“Is . . . is that what happened the evening we met? Those men who were looking for you?”
Charles flushed and nodded. “I had a good setup in New Orleans. I was a regular at games throughout the city and had saved up a sizable nest egg. Sadly, one evening, I picked the wrong man to beat. He may have been flat broke when we finished, but he had connections and political clout—so I fled.”
“And then?”
“Then the fellow convinced his ‘connections’ that I was carrying enough cash to make it worth their while to find me and relieve me of my ‘burden.’ I knew they were after me, so I rented a cheap room, thinking to lie low a few days then head for St. Louis. I was on my way to the station when I ducked into that alley for a cigarette and you ran up on me. As you well know, I did not shake my pursuers until we got on the train—and they overlooked me while I sat right under their noses.”
Tory laughed with him. “I helped you get away, did I not?”
“Yes, you did. That is one reason I let you follow me when we arrived here. However, now, Tory, it is time for you to earn your keep. This evening, after we have dined, we shall commence your training.”
His manner shifted again, flashing from jovial to intimidating. “Be aware, my dear, that I shall expect you to show yourself willing and diligent to excel under my tutelage.”
“Y-yes, Charles. I shall, of course.”
THAT NIGHT, AS CHARLES had warned her, Tory embarked upon a novel phase in her education. It was after ten o’clock and Tory was exhausted when Charles allowed her to retire. “You have done well this evening, Tory,” Charles remarked. “You have a quick mind and some natural talent. I shall endeavor to cultivate both.”
“Thank you, Charles.”
As she laid her head upon her pillow, cards danced before her eyes and her ears echoed with Charles’ instruction:
“No, a full house beats three of a kind, Tory. A full house has three of a kind plus a pair.”
“Never draw to an inside straight, Tory.”
“Watch your opponent more than your own hand. He will tell you what he has—or does not have—if you know what to look for.”
“Later I will teach you to bluff. Right now, concentrate on learning the game and your opponents’ tells.”
Tory’s fingers twitched in her sleep, shuffling, cutting, dealing, tracking the cards as she dealt them, clumsily palming the bottom card of the deck and dealing it to herself at the right opportunity. She manipulated poker chips, learning from weight and height how many chips were in a stack, what denomination each color represented, how to count the chips and make change.
Her sleep that night was troubled; all her dreams were plagued with Charles’ voice and the game he called poker.
Chapter 17
“I am pleasantly gratified by the maturity of your tastes, Tory.”
They were at breakfast. Tory’s tea cup, halfway to her lips, paused, and Charles continued.
“This morning, we shall shop for household fittings. We need not waste funds on new things. The furnishings in our parlor must be tasteful and in good condition, yes, but we will select what we need at auction or the local markets, and you shall assist me, capisce?”
“Yes, Charles.”
He leaned back in his chair and blew smoke toward a wall. “And, I confess, you have made me curious. Tell me about yourself.”
Taken off guard, Tory needed time to gather her thoughts. She sipped her tea, but all she could think was that Charles was cataloging her tells—her expressions, gestures, and delaying actions. Reading her mind.
“We all have our secrets, even you. I can respect that. Perhaps, though, you will answer three questions for me?”
Tory met his gaze over her cup. “I will try.”
“All right. You seem to know a great deal about fashion. Did you work for a dressmaker?”
“Yes.”
“Yes? That explains the quaint black dress I found you in—but you supply no details, no further insights?” He nodded. “Ah, I see. I shall take it then, that the man you fled New Orleans to escape knew where you worked.”
Tory gave the smallest nod she could and looked away.
“Next question, then: Was your father a white man?”
Heat raced up Tory’s neck and into her face, but she managed to grind out, “That is not your business, Charles.”
He smiled. “Fair enough—and you answered me anyway.”
He drew on his cigarette. “Last question—”
“You have already asked three questions.”
“No, I asked if you worked in a dressmakers’ shop and if your father was a white man. Two questions.”
