Tory

by Vikki Kestell

  She scrabbled for Tory’s hand and clasped it to her breast. “Ye have learnin’ and a gentlewoman’s manner about ye, Miss Tory. Ye speak and write well and can do figgers in ye head. Present yeself in the city t’ a shop owner of good repute . . . Someone, a kind soul, will take ye on, but ye cannot trust Bastiann Declouette. Ye must go straight off. I will pray . . . pray . . . for . . .”

  “For me? You will pray for me?”

  “Shou . . . shoulda tole ye ’bout Je . . . sus . . . though your mère say no. Shoulda tole ye . . . anyways. I . . . will pray . . .”

  Though she gripped Tory’s hand, Sassy stopped speaking and her breathing slowed to the soft shuffle Tory knew. Sassy had fallen asleep.

  She is more exhausted than I. Rest will do her good, restore her energy, Tory told herself, although she was puzzled by Sassy’s last words.

  Should have told me about Jesus? Who is he?

  Without disturbing Sassy’s slumber, Tory extricated her fingers and crept outside. She wandered into the orchard, toward her mother’s grave, hoping some sense of Adeline lingered there. All she found was the mounded earth the men had piled upon Adeline’s lifeless body. The mound was hidden by the tall grass of the orchard and would, in a matter of days or weeks, be lost in it.

  “Oh, Maman! Why did you leave me?”

  Tory crumpled under a peach tree not far from the grave. There she sobbed her heart out until she had exhausted herself. Shuddering with grief and fatigue, Tory leaned back against the old tree and stared up into the branches. The blossoms had faded and fallen from the tree and the new-green leaves were unfolding, stretching toward the sun, filling the spaces between the boughs. Tory knew that if she looked closely, she would find tiny nubs growing where the blossoms had been.

  I will not be here when the fruit trees ripen this year, she realized. I must do as Sassy says and abandon Sugar Tree.

  She pushed herself to standing and gripped the tree’s trunk, unsteady on her feet. After a few moments, she felt better, and went toward the house. The pump near the kitchen drew her attention. A sudden, raging thirst came on her.

  I have had nothing to eat or drink since . . . But she couldn’t remember. Everything about the past four or five days—Bastiann Declouette’s news of his brother’s death, his threats, Adeline’s collapse and sickness, the long hours of caring for her, her death and burial—all of it blurred before Tory’s eyes. She had lost track of time.

  Her overpowering thirst drew her out of the confusion. Tory pumped water into the trough. Her thirst was so insistent, so compelling, that she knelt beside the pump and drank as water gushed from it. Tory gulped the water, drank her fill, then drank more. When she finished, her belly sloshed within her, and another appetite, digging at her with painful claws, made itself known.

  I will eat later, she told herself, even as the world whirled around her when she stood.

  She went into the house and walked down the long hallway. Her footsteps echoing on the parquet floor emphasized how alone Tory was in the house.

  When she stood before the drawing room door, she did not put her hand on the knob. Instead, she waited, envisioning her mother on the other side, imagining life as it had been before Monsieur Declouette stopped sending money.

  What would her mère be doing?

  Tory, thinking it was afternoon, nodded to herself. “Why, Maman is dressing for tea, of course. Venus has set out the tea things in the parlor, and Maman has chosen her blue tea dress today. Maman is so beautiful in blue! And what shall I wear? But I must have a new dress, mustn’t I? All of mine are much too short.” Tory mentally paged through her sketchbook until she found the right design. “Yes, this one, I think, cut from deep yellow, like the yellow of crocuses and buttercups.”

  Tory smiled and opened the door. “Come to tea, Maman. It is all prepared, and Sassy has made a lovely lemon sponge cake. Your favorite, Maman—”

  It was no longer afternoon. Evening shadows had fallen, and Adeline’s bed, stripped of its mattress and coverings, testified to her death. Tory swallowed down the bile that rose in her throat. On wooden, unfeeling legs, she stumbled to her own bed and threw herself on it. An untapped reserve of tears poured from her eyes, and Tory sobbed until sleep took her.

  TORY’S THIRST WOKE her in the earliest morning hours while the sky was dark. She rose and poured a glass of water from the pitcher. It was warm and stale, but she drank it down. The roar of her empty stomach answered the water. She ignored it.

