Mr Chen's Emporium

by Deborah O'Brien

  True to his word, Richard Scott dropped off the trunk the next day. It was brown, with rusty hinges and patches of scuffed leather. No initials or labels. Anonymous. She had to ease the lid open. Finally it swung back on its hinges. As she expected, there was a musty smell. A bunch of lavender tied with a ribbon sat on top. When she picked it up, it crumbled to dust on the kitchen table.

  There were a couple of white cotton blouses, slightly marked, with leg-of-mutton sleeves. Below them was a pincushion made of embroidered silk, with rust marks where the pins must have been. Wrapped in yellowing tissue paper was a blue velvet band with a tiny cameo brooch attached. A little tin with a domed lid caught Angie’s eye. Its sides were decorated with Oriental motifs. When she opened it, there was black dust inside that might once have been tea leaves. Wedged against the side was a tiny glass bottle which would have held perfume. Angie removed the lid and sniffed. It could have been her imagination, but it seemed to smell of violets. Beside the bottle was a silk fan with an ivory handle.

  As she lay the items out on the kitchen table, she realised with growing delight that this wasn’t just a dirty old trunk; it was a treasure chest.

  In the next layer were some books with linen covers, all a little faded. At the top was The Poems of Sir Walter Scott, dated 1861. Then a French volume of The Arabian Nights and a copy of Jane Eyre, published in 1869 – far too late to be a first edition. There were other familiar titles – Pride and Prejudice, The Mill on the Floss, The Woman in White – and one she didn’t know, which sounded quite graphic for Victorian times – Sylvia’s Lovers. The author was Mrs Gaskell. Hadn’t she written the very sedate Cranford? Might there have been another side to her? Angie made a mental note to add the book to the pile on her bedside table.

  At the bottom of the trunk she found the picture Richard had mentioned, an oval portrait in a heavy frame of a girl in her late teens, her hair piled on her head. She wore a floral dress and a velvet choker around her neck – the one in the trunk.

  The photograph had been hand-tinted to give the girl’s cheeks a soft blush and her hair a yellow glow. She possessed the kind of eyes a nineteenth-century writer would call ‘intelligent’. Although that was usually code for a plain face, the girl in the picture was quite the opposite. Angie looked on the back. There was a label: Anton Weiss. Millbrooke Photography and a handwritten name: Amy.

  Angie returned to the books. Perhaps they contained something else about the girl. She found it inside Sylvia’s Lovers. A dedication.

  For Amy,

  As you leave for your new life in Millbrooke.

  Loving wishes,

  Aunt Molly

  2nd March, 1872

  There was a barely visible name at the top of the first page, written in pencil. Even with her glasses, Angie found it hard to read. She took the book over to the window. A. Duncan.

  Amy Duncan. The owner of the trunk.

  Afterwards Angie poured herself a glass of wine to celebrate her find. Admittedly, it was only early afternoon and still several hours before the sun was officially over the yardarm, but what the hell! As she sat on the grass overlooking the creek, she saw something that appeared to be a floating piece of wood. Then it slid under the surface with a delicate splash, leaving only ripples behind it. A platypus! She had never seen one before, and here it was blithely duck-diving in full sunshine with the noise of cars and tractors humming in the background. Perhaps it was giving the finger to all those scientists who claimed it was a bashful creature, only appearing at dawn and dusk.

  From mysterious treasure chests to strange animals with a lineage harking back to the age of reptiles, Millbrooke was proving to be a town full of surprises.

  4

  THE BLUE DANUBE

  Then

  Amy finally gave in to Eliza’s entreaties. After their formal lesson, they remained in the barn beside the Manse while she taught Eliza to waltz. Amy had learned singing and dancing at Miss Howe’s, something she had never told her father. He only approved of singing when it served to glorify God. But having caught him humming the tune of ‘Comin’ Thro’ the Rye’ on several occasions, the family knew he tolerated Scottish airs. Dancing, however, was different. He insisted it was among the worst of venial sins with no purpose save to do the devil’s work. Amy often wondered exactly what her father meant by that. Was it because men and women touched hands as they danced? If that were the case, he would be appalled by the intimacy of the newest dancing craze, the Viennese waltz, where partners swept around the room, locked in each other’s arms.

