Tory

by Vikki Kestell

  Well, this gas stove is already a luxury to me, she admitted. Sassy Brown’s cook stove at Sugar Tree burned wood and was temperamental in the extreme.

  Sugar Tree! Had it been only days, perhaps a week and a half, since Tory said goodbye to her mother and her home? Tory had lost all track of time on the streets of the city. A great sob of grief and homesickness bubbled up . . . but she stomped on it. Hard.

  Stop this nonsense! You must be strong. Finish the linens before Madame arrives to unlock the shop.

  Tory pressed her apron first—taking care not to scorch it as a maid at Sugar Tree had once done—then she tied the apron about her. The strings seemed longer this morning . . . or Tory thinner. She could not spare the wherewithal to decide which.

  Ignoring the fog in her mind, Tory pulled the dried tablecloths and napkins from the clothesline and bent to the ironing. Tory had less practice with an iron than a maid in her position should have had, but she was a fast learner. She finished the ironing by half past seven and placed the folded articles on the table for Daphne or Marie to take to the reception area.

  Looking around, Tory decided to put the kettle on for tea. She filled it and set it on the burner, then raced to freshen the washrooms. She was just finishing the clients’ washroom and was holding an armload of cleaning supplies when she heard the grate of a key in the front door. A moment later, Madame Rousseau breezed into the hallway and encountered her.

  “Oh! Dear me, child. You startled me. But what are you doing in the front?”

  Tory curtsied as best she could—and nearly fell over from the effort. She dropped the bucket she held to grasp the wall. “Pardon, Madame. I was freshening the clients’ washroom.”

  “I see.”

  Madame Rousseau frowned and looked her over. “Are you well, child?”

  Tory made a great effort to stand straight and tall, “But of course, Madame.”

  With a nod, Madame Rousseau passed by Tory, who deposited the supplies in the cleaning closet where they belonged. Then she made a thorough job of washing her hands and face.

  The sounds of employees entering the kitchen came to her, including, “Look here! Someone has filled the kettle already and set it to boil. How lovely.”

  Tory could not wait to sit down to tea and biscuits. She had been up for an hour and a half and what energy she’d garnered from a night’s sleep was gone. She checked her appearance a last time and left the washroom to join the others.

  Tory had reached the kitchen doorway when things went all wrong.

  She stopped—not because she intended to, but because her legs would not respond. They refused to move, to answer her commands. A gray haze intruded. It misted over her eyes, and Tory blinked with sluggish deliberation against its encroachment, against the soft buzzing in her head that grew until it was a great noise engulfing her senses.

  Tory did not faint. No, the worn bricks of the kitchen floor opened up and swallowed her whole. She tumbled down. Head cracked on hard brick, but Tory did not feel the injury. She already was senseless when she fell.

  “Miséricorde!” Mademoiselle Justine was first to react, leaping from her seat at the head of the table. She knelt by Tory’s unconscious figure. Blood trickled from her forehead.

  “Fetch me a cloth dipped in cool water! Dépêchez vous!”

  The other employees gathered around Tory, including Miss Defoe, a practical spinster above forty-five years.

  She knelt beside Mademoiselle Justine. “Look here. The girl has hit her head on the bricks. Give me the cloth.” Miss Defoe held the cloth’s cooling moisture to the expanding lump above Tory’s left eye. “This wound requires ice. Have we any here?”

  “No, Miss Defoe, but I could fetch some from the butcher two streets over,” Simone offered.

  “Yes, go,” Mademoiselle Justine instructed. She looked to Miss Defoe. “But why do you think she fell? Is she ill?”

  Marie, from beyond the cluster of concerned women, muttered loud enough for all to hear, “This is the thanks we get—she has likely brought disease into our midst, a contagion contracted from sleeping in the gutters with the unwashed rabble.”

  Mademoiselle Justine touched Tory’s cheek. “I do not perceive a fever.” She asked Miss Defoe’s opinion. “Do you?”

  “No. She has no fever.”

  Madame Rousseau discovered her well-ordered staff in disarray. “What is this? What is going on?”

