by Ciji Ware
“And Loy also told me that Donaldina Cameron has organized her ladies to raise the necessary funds to help pay for their care,” Angus added. “All on the q.t., of course.” He pointed to the stove. “Do you think you could fry me an egg? I haven’t eaten since midday, yesterday.”
Amelia hardly heard his question. “When do you think little Foo will regain consciousness?”
Angus looked down at his coffee mug. “He might not. Shou Shou will tell us if there’s any change.” With a clatter, Amelia set her own mug down on the kitchen table. But before she could leave the room, the doctor warned her, “I’m afraid his chances of survival are slim, Amelia. Very slim, indeed.”
She cast a stricken look at J.D. and removed her apron. “Can you fry Angus an egg? I’ll just go and relieve Shou Shou.”
***
The seven-year-old lay on a pile of J.D.’s clothing that had been fashioned into a makeshift pallet. Raw sunlight shone through the ballroom’s windows still devoid of the glass panes due to be installed within the week. Amelia shivered as a draft of chilly morning air brushed her cheeks.
She knelt beside Shou Shou, whose head was bowed. Soft Cantonese words tumbled from her lips. Amelia found herself praying as well, a disjointed plea to a God she didn’t have much faith in to save an innocent child from the heartless cruelty inflicted upon him.
She opened her eyes and gazed down at Foo’s immobile countenance. After a few seconds, she realized that Shou Shou had been whispering prayers for the dead.
***
“I want you to get some rest, Amelia,” Angus insisted. He took her by the hand and forcibly led to her room off the kitchen corridor. “Now.”
“No!” she cried and could hear the shrillness in her voice. “There are a million and one things to do and I—”
When she allowed herself to think of the brutality that Kemp had undoubtedly unleashed, her anger nearly choked her. Keeping busy helped keep her fury at bay and also warded off thoughts of Foo. And besides, she had to see that every measure was taken to protect the surviving workers.
“J.D. will see to the removal of the Chinese tonight.”
“But I worry that the day crew—”
“J.D. says they didn’t suspect a thing. You were clever to have them spend the day unloading all that terra-cotta and stacking it out back. Loy stood guard to make sure no one came into the ballroom. He told everyone that there was a bad infestation of rats and that he would take care of it. No one ventured near the place. Now, just take off your skirt and shirtwaist and get into bed.” He gently shoved her into her room and turned his back while she removed her clothes. “Under the bedclothes with you now.”
“Yes,” she murmured, a crushing fatigue already pulling her towards sleep.
“Good girl.” To her surprise, Angus took a seat on the edge of her iron cot. He reached for her hand.
“Amelia—”
“Angus, thank you so much for all you’ve done for us.” She was grateful for the non-stop medical care he’d dispensed during the last twenty-four hours, but she also desperately hoped to forestall any intimate conversation. “Now that I’m actually lying in bed, I’m suddenly totally exhausted. Good night. And thank you.”
“I want you to think about something as you go to sleep.” She obediently closed her eyes. His big hand squeezed hers. “I want you to seriously reconsider my offer of marriage.”
Amelia’s lids flew open. “Angus, this is not the time or place—”
“It’s precisely the time and place,” he countered. “Tonight proved it. We work well together as a team, and surely you must see now that you’ll need protection if you are going to continue to work in the dangerous world of construction—especially in a rough-and-tumble city like San Francisco. I’m willing to provide you that protection—no questions asked—along with a home and all the freedom you require. I want you as my wife, Amelia, and I will shield you from dangers like this. Will you think about that as you drift off to sleep?”
Amelia could only gaze up at him as words refused to form in her head. Finally, she said, “You are a good and honest man, Angus, and I am honored by your offer, but I do not seek a shield. I seek—” She hesitated, not actually sure of what to say next.
“What, Amelia? What do you seek?” She could detect a note of annoyance that he was barely holding in check.
