“Oh, my!”
Tory opened the lock five more times with little difficulty. “I just wasn’t pushing it in hard enough and turning it like a key,” she told herself as she prepared for bed. “I do wish my drawing had been as successful. Tomorrow evening will be better. I will begin again. Perhaps that dress I saw last week . . .”
But the following afternoon and evening went no better. Regardless of what she tried to sketch, the joy and contentment of drawing eluded her. After several days of aimless doodling and unrelenting homesickness, Tory put her sketch pad and pencils away and set her mind solely to the tasks Charles had assigned her—now to include mastering the lock to the house’s front door.
My drawing is a distraction. It haunts me. I must put it aside, because I cannot go back. As much as it pains me, I must not look back. It is fruitless to do so.
THE HOUSE WAS READY, and Charles declared Tory adequately prepared to play the part of hostess. He extended a Wednesday evening invitation to a few well-chosen acquaintances, describing the evening as a private party, limited to a small and exclusive circle of players. The response was immediate and enthusiastic, the party a success.
“I wish you to act as the queen of this house, Tory, because—as far as our guests are concerned—in this house you are queen. Stand tall and with confidence. Sit with regal presence. In another year or so, I wager you will be taller than most women, perhaps as tall as many men. Your height is an asset. Be proud of it; never slouch or bow your shoulders.”
He reminded her to stand straight and tall many more times. Tory always answered, “Yes, Charles.” Soon she began to hold herself as he expected.
Charles orchestrated his introductory parties carefully, and he—deliberately—kept his overall winnings low, losing hands or dropping out early, but recouping his losses later. “I must play a conservative game, Tory,” he told her, “until I have established a level of trust with our guests.”
He was also slow to introduce Tory’s role in the parties. At first, she merely greeted their guests, making them welcome and engaging them in bright conversation while plying them with alcohol. Charles hired an experienced bartender to instruct Tory in the art of mixing drinks. The bartender would stay on until Tory was proficient enough to serve drinks on her own. He instructed the bartender and Tory to pour the guests’ drinks liberally but to mix the drinks the players bought for Tory at six parts water to a thimbleful of alcohol.
“We want our guests pleasantly mellow, Tory, while you and I remain sharp.”
During the first three parties, Tory stood apart from the table, unable to see the players’ hands, until a guest looked to her to bring a refill or empty an ashtray. When she approached the table—only at a guest’s request—she scanned his hand and, after again stepping back, conveyed the hand to Charles with a series of subtle gestures.
At the fourth such event, Charles asked his guests if Tory might try her hand at dealing for them—playing her off as the novice she actually was. The response had been positive, and Tory had taken her seat at the table. She followed Charles’ implicit instructions from earlier that afternoon: “Tonight, you will deal a straight game, Tory—no tricks, no sleight of hand. This is your opportunity to settle your own nerves while you gain our guests’ confidence.”
When two months of successful Wednesday evening parties had passed, word of the events made the rounds, and other players approached Charles, angling for invitations. After some “reluctance” on his part, Charles added a second party on Saturdays to accommodate additional guests.
As the official hostess of Charles’ parties, Tory became a popular fixture. In fact, as the parties’ reputations developed, Tory became an unexpected hit. Her quiet manner and fresh-faced beauty won the hearts—and attentions—of their guests.
Charles was delighted. “You, my dear, have become my secret weapon. Our visitors believe you to be seventeen or eighteen and are positively besotted with you. And while they drool over you, I will rob them blind.”
It annoyed Tory when Charles gloated. She understood that their goal was to profit from the poker parties, and she did not object to being Charles’ shill to charm and retain wealthy players. But she did not appreciate the rough and boorish manner in which Charles referred to his guests and their attentions toward her—ridiculing them and, by the same dint, diminishing her.
She felt cheapened when he spoke to her so, for in addition to becoming proficient at dealing cards, Tory had been forced to adapt to an entirely different and unanticipated challenge: the management of innocent—and sometimes not so innocent—flirting.
The gentlemen openly admired Tory—even if she was taller than a few of her admirers. They complimented her exotic eyes, her flawless skin, her figure, dress, and allure. While they vied for her attention and favor, they referred to Tory among themselves as “our young Nubian princess” or (with a suggestion of jealousy) “Charles’ dark duchess.”
It was during breaks between poker hands that Tory’s wits were tested most. The guests, all wealthy men accustomed to getting what they wanted, ran lustful eyes over her body, lingering on her revealing décolletage. Assuming her to be less than “a lady,” a few players attempted to maneuver Tory into a corner of the room and put their hands on her.
One sharp and open rebuke from Charles put an end to those incidents. Recitations of the incident percolated through the gaming community with the message that Charles did not tolerate open impropriety toward Tory.
However, Charles’ protective stance did not prevent the occasional proposition.
“Miss Tory, if I may be so bold, would you care to join me for dinner tomorrow evening and . . . drinks after? I was thinking a private suite at the Ritz Hotel? I would send a car for you . . . and I promise to make it worth your while, say one hundred dollars?”
