Tory

by Vikki Kestell

  Tory knocked on the heavy wooden door. She soon heard the sound of footsteps coming toward her. When the door groaned open, an older woman, slight in stature, with faded ash-blonde hair and solemn gray eyes set in a sweet expression, greeted her.

  “Yes, may I help you?”

  “Good afternoon. Is this the residence of Miss Thoresen? Miss Joy Thoresen?”

  “It is, but she is away at present. I am her mother, Mrs. Thoresen. May I be of help?”

  Tory smiled. “Mrs. Van der Pol speaks highly of you, Mrs. Thoresen. But I apologize. May I introduce myself?”

  She offered Rose her card. The stiff ivory paper had a gold border around the engraved words Miss Victoria Washington.

  “How may I be of service to you, Miss Washington?” Mrs. Thoresen asked.

  “I have only arrived in Denver, just last evening, and I am staying with Mrs. Van der Pol for the present. However, I came back to Denver to offer my services.”

  Before Mrs. Thoresen could respond, the front gate opened behind them. Tory and Mrs. Thoresen turned toward the sound of voices coming up the walk.

  Tory saw a tall blonde woman and a gentleman. She recognized the woman, but restrained the urge to rush to her.

  Joy stopped, puzzled when she saw the visitor. Then her confusion cleared. “Tory?”

  “Yes, miss!”

  “My goodness!” Now it was Joy who rushed to embrace her. “Oh, my dear, but I am so happy to see you!” She pulled back and gazed in Tory’s face. “You look so well, so lovely!”

  Tory blushed under Joy’s praise. “I am equally happy to see you, miss.”

  Joy turned to her mother. “Mama, this is Tory. She is one of the first girls we helped to escape from Corinth. Tory, this is my mother, Rose Thoresen.”

  They moved into the house and seated themselves in the parlor, and for more than an hour, Joy and Rose explained all that had happened in the 15 months since that bitterly cold January when Tory and Helen had arrived at the lodge in the dark hours of the night.

  Tory listened intently, her brow creasing in fear and sorrow, as Joy and Rose told of Banner and his men burning the lodge and taking Joy and the lodge’s other occupants prisoner.

  “Emily wrote to tell me how the U.S. Marshals and Pinkerton agents saved you, Miss Joy. How they arrested Morgan, Banner, Darrow, and the rest. I would love to have seen it all,” she whispered, breathing hard. “I would love to have seen Banner and Darrow and Roxanne taken away in handcuffs.”

  She dashed away a few tears. “I would have given anything for Helen to have seen it.”

  Joy touched Tory’s hand gently. “I am so sorry about Helen, Tory.”

  Tory nodded. “Thank you. Thank you for everything you did for us, Miss Joy. For everything. Mrs. Van der Pol sent us to the Misses Wright—Miss Eloise and Miss Eugenia Wright—precious women in Philadelphia. They cared for Helen until the end. She had the finest doctors, but they all said . . . they said they could do nothing for her.”

  She was quiet for a moment, lost in her thoughts. “Miss Eugenia spent the most time with Helen. She sang to her. Sang for hours. She sang the most beautiful hymns to her. Then she described heaven to Helen, how beautiful it would be, and how much Jesus loved her and how he would be waiting for her.”

  Tory choked and had to stop speaking.

  “It is all right, Tory,” Joy soothed her.

  “I gave my heart to Jesus when Helen passed,” Tory said, sniffling through her tears. “And I am determined to serve him however he leads me. The Misses Wright apprenticed me to Monsieur Pierre LeBlanc, and I have been working for him for more than a year.”

  Joy gave Tory a sharp look. “Monsieur LeBlanc is well known, even in Europe, for his designs.”

  “Yes, miss. When I showed him some of my sketches, he assigned seamstresses to make two of my designs.” She ducked her head modestly. “The dresses were well received, and Monsieur LeBlanc moved me permanently to my own design table with my own seamstresses.”

  Joy and Rose murmured their compliments and congratulations. Tory watched Rose’s hand stray to her heart and a flush climb into her face.

