Tory
Page 15
“Mr. and Mrs. Bogg, I wanted to inform you that I have taken on a child. She is employed at Madame Rousseau’s shop but is without family, so I am making a home for her with me.”
“Why, how commendable,” Mrs. Bogg answered. “How old is she? Surely, if she is working she must be in her teens? Quite commendable. What is her name? Yes, how very commendable, Miss Defoe. You are to be commended.”
“Hrrmm. Thank you. The girl’s name is Victoria, and she is tall for her age. We, too, believed her to be in her early teens; however, it came out today that she is but eleven years old.”
“Eleven! Why, just a child! And an orphan? How sad. So, she has no parents?”
Miss Defoe gripped her tea cup. “Yes, she is a child and, as I said, parentless. ‘Without parents’ is what ‘orphan’ signifies, Mrs. Bogg.”
She wondered if Mr. Bogg’s lip quivered.
“Why, she is not a teen after all! I’m surprised you let me think her older. Just eleven years old, you say. A child. Commendable of you to take her in, Miss Defoe.”
This time, Miss Defoe was convinced that Mr. Bogg’s lip spasmed—but he was quick to dab his mouth with a napkin.
Miss Defoe made another clearing sound in her throat, “Hrrmm,” before pushing to the point of her visit. “I could use your advice, Mr. Bogg. Victoria has coarse, curly hair that requires the aid of what she calls a pomade. As you are a barber, I wondered if you might know where in the city I could purchase such a pomade.”
Mrs. Bogg’s brow furrowed in thought. “Coarse and curly hair? A pomade? For a girl?”
Here it was, and Miss Defoe did not shy from it. “Victoria is of mixed parentage. Her hair reflects the natural tendencies of her negro mother.”
Mr. Bogg’s brows arched in mild surprise; Mrs. Bogg’s mouth, however, dropped into a scandalized “o.”
“Mixed parentage? Her mother is colored? Is her father not a negro, then?”
Miss Defoe exercised remarkable self-control. Commendable, even. “Her mother was negro. Her father was not negro. That is what mixed parentage implies.”
“But—”
“My dear, please let Miss Defoe speak.” Mr. Bogg turned to their visitor. “You are looking for a pomade that negro women apply to their hair? Is that it, Miss Defoe?”
“Yes, that is it.”
“I have some pomade in stock that my male customers purchase. If you should like to accompany me downstairs, I shall unlock my shop and show it to you.”
“That would be most kind.” And exactly what I was hoping for, Miss Defoe added to herself.
She returned to Tory shortly and showed the girl her purchase. “Is this what you use on your hair, Victoria?”
Tory looked at the open jar and sniffed it. “Not exactly. This smells . . . different.”
“What you mean is that it stinks. I can only assume it was made for men and not women, but it is the best we can hope for at this moment.”
Tory nodded. “Thank you.” She gathered some on her fingers and massaged it into her hair. Her frizzy tendrils became supple and glossy. Soon she was able to work the comb through her curls, part her hair in the middle, braid it down both sides and twist the sleek braids into a knot at the base of her neck. She pinned the knot in place with her mother’s hair combs.
When she examined the result, Tory was satisfied, but she wrinkled her nose at the odor she could not escape.
“I agree. Quite unpleasant—and certain to be remarked upon in Madame’s shop. I shall ask Madame to allow me to go out during the morning and find a jar with a more . . . agreeable scent.”
Just then, Tory’s stomach lurched and growled.
“I apologize, Miss Defoe.”
“No, it is I who should apologize. I was so focused upon your bath that I neglected our dinner. We must eat; however, it is late. I shall cook some eggs and a bit of ham.”
Tory sucked in a breath. She had not had an egg or any meat in weeks!
They sat down at the tiny table and Miss Defoe spooned a large portion of scrambled eggs onto Tory’s plate along with a slice of fried ham. Between their plates, Tory’s benefactress set a rounded loaf of bread. She tore off a piece and placed it on Tory’s plate also.
