by Y. S. Lee
Where were all the old sailors? Were they turned out until nightfall? She chewed her lip. If she attempted to walk into a bedroom, she might disrupt a roomful of innocent old men. She might discover crates of smuggled goods. She might find Thorold himself, counting out his piles of gold. . . .
She had to act before she became too skittish. She chose the back bedroom, on the grounds that it was the nearest. Nothing was audible through the thin wooden door, and when she turned the doorknob, the hinges creaked only slightly. A small window admitted a modest amount of grayish daylight — enough to reveal a double row of little cots, very close together. They were narrow and low, each with a threadbare blanket folded neatly atop the lumpy straw mattress. No pillows. A small, open crate holding personal effects sat at the foot of each bed. The floor was bare wood, worn smooth through use, and swept clean. The room smelled of tallow candles, lye soap, and decay.
With a shudder, she closed the door and passed on to the next room. This one, at the side of the house, had no window. With the aid of a candle, she discovered that its contents were basically the same, except that there were even more beds, pushed so close together they all but touched. The room was perhaps less clean than the first; the old-man smell was stronger and undercut with opium.
When the third and largest bedroom yielded only the same pathetic contents, Mary began to doubt herself. What was she doing, intruding on the privacy of these respectable, poverty-stricken old men? There was no space in this threadbare little charity for the things she and James had imagined . . . and if there were, wouldn’t the residents ask questions? She’d counted twenty or so beds in this side of the house. If she assumed the same for the other half, there were perhaps thirty-five to forty-five residents in total. They couldn’t all be helpless, doddering old fools. Either the stolen goods and papers weren’t kept here or they were stored in a separate part of the house. Perhaps the cellar, after all. Or the warden’s office itself.
She had just made up her mind to descend when she heard footsteps on the staircase. Ascending, of course. Damn.
“Who are you? What are you doing up here?” The voice was male, elderly, scolding.
She let out a silly little bleat. “Oh! Beggin’ your pardon, sir . . . I was lookin’ for the gentleman what manages this place.” A swift glance showed her a thin Chinese man in his sixties, at least, but spry-looking. “That you, sir?” She bobbed deferentially for good measure.
His frown was apparent in his tone. “How did you come in?”
“Th-through the kitchen door, sir. I was looking for a place, you see.”
“The warden’s office is on the ground floor.” His tone was stiff, suspicious.
Mary poured on the Cockney charm. “I didn’t mean no harm, sir: I’m just lookin’ for a place, see? Ain’t many jobs for a good girl round here.” She looked up, trying for an expression of dim-witted hope. “You the warden, Mr. . . . ?”
The man pressed his lips together. “Chen. I am.”
“Oh!” She made as though to dash at him, and as she’d expected, his sharp hand gesture held her back. “Oh, do give us a job, sir. I’m ever so hardworkin’, except I ain’t been able to, what with my sister so poorly, and —”
“Come downstairs, young woman.”
She faltered to a stop and, obeying another curt gesture, preceded the warden downstairs. They went into a room at the front of the house, just off the main corridor. It was as sparse and faded as the rest of the refuge, although here someone had attempted to decorate. The walls were covered with a dark, fern-patterned paper that was now beginning to peel loose from the damp. Velvet curtains, drawn open to admit thick daylight, clashed with the greens of the paper and the tattered carpet. But the focal point of the room was a garish oil portrait of an obese merchant with jaundiced eyes and improbably pink cheeks. The heavy gilt frame bore a nameplate: Wm. Bufferton (1801–1852), A Good and Faithful Servant and a Man After God’s Own Heart. Lip curled with distaste, Mary turned from her inspection of the painting to meet the sharp gaze of the warden.
He pointed to a rickety wooden chair. She sat.
He remained standing. “You say you are looking for a place?”
“Y-yes, sir.”
“Doing what?”
“A-anything, sir.” She curled her hands into the folds of her skirts. “Maid-of-all-work, sewin’, anythin’ what needs doin’ round the house.”
