Tory

by Vikki Kestell

  She prayed late into the evening. When she climbed into bed, she fell into an exhausted, dreamless sleep and woke refreshed.

  Refreshed and ravenous.

  “It was silly of me to allow my emotions to run out of control,” she muttered as she buttered a slice of toast. “And, more than likely, I was mistaken in the first place. Yes, a rude individual jostled me on the street last evening, but I doubt it was the same man who dogged my steps in Philadelphia. How could it have been? Lord, please help me to keep my imagination in proper check.”

  ANOTHER WEEK PASSED. If nothing further untoward had happened, the jostling incident would have faded from Tory’s concerns.

  “A word, Miss Washington?”

  “Yes, Miss Tobin?” Tory pored over her spring folio, studying her notes and instructions for Mrs. Bellows. The next seven weeks—filling existing orders and preparing for Tory’s fashion parade—would test the mettle of her shop.

  Her principal dresser, generally unflappable, seemed flustered. Tense. “I-I hesitate to sound the alarmist; however, I must apprise you of a most disturbing trend.”

  “Oh?” Tory glanced up and gestured to a chair. “Please sit down, Miss Tobin. What is the problem?”

  “Today alone, we have received two cancellations.”

  “Appointment cancellations?”

  “No, miss; we manage schedule adjustments in an ongoing manner. What I mean is that we have received two order cancellations—large orders.”

  Tory sat back. “How large?”

  “A total of five walking ensembles and three evening gowns.”

  “Did the client give a reason?”

  “No . . . but that is not all.”

  With a sinking feeling, Tory asked, “What else?”

  “We received a similar call yesterday—the cancellation of a walking suit, three morning dresses, and a gown. The client gave no explanation.”

  “Three order cancellations in two days?”

  “Yes. Quite unprecedented.” Miss Tobin’s shoulders moved uneasily. “I cannot but wonder what is happening.”

  Tory whispered, “Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Miss Tobin. Please carry on.”

  As soon as Miss Tobin left the room, Tory reached for her telephone and had the operator connect her with Emily Van der Pol. Tory was relieved when her friend answered.

  “Emily, good morning. This is Tory calling. I beg your indulgence for my abrupt question, but I was wondering if any . . . gossip concerning my shop had reached your ears?”

  “Oh, Tory! I have just been praying over that very thing. Three close friends have called me in the last two days, the latest this morning.” Emily sighed. “My dear, you should prepare yourself.”

  With rising anxiety, Tory asked, “What did they say?”

  “They said . . . they said they had heard that you were a . . . former prostitute, passing yourself off as a respectable couturière, that you had been driven from Philadelphia by similar accusations.”

  Tory bowed her head, cringing over what was coming.

  “We knew this was a possibility. You understood the risks of returning to Denver, particularly since it was so near to Corinth.”

  Tory swallowed. “Yes, I understood the risks. But this time I will not let them drive me away. I will stand up to the gossip and speak the truth. W-will you and your friends stand by me?”

  “Yes; we are committed to you and your work, Tory.”

  Tory told Emily about the cancellations. “We had, of course, already begun work on these orders. It is money spent that I cannot recoup. But . . .” Her voice dropped off as she recognized a deeper concern: The details of the rumors were stunningly similar to those that had swept the social scene in Philadelphia. Too similar not to be the work of the same individual.

  The man who jostled me. I did not imagine it. It has to be the same man who stalked me in Philadelphia—he is here.

  “Tory, I do not wish to wound you further, but my friends shared one other bit of gossip. If we are to combat these lies, then we must be forearmed.”

  Tory could not imagine anything worse. “What is it?”

  “They . . . the report said that you are the illegitimate daughter of a negro woman and a white man. A married white man.”

  Tory turned that word over in her mind: Illegitimate.

  It meant spurious. Unlawful. A bastard.

  The shameful offspring of a shameful liaison.

  A sudden wave of condemnation roared over Tory, swamping her confidence.

