by Ciji Ware
“Well, you can certainly report to Mayor Schmitz that we’re making excellent progress here at the Fairmont.”
The man scanned an enormous pile of rubble being loaded onto a flatbed wagon. “Hard to see it. Think maybe you need more people put on?”
Amelia glanced around, looking for Julia, until she remembered she’d taken the morning ferry to Oakland to catch up on some paperwork at the carriage house office.
She summoned her sunniest smile for the visitor.
“Our workforce and plans have been approved by the Committee on the Reconstruction of San Francisco. And surely, you know of Rudolph Spreckels—that admirable reformer who’s done such a wonderful job recently, keeping the building trades honest—and some of the other worthy gentlemen in that group? Why, even the mayor and Abe Reuf attend the meetings, don’t they?”
“Wouldn’t know ’bout that.”
“Well, that Committee agrees that this project has all the workers we need. But if you’ll just leave your name and an address, I’ll be sure to let Mr. Spreckels or the mayor’s office know, should we require more help.”
Without responding, he turned abruptly and walked down the hill. Amelia watched his retreat, amazed that Schmitz and Reuf had the gall to dispatch one of their heavies to try to extort payoffs from the owners of the Fairmont Hotel, of all places.
Upon Julia’s return, Amelia immediately reported the exchange. Morgan quickly informed Herbert and Hartland Law, who, in turn, had a word with crusader Rudolph Spreckels—and the little man from City Hall was seen no more.
As the weeks passed, the steady banging of hammers and the sight of the Bay View’s landmark turrets appearing against the sky were proof that her crew was making significant progress.
Meanwhile, Julia, dashing up and down the Fairmont’s scaffolding all day to inspect the enormous amount of restoration work under way, was showing increasing signs of fatigue. A spate of dank autumn days had exacerbated Morgan’s ongoing ear infection, a condition that had troubled her since her childhood.
There were other indications that the pressures exerted by J.D. Thayer and the Law brothers on their chief architect were intense. Julia was often testy not only toward Amelia, but Ira Hoover as well.
“The woman’s always right,” Ira muttered at the end of a long day in a rare show of irritation, “but when I’m right, she never acknowledges it.”
Amelia understood his frustration only too well. Julia Morgan might be as close to a genius as her staff was ever likely to know, but at times, she could be hell to work for.
***
By late October, the Morgan team commemorated the sixth-month anniversary of the quake by removing the last mountainous pile of charred rubble from the Fairmont’s upper floors, while the Bay View’s framing was now completely enclosed.
Soon after, most of the Fairmont’s steel girders, joists, and beams were in place on floors one through five. Next, damaged sections of reinforced masonry on the interior were repaired up to the fifth floor as well. These milestones prompted everyone at the firm to breathe more easily.
Meanwhile, over at the Bay View, Thayer put all his attention on advancing the construction of the hotel while a mountain of rubble still remained on the site where the Gentlemen’s Gambling Club had once stood.
“We can’t just leave that mess there,” Amelia complained to J.D. “It’s become a definite hazard to the workers and scavengers who climb over it at night, looking for anything of value. It’s also blocking access to the big underground safe and the cistern.”
“Well, if you can find some laborers to remove that mess, be my guest.”
“Can’t your Mr. Kemp corral some Chinese workers for the job? They desperately need employment, you know.”
J.D. shot her an odd look, but made no further comment.
When Amelia repeated the gist of the conversation, Julia remarked dryly, “It would seem that even Ezra Kemp dare not employ Chinese workers, or the white carpenters will walk off the job.”
Following this pronouncement, a paroxysm of sneezes overtook her and Amelia hastened to brew her employer a cup of hot tea.
One chilly morning in early November when Amelia walked to the shed before departing for the Bay View, Julia was huddled in the spartan construction shed with her woolen scarf, per usual, wrapped around her throat and her feet swaddled in a blanket. She was already sipping her perpetual mug of hot tea, looking worn and drawn, her round glasses magnifying the dark circles ringing her eyes. Amelia guessed that the poor soul probably wanted nothing more than a month in her own bed.
