The voices and commotion in the train corridor faded, and Dolly released a shaky breath. She could do this; she would do this. She had committed to one year. It wasn’t so long in the scheme of things—and besides, she would enjoy exploring San Francisco, seeing new sights, and meeting new people.
Dolly rose from the bench, picked up her carpetbag, and took a final look about the tidy compartment. Then she eased into the corridor and joined the last few passengers leaving the train.
The porter was waiting with her trunk by the time she stepped off the train into the late-morning fog. She didn’t need to look at the written address in her notebook to remember the location of 920 Sacramento Street. The address had been etched in her mind for weeks. The porter, a burly man with a curling mustache, cheerfully pointed her in the direction of where she could hail a buggy.
Once the buggy driver had loaded her trunk, Dolly sank onto the thin seat cushion. She peered out the side as the buggy rattled along the cobblestones behind the draft horse. The streets were laced with fog, and Dolly’s heart mirrored the grayness of the day. She pushed back the homesickness that threatened, and instead gazed at the sights as they left the warehouse district and its burly dock workers with arms the size of their necks, their wagons and carts pulled by the largest draft horses she’d ever seen.
As the buggy turned away from the train station, the landscape changed once again, and they drove through downtown. Dolly peered up at the tall buildings, counting multiple stories rising from the sidewalks. The Baldwin Hotel, with its five towering floors, was topped by domes and spires. It looked like an opulent castle, something out of a storybook. In front of the tall buildings, trees had been planted in a neat line, joined by hitching posts, not only to hitch horses or wagons but to prevent passing carriages from bumping into buildings.
She counted up to twelve levels on one building. Storefronts were lit with electric lights on Grant Street, glowing in the lifting fog, making the place look ethereal. Such beauty made it hard to reconcile that San Francisco was also such an underbelly of human slavery. Dolly’s attention was caught by a woman exiting a shop on the arm of a gentleman. Her full skirt and frilly blouse were made complete with a short jacket and a hat trimmed in ribbons. The man at her side wore gloves and an elegant black suit coat with pinstripe trousers, his cane clicking along the cobblestones as he strolled.
The sights of the sophisticated shops and stylish men and women faded as they crossed Bush Street. It was as if they had driven straight into another country on Dupont Street. The elegant buildings were replaced with tall pagodas and narrow shops. Shop signs scaled the buildings, covered in red and yellow Chinese characters. A woman dressed all in black, her hair pulled into a severe bun, swept furiously at the boardwalk in front of her shop. She looked up at the passing buggy, and her mouth formed a grim line, her face mapped with deep lines.
Two Chinese men stood on the corner, sharing a long pipe, the trail of smoke dissipating into the fog. They both wore loose, black clothing and single long pigtails down their backs. The woodsy scent of their pipe reached Dolly, mingling with other sweeter scents of baking. The two men followed the passing cab with their gazes, and Dolly wondered if they saw her as an anomaly in this part of the city.
Then the cab turned off Dupont, and the driver urged the horse as they moved up a steep hill. They passed square, brick homes, some of them with multiple floors and windows scaling up the sides. Dolly wondered about the lives lived behind the closed curtains. She shifted in her seat to look down the hill. The city of San Francisco, still swathed in fog, had begun to take shape. With the lengthening rays of sun, the shadowed buildings warmed to yellows and golds. Smoke puffed from many chimneys, dispelling the cold morning, and beyond, the bay’s murky gray water sharpened to a deep blue.
Excitement replaced any misgivings or threads of melancholy that Dolly felt, and moments later, the driver slowed in front of a five-story, red brick building. Her gaze followed the lines of the sturdy structure, and she was impressed with its size.
The driver made quick work of unloading her trunk and carrying it to the front door. Then he paused before climbing back onto the buggy. “Are you sure this is your destination?”
The 920 address left no doubt. “Yes,” Dolly said.
His gaze darted past her. “Take care around this area, ma’am.”
