The Many Daughters of Afong Moy(39)

“For a moment, I thought you were,” Afong said. “That Mr. Hannington sent you to watch over me.” She glanced up at her new acquaintance.

“They needn’t pay me for that.” Nanchoy loosened his tie ever so slightly. “I was quite happy to take this job. I traveled all the way from New York for very little pay and accepted this position, despite the Hanningtons being… themselves.”

Afong cocked her head, appraising his words. She was flattered by his company and ached for such kindness, but she remembered that her heart belonged to Yao Han. Though the chance of ever seeing him again was predicated on her freedom, which Americans talked about but she never experienced.

“Did you come all this way,” she asked, “just to be with me?”

Nanchoy hesitated, then nodded.

“Why?”

“Because I’m afraid I have something in common with the Americans.”

To Afong, his gaze felt warm, like summer.

“You’re the first Chinese woman I’ve ever seen.”

Afong stared at him in disbelief as a clock chimed 12:30 a.m.

She almost laughed.

Then she regarded his sincerity, his earnestness. She knew that back in China women were rarely, if ever, seen outside their homes, and then only on their wedding day. “You must have met at least one. Your ah-ma, someone in your home village, a peasant in the field…”

Nanchoy looked uncomfortable in his plush chair. “I didn’t have a home village. My first memories were within the walls of a Jesuit orphanage. Even outside those walls, I was a day’s journey from the nearest town.” He shook his head, shrugged with embarrassment. “There were no women. From there I was given to a monastery in the mountains where the servants, like me, were all boys. When I left, I hid as I traveled, avoided markets and shops, people altogether. I made my way to a seaport where the only women I saw were British or American, merchant’s wives, captain’s spouses. Though of course, during my years here, I’ve seen many women, American, British, Irish, Spanish, Negro, hundreds…” He hesitated. “But they’re not like you.”

“Back home I am nothing special.” Afong was not as tall as her sisters. She was not as beautiful as her cousins. Her feet were not as small as her ah-ma’s. Afong always felt rather plain. She knew that being the youngest meant she would be the last to marry, but she still felt it was because she was painfully ordinary.

He leaned forward and put his hand on top of hers.

“But we’re not back home,” Nanchoy said. “I wish I could help you find your way back to your family, but I can’t. But if there’s any other way I might be of service…”

Afong looked down at his hand, which was warm, soft. She hesitated, excited, but also confused. She slowly pulled her hand away, pretending to adjust a collar button.

“Can you write a letter for me?”

Nanchoy paused, thinking.

“Even if I was allowed to leave, I do not have enough money for a passenger ticket home,” Afong said. “But I can at least afford postage.”

“I could write your letter.” He nodded. “A mailbag is sent on each ship.”

Afong thought she might cry as she gushed, “Thank you.” She could not believe what she was hearing. Like her ah-ma, she did not know how to read or write. But now, being able to communicate with her family was like praying at an altar for the dead and hearing a reply. She wondered how she could possibly get a letter to her mother without it going through her father. Maybe he would be away as he often traveled. Maybe he would welcome news of her well-being. Maybe he would burn the letter.

“There is also a young man…,” Afong blurted. “He can read and write. If you sent my letter to him, he could find a way to share it with my mother.”

The man sitting across from her looked uncomfortable, frowning as though he had bitten into an unripe bayberry, swallowing the pit as well.

“Of course. I will do my best,” he said as he put his glasses back on and stood up. He glanced at the clock. “It’s late and I’m tired. Enjoy your supper.”

He walked upstairs without looking back, leaving her in the drawing room hoping she had not offended him, and if so, wondering what she did wrong.



* * *



The following night she sang like never before, the song of a dying swan for a sold-out crowd at Baltimore’s Carroll Hall, while dreaming about going home. She envisioned her ah-ma’s tears of joy, the warmth of her embrace, how she always smelled like rosewater. She imagined reaching out to her sisters. Perhaps she would even learn nushu—women’s script—the secret language used in Hunan between lou tung. Afong wished she had a friendship like that, someone so close they were bonded for life. The closest she ever had outside her home was Yao Han, since they grew up together. She wondered what poems he must have created in her absence. If he finally took the Imperial Exam and became a Confucian apprentice, or whether he qualified for the more rigorous provincial tests, ascending the imperial ladder and moving far away. Selfishly, she hoped he had not left, though she felt guilty for imagining him leaving school and working in her father’s orchard, waiting, hoping.

No, he said he would come back for me.

Afong closed her eyes as she sang and prayed the gods would allow Yao Han to hear her. That he could follow her voice and find her. That somehow, she would be able to leave this place and find her way home. She did not care that it was a crime for a woman to return to China. She could change her name. Cut her hair. Dress as a beggar.