Victorian San Francisco Stories (11 page)
Read Victorian San Francisco Stories Online
Authors: M. Louisa Locke
Millie was glad to see the fond look on Richard Porter’s face when his wife mentioned f
uture children and the polite way he examined the cap that looked so tiny in his large hands. He returned the cap to his wife and indicated that she and her sister move a little away from his wife, who was busy trying the cap on Master Augustus, who managed to look even more self-satisfied.
“Miss Minnie and Miss Millie,” Mr. Porter said, taking an envelope out of the inner pocket of his suit coat, “I just wanted to settle our accounts today. You will notice that there is a little extra as my token of appreciation for all the support you have given my wife during these last difficult months. I know that she sorely felt the lack of company at the end of her confinement, and your visits cheered her up so. The last time I saw you, I was struck by your admonition that I spend more time with my wife. I wanted to assure you that I took your words to heart and that I have changed my ways.”
With a graceful bow, he handed the envelope over to Minnie, who smiled up at him and said, “That is excellent. You know I gave Mr. Andrew Roberts a bit of a scold as well when I returned his missing handkerchief. I was pleased to hear he was planning to take his charming wife on an extended European tour. We spinsters are used to fending for ourselves, but you gentlemen must be careful of your wives. My goodness, me, I don’t mean to chatter on about all of this. As I always say, ‘The least said, the soonest mended.’”
The End
Annie Fuller watched as the horsecar she just exited made its way up Stockton towards North Beach. Glad her new wool and velvet-trimmed basque coat went down to her knees, she thrust her gloved hands into its deep square pockets and shivered. March winds could be cruel in San Francisco, and at ten minutes before seven, the sun hadn’t yet made it up past Telegraph Hill to warm the morning air. She thought of Nate Dawson who lived with his uncle in a boarding house on Vallejo, about six blocks northeast of where she stood, and she wondered if he would still be asleep in his cold attic room after working late last night on some legal documents. Or cramming down burnt toast and bitter coffee before going to his uncle’s law firm where he was junior par
tner. Annie smiled.
All Nate did was complain about how bad the food was at Mrs. McPherson’s, and last week she had teased him, saying he wanted to marry her just so he could move into the O’Farrell Street boarding house she owned. Beatrice, Annie’s cook and housekeeper, was already talking about how she would fatten up Nate’s tall frame when they married and he moved in. Annie smiled again.
When
…not
if
…they married. One simple change in word made
all
the difference.
After a fish-laden cart trundled past on its way down towards Market Street, she crossed the intersection and began to walk up Washington. The address she had been given was 916 Was
hington, but the letter from Mrs. Greenstock directed Annie to go past the front entrance and around to the door off of Stone Street. Halfway up the block, she slowed down, seeing her destination, the Methodist Episcopal Church’s Chinese Domestic Mission. The handsome square building spread between Trenton Street and a smaller side street, which must be Stone, and it was four stories high if she counted the basement rooms that had windows and an entrance on Trenton and the top attic floor created by a substantial mansard roof. Whoever had planned the Mission had ensured ample light for the inhabitants. Rows of arched bay windows stuck out from all the slightly convex walls of the attic floor, and there were numerous tall windows on the two main floors. While constructed in wood, the building’s corners were milled to look like bricks, as were the two vertical columns of slightly raised design that decorated the front of the building. All in all, the Chinese Mission looked stately and inviting but very different from the crowded and narrow buildings of China Town, just a block to the east, with their jumble of awnings, balconies, and banners.
Not wanting to be late for her appointment, Annie stopped her survey and walked rapidly up the wooden sidewalk and around the corner to stand in front of a door that was flush with the street. She rang the bell. While she waited for someone to answer, she took a deep breath to steady her nerves, reminding herself that Mrs. Greenstock, whose husband, Reverend Oliver Greenstock, was the superintendent of the Chinese Mission, had requested her help, not the other way around. She had contacted her last week on behalf of the Women’s Missionary Society of the Pacific Coast, asking if Annie would consult with them about their current investments. They hoped to improve their financial status so they could increase the income for the maintenance of the Female Refuge that was housed on the top floor of the Mission. What was so exciting—and terrifying—was that Mrs. Greenstock had asked for Mrs. Fuller’s help, not Madam Sibyl’s, and Annie sincerely hoped the Missionary Society women would never learn that Mrs. Annie Fuller and Madam Sibyl were one and the same.
When Annie opened the O’Farrell Street boarding house in the winter of 1878, she’d hoped that this would end the years of financial insecurity that had plagued her during her short marriage and throughout her five years as a widow, dependent on her in-laws. But the home she inherited from her aunt and uncle had room for only eight boarders, and, since she was unwilling to run a slovenly house like Mrs. McPherson’s, she soon discovered that the income from the boarders wasn’t sufficient to cover all the expenses. As a result, Annie invented Madam Sibyl, using the expertise she’d gained from her stock-broker father to give business advice to local San Franciscans. Two years later, Madam Sibyl was a grand success, but Annie’s growing discomfort with pretending her advice came from palmistry and astrology meant she was seeking a way to retire Madam Sibyl permanently without losing the needed income. That was why this appointment was so important.
Annie thought of Nate again. She hadn’t told him about Mrs. Greenstock’s letter; in fact, she hadn’t confided in him at all about her plan to start building a clientele as herself, not her Madam Sibyl. Nate had already accepted, albeit reluctantly, that after marriage he would be living in his wife’s home—property that she would continue to own, thanks to the California state constit
ution. What he hadn’t accepted was that she would continue to work as Madam Sybil.