Dolly thanked him, then walked toward the square, stalwart building, reading the sign: Occidental Board Presbyterian Mission Home. The brickwork curved gracefully over the entrance, giving Dolly both a sense of grace and a feeling of security. The main-level windows stretched along the street, reflecting the early morning light. But the lower bank of windows told another story. Covered by grates, these windows were dark and appeared nearly impenetrable. They were certainly not built for gazing out upon the street or letting in light.
She walked up the flight of stairs leading to the heavy double doors, which were polished a warm brown. The chill in the air had softened. Raising the knocker, she let it fall, and the sound reverberated through the wood. What Dolly hadn’t expected was the person who answered: a young Chinese girl. Her dark hair was parted straight down the middle, the ends woven into short braids. She wore a long white tunic over white pants, and her little golden feet were bare. The girl’s deep-brown eyes seemed to have no end to their depth.
“Hello,” Dolly said.
“Who?” the young girl asked, her small fingers wrapped tightly around the edge of the door. She couldn’t have been more than seven or eight. Why had such a young girl been given door duty?
“I’m Miss Donaldina Cameron, and what’s your name?”
The girl didn’t answer, but she grasped Dolly’s skirt, giving it a tug as if inviting her inside. Did the girl not speak English?
Dolly smiled and shifted her trunk inside the doorway. After she had set it inside the entrance, the young girl shut and bolted the door. Then, before Dolly could ask another question, the girl dashed off, disappearing into the depths of the house.
Dolly looked about the entryway and the staircase beyond. The dark paneled wood on the walls gave the home a graceful atmosphere, and the scent of cleaning oil told her it was well cared for.
Her attention was caught by a noise on the landing at the top of the staircase. Another young Chinese girl was crouched in front of the banister, her dark eyes peering through the slats. The girl had a deep scar along her jaw and more scars mapping her thin arms. Dolly guessed her to be about nine or ten. “Hello? What’s your name?”
The girl gasped, and her eyes widened in what seemed to be fear. She scrambled to her feet and fled, her two pigtails bouncing against her narrow shoulders.
“Well,” Dolly murmured, “a fine welcome to me.”
Footsteps sounded on one of the upper floors, and the distant sounds of kitchen preparations from somewhere in the back of the house told Dolly that perhaps normal domesticity was a part of the mission home after all. Would either of the young Chinese girls alert a staff member she was here? As Dolly wondered if she should shed her hat and jacket quite yet, a door opened beyond the wide staircase.
“Dolly,” a voice exclaimed. Eleanor Olney strode toward her, arms outstretched.
Dolly had gone to school with Eleanor years ago; she was now one of the staff members that Mrs. Browne had mentioned volunteered here. The two women embraced. Eleanor drew back and said, “It’s been ages since I’ve seen you. I’m so glad you agreed to come.”
“When Mrs. Browne told me about the work here, I was intrigued,” Dolly said.
Eleanor flashed a smile. She always did have pretty teeth. “Last I heard, you were getting married to George Sargent. Whatever happened?”
“It’s an old story now,” Dolly said. George was five years in the past and not something she wanted to rehash with a mere acquaintance. “I’m more interested in the tour.”
“Of course,”
Eleanor said. “Come, let me show you around.”
They walked into the adjoining parlor, a pretty room by all accounts. The furniture was elegant but worn, as if it had been donated and not purchased new. A couple of bookcases lined the walls, and Dolly was curious about the learning that took place at the mission home, but Eleanor didn’t pause. She continued to lead her into the next room.
“This is the Chinese Room,” Eleanor said in a pleased tone. “Most of the items are gifts from the Chinese Legation and other merchants. We are fortunate to have such a place for the girls to feel connected to their heritage.”
The space had a stillness to it, as if history had been lived here. Intricately carved teak furniture pieces stood in small groupings atop thick rugs. Various scrolls of Chinese watercolors hung on the walls—scenes of China painted in soft blues, greens, and pinks. Painted ceramic vases and bowls, depicting tiny figures and even smaller flowers and trees, were positioned around the room, demanding closer inspection later.
A beautiful room, and it was absolutely empty.
