A Race to Splendor

by Ciji Ware

  J.D. nodded affirmatively. “And, she won the Prix d’Or while she was studying architecture in Paris.”

  “You did?” asked Angus with a look of admiration.

  “So did Miss Morgan!” Amelia exclaimed “She was the first woman in the world to win a Prix d’Or and a certificat from the L’École des Beaux Arts.”

  “Will you show me around?” Hopper gestured toward the construction site.

  Amelia shook her head firmly no. “Mr. Thayer is your best guide.”

  “Come now, Amelia,” J.D. said. “I know practically nothing about the nuts and bolts of construction.” He gave Hopper a rueful look. “If Jimmy boy is willing to give us a little ink in his newspaper after all the bad news his paper wrote about the old gambling club—and my initial troubles finding funds to rebuild—we should be exceedingly grateful, right, Hopper?”

  “I write it as I see it,” the reporter said with a shrug.

  “Mr. Thayer knows more than enough about building his hotel to fill your pages.” She tried to signal J.D. that he was doing her a disservice to foist her on Hopper, but he appeared oblivious to her discomfort.

  “I insist, Amelia. You’re in charge here, so be a good little architect and tell Mr. Hopper how absolutely wonderful this place will be from the moment we open our doors and start counting our guests’ money.”

  He was teasing, of course, but Amelia knew he wanted her to dazzle Hopper with descriptions of the beautiful features the hotel would soon display.

  “Mr. Hopper, I’ll be happy to show you what we’re planning here, if you promise me you’ll explain to your readers that I merely work for Julia Morgan’s firm. I want you to say that everything on this site is completely under her direction. Is that understood between us?”

  “Sure, sure,” he murmured, gazing at the scaffolding that now reached three stories high. He looked over at J.D. “Can we climb up there?”

  “How’s your insurance policy at the paper, James my boy?”

  Hopper looked skyward. “Fine, I guess. I don’t suppose you fellas would show me what the view looks like from the top floor?”

  “No, sir!” Angus shook his head. “You won’t see me risking m’life creeping up there.”

  J.D. gestured toward Amelia. “As I’ve said, here’s your guide, Hopper. Miss Bradshaw, will you do the honors?”

  “You climb scaffolds?” Hopper asked incredulously.

  “I have to,” she replied shortly, and then regretted having said anything at all.

  Hopper pointed at the rotund piece of equipment that tumbled sand, water, and the other ingredients necessary to make concrete for the sidewalks. “First, let’s get a photograph of the three of you standing in front of this machine.”

  Amelia shook her head. “Absolutely not! I don’t pose for pictures, Mr. Hopper, but feel free to take whatever photographs Mr. Thayer deems appropriate. I’ll start up the scaffolding. Come up when you’re ready.”

  She’d reached the second story by the time Hopper and J.D. began to follow her to the roof level. When the two men caught up, Hopper ushered her to the edge of the platform and pointed toward the bay. The bay’s waters were sapphire and the surrounding hills golden brown.

  “This is perfect,” Hopper enthused. Then, gesturing to the area where Amelia and J.D. were standing, he called down to his photographer, “Hey, Eric! Quick! Get some good shots of this!”

  ***

  Amelia had lived in silent dread from the moment reporter James Hopper arrived at the Bay View building site. If she mentioned the occasion and nothing was written, Julia would still be cross. If he published something, she was bound to be reprimanded severely, so she concluded it was better to pray Hopper would dismiss the work of a bunch of women architects as not worth the expenditure of his time and ink, and leave well enough alone.

  One late afternoon, a week after Hopper’s visit, Amelia walked into the Morgan firm in its handsome new headquarters in the newly restored Merchant Exchange building on California Street in the burgeoning downtown section rising from the ashes near the San Francisco Ferry Building. There, laying open on a long library table in the middle of the drafting room, was the late edition of the San Francisco Call featuring a double spread by James Hopper and photographer Eric Gabler.

  Fortunately, the central workroom was deserted this early evening hour. Amelia knew immediately by the look on Julia’s face that there was trouble ahead.