His gaze dropped to her lap. “Indeed.”
In the long silence that followed, Mary dared not look up. She strained her peripheral vision for clues, but no telltale sound or movement came from Mr. Chen. The room seemed perfectly still. She counted to twenty, then to forty, then to sixty. A clock in the next room chimed half past the hour.
When at last he spoke again, his voice was crisp and startling. “I don’t believe you.” Instinctively, Mary drew breath to protest, but he shook his head gently and she closed her mouth again. “You are not looking for work,” he continued, more mildly. “Your hands are too soft; they are not a servant’s hands. You are looking for something else.”
Her stomach turned over. What was wrong with her? Why couldn’t she find the words to bluff her way out of here? And was he at least confirming that the smuggled goods were hidden here? How could she get out to inform the Agency? Surely James would sound some sort of alarm if she didn’t return. Amid the whirl of her thoughts, the warden’s next remark astonished her completely.
His question was simple enough: “Who are your people?”
But he said it in Mandarin.
Mary stared at him for a moment, the color rising in her cheeks.
The warden smiled slightly at her bewilderment and tried in Cantonese. “You cannot speak your language?” He shrugged and switched back to English. “What is your father’s name?”
She swallowed hard. It was everything she’d feared in coming here today. Everything she tried not to think about.
Just like that, he’d laid bare her secret.
“There is no need to be afraid, Ah Mei.” His use of the courtesy title was surprising and compassionate. She hadn’t been called “little sister” since she was a child. “Many young people come here looking for their families.”
She drew a deep breath, suddenly shaky. Her palms and armpits were damp with a perspiration that owed nothing to the weather. “I’m sorry I lied to you, Ah Gor.” “Elder brother” — a term of respect — came back to her without thought, without effort. She didn’t know that bit of her had survived.
“Why did you lie?”
“I was — afraid.” That much was true. “I knew I shouldn’t have gone upstairs.” Also true. Despite her shame at being caught — at being recognized — the truth felt better.
“You are looking for something. Information.”
She nodded cautiously.
He paused and studied her face. “You are half-caste.”
She couldn’t control the heat rising in her throat, the rush of blood scalding her cheeks. “My mother was Irish.”
“And your father was a Chinese sailor.”
It wasn’t a suggestion. Belated panic bloomed in her chest, spreading swiftly to her stomach, her suddenly shaky limbs. Her pulse was too rapid, too loud — it drummed in her ears, deafening her to all other sounds. She hadn’t thought about her parents in years. Certainly not that aspect of them . . . and of her own identity.
Mr. Chen was still watching her, his face guarded. He awaited her response. Was it too late to flee? He was old. She was quick — and a coward if she ran away now. Again.
Mary lifted her chin. “Yes.” Shame, relief, a curious sense of both defiance and disgrace, flooded her body. It was, in some ways, liberating to share her secret — to acknowledge her real identity — for the first time since her parents had died. Not even Anne and Felicity knew this. Yet the act of confession was also frightening. Humiliating even.
“Your father is dead?”
It still hurt to think about it. “He died at sea.”
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He made a small, elegant gesture. “Tell me.”
It was a simple request, but Mary’s mind went blank. She hadn’t allowed herself to think about her father for years. Now, staring into Mr. Chen’s shrewd eyes, she had no idea how to begin.
“He was a good father?” he asked gently.
She nodded.
“You were quite young when he died?”
“Eight years old. Perhaps seven.”
“So you remember him.”
Mary closed her eyes and her father’s face floated in her memory. A handsome man with a shy smile. “He was kind,” she said. “We used to go for walks by the river and he told me about his boyhood in Canton.” She smiled. “People in Poplar called him Prince, because he looked a bit like Prince Albert.”
Mr. Chen blinked and leaned forward slightly. “Do you know his Chinese name?”
Mary frowned. “No one ever called him by it. Our family name was — is — Lang, but I can’t think of his given names.”
