Tory

by Vikki Kestell

  The children eyed her with the same distrust Tory now turned on them—for she had suffered a close call and was, herself, learning to be wary in order to survive . . .

  In addition to the few children she encountered, young gangs roamed the streets, knots of five or more older boys who raced through the alleys, turning over trash bins, stealing from the produce vendors, assaulting lone pedestrians. The gangs were more dangerous at night, for they laid in wait to beat and rob inebriated patrons as they left the bars and gaming halls.

  Tory had caught their eye, and they had spotted the bag she carried. Shouting taunts and jeers, they had tried to surround her. Tory’s long legs, fueled by terror, had outpaced them, but only just. After an indeterminable distance, the boys had given up, and Tory had collapsed in an alley behind a latrine, sobbing in terror.

  As her sixth day on the streets dawned, Tory wrestled with her options and arrived at a difficult conclusion. If I do not eat, I will die in the gutter like some beggar.

  That morning she went to the pump, washed herself as well as possible and smoothed down her ratted hair. She pulled a clean work dress from her bag and donned it. She also removed a pair of earrings, a pair of lustrous natural pearl drops dangling from fine silver hooks, from the bag holding her mother’s jewelry.

  It tore at Tory’s heart to hold the earrings in her hand and think of selling them. She could see the pearls dangling from her mother’s earlobes, their glossy white shimmering against the gleaming ebony of Adeline’s long, beautiful neck. Tory nearly put them back in the bag, but stayed her hand, knowing what she must do.

  I must sell them, or I will die. Maman would not want me to die.

  Her attempts to overcome her grief did not work well. She would sell the earrings as a necessity, but when she left them, she would leave a slice of her heart, also. She consoled herself by imagining what she would buy with the money she received for them. She would return to the baker who had given her the stale bread and buy enough sweet rolls to feast on.

  When she had made up her mind, Tory wound her way toward one of the neighborhood’s less-seedy pawnbroker’s shops. She had read of pawnbroker’s shops in a Charles Dickens book Miss La Forge had loaned her. She knew that desperate people parted with their treasures in such places to keep body and soul together.

  The bell on the door jangled when Tory entered. Her eyes darted about the shop, taking in the variety of wares for sale—musical instruments, china, crystal, silver-plated tureens and tea sets, clocks of every size, and a glass case of pocket watches and assorted jewelry. It did not escape Tory’s mind that every item in the shop had once belonged to someone like her, someone forced to pawn what was precious—and who had not yet returned to reclaim what was theirs.

  Tory tried to calm her jittery nerves. At least, as far as she could tell, she was the only customer in the store.

  Good.

  In response to the jangling bell, the owner shuffled from his back room, parting the curtain that divided shop from workroom. He was a fat man, dressed in fine clothing that had, at one time, fit him better: his unbuttoned suit coat gapped open, and his belly hung over trousers held up by a pair of scarlet suspenders. He looked down at Tory and frowned.

  “What do you want?”

  Tory’s mouth dried up. “I-I wish to sell something.”

  He sniffed. “Well? What is it?”

  Tory pulled the earrings from her pocket and held them out for inspection. The man’s eyes widened. He reached for the earrings. Tory, with Bastiann’s trick fresh in her mind, jerked her hand back. She picked out one of the earrings and allowed him to take it.

  The man pulled a magnifying glass from a drawer and studied the dangling pearl through slitted eyes. “Where did you get these? Did you steal them?”

  “Certainly not!” Tory was indignant. “They are—were—my mother’s.”

  “Your mother’s, you say?” He pursed his lips and laid the earring on the glass countertop. “Let me see the other.”

  Tory retrieved the first one before laying the second on the counter.

  The shopkeeper scrutinized it under the magnifying glass also. “What do you want for the pair?”

  Tory’s lips parted in surprise. She had not considered the value of the earrings, nor did she have a working knowledge of money and its worth.

  “I-I do not know exactly.”

  A tight smile pulled at the man’s mouth—and that was when Tory knew the pawnbroker’s shop owner would cheat her. She hardened her own expression: She would not cheapen her mother’s memory by allowing the man to take advantage of her.

