Tory

by Vikki Kestell

  “Maman! Are you ill?”

  “No. I am all right, Tory. I am all right.”

  But Tory sensed that Adeline was telling herself to be “all right,” rather than responding to Tory’s concerns.

  Adeline had stripped off her apron and head scarf in the kitchen and left them there; now she fumbled with the buttons and ties of her simple housedress. Her fingers trembled and could not work the buttons through their fastenings. Tory stood behind her and helped until the dress slipped from Adeline’s thin shoulders to the floor.

  Tory went to the bed, lifted the green dress, and held it for Adeline to step into it.

  “Thank you, ma chère.”

  Tory heard Sassy returning to the parlor. “Is Sassy serving tea?” They had precious little of it to spare.

  “Yes. She must buy me time . . . to fix my hair.”

  Tory nodded. Her mother’s beautiful raven hair was tangled and dirty. “Sit down, Maman, and allow me to brush it out for you.”

  Tory dipped her fingers in a jar of sweet, oily pomade and rubbed them together. She ran her fingers through Adeline’s wavy hair until Tory was able run a comb through the curls and tangles. Then, with a few rhythmic strokes of the brush, Tory felt her mother’s stress bleed away. In the mirror, Tory saw Adeline’s eyelids sink closed, watched her lips move.

  To whom is she speaking?

  For a moment, Tory wondered if her mère was praying, then she discarded the notion.

  We do not pray in our home, she reasoned. Sassy Brown said so. “Prayers be worthless in a house of sin,” Sassy had said.

  Tory didn’t know what sin was, but it did not sound like a good thing. Nevertheless, Tory knew Sassy prayed, although she kept it to herself, her lips often moving without sound. Prayer was a mystery to Tory—as was the God to whom Sassy bent her head.

  Tory combed Adeline’s hair into a simple, elegant chignon at the base of her mother’s neck and secured it with a pair of carved tortoiseshell combs. Adeline’s neck was long and slender and gleamed like the polished black onyx paperweight that sat upon Maman’s writing desk.

  “Très bien, Victoria. Your hands have learned new skills.”

  Tory smiled upon her mother with adoration. “I learned by watching you, Maman.”

  Adeline rewarded Tory with a kiss on her forehead before she stood and studied her preparations in the mirror. “It must serve. I cannot delay longer.”

  She walked toward the door, then turned back. “Remain here, Victoria,” she commanded, “until I know what he wants of me.”

  Who? What who wants of you? Tory wondered.

  Adeline had no sooner crossed the hallway and entered the parlor, than Tory tiptoed after her to the parlor door and placed her ear upon the wood.

  She heard her mother from the center of the room. “Bonjour, Monsieur. I am Adeline Washington. To what do I owe this . . . unexpected visit?”

  The man snorted a laugh of sardonic surprise. “Why, do you not know who I am?”

  “As you announced yourself to my housekeeper, I may presume that you are Monsieur Bastiann Declouette, younger brother to Monsieur Henri Declouette.”

  “Very good. And despite your veneer of refinement, you are the n****r tart my brother has kept on the side these many years.”

  Tory didn’t understand some of the man’s words, but she knew by his tone that they held no goodwill. And that anyone should speak to her mother with such disrespect, such contempt? She simmered in rising fury. Waited for her mère to answer. To put this uncouth man, this boor, in his place.

  She was not disappointed.

  Her mother’s gentle but firm reply was, “Monsieur Declouette, your behavior is unbecoming of a gentleman. Unless you have legitimate business with me, I bid you good day.”

  “You bid me good—” Again, that sharp bark of surprised laughter. “My, my. You give yourself great airs—for a whore.”

  Adeline did not answer; instead, the bell calling for a servant rang out.

  Tory frowned. The single servant on the property was Sassy. Would she hear? But even if she came, what could an old woman do against the strength of a man?

  Tory’s hands balled themselves in to fists—so tightly that her nails began to cut her palms.

  Apparently—and perhaps Adeline had counted on such good fortune—Bastiann Declouette had no knowledge of Sugar Tree’s staffing levels, and Tory heard him mutter,

  “No matter, no matter! I shall go. I wished to set eyes on you for myself before Marguerite takes Henri to court next month. She is suing him for divorce, you know. My testimony may be required.”

