“Yes, Bei Ming.” Jingwei looked at her timepiece and determined she had a half hour before she had to report to the mission, where they knew only of her work for them, helping the Chinese write letters home and working with the children to learn English. She needed to keep the connection to have an additional resource for the women who came into her care, but Mrs. Montgomery would faint away if she knew that Jingwei herself housed her own flock of rescued doves.
“I was only seven when I was sold,” Bei Ming began. “The journey was long and hard. After I arrived, they spent five years grooming me before I was forced to be a jì nǚ in the Chinese Quarter. You probably can’t imagine it now, but in the beginning I was lovely enough to draw the biggest crowds and the most coins.” She looked down at her feet for a moment before meeting their gaze again. “I ran away and found work in a laundry. But they found me after only a short time, and I was punished. They brought me back, and these last years, I’ve been made to work for the most sordid and depraved customers in the city.”
She stopped for a moment, catching her breath. “After the accident, I was too fearful to step out against my keepers. I thought I was owned by a tong in the city, bound to them until death. Then, like all of you, I was rescued. And now I am here to tell you all that no matter what they try to make you believe, you never again have to belong to anyone other than yourself.”
When the other girls didn’t say anything, Bei Ming reached up and touched her the place on her face that was ravaged. “And I don’t mind this anymore. It’s proof to me that I’m still here. I went through hell and came out alive. I consider it a battle scar.”
Jingwei sat back on her stool and gave the young woman an encouraging smile. Finally, years after her wounds on the outside had healed, Bei Ming was beginning the process on the inside. Just as Sun Ling had promised, Bei Ming made an ideal addition to their work. She had a long way to go, but she’d eventually recover from the invisible wounds inflicted on her. Jingwei only wished she could say the same about Sun Ling.
5
Even after years of living in Pacific Heights, it felt so different from Chinatown that you’d think it another world—at least, that was what was in Sun Ling’s mind when the carriage pulled up the driveway to Adora’s home and came to an abrupt stop. Before the driver settled the horses, Sun Ling admitted to herself she was tired. Emotionally as well as physically. Maybe even a little lonely.
Something had to change. She just didn’t know what.
The door to the carriage opened, and she was surprised to see Adora’s brother, John, poke his head inside and look around.
“Brother!” Adora exclaimed, interrupting their exchange with her outburst of delight. As always, she was John’s biggest fan, especially since the early death of his late wife.
“Good afternoon, ladies.” He put his hand out, helping Sun Ling down first, as she was nearest the door. His gesture brought back the memory of the first time she’d arrived at the Lane home, and how the driver had refused to offer his hand to her and Jingwei, disgusted by the color of their skin and the slant of their eyes. But here, so many years later, Sun Ling was treated more like family than hired help, though she still maintained some of her duties and probably received much more pay than the ill-mannered man from so long ago had.
“Sun Ling,” John said, a light smile twitching under the handle-barred mustache.
“What are you doing home?” she asked, stepping aside to let him assist Adora.
“I’m in town for a conference,” John said. “After hours of arguing with the city council about the stricter building and fire codes they should implement, I’m beat.”
Adora shook her head. “We were just discussing those exact sentiments at the tea that Cousin Betsy gave last week. You would think, after all that Chicago suffered only a few years ago in that great fire, that those in charge would make sure San Francisco is better protected.”
“My thoughts exactly, Sister. However, it’s hard for them to set aside budget for something they can’t imagine. I only wish they could’ve gone to Chicago like I did, and witness the devastation and loss of life. That would change things, to be sure. We most likely wouldn’t be in this great depression now if there hadn’t been so much related property loss there, which—on top of the post-war inflation and dislocations in Europe—continue to strain the bank reserves.”
“Yes, Papa has been in the most turbulent mood ever since he’s not getting top dollar for his imports any longer. If he’d listen to me at all, I’d recommend he stop his voyages to Asia and concentrate his efforts here in San Francisco with some other sort of business that can improve our economy as a whole.”
“I agree. But enough talk of that,” John said, then his expression changed to one less somber. “While I was here, I thought I’d stop by and see how the two loveliest girls of San Francisco are faring.”
Sun Ling looked down at her outfit, hoping it wasn’t too wrinkled. Today she wore a dark brown silk day dress with velvet floral designs down the sides. Over the years, she’d adopted fashions similar to Adora’s, except every dress she wore was stitched by her own hand and not store-bought. She patted her hair, confident the French twist was still in place because of all the pins she’d added to hold the weight.
That morning, she’d fixed a long braided hairpiece around Adora’s small bun, making her hair appear thicker and more elegant than it really was, but Sun Ling’s hair was so thick on its own that no hairpiece was ever needed. She did, however, try to use Adora’s Marcel iron on her hair, working for far too long to put some bend into her stubbornly straight hair before finally giving up after the second burn to her fingertips. After all her efforts, only a few strands had retained any curl whatsoever.
Not that John would notice. He looked weary, and she wondered if he was still up at all hours of the night, pacing the floor in guilt. A marriage of responsibility, he’d told her repeatedly. But that was before his slight wife took the fever and then her deathbed, without even a child to show for their few years of matrimony.
John didn’t have to tell her that he felt his inability to really care for the young woman was what weakened her and made her susceptible to the illness that, after several weeks, took her in the dead of the night. He thought if he’d been more devoted, more passionate, then perhaps she would’ve fought harder for her life.
Sun Ling felt sorrow for him.
“I should be thoroughly peeved at you for staying away so long,” Adora said, taking John’s arm and leading him toward the house.
Sun Ling followed. She and John were colleagues of a sort now, bound together in their fight against the persecution of the Chinese in San Francisco. But they didn’t talk much of their work around Adora and the rest of the family.
He looked over his shoulder and nodded at her. “Sun Ling, if we can meet in the garden in half an hour’s time, I’d appreciate it greatly.”
“Of course,” Sun Ling said, diverting her path and going toward the back of the house. She hated that, since his wife’s death, he’d adopted a more formal attitude with her. Gone was the easy comradery and friendliness between them, his guilt spilling over into every aspect of his being.