Follinger offered Marguerite Declouette his most pacific expression. “Madam, Mr. Declouette came to me last November to rewrite his will. At that time, he revealed to me that you had announced your intention to divorce him? To, er, make public his relationship with Adeline Washington?”
“I-I . . . well, yes; however, we came to an accommodation rather than drag the Declouette name through the disgrace of a public trial. Then Henri became ill in the fall, as you know.”
Yes, I know, and you thought you could wait him out, didn’t you? That you would do better as a widow than as an aggrieved wife?
“Ah. I think I understand. Your ‘accommodation,’ nevertheless, does not negate the fact that Mr. Declouette did, indeed, make changes to his will in November of last year. Shall I continue?”
Marguerite’s delicate porcelain-and-pink skin had faded to a sickly white, and she could not answer.
“Mrs. Declouette?”
“Go on,” Bastiann answered. He, too, was shaken.
Follinger pursed his lips to keep them from twitching. “I, Henri Auguste Declouette, being of sound body and mind, do make my last will and testament on this, the eighteenth day of November, the year of our Lord, 1901. At the time of this writing, I am a married man, having married Marguerite Eleanor Declouette, nee Chartes, on June the sixth of 1879 and with whom I have a son, Devereaux, age seventeen, and a daughter, Yvonne, age fifteen at the time of this writing.”
Follinger paused. He desired to watch the faces across from him as he read the next line, but he could not read and observe his audience’s reactions concurrently. He suppressed a sigh and resumed.
“On this date, I acknowledge that I have a third child, Victoria Marie Washington, age eleven—”
“No. No!”
Follinger continued as if Marguerite had not interrupted, “—Victoria Marie Washington, age eleven, the daughter of Adeline Thérèse Washington of Sugar Tree, Jefferson Parish. I have no other children.
“I have also one brother, Bastiann Jacques Declouette. I have no other blood relations.”
He cleared his throat. “To my son, Devereaux, I bequeath the house on Juniper Lane I inherited from my father together with all its furnishings—”
“What? That cannot be! Henri was to leave me the house, our house! And—”
Follinger stared at her, one brow raised, and repeated, “To my son, Devereaux, I bequeath the house on Juniper Lane I inherited from my father together with all its furnishings, with the single exception denoted in this document. I also bequeath to him the sum of five thousand dollars—”
“Five thousand dollars? Absurd! We do not have five hundred dollars, let alone five thousand!”
“Ahem. If I may continue, madam? I also bequeath to him the sum of five thousand dollars with the hopes that he, absent my guiding hand, will apply himself to his studies, find a worthy occupation in life, and grow into a man of good character and reputation. My bequest to Devereaux is to be held in trust by my attorney, Richard Follinger, until Devereaux achieves the age of twenty-one years of age.”
“To my daughter, Yvonne, I bequeath the sum of five thousand dollars to be held in trust by my attorney, Richard Follinger, until her marriage or until she achieves the age of twenty-one years of age. I stipulate that she may reside at the house on Juniper Lane until she marries or until such a time as she chooses to leave.
“To my daughter, Victoria, I bequeath the sum of five thousand dollars to be held in trust by my attorney, Richard Follinger, until her marriage or until she achieves the age of twenty-one years of age. I also bequeath to her the painting, Joseph Reveals Himself to His Brothers, by Groote van Nierop. The title is apropos, do you not think, given how I have hidden my daughter from her siblings since her birth? This painting presently hangs in my house on Juniper Lane but belonged to my grandmother. The painting will be removed from the house at the time of the reading of this will and held in trust by my attorney, Richard Follinger, until Victoria achieves her majority.
“To Adeline Thérèse Washington, the mother of my daughter, Victoria, I bequeath the sum of one thousand dollars.”
Marguerite laughed with bitter humor. “There is no money,” she hissed, “not that it matters if the darky whore is dead.”
This was when Follinger truly wished he had two sets of eyes, one set with which to read the will, the other to watch the reaction of the individuals seated before him. “The monies for the above bequests are to be drawn from my account at State Bank—”
“We do not bank at this State Bank! Our account is at Orleans First National, Mr. Follinger.”