The money was a fortune in Tory’s experience, but she would smile into the man’s face and flatter him, while she declined with a simple, “You are too kind; however, I cannot accept your generous invitation. I do not go out with Charles’ friends. I am certain you understand.”
Tory let her admirers down with grace and tact, but the refusal still stung, and the men usually muttered something along the lines of, “Likes to keep you to himself, does he?” insinuating an intimacy between Tory and Charles that Tory shuddered to contemplate.
Not obtuse or entirely insensible of sexual innuendo, Tory had, more than once, been thankful that Charles had never tried to take advantage of her dependence upon him. He had saved her from assault by four street brutes—yet he himself had never made an indecent move toward her.
When one of Charles’ younger guests propositioned Tory and she rebuffed him, he had been angered and snapped this retort: “You do not go out with Charles’ friends? Why ever not? You aren’t Charles’ type, so why should he care?”
His rebuttal had echoed in Tory’s thoughts for days. What does he mean, ‘You aren’t Charles’ type’?
Chapter 18
Marguerite Declouette and her son, Devereaux, were sharing a late breakfast. A delayed start to the day had become their routine after Yvonne had married and departed for her husband’s house. Neither Marguerite nor Devereaux rose before ten in the morning.
Devereaux, against the explicit wishes of his father’s will, had dropped out of school. He had discovered that, as long as he stayed within the allowance from his trust fund, he need not work. Instead, he dove into a life of dissipation, staying out most nights drinking and carousing with his friends—the perfect picture of spoiled, profligate youth.
Marguerite also retired late of an evening, but for a different reason: She could rarely escape into sleep without first drinking herself into a stupor from the stores in Devereaux’s liquor cabinet.
Her son had curtailed her consumption of his drink by locking up all the liquor in the house. Nevertheless, Marguerite managed to cajole certain employees into procuring alcohol for her unquenchable thirst. Little real love existed between th
e drunkard mother and debauched son, and Marguerite smothered a sly smile. Why, if Devereaux were to take a careful inventory of the expensive little items lying about the house (silver lighters, snuffboxes, and candlesticks or porcelain knick-knacks), he would be staggered to discover how few remained.
Marguerite, her head muzzy and her stomach in revolt, stared at the poached egg and toast on her plate. She wondered how long she could continue her drinking habit before her son found her out.
Then what?
Perhaps a visit to Yvonne in Baton Rouge would be in order—a visit she might need to extend indefinitely.
Devereaux muttered an oath and gave the newspaper in his hand a shake. “Well! Listen here: It is Uncle Bastiann.”
“What of him?” she asked, disinterested.
“Why, it seems he is dead.”
Marguerite held a hand to her pounding head. “What do you say?”
“Uncle Bastiann was found dead in Grandmother’s house.”
Marguerite sat up and attempted to clear the fog from her mind. “Devereaux, my dear, do please read the account to me.”
His eyes narrowed in ill-disguised contempt, but he replied, “As you wish, Mother. Bastiann Jacques Declouette, believed dead of strangulation, was found Thursday by a concerned neighbor. Authorities believe Mr. Declouette interrupted a burglary at his home, Sugar Tree, located in Jefferson Parish, approximately ten miles east of New Orleans.”
“Strangulation! I wonder why the police did not notify us at once?”
“I hesitate to read the remainder of the report, Mother. You do not appear to be in good health or spirits this morning.” His words held the undertone of a sneer.
“A mere headache, I assure you, my darling. Do finish the account.”
Devereaux sniffed. “It continues, Authorities believe Mr. Declouette to have been deceased for at least a week prior to the neighbor’s discovery—”
“A week!” Marguerite’s stomach tossed uneasily.
“Yes. Quite horrifying to consider, Mother.” And Devereaux relished horrifying his mother.
“Yes, terrible.” She closed her eyes and willed the nausea down.
“It reads, Authorities believe Mr. Declouette to have been deceased for at least a week prior to the neighbor’s discovery of his body. The police found the house ransacked and all articles of value other than heavy furniture removed from the house. Who would have done such a thing, Mother? Really, was there that much to steal?”
Marguerite did not answer. Bastiann had as good as told her that his creditors were counting on securing Sugar Tree in payment of his gambling debts—and she had given him the information necessary to locate and take custody of her husband’s illegitimate child. He had, evidently, failed on that count. Had his death been the price for his unpaid debts?
Her mind went quickly to another question: Who would now take control of Sugar Tree?
Slitting her eyes against the pounding in her head, Marguerite vowed, I care not—except that the half-caste offspring of my husband’s whore never set foot in it again.
LIFE ON CRESCENT STREET progressed as Charles had planned. True to his design, he won regularly at their parties and other games he frequented throughout the city—but never so much as to arouse suspicion, nor did he beat an opponent so soundly as to risk anger and reprisal. In this way, Charles’ reputation as a superior but fair card player grew. He provided well for himself and Tory and added steadily to his savings—a savings that he carefully salted away in various locations.
“Never put all your eggs in one basket, Tory,” he often said.
In his own way, Charles was generous to Tory, buying her new clothes, giving her spending money and taking her to the occasional dinner out and to plays or musicales once or twice a month. Their relationship was an odd mix of parent-child and employer-employee and, for the most part, Charles was as kind to Tory as he was demanding.
