Ernest didn’t know what one of her fits meant exactly. True gentlemen were not privy to many female mysteries, and the proper response was simply not to inquire further. So he took the money, slipped his shoes on without tying them, and ran down the hall. He descended the grand staircase and sprinted out the front door toward Chinatown.
By the time he reached the Jue Young Wo herb shop, Ernest was sweaty and nearly out of breath. To make matters worse, the store was closed, though he could see the old proprietor moving about inside, sweeping the floor and brewing a pot of tea. Ernest banged on the door and shouted until the man finally let him in. The herbalist offered him a cup of ginger tea and began speaking to him in Cantonese.
Ernest shook his head. “I’m sorry.” He couldn’t remember the name of the herb in English or Chinese. He held up the dollar and urgently pointed to the dried red flowers.
—
WHEN ERNEST RETURNED, Fahn was busy making breakfast for the servants. Mrs. Blackwell emerged from the kitchen with a kettle of boiling water. “Follow me,” she said, as she quickly brewed the tea and took the concoction upstairs on a lacquered tray, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, as if this were any other Sunday and she were bringing up a breakfast of toast and apple butter. Ernest did as he was told. If the cook was distressed in any way, she didn’t reveal her concern. Instead she handed Ernest a kitchen towel and said, “I have a feeling you’ll need this.”
A few worried girls, still in their nightgowns, had gathered in the hallway near Madam Flora’s suite, but Mrs. Blackwell shooed them off. From outside Ernest could hear voices, some soothing, some panicked, almost crying. He stepped back as he heard the strange whir and squeak of light machinery.
He said, “I don’t want to be in the way…”
“Your chores can wait, lad.” Mrs. Blackwell shrugged. “Time to see the world as it really is—occupational hazards and all.”
Ernest looked back, confused.
“Madam is our matron saint, and we all need to pull together and do what we can,” Mrs. Blackwell said as she walked. “Besides, honest Abe Lincoln suffered from the same affliction. It goes away for decades, but when it comes back—oh my, how that sickness does some terrible things to the mind. Hopefully this stuff works, because it’s a frightening way to go—losing your wits, forgetting everyone around you, going blind…”
Mrs. Blackwell knocked to announce their arrival and then opened the door. Inside the finely appointed room, Madam Flora sat atop a bicycle that had its front wheel propped up so that she was riding in place. The legs of her short, blue silk pajamas had been pulled up to her knees and fluttered as she pedaled.
I must be dreaming, Ernest thought. I’m having some kind of bizarre nightmare from ingesting too much tobacco smoke.
He stood paralyzed, towel in hand, staring wide-eyed at the scene of Madam Flora riding, crying, her white legs streaked with thick purple veins. Wigless, Miss Amber held Flora’s hand and kissed her cheek.
Standing nearby was Maisie, whose nose and eyes were puffy and wet with tears. She took the cup from Mrs. Blackwell and offered it to her mother.
“Please, Mama…Flora, just have a sip,” Maisie said. “It’s piping hot, just the way you like it. Please…”
Madam Flora swiped the cup away from Maisie with the back of her hand. The red liquid splashed on the wallpaper as the cup shattered. Madam Flora screwed up her face like a toddler forced to drink a spoonful of cod-liver oil as Mrs. Blackwell snapped her fingers at Ernest, pointing to the towel. He sprang to life, scrambling on his hands and knees as he wiped up the mess, dabbed at the wall to try to soak up the tea, and collected the broken bits of porcelain.
“I want to go home,” Madam Flora pleaded. “Please, just let me go home…”
Ernest looked back and saw Miss Amber, a kind shadow of her gruff self, softly whispering, “Ah, you are home, my love. You are the heart and soul of the Tenderloin, and we need you. Please come back to us, my dear.”
Ernest watched as Madam Flora stopped pedaling and looked around the room. The front wheel continued to spin, winding down like the slowing of a panicked heart. Then Flora seemed to realize where she was, and hysteria dissolved into confusion. She touched her hair, the disheveled mess, part up, part hanging down in a ratted clump, as though she’d been caught in a transient state between celebration and slumber. The exhausted woman held out her trembling palms when Miss Amber offered her a fresh cup of tea. This time Madam Flora cradled the delicate china cup in both hands and sipped.
“I’m so sorry…” Madam Flora whispered as she stared at the tea-stained wall. She looked at Maisie and began to sob. “My sweet little girl.”
“It’s okay now, Mama,” Maisie said as she helped her mother from the bicycle to a velvet settee.
Ernest watched as Maisie melted into her mother’s embrace, gently rocking back and forth. Then Madam Flora dried her eyes and regained a modicum of composure. She held her daughter at arm’s length, touched her hair appraisingly. She seemed somewhat confused again as she said, “Look at this one. I know you. You’ll always be my little hummingbird.”
Miss Amber interrupted. “Just drink your tea, my love. I’ll always be here for you.” Then she glanced at the others in the room, pointing with her chin toward the door and whispering, “Out.”
Ernest felt a hand at his elbow as Mrs. Blackwell pulled Maisie and him out of the room. He watched Madam Flora recline on the scarlet settee, eyes closed, burying herself in a flocked quilt and Amber’s arms as the door closed.
Mrs. Blackwell turned on her heel and disappeared down the servants’ staircase. Maisie slowly sank to the floor, her legs splayed across the dark red carpet. Ernest sat next to her, and they rested their backs against the wainscoting, hip to hip, hearts still racing. Ernest felt his hand touch Maisie’s. Her fingers were shorter than Fahn’s, and her nails had been polished, shining like pearls, for last night’s soirée. She quickly placed her hands in her lap. She and Ernest stared at the closed door in silence, listening to the two older women cry.
Ernest didn’t know which was more confounding, the thought of Madam Flora frantically riding a bicycle to nowhere, the image of the two tragic women cradling each other, or Maisie May showing a vulnerable side. He wanted to speak, but Mrs. Irvine had once told him that a gentleman should never ask personal questions of a lady.
Yet Ernest didn’t want to move. He didn’t want to ruin this moment with Maisie, let alone abandon her. In the month he had known her, she’d been perfectly distant, so far away—angry. Now that they were here, and even if only under duress, he realized that there was a part of her that was so different from Fahn. Unlike Fahn’s, Maisie’s affections weren’t freely given. They had to be earned.
And so they sat in silence.
From the corner of his eye, Ernest could see Maisie wiping an occasional tear. He could hear her sniffling, until the grandfather clock downstairs chimed and she finally drew a deep breath and spoke. “Can I ask you something, Ernest?”
He nodded.
“Do you know what a Boston marriage is?”
Ernest shook his head.
“A Boston marriage is a kind of arrangement where two old spinsters live together,” Maisie said. “What do you think of that kind of marriage?”
Ernest stammered, “I’m…I’m not sure what…”
“I used to wish that my mother would leave here. I’d go to bed dreaming that Flora would find a man—a husband for her, a father for me. I used to imagine that we’d run away, that we’d escape all of this and have a normal home, become a family, and that she’d see me as a real daughter—that our life would be as simple as the families you see in photographs.”
But you are her real daughter, Ernest thought.
She answered before he could speak. “I think the days of hoping for that are gone.”