The Paper Daughters of Chinatown - Heather B. Moore Page 0,7

eyes and refocused on Miss Culbertson.

The director’s next words were spoken in a quiet, even tone. “You’re tall, Miss Cameron, your eyes are green, and your hair a deep bronze. You will stand out, you must realize, in Chinatown. Not only that, but your Scottish accent will attract attention.”

Dolly swallowed against the sudden rawness of her throat. “Is my accent a problem?”

“Not inherently,” Miss Culbertson said. “But it will certainly draw notice from those who wish us to fail in our mission.”

The breath in Dolly’s lungs deflated. “I cannot help my appearance,” she said, lifting her chin, “and I’ve never judged others for theirs.”

Miss Culbertson eyed her for a long moment. Faint sounds reached through the closed door. Singing? “You will stay then,” the director said at last, her tone softer than it had been, “despite all that I’ve told you?”

Dolly held the older woman’s gaze. She’d thought that stepping off the train had been the turning point in her life. But she’d been wrong. This moment was. The director was more than twice Dolly’s age, and yet, she was living and working here. “Are you staying, Miss Culbertson?”

Miss Culbertson’s brown eyes glimmered with surprise, but she gave a small, determined nod. “Of course.”

Dolly muffled the rest of her questions. There would be time for them later. “Then I will stay too.”

“Although as a race the Chinese are characterized for their love of domestic life, few family circles have been formed among them in San Francisco. Woman, the important link in the sacred chain, is not here; or if she is here she has been forced to engage in that infamous pursuit that is the destroyer of homes. Of the whole number of Chinese women in San Francisco, there are, perhaps less than a hundred who are lawful wives, or keepers of the home.”

—B. E. Lloyd, Lights and Shades in San Francisco, 1876

1895

“Miss Cameron,” seven-year-old Yoke Lon Lee cried. “Kicking!”

The young girl whom everyone called Lonnie was prone to hysterics. She was deathly afraid of fire and couldn’t work in the kitchens. The burn marks on her arms were a testament to the reason behind her fear.

There was no fire in the sewing room, but Dolly couldn’t brush off Lonnie’s panicked voice.

Dolly had heard the sound of the kick.

“Kicking. Stop her!” Lonnie cried again.

“I saw her,” Dong Ho confirmed, another scrap of a girl who had two moods: sweet or feisty.

Dolly knew it was only seconds before an all-out fight began. That was something she had witnessed more than once now.

Dolly turned to face another Chinese girl of about ten years old with horrifying scars along her jaw and arms: Tien Fu Wu. The young girl who’d been frightened of her on that first day at the mission home and who, since then, had shown nothing but defiance. Tien had made no secret of disliking Dolly, although she seemed to tolerate Miss Culbertson.

“Tien,” Dolly said in a soft tone, “we must keep our hands and feet to ourselves.”

Tien didn’t make eye contact, but Dolly knew she’d heard because the honey color of her face had flushed.

“I’m not kicking,” Tien said in surprisingly good English.

Dolly exhaled. Should she argue with the girl or just ask her to behave from here on out?

One week had passed since Dolly’s arrival at the mission home. The Chinese girls didn’t run from her anymore, and she’d learned everyone’s names. The younger ones were more apt to display unimpeded affection, and Dolly often received hugs from a few of them. Their sweet affection melted her heart more with each passing day.

Anna, Miss Culbertson’s niece, had whispered tidbits of the girls’ stories until Dolly could hardly bear to hear any more. The younger girls were more prone to tantrums and arguing, whereas the older girls struggled with seeing the light through all the darkness they’d been through. Some of them didn’t even emerge from their rooms for days at a time.

With Tien, the label precocious was too mild. Dolly could see the girl’s mind working through her lovely dark eyes. She was intelligent and a quick learner. Despite her pretty features of rosy cheeks and pale gold complexion, the scar on Tien’s jaw told a darker history. Yet she knew exactly what she was doing and the effect it would have. She didn’t seem to care about consequences, though; in fact, she welcomed them.

Still, Dolly treaded carefully with Tien. Dolly had read the girl’s record in the ledger and discovered that Tien had been sold by her