“Eat, now, child—but if you feel your stomach filling up, leave what remains on your plate. I do not want you sickening from eating too much at a sitting.”
Tory devoured all her eggs with bites of bread between. She could feel Miss Defoe’s eyes on her and tried to slow down, but could not. The soft eggs were too good. It wasn’t until she began to fork ham into her mouth that she experienced what Miss Defoe had warned her of—a sudden sense that if she swallowed one more bite, her stomach would rebel.
Sleep tugged at her with abrupt insistence. She laid her fork on her plate and closed her eyes. When she opened them, Miss Defoe was watching her.
“Please, may I be excused?”
“Yes. You may ready yourself for bed now. In the future, you will clear off the table and clean up after meals, but this one time, I will do so.”
“Thank you, Miss Defoe.”
Minutes later, Tory crawled into the trundle bed and dropped into dreamless sleep.
Chapter 13
When Madame’s employees lined up at the rear door of the shop in the morning, they were surprised to see Tory and Miss Defoe arrive together. Tory wore a clean apron from Miss Defoe’s closet; her hair was smooth and lustrous, not a strand out of place. She held the freshly laundered mobcap, ready to return it to Madame.
As good as her word, Miss Defoe left the shop midmorning and returned with a jar Tory recognized.
“Why, this is exactly like the jar Maman had!”
“I am pleased, Victoria. It, um, smells much better.”
Tory grinned at the implied humor, and the corners of Miss Defoe’s mouth twitched—just a little.
Nothing was said or announced; however, the staff soon recognized that Tory’s status had risen. Tory’s position as scullery maid had not changed—she attended to cleaning duties as assigned—but Miss Defoe’s guardianship of Tory became apparent: When the staff sat down to tea and biscuits, Tory sat beside Miss Defoe; when Miss Defoe unpacked her lunch, she served Tory as well as herself. At the end of the day, they left together.
Marie, observant of Tory’s newly elevated and protected status, made no comment, and Tory was too busy working and attending to Miss Defoe’s maxims to notice the frequent glares the older girl shot in her direction.
A WEEK PASSED. MISS Defoe made certain that Tory ate three healthy meals a day, and Tory needed no coaxing to consume whatever was placed before her.
“She has the appetite of a starving jackal,” Miss Defoe, with wide eyes, confided to Mademoiselle Justine. “She leaves nothing uneaten at any meal—and stares about with ravening eyes, looking for more.”
“I should, perhaps, allow another quarter dollar per week for groceries?”
Miss Defoe did not argue the point. “If you please.”
Under Miss Defoe’s watchful eye, Tory grew adept at her scullery tasks and was able to complete them with time to spare. In the afternoons, Miss Defoe set her to basting. When Tory had stitched several simple, straight seams to the head seamstress’ exacting standards, Miss Defoe had her sit with Mrs. Horringer, adding tiny seed pearls to Miss Isobelle Fouche’s wedding veil.
Mrs. Horringer was demanding and the hand-stitching tedious. Tory’s neck, from bending over her work, grew tired and stiff.
“You are doing fine, but do sit up, girl. Hold your work out in front of you a little more. ’Twill be less strain.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Tory’s life settled into a rhythm after that. She and Mrs. Horringer finished the beadwork on Miss Fouche’s veil, and the delighted bride—accompanied by her mother, the groom’s mother, the groom’s grandmother, two aunts, five bridal attendants, and a number of their personal maids—arrived for the final fittings of the bride’s gown and her attendants’ dresses.
At the end of the month, when the furor of the wedding was successfully concluded, Miss Defoe bought lengths of black worsted wool and deep blue cotton. She and Tory remained after hours in the shop’s workroom to cut and baste new work dresses for Tory.
“We shall allow for plenty of hem in your dresses, Victoria,” Miss Defoe pronounced, “so we can let down the length of your skirts as needed.”
