“I have some sweet rolls.”
The boy’s mouth worked, and Tory understood the hunger cramping his belly. She wished she had a dozen of the rolls, wished she could give him half to ease the ache in his gut.
Now that she had his attention, she added, “When I traded dried apple slices for the location of a public pump, you brought me to this place.”
He nodded, but his eyes never left the package she held close to her chest.
“This is a vile and dirty neighborhood without a decent place of work. Do you know better parts of town? Places where wealthy people go to dine or buy fine things? If you lead me to a clean neighborhood with quality shops and stores, I will give you one of my sweet rolls.”
“How many you got there?”
“That is not your concern. My offer is for one roll.”
He grimaced and shifted from foot to foot. “Mebbe I’ll take ’em all. Take yer bag, too.”
Tory was tired of running and tired of being cheated. She might have been thin, but she stood half a head taller than the boy, and she was wiry. More than that, she was angry, ready to defend what was hers.
She set her jaw and stared him in the eye. “You can try.”
He studied her, weighing his chances. Tory did not look away—but he did. Perhaps he was just less determined than she was, or perhaps he was weaker. Tory wondered how long he had been alone on the streets, slowly losing his battle with hunger.
“Ya want me t’ take ya where rich people shop?”
“Yes, please. And where there is water, of course.”
“Cops don’ ’llow beggars ’round that part o’ town, ’cause o’ th’ rich people.”
Tory nodded. “I am not a beggar, and I wish to go there.”
He sighed. “All right. Foller me.”
He was off like a shot, and Tory, getting a better grip on her bag and the package of rolls, ran after him. The boy raced through street and alley, up a slope and down the other side, weaving through a warren of buildings, jumping low fences and walls, the obstacles signaling to Tory that they had left the slum, that the surrounds were improving and they were moving in the right direction.
The fences and walls slowed Tory. She was carrying baggage, after all. For a few moments, she lost sight of the boy and worry bloomed in her chest. What if he did not come back—what if she ended up lost in this new and unfamiliar part of the city?
“Are ya coming?” Hands on his narrow hips, the boy reappeared between two buildings.
“Yes. One moment.”
He walked now, as though running here might attracted unwanted attention. Tory, when she caught her breath, saw how different were the houses they passed—larger, freshly whitewashed, with tended yards. The scent of flowering shrubs and trees—instead of soot and sewage—filled Tory’s nostrils.
The boy took another turn down a wide street. A few blocks later, they emerged together into a plaza, a broad, open square bordered by shops and thronged with well-heeled shoppers.
“Is this good enough?”
Tory nodded. She set her bag between her legs and unwrapped her paper package. The sweet rolls were squished, their sugary glaze stuck to the wrapper. The boy’s eyes were glued to the rolls every bit as much as the rolls’ sticky sweetness was plastered to the waxed paper.
Tory’s heart went out to him. “Say, suppose I give you one, I take one, and we split the last?”
He nodded, a grateful light on his thin face.
Right there, on the side of the crowded plaza, Tory and her guide devoured the rolls. She even tore the paper in half, and they licked all the glaze from the waxy surface.
Tory’s fingers and face were a gooey mess. “Where is the pump?”
The boy plunged through the crowd, and Tory had no choice but to follow.
“Pardon me,” and “I beg your pardon,” she murmured as she tried to keep the boy in sight. Moments later, Tory saw a patch of grass surrounded by a low, cast iron fence, benches fashioned of the same ornate black metal and, nearby, a brick-paved circle. In the center of the circle stood a welcome sight.
“Oh!” Tory rushed toward the polished, well-maintained pump and set her bag between her feet. She rinsed her hands and face, glad to be relieved of their sticky state.
“Thank you. I—” Tory stared all around her, craning her neck in every direction.
Her guide was gone.
She shrugged and delved into her bag to fetch out her jar. Within a few minutes she had sated her thirst, refilled the jar, and tucked it inside her bag. Then, with a tight grip upon the bag’s handle, she wandered around the plaza, taking note of the quality and variety of the shops and its pedestrian browsers.
