Ernest’s mouth hung open as spoken words vanished into the dull throbbing at his temples, the pulsing of his heart as he imagined hundreds of people, perhaps thousands, lied to, tricked, bought and sold, shipped overseas, offered to the highest bidder, indentured. While others were cast off, given away. Bodies bobbing on the surf like driftwood, flotsam and jetsam, women and children.
“If anyone, I should be thanking you, my young fellow,” Mr. Turnbull continued. “I started off with lowly, penal colony riffraff from the darker parts of Australia and Fiji, but Canton changed my fortunes.” He waved a hand, looking about the room. “All of this, everything I have, was built on the idea that despite the unfair labor laws, the damnable exclusion act designed to keep your kind out—bringing people like you to this country was a profitable, charitable, and even humanitarian transaction.”
To Ernest the man seemed so full of himself, his waistcoat looked ready to burst.
“Just seeing what has become of you”—Mr. Turnbull smiled broadly—“that’s all the thanks I will ever need. You’re living proof that my life’s work has been a noble adventure. Gold is folly, ships—they sail away. But fresh humanity, that is still the ultimate commodity.”
Ernest thought about Fahn, staggering home in the rain. He imagined all the girls like her, who never found someone like Madam Flora. And even Flora, succumbing to the tolls of her labors.
Ernest watched as Mr. Turnbull returned to his morning paper.
The man spoke without looking up. “And now John D. Rockefeller Junior has retired to become a full-time philanthropist.” He turned the page. “Meanwhile half a world away, China has abolished slavery. How about that? If you ask me, it sounds like the slaves have broken their chains of bondage on two shores.” He laughed to himself as he looked up. “It was a pleasure meeting you. I’m sure you can find your way out.”
Ernest left without saying goodbye. He was barely able to depart without grabbing the man and throttling him. But he’d be of no use to Maisie and Fahn in jail.
Beyond the elevator a servant showed Ernest to the door and down the steps to where he found Maisie next to the roadster, eyes closed, sunning on the grass, legs crossed, arms spread, her fingers amid the clover. When Ernest’s shadow fell on her, she opened her eyes and squinted up at him. “He told you, huh?”
“Told me what?”
“That he was the one who brought you over here.”
Ernest nodded. “And Fahn too. She was on that ship as well.”
Maisie closed her eyes. “Just like I said. The good. The bad. It’s all connected. It’s like fate—that’s what our darling Rose would call this. The herbalist in Chinatown would call our tangled lives the red thread. Madam Flora would call it…destiny.”
Ernest looked at her. He was lost for words.
“Don’t look so sad,” Maisie said as she sat up.
Ernest swallowed. “Why are you so happy?”
“I’m happy because Louis Turnbull made me the offer of a lifetime. He doesn’t have a wife anymore, no children to speak of, so he wants me to become his ward. Can you believe that? He said he’d take me abroad—I can go anywhere, do anything. I can find my mother. I can pay for whatever she needs.” Maisie gushed her enthusiasm with a vigor that wounded. “And the best part is, he said I could bring you along as a servant. We could all sail for Europe together. Spread our wings. How does that sound?”
Like he’s never stopped buying and selling people. Ernest sighed.
“Maybe you should take some time and think it over,” he said.
“What’s there to consider? Don’t you see how perfect this is? We can leave this week. The two of us. Just think about where we could go, what we could see.”
Ernest fell silent, though a part of him was screaming to join her.
“Well, the three of us, actually.” Maisie shrugged with a smile. “But I’m sure Turnbull will be occupied most of the time, doing other things, running his business.”
Ernest cared about Maisie, so much that it hurt. But as much as he wanted to be with her, to travel the world in her company, to share the life she’d have, he knew he could never accept that kind of offer. He’d been given away, twice. And in that moment, he swore he would never give himself up that way again.
Maisie stepped closer and placed her hands on his shoulders. She pursed her lips and leaned forward, then paused. She looked into his eyes, as though she were about to speak, as though important, convincing words lingered on the tip of her tongue. Magical whispers. Secret promises. Stories with happy endings.
But she fell silent.
“I can’t,” Ernest said.
He held her hands.
“You can’t?” Maisie asked. “Or you won’t?”
Ernest imagined a sunset at sea. The smell of the ocean. The sound of the waves, crashing. Then he remembered the cold rain last night.
“Fahn is back.” Just speaking Fahn’s name, knowing she was safe again, filled him with hope, satisfaction, and joy. “She needs me.”
Maisie nodded and let go. She wearily climbed into the backseat and closed her eyes. She didn’t stir when he started the noisy car. She hardly moved as he drove back to the Tenderloin in silence.
UNSPOKEN
(1910)
The next morning Maisie was gone.
She didn’t leave a note, but she did leave her necklace in lieu of a goodbye, on a pillow next to Fahn as she slept. Ernest found the strand of diamonds in the morning, when he brought Fahn tea and soft-boiled eggs for breakfast.
Fahn had recovered just enough to fully understand the significance of her friend’s absence, as Ernest explained that Maisie had left to become the ward of Louis Turnbull. He also told her that it was Turnbull who in all likelihood had helped bring him and Fahn across the Pacific. The words sounded like fiction as Ernest described Maisie’s plan to travel to Europe to find her mother—and how she’d invited Ernest along.
“Why didn’t you go?” Fahn asked, holding the necklace.
He could sense the strange admiration and jealousy of the upstairs girls that had driven Fahn to such disastrous choices. But he could also now see a greater wisdom in her eyes, a validation. She knew what such choices could cost; whether they involved a crib joint or a gilded cage—the price was always the same.
“Because…” Ernest stirred milk and honey into Fahn’s tea. Then he handed her the cup. “I thought you were still going to marry me someday.”
A small part of him regretted not going with Maisie. It would have been nice to travel the globe. But this was his world now—she was his world.
Fahn held his hand. “Be careful what you wish for, young Ernest.”
—
WHEN SUPPERTIME CAME, Fahn dressed for dinner. She limped to the servants’ table, sat next to Ernest, and chatted amiably with the maids and Mrs. Blackwell as though little had changed. She even joked about becoming a Gibson girl after all, now that the Mayflower had left a vacancy—which made Ernest nearly choke on his Welsh rarebit. Violet and Iris laughed, albeit nervously. No one dared to ask what had happened at the Tangerine, about the fire, and whether Fahn had had anything to do with that calamity. At least until Rose walked in, late from cleaning Maisie’s now-empty room.
“I went up the street today to pick up mending for the girls,” Rose gushed. “I just had to take a detour to the crib that caught fire. Lord, it’s a wreck! Just beams and part of a staircase—like looking at the carcass of a whale, bones burned black. Workmen on the avenues were saying it’s a miracle no one got hurt.”
Ernest noticed how everyone in the servants’ dining room was doing their level best not to look in Fahn’s direction. He couldn’t help but see her again in memory, stumbling down the street in the rain. Bloody footprints. Laughter.
“I don’t suppose you had anything to do with that fire, did you?” Rose asked, glancing at Fahn before tucking her napkin into her lap. Then she noticed the condemning stares. “Oh, my. I said something out of turn again, didn’t I?”