Tory had never gone without new gloves and a new wardrobe in years gone by, and Tory knew her mother was worried.
Monsieur Declouette had missed his visit in December. Christmas was generally merry because of the wealth of presents and cheer Monsieur Declouette customarily brought with him during his late December visit. But, this past December, he had sent a note conveying his regrets. The note had accompanied two small, inconsequential gifts in his stead, one for Adeline and one for Tory.
Tory was not privy to the contents of his note but, after reading it, Adeline had taken to her bed with a sick headache for two days. The holiday had been dismal.
Tory understood that Monsieur Declouette’s visit today, the first in seven months, was of great consequence. It would not do for Tory to appear before him in any state other than one of ladylike perfection.
“So, are ye ready, Miss Tory?”
Startled out of her thoughts, Tory jumped a little. “Yes, Sassy.”
“Well, let me look at ye.” The house’s cook, Sassy Brown, had shortened Victoria to Tory, and the girl rather liked the diminutive. Sassy inspected Tory; her wizened black eyes, surrounded by a wealth of ebony creases, missed nothing. No detail escaped her perusal.
“Quoi? Ye have no color in your cheeks, child. As always.”
Tory raised her face but did not respond while Sassy pinched both of Tory’s cheeks repeatedly to coax a flush into her caramel-toned skin.
Tory believed her mother to be the most beautiful woman in the world—and herself to be but a pale and inferior copy of her mother’s splendor. Tory’s abnormal height and ungainly figure were the subjects of regular discussion among the servants, as was her “color.” Tory’s complexion was not the sooty coal-black that Sassy, Sassy’s granddaughter Venus, or her great-granddaughter Ellen possessed, nor was it her mother’s glowing, inky brilliance. No, Tory’s skin gleamed with bronze undertones, and her eyes had a wide, curious cant to them, hinting of indigenous or exotic blood.
Tory’s hair also came under continual comment. Adeline kept her own raven tresses oiled and wound in sleek, elegant coils: Every lock gleamed in midnight beauty. Tory’s hair was not her mother’s purest black but a deep brown. Worse, frizzy, unruly strands shot with perplexing gold peppered Tory’s dusky tresses.
Miss La Forge had once spent hours plucking those telltale threads the morning of a visit from Monsieur Declouette. The scorned strands had only grown back. Another time, Miss La Forge had buttoned an apron over Tory’s dress and applied bootblack to her curls. Afterward, following Monsieur Declouette’s departure, Miss La Forge had stripped Tory and scrubbed the blacking from her hair lest it stain Tory’s sheets or clothing.
Tory understood that she was different, although she did not understand why she was different or, more importantly, why those differences mattered. Tory wanted to understand, but she felt uncomfortable asking her mère, and it was too late to ask Miss La Forge.
Months ago, Tory’s governess had packed her belongings and quietly departed.
Of course, Tory had demanded the reason.
“I was constrained to let her go,” Adeline had answered. “It was not my desire to dismiss her, but we must economize, Victoria.”
Gone with Miss La Forge were the butler, the maids, and the groom—gone with Tory’s pony, Fantaisie, and Maman’s horse, Chevallier. Of what had once been a staff of nine, Sassy alone remained. She cooked and tended the green garden, while her granddaughter and great-granddaughter came twice weekly to clean.
Tory, with no maid to assist her as she was accustomed, had dressed herself this morning. Afterward, Tory’s mother had come to her room and done her daughter’s hair in oiled, painstaking ringlets.
Sassy’s gruff voice drew Tory out of her thoughts. “Be doing your best now. We be riding the same train as ye.”
Tory did not know how to answer Sassy; she did not understand what she meant by “We be riding the same train as ye.”
Instead, she asked, “Am I presentable?” Somehow the question meant more, implied more than those three words should have.
“Oui. Ye will do. Go now, and watch for our guest as ye do. But have a care to sit still and not be undoing your mother’s efforts w’ your hair.”
“Yes, Sassy.”