“Ears bothering you again?” she asked sympathetically.
Before Julia could answer she was seized by another fit of sneezing. When it subsided, she heaved a sigh. “I shall be seriously ill if I don’t get more sleep and have a few meals cooked by someone other than myself. I haven’t done the billing in two weeks.” She pressed her forefingers on the base of both her ears to ease the pain. “Amelia, would you consider taking complete charge of the Bay View for a few days while Ira oversees everything at the Fairmont? I must try to shake this infection.”
Julia looked small and frail, her voice taking on the uncharacteristic tone of a supplicant. She must be very ill indeed, thought Amelia.
“Of course I would,” she assured her with genuine concern. For her own part, her heart leapt at the idea that she would serve as de facto architect-and-builder-in-charge, since J.D. constantly depended on her to double-check the invoices with him as supplies were delivered and ride herd on his unreliable workers. Perhaps this situation offered her the perfect opportunity to show Julia her professionalism and thus earn her respect. “I’m honored you’d ask me to.”
“I’m having a telephone installed in the basement here at the Fairmont and expect you to call me each evening and keep me informed about every detail. I am placing a lot of responsibility on your shoulders, Amelia,” she said, sounding worried. “Are you sure you’re willing to be accountable as a principal member of the firm until I return?”
“Yes, of course I am.” The truth was, she was performing many of those duties already—and reporting every move she made to her exacting employer.
“I’ll speak to my clients today.” Julia stifled a cough with the end of her woolen scarf. “Just remember, you and Ira are to check with me whenever you have a question or a problem, understood?”
“Understood.”
An hour later, Amelia was called into the shed, just as Ira was leaving.
“I’ve already spoken with Mr. Thayer,” Julia announced. “He is amenable to putting you in full charge in my absence. I assured both the Laws and him that I will be available by telephone whenever needed.” Julia regarded her steadily. “Remember, Amelia, you and Ira are merely placeholders. All decisions are to be made by me. Ira understands this, but are you quite clear on this point?”
“Of course. Yours is the final word on everything.”
“And try not to let the charming Mr. Thayer or his friend, Dr. McClure, distract you.”
Amelia attempted to mask her annoyance at Julia’s line of admonishment. Rather than point out that Angus McClure had stopped by exactly twice in recent weeks and Thayer now slept under his own, drafty roof, she determined her best course was to tactfully change the subject.
“I do hope you’re feeling better soon. It’s obvious you need this respite.”
Julia ignored Amelia’s show of concern. “Just be sure you’re at the Bay View site no later than 5:30 every morning to receive early morning shipments.”
For weeks now, she and J.D. Thayer had been checking in the supplies each morning at dawn.
“I’m sure everything will be fine on both sites,” Amelia murmured, though privately she’d begun to have her doubts.
To her would fall the responsibility of anticipating problems involving suppliers who were forever delivering their stores late, or not at all. She would have to deal with Kemp’s recalcitrant workers, and Thayer’s eccentricitie
s. Her private concerns would have to be put aside, even though she owed her mother in Paris several return letters and poor Aunt Margaret in Oakland felt utterly abandoned while mourning her late brother.
The press of Amelia’s duties had even forced her to refuse invitations from both Angus McClure and her attorney, John Damler, to sample two newly opened restaurants. For the foreseeable future, she might as well abandon all hope for a social life.
And in that instant, Amelia felt the enormous weight that had been on Julia Morgan’s shoulders suddenly shift to her own.
***
The next morning at five, Amelia pulled herself out of bed and went along Taylor Street in the pitch dark. She had just set foot upon the curb in front of the Bay View’s half-completed front entrance when a low-pitched voice said, “Good morning, Miss Bradshaw.”
Stifling a small gasp, she saw a tall, familiar figure push off the door jam and walk toward her, Barbary dutifully trailing along behind him.
“Ah… well. Good morning, Mr. Thayer.” Amelia set a sheaf of drawings on top of a pile of steel girders. “I didn’t see you there in the shadows.”