“I don’t honestly know, Angus. I just know it’s not a shield. It is not a man standing in my stead, doing what I should be doing for myself.” And how could she tell him about her feelings for J.D. at a time like this, let alone the fact that she and J.D. had—
Angus abruptly interrupted her scattered thoughts. “There are important differences between men and women, Amelia,” he said sharply. “And there are differences between dreamers like you and Jamie, and people like me, who deal with the ugly here-and-now. Jamie should know better, but perhaps you’re too young or too ambitious, or too headstrong, to realize the risks you take every day. But you will.”
He bent down and kissed her on top of her head in a gesture of resignation and mild irritation. Even in her overwrought state, she knew Angus had seriously begun to doubt that he could ever win her heart—but that hadn’t deterred him from wanting to make her his wife. But before she could offer a reply, he departed her narrow room without bidding her good night.
***
Angus returned to the Presidio, the wounded were transferred to Chinatown, and Amelia plunged back into the work of readying the hotel for its opening day, which now, with any luck, would be the Fourth of July.
A few weeks after the terrible attack against the Chinese workers, she was startled to see a handsome woman with a wing of white hair under her hat walk up Jackson Street and step onto the hotel’s property.
“Why, Miss Cameron!” Amelia exclaimed, striding past a pile of lumber to greet her. “How wonderful to see you! I intended to visit the Presbyterian Mission to thank you for all you did to help us after our workers… after all the trouble,” she amended quickly, with a glance over her shoulder at the Pigati cousins. The men were fifty feet away, clustered around the wooden forms where several low cement walls would soon be built in the terraced garden. The hotel itself at last had its classic moldings and baseboards installed in all the rooms and painters were now swarming everywhere.
“It’s good to see you too, my dear. I came to check on how Loy and Shou Shou are faring.”
“It’s been very hard for them, of course,” Amelia confided. “We all miss little Foo terribly. He was such a loving spirit. You’re so kind to come. Our new stove has been installed this week. Come into the kitchen and let me brew you a proper cup of tea.”
When they entered the rear of the hotel, Amelia marveled at the effusive greeting that the normally reticent Shou Shou lavished on their visitor. The young woman indicated that Amelia should sit beside Donaldina and swiftly scurried around making tea. She set the pot and cups upon the spanking new worktable in the kitchen with all the pomp and ceremony due an Empress of China—which, in her eyes, Miss Cameron might as well have been.
“The injured men are recovering well,” Donaldina reported soberly. Then she glanced at Amelia and said, “I do wish Mr. Thayer were also here. I wanted to thank him for his latest act of generosity. Please tell him Wing Lee and all the little girls her age in our care have new shoes and dresses, thanks to his recent kindness.”
“Certainly I will. He had some sort of lunch to attend today,” Amelia said, absorbing that fact that J.D. continued to support the child. In the weeks since the attack on their workers—and the solitary night they’d spent together—she often had no idea where he went, day or evening. “I’ll be sure to give him a message.”
“And something else.” Donaldina paused, and then continued, “This concerns you also, my dear. I’ve been speaking regularly with Rudolph Spreckels, who, as you may know, is one of San Francisco’s civic leaders trying to put a stop to the ills polluting our city.” Anyone who read a newspaper
knew that the California sugar baron had launched a public campaign to counter graft and corruption, as well as the countenancing—indeed, the encouragement—of forced prostitution by elected officials. “Mr. Spreckels has been very supportive of our fight to end the enslavement of women like Shou Shou, here,” she added with a gentle look in the direction of the Chinese woman pouring tea.
“And my friend Ling Lee,” Shou Shou murmured.
Amelia was startled to hear Shou Shou call Ling Lee her friend. Meanwhile, Miss Cameron said with a nod, “Yes, like Ling Lee, who was very brave to run away from the brothel, as she did.”
“But she didn’t stay with you at the Mission Home,” Amelia ventured. “Why was that, Miss Cameron?”
“She had… a different view of life than we do at the home on Sacramento Street,” Donaldina replied slowly. “But we fought the same injustice to women.”
“You did?” Amelia replied, puzzled. “I thought she and Mr. Thayer… well… I thought that they simply continued the practice of—”
“You should probably speak with Mr. Thayer about those subjects.”