  “Many months back I received a letter from Mrs. Van der Pol about this house, the girls you have living here, and some of your plans,” Tory continued. “I have been praying for you and wishing I might help in some way. Of course, since I was apprenticed to Monsieur LeBlanc, I could not come to help, although I felt the desire to do so.

  “Monsieur LeBlanc is a good man, a man who loves the Lord. He knew who I was—what I had been—when he took me on, but he had compassion on me. We had agreed that it was best for his business to keep my past in confidence, but . . .” here her voice trailed off, “my designs were beginning to bring me recognition, and we were both somewhat concerned that eventually my past would come out.”

  Tory did not disclose what had happened in January, how the vindictive report had spread through the city’s elite society revealing her past. She skipped over the painful details and the three months spent preparing to leave Philadelphia.

  “Citing the letter from Mrs. Van der Pol, the Misses Wright explained to Monsieur LeBlanc that I was needed in Denver. They expressed their confidence that the Lord would make a way. And he has.

  “Monsieur LeBlanc has released me from my apprenticeship. He and the Misses Wright decided to anonymously establish me in my own shop here in Denver. Monsieur LeBlanc is sending a large selection of fabrics and notions and several machines here, while the Misses Wright have provided funds to rent space for the first year. They will be silent partners in my endeavor, and I will share the profits with them. All I need is a suitable building to begin.”

  Instinctively, she turned to Rose. “Mrs. Thoresen, that is why I am here. I want to train your girls to design and sew.”

  “Merciful heavens above!” Rose exclaimed.

  Joy gasped. “Mama!”

  “B-but . . . you do not understand—I was praying about this very thing not twenty minutes before Tory knocked on the door!”

  November 1910

  THE CLOCK IN THE RECEPTION area chimed half past eight. The grand opening of Victoria’s House of Fashion was only thirty minutes away. Mrs. Bellows, Tory’s head seamstress, and Miss Tobin, the shop’s principal dresser, followed Tory on her final inspection of their preparations.

  The past months had overflowed with grueling work. Nothing, of course, had gone precisely as planned, and every step—from selecting the right storefront, remodeling it to accommodate the shop’s needs, installing electricity and the machines, and hiring and training staff—had taken longer than anticipated or desired.

  And the cost?

  In Tory’s estimation, the depth of Monsieur LeBlanc and the Misses Wright’s financial investment was breathtaking. And yet, they had not hesitated or held back. Miss Eloise had written, We have purposed this money for the increase of God’s Kingdom. We have faith that you will not lose sight of this goal.

  “Lord,” Tory prayed with fervor, “please make me worthy of this great trust!”

  As Denver had changed some in the three years since she and Charles had arrived, Tory had first sought out her competition. She walked up and down Fifteenth Street, Sixteenth Street, and Larimer, identifying department stores that had expanded into women’s wear. She explored the women’s departments within going concerns the likes of Joslin Dry Goods Company, M. Philipsborn & Co., J. C. Bloom & Co., Gano Clothing Company, and Daniels & Fisher to see what they offered.

  With rising excitement, she realized that most Denver stores were owned and managed by men—and none of them provided the haute couture experience she would.

  Finding a suitable building in a competitive location had taken six weeks—and the building had not been available for their occupancy for six weeks after that. When she had secured the storefront and attached workspace, Tory had hired four Palmer House girls to clean up behind the laborers as they performed plumbing and carpentry work and connected the electrical wi
ring. The painting, papering, and carpeting had come next. The installation of the sewing machines, furnishings, and telephones had followed.

  Even before the machines were installed, Mrs. Bellows had begun training the selected Palmer House girls, teaching them how to take proper measurements, use a wire mannequin to create patterns, lay and cut those patterns, and properly baste the pieces together. Later, she added three experienced seamstresses to the workroom.

  Tory took two Palmer House girls, Marion and Alice, under her wing to train as maids for the shop. Just as Mademoiselle Justine had instructed her, Tory taught them. “Your role is to answer the telephone, schedule appointments, welcome our clientele, make them comfortable, serve tea, and alert me to any problems or difficulties.” The girls had been answering the telephone for a week, and the appointment book was filling nicely.