  He did not mention that Henri’s health, under the stress of the struggling family businesses, was suffering. Bastiann did not allude to the heart condition Henri’s doctor had diagnosed nor to the fact that Marguerite, in anticipation of gaining more from Henri’s death than through divorce, had rescinded her threat to take her husband to court. Bastiann, anticipating that Sugar Tree would come to him at Henri’s death, had ridden out of the city to stake his claim ahead of time.

  He liked what he saw in the house’s current tenant. Oh, yes. He liked it very much.

  Tory expected her mother to maintain her reserve: A gentlewoman does not argue or raise her voice—

  She was taken aback when Adeline retorted, “I am surprised Henri did not sue for divorce himself, considering that his wife’s adultery with you came first, Monsieur Declouette.”

  A moment of deathlike silence ensued. Then Tory heard the crack of an open hand upon flesh, followed by an involuntary cry of pain.

  Did he hit my Maman?

  Tory burst into the parlor. Adeline was cringing away from the man who had attacked her—a man too similar in appearance to Henri Declouette not to be his brother.

  “How dare you strike my mother!” Tory screamed, her hands clenched at her sides. “Get out! Get out of our house at once!”

  Bastiann Declouette, hand upraised, stared at Tory as though she were an apparition. He may have resembled Henri Declouette in height, build, and facial characteristics, but the resemblance ended when Bastiann sneered, “Well! And what have we here?”

  He looked from Adeline to Tory and back and smirked. “Your daughter, certainly, but Henri’s, too, unless I miss my mark. Like in manner; the same imperious attitude. And a pretty little morsel, indeed. No wonder he fought so hard to conceal you.”

  He grabbed Adeline by the arm and pulled her close to him until his mouth was inches from her face. Tory saw the way his fingers dug into the soft skin of her mother’s upper arm, how Adeline leaned back, away from his hot breath, until she was almost bent in half.

  “Know this: Henri will not be able to protect you forever, my dear. The day is coming when I will strip him of every family asset he manages, every dollar of personal wealth he has accrued. Your house? This house and all that is in it belongs in our family. I will return soon to put you out into the gutter like the trash you are.”

  Tory blinked as her mind worked to rescue her mother. She was possessed with the idea that they needed a manservant to save Adeline from this monster, this Bastiann Declouette. But they had no manservant! Only Sassy Brown.

  However, he, this intruder, did not know that.

  Tory began shouting, “Mr. Brown! Mr. Brown! Come at once!”

  Startled, Bastiann Declouette released his hold on Adeline and strode toward the door. As he passed near Tory, he slowed, looked her up and down, and smiled. Tory didn’t know what the smile meant, what it portended, but it froze her to the marrow of her bones.

  The front door slammed shut behind Bastiann Declouette, and Tory ran to her mother. Adeline enfolded Tory in her arms, and they held each other as though the world was ending, until Sassy, out of breath, stood in the doorway.

  “Be he gone?”

  The drama had taken a few minutes, no more, to unfold.

  “Yes,” whispered Adeline.

  Sobbing, Tory broke from her mother’s embrace and ran to the front entr
ance. She thrust home the strong lock that secured the entrance and leaned against the door’s solid wood surface.

  Chapter 3

  Despite the shock of Bastiann Declouette’s news and threats, Tory was surprised to discover her mother in good spirits the following day. When she arose from her bed, she found Adeline in the parlor, dusting, smiling to herself, and humming under her breath.

  A Southern woman does not fidget, scratch, or hum, Victoria.

  “Good morning, Maman. What are you doing?”

  Adeline snapped out of her reverie. “Oh! Oh my, Victoria. You quite startled me.”

  “I am sorry, Maman, but you were . . . humming.”

  “Was I? Um, well, I should not have been. Are you ready for breakfast?”

  Adeline was quick to sweep Tory’s questions aside, but her good humor persisted. Days later, Tory ventured again.

  “Maman? You seem happy, but are you not afraid of that man . . . who hurt you? He said Monsieur Declouette’s wife was divorcing him and that Monsieur Declouette would lose everything. That man, Bastiann Declouette, said he would take Sugar Tree from us.”