“Madame, pray allow me to continue. All will be clear soon.”
He returned his gaze to the will. “The monies for the above bequests are to be drawn from my account at State Bank. This new account is established as an unbreakable trust for my children, Richard Follinger co-signatory and trustee. Mr. Follinger is authorized to draw, from this account, funds separate from and in addition to the individual bequests, to pay university expenses and monthly stipends for my children as he deems appropriate.
“At the time of my death, my outstanding debts are to be paid solely from my personal account at Orleans First National, Richard Follinger co-signatory. After my debts have been settled, I bequeath to my wife, Marguerite, the sum of one hundred dollars. Remaining funds from my account at Orleans First National, if any, are to be deposited to the State Bank trust account, managed exclusively by my attorney, Richard Follinger, and divided, equally, among my three children and disbursed in the same manner as their enumerated cash bequests.”
Follinger chanced a glance at Marguerite before he continued. She had slumped, moaning incoherently, against Bastiann Declouette’s arm. Her brother-in-law, for his part, seemed loath to touch her.
“To my dear brother, Bastiann, I leave nothing except the satisfaction of knowing that you will reap what you have sown. You possess your own shares of our family’s businesses—the businesses you tried to run into the ground in your efforts to wrest their control from me. I choose this moment to tell you that, at the time of my death, according to my instructions and bearing my power of attorney, Richard Follinger has sold my shares—my majority shares—in every Declouette family company and deposited the resulting funds into the State Bank account to fund the bequests to my children and Adeline Washington.
“You see, Bastiann, I reached an agreement to sell my business interests to those same individuals within our companies whom you bribed or intimidated into doing your bidding. They were only too happy to buy me out and become the majority shareholders. My only stipulation at the point of sale was that the Declouette name be removed from all companies and holdings. The new majority owners look forward to ousting you from the business. You will, of course, receive payment for your shares, however devalued as they may be at present.”
Bastiann clenched his fists until the knuckles ached and his nails cut into his palms.
Follinger let the paper drop from his hands. “That concludes the reading of the will. As the terms dictate, I shall call upon you tomorrow, madam, to remove the painting bequeathed to Miss Victoria.”
“Do not honor that whore’s child by addressing her as ‘Miss.’”
Follinger shrugged. “Do you know the painting of which I speak, this Joseph Reveals Himself to His Brothers?”
When she remained defiant and silent, Follinger thought better of his initial plan. “I shall feel better if I call upon you this afternoon to retrieve the painting.”
He flicked his eyes at Bastiann, real alarm beginning to bloom in his chest. “Hrrmmm. I shall request that the sheriff accompany me for the painting’s removal to ensure that the dictates of the will are followed exactly. I should not wish any harm to befall the painting between now and then.”
Hate blazed in Marguerite’s eyes, and Follinger knew he had been rightly alarmed.
“You may expect me and the sheriff within the hour, Mrs. Declouette.” Follinger stood and escorte
d them out of his offices, relieved to be shut of them.
“John? John!”
“Yes, Uncle?” Follinger’s nephew, a young man barely in his twenties, appeared in his uncle’s office doorway.
“John, my boy. Please run this message down to the sheriff. I need one of his men to accompany me in an official capacity within the hour.”
“Of course, Uncle Richard.”
Bastiann Declouette stood on the curb outside Follinger’s offices, deep in shock. He had been as stunned as Marguerite to find that Henri had changed his will—not that Bastiann had expected a bequest from his brother—but he had anticipated assuming management of the family business and Marguerite’s money. The blow to his expectations was acute.
He slid his eyes toward his sister-in-law. How he detested the woman! He had tired of her years ago but had continued to tolerate her because of his hatred for his brother and his hope that, at Henri’s death, he would gain control of Marguerite’s inheritance—and power over her under-aged children’s inheritances as well.
But Henri had outwitted Marguerite and Bastiann both by selling his share of the business, diverting the monies from the sale to a secret trust for his children, and giving sole control of the trust to his attorney. And Henri had managed—from his grave, no less!—to flaunt his illegitimate child in Marguerite’s face.