  “No one in the Morgan firm ever gives interviews about our work,” Julia declared angrily before Amelia could take her coat off. “Ever!”

  “I didn’t give an interview,” Amelia replied hastily. “This Mr. Hopper suddenly arrived at the site a while back and started asking questions.”

  “You should have referred all questions to me.”

  “I did. I begged him to get in touch with you before he wrote anything. As it was, he spoke mostly to your client, whom he seemed to know fairly well. And every time a subject was raised, J.D.—I mean, Mr. Thayer—or Angus McClure, who was there, volunteered answers. I could hardly get a word in edgewise.”

  Julia pointed to several quotes by Amelia. “You appeared to manage quite well. And besides, you never said a word to me that you’d spoken with a reporter.”

  Amelia stared at the newspaper article and heaved a sigh. “I didn’t mention it because I knew you’d most likely have this reaction and I hoped he wouldn’t bother to write about two women architects.” She glanced up at Julia, whose face was stone, and silently cursed J.D. and Angus for spouting responses to questions that Hopper had showered on her. The story’s headline couldn’t have been worse.

  WOMAN ARCHITECT RECREATING A FAMILIAR JEWEL ON NOB HILL

  “Each chance I had, Julia, I told Mr. Hopper that both Ira and I worked under your direct supervision. That Mr. Thayer had hired the Julia Morgan firm and I was just the person you’d assigned to keep an eye on construction as the hotel neared completion.”

  “That is not at all the tenor of the article,” snapped Julia.

  “But that’s what I said, when I said anything at all.”

  “And I am incensed that you hinted the Bay View will open before the Fairmont, pitting one of my clients against the other like that.”

  “I didn’t say that! Mr. Thayer and Dr. McClure mentioned that possibility in jest. Julia, I can hardly be blamed if—”

  “I find it very easy to blame you for shameless self-promotion and a lack of good sense in talking to a reporter at all.” She gestured toward a photograph filmed from the ground level. It showed Amelia standing at the highest elevation of scaffolding, her manly trousers clearly visible beneath the hem of her skirt flapping in a gusty wind.

  “But look,” and Amelia pointed to a paragraph near the end of the story, “Mr. Hopper says right here that I’m an employee of the Julia Morgan firm and he goes on to note your many accolades and—”

  “I don’t wish to be mentioned in any article, as I told the man when he called,” she retorted.

  Amelia fell silent. So Hopper had heeded Amelia’s plea and attempted to interview Julia, to no avail. There was nothing any underling of Julia’s could say or do that would change the situation or erase the fact the article touted Amelia’s own achievements much more than Julia’s. On one level, Amelia could understand why her employer was upset. Even so, Julia had refused to speak to Hopper, and so the newsman wrote about what he’d learned at the building site from Angus and J.D., probably putting their words in her mouth, and added a few things on his own for good measure. Although Amelia knew she hadn’t caused the problem, the entire situation was distressing beyond words.

  She tried another tack. “Honestly, Julia, I can’t see how this article will hurt us, can you? Perhaps Hopper’s interest in women architects will actually do you and the firm a good turn, and may even attract additional clients. Please believe that I mentioned your name every time he asked a question,” she pleaded.

  “Well, that was a mistake, Amelia. You know perfect
ly well that I am a very private person. And in my profession, I prefer to emulate the anonymity of the medieval guilds. I don’t want my office marginalized by being incorrectly known as a firm that hires only women, thus driving away male clients. It has been my strict policy to let our work speak for itself. Let the newspapers discuss what the architect builds after it’s built—not the architect himself.”

  Amelia gestured to the article. “But the problem was that your client, Mr. Thayer, was delighted to have his new hotel described in such glowing terms.”

  “Undoubtedly, you are delighted also to be the subject of such compliments, but not I. And despite your family’s former connection to the Bay View, the new building is purely a product of the Julia Morgan firm and—”

  “I repeatedly told Mr. Hopper that,” Amelia interrupted. Julia’s attack had suddenly become personal and she’d had enough. “But, in truth and with all due respect, Julia, I did design this version of the Bay View.”