  The window dressings were resplendent with a lovely winter wardrobe Tory had designed and Mrs. Bellows had sewn to entice new customers. Tory had discovered a clever local milliner, a young woman selling her hats out of her home. Tory had persuaded the milliner to bring her talents to Victoria’s House of Fashion. A selection of her creations enhanced the window’s winter lineup.

  More effective publicity than the window dressings were the gowns and ensembles Emily Van der Pol, Viola Lind, and Grace Minton wore and proudly proclaimed as Tory’s creations. Tory and Mrs. Bellows had even fashioned two sets of day attire for the formidable Martha Palmer, the woman after whom Palmer House was named.

  The white-haired old lady, bent nearly double over her cane had, at first introduction, terrified Tory. She knew that one word from Martha Palmer could make or break Victoria’s House of Fashion. What Tory had not known was that Martha Palmer was a lifelong friend to the Misses Wright.

  Martha Palmer, her head turned at an impossible angle so she could look up at Tory, proclaimed, “God has brought you back to Denver at precisely the right time, missy.” She stamped her cane on the floor for emphasis. “Do not doubt God’s guidance, even when difficulties come—and they will come, mark my words.”

  Today, the many preparations were complete, and the anticipation of Denver’s elite for the opening of Tory’s shop—minutes away—was at a fever pitch. Women who had secured appointments on the shop’s first day dropped that tidbit of information wherever they took tea—to the envy of their friends.

  Tory walked the reception area. The furnishings were pristine, the carpets thick and lush. Marion and Alice were garbed in black worsted dresses and starched aprons. With their hands folded before their aprons, they curtsied.

  Tory nodded. “Excellent, ladies.” She glanced down. “Marion, your stocking is pooling about the top of your shoe.”

  Marion’s face flamed. She bobbed and raced to the back to secure the offending stocking.

  Tory, shadowed by Mrs. Bellows and Miss Tobin, entered the first of two private showrooms. She checked the dressing area, the carpets, the chairs, the tea tables.

  “Excellent.” It was all Tory could manage for, despite her calm exterior, her heart was in her throat.

  The next stop was the sewing floor. As Tory entered, the seamstresses stood. “Good morning, Miss Victoria.”

  “Good morning to you all, ladies. Please continue your work.”

  An entire wall of the sewing floor was stocked with bolt after bolt of fabrics and notions. On the floor, five machines whirred and rattled. Mrs. Bellows had set the seamstresses to stitching ready-made undergarments of every size from fine-spun silk. Two experienced hand sewers were adding exquisite embroidery and lace touches. The undergarments would be stocked on shelves in the showrooms where clients could browse them in private.

  “It is almost time,” Miss Tobin whispered to Tory.

  Tory nodded. In front of her staff, with not a whit of self-consciousness, she bowed her head and prayed, “Lord God, this house is yours. All we do here is yours. May this work glorify you in every way.”

  Mrs. Bellows whispered, “Amen,” while a startled Miss Tobin looked on.

  NINE HOURS LATER, TORY dismissed the staff for the day, all but Mrs. Bellows and Miss Tobin. They sat around a small table in Tory’s office, exhausted but elated. Tory served the tea herself.

  “Ladies, I salute you and our staff. We have acquitted ourselves well today, the first of many good days at this endeavor, God willing.”

  Both women beamed with the pride of success as they accepted their cups from Tory’s hand.

  “Now to do this all over again tomorrow,” Tory laughed.

  “Aye. And the day after,” Mrs. Bellows grinned.

  Miss Tobin smiled in the spirit of their camaraderie. “And for many days to come!”

  “Yes, by the grace of God,” Tory whispered.

  Chapter 35

  November passed into December, and the shop’s pace continued unabated. If Tory had thought failure would be difficult, she had no idea how stressful success could be. From morning until evening, every day but Sunday, the shop’s staff ran full out. To accommodate the influx of holiday and winter season orders, Tory added two more experienced seamstresses and an assistant for Miss Tobin.

  And Tory met with Mrs. Bellows and Miss Tobin to plan for her first public showing.

  “It is called a ‘fashion parade,’ a gala event with refreshments followed by a reception,” Tory explained to Miss Tobin. “While the guests are seated and enjoying themselves, a line of live mannequins or models, dressed in my spring lineup, will walk a circuit among the tables, pausing briefly to turn and pose along the way. During the reception afterward, we shall provide opportunity for our guests to book appointments.”