He was holding two steaming mugs.
“Coffee?”
Surprised, all she said was, “Thank you.”
Make no mistake, she thought grimly, this was no welcoming committee. J.D. Thayer wanted something.
He shot a glance at the roofline. “How’s our roofing coming along?”
Amelia paused. His crew had proceeded at a snail’s pace.
“As slowly as can be expected, given the workers you have in your employ.”
Thayer gave her a steady look. Then he flashed her a smile. When he grinned, he was, indeed, a handsome devil, white teeth gleaming and a glint in his eye. She remembered thinking her first day back in San Francisco when she’d walked in at the end of the all-night poker game that Thayer’s tanned complexion gave him the look of a common field hand. Now, his long legs encased in boots that came up to his knees, he appeared more like the Spanish conquistadors from whom she vaguely recalled he’d descended on his mother’s side.
“I suppose you’d be the best judge of the roof, Miss Bradshaw, since you scamper to the top of the scaffolds each day. I hold my breath whenever I see you up there.”
So he’d been keeping an eye on her activities, just as she’d warily been watching his.
“Have you been able to locate a reliable source for shingles yet?” she asked, making conversation. “Miss Morgan says they’re in terribly short supply.”
His smile faded. “Haven’t you found nearly everything in short supply, Miss Bradshaw?”
For an instant, they shared a knowing glance. Then, Amelia became aware that Dick Spitz, J.D.’s demoted site supervisor whom she’d replaced, had suddenly come around the corner. Now merely foreman, along with his cohort Kelly, the beefy head carpenter, Spitz scowled in her direction and slunk into the shadows. The pinpoint of a cheroot glowed in the distance and served as a reminder that he too watched her every move.
“What I need to locate at the moment is a supply of strong men to help me clear that rubble at the back of the property,” she said. “Please excuse me, Mr. Thayer, as I must have a word with Mr. Spitz.”
“Good luck with that, Miss Bradshaw.”
Amelia couldn’t help but smile at J.D. for understanding, at least, the challenges that faced her every waking moment. “Thank you. I could use some good luck. But wouldn’t you say that congratulations to us both are in order? Our walls are standing—and that’s at least something, isn’t it?”
J.D. looked amused. “Yes, the walls and roof joists in place are definitely signs of progress. And we’ll make even more, now that I have you all to myself. Good day to you, Amelia.”
Chapter 16
Amelia’s first week working full time at the Bay View site without the constant presence of Julia Morgan was uneventful, save for being awakened in the wee hours by the sound of a rat gnawing on something underneath her iron cot in the basement of the Fairmont.
Stifling a scream, she stood on top of the bedcovers and lit her kerosene lamp. Then she knelt on the bed and peered beneath the mattress where the creature nibbled daintily on what appeared to be a dismembered mouse. Its nose twitching furiously, the larger rodent cocked its head as if offended by Amelia’s intrusion, before scurrying away into the darkness of the Fairmont’s basement.
“Well!” she muttered, settling back into bed and pulling the bedcovers tightly around her neck. “I shall board up that hole in the baseboard myself. That’s the last time you’ll dine at this hotel, Mr. Rat!”
A few days later, Angus McClure stopped by the Bay View in the late afternoon to invite her to join him at another newly reopened restaurant he’d favored before the quake. She recounted her adventures with the rat and had expected him to laugh, but instead he scowled and wagged his finger.
“That rat might have bitten you in your sleep, lass, and you could’ve been dealing with rabies or typhus, rather than that slide rule of yours. What’s more, it’s not safe for you to stay in that drafty basement. All sorts of hooligans roam the streets scavenging among the ruins. How long must you remain in such a daft place?”
“As long as Julia Morgan wants me to.” She didn’t remind the good doctor that when J.D. wasn’t out gambling—or whatever activities he might be indulging in until late into the night—Thayer was asleep in far draftier accommodations at the Bay View, now he’d moved down the street to the half-built hotel.