  Her employer’s eyes flashed with irritation. “Amelia, you are beyond the pale.”

  Amelia stared at her clasped hands resting in her lap. “Surely you remember that, given my knowledge of the site and our time constraints, you’d assigned me the bulk of the initial design work. Ira helped calculating the load factors, but had trouble engineering the elevators. In the end, he turned the majority of the schematics over to me because he knew I had a degree in engineering and understood the challenges of that steep hill better than anyone in our office—except you, of course. What he showed you for your approval was principally my work. But in the spirit of a team effort, I made no mention of that—and I told him not to either—especially because Ira is a good friend and a hard worker. The poor man has been slaving fourteen hours a day for months now. You signed off on everything regarding the Bay View, and that was fine with me.”

  “Amelia—”

  There was no mistaking Julia’s warning tone, but Amelia couldn’t stop the words from pouring out.

  “I am convinced I will never achieve your greatness, Julia. But in the case of the Bay View Hotel, it is my concept, my design, basically my plans, and I am overseeing its construction at your request. Even so, I couldn’t give a fig if that information is included in any newspaper article or not, and I did everything humanly possible to give you all the credit for it—and that’s the God’s truth.”

  Amelia was nearly breathless by now.

  “How can you expect me to believe that?” Julia stabbed an angry forefinger at the newspaper spread out on the table. “You were simply tooting your own trumpet and nothing you can say convinces me otherwise. This is insubordination of the worst kind.”

  Amelia struggled not to let tears edge into her voice. “I was not the person who volunteered the information to James Hopper or his photographer concerning the hotel. I even refused to pose for a photograph in front of the building. If you don’t believe me, perhaps you should discuss this entire matter with Mr. Thayer.”

  “Whom you’ve no doubt deliberately beguiled, just as you have his friend, Dr. McClure.”

  Amelia stared across the table at her employer, grateful that everyone in the office had left for the day. Everyone, that was, except Lacy Fiske, who appeared oblivious to their heated discussion while she pounded her typewriting machine in the next room.

  “I have not ‘deliberately beguiled’ anyone,” Amelia protested, stung by Julia’s characterizing her as some temptress employing her feminine wiles. “I am just trying to do the best job I can under exceedingly difficult circumstances.”

  Julia heaved a melancholy sigh. She appeared as genuinely distressed as her beleaguered employee. “Well,” she said slowly, “I’ve warned you repeatedly about my position on dealing with the press, so in my judgment, this most recent development is totally unacceptable. My only recourse is to discharge you for a serious breach of professionalism. I’m assuming supervision of the final phase of the Bay View’s construction.”

  Panic gripped Amelia as the reality of her financial obligations to Aunt Margaret, her mother, and her own future whirled through her mind. Before she could reply, however, Julia walked toward the door by way of dismissal.

  “How distressing that it should take an incident like this to make you understand how I work in this office, Amelia. I’ll expect you to submit your final design for the Bay View’s back garden before you leave tonight.”

  This can’t be happening…

  Like a sleepwalker, Amelia took a seat at her slanted drafting table. Lacy had stopped typing and was preparing to accompany Miss Morgan on the evening ferry to Oakland. The dutiful secretary shot Amelia a discreet look of sympathy but said nothing. Once the two women donned their coats and left the building, the place grew eerily quiet.

  Chapter 20

  The following morning, Amelia arrived at the construction site at her usual time, rehearsing during the walk from her basement quarters in the Fairmont to the Bay View how she would inform Thayer that she’d been sacked.

  She’d had virtually no sleep and was to some degree relieved that Morgan’s client was nowhere to be seen. Her gloom was only heightened when Jake Kelly, in charge, today, of the crew hammering shingles on the walls framing the first floor exterior, challenged her every directive.

  Kelly barely acknowledged Amelia’s request to check the wooden slats for splits and cracks before they were affixed, turning his back and strolling away with a mumbled, “I’ve already given them a look-see.”

  Amelia followed in his wake. “Well, please check them again, Mr. Kelly. If yesterday was any gauge, we’ll have rain pouring into the ballroom at the first storm.”