“Where is everyone?” Dolly asked.
“The younger girls are in classes,” Eleanor said. “The older girls are doing their chores right now, working in the kitchen, doing laundry, or sewing.”
“Where did the girl who answered the door disappear to?” Dolly asked. “And another one at the top of the stairs seemed afraid of me. She had terrible scars on her face and arms.”
“Tien Fu Wu,” Eleanor said with a sigh. “She should be in class with the others. Too curious for her own good.” She paused. “How much did Mrs. Browne tell you about the girls?”
“She said they’ve been rescued from dismal situations,” Dolly answered.
Eleanor lowered her voice. “Most of the girls have been severely abused. Sometimes the trauma they experience takes a long time to work itself out of their souls. Eventually, they learn to trust us. But when someone new arrives, their lives are once again interrupted, reshuffled, and the process starts all over again.”
“So those scars on Tien’s face and arms were not because of an accident?”
“No.” Eleanor’s gaze was steady. “The girls in your sewing class have deep, dark histories. Some can be . . . very difficult . . . like Tien. But please know that we are all here to help you and work together.”
Dolly’s throat had grown tight. It was one thing to know that a girl had been abused; it was another to see the permanent proof on her skin. How could she look past the scars and teach simple and mundane things like choosing the color of thread, or how large to cut a pillowcase, knowing the awful things these girls had experienced?
Eleanor touched Dolly’s arm. “The girls will come to love you, you’ll see. Now, if I haven’t scared you off, come and I’ll show you your room.”
Dolly exhaled slowly and smiled, although her heart throbbed with a dull ache. “All right.”
Eleanor returned her smile and led Dolly back to the staircase.
When they reached the third landing, they continued along a corridor. There, Eleanor entered a plain bedroom furnished only with a corner table, chair, and twin bed.
“You can leave your outer things here,” Eleanor said, “and then I’ll take you to meet the director.”
Dolly quickly removed her hat, gloves, and jacket. She didn’t mind the plain and simple surroundings, she really didn’t. If anything, she felt humbled that Mrs. Browne had thought that Dolly could contribute in a situation like this.
She then followed Eleanor downstairs. On the second landing, she caught a glimpse of another Chinese girl whose black eyes gazed at her like a frightened animal. But the girl ducked out of sight, limping as she went, before Dolly could say anything friendly. Why was the girl limping? Dolly really needed to learn some Chinese.
Her thoughts were interrupted by an older woman’s voice greeting her.
“Miss Cameron?” A woman walked toward her, the dimness of the hallway revealing an aged face, erect posture, and hair pulled into an immaculate pompadour, almost entirely gray. The woman’s brown eyes seemed to reflect the wood paneling along the wall, and although her dress was elegant enough, it was clear that it was a poor fit—as if the woman had lost weight after being measured. “I’m Miss Culbertson, the director of the mission home.” Frown lines pulled at her forehead. “Welcome.”
The greeting was far from enthusiastic, and Miss Culbertson made no secret of thoroughly studying Dolly.
“Thank you,” Dolly said. “Eleanor showed me around, although I’ve yet to meet anyone else save for one of the girls who let me in. It seems every girl who sees me disappears.”
Miss Culbertson’s brown eyes warmed. “Yes, well, making themselves scarce is a prized skill among our girls.” She hesitated, as if she were battling what to say next.
Eleanor murmured that she needed to check on the progress in the kitchen.
The director nodded at Eleanor, then looked at Dolly. “Come into my office, Miss Cameron, where we can speak in private.”
Something in the tone of Miss Culbertson’s voice put Dolly on alert. If the present circumstances weren’t unusual enough, she now sensed something was amiss with her arrival.
Dolly followed the director along the corridor. The woman walked slowly, and once in a while, she used the wall for a bit of support. Was the woman unwell? Now that Dolly was with the director, shouldn’t she feel more relaxed? But her unease only tightened her stomach like a too-taut sewing stitch.
Miss Culbertson led the way down the stairs, then into her office. She indicated for Dolly to sit in a faded brocade chair. The director stepped to the window with a view of the street beyond and gazed outside for a long moment.