The length of one side of the wide plaza was fronted by a wide boardwalk, the walkway’s roof forming a balcony for apartments built above the row of shops. Flower boxes trailed their colorful blooms from the balcony railings, and Tory wandered with slow steps in the shade of the boardwalk.
That raggedy boy has done me a favor, leading me here, Tory admitted. I must make myself presentable and apply for work in one of these shops. If I could find a safe place to sleep nearby, I would have water to drink and—
She stopped in her tracks, mouth agape, and stared through the storefront windows of a sizable shop, the last one on the boardwalk. In the window displays Tory saw wire-and-plaster mannequins dressed in exquisite gowns and tasteful daywear. She moved from figure to figure, devouring the details of the designs, admiring the compilation of each ensemble—or criticizing aspects of it. “No,” she whispered. “Not that parasol with a linen walking dress,” and “the sash on that gown should be a shade brighter to complement the beaded bodice work.”
A bell attached to the door of the shop tinkled, and a sharp voice cut into her perusal of the window displays. “Really! How disgraceful—allowing such riffraff entrance to the walkway.”
Tory looked up. A short, plump woman and her two companions had exited the shop and were staring askance at her. At first, she was confused: Were they speaking to her?
Tory set her bag down at her feet and, even in her stained work dress, delivered her finest curtsy. “Bonjour, mesdemoiselles. Pardon, but do you address me?”
The tallest of the three women looked down her patrician nose at Tory. “Listen to the pickaninny with her put-on airs! No, I was not speaking to you, I was speaking of you. Coloreds are not allowed on the walkway. Now go along.”
Tory’s eyes widened, and she blinked in more confusion.
“I said, go along,” the woman repeated. Under her breath she muttered, “Insufferable street trash.”
Stung, Tory dropped another curtsy and hurried off the boardwalk and into the plaza. She wandered around the fenced, grassy area, trying to gather her wits. She’d heard the terms, street trash and coloreds. But pickaninny? What was that?
Well, I am not street trash, she fumed. And I am not a “pickaninny,” whatever that means. Bastiann Declouette had called her that, too, but Tory did not grasp its meaning—although it was clear he had intended it as an insult.
Tory walked until she calmed. She drank a little more water, refilled her jar, and glanced back toward the boardwalk. That’s when she saw the sign attached to the balcony railing above the shop with its wonderful window displays.
Haute Couture
Madame Charlotte Rousseau, Modiste.
Haute couture? Tory fairly vibrated with excitement. High fashion? This shop. I must find work in this shop.
All that day, Tory walked back and forth in the plaza, inventorying the number and types of stores: florists, confectioners, cafes, jewelers, stationers, cobblers, milliners, and haberdasheries. She always came back to Madame Rousseau’s. She studied the shop, its customers, and all others who came and went. In her mind, no other place of employment would do for her.
Her legs and back grew tired, but Tory would not leave. She had to have a plan, a way to ensure that she would make a good first impression. Afternoon shadows lengthened,
and Tory remained, her sharp eyes watching. Traffic in the plaza thinned. Still she waited.
From within the shop, a hand slipped between the glass window of the door and the frothy fabric that curtained it. The hand turned the “Open” sign over. The sign then read, “Closed.”
Tory’s pulse quickened. A last customer, accompanied by her maid, departed. Tory ran her eyes over the woman’s maid and made mental note of how the girl was dressed and coiffed.
“Oui. Yes, I can be that,” Tory whispered. She continued to wait, believing she would know what she waited for when she saw it.
A stern, dignified matron of mature age, dressed in a tasteful but simple suit, strode around the corner from the back of the row of shops. Tory thought she had heard a door close behind the woman. With quick steps, Tory flitted across the way where she had a side view of the rear of the building as well as the front. A younger woman emerged from a door in the back, and trod with quick steps away from the plaza. She was followed by yet another, even younger woman, plainly dressed.
