April 9, 1906
Eight days, sixteen hours, seven minutes before the earthquake
Suling slipped up the back staircase of Hing Chong Tailors and pulled the chain by the heavy wooden door. This time it was Hyacinth and not Amah Chung who opened it. Hyacinth wore a flowered cotton tunic and comfortable, loose trousers. By now the women who worked at Thornton’s parties dressed very casually in clothing that was easy to slip on and off, knowing they would change into sumptuous garments at the octagon house. They took elaborate care with their hair and cosmetics though, and Hyacinth hurried Suling into the large room where the others were getting ready.
“Different this time, isn’t it?” she remarked, seating Suling in front of a mirror. “An afternoon party instead of evening.” She began brushing Suling’s hair.
“Yes, and on a Monday rather than a weekend,” Suling said. “Same money, though. Where is Madam Ning?”
“She’s left Pearl in charge downstairs,” Butterfly said with a giggle. “Mr. Clarkson just came for an unexpected, umm, inspection.”
If not a friend, Suling at least counted Michael Clarkson as one of the more sympathetic policemen. It had been Clarkson who brought her home from Mile Rocks the day her parents died. He had wrapped a blanket around her and didn’t try to make her speak as she sat, silent and numb, eyes dry and staring. Clarkson waited at the laundry while one of the workers ran to find Third Uncle. Chinatown gossip traveled faster than any telegram service, and on the street outside, people were converging at the laundry. The small crowd parted to make way for a woman who wailed as though pursued by demons. Madam Ning had charged through the door, hair disheveled and makeup smeared.
“Tell me it’s not true. It can’t be true!” She dropped to her knees beside Suling, who simply continued staring into space. Madam Ning turned to look up at Clarkson. “Mike, what happened? This girl’s mother, she is my best friend.”
“I’m sorry, Nina,” he said, “both her parents are presumed drowned.”
Suling didn’t need to pound on the policeman’s chest or scream out her grief. Her auntie was doing enough of that for them both. Clarkson just held the sobbing woman, hushing her quietly with a tenderness that spoke of more than mere acquaintance.
Later, Dr. Ouyang came to the laundry with a packet of herbs and brewed a soothing drink, which Madam Ning coaxed Suling into swallowing. When Suling woke up, Madam Ning was asleep beside her in a chair by the bed. Dr. Ouyang was there, too, a silhouette at the open door, silently regarding her.
Suling shook the memory away with a lump in her throat, checked her makeup one more time, and followed the others into the carriage. She glanced up at an open window on the third floor of the brothel. Madam Ning was there, looking out to make sure her charges were on their way, on time for the engagement. Then the stern face turned from the window and smiled, and as the carriage pulled away, Suling saw the madam lift her face to Clarkson’s kiss. Perhaps some white devils are faithful in love, Suling thought.
At the octagon house, they followed Mrs. MacNeil as usual to the room where they got changed. Thornton had provided different garments this time. There were simple silk tunics decorated only at the neckline, hems, and sleeves with wide bands of embroidery; others were formal court robes weighed down with gold and silver thread. The one thing they all had in common was their color: blue.
Suling picked out a pleated skirt with a matching tunic blouse, blue damask woven with a pattern of clouds and bats. The skirt’s flat panels on the front and back were embroidered with flowers, fruit, and butterflies in the most intricate knot stitching she had ever seen. The side panels were pleated, each tiny pleat the same exact width as the others. How many hours of sewing had gone into this ensemble?
“It’s called a ‘fish scale one-hundred pleat skirt,’” Butterfly said, tying the skirt tapes at the back for Suling, “because when you walk, the pleats along the sides swing and ripple like fish scales.”
Out on the spiral staircase, garlands of fern, ivy, and hothouse flowers hung from wrought-iron railings. Guests arrived, mounting the marble steps to the third-floor mezzanine where a buffet had been laid out on linen-draped tables. There were platters of oysters on ice, slices of meat pie, cold salmon in aspic, lobster salad, cheeses and fruit. Niches in the wall held pedestaled marble basins filled with ice and bottles of wine, jugs of water and fruit juices.