A cart clattered by, pulled by a horse.
Should Dolly be asking questions? The back of her neck prickled in anticipation, but she didn’t know if Miss Culbertson’s reluctance was a good thing or a bad one.
Finally, the director’s brown eyes swung to Dolly. “Are you sure you will not be afraid of this work?”
Dolly thought she’d been clear in her letter of application. She had committed to teach for one year. Besides, Mrs. Browne had practically begged for her help. “I have come ready to work,” she said, hoping to reassure the woman.
“Mrs. Browne was quite enthusiastic in her recommendation of you,” Miss Culbertson continued, studying Dolly.
Perhaps Dolly had worn clothing that was too nice, thereby giving the impression of having certain airs and expectations. Eleanor’s and Miss Culbertson’s clothes were plain and serviceable.
“Mrs. Browne also says you’re an excellent seamstress,” Miss Culbertson said, “which is all well and good, but working here takes a bit of fortitude. Things in the city are quite different from life in the smaller towns.”
Dolly didn’t know how to respond. She supposed she had fortitude. Losing both parents, getting an education, keeping up with whatever needed to be done on the ranch . . . should she mention any of this?
“I am not a young girl recently out of the schoolhouse,” Dolly said at last. “Both Mrs. Browne and Eleanor told me about the circumstances these girls come from. I am sure I have a lot to learn, but I’m looking forward to the work and will help with whatever is needed.” Although this thought worried her a little. Beyond teaching, what else would be required of her? Possible discipline problems?
Miss Culbertson’s frown returned. “There are dangers, you know.”
Mrs. Browne had never mentioned this. “What sort of dangers?” Dolly asked, wondering if the girls got into fights. Pulled each other’s hair?
Miss Culbertson crossed to the desk and placed a hand on the edge. There was another long pause, as if she were reluctant to speak. “This morning, we had an incident.”
Dolly’s stomach did a slow turn.
“We’ve had plenty of threats before, of course,” the director sa
id, “but this one was inside the mission home.”
“Threats?” Dolly echoed.
Miss Culbertson seemed to peer straight into Dolly’s soul as she said, “One of the girls found a long stick in the hallway. We called for the police to investigate, and they declared that it was dynamite.”
“Oh.” Dolly’s thoughts raced. “An explosive?”
“Yes.” Miss Culbertson rested both her hands on the desk as if she needed to support herself. “Our latest rescued girl was worth a lot of money to her owner. Thousands of dollars. We have many enemies, you see, Miss Cameron. Enemies who want their slaves back and would like nothing more than to see our work destroyed, both figuratively and literally. The dynamite was strong enough to blow up this entire city block.”
Questions collided in Dolly’s mind. She thought of the young girls she’d seen: their scars, their thin bodies, their dark, haunted eyes. Their fear of her—a white woman who had come to teach sewing skills. She blinked away the sudden burning in her eyes and refocused on Miss Culbertson.
The director’s next words were spoken in a quiet, even tone. “You’re tall, Miss Cameron, your eyes are green, and your hair a deep bronze. You will stand out, you must realize, in Chinatown. Not only that, but your Scottish accent will attract attention.”
Dolly swallowed against the sudden rawness of her throat. “Is my accent a problem?”
“Not inherently,” Miss Culbertson said. “But it will certainly draw notice from those who wish us to fail in our mission.”
The breath in Dolly’s lungs deflated. “I cannot help my appearance,” she said, lifting her chin, “and I’ve never judged others for theirs.”
Miss Culbertson eyed her for a long moment. Faint sounds reached through the closed door. Singing? “You will stay then,” the director said at last, her tone softer than it had been, “despite all that I’ve told you?”
Dolly held the older woman’s gaze. She’d thought that stepping off the train had been the turning point in her life. But she’d been wrong. This moment was. The director was more than twice Dolly’s age, and yet, she was living and working here. “Are you staying, Miss Culbertson?”
The Paper Daughters of Chinatown Page 2
