Tory

by Vikki Kestell

  The powdered brows lifted in no little amazement. “Your governess?”

  “Oui, Madame. Under Maman and Mademoiselle La Forge’s tutelage I learned language, history, mathematics, music, dance, drawing, poetry, and sewing.”

  “Sewing?”

  “Oui. I can baste, seam, and hem by hand with proficiency, Madame.”

  For a long moment, Madame Rousseau said nothing, but Tory sensed the machinations of a strong mind at work, even as the eyes that—seemingly—missed nothing continued to study Tory. The woman turned her gaze out onto the plaza before asking, “What is your name, child?”

  Tory bobbed again. “Victoria Washington, at your service, Madame.”

  “Hmm. You must understand, Miss Washington: I am no common modiste, no ordinary clothier. I am Madame Rousseau, couturière to the city’s elite. My fashions are suited only for the most discriminating of taste and style. My maids and fitters must know their place and behave with all deference while assisting my clients.”

  Tory’s mouth dried. It sounded as though the woman intended to take her in. “Certainly, Madame.”

  The rheumy blue eyes nearly hidden in the powdered folds of skin probed Tory. “Have you other serviceable garments in that carpet bag you, er, deposited by my window? Are you able to make and keep yourself presentable? And that hair!”

  “As you see, Madame, I am able to make myself quite presentable indeed. A simple mobcap—une charlotte—would cover my hair . . . in a suitable manner.”

  Some intuition had put the words in Tory’s mouth. She knew her hair was an issue. It would never conform to Madame Rousseau’s expectations without the pomade Tory needed to smooth its natural tendencies.

  Madame Rousseau nodded slowly. “You have declared to me that you once had a governess, this Mademoiselle La Forge. Do you, then, have a home, Miss Washington? A family?”

  Tory swallowed, looked away, and back. “No longer, Madame.”

  “You are alone in the world, then?”

  Tory couldn’t answer. She nodded once. It took all her self-discipline to keep her chin from quivering.

  “How long have you been . . . sleeping on the streets?”

  “A week, Madame? Perhaps longer?” The days and nights had bled together; Tory was no longer certain of the date.

  Madame Rousseau sighed and muttered, “I do not know what I’m thinking, taking in a homeless waif . . . and one from the streets at that.” She pressed her wrinkled lips together, then added for Tory’s benefit, “However, we have lost our scullery maid. Her absence is taxing my staff, and your arrival is most . . . propitious.”

  Scullery maid. Tory was familiar with the term: the lowest of the low.

  It must do, she whispered in her mind, thinking of the awful places where she had spent recent nights.

  “I have but a blanket and a room at the back of the shop. In truth, the room is but a large closet, yet it is what I can offer—that and a cap to cover your . . . hair. You will be charged with the most menial of tasks and will accept whatever is asked of you. However, until you have proven yourself worthy, you will receive no pay.”

  No pay? Tory’s empty stomach roiled. Ah! But I have four dollars in my pocket. Perhaps it will be enough to feed me until I have proven myself?

  Madame Rousseau continued. “Each morning we receive an order of fresh beignets and an assortment of sweets for our clients. Of course, we serve tea with our refreshments. At the end of each day, you may have the leftover cream and whatever remains of the pastries and treats.”

  As though thinking of every possible disadvantage the arrangement might create for her, she added, “You are never to touch our supply of sugar, nor are you to claim the leftovers until the shop has closed—have I made myself clear?”

  “Oui, Madame. Quite clear.”

  “And you are to show the deference to my staff that their positions warrant.”

  Tory curtsied once more. “I will comply, Madame.”

  Madame cleared her throat. “You have a pretty way about you; it may be that this position taxes your sense of the apropos.”

  Tory, fearing that the woman was changing her mind, replied. “I shall show myself grateful for the opportunity, Madame.”

  “Hmm. And ready with a pretty answer, too. Very well, then. I will show you where you are to sleep and make your toilet. And I will find you a cap.”

  Madame Rousseau unlocked the shop door and stepped over the threshold. Tory grabbed her bag and followed the woman into a sumptuous sitting room—a reception area—the entire width of the shop. The room was fitted with fine sofas, settees, chairs, and petite tea tables. A mélange of pleasant fragrances tickled Tory’s nose.

