The Paper Daughters of Chinatown - Heather B. Moore Page 0,6

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 said, “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