  The prospect of leaving Sugar Tree haunted Tory. Where else in the world could they go?

  “I am not afraid of him, Tory. He does not know, but I hold the deed to Sugar Tree. And besides, if Marguerite does secure a divorce from Henri, then that could mean . . .”

  Her voice trailed off.

  “What, Maman? What could it mean?”

  Adeline studied her daughter, already tall, healthy, and strong, on the cusp of womanhood. “Perhaps it is time for you to understand certain things, Tory, particularly if . . .

  “If what, Maman?”

  Adeline drew Tory to a settee and they sat together, Adeline holding both of Tory’s hands in hers. “My darling, if Monsieur Declouette—your father—if Henri’s wife divorces him and he has nowhere else to go, I cannot but hope he will come to us.”

  Tory’s eyes widened. “Here? To live?”

  “Oh, yes, Tory! Would that not be wonderful? We could . . . we could be a family, ma chère. He could be the father to you he promised he would be before you were born.”

  Tory had an immediate and intense aversion to the idyllic picture Adeline painted. As she allowed Adeline’s words to sink in, Tory’s aversion increased and ran to revulsion. Not a girl who often answered back or gave her opinion, in this instance Tory’s response was sharp. Cutting.

  “That man shall never be my father.”

  Adeline stilled and drew back, her joyous expression crushed. “Victoria, you cannot mean that.”

  “Non, Maman. Not one word you speak on his behalf will change my mind. Monsieur Declouette is nothing to me—he is less than nothing. I do not wish to ever again see his face.”

  Mother and daughter studied the other, and Adeline, seeing the obdurate lines of Tory’s young mouth, so like the father she despised, looked away. She did not object when Tory quitted the room.

  EIGHT MONTHS PASSED, and spring arrived again. Tory was grateful that the chilly winds and rains of winter were giving way to warmer nights. The climate in Louisiana always boasted of significant precipitation, but December and January had been particularly wet and the nights cold. The house had grown dank, and the two rooms Adeline and Tory shared had been difficult to keep dry.

  In early December, Adeline had suffered a cold that began first in her head, then settled in her chest. The cold refused to improve, and the coughing and congestion had kept Adeline confined to her bed or the sofa in the parlor for several weeks.

  Sassy, also, had not done well in the cooler, wetter weather. Although she never shirked her duties or missed preparing a meal, Sassy seemed to creep through each day and disappear into her room each afternoon.

  “Is Sassy unwell, Maman?” Tory had asked her mother.

  “She is old, Tory, and tires easily. We cannot expect her to do as much as she once could.”

  It was during the weeks while Adeline was ill and Tory waited on her, that Tory ventured to seek the answers to the questions her awakening young mind had begun to ask.

  “Maman?”

  Adeline opened her tired eyes. “Yes?”

  “Maman, how is it that you . . . how did you meet Monsieur Declouette?”

  Adeline closed her eyes and sighed. “Is that all you wish to know? Surely you wish to understand how the daughter of two poor, colored house servants could acquire the culture and social graces to become mistress of Sugar Tree?”

  “Yes, Maman. All of these things.”

  With her eyes still closed, Adeline tried to explain. “My parents had nothing. They had no hope for bettering their lives, but they wished for so much more for me.

  “My mother found me a position with an elderly white woman. She was not wealthy, but she had been once. She could not afford a more suitable companion, so she chose me. I was to fetch and carry for her. Sit for hours and listen to her prattle. Read to her. In exchange for my room and board. I was eleven years old, Victoria. Your age.”

  Tory held a glass to Adeline’s lips. “Oui, Maman?”

  “My mother charged me to learn all I could from the white woman: How to to sit, stand, eat, and speak. How to act as a white woman. My employer gave me her worn, outdated clothes, and I remade them. I became comfortable in my role.

  “After four years, the old woman passed away. I was fifteen. I could not . . . go back to the life of my parents. I no longer belonged there. Another white woman and her husband hired me to watch their children, so I moved into their home.

