Miss Minnie patted her shoulder consolingly and said in her most cheerful tones, “Sister Millicent, come see how beautiful our Mrs. Porter looks with the pink lace you put around the collar of the dressing gown.” She gently moved the young woman so she could see herself in the mirror over the mantle. She was wearing a wrapper the Moffets had made for her of deep-rose satin, overlaid by pale-pink lace, whose front and back panels fell smoothly from a high yoke to the floor, like a feminine version of a minister’s vestments.
“My dear, you look lovely. Doesn’t she, Millicent? I do declare it is a shame that only your husband is going to see you in it. Oh my, I hope we haven’t disturbed him by coming at this early hour. My dear papa just hated when his morning routine was interrupted. Don’t you remember, Millicent? How he would huff and puff so. Has your husband left for work already?”
“Oh no, I don’t think so. I believe he must have gone down to breakfast before I…I am sure he will come to say goodbye before he leaves.”
Millie noticed the hesitation in Mrs. Porter’s voice and felt quite a sharp stab of anger at the young man. She did hope that they would be able to show him the error of his ways. Just because her long ago fiancé, Percival, had proven himself unworthy of her esteem, abandoning her when she lost her fortune, didn’t mean that Minnie was correct to say that all men were as frail.
As if summoned by his wife’s words, the door to the sitting room opened and Mr. Porter walked in. He was a tall, wide-shouldered young man, whose glossy black hair was swept back from his forehead, revealing clear gray eyes. He had a well-trimmed mustache and beard, stylishly long side-burns, and the clear complexion of youth. Certainly handsome enough to attract Mrs. Roberts’s fancy.
He looked slightly startled not to find his wife alone and said, “Pardon me, I didn’t know you were engaged. Miss Minnie and Miss Millie, I hope you are well.”
Millie noted that he wasn’t able to look at his wife, and he continued to stand near the door as if to make a quick exit.
Her sister said, “Mr. Porter, how wonderful to see you. You have become quite a stranger, never here when we visit. The other day when we were fitting your mother for a day gown, she told us she had scolded your father for keeping you at the office so long, neglecting your family. I quite agreed with her. My mother always said about a young married couple that it was important that they start out cherishing each other because, ‘Well begun is half done.’”
At this point, Millie judged it time to interrupt her sister by handing her a folded white handkerchief.
Minnie took the handkerchief and walked rapidly over to Mr. Porter, saying, “This is fortuitous. Somehow, last week, this handkerchief made it into our sewing bag. Millicent has reminded me that we are trying to find its rightful owner. The embroidered initials are so intricate; we were having difficulty determining what they are. I think the initials are R. T. and P, and I said to myself, surely this must belong to Mr. Richard Porter, remembering that your middle name is Thomas. Was I right; is this yours?” Minnie then thrust the square of linen under the young man’s nose, pointing to the initials.
Mr. Porter glanced obligingly down to where Minnie pointed, and then he reared back as if he had just seen a poisonous spider hiding in the folds of white linen. He stuttered out, “No, that’s not mine. I am afraid you are wrong; it belongs to someone else.”
Minnie put the handkerchief up close to her eyes, as if she had grown suddenly nearsighted, and she said, “Oh dear, are you sure? Well, you know Millicent said that she thought I had mistaken the first and last initials. Could that first letter be an A instead of an R? What do you think, Mr. Porter?”
Minnie thrust the offending square in the young man’s face as he again backed away. Looking closely at the embroidered letters again, she said, “Dear me, if Millicent is correct, and now I see that the initial for the last name could be an R, and the first initial is an A, this must belong to Mr. Andrew Roberts. I do believe his middle name is also Thomas. Surely you must have met him. Mr. Roberts is the owner of the Union Iron Works, and it was my understanding that Mr. Robert’s company supplies most of the iron pieces for the carriages you make in your father’s factory.”
When Mr. Porter made an inarticulate sound, Minnie continued, saying, “And have you made the acquaintance of his charming wife? A woman with such an interesting past. Mr. Roberts just dotes on his lovely wife, nothing but the best for her. Yes, I do believe we must have picked this handkerchief up when we were at their suite at the Palace Hotel last Wednesday. We are there every Wednesday, rain or shine, working on something or another for Mrs. Roberts, one of our best customers. I do believe that new dresses, like new people, are a kind of hobby with her. Although she quickly loses interest, lets one enthusiasm go when she picks up another. Well, well, you have been so helpful, Mr. Porter. We will certainly return this handkerchief to its proper owner. I always say, ‘A stitch in time saves nine.’ Isn’t that right, Mr. Porter?”
With a look that Millie could only characterize as knowing, her sister nodded to Mr. Porter and moved back to hover around Mrs. Porter, who was looking confused by the interchange. Mr. Porter didn’t look confused; he looked stunned, as if he couldn’t quite believe what had just happened. He then glanced her way, and Millie shook her head gently and gave him a sad smile. She saw a blush stain his cheeks.
He said gruffly, “Miss Minnie, Miss Millie, your servant. My dear, I must be off. Have a good day,” and then he bowed sharply and left the room.
*****
Millie sighed as she looked at Lydia Porter, radiant with happiness, holding her newborn son in her arms. Young master Augustus, named after his grandfather, looked smug. Thinking perhaps of his grandfather’s carriage business that he would no doubt inherit at some future date, carriages being one of the products that would continue to be built for as long as people needed to be conveyed from one place to another. Mr. Porter stood behind his wife’s chair, his hand resting on her shoulder, his grey eyes wary as her sister Minnie approached.
They had come to deliver a new dress for Mrs. Porter to wear at the christening. They had designed the bodice so that it would not require tight corseting yet would still hide the fact that Mrs. Porter had not yet regained her previous tiny waist.
“Dear Mr. and Mrs. Porter, we are so pleased to see you all looking in such good health,” Millie’s sister said, moving up to the young mother to take a closer look at the child. “What a big boy he is. Oh my, I do believe he is going to have his mother’s lovely brown eyes. And his wee little hands. So cunning. We were honored that you asked us to attend the christening, and if you would accept this gown and cap we have made for the occasion, we would be truly grateful.”
Minnie turned to Millie, who walked over to the couple, unwrapping tissue to reveal the white cotton gown covered with Ayrshire lace and delicately embroidered flowers, which they had been working on in their spare moments for most of Mrs. Porter’s confinement. Minnie picked up and handed the mother a small white embroidered cap that Millie had made to go with the christening gown. “Mrs. Porter, I know how you appreciate my sister’s needlework. See how she has cleverly worked the young man’s initials in amongst the flowers.”
Mrs. Porter beamed and then said, “Miss Minnie and Miss Millie, you shouldn’t have. Such exquisite work! I will treasure this, and I can assure you that every child I have will get their chance to wear it. Look, Richard, she has worked his initials into the cap, right there among the flowers.”
Millie was glad to see the fond look on Richard Porter’s face when his wife mentioned future 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 account
s 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
Mr. Wong Rights a Wrong
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 partner. 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 Washington, 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 constitution. 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 Society, 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.
*****
The woman who met Annie at the door introduced herself as Evelyn, the daughter of Reverend and Mrs. Greenstock, and a teacher with the Female Refuge. Annie judged she was in her early twenties, probably five or six years younger than she was, and she thought how well the young woman’s gray and burgundy plaid polonaise over a black, pleated underskirt complemented her dark gray eyes and pale complexion.
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 evening when our evening school is held.”
Annie, who had recentl
y 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 father’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 classrooms,” 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.”
Victorian San Francisco Stories Page 8