April 10, 1906
Seven days, four hours, six minutes before the earthquake
It was Fate, Suling decided. The gods approved. How else to explain that after she decided to forget about Reggie, Henry Thornton had as good as tossed a bundle of money into her lap? For work she loved to do, longed to do. Or that Third Uncle had believed so readily when she told him she’d spend most of the week at Hing Chong Tailors working on her wedding garments? Better equipment and better light, she’d explained.
Third Uncle hardly noticed her these days. The gambling parlor did all it could to keep him playing happily and he was rarely home. Ever since Dr. Ouyang set the wedding date, Third Uncle had been living large. All Chinatown knew Ouyang was paying him a huge sum for Suling, so Third Uncle’s favorite gambling parlor was being generous, advancing him large amounts on credit. Once Ouyang paid up, however, Third Uncle would begin losing. He was the only one who couldn’t see this.
Suling could finish the repairs on the dragon robe in time, she knew she could. The torn border didn’t need a large replacement piece of embroidery. She knew how she would embroider over the edges of the patch to blend it in with the original stitches, picturing the swirling outlines of silver and blue above diagonal lines of silver, gold, and blue. She knew exactly what to do and the prospect made her shiver with delight.
Only two years ago she had helped her mother sew a dragon robe for Madam Ning, who liked offering her clients new fantasies. A dragon robe, and men could pretend they were enjoying an imperial consort’s favors. Suling and her mother didn’t embroider an entire robe, that would’ve taken too long and cost too much. A mere costume didn’t require rigorous authenticity. Ming Lee sewed a robe in heavy cherry-pink brocade and stitched a pre-embroidered panel of birds and flowers onto the garment. The traditional motif of stylized waves, clouds, and mountains at the hem, however, they embroidered themselves. Ming Lee wanted to teach Suling some special stitches. Suling accompanied her mother to Fung Tai Dry Goods store, the only shop that carried the special gold and silver thread.
“We don’t ever actually sew using gold and silver thread,” her mother explained, showing her the metallic thread. “It’s too thick and brittle to pull through a needle. We use this, a couching stitch in pale yellow or white silk floss, and just attach metallic threads to fabric. Think of them as tiny basting stitches that apply thread to fabric.”
Now Suling chatted with Fung Tai’s owner and purchased thread for the dragon robe; the shopkeeper assumed Suling needed them for her wedding wardrobe. The entire neighborhood seemed to know about her upcoming nuptials.
At the Thornton mansion, Mrs. MacNeil met her at the tradesmen’s entrance. She looked at Suling, dressed in her delivery boy clothes, and shook her head in wonder. “Bless me, I never would’ve guessed you were a girl,” she said. “Well, the master has given you one of the smaller rooms on the third floor. Come with me.”
The room wasn’t small, not to Suling. And to her relief the light was excellent, sunshine streaming in through two tall windows. The dragon robe was on a dressmaker’s form placed away from direct light. A worktable and chair were positioned by the window. Mrs. MacNeil opened a door to reveal a tiled bathroom with a water closet.
“These are the facilities, in case you’ve never seen one for indoors,” she said. “It’s not because you’re special, every bedroom has one. And I expect you to clean it right after using.”
She pointed at a tea trolley. “Pitcher of water, some biscuits. You can go downstairs to the servants’ hall for your meals, but mind you use the back stairs and corridors, never the central staircase.”
“Thank you, Mrs. MacNeil,” Suling said. “I have everything I need.”
“Mrs. MacNeil, Mrs. MacNeil!” An auburn-haired maid rushed into the room, cheeks red with excitement, the unruly curls escaping from her cap at odds with the severe black dress and starched white apron.
“Kathleen, what have I said about running? Only in the servants’ areas. What is it?”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. MacNeil. But a wagon has come with Miss Garland’s things,” the maid said. “Did you know she’ll be living here now?”
“Yes, I did,” Mrs. MacNeil said. “Who do you think sent the wagon? Who do you think got the Blue Suite ready first thing this morning? Tell the footmen to bring everything to the third floor.”
