Set apart to one side, sat a straight-backed chair upon a carpet. A dark-haired woman Tory remembered from earlier, her head bent, hand-stitched sparkling demi-jewels to the yards of tulle gathered about her.
Marie gestured toward the dark-haired woman and whispered, “Mrs. Horringer does our finest handwork. She is completing the wedding veil of Miss Isobelle Fouche, the fiancé of Mr. Marcel Vivant. Theirs is to be the finest wedding of the year. Her gown is just there.”
Marie pointed to the dressmaking form behind Mrs. Horringer. The folds of the silver-white gown glistened in the morning light.
Tory was utterly enthralled.
“Miss Sarasses is our cutter and also a senior seamstress,” Marie continued in a quiet voice. She moved with soft steps toward the cutting table and sewing machines.
Tory glanced around, taking in the whole of the workshop. In one corner, she spied a drawing table; it was canted forward, toward Madame Rousseau and Mademoiselle Justine who stood before it, discussing a sketch upon it.
Pulled by an irresistible force, Tory came up behind them and peered between them at the sketch of an evening gown. She was fascinated with what she saw.
“Ah, comme c’est belle! Look how beautiful it is!” she whispered.
Startled, Madame Rousseau and Mademoiselle Justine turned toward her, opening a better view to the table. Tory stepped closer to the drawing. Without touching the paper, she traced the dress’ form. “But, see? Such simple, elegant lines. Gone is the fuss of an overskirt or inset panels of heavy lace. The lady’s figure is shown to perfection—except for this bow upon her bodice. Does that not draw the eye away from the lovely lines of her waist and back?”
She glanced upward—and encountered two implacable expressions.
With abrupt realization of what she had done, Tory stumbled back and sank into a curtsy. She began to babble her apologies—entirely in French.
“Mesdames, a thousand pardons! I crave your forgiveness for my rude, unacceptable behavior. I apologize most sincerely.” I have ruined everything! Tory wailed to herself. Tears sprang to her eyes. They will return me to the streets.
When no one spoke, Tory dared to look up. She saw Marie first, hovering close by, a self-satisfied smirk on her face. Tory lifted her chin higher, steeling herself for the words of dismissal she knew were coming.
Madame Rousseau and Mademoiselle Justine were looking at each other, not at Tory. And something repressed in their manner made Tory swallow. Were they laughing at her?
She frowned. Laughter might be worse than the scathing rebuke she had expected. No, it was worse.
Mademoiselle Justine, pursing her lips but not quite able to stop their twitching, arched one brow at Madame Rousseau. “Her French is quite good.”
“Alas, she exhibits an unacceptable flair for the dramatic—as we have just witnessed—but, yes, her French is excellent. Her governess was Parisian, I understand.”
“Governess!” Mademoiselle Justine’s humor was replaced by shock.
“A Miss La Forge.”
“What?” Mademoiselle Justine’s head swiveled toward Tory. “Miss Lorraine La Forge?”
Tory nodded. “Oui, mademoiselle.”
“Ah.”
That one word carried significance, but of what, Tory did not know.
“An acquaintance of yours?” Madame Rousseau inquired with interest.
“Yes. Perhaps we shall speak of it later?”
Again, her words signaled hidden meaning.
“As you wish. But now,” she leveled her gaze on Tory, “you understand, Victoria, that you are to enter the workroom for specific purposes only—sweeping, cleaning, and any hand work assigned to you. My designs are not to be touched or commented upon.” She hesitated. “Although, you make a valid observation regarding the bow.”
Mademoiselle Justine was nodding. “Yes. I must say that I agree.”
“Remove it then, and we shall evaluate the effect.”
“Oui, Madame.”
Madame Rousseau signaled Marie. “Please consider Victoria’s tour complete and set her to her tasks.”
“Yes, Madame.” Cutting a look of disgust at Tory, she walked toward the workroom door. Tory dropped a quick bob and scampered after her.
“We do not run in my establishment,” Madame Rousseau spoke softly to Tory’s back.
Tory heard her and turned. “Of course, Madame.” Setting a sedate pace, she left the workroom.