  I will not be able to stand up under these accusations. The truth will not matter, what was done to me will make no difference—the gossips will break me and break my business. I will be forced to close my doors.

  Everything I have worked for will be snatched from my hands. All my workers will lose their livelihood, including the girls from Palmer House. I will have wasted Monsieur LeBlanc and the Misses Wright’s investment.

  I will never have a home. I will be forced to leave Denver in shame—to go where?

  It is happening again.

  “Th-thank you, Emily. G-goodbye.” She hung up on her friend’s protests. She began to tremble, to shake.

  “O God! Please help me! If you do not speak to me, I shall fail!”

  Immediately she felt Monsieur LeBlanc’s hands upon her arms, heard his last words to her reverberating through her being.

  As Scripture declares of the Lord, He is the glory and the lifter up of mine head. When you arrive in Denver, mademoiselle, you must stand tall, lift your head high, and walk as a queen.

  You are no longer a child of shame. You are a daughter of the Most High King. For no other reason, you must behave as such.

  “I am not a child of shame,” Tory whispered. “I am not a child of shame.”

  She sat up in her chair. “God is my Father. I cannot—I will not—walk in shame. I will not walk in shame for my parents’ sin, not for the color of my skin, not for what was done to me, not for any choice I have repented of.”

  She folded her hands on her desk and prayed. “Lord Jesus, I am yours—all of me—my past and future. This business? It is yours. My reputation? It is yours. My safety? I am in your hands. Lord, I resist the obvious courses of action and lean all I am and all I have upon you.

  “For the battles before me, for the war I must win—and for the welfare of the many women who now depend upon me for their livelihood, I ask your wisdom and guidance. Please show me what to do.”

  For a long time, Tory remained as she was. Waiting. Listening. Worshipping. Finding and holding fast to the peace that passes all understanding.

  She stayed still and calm, deep in her Father’s presence, until something began to intrude. Tory opened her eyes and listened. There it was again—a commotion coming from the reception area—strident voices raised in anger.

  “I will stand tall. Lift my head. Walk as a queen,” she murmured. “Thou, O Lord, art a shield for me; my glory and the lifter up of mine head.”

  Tory stood, left her office, and made her way to the front of her shop. She entered silently and took in the scene before her.

  Miss Tobin, her patience at a breaking point, stood toe to toe with an angry client; Marion and Alice, the shop’s two maids, hung back in wide-eyed apprehension. The client’s maid, too, had pressed herself into a corner by the door. Another customer—caught up in the contentious dispute—looked on with curious interest.

  The angry client pointed to a heap of clothing piled on the reception area’s carpet. “I said I have returned these filthy rags, and I wish my money refunded—immediately!”

  “As I have explained three times, madam,” Miss Tobin replied, “these garments were custom tailored to you and have been worn. It is not our policy to accept worn returns.”

  “Mrs. Elliston, I believe?” Tory asked.

  The irate woman swiveled toward Tory. “You! Y-you are a soiled woman! A fraud!”

  Tory ignored the insult. “You wished to return these garme
nts, I believe?”

  “Indeed, I do! And I do not care if you are Martha Palmer’s so-called protégé—she is protecting a disreputable woman just as she protects that horrid, so-called Palmer House. Well, I, for one, shall never shop here again.”

  “Marion, take Mrs. Elliston’s returns into the first showroom. Miss Tobin, please make a detailed inventory of Mrs. Elliston’s returns.”

  Miss Tobin slid her eyes toward Tory. “But—”

  “We shall make an exception in this instance.”

  “As you wish, Miss Washington.”

  Tory turned to her erstwhile client. “Would you care to sit while we issue your refund, Mrs. Elliston?”

  The woman sneered at Tory. “I would not dream of defiling myself further.”

  Tory inclined her head. “As you wish.”

  Tory left the woman gawking at her back and went to the showroom where Miss Tobin and Marion were sorting the returned clothing.

  “I will write a check for Mrs. Elliston as soon as you have a total for me, Miss Tobin. I shall be in my office.”