  On account of her height, Amy had taken the man’s part in her dance classes at school. Therefore, she was well able to tutor Eliza in the intricacies of the ballroom. Nevertheless, she was only half concentrating on her task because she was also keeping an anxious eye on the doorway in case her father should appear.

  ‘Just four days until the dance,’ said Eliza as they twirled around the hay-strewn floor. ‘The boys have been clearing our barn in preparation. We will have tables of cakes and refreshments, and Mother has organised for the Millbrooke band to play. Have you asked your father’s permission yet, Amy?’

  ‘No, if I say it is a dance, he will forbid me to go.’

  ‘You shall come to stay from Friday afternoon until Sunday. Then you need not tell him about the dance because it will be one minor aspect of your sojourn at Millerbrooke House.’

  Amy considered Eliza’s argument. It wasn’t a falsehood to omit something, was it? But what if her father asked directly if there would be dancing? And what if the Millers invited her to play cards or offered her a glass of wine or other form of alcohol?

  ‘Amy, you must tell him about the bonfire and the fireworks in celebration of the Queen’s Birthday. We do it every year. Your father will like that.’

  It was true. Her father admired the Queen as the epitome of virtue and steadfastness.

  ‘The boys have already started building the bonfire, and Charles will be in charge of the fireworks on Friday night. He calls it “waking the dragon”. You must come, Amy. You can meet Joseph and Daniel. They’re very handsome. And, of course, Charles. He is the most charming of them all.’

  Little did Eliza know that Amy was already quite well acquainted with Charles. She resolved to ask her father’s permission that very evening. She would tell him about the fireworks display, and that the Miller family desired her to stay on at Millerbrooke House until Sunday. She would even promise to be back in time for morning service. How could her father refuse so innocent a proposal?

  On Friday afternoon Eliza sent her brother, Joseph, to the Manse to collect Amy. Joseph, who had been warned not to mention the dance, began telling Amy’s father about the huge pile of wood he and Daniel had accumulated from all over the property for the bonfire.

  ‘Reverend Duncan, you will be able to see its light from down here at the Manse. And the fireworks too. Such a fitting celebration for our Queen, don’t you think?’

  Amy was impressed. Joseph had won over her father. With his fair hair and freckled skin, he might have been Matthew Duncan’s son.

  ‘Did you pack your woollen shawl, Amy?’ asked her mother.

  ‘Yes, Mama, and I have my cape too,’ she replied, pointing to the purple garment draped over her arm.

  Her mother kissed her and whispered in her ear, ‘Enjoy the dancing, dear girl.’

  How did she know? A smile passed between them, before Amy climbed onto the Millers’ sulky. Joseph took the reins and they were off.

  ‘What should I wear for the bonfire, Eliza?’ asked Amy as she surveyed the clothes from her travelling bag spread out on Eliza’s bed.

  ‘You are already perfectly dressed for the occasion. Now hurry up. Supper is almost ready and I want you to meet Daniel and Charles. I can hear them downstairs.’

  But Amy continued to play for time, rearranging her hair and smoothing her magenta dress. She longed to keep the magic of Mr Chen and his emporium intact, even if it were only for a few more minutes
. Separated from his treasures, she feared he would be an ordinary man, dependent on the exotic backdrop for his allure.

  ‘Fai dee lah, Amy,’ said Eliza impatiently. Seeing the curious look on her friend’s face, she added, ‘It means hurry up. I learned it from Charles. Now stop dilly-dallying. It isn’t like you at all.’

  Amy gave her cheeks a final pinch and checked her dress yet again. Then she followed Eliza down the curved staircase and into the drawing room where three tall young gentlemen stood waiting. From their build they might have been brothers, except that two of them had golden curls, the colour of a wheatfield, like Eliza’s, while the third had a head of glossy black hair – black as jet.

  Eliza took care of the formal introduction which had been missing from Amy’s first meeting with Mr Chen.

  ‘Miss Amy Duncan, may I present Mr Charles Chen?’

  ‘My pleasure, Miss Duncan.’ He inclined towards her in a bow.