Suling and the others moved through the rooms carrying trays of sparkling fruit drinks and champagne. They moved slowly and deliberately between the guests, walking as quietly as they could on the marble floor.
A hand bell tinkled, cutting through the hubbub of conversation, and the butler cleared his throat. “Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Thornton requests your presence in the music room upstairs, if you would be so kind.”
Suling rounded up the other girls and they took the service stairs up to the next floor. The tall windows in the music room were hung with deep blue velvet, drawn closed to keep the afternoon sun from angling in. Six chandeliers blazed from the coffered ceiling, lending the large room a theatrical ambiance. There was a grand piano on the dais, and round tables, each draped in blue-and-gold damask, had been set with dessert plates and silverware.
A footman changed out her tray, and now Suling’s silver platter held a selection of dainty sweet confections. Tiny fresh fruit tarts, meringues, and little cake squares beautifully glazed and covered in swirls of lacelike icing.
A smattering of applause and Mr. Thornton stepped in front of the grand piano, the jacket of his gray afternoon suit open, his shirt a blinding white. A blond woman stood quietly beside him. He rested one hand on the piano.
“My dear friends, honored guests, Mayor Schmitz,” he said. “My original excuse for this party was to show off a new plant, an Epiphyllum oxypetalum, a Queen of the Night. And indeed, it is on display in the Chinese Room. However, my excitement over acquiring this specimen has been unseated by another discovery. Please welcome Miss Gemma Garland.”
The blond woman bowed at the polite applause, took a long breath, and smiled. The pianist, an olive-skinned man with broad shoulders and dark, unruly hair, began to play.
Suling recognized the woman. Gemma Garland. Whose luggage she had helped carry to the boardinghouse. She studied the woman, her peach complexion and hair like summer wheat. The shapely figure, the modest smile.
The modest smile grew dazzling, confident, and the woman began to sing.
Suling recognized the voice. The new tenant at Taylor Street, who Alice had listened to with such bliss.
Even the most obnoxiously talkative guests fell silent as the soprano’s clear, thrilling voice reached out to the audience. Rapt and enthralled, every single guest turned to gaze at the performer. Suling didn’t understand the words, but the melody and Gemma’s clear, elegant soprano stirred a wistfulness in her, an awareness that there was beauty amid the sorrows of this world, and that some of it was right here in the marvelous voice that directed itself straight to her heart.
After a standing ovation, members of the audience surged toward the low stage while others returned downstairs where the buffet tables had been replenished during the performance. There were dainty sandwiches, fruit sorbets, and more champagne. Suling herded the other women downstairs where the butler pointed them at silver trays of little cakes and pastries, and it was back to work.
Suling glimpsed Thornton standing off to one side, watching as Gemma drifted down the staircase flanked by admirers. He gazed at the soprano, a triumphant gleam in his eyes. There was something else in the intensity of his gaze, something Suling couldn’t quite put her finger on, not yet.
“Marvelous, Mr. Thornton, simply marvelous!” Thornton was no longer alone. He’d been accosted by a society matron, her status on display in the ropes of pearls wound about her neck. “Where on earth did you find her?” Not waiting for an answer and still talking, the woman tugged him out to the mezzanine.
Suling slipped into the Chinese Room; she visited the Phoenix Crown whenever she was at the octagon house, never tiring of its elaborate beauty. Today, however, the doors to its display case were shut. But the glass case adjacent held a new item that made her breath catch: an exquisitely embroidered robe. A dragon robe in heavy blue silk brocade. She could hardly take her eyes off the intricate details. Had it been looted from the Forbidden City? Which empress or imperial concubine had worn it? Perhaps it had been touched by an emperor’s own hands as he presented it to a favorite consort.