Bastiann stared down the avenue without seeing. Henri had to have known that his demise was certain and imminent for him to have taken such steps.
Marguerite did not interrupt Bastiann’s deep contemplation even as her driver helped them into her motorcar. She was trapped in her own rising panic.
Soon everyone will know that Henri fathered a mixed-blood child. My children will know. My friends will know. Society will cast me off, even before it is known that he left me nearly penniless.
Another shocking realization hammered her. Why, I shall be reduced to living as a tenant in my own home, as a poor relative dependent upon my son’s charity!
Bastiann’s fists ached from his clenching them. With the family business and Marguerite and the children’s inheritance beyond his reach, his only remaining hope was Sugar Tree—and even that, it seemed, had been wrenched from his grasp.
When a last, desperate idea struck him, he exhaled on his relief. He had thought of a way—a foolproof, legal way—to wrest control of Sugar Tree from Victoria Washington.
Why, of course! The girl is underaged—and as my brother has acknowledged her as his child in his will, no court will refuse to grant me guardianship of my own niece.
He cut a furtive glance toward the doors to Follinger’s offices. This man may control Victoria’s inheritance, but he has no legal standing over her guardianship—or over Sugar Tree, for that matter.
Even as he took his seat beside Marguerite, Bastiann was plotting his next move. Marguerite would object most strenuously to my taking custody of her husband’s illegitimate child and would make my life a living hell. Ah, no matter. I believe the time has arrived for me to cast her off.
For I must have Sugar Tree. Without it, without the money I have been offered for the house and land in lieu of my outstanding obligations, the men to whom I am indebted will surely extract their due from my body.
He nodded. I will petition the courts to grant me custody of Victoria, then I will set the best detectives on her trail. And no one—no one—will be able to prevent me from taking her.
Chapter 8
Tory woke in the afternoon, steadier for the food she had taken earlier in the day, but needing more. She removed from her pocket the folded slice of toast, now cold and greasy, and ate it with gusto.
When she recalled the money remaining from the sale of her mother’s earrings, she pulled out the bills and recounted them. Four dollars! What could she buy with such riches?
She pushed the money down into her pocket and smoothed her dress. Then she headed for the friendly baker to buy his wares. However, when she entered his shop, it was his wife—a sour, prune-mouthed woman—who “greeted” her.
“Ge’ out! Ge’ out o’ here!” she shrieked. “I tole you rabble afore—we don’ feed no beggars!” She picked up a rolling pin to punctuate her command.
Tory stood her ground. “I wish to buy something, if you please.”
The woman sneered. “Right-o. Th’ likes o’ you has money!”
“I do have money,” Tory insisted. “Please, how many of those rolls will a dollar buy?” She pointed at a plate of sticky buns behind glass.
When the woman caught sight of the bill Tory raised, she lowered her threatening arm. Her eyes shifted to Tory’s face and, again, Tory recognized the assessing look. The woman was judging her, figuring out just how much she could gouge the inexperienced girl for.
“Mayhap four or five,” the baker’s wife decided.
Tory stared at her. If I am not careful, I will squander what money I have and be forced to sell more of Maman’s lovely things. I cannot allow that.
Tory shifted from one foot to the other, deliberating. “I should like to speak to your husband, please.”
“You should like t’—” The woman reddened. “Who d’you think you are, you dirty alley scum?”
Tory flushed. “If you will not call him to me, I shall take my commerce elsewhere—to a merchant who will not endeavor to cheat me.”
The woman ogled Tory. She might have been familiar with insults, but she was not accustomed to them being delivered in fine language wielded by a street waif with a mass of wild, tangled hair.
The baker himself chose that moment to leave his ovens and investigate the cause of his wife’s ire. “Well, wha’ is it, Mrs. Bright? Why’re you a-screechin’ so?”