“You little brat!” Marie hissed as soon as the workroom door closed. She slapped Tory across the face to punctuate her words.
Tory stepped back, face stinging, eyes tearing. Other than Bastiann Declouette, no one had ever laid a hand upon her.
Marie backed her against the wall and breathed into her face. “Oh, yes, you had best take care, little miss. If you get me into trouble again, I’ll do worse than that.”
She grabbed Tory by the arm and dragged her to the washroom. “You will clean the water closets each morning and afternoon—and anytime in between if the toilets give off an odor. You will also, after closing time each day, attend to the clients’ washroom. However, it must be kept spotless and sweet smelling at all times. When it requires attention, I or Daphne will alert you. You will come and go so no client sees you.
“In addition, you will clean the kitchen each day: Sweep and mop the floors; wash and dry the dishes; polish the silver tea services; wash the tablecloths, napkins, and tea towels and hang them to dry; iron and fold the tablecloths and napkins and restock the linen closet.”
A heavy hand pounded upon the rear entrance. “That will be the bakery delivery.” Marie glanced at Tory’s hands. “You may receive the delivery, but you will not handle our clients’ refreshments. After all, you clean the toilets. Do you understand?”
Tory swallowed her indignation. “Yes, Miss Marie.”
“Get busy then.”
Chapter 10
Tory’s first day at Madame Rousseau’s passed in a blur of activity, punctuated once by a short lunch the staff took as a group. Each woman ate from her own packet of food: bread, cheese, fruit, perhaps a bite of sausage. When Tory saw them unwrap their lunches (modest fare though it was), when she smelled the yeasty bread and spicy meat, she crept into her closet, leaned her head against the coolness of the dark wall, and tried to ignore the gnawing pain in her stomach.
Instead, she contemplated the plates of refreshments Marie and Daphne had arranged in the kitchen and carried to the clients’ sitting area that morning. The baker had delivered no less than four dozen beignets and three dozen tiny fruit tarts.
Whatever remains at the end of the day is mine, she told herself again and again. If anything remains.
The day was long; the shop remained open until six o’clock in the evening. Near closing time, Tory lingered in the kitchen for Daphne and Marie to bring the last of the tea and refreshment things from the front of the shop. Already most of the staff had departed for the day. Tory believed Madame Rousseau and Mademoiselle Justine lingered in the workroom while Marie and Daphne tidied the front of the shop.
Tory was washing the shop’s pretty tea cups when Daphne placed a serving plate on the long table. One beignet and at least five of the little fruit tartlets were left! Tory sighed with relief, and her sigh seemed to echo through all the hollow places in her thin body.
I will eat! she rejoiced.
Moments later, Daphne returned with the day’s bundled tablecloths and napkins. She dropped them on the bench beside the table. “Good night, Victoria,” Daphne said. She plucked her things from her hook on the wall and sped out the door.
Marie brought the silver service and the last of the tea cups to the kitchen, and Tory, with a surreptitious glance, found that the cream pitcher was empty.
Tory shrugged. No cream for me, but no matter. I will eat—
She watched Marie eye the remains of the refreshments, open a cupboard, bring down one of the baker’s small boxes, and begin placing the leftover beignets and tart
s into it.
“W-what are you doing?” Tory sputtered.
“None of your business, I’m sure,” Marie shot back.
A hungry, indignant fire ignited in Tory. “Miss Marie, those are mine. All the remains are my wages.”
Marie fisted both hands on her hips. “Since when?”
Tory, determined to claim her dinner, stepped toward her. “Since Madame Rousseau hired me this morning. She said that all the remaining refreshments were to be my pay until I have proven myself.”
Marie tossed her head and laughed. “Ah, but none will remain, will they? Too bad.”
“But they are mine!” Tory insisted. “You have no right to them!”
Marie, half a head taller and many pounds heavier than Tory, gripped Tory by the front of her apron and jerked the girl to within inches of her face. “Listen, you dirty little n****r! Madame put me in charge of you. Unless you want me to give you and your work an unfavorable report, you had better shut your thick lips.”