“Don’t worry, Angus,” interrupted J.D., who had overheard their conversation as he walked up to them standing near the pile of lumber delivered earlier that morning. “Miss Bradshaw tells me she’ll soon have the Bay View’s roof finished, which means we’ll have a few habitable rooms she can stay in, rather than that dank basement at the Fairmont where she sleeps presently.”
Before she could put to rest any notion she would ever agree to sleep under Thayer’s roof, Angus shook his head as if he thought both of them should be confined to a mental ward. His scowl deepened when Amelia begged off his invitation.
“Thanks so much, Angus, but I’ve just got too much to do,” she apologized. She cast a quick glance in J.D.’s direction. The fact was, without Julia able to work full time, each evening, she had mountains of paperwork to keep up with after the laborers left both sites. She hated to hurt Angus’s feelings, especially in front of her employer, but there was no help for it. She smiled encouragingly at the doctor, adding, “Maybe another time.”
“I’ll keep you company, Angus,” Thayer said genially. “I’ve been wanting to see if Tadich’s is up to its former standards.”
“Aye, laddie,” Angus said, sounding not particularly pleased about this substitution. “Pity I can’t persuade Amelia to desert her duties. She must have a difficult boss.”
Two difficult bosses, Amelia said to herself.
***
The following week, Amelia was again awakened in the middle of the night. This time she heard clanging metal and high-pitched voices in the lot where the Fairmont’s terraced, formal gardens had once been laid out. She cracked open the back door and peered outside.
Outlined in the palest of moonlight were two Chinese men—or rather a boy and a man—struggling to lift the heavy lid of the newly restored cistern. The deep cavern was filled with water that would one day be available to douse any fires that might break out on the property. The lid thudded to the ground and the older of the two seized a length of linen hose that most probably had been liberated from the half-completed firehouse on Powell Street a few blocks away.
The taller figure plunged the hose into the well, and in a burst of Cantonese, gave the little boy a litany of instructions. The youngest of the pair wrestled the other end down the sloping hill toward a large metal receptacle in a battered wheelbarrow. Clearly, they were siphoning water out of the cistern, but for what purpose, Amelia hadn’t a clue.
She swiftly donned her shirtwaist, skirt, and jacket.
Stealthily, she emerged from the basement and crept down the hill without either of her uninvited visitors noticing her approach.
“What are you doing?” she asked sternly.
The little boy was so startled that he dropped the hose, soaking himself in the process. “Oh! Sorry!” cried his companion. “So sorry. Need water. For laundry shop. They no fix water in Chinatown.”
Amelia stared at the little boy who hadn’t uttered a word and, by this time, was shivering with cold. His saturated, black pajama-like garb matched that of his companion, and both wore odd little red silk pillbox hats and sported solitary pigtails down their backs. Amelia recalled the similar hairstyle worn by the Chinese houseboy who had been burying the old woman’s dog on the day of the quake.
“Come,” she said. “Let’s get you into the work shed. The little one will catch cold. I’ll give him a blanket to dry off, and you can tell me why you think I should allow you to steal my water.”
Amelia had known several Chinese houseboys employed by her grandfather in the old days. During the mid-century Gold Rush and the building of the east-west railroad, Chinese immigrants had flocked to San Francisco seeking money to send home to their impoverished relatives. Few had found little more than bare subsistence, a fate hardly better than what they’d left behind in Asia. Over the years, San Francisco’s Chinatown had expanded into a dozen streets that steadily crept up the steep incline toward the Bay View perched on the summit of Nob Hill. After April 18, all that was left below the hotel was a wasteland sloping toward the equally devastated shanties and saloons of the Barbary Coast.
In Amelia’s youth, she was forbidden to go anywhere near Chinatown, an area infamous for gambling parlors, opium dens, and whorehouses. Despite the enclave’s unsavory reputation, her personal experiences with the hardworking men from down the hill now prompted her to offer her visitors a cup of tea. She herded them inside the work shed where a low fire still burned on the hob, and set the kettle to boil.