Tory, too nervous to sketch, waited an hour before her sharp ears picked up the sound of approaching hoofbeats. With her face hidden behind the drawing room curtains, Tory peered through a crack in the panels. There he was! Monsieur Declouette stood in his stirrups as he rounded the bend in the drive at a full gallop. Then, unlike the usual grand flourish of his arrival, he slowed his horse and walked Victorieux the remaining distance to the house.
Victorieux did not care for the sedate pace. He jingled his tack and pulled at his bit. Monsieur Declouette paid him little mind and, with his chin dropped down upon his chest, Tory thought he appeared preoccupied. Reflective. Perhaps . . . melancholy?
When man and steed reached the house’s front entrance, Monsieur Declouette dismounted. In the absence of a groom, he tied Victorieux’s bridle to the ornate hitching post himself—and something clenched in Tory’s chest.
Monsieur Declouette loved his horse and spared no effort or expense for his care: Even in the absence of a groom, Tory knew he would not leave Victorieux saddled after the heat of a long ride. That is, unless . . . unless he did not mean to stay long?
With no butler to respond to the heavy knocker falling upon the door, Tory expected Sassy to answer. She was startled to hear her mère’s step in the stone entryway.
Tory crept to the drawing room doorway and listened.
“Henri! Oh, my love, I am overjoyed to see you at last!”
Tory’s eyes widened.
“Good morning, Adeline.”
In comparison to Adeline’s ardent welcome, Monsieur Declouette’s greeting fell flat, and the pressure in Tory’s chest swelled. She heard little more as her mother and Monsieur Declouette turned into the parlor and closed the door.
Tory’s anxiety increased. A desire—no, a need—to hear the details of her mother and Monsieur Declouette’s conversation gripped Tory. For a long moment, she debated within herself. Then, she stepped out of the drawing room, tiptoed down the hall toward the rear of the house, and slipped out the door closest to the outdoor kitchen. In a flash, she flew across the grass to the path that rounded the side of the house. She followed the path until she neared the parlor.
The parlor had six French windows, three on the front of the house and three on the side. The windows were tall and narrow, their frames stretching from a foot above the parlor floor to within a foot of the high ceiling. Two parlor windows, one front and one side, were opened outward to allow the gentle breeze to circulate through the room.
Disobeying every stricture and code of conduct her mother had impressed upon her as far back as she could recall, Tory crept toward the nearest open window. A yellow climber rose flowered along the house’s stone foundation and beneath the open casement. Tory eyed the lush bush and its many long, thorny tendrils, knowing those spiky barbs would spell disaster for the delicate fabric of her dress.
She could hear her mother and Monsieur Declouette speaking in low, earnest tones; Tory strained closer, but could not make out the words. Then a knock sounded upon the parlor door, interrupting the conversation: Sassy delivering the tea tray. Tory glanced again at the window—so near, but so unapproachable—and elected a wild course of action.
While Sassy arranged the tea items, Tory fumbled with the buttons on her dress. Undoing all of them took longer than she wanted, but soon she was able to skim it over her narrow hips, drop the garment to the garden path, and step out of it. Clad in her chemise and bloomers, Tory picked up the dress and spread out its length beside the path to minimize wrinkles.
Then, with her spotless gloves to protect her hands, Tory crouched down, pulled back a long, trailing rose bough, and crept closer to the window. She had to wind her way through many thorny branche
s that scratched and pulled at her gloves, her underclothes, her bare arms, and the wealth of ringlets her mother had painstakingly wound into her hair before she crouched beneath the parlor window.
When her fingers touched the warm stones of the house’s foundation, Tory unbent her knees and eased herself upright until she could peek over the window sill and take in the scene before her. Sassy had closed the parlor door behind her, and Tory saw her mother in profile—serene, the epitome of grace—pouring Monsieur Declouette’s tea, adding the sugar he took in it, and handing him his cup. Monsieur Declouette sat nearer the window; his back and shoulder turned toward Tory.