  “The girl suffered a fainting spell, I believe, and hit her head when she fell,” Miss Defoe answered. She swabbed away the trickle of blood from Tory’s forehead. “I would attribute her fit to malnourishment. How thin she is!” Miss Defoe lifted Tory’s arm, pulled back her dress sleeve, and displayed Tory’s stick of an arm. “I question when she last ate.”

  “You saw how she was at tea yesterday morning,” Mrs. Horringer put in, bending down to study Tory’s face, “and, now that I think on it, she did not join us for lunch at noon, did she?”

  Murmurs of “No,” and “I do not recall her at the table,” filtered through the little knot clustered around Tory.

  “She should have had the remains of yesterday’s refreshments for her supper. Daphne, you removed the refreshments. What was left over?” Madame Rousseau asked.

  Daphne dropped a curtsy. “Half-dozen tarts and one beignet, Madame.”

  “Not all that nourishing in her condition, I should say,” Miss Defoe remarked, more to herself than to anyone in particular.

  Madame Rousseau flushed. “Better, I presumed, than begging for crusts on the street!”

  Marie, standing off from the others and chewing the inside of her cheek, caught Madame’s attention. When Marie’s eyes jittered away under Madame’s scrutiny, a tiny suspicion bloomed in that woman’s mind.

  Just then, Simone returned with a butcher paper package under her arm. “I have ice, Mademoiselle Justine.”

  “Ah, good. Hand it here, please.” Mademoiselle Justine undid the package, and Miss Defoe wrapped a chunk of ice in the damp cloth before holding it to Tory’s head. Tory moaned as the cold seeped into her wound.

  Madame Rousseau lifted her chin to address the employees standing about. “See here, all the rest of you. Finish up your tea and get on with your tasks—excepting you, Simone. I wish you to go out again to the little café on the corner. Take with you a pannikin with a tight lid and purchase some stout beef broth and a loaf of bread.” She held out a few coins and Simone took them.

  The remainder of the staff, with the exception of Mademoiselle Justine and Miss Defoe, downed their tea and hurried to their assigned duties. Madame Rousseau, however, singled out Marie with a shrewd eye and observed how the girl had departed the kitchen ahead of the others.

  Tory moaned again, drawing Madame Rousseau’s attention to her. “The child had already cleaned the washrooms and ironed and folded yesterday’s linens when I arrived this morning. I, ah, I may . . . I may have neglected to tell her that we have plenty of linens in the cupboard, that it is necessary to do the washing but once a week.”

  Miss Defoe, her eyes fixed on Tory, wondered aloud. “At how many years would you place this girl’s age?”

  Mademoiselle Justine hesitated. “Thirteen? No more than fourteen, surely. She has not bloomed yet.”

  “I would venture younger—for the same reason—but tall for her age.” Miss Defoe addressed Madame Rousseau. “Did she tell you her age, Charlotte?”

  “No, but from what she did disclose, I think the child most peculiar. Raised in affluent circumstances, educated, well-bred. Faith, I did not believe the whole of the girl’s story, yet her manners served to confirm her tale. By the by, did you intimate, Annette-Francoise, that you knew the girl’s governess?”

  Mademoiselle Justine cleared her throat. “Yes, I met Lorraine La Forge when she was governess to a wealthy family. Governess, that is, until she suffered a ruinous blow to her reputation. A misconduct, ah, with the gentleman of the house, I believe.”

  “Oh.” Madame Rousseau and
Miss Defoe murmured the single word at the same time and with the same clarity of understanding.

  “Do you know what became of this Lorraine La Forge?”

  “I heard, through a mutual acquaintance, that she had taken a position at a country home outside the city, teaching the daughter . . . of an affluent, unmarried negro woman.”

  The three women were silent, contemplating possible interpretations of Mademoiselle Justine’s simple statement.

  After a moment, Madame Rousseau sighed. “Victoria’s father must have been quite wealthy.”

  “And quite white, judging from her complexion,” Miss Defoe added under her breath.

  “She . . . she did tell me she was alone in the world now. Her mother, at the least, has died.”

  The three women nodded in unison. Life as an orphan was difficult at best. Life for a motherless mixed-race child?