She taught Tory to operate the sewing machines, how to guide the top thread through the machine and adjust the tension, how to wind the bobbins correctly and properly set the filled bobbins into their slot in the lower part of the mechanism. She showed Tory how to place the pinned seam under the presser foot, lower the needle onto the basting line, and ease the sewing head into action.
After two weeks of evening labor, Tory had three new black and two navy work dresses. She wore them proudly, knowing she was dressed as properly as Daphne or Marie. In addition, she and Miss Defoe had, by trial and error, mastered the combined art of pomade and braiding to produce beautifully smooth ropes of braided hair that Tory coiled and pinned at the nape of her neck.
“Your hair is quite satisfactory today,” Madame Rousseau remarked. “I had not noticed before, but your braids have lovely gold flecks.”
Tory was astounded. “Do you . . . do you really think they are lovely?”
Madame Rousseau wagged her finger. “Modesty does not ask for compliments, my girl.”
“I am sorry. I only meant . . . you see, Miss La Forge used to pull out the gold hairs. Once she used boot black to hide them.”
Madame Rousseau blinked, trying to make sense of what Tory said. “To hide them?”
Tory hung her head in shame and nodded.
“So . . .” Madame did not finish her thought, but she went her way, chewing on this mystery. Later, she recounted the conversation to her friends.
Mademoiselle Justine asked, “Could it be that Tory’s colored family regarded her white blood with as much disgrace as many white people view her negro blood?
Miss Defoe’s struck a fierce pose, her arms strapped across her breasts. She snapped her answer: “Stuff and nonsense! Ashamed of a child’s hair? Well, I never!”
“Well, you must agree that my suggestion is possible, Patrice.”
“Yes, Annette-Francoise! I am not so dim as to misunderstand your argument. What I meant was that such attempts to dispute or alter facts is stuff and nonsense. She is not responsible for her parents’ choices, nor should she be made ashamed of them—or her hair.”
“Ah. I take your point. Yes, I grant you that.”
Madame chuckled, but it was an ironic chuckle combined with ire. “How many small, ugly people enter our shop every day, Patrice, their mouths dripping with small, ugly pontifications? Unfortunately, we cannot beat ugliness from a person’s heart, not even with a stick, can we? But I tell you this: Within my house, I shall tolerate no diminution of Tory’s worth and value because of her mixed blood. Here, she shall rise or fall on her own merits, not the choices or faults of others.”
“Agreed,” Mademoiselle Justine echoed.
“As it should be,” Miss Defoe sniffed.
WITH MISS DEFOE’S REGULAR, nourishing meals, Tory regained her health; under the woman’s watchful eye, Tory learned. The spinster set exacting standards for Tory in her work, appearance, and manner, and Tory thrived in the woman’s care.
Through the remainder of spring and the hot, humid summer, Tory raced to complete her daily scullery duties so she could spend the afternoon in the workroom. In this way, she absorbed the hidden, backroom workings of a house of fashion. She studied Madame’s designs whenever the opportunity presented itself and loved seeing the sketches brought to life. Tory felt honored to baste, press, trim threads, or even sweep up the workroom.
As Tory became proficient at simple sewing tasks, Miss Defoe, a master seamstress, added to the girl’s knowledge and skills.
“The child is flourishing in your care, Patrice,” Madame Rousseau acknowledged. “You are teaching her well, too.”
“Her love for fashion is uncanny, Charlotte. It is as though she was born to this life.” Miss Defoe then hemmed and hawed, unlike herself.
Madame frowned. “What is it, Patrice? You are twitching like a sleeping dog’s hind leg.”
“And I have the sharp tongue? How you betray your common, vulgar roots, Charlotte.” Miss Defoe harrumphed and folded her arms. “It is only that . . . that Victoria has told me she aspires to be a great couturière someday. She has set her heart upon it. Her every spare moment—and I grant her few of those, mind you—is spent sketching and drawing fashions she has seen or made up herself.”
The two women fell into a troubled silence together before Madame Rousseau muttered, “I suppose we should attempt to lower her expectations.”