Ah. Madame’s workers leave by this back door, as is befitting their station.
Employees were leaving by twos and threes now: three additional mature women and a number of younger women, some in plain work dresses, a few attired much like the last customer’s maid. Tory did not stir. Her eyes swept from the rear of the building to the front entrance and back.
For a long while, no one else left the shop. The other stores, too, closed for the day. The plaza emptied, and Tory was alone there. She huddled between two buildings, hoping no one would notice her.
The city had converted the majority of its gas street lights to carbon arc electric lamps, but modernization had not yet reached this plaza. As evening seeped into the air, two men began to light the streetlamps. Tory did not budge as they passed her by. Few backstreets in the city were lit at all, and Tory worried that if she left the plaza, she would be hard-pressed to find somewhere safe to sleep in the dark alleys.
Despite the deepening shadows, something in her heart whispered for her to remain where she was: She did not believe the woman she watched for would use the workers’ exit.
After nearly an hour, Tory heard the tinkling bell of the front entrance. A woman stepped out of the shop and onto the shadowed boardwalk. She pulled the door closed behind her, used a key to lock it, then turned to go.
Tory stayed absolutely unmoving; she watched the woman emerge from the boardwalk and step down onto the bricked plaza. The woman was tall and graceful, but she was no longer young or even middle-aged. She carried herself with authority and . . . presence. With shadows falling, Tory could not see much more of Madame Rousseau, but she was in awe nonetheless.
I must be ready when she arrives in the morning, Tory told herself, and I have much work to do before I introduce myself to her.
For her work, Tory needed light. She glanced up at the flickering streetlamps surrounding the plaza. Why go anywhere else? Unless a policeman comes along, I can work through the night right here.
Tory opened her bag, brought out her sewing kit, the black maid’s dress Ellen had worn, and Adeline’s frilly apron. Both needed to be hemmed to fit Tory.
Tory pulled the black dress on over the dress she wore and, pinning the hem at a few different lengths, finally got it right. She added the apron to ascertain its length, too, adding pins to mark the new hemline.
“I must take up the shoulder straps also,” Tory mused, “and I shall hem Venus’ apron with the scorched spot while I am at it.” She knew she could easily do three hems and the apron straps in a matter of hours. With her cloak around her shoulders to ward off the night chill, Tory worked. As the hours passed, her eyes blurred and her stomach complained.
I should have bought some bread from a street vendor while it was daylight.
The sweet roll she had devoured earlier gave way to an empty belly. Her body had used up what inadequate nourishment it had provided. After so many days of little to eat, her hunger was too deep.
When she finished her work, Tory’s hands were numb and her body weary. A light rain began falling. She gathered her things and walked between two buildings, looking for shelter, any dry place to lie down. To hide herself.
After wandering among the buildings, Tory spotted a stoop attached to the rear door of one of the shops. She crept up two steps to the tiny, covered porch and sighed with relief. She rummaged in her bag, pulled out the black dress and apron, and hung them over a railing, smoothing them with her hands.
“You must lose your wrinkles by yourself, my friends,” she whispered. “I have no iron here.” Perhaps the misting rain would help.
Warning herself not to sleep past daybreak, Tory wrapped herself in her cloak and hunkered down in the corner of the stoop, her head resting against the railing.
Chapter 9
An hour before dawn, Tory stirred and rose from the doorway where she had passed the night. Her mouth was dry and parched, and her body weak from hunger.
As she stretched her stiff, aching muscles, she thought, Today I will find work. I must.
In the semidarkness, Tory changed out of the soiled dress she had worn for days and into the black maid’s dress. With only half its buttons undone, the clean garment slipped over her head and settled over her, telling Tory that she had lost weight. It made buttoning the black dress easier, but the garment hung slack at her waist.
I will tie my apron tighter, she told herself, after I have washed.
She walked to the pump in the plaza, took a long drink, and made a thorough job of washing her face, neck, and hands. Then, sucking in her breath, she doused her hair and rinsed away the dust and sweat of days.