Tory withdrew to the side of the window where she could listen without being seen. The next words Tory heard came from her mother. Tory frowned as Adeline spoke: Her mother sounded nervous. Uncertain. Out of character. “We have a crab salad for our luncheon today, Henri. Fresh greens, the first of the season. Quite refreshing.”
“I do apologize, Adeline, but I will not be staying for lunch.”
“Henri? But you always take lunch with me!”
“I am sorry, but no, I cannot. I must . . . I must speak to you and depart immediately after.” He hesitated and added, “Adeline, what I say will, no doubt, distress you.”
“Henri! No, please!”
Tory heard her mother’s tea cup rattle against her saucer as she set it on the table before her. It was, for Tory, another indication of how shaken her mother was.
A lady’s every action is graceful and measured; she makes no sound other than the gentle conversation of a refined mind.
“Adeline, do not make this more difficult than it already is. I am not a callous man, an unfeeling man; I came in person to say what needs to be said. After all we have meant to each other, I did not want to . . . break this news to you through the impersonal lines of a letter.”
“Do not speak; please, I beg you, Henri—do not destroy my heart!” Adeline’s cry ended on a sob.
Tory’s heart thundered against her ribs, and she began to tremble. She had never seen or heard her mother—always composed and self-possessed—in the throes of emotional agony. Being witness to her distress was like the ground shaking beneath Tory’s feet.
A gentlewoman does not yield to discomfiture or strong emotion. She manages herself at all times.
“Adeline, my dear Adeline! I have never heard you thus! But you must listen, my darling, for it cannot be helped. My circumstances have altered dramatically, and our . . . arrangement cannot go on as it has these past twelve years. Please. You must hear me.”
Several moments of silence passed before he muttered, “The family businesses are in difficulties—mysterious difficulties. At present, I can scarcely maintain my obligations.”
“Henri, I love you! Please—”
“Pray, do not interrupt, Adeline. I wish to be clear, and I must finish. My son goes to university in the fall—and I will be hard pressed to pay his school fees. My daughter, Yvonne, will be a débutante this season, and I must be able to buy her wardrobe and provide a dowry for her.
“Adeline, when you and I met, I confided to you that Marguerite and Bastiann were lovers, that my wife had betrayed me with my brother. Although they have been most circumspect, their affaire has strengthened rather than waned over time.
“Until of late, Bastiann had shown little regard for the workings of our family’s dealings. As long as he received his allowance and dividends on time, he was content for me to shoulder the burdens and day-to-day responsibilities of our several enterprises.
“However, he has, over the past eight months, ingratiated himself into the confidences of some senior employees. His interest concerns me—as do his probing questions to my accountant. I believe he has sown his own funds here and there, seeking to buy or foment disloyalty between me and my employees regarding my management and leadership.
“I now suspect Marguerite and Bastiann of working together to overthrow me. As I said, income from the businesses has, inexplicably, dwindled. At the same time, I believe Bastiann looks to disclose my . . . relationship with you and the monies I’ve diverted to keep you. What better way to disgrace me than to blame my inability to provide for my family on my ‘immoral’ expenditures?
“Bastiann knows that as long as I pay his allowance and dividends on time, the money from the businesses is mine to do with as I please, but that would not hold back the scathing rebuke of society should I fail in my family obligations. I believe he and Marguerite intend to charge me with financial malfeasance and adultery in the court of public opinion—all while hiding behind their own façade of self-righteous injury. Marguerite will don the airs of the aggrieved party while keeping her own wrongdoing a secret.”
It was as if Adeline had not heard Monsieur Declouette’s long explanation, as if she had stopped listening at a point many sentences past. She interrupted his account, her voice rising.
“Daughter? You must be able to provide for your daughter? Victoria is your daughter, too, Henri! I have done as you asked: I have kept Victoria sheltered from the community and society around us; I have raised her in the manner you wished me to. What of her?”
A Southern woman of good breeding never raises her voice.
Tory felt her arms and legs chill and grow heavy, her body turn to stone.