Mr. Chen’s breathing quickened. “Take some time,” he said with determination.
Mary blinked. “But you wouldn’t know anything about him . . . would you?”
“That depends on who he is.”
“But he died at sea! His ship was wrecked, and someone from the company came round. . . . They gave us some money — his wages.” Her hands were trembling and her face hot. She remembered that day. But there was something about Mr. Chen’s expression. . . . “You can’t know! How would you know anything?”
“Calm yourself,” he said sternly. “I cannot tell you anything about a man whose name you cannot remember.”
Various syllables swam in her mind. She’d never learned Mandarin or Cantonese, apart from stray words and phrases, never had the patience to learn to write in Chinese characters. She felt a sudden stab of anger with herself for having let it go. She was the last living scrap of her father, the only person left to remember him, and she couldn’t even recall his name. She closed her eyes and focused. Out of the crowd of difficult sounds that teemed in her mind, she suddenly said, “Lang Jin Hai.”
He looked at her steadily. “You’re certain? Lang Jin Hai?”
“Yes.” That was right. It meant “golden sea.”
Mr. Chen’s eyes kindled with a strange excitement. “Then you are Mary, his only daughter.”
She could only stare at him. It was shocking enough to be identified as half Chinese, but for this man to claim to know who she was . . . ? It had to be a trick. Finally, she managed to whisper, “Impossible.”
He did not appear offended. “How so?”
“How could you — my father — years ago . . .” She couldn’t find a single coherent sentence. Suspicion, hope, fear, and confusion all jumbled her thoughts. “It’s impossible,” she said again.
Mr. Chen smiled slightly. “You left Limehouse when you were quite young, and you have been passing in society as a white Englishwoman ever since.”
How could he know so much about her? She scrambled to her feet, but her knees were shaky and she ended up clutching the chair for support.
The old man stepped back and held up his hands. “I will not attempt to keep you here, Miss Lang. But is it wise to run away from an explanation?”
If she closed her eyes, the room would begin to spin. Mary kept her gaze focused on Mr. Chen, and something in his expression reminded her, oddly, of Anne Treleaven. Perhaps it was also the situation: she felt twelve years old again, angry and lost and on the verge of something new and frightening. She gripped the chair harder and said hoarsely, “I’m listening.”
“It is obvious to me that you left Poplar at a young age because you do not appear to understand how very small our Chinese community is. There are perhaps two dozen Chinese sailors who have settled here and married white women.”
That much made sense.
“You are not part of our community; you speak only English; you were surprised — even upset — to be recognized as mixed race.”
She longed to defend herself, although what he said was true. Nevertheless . . . “I’m not ashamed of having a Chinese father,” she said carefully. “But most English are bigoted: they think that foreigners, especially those with darker skin, are inferior. They think we have weak minds and poor morals.”
“Of course; that is something against which we all struggle here.”
“But my life is among the English now. If I told them of my mixed blood, it would change the way they think about me: it would prevent my finding work, other than the most menial and poorly paid service; it would alienate my friends; others would despise me and treat me as less than a person. I can’t afford that!”
“Yet that is the fate of most Asiatics — indeed, most dark-skinned people — in this country. You are unusual only because your race is not so strongly written in your features. Compared to most young Chinese women, you are doubly blessed and cursed: you have the luxury of being able to deny your heritage if you choose.”
She flung out her hands, trying to make him understand. “But I’m not fully one of them either! To the Chinese, I’m only half Chinese, and to Caucasians, my blood is tainted. I have no family — no one like me — I don’t belong anywhere!”
He looked at her for a long moment. “I see your point. Although I hope that one day you will come to believe differently.”
Mary looked at him, bewildered. “But how . . . ?”
He ignored this. “So in order to gain employment, you severed your connections with Poplar and Limehouse and began to pass as Caucasian.”
She nodded slowly.
“And people believe that you are an English girl?” His voice was gently skeptical.