  Resolve had settled in her heart while she slept: Bastiann Declouette had given them one week to vacate Sugar Tree. Tory would weep no more tears until she had gotten safely away from Sugar Tree, far from the reach of that man.

  Tory moved a chair to Adeline’s wardrobe and climbed up on it. She reached for the brocade carpetbag atop the ornate chest and pulled it down, set it upon the chair. Then Tory emptied the wardrobe and chests, piling the garments on her bed.

  What must I take? Sassy said to ask for work in a shop. What shall I wear to convince a proprietor to take me on? I must be as smart as I can be.

  Tory chewed her lip; her clothing choices were scarce. Adeline had made over a few of her older garments for Tory’s work dresses, but they were stained from long hours in the garden or the kitchen. “These will not do, and yet I am not grown enough to wear Maman’s dresses, and most are too fine for shop work besides.”

  Tory studied her work dresses again. The skirts were in better shape than the cuffs and bodices. She held up one of her mother’s unstained blouses. “Perhaps . . .”

  She stepped into her best work dress then slipped the blouse over her dress and adjusted it until the sleeves covered the worn, stained cuffs of her dress. The bodice of the blouse fit her ill, but the sleeve length was passable.

  Tory fetched her sewing kit and stitched a quick, four-inch basting seam down the back of the blouse. She slipped the garment over her head a second time and nodded at the improvement. She could not waste time now completing the job; she would finish it later. She found and packed another blouse and two dresses into the bag, tucking her sewing kit beside them.

  “What more?” She did not really know what a shop looked like or how a shop maid might dress, but she knew how Venus and Ellen had dressed when they had served them in past years.

  The maids had worn immaculate aprons over simple black dresses.

  “So, I must have a black dress, non? Yet I do not own one.”

  Tory chewed on her thumb. What had become of the maids’ dresses when Adeline dismissed them?

  Tory lit a candle and wandered toward the back of the house and opened the walk-in closet where the brooms, mops, and cleaning supplies were kept. She held up the candle and spied, at the back of the closet, the hooks where the maids had hung their black dresses—one for Venus and one for Ellen.

  “Surely, I am nearly Ellen’s size?” Tory exclaimed. She grabbed up the garment and examined it. Then she held it to herself. “A little long, but I will re-hem it. And I must have an apron, too.”

  Another hook held a number of aprons. They were not in the best of shape; as the money had dwindled, so had the house’s standards. Tory studied each apron and selected the best of the lot, a plain, white garment, unstained except for a sizable scorch mark at the hem.

  Venus wore this one, and it is longer than I need. I will shorten it, Tory decided, to remove the burn.

  She returned to the drawing room, folded the dress and apron into her bag, and added Adeline’s best apron—a lovely, frilled affair. “Perhaps I will appear in a more presentable light wearing a fashionable apron.”

  Then Tory gathered her mother’s jewelry into a small velvet bag and packed Adeline’s dresser set—comb, brush, and mirror. “I will carry away these things that were yours, Maman, but I have no image of you to keep my heart from forgetting your face—”

  Tory hesitated. What had become of the photograph of Adeline that Monsieur Declouette had returned to her? She rummaged through Adeline’s draw
ers but found nothing.

  Did Maman hide the photograph so she would not be reminded of Monsieur Declouette? Perhaps she destroyed it?

  Tory again opened Adeline’s jewelry box, now empty, and stared at it. She ran her fingers around the side and across the bottom of the box. Tory’s fingertips found a slight rise under the stiff brocade lining. She scrabbled with the edge of the fabric and prized it up. There, under the lining, she found what she sought: the image of a younger Adeline, even more beautiful than Tory recalled.

  Adeline’s luminous eyes stared into Tory’s as though she were speaking to her daughter. Comforted, Tory pressed the photograph to her lips. Then she turned it over—and comprehended why her mother had been loath to destroy it—but also why it had pained her so much that she had hidden it.

  Tory traced the inscription on the back. “For Henri, my only love and the father of Victoria, my greatest joy.”

  I was Maman’s greatest joy? The words warmed Tory’s heart and infused her with courage.

