Breona stayed by Mei-Xing’s side and prepared her bed for the delivery. About three o’clock in the afternoon, Rose used the house’s telephone to call Doctor Murphy.
Mei-Xing’s baby was born the following morning after a long and difficult labor. “Mei-Xing has a fine daughter,” Doctor Murphy reported to those in the great room awaiting news. “Mother and child are both well.” He smiled at the happy clamor his news created.
Rose sat upon the side of Mei-Xing’s bed holding the tiny baby—and she was tiny. Like her mother, the infant’s hair was black and full, her skin white with the faintest blush of pink. “She is so beautiful, Mei-Xing!” Rose exclaimed.
Joy sat beside Rose and leaned over her shoulder. “Oh! She has opened her eyes! Look, Mama!” Even as Joy leaned against her mother’s side, her own baby kicked vigorously and Rose felt it.
Joy laughed. “Another baby heard from, eh, Mama?”
Mei-Xing smiled in the exhausted triumph only a woman who has labored to birth a child can know. The newborn blinked and stared, her black eyes searching but unable yet to see. Then she opened her mouth, yawned, and returned to sleep.
With a sigh of contentment, Rose relinquished the sleeping infant and stood. “I must see how the house is faring,” she stated. “We have been so marvelously distracted for an entire day and a night! But I fear that the laundry may still be piled in baskets and that Marit has been abandoned to prepare the meals by herself.” She excused herself and closed the door softly.
Joy held Mei-Xing’s baby now, staring in wonder. “I find it so hard to believe that the little life growing in me will come out some day soon and that I will be holding him or her just like this.” She opened the infant’s fist and spread the tiny fingers, marveling at their perfection.
“Our babies will be like cousins, you know,” Joy murmured. “They will play together, nap together, be doted upon by many surrogate aunts. They will even share the same grandmother.”
Mei-Xing looked a question to Joy.
“I know you love my mother, Mei-Xing. And I know she loves you as a daughter,” Joy answered, her voice soft. “All my life I have been her only child, but . . . before me she had other children. Did you know that?”
Mei-Xing’s face wore her shock. “I had no idea.”
Joy nodded. “She had a son and two daughters from her first marriage. It is almost too sad to speak of.”
For many minutes they were companionably silent until Mei-Xing’s baby stirred and began to fuss. Joy handed her to Mei-Xing. As the baby’s fussing increased, Mei-Xing looked to Joy for help.
“You haven’t fed her yet?”
Mei-Xing shook her head. “She was so wide awake at first and then she slept. I don’t really know how to do it.”
Joy laughed. “Don’t look at me! I don’t know how, either! But perhaps we can figure it out together? If you don’t mind?”
“Please!” Mei-Xing laughed in return.
After a few awkward tries the baby latched on and Mei-Xing and Joy watched, fascinated, as the infant girl suckled.
“How does it feel?” Joy was in awe.
“Very strange,” Mei-Xing replied, making a face. “As though a string were attached from my baby’s mouth to my womb and each time she sucks, she pulls the string a little.”
Joy’s brows arched in surprised revelation. “Well!”
“Joy,” Mei-Xing said carefully. “You were talking to me of your mother . . . and our babies earlier.”
“Oh. Yes. I was thinking aloud, I guess, how Mama would have liked to have many grandchildren. But, she only has me, you know, and I despaired of ever making her a grandmother. My brother Søren has children—grandchildren, even! But Mama did not raise Søren. Their relationship has always been a deep friendship, but not like mother and son.
“Then the Lord gave us the lodge in Corinth and later this house, and while I feel I have a multitude of sisters, Mama feels that the Lord has given her a multitude of daughters. You especially.”
Mei-Xing’s voice was a bare whisper. “Truly?” She touched Joy’s hand.
“Truly.” Joy gathered Mei-Xing’s fingers in her own and cleared her throat a bit. “That is why, Mei-Xing, I know that this little daughter of yours will have a grandmother in my mama.”