  “In the autumn, the couple I worked for had guests in for the weekend. I was on my way to the kitchen to fetch the children’s bedtime milk when I encountered your father in the upstairs passageway. We began to talk. He . . . asked to see me again. We met at the park where I often took the children. While the children played, Henri and I grew to know each other.

  “He was unhappy in his marriage, and his wife was unfaithful to him. We fell in love. Two months later, he brought me here, to Sugar Tree.”

  Tory mulled over everything her mother had told her. It was all foreign to her. In particular, she could not fathom the ramifications of Adeline learning “how to act like a white woman.”

  How was a white woman different than a black one?

  MARCH AND APRIL WERE warmer and drier, and Adeline seemed to shake her illness, enough to help Tory (under Sassy’s imperious supervision) plant the garden and begin the labor of the long growing season all over again.

  Adeline may have been ill and weak through the winter, but her expectations of Tory’s schoolwork never wavered, even when spring arrived. She required Tory to study for two hours each afternoon, use her French and Italian while they labored in the garden, and practice the pianoforte each evening.

  These skills seemed disconnected from Tory’s present life and circumstances, and they rankled on her—until she recalled what her mother had said: My parents had nothing. They had no hope for bettering their lives, but they wished for so much more for me.

  She realized Adeline wished better for her daughter, too.

  With grudging but dogged determination, Tory focused on her studies.

  ON A SUNNY AFTERNOON in May, Tory was in the parlor, her head bent over her lessons. Adeline had set Tory’s assignments and left her to help Sassy in the outside kitchen. Tory looked up at the sound of hoofbeats upon the graveled lane. She ran to the windows and peeked through the curtains—carefully, so that she did not stir them.

  Bastiann Declouette.

  Tory’s heart pounded. She knew her mother was in the kitchen, unprepared for visitors. How could she warn Adeline?

  I will not answer the door, she thought, turning from the window. I will run to the kitchen and tell Maman who is knocking.

  But Bastiann Declouette did not knock; he thrust open the unlocked door. The weighty wood slammed against the opposing wall from the force of his entrance, and she heard his hobnailed boots screech on the stone floor.


  Then . . . silence.

  Tory imagined the man standing in the foyer. She could sense his powerful, seething anger—and she had no avenue of escape.

  “WHERE ARE YOU, WHORE?”

  When he roared, Tory jumped.

  Before she had fully formed the decision, Tory ducked behind the old damask drapes. She pressed her back against the wall and let the drapes settle around her.

  “WHERE ARE YOU?” Bastiann threw open the parlor door and sauntered inside.

  Tory felt the oppressive force of his presence in the room as he wandered about, cursing under his breath. She also recognized the soft patter of her mother’s footsteps as she entered the parlor.

  “You again!” she exclaimed.

  “Yes. I came personally to deliver the happy news: My brother, Henri, is dead.”

  “No!” Adeline screamed. “No, you are lying!”

  “Ah, but I am not, I assure you. Henri was thrown from his horse early yesterday morning. He was not well—had not been well for some time—but he took it into his head to race Victorieux through the woods near his house, even though he had not ridden for months because of his ill health. Victorieux returned to his stall without Henri and was discovered when the groom arose that morning. Henri was not found until midday. The fool had broken his neck.”

  Adeline sank to the floor, groaning. “No, no, no! No, Henri! Henri, my love!”

  Bastiann observed her with a sneer. “You will pack your things and depart this house immediately.”

  Adeline did not react at first. Finally, she sniffed. “What do you say?”

  “You heard me. You will pack and leave within the week.”

  Adeline gathered herself. Stood. Calm, but resolute. “No, I will not. This house is mine. Henri gave it to me.”

  Bastiann drew back. “You lie, whore.”

  “I do not lie. Henri deeded this house to me more than eleven years ago—prior to the birth of his daughter.”

  Grinding his teeth, Bastiann said, “You cannot prove that. Your claim will not stand in court.”

  “It will. I have the deed. It is here.” Adeline stumbled to her little desk and removed a ledger. From between its back cover and the last page, she withdrew an envelope, which she opened. She unfolded the deed and held it up. “It is as I said. Sugar Tree belongs to me. You may not take it from me—nor may you ever set foot on this land again. It is mine.”