Her eyes inspected the embroidery as critically as she had examined the fine gowns worn by Thornton’s guests. There was no comparison between what she saw on those women’s dresses and the superb work on this dragon robe. Of course it was still daytime and the women at the party were not wearing their finest evening gowns so she should reserve judgment, but still. Her eyes took in the tiny couching stitches that anchored gold and silver threads to the heavy blue silk. At the stem stitching, used to outline shapes, at the tiny Peking knots used to color in small areas.
In naming these stitches, she could hear her mother’s voice, her gentle instruction. “The Peking knot is also called the seed stitch, and sometimes the forbidden stitch because it’s so fine it is said women have gone blind using it too much.”
Suling stepped away from the glass case as a cluster of guests entered the Chinese Room, led by Thornton, Gemma on his arm. They moved from one cabinet to another, Thornton giving a tour of his treasures. To Suling’s delight, Alice Eastwood strolled in after the group, a plate of pastries in her hand. She looked at each dainty confection approvingly before taking a generous bite, apparently unconcerned about the crumbs falling on her bodice. She winked at Suling, who held out her platter of petits fours.
“I invited myself,” Alice whispered, taking two of the little cakes. “I telephoned and said I wanted to see his Queen of the Night. Thornton suggested I attend this party and view the plant at the same time.”
Alice strode over to a niche where a plant with luxuriant green leaves grew out of a large porcelain pot. “Look at her, Suling,” the botanist said, gazing fondly at the stems of dangling buds. “The Queen of the Night. More interesting than most people here. Oh, what I’d give to see this in bloom. They’re extremely fragrant, you know.”
They both backed up as Thornton’s entourage moved in their direction and stopped in front of the blue robe.
“Now, this one is called a dragon robe,” Thornton said.
“But why, when there’s not a single dragon on it?” said the society matron with the pearls.
“Dragons represent royalty in China,” he replied, “and dragon robes are what gowns of a particular design are called. They can only be worn by a member of the emperor’s family or a member of the court. Every embroidered symbol, even the colors on a gown, are regulated according to the wearer’s rank. This one is turquoise blue, indicating it was for an imperial consort. But there aren’t any official symbols in the decoration. Only butterflies and flowers, so this was a gown for private occasions such as family celebrations.”
“It’s beautiful,” Gemma breathed, gazing at it. “I can’t imagine anyone actually wearing this. It’s a work of art.”
“Well, Miss Garland, I must confess I brought this out from my collection for you,” Thornton said. “Perhaps one day you can wear it to sing in Madama Butterfly. I saw it last year at Covent Garden in London and I’d be willing to fund an opera company for a San Francisco run.”
There were excited murmurs, more small talk, and the guests gradually drifted away, leaving only Gemma to stand with Thornton. Gemma spied Alice and beckoned her over with a smile. Suling tried not to look as though she was eavesdropping, held out her tray of petits fours, and smiled vacuously at passing guests.
“I’ve heard so much about Madama Butterfly,” Gemma said. “I’m terribly envious Henry saw it in London.”
Henry. They were on first name terms already.
“I’m certain that any production with Gemma singing Cio-Cio-San would be an even more sublime performance than the London production,” he said.
Then Suling saw it again, the triumphant gleam in his eyes. This time she could put her finger on it. There was ambition in that look, something avid and acquisitive. As though he had bought a precious vase or painting no one else had been discerning enough to find. She wondered if Gemma had noticed that look. She wondered if she would’ve noticed it herself if Reggie hadn’t told her of Thornton’s blazing ambition to make a name for himself as a patron of the arts. Dance or music, painting or sculpture, the millionaire was always alert to talent. Clearly, he had made Gemma Garland his next project.
A stout man with owl-like features interrupted the conversation, bowing to the ladies. “Miss Garland, Miss Eastwood,” Thornton said, “may I introduce you to Mr. Martin Beck, owner and manager of the Orpheum Theater?”
The bespectacled man bent over Alice’s hand, then Gemma’s, then drew her away to speak in private.