“Not English, though often they are satisfied when I tell them my mother was Irish. Others assume I have some French or Spanish blood, or some other continental mixture.” Her mouth twisted. “And while Europeans, too, are suspect in many circles, they still rank higher than — the truth.”
The word truth hung in the air, heavy and burdensome. As a young girl, someone — her mother? — had tried to teach Mary that “the truth shall set you free.” She didn’t see how that could possibly be the case. It was just another cliché for the naive — or the privileged.
Mr. Chen cleared his throat gently. “We have digressed. I remember your father because he was an unusually tall and handsome fellow; everybody knew who he was, even if they did not know him personally.”
She forced her mind back to the present question: how Mr. Chen knew who she was. Yes, his explanation seemed logical.
“I only met your father a few times, and once I met you, too. I doubt you will remember; you were a small child of three or four.” He smiled slightly. “But you are recognizably the same child, Mary Lang.”
She took it in slowly. Her mind felt sluggish, as though working at a fraction of its usual speed. Everything seemed to make sense. Too much sense?
A sudden thought darted into her mind. “If that’s the case,” she said, her voice high and harsh, “if you care so much for the Lascar community, why didn’t you help us after he died? Why did you leave my mother to suffer and to starve, and to — to —” She was shaking now, with anger.
Mr. Chen’s expression was somber. “That was a tragedy.”
“Of course it was! But it needn’t have happened!”
He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “You are correct.” He paused for a while, then said, “After your father was reported dead, a lady from a nearby church went to see your mother. She wanted a maid-of-all-work, and she offered to buy you.
“Your mother was extremely angry. She refused the offer and ordered the lady to leave at once. The lady was very offended and decided that if your mother would not accept her offer, which she thought generous, your mother should receive no assistance at all.”
He seemed to have an answer for everything. And yet . . . “What about you?” she asked stubbornly. “You knew so much, but you refused to help us, too?”
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nbsp; Mr. Chen looked ashamed. “I was afraid. The lady’s church helps to support this refuge. I feared that they would refuse to donate to the refuge if we helped you.”
His shame seemed genuine. As his words filtered through her, Mary realized that she believed him. Slowly, she sat down again. Her hands ached from clutching the wooden chair so fiercely. “So you knew my father.”
He rose and went to a tall filing cabinet. “For several years now, I have kept a file of ‘lost Lascars’ — men who vanished on sea voyages. Although sailing is a dangerous profession, there have been a number of mysterious disappearances of foreign sailors in particular, all surrounded by rumor. The men at the docks gossip, you understand. These lost Lascars have certain things in common. I believe your father was one of that group.
“But he was also different,” continued Mr. Chen. “Before setting sail in 1848, your father paid me a visit. He felt quite strongly that he might not return from that voyage, but he didn’t want to alarm your mother. He left this cigar box in my keeping. He told me that if he returned, he would reclaim it; if he did not, I was to give it to you when I thought the time was right.” Mr. Chen looked somber. “I was too afraid to help your family, and I failed to give this to you before you disappeared. I cannot forgive myself for those failures. But you are here now.
“Your father loved you dearly, Miss Lang. This is his legacy to you.”
So many questions crowded her mouth, but Mary couldn’t take her eyes from the cigar box. She simply stared, terrified that this was a hoax — or that the moment she stretched out her greedy hand to touch the box, it would vanish or crumble.
The muffled sound of the doorbell interrupted them. “I shall leave you here to examine your inheritance,” said Mr. Chen gently. She couldn’t manage a reply, but when she next looked up, he had vanished.
The cigar box was tied roundabout with twine. As Mary unfastened it, she suddenly remembered her father teaching her to tie different knots: bowlines, figure eights, reef knots. Her hands shook as she raised the lid, nearly tearing it from its cardboard hinges. The topmost item was an envelope addressed simply to “Mary” in careful, childish handwriting. From it, she removed a half sheet of paper and a separate twist of newsprint containing something seedlike.