A-Splendid-Ruin(9)

I felt a vague disappointment, though I wasn’t certain why. She’d been complimentary, hadn’t she? Why then did I feel so disgruntled?

“How is your mother this morning?” I asked.

Goldie sighed. “I am sorry about last night, May. Sometimes the laudanum gives her nightmares.”

“Laudanum?”

Goldie hesitated.

“If I’m to live here, you must tell me,” I urged. “I heard everyone last night, you know. How long has she been ill?”

“Only a few months. It began with headaches, and the doctor gave her laudanum, which made them better, but honestly she’s become more and more difficult without it. She’s taken to her bed. It’s best not to expect her to do, well, anything. Or to be anywhere. She probably won’t remember last night. Half the time she makes no sense at all. Just ignore her.”

“But I have so many questions.”

“She won’t be able to answer them, May, and it just confuses her more if you try to speak with her. Believe me, it’s best for everyone if you don’t try.” She went to the door. “Don’t be long.”

Goldie left, and I stared after her in dismay. I had not wanted to give any credence to my fear that my aunt was unbalanced. “Half the time she makes no sense . . .” Yes, but what of the other half? I didn’t want to confuse or upset her, yet there must be something she remembered of my mother, of the past. Also, which half had invited me here to San Francisco? Aunt Florence had been ill a few months, Goldie had said. I’d received her letter two weeks ago. But no one was surprised that I was here, and I’d been so warmly welcomed. I didn’t think I needed to worry on that score, at least.

Another knock on my door, and a young Chinese woman came inside. I recognized her as the maid with the heart-shaped face who had directed me back to the ballroom last night. She wore a simple shirtwaist and skirt, and her glossy black hair was in a perfect chignon, which only accented the wideness of her face at the temples and the delicacy of her chin. Her brows were straight, her eyes dark, and her smile slight but not unfriendly as she set the tray she carried on the dressing table. “Good morning, miss. I’m Shin. I’m here to help you dress.”

Her voice was accented, but her English was perfect. Goldie had said nothing about a maid, and I had no idea what to do with her, or even how to address her. “Oh. Goldie didn’t tell me. I didn’t expect—”

“Of course you must have a maid,” she said firmly.

I felt immediately stupid, and said only, “Yes.” I set my sketchbook beside the tray, which held a steaming pot of coffee, a stack of buttered toast, and a small dish of apricot jam. “It’s nice to meet you, Shin, and thank you for bringing breakfast. But I don’t need help dressing.”

I waited for her to leave. She said nothing, but stood as if waiting for some instruction that I had no idea how to give, or even what it should be. Finally she said, “Have you unpacked, miss?”

“Oh. Oh no, there’s been no time.”

She was already at the foot of the bed, opening my suitcase. She took out a faded, rust-striped shirtwaist, a brown skirt, and my unmentionables. No fashionable combination underwear for me, but only a frayed chemise and drawers. Shin’s clothing was of better quality than any of mine, and I could only imagine what she must think of my plain petticoats, the pink corset cover that had been washed to beige, and the oft-mended stockings. It was all I could do to keep from crawling beneath the bed in shame.

But Shin was insistent in a quiet and determined way as she began to divest me of my nightgown, and it seemed easier to give in than to resist. I supposed I should get used to this. Still, my skin goosepimpled; I could not meet her eyes. I had no idea where to put my hands, my arms, how to ignore her or even if I should, and in my attempts to avoid embarrassment, my gaze landed on her right hand, which was missing an index finger.

I gasped.

She paused. “Miss?”

Flustered and more embarrassed than ever—one could not ask about such a thing—I said, “Nothing. Nothing.”

It was a relief when I was properly dressed again.

“Your hair, miss,” Shin said, indicating the padded bench at the dressing table.

I sat helplessly. She poured my coffee, and then unplaited my braid while I ate and tried to keep from looking at that missing finger. It called to me like a ghost, always in my periphery. How well she managed without it. How deft she was as she began to brush my hair. I could not help closing my eyes at her steady, soothing hand. Like Mama’s.

To distract myself from the sudden urge to cry, I opened the sketchbook. I’d gone through four or five designs when I glanced into the mirror to find Shin staring at the pages. When I caught her, she glanced quickly away.

“They’re really very rough.” I closed the book again.

“They’re pretty, miss.”

She wound my tresses skillfully about her remaining fingers. I had to force my stare away. I wondered if she noticed. “Please, I would like it if you called me May.”

“Yes, Miss May.”

It was probably the best I would be able to do. “I wonder if I could ask a favor, Shin. If I do something wrong or inappropriate, would you please tell me? Don’t worry about my feelings. I want the Sullivans to be glad they brought me here. I want to fit in.”