  At least she hoped she would not.

  She lifted her chin. “M-make me an offer,” she managed, “and perhaps we can come to an agreement.”

  “Weeeell . . .” he dragged out the word, conveying reluctance and indifference at once. Tory knew it was a sham. She’d seen Venus do the same when money had grown dear and her mère had been forced to dicker with Sassy’s granddaughter for her services.

  Tory waited, as Adeline had, just as calm and indifferent as the shop owner pretended to be. She drew on her recollections of her mother’s unflappable demeanor and waited for the shop’s owner to make his move.

  Please, Maman! Please help me!

  The shop keeper hemmed and hawed, then muttered, “I suppose I could give you one dollar. That would be stretching it.”

  Tory did not answer right away; instead, she studied the man. After a full minute, she replied, “Perhaps I will take them across the street and compare offers.”

  The man reddened. “Two dollars, then.”

  He edged closer to the counter between them, and Tory, in response, took a step back.

  “It would be prudent of me to compare offers,” she mumbled.

  “Three dollars.”

  “Five dollars.” Tory couldn’t believe her ears. She had countered his offer!

  As Tory stared at him, her empty belly clenched and gnawed. Her knees quivered and a wave of dizziness swept over her.

  What good will five dollars do me if I fall down unconscious? Likely this man would steal Maman’s earrings and the rest of her things!

  Gritting his teeth in anger, he growled, “Four dollars and no more.”

  Tory swayed a little as the dizziness passed. “I’ll ask the shop keeper across the street to better your offer.”

  He slammed his hand onto the counter. “All right, you little witch. Five dollars.”

  Tory nodded. She still suspected him of cheating her, but she could manage no further bargaining. She watched in numb fascination as the man wrote out a claim check, then counted five dollars in wrinkled bills onto the counter’s surface.

  Tory picked up the claim check and read it. It gave her ninety days to reclaim her property. She knew she would never be able to, but she pocketed the check and placed the earring she held on the counter next to the money. When the man reached for it, she snatched up the bills.

  He was angry, perhaps a little humiliated, at being bested by a child. “Go on, now. Get out.”

  Tory was glad to do as he demanded. She folded the bills, pushed them into the deep recesses of her pocket, and left the shop as fast as her weak legs could carry her. She headed for the bakery, two streets over, scarcely aware of her surroundings, so weak and disoriented was she.

  As she cut through an alley to reach the bakery, she smelled the tantalizing odors of cooking food—greasy bacon, potatoes, toast. She was behind one of the seedy boarding houses.

  The idea of warm food in her belly nearly drove her mad. She was knocking on the boarding house’s rear door before she thought her actions through.

  The woman who cracked open the door was sweaty and in a foul mood. “Whatcha wantin’? We don’ feed no beggars.”

  “I’m not begging. I would . . . I would like to buy something to eat. Something warm, like mush or toast.”

  “You can pay?”

  Tory drew herself up. “I can.”

  The
woman didn’t believe her. “Let’s see, then.”

  Tory turned to the side, drew out the bills, and selected just one. She stuffed the rest safely down into the pocket, then held up a dollar bill.

  The woman’s eyes gleamed, and she nodded. “All right, but we don’t serve colored in the dining room.”

  Tory didn’t know what that meant, let alone what to think. “Does that mean you will not sell me something to eat?”

  “Nay. Set down on the step there. I’ll bring ya something. Bacon? Eggs?”

  Tory’s stomach lurched, but she remembered getting half sick from the bread—what would such rich food do to her? “No, thank you. Just . . . cornmeal mush, if you have it, and toast.”

  “Got some cooked oats.”

  “That would be fine, thank you.”

  The woman left, and Tory sank down on the steps to wait.

  Ten minutes later, the woman returned with a chipped bowl upon a cracked plate. The bowl brimmed with thick oatmeal and cream. Two slices of buttered toast lay on the plate.

  “Pay first.”

