Thursday, January 16, 2025
Mr. Wong Rights a Wrong, scene 3
Welcome, I’m Mary Louisa Locke, the author of the USA Today best-selling Victorian San Francisco Mystery series and the Caelestis Science Fiction series. In this daily newsletter, I reflect on my life as an indie author trying to age gracefully. Occasionally, I will also publish some of my shorter fiction in this newsletter to read for free.
Daily Diary, Day 1597:
Below is the third scene of the short story Mr. Wong Rights a Wrong, which I am putting in this newsletter for free, every Tuesday and Thursday. However, if you want to read my earlier post on why I wrote this story, go HERE.
But first, a brief check-in: Not supposed to go above 60 today, but warm enough yesterday for me to sit in sun briefly. Had one scheduled phone call yesterday, and today I will be busy with zoom and phone calls between 11:30-3, so not expecting to get much work done on the novel front, but every day I make a little more progress.
Mr. Wong Rights a Wrong: A Victorian San Francisco Story
by M. Louisa Locke
Copyright 2014
Scene 3
“You see, Mr. Wong, she was this tiny little girl that they had rescued the day before––and she was shrieking like a locomotive,” Annie said to the older Chinese man who was sitting across from her in the parlor of the O’Farrell Street boarding house. On her way home from the Mission this morning, Annie had telegraphed him, asking him to come to see her as soon as possible.
She’d met Wong the previous summer when she was investigating a murder in the Voss household where he worked as a manservant and cook. At the time, she’d been pretending to be a parlor maid––a disguise this wise and discerning man quickly penetrated. But he’d kept her secret and treated her with genuine kindness in the few weeks they had worked together. When the investigation ended, she asked Nate, who was the Voss lawyer, to explain to Wong who she really was and convey her sincere thanks for all he had done for her. She hadn’t spoken to Wong since then, and she was inordinately pleased that he responded––and so quickly––to her request to come to her home. His mistress must have given him permission to leave right after lunch ended, and Annie knew he would need to get back soon to start preparing for dinner.
Looking across at Wong, dressed as usual in his immaculately pressed, black, quilted tunic over black wide-legged pants, Annie felt a wave of affection. She welcomed this chance to see him again but wanted to make it clear that she had a good reason to be taking up his valuable time, so she continued quickly, saying, “Miss Greenstock said that yesterday morning they got word that there was a young girl of about six or seven who was on board the SS Acapulco. She didn’t seem to be with anyone and wasn’t met by a relative when the steamer docked. When the Mission’s Assistant Superintendent, Reverend Jensen, went on board with a police officer, the ship’s captain told them that the girl had been traveling with an elderly relative who had died on route. Neither he nor the customs official who was there objected when Reverend Jenson offered to take the girl into the Female Refuge, at least until her status could be determined. The problem is that the people at the Female Refuge haven’t been able to get her to eat or sleep since she arrived at the Mission. And this morning, when they tried to remove her clothes so they could bathe her, she became hysterical. Miss Walker, the Refuge Matron, told me that they were at their wits’ end.”
Wong nodded gravely but still said nothing, so she went on. “I remembered that last summer the Voss lawyer, Mr. Dawson, mentioned that you had good connections in China Town, and I thought that maybe you could be of help to the little girl. To complicate matters further, the girl seems to speak some sort of dialect that none of the Mission staff or the women in the Refuge understand. They don’t even know her name.”
A subtle shift in Wong’s narrow shoulders and the appearance of two lines between his eyebrows showed Annie that something she’d said sparked his interest.
He leaned forward and said in his precise but accented English, “Mrs. Fuller, can you remember any of the words the small child said?”
Annie frowned. “I am afraid that when they got her to stop screaming she then became mute. Mrs. Greenstock told me that one of the girls in the Refuge thought they’d heard her say her name was “Bao,” but when they called her by that name she became agitated again.”
There was another pause, and Annie remembered that it had taken a few days for her to learn that Wong’s silence was a form of expression itself. The first day she’d worked with him, she thought he didn’t understand English because he’d never said a single word in her presence.
Wong cocked his head slightly and spoke. “And her clothing? Would you please describe?”
“She wore a sort of embroidered red cap on her head that was stitched all over in small pearls and had bright red ribbons that hung down on each side of her face, past her waist. Her outfit was a loosely fitting top that went down to the knees of her matching pants and had very wide sleeves. Both the top and the pants were made of a very heavy green silk, embroidered in red and gold thread.”
Wong sat back. “And her feet?”
Annie closed her eyes briefly, trying to remember. She then looked down at Wong’s own feet, shod in the typical black Chinese slippers, with their thick white felt soles, and said, “I can’t remember anything extraordinary, except that the shoes were red with golden embroidery. Everything looked quite expensive. Otherwise, in shape and style they were similar to the shoes you are wearing, which, I must say, I have often envied.”
A smile flickered across Wong’s face, but then he said, “No pointed toe? Not the lotus flower?”
She tried to remember if there was a flower on the shoes, then his meaning became clear. Evelyn Greenstock had mentioned that “lotus flower” was the term given to the shape of a Chinese woman’s foot when it had been bound, the toes bent back to make a woman’s foot unnaturally small. She’d told Annie that none of the women currently in the Refuge had bound feet because none of them had come from the wealthier classes of Chinese society. Annie agreed with her that the practice was barbaric.
Realizing that the clothing she had just described meant that the girl probably came from one of those wealthier families, she said, “Oh, Mr. Wong. Surely a young girl like that wouldn’t have her feet bound?”
Wong clasped his hands together and replied, “Most girls start to have their feet bound by age six. But not the Hakka. They don’t bind feet. They....”
Annie broke in, saying, “Wait a minute…Hakka...I think that is the word that Mrs. Greenstock used, she said one of the women in the refuge said something about the little girl speaking or being Hakka.” Annie stopped, realizing how rude she had been. “Oh, excuse me, Mr. Wong, I didn’t mean to interrupt you. But if she is Hakka, does that mean something to you?”
Mr. Wong nodded. “I was born in Miezhou, northeastern Guangdong. Father was Hakka. Mother not. When Father died I moved with my mother to Canton to be among her family, the Wongs, who adopted me. When I came to San Francisco I chose to venerate the ancestors of both my mother and father, but I belong to the Yan Wo Society. Hakka society.”
“This is wonderful. Would you be willing to go to the Mission and try to speak with her?”
Wong did not answer but instead asked another question. “The embroidery you spoke of, Mrs. Fuller. Please, were there any animals in the designs on her clothing?”
“Oh, yes. There were two; one that looked like some exotic bird and the other was definitely a dragon. The design was very intricate, everything entwined within a circle, right in the middle of the girl’s chest. Does that mean anything?”
Wong stood up quickly and said, “Please, Mrs. Fuller. Can you take me to see the little girl? Now. I think that we should not waste any more time. I fear that the good women of the Mission may have made a grave mistake.”
…to be continued.
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Eager for the next development!