  “I will not disappoint you, Maman.”

  Tory drew the stiff brocade lining from the jewelry box and folded it in half. She placed the photograph within its protective sleeve and laid the lining flat on the bottom of the carpet bag.

  Tory finished sorting and packing and surveyed the room before closing her bag. The corner of her sketchpad—forgotten for many days—peeked from beneath a dress Tory had tossed aside.

  “My sketches! My fashions!” She grabbed up the pad and a few pencils, slid them, too, beneath the clothing to the bottom of her bag.

  Then, feeling the urgency of the coming day, Tory gripped the bag and her cloak and ran through the house and out the back door to the kitchen.

  She searched through the food stuffs and found nearly a full loaf of bread wrapped in a tea towel in the bread drawer. Sassy had not baked in nearly a week, and the loaf was beginning to mold. Tory did not care. She pinched away the moldy edges and tossed them aside. Then she tore off a hunk of the bread and stuffed it into her mouth.

  Nothing had ever tasted so good! The hunger Tory had been denying roared to life, and she ate with greedy abandon—until she realized she had to make the loaf last. She wrapped the remains of the loaf in the towel and tucked it into her bag, adding a cloth bag of dried apple slices to her meager supplies, and filling her pocket with shelled pecans.

  Tory knew she could not take away any of the jars of produce lining the shelves; her bag had already grown heavy. “But I do need water,” she whispered.

  She found a small empty jar with a good lid. This she filled at the pump, then drank as much water as she could hold, refilling the jar when she was replete.

  “It is enough,” she said aloud. Taking up her bag and cloak, Tory walked with determined steps around the house and down the curved drive with its row of sugar maple sentinels.

  Today she would step onto the road toward town; she would go where her feet had never trod and see sights her eyes had never seen.

  The first traces of dawn were breaking when Tory reached the first bend in the drive. She turned and stared through the shadows toward the stately house, the only home she had ever known.

  “Goodbye. I shall see you no more.” With tears choking her, Tory added, “Au revoir, Maman.”

  Chapter 5

  As Sassy had commanded her, Tory followed the narrow dirt track leading east from Sugar Tree. She was frightened, her heart ached, and she longed to run home, home to the safety and comfort of her mère’s arms. Each time she was tempted to turn tail, the awful image of that mound of freshly turned dirt in the orchard rose before her eyes.

  Maman is dead, she told herself. She is no longer there. Even Sassy has gone away by now. Sugar Tree is empty, but Bastiann Declouette will come.

  She was haunted by the image of the man with his hands digging into Adeline’s arm. Hurting her. Bruising her. She shuddered when she recalled how Bastiann had turned away from Adeline, had taken Tory by the throat and shaken her.

  I must not be near Sugar Tree when that man makes good his promise to return in seven days!

  Tory’s despairing tears were frequent, but she forced herself to keep going. There could be no going back to Sugar Tree. Not ever.

  At first the track Tory walked traced the lower edge of the bluff, then its path wound away to the east where it widened. Tory passed slender plots of cotton, corn, sorghum, tobacco, and sugar cane planted between fingers of creek and bayou; she glimpsed the occasional house through the fields and orchards, some distant, others not far. As she walked, Sassy’s words echoed in her heart.

  Ye have learnin’ and a gentlewoman’s manner about ye, Miss Tory. Ye speak well and can write and do figgers in ye head. Present yeself in the city to a shop owner of good repute . . . Someone will take ye on, but ye must go.

  The girl nodded, switched the short strap of the carpet bag to her other shoulder. “I will find the best part of the city and apply at the shops there. Someone will take me on.”

  The rest of Sassy’s advice—her dangling, unfinished sentence—came back to Tory.

  I will pray . . . pray . . . for . . .

  Tory wondered aloud, “Was Sassy saying she would pray for me? Does prayer matter? And to whom does one pray?”

  “Shou . . . shoulda tole ye ’bout Je . . . sus . . . though your mère say no. Shoulda tole ye . . . anyways. I . . . will pray . . .”

  Tory again wondered, Who is this Jesus Sassy spoke of?