When three years had passed in this profitable fashion, he made a munificent gesture for Tory’s “eighteenth” birthday, taking her out on the town to celebrate. They dined on premium cuts of steak, fresh asparagus, and iced sherbet; they danced and drank champagne—until Tory was tipsy.
“I am afraid I have had too much to drink,” Tory giggled.
“Every girl should experience a grand night out, Tory. You are eighteen, now, although you are easily more mature than your years. I am glad, of course, that you have grown no taller this year—another inch and you would have been as tall as I am!”
Tory, her expression serene, smiled to herself. She had precious few secrets from Charles—one of them her true age. He had been convinced she was nearly fifteen when they met, and she had never disabused him of that fallacy: Today her true age was sixteen.
She remembered her twelfth birthday party, the proud, happy faces of Madame Rousseau, Mademoiselle Justine, and Miss Defoe, the chocolate cake topped with toasted almonds, and the precious gift they had given her.
What would they think of me now? Would they be proud of who I am and what I do? Would Maman be proud? I think not.
The realization saddened Tory.
“What is this?” Charles demanded. “You were happy one moment and despondent the next.”
Knowing how astute Charles was, Tory always told him the truth—even if it was a misleading version of it. “I was thinking of another birthday party,” she told him, meeting his gaze. “It led me to think of my mother. I still miss her terribly.”
She smiled, her mouth lopsided. “Do not fret, Charles. My mood will pass. This evening has been so lovely. Thank you.”
Mollified, Charles lit another cigarette. “You are welcome, Tory.”
Tory sipped more champagne, her expression placid. No, Charles. You do not see through me as well as you used to. My thoughts are my own, and I will keep my secrets to myself.
Indeed, Charles had taught Tory well, and she had taken his lessons to heart: She had grown adept at “learning” people, at fathoming their gestures, words, and nuances. What he did not comprehend was that Tory, after three years as his companion, had become as adroit as he was at discerning the character and behavior of others. She had, quite possibly, surpassed Charles’ ability to read others—including Charles himself.
She knew him better than he realized and observed in him the flaws and weaknesses that were gaining ground and to which he was blind.
The many late nights and long hours at the card tables, coupled with little physical exercise, had taken a toll. Charles, entering the last years of his forties, had gained some weight. He had softened and slowed slightly. His regular companions at the gaming tables might not have noticed, but Tory, whose eyes and mind were at their sharpest, watched and took note of those changes: Her mentor was losing his edge; he was growing complacent.
Worse, Charles’ ego was expanding with his waistline.
Of course, Tory could not monitor Charles when he played poker away from the house, but it concerned her that when they hosted their “exclusive” games, Charles chose the occasional indiscreet risk over steady, incremental wins—something he would not have done when they arrived in St. Louis, fresh from his near escape in New Orleans. In Tory’s estimation, Charles seemed to be relying more upon his cleverness and cunning than on the careful rules he had established to prevent a game from “blowing up,” as he put it.
With his flight from New Orleans now years behind him, Charles seemed to have forgotten that one overt or injudicious move resulting in an angered “mark” had the potential to destroy the life he had so painstakingly crafted for them in St. Louis.
Over the three months following Tory’s birthday, Charles’ behaviors at their hosted card games jangled on her nerves; she began watching him, nudging him gently during the play, distracting their guests when Charles’ biting wit stung too deeply, smoothing ruffled tempers when they flared.
Charles may have tended toward indiscretion, but he was not oblivious. Late one Saturday night, after their guests had departed, he
rounded on Tory, cursing her. She had known it was coming; she had “handled” him that evening, much as she handled a guest who had imbibed too much drink or whose pride Charles had wounded. Tory had handled him before their guests, averting what had been trending toward a heated confrontation between him and another player.
With his expression suffused in anger, he wagged his finger in her face. “You forget your place, Victoria. You forget how I picked you up from a filthy alley in the worst part of New Orleans—how I rescued you and made you what you are. Do not ever again interject yourself between me and a mark.”
Tory withstood the dressing down without change in her demeanor. Inside, however, she was preparing for the inevitable: Soon—not this week or the next, perhaps, but soon—Charles would misjudge an opponent and make a mistake of such magnitude that their headlong flight from St. Louis would be required.
Before she retired that evening, she withdrew her locket from its hidden pocket in her corset. Staring at the tiny image of her mother, Tory began to ready herself for that eventuality.
The moment came sooner than she had expected—but its import on her, personally, was nothing she could have anticipated or for which she could have prepared.
January 1907
DECEMBER CAME AND WENT; a new year moved in. The third Wednesday of the month, they hosted their usual card game, and she greeted the evening’s players with the soft, Southern charm to which their guests had grown accustomed and appreciative.
“Good evening, Grayson. You are looking as handsome as ever,” Tory murmured. “Come in and shake the damp from your overcoat.” St. Louis in late January was rarely snowy, but it was frequently overcast and given to showers.
Taking another man’s hat and coat, she added, “I’m delighted to see you, Thomas. You played brilliantly last week! Shall we expect similar cleverness tonight?”
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