When she returned to the stoop where she had spent the night, she pulled out her mother’s dresser set to style her hair. That’s when she realized . . . Oh, no! I did not bring the pomade!
Without the thick, oily pomade, Tory’s hair would curl and frizz and refuse to conform to her wishes. The best she could do was attempt to braid it while it was damp and pin it down.
Maman’s hair was so beautiful! But Tory knew that, without the pomade, even her mother’s hair would have been difficult to smooth or style.
Tory tried to part her hair in the middle, but she could not work the comb through the tangles. Tory used her fingers to pull strands apart as best she could. Knowing the part was uneven, she nevertheless braided each side toward the back, and wound and pinned the braids together at the back of her head. It was the best she could manage, but her mother’s mirror spoke the truth: Errant strands and wisps of curl had broken free of the lopsided braids. The overall effect was not what Tory needed this day above all days.
But what else can I do?
Conscious of the passing time, Tory tied on her apron and packed the rest of her things away. She wended her way between buildings until she again entered the plaza and took up a position, not on the boardwalk, but near the steps to it.
She stood still and solemn. Waiting. Quelling anxious thoughts and a hollow stomach. Believing that the woman who was last out the door at night would be first to arrive in the morning to unlock the doors for her workers.
And that moment would provide Tory with an opportunity.
The sun rose, and its long rays touched the plaza. Men arrived to extinguish the gas lamps, and a police officer walking his beat spoke a good morning to them. Tory withdrew into the shadow off the side of Madame Rousseau’s shop until he moved on.
When the officer had passed, Tory again crept to where she could watch Madame Rousseau’s front entrance—and was horrified to see the woman unlocking the door! Tory had but seconds to act. She raced up the steps onto the boardwalk and stopped beside the tall woman.
Tory tossed her bag into the alcove of the nearest shop window and dropped into a deep genuflection. “Bonjour, mademoiselle.”
The woman whom Tory believed to be Madame Rousseau jerked and uttered an oath of surprise.
“Bonté divine! What a fright you gave me!”
Tory, holding her curtsy, extended a graceful hand, palm up, and murmured, “I beg pardon, mademoiselle. It was not my intention to startle you.”
She rose, folded her hands in a demure attitude in front of her apron, and faced the woman. Tory observed the woman’s auburn hair—shot with silver—pinned in an ornate and fashionable style and noted the heavily powdered face below. Tired but shrewd eyes peered out from fleshy, powdered folds. Those tired eyes, in turn, swept over Tory, from shoe to crown, taking in all, missing nothing.
“Well, what is it, child?” The woman’s mouth was surrounded by fine lines and creases.
“You are Madame Rousseau?”
“Yes, yes. Get on with it.”
“Bien, mademoiselle. I wish to work for you.”
“You wish to . . .” The woman’s words trailed off on a scornful sniff as she, for a second time, ran evaluating eyes over Tory.
“Mademoiselle, I am well educated, trained in social graces, fashion, and language.”
Madame Rousseau’s gaze sharpened. “Language, you say?”
“Je parle trois langues; I speak three languages,” Tory replied.
“Est-ce vrai?” Is this true?
“Yes, mademoiselle. English, French, and Italian.”
“Italian! And you are fluent?”
Tory switched to Italian. “Sì, certamente, signorina.”
For an instant, the woman’s powdered cheeks quivered with repressed humor. The moment passed, and her severe demeanor resurfaced. “It has been many years since I warranted the courtesy of ‘mademoiselle’ or ‘signorina.’ You will address me as ‘Madame.’”
Tory, not entirely deficient in flattery, understood the woman’s point, but she had intentionally extended the compliment: What a gentlewoman speaks, Tory, should always be couched in grace and kindness—even undeserved kindness.
“Bien sûr que oui, Madame.” But of course.
“Your French accent is not local.”
“My governess, Mademoiselle La Forge, was a native Parisian, Madame.”
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