“But you also asked if . . . the man who is after me knew where I worked.”
“No, I made a statement. My exact words were, ‘I shall take it that the man you fled New Orleans to escape knew where you worked.’ You chose to answer a question I did not ask.”
Tory glared at him.
Charles chuckled. “Tory, you really are quite wonderful. So naïve and transparent! Yet, so engaging. But, dear girl, I must admonish you: Soon we shall be engaged in serious work. As much as I detest the need, you must lose this childlike innocence and begin to view the world with wiser eyes and act accordingly.”
He stubbed out his cigarette. “Third question: What do you carry on the chain about your neck?”
Tory grabbed for her locket as though Charles had tried to rip it from her.
He raised his brows at her fluster. “Your response to my question illustrates my point, Tory. You must train yourself not to react to the unexpected; you must discipline yourself to remain placid and unflappable through any situation.”
He leaned toward her, reached across the table, and took her chin in his hand, forcing her to look at him. His expression hardened. “Listen closely, Victoria. I care not what you hide on that chain—but I do care about your reaction. It demonstrates a lack of self-control, and self-control is vital to our work. I must insist that you improve in this area, Victoria.”
Tory was caught in Charles’ eyes, unable to look away, taken aback by the mercurial shift in his demeanor. His use of her full name only served to underscore how serious was his warning.
“I-I shall try, Charles.”
“Not good enough. You will succeed, Victoria. I have no need of you otherwise. Do I make myself clear?”
“Y-yes, Charles.”
“See to it then, that you guard yourself. Mentally prepare yourself for anything. Anything.”
He released her chin, reached for her neckline, and yanked the chain from her neck, snapping it.
Tory—caught between her newborn fear of Charles and the horror of her loss, froze. She did not swallow or flinch; her eyes remained fixed on his.
When a long, charged moment had elapsed, he nodded. “Good, Tory. I am pleased. And I apologize for breaking your chain. I shall fix it myself before we go out.”
He held the chain—and her locket—toward her. She slowly reached out her hand, palm up, to receive her treasure. She did not try to take it. She waited until Charles placed the chain and locket in her hand and folded her fingers around them.
“Yes. Very good,” he repeated.
FOR THE NEXT TWO WEEKS, their activity was ongoing and unrelenting. In daytime, they visited auction houses, open-air markets, and second-hand stores, bidding on furniture, art, lamps, carpets, dishes, and kitchen sundries, buying bedding, linens, and drapery. Charles entrusted most of the fitting out of his rented house to Tory’s tastes, although he had specific requirements for his gaming tables and chairs.
“We must provide a quality environment for our guests, particularly chairs that allow for comfortable sitting for extended periods.”
When the purchased furniture began arriving, they moved to the house and into the second phase of Charles’ plans. Tory spent her time organizing and decorating the house; Charles bought a used motorcar and began visiting gaming houses, familiarizing himself with the more prestigious clubs,
ingratiating himself into private card games with wealthy players.
He was gone most evenings; when he was home, he drilled Tory in dealing poker. While Charles was out playing cards, Tory spent her evenings altering drapes to fit the house’s windows and practicing, hours on end, the card skills and tricks he taught her.
“I shall work you into dealing cards a little at a time,” he told her. “We must also perfect our communication.”
“Our communication?”
Charles, sitting across the round card table from Tory as she practiced dealing cards, sent subtle signals, some no greater than tapping one poker chip upon another or touching the signet ring on his pinky finger. Under his tutelage, Tory learned to recognize Charles’ messages and respond to them, to read his signals as clearly as if he had spoken and to respond with the flick of a finger or the lift of a shoulder.
Three weeks after ordering her new clothes, Charles took Tory to her final fitting at the dressmaker’s shop. He insisted on viewing her in each dress before paying for the ensemble.
The day prior had been her thirteenth birthday, but she had not mentioned it to Charles. It was when Tory tried on her first evening gown that she realized how much her body was changing. Had changed. Tory’s bare neck, shoulders, and long arms curved gracefully out of a gown that accentuated her slender waist and lifted and emphasized her plump bosom.