  Tory handed over the dollar—oblivious of her overpayment to the tune of a hot bath and two days and nights of bed and board. The woman, with a curt nod, handed Tory the plate and closed the door behind her.

  Tory sat down, her hands shaking, causing the bowl to rattle on the plate. She inhaled the scent of browned bread and shivered. She bit into the buttered toast, held it in her mouth to savor it, then gobbled down the remainder of the slice. Tory ate the hot cereal in small, slow bites. She didn’t care that the oatmeal was lumpy and undercooked—she devoured it. When she had finished the oatmeal, she took the second slice of toast, folded it in half, and put it in her pocket for later.

  The influx of food made Tory drowsy—a dangerous state of being for a street urchin. She left the empty bowl and plate on the porch and went in search of a safe place to sleep.

  Chapter 7

  “What nonsense is this? What are you saying?” Bastiann roared. Beside him, his brother’s widow, Marguerite, shrank from his bellow.

  “As I have clearly stated, Mr. Declouette, Sugar Tree, your grandmother’s home and land, does not factor into Mr. Henri Declouette’s estate—which is why no mention of it will be found in his will today.”

  Richard Follinger, Henri Declouette’s attorney, had delayed the reading of his client’s will for two weeks—much to the chagrin and protests of the grieving widow and her brother-in-law. Follinger had needed time to revisit certain aspects of the will, execute its instructions, and prepare himself to face the outrage those instructions would engender.

  Follinger had not even commenced the formal reading before Henri’s brother asked about his grandmother’s estate. However, the attorney, having served in his profession for more than forty years, was accustomed to the wealthy of New Orleans and their posturing—yes, he was quite inured to their pride, tantrums, and greedy machinations.

  And he disliked the deceased’s widow and brother on sight.

  Follinger sat back and addressed Bastiann Declouette with his most detached air. “Mr. Declouette, I will remind you—once and once only—that I am an officer of the courts of this parish and will tolerate no unseemly behavior in my office or touching any legal proceeding. We shall not continue to the reading of the will until you have gathered yourself and agree to conduct yourself in the manner of a gentleman.”

  “Please, Bastiann.” Marguerite, a petite woman of striking, porcelain beauty, placed a hand upon his arm. “We shall discuss our options regarding Sugar Tree when Mr. Follinger has finished reading Henri’s will.”

  Bastiann brushed off her hand, adjusted his jacket, and replied in a more moderate voice, “Mr. Follinger, our grandmother left Sugar Tree to my brother. By the terms of her will, her estate should—it must—come next to me.”

  “Yes, yes, I am aware of that stipulation in her will; however, the condition of which you speak applied only if Mr. Henri predeceased her. You were to receive Sugar Tree if Mr. Henri died before your grandmother’s will was executed. Once he received your grandmother’s bequest, Mr. Henri was free to do with it as he wished.”

  “That land has been in our family for five generations,” Bastiann snarled. “It is family property!”

  “Family property? Perhaps, Mr. Declouette. However, once Mr. Henri inherited the estate, he was entitled to do with it as he decided—and he chose to deed it to a party outside the family. And, as said transaction occurred ten years past and is not part of today’s proceedings, perhaps we could discuss it at a later date? Er, in private?” He flicked a discreet glance toward Henri’s widow.

  “Mrs. Declouette is in possession of the facts of her husband’s adulterous affair, Mr. Follinger. You need not concern yourself with offending her sensibilities.”

  Marguerite’s plump rosebud mouth shriveled, and she again placed her hand on her brother-in-law’s arm—this time less gently. “Your consideration for my feelings is touching, Bastiann.”

  “Be quiet,” Bastiann snarled.

  She withdrew her hand from his arm, flounced in her seat, and lapsed into icy silence.

  No change of expression altered Follinger’s placid mien, but his mind and sharp intuition were at work. Ah! Unless I miss my guess, the affair between Henri’s wife and his brother is not altogether a happy one. Such things seldom endure.

  He flicked a perceptive eye toward Marguerite. And as to your sensibilities, Mrs. Declouette? I promise they shall be offended further before we conclude this day’s business.

