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Later, Anyu told Bellefeuille that she needed to get her things at the Mandelburgs’ shop. Bellefeuille discouraged it. You have everything you need here, he said, but at her insistence, he took her to the shop in his car. Anyu got out; he waited in the car with his chauffeur.

Esther would not approve of her decision, Anyu thought as she walked up to the shop and knocked on the window.

Esther saw her and came out. “Anyu! Where have you been? I’ve been worried about you. I was looking for you all over the hotel but couldn’t find you. Come in!”

“I can’t. I came to get my things, my dresses, and some money.”

“Why?”

“I’m leaving,” she said. “I’m going to marry Pierre Bellefeuille.”

Esther jerked, stumbling on her bad leg. “You’re joking. Do you even know him? You don’t care about him. You declined all his invitations ...”

Anyu might have explained—Isaac’s rejection, last night at Bellefeuille’s mansion—but there was not enough time. “Could you get my things for me? You know where they are.”

“What about Father? Do you want to speak to him?”

“No. I don’t want to see him.”

“What about your commissions?”

“I’ve finished them all. The new designs haven’t started yet. Your father should refund the customers. Can you get my things?”

Esther nodded. When she came back, she carried a black suitcase, frowning. “I don’t understand why you’re doing this, but you’ll come back, won’t you?”

Anyu didn’t reply. She took the suitcase from Esther and got in the car. She didn’t turn to see her friend, but she knew Esther was looking at her, and she knew, at this hour, Isaac must be working in the workshop.

Pierre Bellefeuille wasted no time putting together a guest list. All were his acquaintances; Anyu only invited Esther.

And the party planning by Butler Huang proceeded at blinding speed.

He reserved a band, installed festive lights in the hallway and the atrium, and meticulously produced a menu that consisted of rich soup, beef, mutton, fowl, and game, and finished with pudding, pastry, jelly, custard, cheese, and salad.

The drink list went on for ten pages, including sherry, champagne, beer, and port wine.

Pierre Bellefeuille was forty-seven years old, Anyu learned.

He was a fastidious man, adamant that his taste, food, clothing, and jewelry must reflect his fine cultural heritage.

He requested his coffee to be piping hot, his nightgown pressed, and his slippers brushed.

A stickler for routine and habits, he guarded his schedule with the same zeal as he did his wardrobe, which was filled with tailored suits, Napoleon costumes, and other attire.

He was a proud Frenchman, even though he had never visited Paris, which, to the best of his knowledge, no one in Shanghai was aware of.

What people did know was what Bellefeuille gladly announced: his father was a diamond cutter from Saint-Amond-Montrond, the town famous for gold, and his father had lost his family’s jewelry factory during the Great War.

When an opportunity arrived, Bellefeuille ventured overseas and arrived in Shanghai.

He had been in Shanghai since 1919; one of the wealthiest foreigners in Shanghai, he owned five jewelry stores and a private mansion set on a fifteen-acre lot in the French Concession.

Anyu was given an amah (Bellefeuille insisted), a middle-aged woman wearing a lace hair band and a shirt with a bow. She appeared timid, never lifting her gaze to meet Anyu’s eye. Speaking Chinese with a mix of a local dialect, she tidied up all her clothing and magazines quietly and efficiently.

To prepare her, as Bellefeuille put it, to “finesse the art of entertainment,” Anyu began etiquette training to become a hostess.

In the salon that smelled of fragrance imported from Paris, Anyu watched a team of personal assistants demonstrate the rules of drinking wine, cutting steaks with forks and knives, sipping soup with a spoon, folding napkins, and setting the table.

The sharp cutlery alarmed her. Every Chinese person would understand it was taboo to lay knives in front of guests, but the tutors pinched their lips and said she was to learn the French way.

After that, she was greeted by a stream of fashion stylists, four women and two men, standing beside carts loaded with garments said to be designed by the fashion icons of Paris.

They lectured her on fabrics, styles, designers and their trademark dresses, and how to pair them with crochet or wide-brimmed hats.

There were stacks of magazines to read, photos of fashionable women to peruse, and catalogs of accessories to choose.

Then a gaggle of seamstresses arrived to measure her and offer a vast selection of silk, pongee, and brocades.

Then followed a makeup artist and his assistant, who instructed her to sit in front of a large mirror with a golden frame as her face turned into a canvas.

It was tiresome and confusing to speak to the people who frowned on her churlish behavior, and she felt like a doll practicing its movements and even learning to speak and smile.

