The Paper Daughters of Chinatown - Heather B. Moore Page 0,5

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