  Tory shut the door of her office and leaned against it. “This is likely the first wave of such a backlash, Lord, but I shall refuse to contend with those who cast insults upon me. No, I shall not answer them back.”

  Tory’s chin dropped to her breast. “But, oh, how I need to talk to someone older and wiser than myself, Lord! If I were in Philadelphia, I would pour my heart out to Miss Eugenia and Miss Eloise and they would pray with me, but here in Denver? Who can I turn to?”

  Tory cast about in her mind. Then it came to her. Joy’s mother—Rose Thoresen!

  Tory slid into the chair behind her desk and asked the operator to place the call. Rose Thoresen herself answered the phone.

  “Palmer House,” the woman said.

  “Mrs. Thoresen? This is Victoria Washington calling.”

  “Tory! How lovely to hear from you. What can I do for you?”

  “Mrs. Thoresen, would you . . . that is, may I call upon you? I . . . I need the counsel of a mature woman in the Lord.”

  After a brief pause, the answer came back. “Would you care to take tea with me this afternoon?”

  “Yes. Yes, thank you.”

  “I KNEW IT WAS A RISK, coming back to Denver,” Tory confessed, “but the Lord spoke so powerfully to my heart to bring you help in the form of training and employment for the girls of Palmer House. We have made a beginning, but I had hoped to hire more of them in the future.”

  “Where the Lord leads us, we often encounter opposition,” Rose observed. “The devil despises the advancement of God’s work. He will enlist those who belong to him and look for means and opportunity to oppose God’s people. Conversely, God is not far from us and often sends us help at just the right time.”

  “Well, I must have help,” Tory admitted. “Someone is determined to ruin me and my business, and I do not know to whom I might turn for aid.”

  “If I may? I believe you made the acquaintance of a Mr. O’Dell in the few days you spent at Corinth Mountain Lodge?”

  “The English gentleman staying at the lodge?”

  “The same—although you may be surprised to learn that Mr. O’Dell is as American as you or I.”

  Tory was surprised. “You must have more to tell me?”

  “Oh, yes. Mr. O’Dell is actually a detective with the Pinkerton Agency.”

  “What?”

  “He was, at the time you met him, ‘working undercover,’ as he calls it, on several kidnapping cases. He spent months at Joy’s lodge and was instrumental in convincing the U.S. Marshals to break up the horrors of those houses in Corinth.”

  “Oh, my!”

  “Indeed. Mr. O’Dell usually works out of the Chicago Pinkerton office, but he is in town at present. If you are looking for help, my dear Miss Washington, my recommendation is that you consult with Mr. O’Dell and the Pinkertons.”

  Chapter 36

  Tory stepped down from the trolley, glanced around her, then walked with quick, determined steps to her destination. She took in the simple signage painted on the window as she entered: Pinkerton Detective Agency.

  She approached the reception desk. “Good morning. I am here to see Mr. O’Dell.”

  “Do you have an appointment, miss?”

  “Yes, he is expecting me.” She handed him her card.

  The man read her card and nodded. “One moment, please.” He strode down the hallway to an office near the end.

  Moments later, he returned. “This way, miss.”

  O’Dell greeted her. “Miss Washington. I am delighted to see you looking so well. Please, will you have a seat?”

  After exchanging pleasantries, Tory folded her hands and came to the point of her visit. “Mr. O’Dell, as you may have surmised, I am in need of your assistance.”

  “The Pinkerton sort of assistance?”

  “Yes. I am experiencing some . . . difficulties, Mr. O’Dell, and do not know what to do. Mrs. Thoresen suggested that you might advise me.”

  “Can you tell me what is happening? I will do what I can.”

  “Thank you. Perhaps you know that I recently opened a dress shop? With the high recommendations of Emily Van der Pol, Martha Palmer, and others, the shop began well, and we stood every chance of success. However, a few days back, it came to my attention that someone is spreading rumors, rumors injurious to my business.”

  O’Dell thought he understood but needed to be sure. “What kind of rumors, Miss Washington?”