Marie’s words drove like a fist into Tory’s gut, robbing her of air. She gasped and struggled to breathe, faint from her need for nourishment.
Marie released Tory’s apron and, as she did, shoved her onto the edge of the sink. Tory grasped the sink edge and hung on, afraid her legs would give way, more afraid of Marie’s threats. What if Madame Rousseau believed Marie? And why would she not?
Tory was torn between her raging hunger and her fear of being tossed into the street.
She said not another word as Marie closed up the baker’s box and, grabbing up her shawl from its hook on the wall, announced to whomever might hear, “I’m off now.” Then she smirked an aside to Tory: “I am glad you are here, Little Miss Hoity-Toity. Daphne and I don’t have to stay after and clean anymore, thanks to you.” She giggled. “Oh, and merci for the treats! I shall enjoy them.”
A moment later, she was gone—and, with her, Tory’s hope of dinner.
Tory gathered her wits and her waning strength. She needed to wash and dry the silver service and plates, cups, and saucers for the morrow, finish tidying up the kitchen, and wash and hang the dirty linens. With slow, meticulous care, she finished the dishes, then heated more water to wash the linens—five little snowy-white tea tablecloths and three dozen napkins, most barely used.
And wash the tea towels, dishcloths, and my apron after. But I must rise early if I am to iron the clean linens before Madame Rousseau arrives to unlock the shop.
She rinsed and wrung the linens and placed them in a basket. She approached a wide metal bar mounted on the kitchen wall on the other side of the door. Tory grasped the bar and tugged. Four lines spooled out as she drew the bar across the room and fastened it to a hook on the opposite wall. She draped the wet laundry on the clothesline, taking care to smooth the wrinkles out of each item.
Less ironing, she assured herself.
Tory’s last task was to examine herself and her work dress in the washroom mirror. She sponged a few spots from her dress sleeves and washed her face. She did nothing with her hair. It would, thankfully, be hidden under the ruffled white cotton cap.
Tory returned to the kitchen, her day done. She drank her fill of water and sank onto the bench in stupefied fatigue.
“Good night, Victoria,” Madame Rousseau said. “I am locking you in, but you have all you need, do you not?”
Tory, who had been dozing with folded arms on the table and her face upon her arms, could answer nothing other than, “Oui, Madame. Merci.”
Tory heard Madame’s key turn in the front entrance, then she was alone in the shop. Soon night came to the city and also to the shop.
The dark, empty shop was not the pleasant place it had been in daylight, and Tory, feeling the need for something—anything—familiar and comforting, crept into her closet. She dragged her bag toward her and reached inside for its bottom. When her fingers encountered the stiff piece of brocade, Tory drew it out. She could not make out her mother’s image in the enfolded photograph, but it was enough for Tory to know it was there. She kissed her mother’s picture once, then returned it to her bag.
Tory undressed, hung her dress on a nail and, leaving her chemise on to sleep in, wrapped herself in the quilt Madame Rousseau had given her, and laid down upon the hard, wood floor.
She closed the door—and cracked it open it almost immediately. The complete and utter black within the closet was stifling to both body and mind.
She did not want to cry. After all, how fortunate was she that Madame Rousseau had taken her on and given her a safe place to sleep? She did not want to cry, but she did anyway: The image of the last beignet and remaining tarts teased and tortured her.
I can make it until morning, she reasoned. Tea and biscuits for all in the morning. I can make it until then.
But her insides burned with acid.
“I SENT FOR YOU AS SOON as I saw them. Of course, I recognized the set—your mother’s, I believe?”
Bastiann Declouette held the pearl-drop earrings in his palm—the first concrete evidence he had uncovered proving that Victoria had fled to New Orleans. “Yes. And her mother’s before her.” He took in the seamy shop within the seamier neighborhood and exercised care that he did not brush up against the dirty edge of the counter. “You have come down in the world, Hugo.”
Hugo sputtered. “I have come down? Why, you must mean I’ve ‘come down’ since you once brought these very earrings to me as collateral for a loan?” He sniffed. “My present surroundings are but a temporary setback, I assure you.”