  Kelly had appeared ready to refuse outright, but Amelia stood her ground, hands on hips, and eventually he complied with her order. By mid-morning her head was throbbing and she felt like jumping into the bay.

  Around noon, she heard the familiar sound of the Winton chugging up the steep incline on Jackson Street. J.D. brought the car to a halt near the cement-making operation, yet he remained in the driver’s seat, hailing her with a shout. When she drew near, he ordered, “Amelia, please get in.”

  “You need to speak to Jake Kelly about the shingling—”

  “It will have to wait. Tell Kelly he’s in charge. Get in.”

  “But he’s a surly lout, and besides, I’m furious with him today.”

  “No wonder Miss Morgan discharged you. You’re willful and refuse to take orders, just like he does.”

  She stood, hand resting on the vehicle’s door, staring at J.D.

  “So Julia’s already told you she’s let me go?”

  J.D. shrugged. “’Fraid so.”

  Amelia looked at her boot tops, willing herself to maintain her composure. Finally she murmured, “Well, I guess you might as well put Spitz and Kelly in charge, period.”

  “You are in charge.” Silenced by this, she could only look dumbly at him sitting behind the wheel. “Get in,” he repeated. “We’re going to the Cliff House for lunch, Miss Full-fledged Architect.”

  ***

  Through the Cliff House restaurant’s windows, Amelia watched the surf pound against a cluster of rocks a hundred yards off shore. Now that Julia had officially terminated her employment, an avalanche of regrets and recriminations had come tumbling down and the notion of striking out on her own seemed utterly absurd.

  “Amelia, look at it in this light,” J.D. offered cheerfully. “You’re beyond Miss Morgan’s reach now. When she announced to me she’d sacked you, I explained that I’m happy with you as my principal designer and construction liaison and didn’t want to make a change. She said I’d have to choose—her or you—so I did. You. You’re rid of her and she’s rid of you. You still have gainful employment, so everybody’s happy.”

  “I’m not happy,” Amelia retorted, then fell silent.

  She was highly gratified to think a Julia Morgan client had enough confidence in her work to ask her to remain on the job. But far outweighing that was the plain fact that sh
e felt sad and embarrassed that she was held in disgrace at Julia’s firm.

  Her mind churning, Amelia continued to gaze through the restaurant’s large window. To her right stood the mammoth iron and glass building housing the tile-lined pools of the Sutro Public Baths. It was a sparkling, early autumn day, yet she now felt as gloomy as if the landscape were dripping with fog.

  “Can’t you see what’s happened?” J.D. chided. “The apprentice has bested the master.”

  “I’ll never best Julia Morgan!” Amelia replied vehemently. “She’s a genius.”

  “Oh, come now. You’re just as good.”

  “No, I’m not! She’s on a par with any of the great men… Frank Lloyd Wright, David Burnham, Stanford White—in his good years,” she amended. “And she runs a fine firm. Her clients are her primary focus and she cares passionately about the quality of the work done for them in her name.” Amelia pushed her fork around her plate, toying with her uneaten filet of sole. “It’s just lately, everything I did seemed wrong, seemed to make her angry with me. Actually, she’s kind as can be to the support staff. She even paid for the schooling for the child of one of the men who works for her.”

  “And so, your sins were…?”

  “She believed I overstepped. That I was a self-promoter. I honestly don’t think I was, but Hopper’s article in the Call was the last straw. Julia detests the press and is very strict, with very clear ideas how things should be run. I agree with that! How could it have come to this?” she pleaded, mortified that her eyes were suddenly brimming with tears.

  “Regardless of what you might think, Julia Morgan is human,” J.D. said matter-of-factly, “and I expect she’s just the tiniest bit unsettled by how swiftly her junior associate has come into her own. The disasters in San Francisco tested everybody’s mettle and you rose magnificently to the challenge. You’re not sitting at her feet anymore, Amelia. You’ve earned the right to stand beside her and I think she finds that rather upsetting.”

  “She found everything upsetting,” Amelia replied, anger colliding with her remorse. “She disapproved of practically anything I did.”