  Madame Rousseau cleared her throat. “Well. It is my decision that we shall not hold the unfortunate circumstances of Victoria’s birth or parentage against her,” she pronounced. “Perhaps the child will thrive here in my establishment and, when she is grown, find her way in life.”

  Miss Defoe snorted. “She will not thrive if she does not put some meat on these bones.” She stared up at her friend of many years. “And, if I may be so bold, Charlotte, biscuits, tea, and leftover pastries will not sustain a growing body engaged in demanding physical labor.”

  “I know, I know. Do not chastise me further, Patrice, if you please. I shall make amends.” Changing the subject, she added, “But you think her younger than thirteen, do you?”

  Tory groaned and reached a hand toward her head, trying to dislodge the cold compress.

  “She is coming around. I shall ask her.” Miss Defoe leaned over Tory’s face. “Victoria, can you open your eyes?”

  With another groan, Tory’s eyes fluttered.

  “Victoria, can you tell us how old are you? Are you twelve? Thirteen?”

  “’Leven,” Tory mumbled. “My head . . .”

  But the women were gaping at each other in consternation. “Eleven!” They breathed the word in concert.

  The kitchen door burst open, and Simone reappeared. “The café had no beef broth, Madame, only beef and vegetable soup—very nourishing, they promised me.”

  “Quite right,” Miss Defoe agreed. “And bread?”

  “Yes, miss. A fresh loaf.”

  Tory opened her eyes, then closed them . . . once more, and again, before they remained open. “What . . . why am I . . .”

  “You fainted,” Miss Defoe supplied. She removed the cloth-wrapped ice and glanced at the lump on Tory’s head. “You hit your head when you fell and will have a nice bruise for a week.”

  Tory, realizing that Madame Rousseau was standing above her, attempted to rise. She fell back as racking waves of nausea swept over her.

  Swallowing the bitter bile in her throat, Tory whispered, “Je suis désolée! Je suis profondément désolée, Madame!” I am so sorry!

  Madame Rousseau’s expression was unreadable. “You shall remain in Miss Defoe’s care today until she deems you are fit to shift for yourself. In the meantime, we have soup and bread for you to eat.”

  The woman cleared her throat. “You are to eat every bite of this food before closing time today—a little at a time, since you are disused to a full stomach. Again, I place you in Miss Defoe’s care—if that is agreeable with you, Patrice?”

  “Yes. I shall take care of her.”

  Tory again tried to rise; Miss Defoe’s hand on Tory’s chest prevented her from sitting up. “But I have work—”

  “Someone else must take up your responsibilities for the day until you have regained your strength.”

  “Yes.” Madame nodded her agreement. She pursed her lips before venturing, “Tell me, Victoria, when did you last eat?”

  Tory, experiencing a sudden and disquieting consciousness of the quandary she was in, did not answer.

  “Victoria, I will ask you the same question another way. You will answer me with a yes or no. Comprenez-vous?”

  “Oui, Madame.”

  “Did refreshments remain last evening when the shop closed?”

  Tory’s “Oui, Madame,” came out in a whisper.

  “Did you eat them?”

  “Non, Madame.”

  “Did someone else take them?”

  Marie will tell Madame that my work is deficient! I shall be dismissed, turned out into the street! Tears trickled out of the corners of Tory’s eyes; she could not bring herself to answer.

  “Victoria, did Marie take the leftover refreshments?”

  “You must answer Madame, Victoria,” Mademoiselle Justine urged Tory.

  Finally, Tory nodded.

  Madame Rousseau’s mouth tightened further. “I see.”

  Miss Defoe huffed. “Surely this can wait. I wish to get some of that soup into her while it is hot.”

  “Yes. Certainly. Come, Mademoiselle Justine. We have clients waiting with only Daphne and Marie to greet them.”

  When they left, Miss Defoe spoke. “Simone, pour a little of that soup into a bowl and hand it to me. Yes, place the bowl upon a plate with a piece of that bread beside it. Ah, the bread smells good.”

  “Warm from the oven,” Simone told her. She put the plate together and set it on the floor next to Miss Defoe.

  “Thank you. You may go now.”

  “Yes, miss.” With a last glance at Tory, Simone departed.

  “Let us sit you up now, shall we?” Miss Defoe reached behind Tory and lifted her to sitting.