Tory saw a woman staring back from her reflection in the mirror. When she observed the dressmaker and Charles’ approval, she knew they saw the same thing.
“Your skin is absolutely flawless,” the dressmaker gushed, “even if it is, ah, duskier than convention dictates. Perhaps a dusting of powder across your shoulders and décolletage?”
Charles nodded. “Yes. Her skin is beautiful—but I must say that commonplace chain she wears day and night quite diminishes the effect.”
Tory heard the warning. Before they left the dressmaker’s, she slipped off the chain and tucked it and her locket into her stocking. That evening, she stitched a tiny pocket inside her corset, a pocket with a flap secured by a loop and a flat button. She slipped her locket inside and buttoned the flap.
I cannot risk the loss of my locket, Tory thought. I must hide it where it is not likely to be found and taken from me—even if it means I cannot often look at it.
That day, Tory stopped thinking of herself as a girl. She became the woman Charles believed her to be, needed her to be: of necessity a mature young woman, a woman who had left her childhood behind.
ANOTHER TWO WEEKS PASSED. Charles went out most every evening after an early dinner to play cards and returned home late most nights having made money. At breakfast following a prosperous outing, he was jovial, generous, and gregarious.
But, occasionally, Charles lost money. The mornings subsequent to such a loss, Tory found him a different man: irritable, taciturn, unsociable, easily angered.
Tory did not like Charles when he descended into these dark “moods,” and, just as she had learned his signals, she learned to perceive the signs of a black temperament and, in those instances, practiced vigilance to avoid the sharp side of his tongue.
She sighed to herself: Since Charles stayed out late most evenings, he would nap in the afternoon to ensure that he was refreshed for his evening foray. His schedule left Tory alone nearly every afternoon and evening, and she had little to keep herself occupied except cooking dinner and drilling herself with a deck of cards and a stack of poker chips. Even the basic housekeeping was relegated to a hired woman who arrived each morning to clean, shop, and prepare a late breakfast.
“When do you anticipate hosting our first party, Charles?”
“Soon. I have my marks in mind, but I must ingratiate myself further into their confidences.”
“May I . . . may I have a little money?”
Tory had never asked for anything, and she had no idea how Charles would respond.
“Why? What do you need?”
“I would like to buy a few pencils and a pad of sketching paper.”
“You draw?”
She shrugged “I dabble a little.”
“I see.” He drew his wallet and handed her a five-dollar bill. “Consider this an allowance. Remind me to renew it in a month.”
Tory had only once held five dollars in her hands—when she had been so desperate to eat that she had sold her mother’s earrings to buy food. She would gladly have gone without the drawing supplies to buy back her mother’s pearls. But it was not possible.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
He changed the subject. “I have said that you have an aptitude for cards, Tory. I now want you to try your hand at another skill.” He withdrew a small, flat case from his other inside breast pocket and unsnapped it. Within the case lay a set of miniature tools—some flat, thin, and of varying lengths, others narrow and cylindrical. A few instruments were bent at their ends in right angles.
Charles beckoned Tory to the pantry door. He opened the door, slipped the skeleton key into the lock, and turned it back and forth, pointing to the locking mechanism, moving out, then in. “This door has a simple lock. The key turns the mechanism that engages the lock. See it work?”
Tory nodded, fascinated.
Charles turned the lock again, but left the door open. “Watch me. I’m going to unlock this door from the inside.” He withdrew one of the tools from his kit, poked it into the keyhole, and moved it around. He glanced up. “My pick is touching the mechanism. My task is to move it over, just as the key would.”
A moment later, the lock clicked open.
“You may have your art supplies, Tory, but I wish you to spend some of your free time learning how to unlock this door from the inside. I will leave this pick with you.”
Tory knew better than to say, “I will try.” Instead she answered, “Yes, Charles.”