“Nothing could make me happier,” Mei-Xing confessed, tears standing in her eyes. “I thank you, Joy, for your generous heart. You have always been so good to me.”
“We will always be good to each other, little sister,” Joy whispered. “What God brings together, he bonds forever with his love.”
Later, when just Rose and Mei-Xing were in the room, Rose asked, “Have you picked out a name for your daughter?”
Mei-Xing sighed. “I think so, but I confess I am glad she is a girl and not a boy. I am wondering . . . is that wrong?”
Rose examined Mei-Xing’s face. “I think it depends. Why are you glad she is not a boy?” Rose thought she knew, but felt that Mei-Xing should confirm it.
“Because . . . because girls are not as important . . . not as desired as boys . . . to some.” Mei-Xing fell silent.
“I don’t agree with such thinking. I think this baby is very important and very desired,” Rose probed. “I already love this baby girl, don’t you?”
Mei-Xing was quick to answer. “Oh, yes! I love her as my life, Miss Rose! That is not . . . exactly what I meant.” She cradled the swaddled bundle closer. “I love you as my life, little girl,” she crooned.
“Then you mean that someone else might desire this little girl less than they might if . . . she were a little boy?”
Mei-Xing nodded. “Yes. You know what I am thinking, Miss Rose. In my culture, daughters are not valued as sons are. If Fang-Hua ever discovered I had a baby but found out my baby was a girl, she would not care as much. But if my baby—her son’s baby—were a boy . . . I would never be able to rest. I would never be able to stop being vigilant. That is why . . . I am glad she is a girl.”
Rose nodded. “I understand.”
Breona slipped into the room. “I was thinkin’ a cup of tea would be pleasin’ t’ ye.”
“Yes! Thank you.” Mei-Xing handed the baby to Rose and took the cup gratefully.
“Hev ye named the babe?” Breona asked, looking over Rose’s shoulder.
“Why, we were just talking about that very thing!” Rose exclaimed.
Mei-Xing nodded. “This little one is a precious treasure to me! That is why I have decided her first name will be Shan—which means precious coral. It is only the second name I have . . . not quite decided on.” Mei-Xing colored and looked down.
“I think Shan is beautiful!” Rose laughed.
“Aye, Sean is havin’ a good sound t’ it!” Breona concurred. “Almost bein’ Irish, I’m thinkin’,” she added under her breath.
“Would you like to tell us the other name you are thinking of? I’m sure it is just as lovely,” Rose asked.
Mei-Xing colored again. “Rose?” she whispered.
“Yes, dear?” Rose leaned forward.
“I-I meant, for the second name . . . Rose.” Mei-Xing licked her lips. “Her name would be Shan-Rose. Shan-Rose Li. That is, if it is all right with you.”
Rose was stunned—and delighted. “I am honored, Mei-Xing.”
A grin lit Breona’s face. “Sean Rose? A right Irish name!”
Mei-Xing and Breona laughed.
The baby stirred, stretched, and began to fuss. Within seconds, her face reddening, she was screaming for nourishment.
“Aye, an’ wit’ a foine Irish temper, too!” Breona muttered.
The following morning Tabitha would leave for nursing school.
Weeks before, Mr. Wheatley had uncovered an old trunk on the third floor and had spent many evenings refurbishing it for Tabitha’s use. He had rubbed and polished the old leather and brass fittings until they shone, repaired and oiled the hinges and, with Billy’s help, had tacked a new lining of watered silk into the trunk’s interior.
Jenny folded a crocheted afghan of pale blue yarn into the trunk. “My little grandmother did most of it,” she confessed. “She is teaching me but I had to pull out so many rows that if she hadn’t helped me finish it, it would not have been done in time to give it to you.”
Breona had purchased scented soaps and wrapped them in soft tissue. Their gentle perfume was already freshening the old trunk. “’Tis proud of ye I am,” she murmured.
Sarah and Corrine added a matched dresser set—comb, brush, and hand mirror—purchased from Grant and Joy’s fine furnishings shop with their wages.