  Tory skirted the little market village and kept walking. It was late morning now, and Tory’s stomach felt both empty and alive at the same time. It grumbled, rumbled, and roared at her, demanding she respond. She was thirsty, too.

  Tory had bobbed her head to a few carts or walkers headed in the opposite direction, but the lane seemed deserted at present. She stepped off the road into the shade of a bamboo stand and swung her bag through the grass to scare off any snakes that might be lurking nearby. Then she dug in her bag, pulling out the bread and jar of water. She gnawed on a chunk of bread and a handful of pecans and washed them down with sips from the jar.

  It was not enough, not by half. Biting her lip, she returned the jar and the heel of the loaf to her bag, and fished out the sack of apple chips. She took but one, then closed her bag, thinking to break off little pieces of dried apple and suck on them as she walked.

  She had risen to continue on her way when she heard—then saw—a carriage and several riders racing toward her. She stepped back into the shadows of the bamboo stand to avoid being trampled. When they had passed, she trod on, coughing on the dust their passage had thrown up.

  Perhaps two hours later, she came to a junction where her primitive track emptied into a wider road with a well-used, graveled surface. A sign on the opposite side of the road pointed right and read, “New Orleans: 3 Miles.”

  Tory shouldered her load and started in the direction the sign pointed. Right away, she noticed the increase in houses, barns, and shacks along the road. There were more of them and closer together. She encountered more people, too, some who paid her no mind and others who stared with curiosity. Tory averted her eyes and walked straight on.

  An hour later, Tory reached the outskirts of the city proper—and she saw something she had read about or seen sketches of in magazines: an automobile. She heard the mechanical novelty before she saw it, and she fled to the side of the road as it whizzed by, kicking up choking dust in its wake.

  “What a noisy, dirty thing,” Tory pronounced. She kept walking, but she was growing wearier as the sun mounted higher. It had passed its zenith before Tory knew she was near the city.

  The girl kept a tight grip upon her bag, but it became difficult at times to make headway through the throngs of people. People! People everywhere, pushing, shoving, shouting, moving. And that was but along the sides of the road, which had widened considerably. Traffic in the road terrified her as horse and wagon, man and cart, motorcar, and even motorized trucks sped at inconceivable speeds this way and that. Wha
t terrified her most was the seeming nonchalance of people as they dodged in and out of the traffic, coming so close to death or dismemberment.

  Tory was overwhelmed. Her head pounded and her breath came in quick agitated gasps. Oh! If I could just get away from this crowd, if I could find a place in the shade to sit a moment . . .

  Ahead was an open-air market and even denser throngs of people. Tory could not stand it. When she spied a lane intersecting the busier road, she turned to the side, threw herself across the flow of the crowd, and struggled until she reached the lane.

  She raced up the lane into a narrow band of shade thrown by tall trees overtopping the stone wall of a residence. Gulping for air, Tory sank to the ground and leaned her back against the wall. Even here, groups of chattering people walked by her, most aiming for the road she had just left.

  Tory was very thirsty. She planted her bag between her legs and retrieved the jar of water. Little remained. She drained the jar into her mouth and let the water sit there until it was warm before she swallowed it. When her stomach lurched and growled, she glanced at the remaining crust of bread and the apple chips. She had finished the pecans along the way, and she was too parched to eat bread or suck on dried apple; her tongue seemed thick and sticky in her mouth.

  I must find more water.

  That was when Tory realized that, in addition to desiring water, she was hearing it—hearing water trickling, bubbling, and falling somewhere close. She struggled to her feet and followed the wall, listening for the particular plinking sounds that flowing water makes.

  It is a fountain close by, behind this wall! Surely, there must be a gate in this wall and someone I could speak to who would, perhaps, allow me to fill my jar.

  The lane led up a mild slope. Tory followed the lane, walking close to the wall to remain in the shade of the trees on the other side of the stone barrier.

  Tory came to a break in the wall, to a drive that led up to a two-story house shaded by magnolia and live oak trees. Halfway up the drive, she spotted what she sought most desperately: A tall pineapple fountain. Its three tiers, carved from weathered stone and topped with ornamental stone fruit, rose from a base embedded in the lawn. Water cascaded and splashed from tier to tier, pooling in its wide bottom well.