“Madama Butterfly is set in Japan, not China,” Alice remarked, finally brushing the crumbs from her bodice. “This dragon robe would not be authentic to the setting.”
Thornton shrugged. “The only thing that matters to me is the music. When I saw that opera at Covent Garden, believe me, authentic costume was the last thing on my mind. The music was breathtaking.”
He looked at the dragon robe and sighed. “But this gown will not take part in that opera anytime soon. It’s been damaged at the back and my housekeeper has yet to find a needlewoman equal to the task of repairing the embroidery. Such skills are apparently unobtainable this side of the Pacific. I may send it to Hong Kong.”
“Nonsense,” Alice said. “It would be child’s play for Suling. Her embroidery work is the finest I’ve ever seen. I doubt you’d find better even in Paris. If anyone this side of the Pacific can repair this robe, it’s Suling.” She beckoned Suling to come over.
Thornton stared. “You mean this Sue? From that . . . establishment in Chinatown? Who makes silk flowers?”
“She’s not a prostitute, let’s be clear on that,” Alice said. “Her family owns a laundry. What do you think, Suling? Could you repair this robe?”
Suling put her tray down on an inlaid table and moved closer to the glass case. “May I see the damage on the garment, Mr. Thornton?”
Without hesitation, he pulled out a key chain and unlocked the glass case. He turned the dressmaker form around and pointed to the damaged section, a rip along the hem, part of the embroidered edge torn off as though by greedy hands. Suling knelt down and examined both sides of the hem.
It was not a large piece of work. It was the intricacy of it that excited Suling. She looked up at Thornton. “The motif of cloud, wave, and mountains at the bottom is embroidered separately on a band of silk attached to the hem. I would need silver thread and silk floss in the same colors to replicate the design on a band of silk. Then I’d attach it to the hem using the same stitching to blend old with new.”
“Good lord,” Thornton exclaimed. “Your voice. You’re the laundryboy!” He looked amused rather than shocked. “Well then, how soon can you start on this dress?”
“Not for another week,” she said. “I’m still making those Queen of the Night flowers for you, Mr. Thornton.”
“Well, I’d like you to work on the dress instead.” Thornton’s voice held barely contained excitement. He looked across the room at Gemma, still talking to the Orpheum’s manager. “I have an idea, and it involves this robe and the opening night of Carmen. Eight days, Sue. Can you make the repairs in eight days?”
Suling hesitated. “I could. But I’d have to work day and night to do it.”
“Name your price,” he said.
Her mind added up the hours, the dollars, wondering what Thornton might be willing to pay. He could afford anything, of course, but what did he consider reasonable? How did one deal with the very rich?
“I’ll name a price,” Alice interrupted, not waiting for Suling to reply, “one hundred and sixty dollars.”
One hundred and sixty dollars. Suling held back a gasp. She was still kneeling beside the glass case. If she’d been standing, her legs would not have held her. She forced herself to rise from the floor. Thornton would never agree to such an amount.
“Done,” Thornton said. “In eight days, when you’ve finished. But that robe does not leave the house. It’s worth too much. I’ll have a room set up as your sewing room. You’ll come in every day to work.”
Thanks to Alice, Suling now knew that whatever she asked for was nothing to him. “I’d prefer twenty dollars a day,” she said, “payment after each day’s work.” In case she had to make her escape before finishing the robe.
“Done,” Thornton repeated. “Twenty dollars a day, eight days.” Then he chuckled. “You Chinese, as sharp as Jews.”
The clock chimed four and Thornton gave Alice a nod, then sauntered to the staircase to bid his guests farewell as they left, the perfect host.
“Now, that’s something I never expected him to say,” Alice murmured, a frown creasing her forehead.
But Suling barely heard Alice’s words. She had to bite her lip to stop herself from screaming with delight. Eight days to earn more money than she could steal from the laundry cashbox, more money than her little collars and cuffs could ever sell for. She’d find a way to evade Third Uncle. Oh yes, whatever it took, she would find a way.