He caught sight of Tory. “Oh. You again. I’m afraid we ha’ no stale bread of a mornin’. I grinds what’s left in th’ evenin’ and sell’t t’ a chicken farmer, I do.” He added, not in an unkind way, “Now go ’long wi’ you, afore you ruin m’missus’ good temper.” He chuckled at his attempt to lighten the tense mood; but a sideways glance in his wife’s direction met with a blistering glower.
He sighed. “I’m sorry, miss, but you mus’ be movin’ on.”
Tory stood taller. “I shall leave as you wish, but I would purchase some of your sweet rolls first, if you please. How many would a dollar buy?” She waved the bill so he could see it.
Before his wife could forestall him, the baker guffawed. “More’n a girl your size could eat in a day, I wager! But, no sense makin’ yourself ill, now, is there? Two penny each or six for a dime is our goin’ rate. Mayhap three would be enough?”
Tory hesitated, looked down at her dollar bill in confusion. “How much is a dime, please?”
“Bless th’ Lord, you don’t know money, d’you.” He said it as a statement, not a question, then turned to his wife. “Be keepin’ your eyes on th’ ovens, Mrs. Bright.”
With a growl low in her throat, his wife flounced through the curtains into the back of the bakery.
“Not th’ sweetest flower in th’ bunch, my wife,” the baker apologized, “but she’s my flower, jus’ th’ same. Now, see here.” He opened a little metal box, grabbed a fistful of change, and spread the coins on the counter. He put his finger on the smallest coin. “This one is a dime. Ten o’ ’em t’ a dollar,” he jutted his chin at her hand, “like you ha’ there.”
“Six rolls for a dime? But she said—” Tory stopped, loath to finish.
“Well, wha’ said she?” he asked with a resigned sigh. Apparently, Baker Bright was familiar enough with his wife’s unscrupulous behavior.
“Um . . . she said four, maybe five sweet rolls for a dollar,” Tory whispered. She saw how her words affected the little man: Even though he tried to hide it, his face reddened.
“I see,” was all he muttered.
Tory sought to distract him. “If you please, could you explain the rest of the coins?”
He sighed again but went through the exchange of pennies, nickels, dimes, quarters, half dollars,
silver dollars, and paper dollars until Tory nodded her understanding. Then, tearing off a sheet of waxed paper, he selected three sweet rolls and folded them up in the paper.
“Three rolls a’ two cents—two pennies—each. That’s bein’ six cents. Reg’lar like, I’d take your dollar and be makin’ change, givin’ you ninety-four cents back: three quarters, one dime, one nickel, and four pennies. Ninety-four cents.” He swept the coins back into the box. “Today th’ rolls be on me.”
He handed the paper package to Tory.
Tory’s eyes widened. “But . . . I can pay.”
The little baker smiled a wistful smile. “M’ wife would ha’ cheated you, little miss, sure as rain is wet, an’ I’m tha’ sorry, I am. Take th’ rolls an’ be savin’ your money. An’, if’n I may be s’ bold, be careful showin’ what you ha’. Many would take ’vantage o’ you.”
As Tory nodded, the baker had a thought.
“P’raps you would like t’ change that dollar bill inta coin? That way, you won’t be flauntin’ an entire dollar an’ temptin’ the devil or his kin, so’s t’ speak.”
“You are a kind man,” Tory said. Her eyes stung. No one had been kind to her since she left Sugar Tree.
“Now, now. You seem a good sort. Just . . . just be careful like,” he cautioned. “This be no’ th’ best neighborhood in N’Orleans.”
Tory left the store, thinking over the baker’s last words. Just as I thought! This is not the best neighborhood in New Orleans. Why, somehow, I must find the better part of town—even if no one will tell me where it is! Perhaps, now that I have a bit of money . . .
She shouldered her bag and turned into an alley to eat the sweet rolls, her mouth already watering for them.
“Say, you got sump’in t’ eat there?”
At the familiar voice, Tory looked behind her. It was the small boy, the boy she had traded apple slices in exchange for water.
Her immediate reaction was to hide the rolls from him and say, “No.” But her foray in the city had schooled her somewhat in the ways of the streets: Here, perhaps, was the answer to her quest.
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