“Oh, there isn’t much luggage at all,” Kathleen said. “But there’s a birdcage!”
“Let’s hope Miss Garland’s not as messy as the other one,” Mrs. MacNeil said, shaking her head as she left the room.
The maid hurried behind the older woman. “Who will you assign to be her lady’s maid?” she asked, sounding hopeful.
Suling closed the door. So Gemma Garland was Thornton’s new mistress. Suling wasn’t naive enough to think a woman could move into a beautiful suite of rooms in a home like this, with an owner like Henry Thornton, and not be expected to share his bed. And Gemma Garland, if Suling was not mistaken, most certainly was not that young or that new to this business.
Suling changed back to her usual garb in the tiled bathroom, glad to be out of the tight-fitting vest. She inspected the padded chair beside the table, gave the seat an experimental spin, and adjusted the height. She assembled the slats of wood in her bag into a square frame and attached the blue silk to the frame by lacing heavy thread through the edge of the fabric and the row of holes in the frame, carefully keeping the tension even on all sides until the blue silk was stretched as taut as the surface of a drum.
Then she took a large sheet of onionskin paper from her bag and cut off a piece slightly larger than the section of damaged border. Only then did she approach the dragon robe. She held the thin paper against the border and with a thin stick of charcoal, traced the pattern on the hem.
Hours later, Suling looked up from the embroidery frame, disturbed by loud trilling laughter outside the door. She stretched her arms toward the ceiling and shook her head. She had only stopped once to eat the buns she’d brought and drink some cold tea. The sun had angled around, telling her it was late afternoon and time for her to leave. She had done a satisfyingly good day’s work. She had drawn a detailed pattern on the paper then transferred it to the fabric. She had stem stitched most of the outlines for the intricate motif. She couldn’t take the robe home, but she could work on the strip of blue silk at night in her bedroom. Tomorrow, Wednesday, she would begin the hard work of tacking silver thread to heavy blue silk. That would take the most time.
The days flew by, the work so engrossing Suling barely noticed interruptions. She often stood up to rub her neck or look out the window to rest her eyes and only then would realize there were fresh plates of food and fruit on the tray, that the teapot had been filled with hot water and fresh tea leaves. Someone had done all this without disturbing her. She suspected Little Fong and Big Fong, one filling the plate in the kitchen, the other bringing it quietly into the room.
There was loud conversation out on the mezzanine. She opened the door and peered out to discover Alice, striding up the staircase behind an anxious Mrs. MacNeil.
“I know Mr. Thornton is out, I only want a few minutes with Suling. I have other errands after this, so rest assured I won’t stay long.”
With a wide smile, Suling threw open the door and her friend swept inside the room. Mrs. MacNeil returned down the stairs looking resigned, as so many people did when confronted with Alice’s resolve.
“It’s Saturday. You’ve been at this for five days now, am I right? Are you happy with your progress?” Alice scrutinized the embroidery frame, circled around the blue dragon robe, and helped herself to some fruit. The curator was looking cool in a crisp white blouse and navy skirt. Her blouse would’ve been as austere as a man’s shirt if not for the tiny pleats on its bodice. Suling longed to embroider a blouse for Alice, tiny pale green fern fronds in silk on white linen, not the usual daisies.
“Yes. It’s quite amazing how quickly it goes when there’s no one to bother you,” Suling said. “And I continue working at night back home, too.”
She didn’t tell Alice about other things, not exactly interruptions, but momentary distractions. Noises, music. The chords and arpeggios each day from the music room as the dark-haired piano player warmed up. And then the singing; Gemma’s practices and voice lessons went on for at least two hours. The long music sessions were followed by a seemingly endless stream of dressmakers and milliners who traipsed up the stairs carrying bolts of fabric and ribbons, laughing and talking excitedly at the prospect of an entire new wardrobe for Henry Thornton’s new mistress. And in the mornings when Suling first arrived, she could detect the lingering but unmistakable sickly sweet smell of opium. Opium, the sin that corrupted lives and ruined San Francisco’s reputation, according to politicians and newspapers. Except when used by rich white men and their mistresses, apparently.