Amelia sensed they both were uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation. She’d been fishing for information about Ling Lee, and that was none of her business, she chided herself. She and J.D. had been models of decorum in the melancholy days that followed Foo’s death and had separately mourned the losses suffered that terrible night. She was ashamed of herself now, for even bringing up the subject of J.D.’s relationship with the Chinese woman who died in the quake. She should wait until he chose to tell her about their liaison—if he ever did. It was just that—
“You mentioned Mr. Spreckels?” Amelia said, bringing the conversation back to the crusader who had donated a hundred thousand dollars to the anti-corruption cause.
“Ah, yes. That’s one of the reasons for my visit. He would like to speak with both you and Mr. Thayer to learn more about the disturbances you had on this property. Washington has finally sent us more Treasury men to help. They wish to know whom you suspect of perpetrating this dreadful evil on those defenseless workers.”
Amelia felt uneasy. “I think Mr. Thayer would prefer to be discreet about the employment of Chinese on his project. I can certainly vouch that he paid them the agreed-upon wage, fed them each night, and provided sanitary facilities while they worked here. It’s just with the frightening costs of trying to rebuild the hotel after losing it twice, he saw no alternative—”
“Both Mr. Spreckels and I understand that these have been trying and extraordinary times,” Donaldina hastened to assure Amelia. “Loy Chen has always spoken highly of Mr. Thayer. In fact, we all respect him for protecting and providing for little Wing Lee, even after her mother died. But as for this latest attack, Mr. Spreckels needs facts, not hearsay, if he is to make headway with his reforms down at City Hall. Absolute anonymity will be respected, I assure you.”
Amelia remained silent for a moment. “I cannot speak for Mr. Thayer,” she said finally, “but I was an eyewitness to what was done by those hooligans and would be happy to tell Mr. Spreckels what I know—once the hotel is finished.”
“And when might that be?” Donaldina appeared pleased with Amelia’s response.
“After all these delays? Early July, I expect,” she said.
“Well, no doubt we’ll all be at the opening of the Fairmont soon,” Donaldina replied. “If I have the opportunity, I’ll be sure to introduce you to Mr. Spreckels, and you can take it from there.”
Amelia nodded, inhaled deeply, and tried to ignore the leaden feeling in her chest. The Law brothers had been decent enough to send them invitations for the gala evening. The Fairmont was schedule to debut first and thereby garner tremendous attention on the first anniversary of the quake and fire. She ached for J.D.’s disappointment. She smiled at Donaldina, though she could hardly disguise her sadness.
“It’s hard to believe that it’s been nearly a year since the quake and that the Fairmont Hotel opens in two weeks’ time.”
Chapter 29
On the evening of April 18, 1907, Amelia stood in the lobby of the Fairmont Hotel atop Nob Hill amid a swirl of glittering finery. It seemed as if the entire city of San Francisco had come to commemorate the one-year anniversary of the 1906 earthquake and fire. Women in beaded gowns with feathers in their hair and men in starched shirtfronts and black evening clothes filled the vast reception area. An army of tail-coated waiters bustled through the throng carrying silver trays bristling with a forest of champagne flutes.
The distinguished guests—many of whom had spent the better part of the year living in army tents—sipped the sparkling wine to the dulcet sounds of a string quartet playing in the refurbished Laurel Court. The domed room buzzed in anticipation of the enormous repast being readied in the nearby grand ballroom. Afterwards, tables would be cleared, and the visitors would be welcome to dance until dawn.
Amelia marveled at how strange it felt to be standing on the Fairmont property without her sturdy work boots or cotton shirtwaist. Only yesterday she had been wearing a pair of her father’s old tweed trousers underneath her sensible skirt while she inspected progress on the Bay View’s roof joists in a driving wind. Truth was, she felt slightly out of place in the aqua beaded chiffon gown she’d bought two years earlier in Paris and retrieved from her aunt’s house in Oakland. The dress cost what was now a week’s salary, and she was grateful she’d already owned something decent to wear on such a momentous occasion.