“You have done well with Victoria, Adeline. If you continue your attention to her education and training, surely she will . . . find someone appropriate.”
“Find someone appropriate? How? How will I find a worthy husband for her without your support? With no father to claim her and without a dollar to her name, who of any worth would have her? Henri! You promised! You promised to care for her! No! No! I cannot bear this!”
Tory’s mother was shaking. Sobbing.
A lady of culture does not weep in the company of others.
Tory found herself weeping with her mother.
“Adeline, it is not like you to make a scene.”
All Tory could hear were her mother’s wrenching sobs and the echoing words, “Victoria is your daughter, too!”
Heedless of thorns and the ache that had turned her limbs to lead, Tory pushed her way through the long, trailing branches, back out onto the garden path. She grabbed up her frock from the grass and ran across the front of the house, up onto the porch, and through the entrance.
Tory burst into the parlor. The perfect ringlets Adeline had coaxed into her hair were snarled with stickers and bits of leaves. Tory’s arms and shoulders were scratched and bleeding. Her chemise was torn and stained.
Adeline and Monsieur Declouette stared at her in astonishment.
“Mon Dieu!” Henri Declouette exclaimed. The words were tinged with disgust or amazement—Tory did not know which.
“Victoria!” Adeline admonished—but her admonishment was whispered.
Tory did not care. In her state of undress and dishevelment, she threw her frock to the parlor floor and pointed at Monsieur Declouette.
“Is it true? Are you my father?” she demanded.
The man Tory had admired, had revered, shook his head—not in denial, but in guilt. He licked his lips and glanced at Tory’s mother.
Tory stamped her foot as only a child can do. “Are you my father?” she repeated.
When he would not answer, Tory, still pointing at him, turned to her mother. “Is this man my father?”
“Yes. Yes, he is.” Tory’s Maman began to gasp, as if she could not catch her breath.
“Adeline! You were never to tell her! Not even when she was grown!”
“And you were never to abandon us. You promised, Henri. You made a vow to me before Victoria was born that you would care for us. Always.”
“I am sorry. I cannot do more, Adeline.”
Adeline struggled to put some semblance of order to the chaos engulfing her. “Henri. You cannot leave me; you cannot abandon Victoria. You-you signed a contract with my mother, remember? I have it still. You cannot break such a sacred document. It is as
binding as marriage.”
Monsieur Declouette frowned. “Oh, Adeline, Adeline. We are entering a new century and plaçage died nearly one hundred years ago at the turn of the last century. I agreed to the arcane conditions your mother insisted upon in order to assuage her conscience—but such an arrangement has no legal standing, has had no basis in society for decades.”
Here Henri Declouette paused. “Besides . . .”
He hesitated as though he knew he was taking a step that could not be walked back, was uttering an insult that could not be retracted.
“Besides . . . you are not a light-skinned quadroon, Adeline. You are not less than one-sixteenth negro, as plaçage dictated. You are a full-blooded negress, the child of negros. Your grandparents were born into slavery, as were your parents. This cannot be disputed.”
Tory’s eyes darted from her mother to . . . this man and back, hearing the words and straining to grasp their deeper implications. Maman’s parents and grandparents were slaves?
“Society has changed, Adeline. Common law unions between white and negro are no longer winked at or even tolerated—they are illegal. The public stigmas dividing us could not be stronger or our mésalliance more taboo than it is now.”
He gazed out the open window as he spoke. “Please understand: Bastiann watches my every move. It is why I did not come at Christmas. He purposes to blame our business woes upon my mismanagement and the funds with which I have supported you. If my affaire with you becomes public knowledge, Marguerite will accuse me of adultery without appearing to have soiled her own hands in doing so. She—the ‘righteous’ and injured party—will be justified in demanding a divorce, and Bastiann will go to court to wrest the family businesses from my control.”
He turned back to Adeline. “You must perceive how tenuous my situation is. I have risked everything to come here today—and I can never return. If I hope to survive Marguerite and Bastiann’s snare, I must sever all ties with you.”
Tory Page 2