“And Mr. Thornton is honoring the agreement?” Alice asked. “You’re being paid every day?”
“Yes, there’s money on the worktable every morning,” Suling replied, “you can rest easy on that. Miss Eastwood, I am so grateful you jumped in to negotiate for me. I still can’t believe anyone would pay so much.”
“We both heard him at the party, my dear. If not for you, he’d be sending the robe to Hong Kong. That would cost far more and take much longer. Men like Thornton like things to happen right away and will pay for it.”
Suling rummaged in her bag and held out the Callot Soeurs catalog Alice had lent her.
“Ah yes. We were talking about you finding work at a fashion house,” Alice said. “I’ve given it much thought. I’m delighted you want to spread your wings. You need an employer who truly values your skills.”
There was going to be a “but,” Suling thought. There was always a “but,” a “however,” an “unfortunately.”
“As you know,” Alice continued, “I’m not interested in fashion, but I have a very stylish friend in New York who’s on the board of a garden club. Such a knowledgeable group of women, any of them would make a wonderful botanist. But I digress.”
Mrs. Julian Vanderhaeghe of New York had dropped in on Alice while touring through California. Over lunch together Alice had spoken of Suling and her desire to work at a fashion house. Mrs. Vanderhaeghe was intrigued by the notion.
“She’s headed back to New York now, but Mrs. Vanderhaeghe offered to introduce you around if your embroidery impresses her enough,” Alice said. “Have you any samples you could send her, Suling? You don’t need to go there yourself just to show her your work.”
“I can take samples to New York and show her myself after I’ve finished the dragon robe,” Suling said, giddy at the thought. “Oh, Miss Eastwood, thank you!”
“But my dear, nothing is settled, it’s only a possibility.” Alice’s brow furrowed. “And what about your family? Do they approve of you leaving home?”
Suling wasn’t going to tell Alice she was being married off in five days. “I can leave San Francisco anytime. The only family I have is my uncle. He just wants to be rid of me.” That much was true.
“But I don’t like the idea of you traveling alone, Suling,” Alice said. “Why not wait another month? I’ll be giving a lecture in New York. We can travel together and I’ll introduce you to Mrs. Vanderhaeghe myself.”
Suling smiled. “Yes, of course I can wait a month.” But of course she couldn’t. And she wouldn’t. New York had telephone directories. Surely she could find the Vanderhaeghe home address and surely Alice’s business card would get her in the door. Just knowing Mrs. Vanderhaeghe’s name made Suling’s plans more feasible. She would take the next step and buy a train ticket.
Suling finally went to the train station on Monday morning and paid for a ticket to New York City, the first eastbound train on the morning of April eighteenth. By then she’d have all the money from Thornton. She closed her eyes for a moment and clutched the little piece of cardboard tightly in her hand, then tucked it into her pocket. Next, the octagon house. She was so close to finishing the repairs, she might even be a day early. Leaving the station, she found herself pushing through a crowd. Two men elbowed past, nearly knocking her down, running toward a train that had just pulled in, the locomotive still puffing small bursts of steam. The crowd was converging onto the same platform.
“Is that his train?” a female voice said, anxious and somewhat out of breath. “We haven’t missed seeing him, I hope.”
A group of women hurried by, almost running, purses clutched tightly to their chests. They skirted past a Chinese man in a dark blue tunic and trousers, a servant. He was looking at Suling with a puzzled frown. She ducked her head and turned around, made her way to the steps by the station exit. A roar of applause from the crowd made her stop and turn back around to look.
“Mr. Caruso, Mr. Caruso!”
“Welcome to San Francisco, Mr. Caruso!”
A dark-haired, mustachioed man stepped out of the carriage. He waved and bowed. So this was the great tenor who would be singing at the Grand Opera House in two days’ time. Well, in two days’ time Suling would be on her way to New York.