That afternoon while Charles napped, Tory walked to a stationer’s where she purchased pencils, sharpener, eraser, and paper. Taking up her packaged supplies, she started home, eager for the evening and Charles’ departure, anticipating the few hours of enjoyment her sketching would afford her.
As she wended toward the house on Crescent Street, Tory’s thoughts turned to fashion and, inevitably, to Madame’s establishment. More than five weeks had elapsed since Charles had purchased a train ticket for her to take her away from the danger in that city. How she longed for Madame Rousseau’s busy shop and workroom! She missed helping Mademoiselle Justine wait on customers. More than anything, Tory pined for Miss Defoe. Remembering their last—their only—embrace, Tory’s heart grew heavy.
Miss Defoe loved me, and I would have had a happy home with her for many years, had Bastiann Declouette not found me out.
“Excuse me, miss. May I tell you about Jesus?”
Shaken from her despondent self-reflection, Tory’s chin jerked up. A young woman with a pale face, plainly dressed but smiling, extended her hand toward Tory. She held out a pamphlet. Automatically, Tory took the pamphlet.
The girl repeated herself, “May I tell you about Jesus? He loves you very much.”
Tory frowned and, for reasons inexplicable to herself, she grew angry. “No. And keep away from me.”
The girl nodded. “I apologize for disturbing you.”
Tory huffed and marched on, but she was disquieted. Disturbed. The mention of Jesus transported her back to that last, awful week at Sugar Tree—Bastiann’s threats, Adeline’s sudden fever and death, the horror of her burial, and Tory’s flight from Sugar Tree. Sassy Brown’s weary old face rose in Tory’s memory; her parting words rang in Tory’s ears.
Shou . . . shoulda tole ye ’bout Je . . . sus . . . though your mère say no. Shoulda tole ye . . . anyways. I . . . will pray . . .
“Jesus? Who is this Jesus?” Overcome, Tory walked faster, attempting to outrun the pain in her heart. She clutched the package of pencils and paper to her breasts. When she arrived home, she climbed the stairs to her room and dropped the load on her bed. Along with t
he paper-wrapped drawing supplies, a crumpled pamphlet fluttered onto her bed’s counterpane.
Tory picked up the paper and scanned through it. Most of what she read made no sense to her.
Is your heart burdened with the cares of this life? Do you long for peace with God? Jesus said, ‘Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls.’
“But who is Jesus?” she asked. “I thought he died a long time ago. How could he give me anything today?”
Tory read through the rest of the pamphlet, both irritated and intrigued at the same time. The final paragraphs of the pamphlet struck a chord in her, resonated deep inside in a place for which she had no name or label.
For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, saith the Lord, thoughts of peace, and not of evil, to give you an expected end. Then shall ye call upon me, and ye shall go and pray unto me, and I will hearken unto you. And ye shall seek me, and find me, when ye shall search for me with all your heart.
“Who is this Lord,” she wondered aloud, “that he thinks thoughts of peace toward me? What is this ‘expected end’? Is that when we die?”
Tory let the pamphlet fall to her coverlet where it lay with her drawing supplies. “I must start dinner before Charles rises from his nap and dresses for the evening.” She turned her attention to her purchases and began to plan her evening, anticipating many pleasant hours with her art supplies.
However, when Charles left after dinner and Tory took her supplies to the little desk in her room, she found that the act of sketching clothes only kindled more sorrowful memories of Sugar Tree and painful longing for her lost life in New Orleans. The hurt was too great; she had stifled it too long. She laid her head on her folded arms and wept as she had not allowed herself to do since fleeing New Orleans.
When she had cried her heart out, she dried her face and went to the kitchen to try her hand at opening the pantry lock. Tory worked at the task for an hour. She could feel the tool touching the mechanism, but could not get the latch to turn. Frustrated, she jammed the pick into the lock willy-nilly and twisted it. The mechanism gave, and the latch popped open.
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