  “Ohhh. Hurts. My head.”

  “I imagine so. Now, you must take a sip of this soup. Just a taste at first.”

  Tory opened her eyes and found herself nearly face to face with the severe Miss Defoe—who, upon much closer inspection, was perhaps not as severe as Tory had believed her to be. The face so close to hers was spare; the deep vertical lines between her eyes and the downward turn of the corners of her mouth were softer than Tory had thought, more the product of many long hours of labor than a stern disposition. A hint of girlish dimple creased her thin cheeks, and a surprising gentleness had settled in the woman’s expression.

  “Come, Victoria. Open your mouth.” Miss Defoe spooned broth between Tory’s teeth.

  Tory swallowed it, but her stomach heaved and she gagged. She turned away from a second taste.

  “I understand, child. We must keep trying, but allow your stomach to settle between our attempts.” Miss Defoe broke off a bite-sized fragment of bread. “Smell this.”

  Tory inhaled. “Oh! It is . . . heavenly.”

  She rested against Miss Defoe’s shoulder for several minutes until the woman dipped the bread into the soup and urged her to try it. “Just this bite.”

  The bread, soaked in the beefy broth, melted in Tory’s mouth. Without effort, she swallowed. “Umm. It is . . . good.”

  “Excellent. Another after a minute or two.”

  Half an hour later, Tory had taken eight bites of bread and broth.

  “How are you feeling now, child? Are you in danger of losing what you ate?”

  “I do not believe so, but . . . must I not get up soon? I have so much work to do.”

  Miss Defoe laughed under her breath. “We will manage for a day without you. We had been without a scullery maid for a week before you arrived yesterday morning.”

  Tory blinked. Had it truly been only yesterday?

  “But who—”

  A devious twinkle lit Miss Defoe’s lined eyes. “Ah, yes.” She smothered a small smile. “It is my supposition that our patrons and clients will have to do without the services of Marie this day. She will be . . . otherwise occupied.”

  Chapter 12

  When Tory had eaten what she could for the time being and could stand on her own feet, Miss Defoe insisted she try to sleep a while. “Madame has placed you in my care this day, but I also have work to do. Your work will be to sleep. At lunchtime, we shall have you eat more.
Tell me, what arrangements has Madame made for you to sleep?”

  “At the end of the passageway, in the closet.”

  Miss Defoe placed her hands on her narrow hips. “So? I must examine this closet.”

  Tory led her to the closet and showed her the quilt she slept with.

  Miss Defoe was not impressed. “Nothing more? No ticking or pillow? What nonsense. I shall not stand for it.”

  “Please, Miss Defoe, it is all I have. It is warm and safe—that is enough; I am grateful for it.”

  Miss Defoe, her brows drawn down into an implacable line, answered. “As you say. Sleep here until I return to fetch you out for lunch.” She wagged her finger at Tory. “I will tolerate no disobedience in this.”

  “Yes, miss.”

  With Miss Defoe’s assistance, Tory pulled off her apron and dress. She wrapped herself in the quilt and laid down and, with a satisfied stomach, sleep came easier than she had imagined it would.

  Miss Defoe was a woman whose keen mind missed nothing. She had taken in the exquisite quality of Tory’s chemise and bloomers, worn thin as they were. With that observation, she accepted de facto all Madame Rousseau and Mademoiselle Justine had related regarding Tory’s tale of birth and childhood.

  Standing near the slightly open door of Tory’s “room,” Miss Defoe considered Tory’s biddable nature, her friendless estate in the world, and Madame Rousseau’s declaration that Tory would, in essence, become a ward of her establishment.

  In her own no-nonsense manner, she extrapolated upon the situation and, with a firm nod, arrived at a declaration of her own.

  AS CLOSING TIME APPROACHED, Miss Defoe allowed Tory to wash up the tea service and tidy the kitchen. Tory went to her tasks with fervent dedication—with Miss Defoe’s watchful eye upon her.

  The girl was springing back quickly, but Miss Defoe did not linger in the kitchen only to ensure that Tory did not overtax herself. She bid each worker a goodnight and counted them as they departed for the day, adding a “Good evening, Mrs. Horringer,” as that woman, too, took her leave.