Maria, Nancy, and Flora had pooled their little bit and, with shy smiles, placed a beautiful pair of slippers in Tabitha’s hands. “Now we know your feet will be warm in the evenings,” Flora whispered, “and you will not forget us.”
Marit tucked a box of home-baked cookies into a corner of the trunk and hugged Tabitha, adding, “Ve love you. Don’t forget us.”
“Is there room for these?” Joy laid a set of linens and a down pillow in the trunk. “Mei-Xing sewed the pillow case and hemmed the sheets last month,” Joy whispered. “May you always have sweet dreams as you lay your head upon this pillow.”
Tabitha stood stock still as the girls trailed through her room, quietly bestowing their gifts, but she was powerless to stop the tears that ran unheeded down her cheeks.
Rose entered last. She placed an elegant boxed stationery set in Tabitha’s hands. Rose laid her cheek against Tabitha’s. “So you will always write home to us.”
Early in the morning one of Mr. Gresham’s men, Cluney, arrived in the automobile they used to transport Mei-Xing to and from Mrs. Palmer’s house. Billy hauled Tabitha’s trunk downstairs and to the car; Cluney waited to escort Tabitha to the automobile and drive her to the train.
Everyone in the house pressed their cheek to Tabitha’s and whispered their goodbyes. “I will be back in June,” she tried to answer, but she could not say the words without choking.
“We know,” Rose comforted her. “And we will be right here, waiting for you to come home.”
O’Dell rubbed his eyes and leaned far back in the chair he’d sat in for four hours. Then he massaged his hip. It was healing, no doubt about it, but O’Dell had found that either too much activity or too little caused it to ache.
I wasn’t cut out for this sedentary life, he grumbled. He stood and winced as his hip protested.
It was a good thing that Parsons had assigned him another case. He’d be taking the train to Albany tomorrow. No more reports to write until he returned.
His thoughts turned to the letter in his coat pocket. Fishing it out, he unfolded it and read it again. He shook his head and grinned. Liáng had quit his church and moved to Denver! Reading between the lines without Liáng coming out and saying so, O’Dell deduced that Bao was with him.
This is exciting news, Lord, he mused. I’m glad and relieved that Bao is away from Seattle, away from Fang-Hua Chen. O’Dell shuddered and rubbed his hip again. I have my own ‘fond’ memories of her.
Liáng also, without writing her name, had indicated that Miss Greenbow had found another position. O’Dell wondered what she had thought when she’d read his letter. He had not received a response and had not expected to, but he was happy to receive this tidbit of news from Liáng.
Please bless Darla, dear Lord, and help her, O’Dell prayed. He sincerely wanted God’s best for his friend, but . . .
But I know that your best for her does not include me, Lord. Thank you for giving me your guidance and peace in that regard.
~~**~~
Chapter 9
October
He didn’t know how Fang-Hua’s thugs had found him. Morgan had established himself with a new identity in faraway Sacramento, and yet, somehow, it had not been far enough! Fang-Hua’s men had found and delivered him to her in one piece. More or less.
And now Regis St. John, AKA Shelby Franklin and Dean Morgan—lately known as Paul Westford—calculated his odds and did not find them to his liking. He really had but one card left up his sleeve, and to reveal it here, now, was to leave him with nothing in reserve.
On the other hand, the information would certainly do him no good if he were dead.
“Madam Chen,” he opened, bowing low before the woman’s chair. “I have important news for you.”
She eyed him as a snake eyes a doomed mouse before it strikes.
“You can have no news that will be of significance to me,” she hissed. With a flick of her hand, the four men in the room were on him. Two of them pushed him to his knees; another moved behind him and pulled his head back. He heard the ‘snick’ of a knife leaving its scabbard.
“What of your son?” he choked the words out. “What of your lineage?”
She leapt to her feet, shrieking, “I have no son! Because of you he is dead! Because of you, my husband’s line will die with him!”
Fear vied with rage on Fang-Hua’s face. She feared what Wei Lin Chen would do if he discovered her connection with Su-Chong’s dishonor and death. Her husband might still be able to father children, but she was too old to bear him another son! He could divorce her and take a young wife, one who could give him many children!