Miss Defoe snorted in anger. “No, we should not! I will train her to be an excellent seamstress. She shall, at the least, own a worthy skill with which to make her way in the world—but I cannot countenance destroying her dream. The world will do so soon enough.”
Madame Rousseau sighed and acquiesced. “As you wish, Patrice.”
Chapter 14
On the third Sunday in September, Madame Rousseau and Mademoiselle Justine crowded into Miss Defoe’s little apartment to celebrate Tory’s twelfth birthday. Tory and Miss Defoe prepared a festive meal, and their two guests brought with them a small chocolate cake spread with thick frosting and toasted slivered almonds. Before they sliced and served the cake, Miss Defoe placed a shiny gold box, a few inches square, on the table in front of Tory.
“What is this?” Tory asked. She was already brimming with gratitude, overwhelmed with the kindness and generosity of her patrons—her unconventional surrogate family.
Miss Defoe cleared her throat. “It is your birthday present, of course. You may open it.”
The three women had discussed the gift at length, bickered over its selection for hours, and fought for who would contribute the greatest amount toward it. In the end, Miss Defoe’s practicality won out—but not without consideration over what gift might hold the most meaning for Tory.
“We shall settle upon the item, agree to its cost, and divide the expense evenly among us,” she declared. “I shall approve nothing expensive or ostentatious, of course. The present must be simple, as befitting a child of her age and station in life.”
Mademoiselle Justine had pursed her lips in concentration. “A child of her age. Hmm.”
“A child? Have you looked at her lately? Really looked?” This from Madame Rousseau. “With plenty of food, she has filled out—and I declare she has grown an entire inch in the past four months!”
“Nearer two inches,” Miss Defoe had whispered. “Her father must have been a tall man. She has let down all her hems, and . . .”
“And what?”
“She is budding out. All the signs of nascent womanhood are there. I am afraid to look away for fear I shall turn back and find her a grown woman, not a child.”
The three friends had fallen silent, each considering the implications of Tory’s emerging womanhood. In the space of four months, Tory had become so much more than a charitable project for them, greater than any philanthropic endeavor. She had woven herself into the fabric of their lives and hearts as a vine entwines itself about post and trellis. And like a vine, she was stretching toward the sunlight.
Each of the women—for the simple joys Tory lent their lives—wanted the girl to remain dependent upon them. They grieved a little that she could not stay a child forever. How long would she need those who had acted the part of prop and lattice?
Miss Defoe had brok
en into their self-reflection when she placed a card of stiff brocade before them.
“What is this, Patrice?” Madame Rousseau asked.
Miss Defoe unfolded the card and revealed the photograph within—the image of a striking young woman.
Madame Rousseau reached for it; Mademoiselle Justine leaned over her arm and the two women studied the woman’s glossy-black skin and hair, gazed into her luminous eyes.
“I believe this is Victoria’s mother. Her name was Adeline. Read the inscription on the back.”
Madame turned over the photograph. “For Henri, my only love and the father of Victoria, my greatest joy,” she read aloud. She turned back to the image “Yes. I think we can be assured that this is Victoria’s mother. Victoria is very like her.”
Mademoiselle Justine nodded her agreement. “And yet, I sense Victoria will outshine her mother’s loveliness.”
Miss Defoe sighed. “I agree. Victoria describes her mother as the most beautiful woman in the world, but her view of herself has been damaged. She does not see herself objectively as we do. Victoria will outgrow this coltish phase and likely stun us all. Her eyes, their slant and the gold in their depths . . . are mesmerizing. She will be tall and comely.” She cleared her throat. “We must be vigilant, for her sake.”
Madame Rousseau’s powdered face had drawn down into grim lines. “Indeed. We must be on our guard against any man seeking to take advantage of our girl. But you brought this photograph for a purpose, Patrice. Did you not?”
“Yes. This subject of a suitable birthday gift kept me awake on my bed last night. I wished to give her something memorable—but what do we know of suitable gifts for a girl on the cusp of womanhood? I was, finally, drifting off to sleep when the idea came to me . . .”