  Was there a knowing smile on his face? Was he enjoying the game of pretending they had never met?

  Eliza’s parents joined them and made a great fuss of Amy, telling her how much Eliza’s handwriting had improved since she had been tutoring her.

  ‘And we are delighted that you have taught Eliza to waltz. It is such an important accomplishment for a young lady,’ said Mr Miller.

  Amy was mystified that dancing could be such an accomplishment in one house, while it was nothing less than the devil’s work in another, and was glad Mr Miller was a parishioner of St John’s and not St Aidan’s, or he might have let something slip in a Sunday morning conversation with her father at the church door.

  Careful to avoid the eye of Mr Chen, she looked around her. Aunt Molly’s house was well appointed, but Amy had never seen anything like Millerbrooke, with its marble columns and cedar panels, its vast rooms and stencilled friezes. Gleaming polished floors that must have kept an army of maids busy were carpeted with rugs straight out of A Thousand and One Nights. Yet it was also a family home, well worn and not at all stiff or formal.

  Mr Miller showed her Captain Miller’s study, which, he told her, remained exactly as his father had left it. Amy marvelled at the mahogany desk with its chest of drawers cunningly incorporated into the base and its low bookshelf on top. Mr Miller explained to her that desks such as this had been popular among naval officers, being so compact and portable. Then he pointed out a glass-topped display cabinet in which lay Captain Miller’s uniform and hat.

  ‘Did he wear this at the Battle of Trafalgar?’ asked Amy.

  ‘No, it is his captain’s uniform from the later Napoleonic Wars.’

  ‘Then did he ever meet Lord Nelson?’

  ‘Once, at a reception just before the final fatal battle. But it was at a distance because my father was only a junior officer then.’

  How wonderful to have seen Horatio Nelson, if only from afar.

  ‘I hear from Eliza that she is studying the story of Aladdin in her French lessons,’ said Mr Miller.

  ‘Yes, it is very long. Like a novel. So we are skipping over some of it.’

  ‘I think it is clever of you to choose the French text of a story with which she is already familiar.’

  Amy beamed. She was not used to praise from father figures and immediately began to imagine that she too was a daughter of the Miller house, of a father who encouraged reading and dancing, and who seemed blessed with a happy disposition.

  Eliza came in, breaking Amy’s reverie, to announce that supper was served in the dining room. Mrs Miller had placed Amy between Eliza’s brothers, with Charles Chen seated opposite her. It was the longest dining table Amy had ever seen, lit by two silver candelabras. A bowl of perfect pink roses sat in the centre. The table was laid with a bewildering array of silverware. She thanked her stars that she was acquainted with which pieces of cutlery to use, having learned table etiquette at Miss Howe’s, and that she knew to break the bread into pieces and not tip her soup bowl towards her in order to empty the dregs – though she noticed Joseph and Daniel Miller doing those very things. Perhaps the formal rules were not so important after all. In fact, Amy liked the friendliness of a table where people conversed pleasantly during a meal, rather than being seen and not heard as her father insisted.

  ‘Well, Amy, how do you like living in Millbrooke?’ Daniel Miller asked her as she was breaking up her bread in a manner that would have met with Miss Howe’s approval.

  ‘Very well, thank you, Mr Miller,’ she began, resolved that she would not tell how tedious she found her Millbrooke life apart from Mr Chen and this wonderful connection to the Miller family.

  ‘Call me Daniel; we do not stand on ceremony here.’

  Across the table, Charles was talking to Mrs Miller about the imminent fireworks. Amy couldn’t help noticing his waistcoat, made from the same turquoise silk she had admired in his emporium. She allowed herself a cautious glance at his face, and was unnerved to find that he was suddenly gazing at her. She quickly looked away and went back to sipping her soup with great concentration. When she dared to peek up again, he was talking to Mr Miller.

  ‘I intend to speak at the meeting, sir,’ he was saying to Eliza’s father. ‘It is my hope that you will also say a few words.’

  ‘Of course, Charles, I will join you in every effort,’ said Mr Miller.

  ‘What meeting is this?’ asked Daniel. ‘Have I missed something?’