Bastiann did not wish to be reminded of his own dealings with local loan sharks. He stared at the man. “Not so temporary if you do not curb your gambling impulses, Hugo.”
Bastiann enjoyed delivering the occasional insult, the twist of the knife in a lesser man’s gut. But then, he despised weakness of any kind, particularly in weak men who could not control their vices—or their women. That he was guilty of the exact weaknesses did not enter his mind. “Tell me about the girl.”
Bastiann may have overestimated his power; he should, perhaps, have considered how his insults would be received.
The obsequious shop owner bristled; his hand shot out and plucked the earrings from Bastiann’s open palm before Bastiann could react. “I imagine these will fetch a pretty price—in the right market.”
Bastiann arched one brow—lifting the mask of cordiality he wore, disclosing the dangerous man beneath. “I am the only market open to you, Hugo. Do not forget yourself—or that the men to whom you owe the most are my . . . business associates.”
Bastiann doubted that Hugo’s gambling debt to Bastiann’s “business associates” exceeded his own—and if Bastiann did not appease those “business associates” soon, his plight would be worse than Hugo’s.
Bastiann’s precarious position served to heighten his brazen behavior. “Hand over my mother’s earrings, Hugo, and tell me all you know of the girl,” he snarled.
Hugo stalled. “Why, you must understand, Monsieur Declouette, that I paid dearly for the earrings—twenty-five dollars! And, of course, I sent you word as soon as I realized what I had purchased. I must, at the least, recoup my expenditure.”
Bastiann and Hugo engaged in a stare-down that lasted until Bastiann waved a derisive hand at the other man. “Very well. I will compensate you for what you have laid out—on condition that you answer my questions about the girl.”
“I agree.” Hugo said nothing further, but he waited, wiping at an imaginary speck on the countertop’s glass surface with a dingy rag.
Bastiann, with a wry chuckle, withdrew his wallet from inside his breast coat. He slid two bills from the wallet and let them flutter to the countertop.
“This is only twenty dollars, Bastiann,” Hugo protested.
“Yes, but you see, I am certain the girl took far less for the pearls, am I right? Ah! I see that I am. Be content, then, Hugo, with what profit you have made today.”
Hugo folded his lips together and swept the bills into a d
rawer beneath the countertop. “What is it you wish to know about the girl?”
“Who was she with? Where is she staying?”
Hugo shrugged. “I saw no one but her. As for where she is staying, how can I say? She carried with her a carpetbag, nice quality, but she appeared worn to a nub. I assumed she needed the money to eat.”
“Are you saying she is sleeping in the streets? Around here?” Bastiann shuddered. A young girl, particularly one as striking as Henri’s brat, would not last long in this environ. If the gangs did not find her, the pimps would.
She is too fine to waste in that manner. I must locate and retrieve her from this hellhole before she is sullied. Yes. I must save her to gain control of Sugar Tree . . . and to use for my own pleasure.
He would put the word out to the right men, those who were familiar with this low-life neighborhood: Whoever brought him the girl would be handsomely rewarded.
Chapter 11
Tory slept hard and awoke muzzy and disoriented. Through the crack of the open closet door, pale light pierced the stuffy dark of the closet.
“Oh!” Tory struggled out of her quilt cocoon and sat up. A wave of dizziness swept over her. She waited until it had eased, then rose to her knees. She was unsteady, but was more concerned that she may have overslept. Dressed only in chemise and bloomers, Tory stumbled down the hall to the kitchen. A clock on the wall declared the morning barely begun: half past six.
Sighing with relief, Tory drank down two glasses of water before using the washroom. She felt all hollow and wobbly, but she went back to her tiny room, drew on her work dress, stockings, and shoes, and returned to the kitchen. She lit the gas range and began heating the kitchen’s two irons over the burners.
The sewing room, for the necessity of operating the machines, was wired for electricity, but the remainder of Madame Rousseau’s shop did not as yet boast such luxury. She recalled some chatter from yesterday’s tea, an anticipation that Madame would soon have electric lights and appliances installed for the remainder of her establishment.
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