  “It is a brilliant idea, Miss Washington,” Miss Tobin responded. “I have read of such events. I believe you shall have the distinction of holding Denver’s first fashion parade.”

  “Thank you, Miss Tobin. Now, to choose a date.”

  She huddled over the calendar with Mrs. Bellows and Miss Tobin. “I realize February is early for a spring fashion parade, but I fear if we wait until March, many of our clients will have booked travel to New York to order their spring and summer wardrobes.”

  Miss Tobin—a mature woman with a strong mind and outstanding taste in her own right—tapped the end of a pencil on her chin and replied, “You raise a valid point. The winter season is still running strong in February, but by the end of the month, society has sickened of wintry weather and the endless stream of débutante balls, cotillions, and parties.”

  “A February show would deliver them from their winter doldrums,” Mrs. Bellows suggested.

  “That is my thinking. The end of February, then?” Tory asked. “Are we agreed?”

  “Yes,” answered Miss Tobin.

  “Aye,” from Mrs. Bellows.

  Tory drew a circle about the last Saturday in February. “I shall hire a hotel ballroom to accommodate the showing and a reception after.”

  Tory asked Miss Tobin and her assistant to see the majority of the shop’s clients while she secluded herself in her office and dove into sketching a spring lineup. Humming to herself as she flipped through the latest fashion magazines, Tory made a few notes for herself. Hems are rising to show off a little ankle; skirts are multi-layered but narrow at the hem; the parasol has made a comeback . . . and hats are even more outrageous.

  Through Christmas and into the new year, Tory focused on her spring line, asking Miss Tobin to interrupt her only for particularly important clients. When the shop closed and her staff went home, Tory remained behind to review new orders and bring the shop’s books up to date.

  “You must hire someone to do the books,” Mrs. Bellows admonished her. “You are wearing yourself to a nub, trying to do everything yourself. And it is not wise for you to carry the deposits to the bank yourself—even during the day.”

  “Perhaps you are right, Mrs. Bellows,” Tory sighed.

  She left the shop an hour later. Although early evenings in January were dark, the area around her shop had been deemed rela
tively safe by neighboring shopkeepers. Tory felt at ease as she walked to her rooms, and she was not alone on her short trek. Many other Denverites passed her as they hurried from their own labors to their respective homes and dinners. Tory’s heart and mind were content, filled with the day’s victories and tomorrow’s tasks; she allowed her thoughts to drift to the work ahead of her.

  A passing gentleman jostled her shoulder and jarred Tory from her thoughts. She paused and pivoted toward him. He did not stop, however, even to apologize. But he did glance back.

  Tory’s heart stuttered in recognition.

  She knew him.

  It was the man who had stalked her in Philadelphia.

  WHEN TORY REACHED HER rooms, she could not eat or rest. She shivered and could not sit or stand still. Her thoughts were in turmoil.

  What does this man want of me? Who is he? How does he know me? Why is he following me? Was it he who started the rumors in Philadelphia? But why?

  The recurring “why” pounded at Tory’s heart with every step she took.

  After an hour of frantic (and fruitless) pacing, Tory realized how fear and confusion had stolen the joy of her shop’s successes. Worse, the tumult had shifted her focus away from God.

  Tory knelt by her bed, opened her Bible on her coverlet and, with her hand on 2 Timothy 1:7, began to pray. “Lord, you have not given me a spirit of fear. You have given me the Holy Spirit. He is the Spirit of power, love, and a sound mind. You have given me sanity, Lord! Therefore, I refuse to be driven daft by this man—whoever he is. He has, for some reason, followed me here to Denver, but I will not allow him to intimidate or move me. I choose to trust you, Lord.”

  Having cleared her mind, Tory began to worship. “Thank you, Lord God! Thank you for bringing Victoria’s House of Fashion into reality. Thank you for the godly employment we are providing for many Denver women, not just women of Palmer House. Lord, I praise you for every obstacle you have helped us to navigate. I thank you for the orders placed today—and I thank you for the many more to come. How I love you, Lord! How I love the glory and joy of your presence!”