  ‘Next week there is to be a town meeting called by a group of white miners.’

  ‘So you are going to speak?’

  ‘I must; we simply cannot allow such an injustice to occur,’ said Charles quietly.

  All other conversation at the table had ceased, and in the momentary silence, Amy found herself saying,

  ‘What injustice do you refer to, Mr Chen? I mean Charles,’ she corrected herself, blushing at the nervous quake in her voice. Addressing an entire table was something unfamiliar to her.

  ‘There is a sizeable group of miners who want the Chinese diggers expelled from the Millbrooke goldfields,’ he replied.

  ‘They are jealous of how hard the Chinese work,’ said Eliza with passion.

  ‘It is true; the Chinese labour diligently,’ said Charles, addressing himself directly to Amy. ‘They do not interfere with the Europeans, they work the areas that others have left behind, yet they are reviled.’

  ‘There is resentment when a Chinaman finds gold which has been missed by a white miner,’ said Mr Miller.

  ‘The white miners mistrust the Chinese for working in groups rather than as individuals,’ said Eliza.

  ‘And they are suspicious of Oriental customs,’ added Joseph.

  ‘They think we are inferior,’ said Charles.

  It seemed the whole family reckoned as one. Amy felt a wave of admiration for these ardent Millers and the tall Chinaman they embraced as their own. She wanted very much to be one of them.

  ‘But no person is inferior to another,’ she said softly. ‘The Bible tells us that the Lord “giveth to all life, and breath, and all things; and hath made of one blood all nations of men to dwell on all faces of the earth”.’

  ‘You are right,’ responded Charles. ‘And they are sacred words. All the same, there are many who have not read the Bible, and others who have done so and even call themselves Christians, yet do not heed the message. The truth is that prejudices live deep within a man’s heart and cannot easily be dislodged.’

  ‘But surely the Chinese have as much right to be here as anyone else?’ said Amy, who thought Charles spoke like a true orator and hoped to hear more. But it was Mr Miller who answered.

  ‘Many people believe the opposite, including our leaders in Macquarie Street. Back in the sixties they passed an Act of Parliament to restrict Chinese immigration. It was repealed a few years later, but mark my words, they will try it again.’

  ‘I heard a Miners’ Protection League is to be formed in Millbrooke,’ said Joseph.

  ‘Isn’t that a good idea?’ said Amy. ‘Then every miner
will be protected.’

  ‘You would think so, wouldn’t you? But in fact, the title is misleading,’ said Charles, his eyes glowing amber in the light of the candelabra. ‘It is for the protection of white miners only. It might as well be called the Anti-Chinese League.’

  Amy was thrilled by his fervour. What a valiant cause. How could she possibly have thought Charles would be disappointing in his role as Eliza’s foster brother? As they ate their dessert, she glanced across at him, only to discover he was staring back at her, but she couldn’t fathom his expression.

  Everyone slept late after the fireworks. The girls were propped up in Eliza’s bed, eating the bread and jam which Matilda, the maid, had delivered to them.

  ‘I have never had breakfast in bed before,’ remarked Amy, ‘but I’ve read of it in novels. It occurs when the heroine is feeling poorly. Is this a luxury you enjoy every day, Eliza?’

  ‘No. Only on special occasions. Most mornings I’m already up grooming my horse.’

  ‘Will you teach me to ride? Just as I taught you to waltz.’

  ‘Yes, of course I will. But not today. Because if you have a fall, you will be unable to dance this evening.’

  The dance had acquired weighty importance in Amy’s mind, and most of her thoughts centred on Charles Chen. He had become the object of her daydreams, the most fascinating man she had ever met. Far more attractive than fictional heroes like Mr Darcy or Mr Rochester or even the glamorous Aladdin, to whom Charles bore a striking resemblance. But she didn’t dare tell Eliza in case she laughed at Amy’s silly infatuation.

  Worse still, she might even tell Charles.

  The girls spent the morning making lemonade and picking hawthorn branches to arrange in jugs around the barn. Joseph and Daniel were decorating the rafters with streamers and garlands of bright paper dragons which Charles had supplied. Meanwhile he was being Mr Chen, running his emporium.