riche and tickets at the American Theater. No,” she decided. “We’re going out. I won’t let Hopkins rob me of this night, as well as of my treasures.”

  “Well said!” Wakefield smiled at them, relieved. “She is a most remarkable woman, wouldn’t you say, Captain?”

  “I did,” Reinders replied. “Five years ago when she sailed on my ship from Liverpool to New York.”

  “And many times since, I’m sure,” Wakefield conceded graciously.

  “Hundreds.” Reinders could not resist the urge to have the last word, though it made him feel childish. “Thousands.” He felt his face grow warm. “We’d better be on our way.”

  Wakefield nodded. “Enjoy the performance. I hear it’s delightful. And don’t worry about tomorrow—I’ll take her to the Mulhoneys at first light and, from there, to Chinatown.”

  “I’ll take her.” Reinders overrode him. “I know my way around those alleys better than most people.”

  “Certainly. I only wanted to see the place myself in case some of the family heirlooms were still there.”

  “We can all go,” Grace interjected. “Doctor Wakefield and I could meet you at the Mulhoneys, Peter, and leave from there.”

  “Fine,” Reinders agreed curtly. “Most pawnshops open around ten. We’ll meet at nine.”

  “Nine it is. The excitement never ceases, eh, Missus Donnelly?” Wakefield smiled wryly.

  “I would’ve thought you’d’ve had enough excitement around here to last a lifetime.” Peter proffered his arm to Grace. “Shall we go, then?”

  “Peter!” she admonished quietly as he escorted her to the door.

  Wakefield followed them. “You’re quite right, Captain. I don’t mean to make light of my sister’s terrible distress. And I’m grateful for your discretion, by the way. Missus Donnelly has commented upon yo
ur compassion many times.”

  Reinders felt instantly ashamed and turned to face the doctor. “She’s too kind,” he said and put out his hand. “Good night, Wakefield. Thanks for the drink, and I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Reinders was glad he’d tempered his mood when Grace rewarded him with a quick kiss in the hallway, just before they went into the kitchen to say good night to the children, who were being left in Enid’s care. They had been outside, playing with the dogs, when Grace had made her discovery of the missing box, so she’d decided to say nothing to them about it until the matter had been resolved. They were sitting happily around the kitchen table, attempting to teach Enid and George a new card game Liam had showed them. Mary Kate rose from her seat immediately and kissed both her mother and the captain warmly, promising to be a good girl; Jack kissed his mother and dutifully shook the captain’s hand, promising to try his best. Enid and George both wished them a lovely evening out and, with that, Grace and Peter left the warm, cheery kitchen and stepped out into a cool, breezy March evening.

  Reinders handed Grace up into the covered buggy, then climbed in himself and turned the horses around, driving carefully down the hills, then across town toward the plaza. Not wanting to press Grace, who seemed unusually quiet, Peter kept up a light commentary on the weather, the new buildings going up, and tonight’s performance, for which he’d gotten them box seats. For her part, Grace could only nod; her mind was full of what she’d lost, of the sickening thought that her most treasured possessions might have been tossed into the mucky banks of the harbor once Hopkins realized there was nothing there of monetary value. She clung to the hope that tomorrow they would find the right pawnshop and that perhaps the box had been abandoned there, or at least Morgan’s ring and the earrings, which might have fetched a small price. It was upsetting that the picture of Dugan and Mary Kate’s ring from Aislinn might be gone forever, but the worst thing, that of which she could hardly bear to think, was the loss of the letter that meant so much to her, far more—though she hated to admit it—than the beautiful emerald ring Peter had given her. She turned slightly toward him now, intent upon giving him her full attention, upon keeping her word that this evening would not be ruined.