“Come, come, Amelia,” Hartland Law said with a hearty wave. “You were certainly part of this effort at the outset. That’s why my brother and I insisted you come to our opening,” added the Fairmont’s co-owner with a mischievous glance in Julia Morgan’s direction. “Come stand in the reception line and help us smile at everyone.”
Amelia looked over at Julia, somber in gray taffeta, standing near one of the soaring faux marble pillars. “Of course, Amelia,” she said. “Do stand in line with us.”
She and her former employer hadn’t worked together for months, yet Julia didn’t appear to display any acrimony this night. Next to her stood Ira Hoover, resplendent in white tie and tails, and to his right, Lacy Fiske, dressed in a conservative navy velvet outfit with lace collar and cuffs. She was beaming, apparently delighted to bathe in Julia’s reflected glory.
“Ripping, absolutely ripping!” pronounced Rudolph Spreckels to the Law brothers. “You two have created an absolute triumph.”
“Why, thank you, sir!” Hartland Law replied jovially. “Have some champagne!”
A photographer from the Call, poised to take a picture, shouted above the din at the illustrious group.
“Congratulations, everyone. Miss Morgan! Can we have you look this way, please?”
“Good heavens, no!”
“Oh, come now,” Herbert Law chided her. “I know how you detest all this, Julia, but we should have a record of this marvelous night.”
The reticent Miss Morgan, however, was adamantly opposed and stepped behind the looming pillar, making a show of talking with another well-wisher.
“Well then, come over here, Amelia,” Hartland Law directed, pointing to a spot between his brother and himself. “You played an early part in our success, even though your present employer hopes to steal some of our trade,” he added jovially. He motioned for several of his bankers to join in the lineup. “All right,” he called to the photographer. “Snap your shutter, young man, and be quick about it.”
Julia might be annoyed Amelia had allowed her picture to be taken, but Amelia figured she needed all the public recognition she could get. Once the Bay View opened, she’d be looking for employment.
After the pictures were taken, Hartland Law bent down and whispered in Amelia’s ear. “You and Miss Morgan have fulfilled our faith in you, my dear. There were those who called us fools to engage you as our architects, but you’ve done your fellow damsels proud. I think your former employer has recovered from whatever it was that upset her
a while back.”
“Thank you… I hope so,” murmured Amelia. Hartland Law was a keen observer and had to be one of the kindest men in San Francisco.
Her host glanced around the enormous lobby filled with music and merrymakers. “Just look at all this. An Act of God brought this city to its knees, but thanks to so much hard, dedicated work, she’s risen from the ashes, looking better than ever.”
“Let’s just hope this crowd pays their room bills tonight,” deadpanned Herbert Law.
Once the photographer drifted off, Amelia discreetly approached Donaldina Cameron, who introduced her to Rudolph Spreckels. Both listened attentively while Amelia described events on the night Foo was fatally attacked.
“I greatly appreciate your candor, my dear,” Spreckels said, “and rest assured, I will treat what you’ve told me with utmost confidentiality. President Roosevelt has sent Mr. Burns and his colleagues to help us stamp out this scourge of graft and intimidation.”
Only mildly reassured that the likes of Ezra Kemp would be apprehended and punished at some point, Amelia turned to acknowledge a pack of silver-haired bankers and lawyers, as well as several officials from City Hall—those, at least, who were not currently incarcerated.
Back in March, His Honor the mayor had been arrested and was awaiting trial on serious charges of corruption. The greatest City Hall fixer of them all, Abe Reuf, had pleaded not guilty to accusations of graft and continued to live comfortably under house arrest in an impressive residence on Fillmore Street. The alleged offenses? Taking bribes in exchange for granting franchises for city telephone service and overhead trolleys, not to mention accepting “donations” for guaranteeing police protection for the illicit brothels and gambling enterprises. At least Spreckels and his good government squad had shown some muscle.
As far as this evening was concerned, none of the current political turmoil—not even the controversies over price gouging for lumber or the continued enslavement of female abductees in nearby Chinatown—could dull the festivities this night. It was clearly an occasion that marked the official rebirth of a city some had predicted—like Pompeii—would never rise again.