This was a different life from hammering a strip of gold under a lamp.

Carefully, she sampled the scrumptious pastries and tasted the pungent red wines imported from Bordeaux; she browsed the catalogs of the newest fashion and jewelry designs in cryptic French; she even learned to savor what was said to be a cultural staple of Western civilization, the ungodly bitter coffee.

The day of her engagement party arrived.

She had not invited Isaac, but he would have heard of her engagement by now. Would he be sad?

In the morning, she took a bath scented with rose petals and began to get dressed in the guest room. A team of five hairstylists and makeup artists worked on her. Before dusk, she donned a red Chanel gown and a strap bracelet with sapphires and diamonds, her hair elegantly piled up.

The party started.

Standing next to Bellefeuille, Anyu greeted the guests at the entrance to the high-ceilinged ballroom.

There were two hundred people, including many French Concession officials, the head of the French Concession, the chief of the police department, American bankers, and tycoons and their wives whom Anyu had not heard of.

Anyu was nervous despite her calm composure, and she smiled courteously and hugged and kissed the guests as the etiquette required.

None of the people she cared about attended her engagement party—Esther was not in sight, and Isaac had not been invited.

Anyu thought of Confucius, whom she had stopped seeing.

She wished she had not been so impulsive and cut ties with him.

She had liked riding his bicycle with him, and he had been kind to her, even though he was a criminal.

And her mother. How she wished she were here.

She realized, with a pang of sorrow, that the most heartbreaking part of being an orphan was not living a rootless life, but rather a loveless one.

Congratulations, congratulations, congratulations.

The voices rose and fell, and Bellefeuille’s laughter rose and fell.

Later, he gave an eloquent toast filled with pride and elation. Then the rich meal the butler had arranged was served. At the end, cups of coffee and boxes of cigars were handed out by the hired help from the Majestic Hotel.

Anyu did not touch a single dish. Her dress was too tight around her arms, restricting her movement, and her heart raced. She had never felt so nervous. Was she making a mistake with the engagement?

The music started. Some guests were dancing.

Anyu felt dizzy, sitting on a sofa against the wall.

Then she got up to use the restroom. She had already passed the cigar room when she heard Bellefeuille’s voice from inside.

She retraced her steps. The cigar room was draped with smoke, masking the men’s faces.

“What about your mistress?” a man with a French accent asked.

“Which one?” another quipped.

There was a riotous guffaw.

Anyu took a champagne flute from a passing server and returned to the ballroom. It was not lost on her that Bellefeuille had a promiscuous selection of partners.

Near the ballroom’s door, she saw Esther, beautiful, golden-haired Esther, dressed in a fine blue gown reaching her heels and a wide silk hat, regal like a dawn goddess, holding Mr. Dearborn’s hand.

“Esther!” Anyu jumped, waving at her friend. “You came. I’m so glad. I thought you decided not to come. Where were you?”

“We were seated in another room.” Esther’s limp looked like a dance; she was smiling. “I wouldn’t miss your engagement party for the world, Anyu. Look at you. I love your dress. You look splendid! Doesn’t she look splendid, honey?” She nudged Mr. Dearborn.

“She looks like Mary Pickford.” Mr. Dearborn held his cigar.

“Mary Pickford is a famous actress,” Esther said, leaning toward Mr. Dearborn.

“I have a lot of dresses like this. I can show you, Esther. You’ll love them.”

“I’m sure I will. You’ll forgive me for asking, but why would you choose him?”

“It’s complicated.”

“We’ve missed you.”

We? Including Isaac?

“Father misses you, too.”

Anyu’s throat tightened. “How—”

“Who is this beautiful lady?” Bellefeuille came over.

“My friend Esther Mandelburg.” Anyu introduced her to him.

“Isaac Mandelburg’s daughter. I see. It’s a pleasure.” Bellefeuille grasped Anyu’s arm. “ Ma chérie , Mr. Morris is waiting to speak to you.”

She didn’t want to leave yet. She had only exchanged a few words with Esther! There was so much she wanted to ask her. How did she know Isaac missed her? Did he mention her?

“ Ma chérie ? ”

“I’ll catch up with you later, Esther.”

“I’ll be here, Anyu.”

“Soon she’ll be Mrs. Bellefeuille, Miss Mandelburg.” Bellefeuille chuckled.

Esther was looking at her. “But, Anyu, you’ll always be a member of the Mandelburg family.”

Oh, Esther.