“Let me make acquaintances.”
She widened her eyes as Zachary, in flawless Chinese made introductions to the smiling Chinese woman and her daughter. “This is Miss Elizabeth Spencer, and this is Lian Li and her daughter, Anhe.”
They bowed several times.
“It’s an honor to meet you,” said Elizabeth extending her gloved hand.
“I hired Qing-Nan Li and his five sons to work in the plant. Qing-Nan Li is an old friend from my railroad days. He worked out west and sent money home to New York to support his family. He had been buried in the cave-in. His wife and daughter provide lunches for the workers.”
Elizabeth noticed Chen, much taller than his Chinese companions, loitering, allowing everyone to precede him in the serving line. He bowed to Lian Li. Overlong, he hesitated in front of her daughter. Unhurried, the girl served his food, dawdling with an extra ladle of broth and noodles. The monk bowed toher. With his dinner, he sat at a far wall, his eyes shuttered, not looking yet never leaving Anhe as she busied with clean up.
Elizabeth pressed her lips together, hiding her mirth. The monk who spent a lifetime of showing unaffected passion or feeling, and firmly restraining any response to pain or distress was in love? The girl barely lifted her eyes, but when she did, they clapped on Chen. A flicker flashed in Chen’s eyes, a glorious spark. Then Anhe looked away, picked up a hoop and commenced embroidering. Chen’s shoulders slumped. He sat frozen and forlorn like a raindrop lost to the ocean, painfully shy and pitiful.
Mrs. Merriweather, Fiona and O’Reilly joined them. Elizabeth nudged Mrs. Merriweather. “Look at our miserable Chen,” she whispered. “Look at the girl embroidering. Could you be of assistance?”
Mrs. Merriweather reared her head. “Our Chen is not so much of a monk? What about his vow of chastity?”
Elizabeth gave a dainty shrug. “Vows made during a calm are forgotten when the storm commences.”
The old woman rubbed her hands together with conspiratorial glee. “There is a charm about the prohibited that makes it unspeakably desirable. She is lovely. You have employed me with such a delightful activity. God forgive me for assisting a lovelorn monk to grasp the forbidden fruit, but I can’t help it. I’m a hopeless romantic.”
Mrs. Merriweather turned to Zachary. “Mr. Rourke.” She tapped Zachary’s shoulder. “The girl’s craftsmanship is beyond anything I’ve ever seen. With brilliant colors of thread and the fineness of her stitches, she stirs the silk fabric to life. Her work is unparalleled, and I need a girl who is an excellent seamstress. Would it be possible for Mr. Chen to escort her to my home. I’ll pay her well.”
Zachary translated in Chinese to Lian Li and her daughter. There were excited smiles and continued bowing.
“There’s your answer, Mrs. Merriweather.”
“Well done. With that business concluded, where is Mr. O’Reilly?” She caught sight of him and hurried to the Irishman’s side where he lectured like a scholarly professor the merits of another machine.
Elizabeth smiled behind her gloved hand. The two Chinese women were still bowing to Mrs. Merriweather. “You have everything working with perfect efficiency, Mr. Rourke.”
He leaned over and spoke lightly into Elizabeth’s ear. “What I find troubling is the division of the Chinese and the Irish. How can I make men of different backgrounds work together when they hate each other? How will I ever succeed unless there is a mutual respect built?”
A large, heavily built Irishman with ham hock fists and a broken nose dared to push between them. Zachary was quick, sweeping Elizabeth behind him.
“I see you’ve selected your crew,” said the man, his deep-toned corroded voice as grating as a shovel against concrete.
Zachary narrowed his eyes on the Mick who dared to come between them. Donnelly was trouble. “I have.”
“Except for the Chinks.” The big man angled his head to Chen and the Chinese workers.
Zachary folded his arms in front of him. The argument brewing was like a choreographed dance of distrust and bigotry. “I expect you to accord them all the respect I do.”
“That’s if I don’t kill them first. And to boot, I don’t eat that Chink garbage they call food. I can’t stand that Chink wife. The daughter I might take a turn in the alley.”
He heard Elizabeth gasp behind him.
Chen picked up a long sharp knife from Lian Li’s table, legs spread wide. “Do you want to die cut horizontal or vertical?”
Zachary gave a sharp bark of laughter. Never had he seen Chen go on the offensive, but Donnelly had hit a nerve when he slurred Anhe and her family. As men from both sides crowded near, it was O’Reilly who moved between the two combatants with Mrs. Merriweather and Fiona pulling up the rear. O’Reilly emptied his clay pipe, took a portion of tobacco, pulled safety matches from one of his pockets and busied himself striking one against the sandpaper strip on the side of the box. Both foes stood silently glaring at each other.
“To my estimation,” said O’Reilly, peering up to the Irishman, “you owe Mr. Chen, Mr. Li and his wife and daughter an apology.”
“By my mother’s sainted soul, I won’t do it.”
“When Chen gave you an option of horizontal or vertical, he was being kind. I’ve never seen the likes of a warrior other than our Mr. Chen.” O’Reilly punctuated his warning with a puff of smoke that curled above the Irishman’s head and hung motionless in the air. “I’d hate to see you get fired nor would I wish to see Mr. Chen’s violence unleashed. What’s it to be?”
Grudgingly, the Irishman muttered an apology. Chen bowed.