She snarled at Morgan, “My husband’s line may die with him, but I say that you will die first. And I will pleasure myself with the sounds of your agony!”
She began to curse him in Mandarin and did not hear what he yelled back, but Morgan was certain the men holding him down did. They shifted nervously. He continued to talk, knowing that if he kept repeating himself the old witch would eventually stop ranting long enough to hear him.
She did finally stop, swaying unsteadily on her feet, wiping spittle from her mouth. Morgan kept repeating himself, waiting for his words to sink in.
He saw the very moment when what he’d said penetrated the fog of her rage.
“Wha . . . what did you say?”
Morgan was silent, watching for the crazed light to leave her eyes. She strode over and squatted in front of him.
“What did you say?” she insisted, her words ragged, harsh.
The man behind him released his hold and Morgan took a careful, cleansing breath, cautiously watching her. “I said, there is a child. You have a grandson,” Morgan announced.
He had no idea whether the child was a male or a female. His informants had only told him that the Little Plum Blossom had been five or six months gone when she had been returned to the bosom of her friends in Denver. Surely she would have had the child by now.
He watched Fang-Hua’s eyes dilate and saw a light spark in them. She slowly stood up.
“So. The little whore gave him a child . . .” she walked back to her chair and sank into it. He swallowed as she fixed him with her cold, mad eyes.
Fang-Hua Chen tapped a lacquered nail on the arm of her chair and used a silk cloth to wipe the spit that dribbled from her mouth. Her breath was still ragged from the rage she had flown into.
A grandson! Is it true? She did not trust the messenger who delivered this tidbit, but it was of such import that she dared not ignore it.
She studied Dean Morgan, the man she knew as Reggie. Her guards had sat him roughly in a chair while she plotted her next move. Morgan seemed unfazed as he waited. His face was placid, his hands rested on his thighs. He even flicked a bit of lint from his trouser.
“What if I were to believe such an unlikely tale, Reggie?” Her voice was silky, seductive. “You say the girl lives in the same house my men watched for weeks—months!—with no sign of her. You expect me to believe she is there now?”
Morgan nodded sagely. “She was not there during the period you looked for her, Madam Chen, becaus
e she was with Su-Chong. In hiding.”
Fang-Hua’s expression darkened. “Nothing the police told us and nothing the papers reported suggests such a thing.”
“Ah yes. My sources tell me that someone—a certain Pinkerton man—influenced the police to leave out specific details in their reports . . . for the girl’s sake. She was taken back to the house shortly after being found in the same apartment as your son.”
Fang-Hua leaned on her arm and pondered what he said. “If there is a child—I say if—how would you recommend I proceed, Reggie? What would you suggest I do to, ah, retrieve him?”
Morgan nodded again as though to affirm that she was asking the right questions. “I would recommend, Madam, that you allow me to assist you.”
Fang-Hua’s laughter was guttural, malevolent. “You would like to assist me, Reggie? And why would I ever allow you to do so? Why would I even allow you to leave this house alive?
“You will tell me where to find my grandson,” she ordered.
He raised an eyebrow, uncowed by her command. “Madam, begging your pardon, but I can be invaluable to you. The men you sent to Denver were ineffective. Were they not all Chinese? Denver has many Chinese, but they do not frequent, they do not spy upon, the houses and neighborhoods where whites live. Your men stuck out like sore thumbs!
“You require someone with certain, shall I say, talents? Let me pick my own men and take them to Denver. I will study the girl’s moves and routines. It may take time, perhaps even a few months—she will not be anxious to take a newborn out-of-doors in the dead of winter, after all.
“But when we take the girl and the child, it will be quick and unexpected. They will find only her dead body. And then I will bring you the child.”
Fang-Hua said nothing for many minutes. When she did speak it was not to Morgan. “Take him to the basement and keep him there. I will think on this. Do not let him out of your sight.”
Stolen (A Prairie Heritage, Book 5) Page 9