  Tory’s face flamed. “Whispers that I had . . . that in my past life I had been . . .” Tory was too mortified to finish.

  “You need not elaborate. I was there when you fled from that house in Corinth to Joy Thoresen’s lodge. I know what you escaped.”

  “You are kind, Mr. O’Dell. Thank you.” Tory sighed. “But, perhaps you can imagine the reaction to these tales? Many of my clients have canceled their appointments—have even cancelled orders already in progress. The flow of new customers to my shop has dried up and, to be frank, my fledgling business is in jeopardy.”

  Tory paused, then added. “If that were not bad enough, Mr. O’Dell, I believe that someone—someone unknown to me—is watching and following me. They must have tracked me from Philadelphia to Denver. In any case,” She looked into O’Dell’s face, “I-I am beginning to fear for my safety.”

  That caused O’Dell to sit up. “Wait. Someone followed you here from Philadelphia? What do you mean?”

  Tory’s fingers fidgeted with her handbag. “When I lived there, I worked for Monsieur Pierre LeBlanc, a leading couturier of the city. He offered me an apprenticeship that began in May of last year. However, about nine months later, strange rumors surfaced.”

  “The same type of rumors that are plaguing you here in Denver?”

  Tory looked down. “Yes. Monsieur LeBlanc heard them first from a most devoted friend and client. He vouched for my morals, of course, and insisted that I lived a spotless life—as did the Misses Wright. However, many of Monsieur LeBlanc’s clients left him and took their custom to other modistes.”

  O’Dell frowned. “I see.”

  “It was a difficult period but, in a way, the situation proved a blessing. I had felt called to return to Denver and begin a sewing school for the girls of Palmer House but had completed less than a year of my apprenticeship. Unbeknownst to me, the Misses Wright were praying about my desire to return to Denver and how best to facilitate such a return.

  “When my continued presence in Philadelphia became untenable, the Misses Wright and Monsieur LeBlanc determined to send me here to not only establish a sewing shop but also a design house in my own name—with their backing. I returned in April and opened my doors in November.”

  “And all was well here in Denver until when?”

  “Until recent weeks.” Tory outlined the shove on the sidewalk, her recognition of the man, followed immediately by the strange rumors that bore so much resemblance to those in Philadelphia.
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br />   “Mind you, I determined before I left Philadelphia that I would stand up to accusations and reply with the truth that I was forced into such a life and that my business was dedicated to helping other women who were similarly misused. As I said earlier, I have friends here in Denver, influential friends who would vouch for me.”

  “But?”

  “But if appointment and order cancellations continue, my shop will soon be in dire financial straits. And Mr. O’Dell? I have scheduled a public fashion parade for next month to display my spring line. I have invested a significant amount of money in the show’s success. If these rumors are not quashed, my showing will end in public humiliation and my business will fail.”

  O’Dell’s mind was racing as he processed Tory’s situation. “Tell me, Miss Washington: When you compare the rumors in Philadelphia and those here in Denver, what similarities do you see?”

  “That is what is so concerning, Mr. O’Dell. The tales spread in Philadelphia and the ones circulating here are too much alike not to have come from the same source. As for the sense that I am being followed—I do not have a word for it—it, too, is remarkably like what I experienced in Philadelphia. And I am certain the man who shoved me is the same man who was following me in Philadelphia.”

  “The word you are searching for, Miss Washington, is ‘stalking.’ Someone—likely an individual holding personal animosity against you—has set his sights on you.”

  “Personal animosity? I cannot fathom who it might be, but whoever it is, they are perilously close to ruining my business!”

  “Forgive me if I believe that someone stalking you poses a greater danger,” O’Dell answered.

  He took a notepad from his desk drawer. “Since I am only visiting in Denver at present, I would ordinarily recommend your case to a capable detective; however, I wish to handle your case personally. What I need is for you to tell me everywhere you have lived and everything you have done. No stone unturned. I will cancel my engagements this afternoon while you dictate these details to me. I hope to gain a sense of who may hold a grudge against you.”