  Bastiann composed himself. “Mr. Follinger, pray tell us precisely how my brother disposed of his inheritance from our grandmother?”

  Follinger’s finely tuned discernment detected more than outrage in the man before him. Was that a hint of anxiety seeping through Bastiann Declouette’s otherwise self-possessed demeanor?

  “I believe that at the time he took possession of his grandmother’s estate, Mr. Henri removed the more important pieces of art from his grandmother’s house. Can you verify this, Mrs. Declouette?”

  Marguerite stirred herself. “Yes. The paintings, except the one of my husband’s grandmother herself, hang in our house, my house. My husband felt his grandmother’s portrait should remain where she lived and died.”

  Follinger nodded. “And I believe that Mr. Henri banked the cash assets of his inheritance at that time?”

  “Yes. That is so—although the cash has long since been spent. What remains of his grandmother’s estate is the house and land. Sugar Tree.”

  “I see. Well, I can tell you that Sugar Tree, too, is gone. Henri deeded the house and the five acres upon which it sits to one Adeline Washington.”

  Marguerite said nothing, but her rosebud mouth again contracted into hard, pinched lines.

  She knew about the woman, Follinger saw. Even knew her name.

  Bastiann lifted his chin. “I am afraid that I have news regarding this Adeline Washington. She has died.”

  “Oh? You know this how?”

  “I and my, er, associates discovered her grave in Sugar Tree’s orchard not a week past.”

  “This is a disturbing report, Mr. Declouette, and must be verified by the authorities. Do you know the cause of Miss Washington’s demise?”

  “No—but once the authorities ascertain the facts, will the property not return to the family? To me?”

  “No, it will not, Mr. Declouette. The deed named Miss Washington’s daughter, Victoria, as co-owner.”

  Marguerite’s gasp drew Follinger’s attention. Apparently, she knew of her husband’s mistress but not of the woman’s child.

  “That whore had a daughter? But, who is the child’s fa—”

  Bastiann gripped her hand hard, and she clamped her mouth shut.

  Follinger, observing with interest the interplay between Bastiann and Marguerite, added, “If Miss Washington has, as you say, Mr. Declouette, passed away, then her daughter, Victoria, is the owner of Sugar Tree by right of survivorship, not i
nheritance.”

  Bastiann ground his teeth to contain his temper. He knew that no deed transferring ownership from Henri to Adeline Washington—or to her daughter—could ever be produced. He had made certain of that the day he announced Henri’s death to Adeline. With feigned nonchalance, he asked, “In the event that no deed of transfer can be found, what then? How would that affect ownership of Sugar Tree?”

  “Oh, the deed was duly recorded with the Jefferson Parish clerk, Mr. Declouette. I submitted it myself and have record of it on file. The transfer of ownership will stand.”

  Bastiann cursed under his breath.

  Mr. Follinger did not allow his smile of satisfaction to reach his lips; he was concerned for the child. “Mr. Declouette, when you visited Sugar Tree and found this grave, did you also see the girl, Victoria?”

  “No. The house was abandoned. Empty. I do not know where she is.”

  Inside, he raged. That darky by-blow has legal right to my family’s land? He wished now that he had canvassed the neighborhood for news of the girl the day he had found the house empty.

  “I must report the child’s disappearance to the authorities, Mr. Declouette.”

  Deep in his own thoughts, Bastiann muttered, “I understand.”

  But Bastiann was not finished—not by half. The girl is colored. I shall press my claim in court. The right judge—given an appropriate incentive—may rule against her claim, against Henri’s madness. In the meantime, I must find the child and make her disappear. Where could she have gone?

  “Shall I proceed with the reading of the will?” Follinger asked.

  Marguerite inclined her head. “Yes.”

  “Very well, let us begin.” He drew the will from a drawer, placed it before him on his desk’s blotter, and read, “I, Henri Auguste Declouette, being of sound body and mind, do make this last will and testament on this, the eighteenth day of November, the year of our Lord, 1901—”

  “Mr. Follinger, please wait. This date cannot be right. Henri wrote his will five years ago. I found a copy in his desk.”