What he said
was,
that they would have to wait until his uncle was willing to step back and let him take a bigger share of the firm’s business before they could afford to marry. Annie didn’t want to wait for years, not when she knew that with the boarding house and Madam Sibyl’s income they should be financially secure enough to marry right away. But she also understood that it wouldn’t do Nate’s career as an attorney much good to be married to a practicing clairvoyant—pretend or not.
So, if she could find enough respectable organizations, like the Women’s Missionary Soci
ety, that were willing to take financial advice from a woman, maybe he would be willing to set a definite date to turn the promise of marriage into a reality.
*****
Shaking Annie’s hand firmly, Miss Greenstock asked if she would like to be shown around the rest of the Mission before going upstairs. “Mother thought it might help you to have a feel for the entire building and how the Female Refuge fits into the Mission as a whole,” she said, taking a key and opening up a door that led into a corridor. “The Stone entrance and stairs go only to the Female Refuge; it is our way of limiting access and protecting the women.” She led Annie down a hallway and then into a long bench-filled room she called the chapel that took up the whole width of the first floor.
At the far end, a lectern and an old upright piano sat under a large plain wooden cross, which was affixed to the wall between a pair of windows. There were two older Chinese men sitting side-by-side; one was reading softly out loud from a large Bible, while the other listened intently, his eyes following along the text. When they noticed they weren’t alone, the two men stood up and bowed gravely to Evelyn and Annie.
Evelyn Greenstock bowed more deeply in return. Turning to Annie, she pointed out two sets of wooden folding doors, saying, “We have just concluded morning service, and most of our members have gone on to their jobs, but the rooms are converted to three classrooms in the eve
ning when our evening school is held.”
Annie, who had recently spent some time teaching at Girls High, noted the blackboards on the windowless wall abutting the corridor and the lists of basic spelling words written on one of them. “How many pupils do you have attending?” she asked, thinking how difficult it would be to sit on the hard wooden benches after a long day of working at the kind of jobs that most of the Chinese held—making shoes, rolling cigars in dingy basement factories, or working in over-heated kitchens as domestic servants—a job she had personally held for a brief time.
“It depends,” the younger woman replied. “English classes fill up first, and we notice that in certain months when some more seasonal jobs disappear—the classes expand. We do have a few men who have been coming ever since the Mission opened up ten years ago, and they have graduated to more advanced subjects. Three of our former students are now permanently on the staff. Chan Hon Fan over there is one of them; he helps lead our bible studies in Chinese.”
As they left the room and walked further down the corridor to another set of stairs that were opposite the main Washington Street entrance, she said, “Downstairs is where there are rooms to let. It is a source of income for the Mission and a safe and cheap place for members of my f
ather’s congregation to live. But let’s go on up to the second floor, which is where the young women from the Refuge have their classes during the day. They are currently on the top floor where their rooms are located, finishing breakfast, but they should be coming down soon.”
When they reached the second floor, she pointed to a closed door with a conventional door knocker. “That is the entrance to the parsonage. One third of this floor is our family’s living quarters—my home for the past ten years. The rest of the floor is devoted to another two clas
srooms,” she said, unlocking a second door and ushering Annie into another room. “At night, they are turned over to the men who attend the evening school.”
“I see that these can be opened up into one room, as well,” said Annie, nodding towards the single set of folding doors that were only partially closed and thinking how cleverly this building had been planned. The room they were standing in had regular desks, with books and simple block toys sitting on the shelves built under each window. Scarlet banners with Chinese chara
cters embroidered in gold thread hung on the walls. She glimpsed what looked like a standing globe, more desks, and bookshelves in the adjoining room. Light streamed in from the sun that had now breached Telegraph Hill, bathing the rooms in a soft glow.
“Yes, my parents worked closely with the architect that was hired to ensure that everything was as functional as possible. We tend to keep the folding door closed during the day to divide the youngest girls from the older women.”
Thinking she’d heard a change in Miss Greenstock’s tone when she spoke of dividing the girls, Annie said, “What is the average age of the females you take in? I had thought that this was primarily a refuge for older girls, women even, who had been rescued from….” She stopped, not sure what term the daughter of a minister would find acceptable.
“From their
life of sin
, as some of the
good women
of the Women’s Missionary Society put it. As if the girls who are imprisoned in the brothels and cribs that line the alleys of China Town are any more responsible for the immorality of their lives than the slaves in the South were for theirs.” Evelyn Greenstock closed her lips tightly and frowned.
“I understand that many of the women who come to California from China are trapped into virtual slavery,” Annie said quietly, hoping to encourage the young woman to continue.
“Yes, yes. The Page Act makes it practically impossible for respectable relatives of the Chinese workers to emigrate here, and yet men of all races seem very happy to make enormous profits exploiting the few women who are smuggled into the country.” Miss Greenstock pursed her lips again, her gray eyes darkening. “These girls come from the poorest families in southern China, hoping to escape starvation, find a husband. When they get here, if they aren’t sold into brothels or turned into concubines for wealthy merchants, they become ‘mui tsai,’ indentured servants working without wages for the merchants who imported them.”
Annie shook her head sympathetically and asked, “How many women or girls are currently in the Refuge?”
“We have fifteen staying with us full time, for now. Seven of them are between the ages of fifteen and twenty and one is in her early twenties, but she looks much older than that. She is a ‘mui tai’ who was brutally beaten by her master and rescued by one of the police who are sympathetic to our cause. We have two women in their thirties who are so broken down that the the men who
owned them
threw them out onto the street rather than continue to provide them with even the basic necessities. Chinese prostitutes don’t live long.”