  Her new employer did not pause in the reception area. She parted brocade curtains and led the way down a wide hall past three private showrooms on the left, each with its own number of comfortable seats and a privacy screen in a corner for changing.

  Madame Rousseau opened a door at the end of the hall and turned left down a dim passageway. They stopped at an open archway on the right.

  “Wait here,” Madame Rousseau commanded. “I must unlock the rear entrance to allow my staff in. The workers have tea and biscuits each morning at precisely eight o’clock.”

  Tea and biscuits? Tory’s stomach burbled with enthusiasm.

  Madame Rousseau left Tory in the passageway and went through the doorway into a kitchen. A wooden trestle table with benches on both sides and a single chair at one end was the room’s centerpiece. Madame walked directly to an exterior door and fitted a key to it. When she opened the rear entrance, nine or more women filed in.

  Peeking into the kitchen from beyond the archway, Tory took in the scene. Each woman greeted Madame Rousseau with a brisk curtsy and, “Good morning, Madame.”

  “Good morning, ladies.”

  The women went about various tasks with the assurance of long practice: They hung their belongings on hooks along the kitchen wall, tied on aprons they removed from the same hooks, and took seats at the long table while two girls busied themselves heating water for tea and setting the table with cups, saucers, sugar, and creamer. Last of all, one of the girls placed a platter on the table. The platter was stacked with thick, crusty biscuits whose sugared tops sparkled and winked.

  Water flooded Tory’s mouth. But I will not eat until this evening—if anything remains of today’s refreshments, she reminded herself. I must be strong and do without until then.

  Madame Rousseau returned to Tory and pointed farther down the passage with her chin. “Come.”

  The broad passage ended at yet another door; Madame Rousseau threw open the door and gestured to Tory. As Madame Rousseau had promised, the space behind the door was a wide closet for linens and sundry items. Shelves holding fine tablecloths, napkins, tea towels, and such began at elbow height to Tory and rose to the high ceiling. A faux marble bust (somewhat chipped), a trunk, a few baskets, a tiny tea table with a broken leg, and a dried flower arrangement occupied the floor beneath the shelves. The floor provided ample room for Tory to stretch to her full length—if she shifted things about.

  Madame Rousseau drew a faded quilt from an upper shelf and handed it to Tory. “You must make do with this.”

  “Yes, Madame.”

  Madame Rousseau pinned Tory with a hard look. “Do not again use the front entrance of my establishment. It is for the exclusive use of my clients. You will come and go through the rear door with the other workers. Do you understand me?”

  “Oui, Madame. I understand.” Tory would have agreed to paint her face green or shave her head, had the woman asked, so desirous was she of pleasing the clothier.

  “Leave your things and come meet the others.”

  Tory deposited the quilt and her bag in the closet, closed the door on them, and followed Madame Rousseau down the hall to the room where the staff gathered for morning tea.

  “This is . . .” She frowned at Tory. “What name did you give me, child?”

  “Victo
ria, Madame.” Tory could not tear her eyes from the plate of biscuits at the center of the table. She felt weak, and her vision began to swim.

  “Ah, yes. As you said.” Madame Rousseau addressed her staff. “I will be trying Victoria as scullery maid.”

  Ten sets of appraising eyes fixed themselves on Tory. All were curious, a few not so friendly.

  Madame rattled off names and titles that Tory only partially heard: “Mademoiselle Justine, my principal dresser; Miss Sarasses, assistant dresser; Miss Defoe, head seamstress; Mrs. Horringer, senior seamstress; Pauline, Suzanne, Simone, and Rachael, junior seamstresses; Daphne and Marie, our lady’s maids. Marie, you will kindly find Victoria a suitable mobcap.”

  The women Madame had addressed as “Mademoiselle,” “Miss,” or “Mrs.” seemed to be women of a mature age and seniority. The other employees were young women or mere girls—perhaps apprentices? In Tory’s state, the table held a sea of inscrutable faces, unknown and mildly terrifying.

  Madame pointed to the opposite end of the hall. “Victoria, the washroom is through there. You will find a dressing area with mirror, water, and soap. Present yourself to me after you have washed and attended to your . . . hair. I expect you to keep your hands and nails in pristine condition at all times. When I have approved your appearance, Marie shall assign you a few tasks, and we shall see how you get on.”

  The ten women had not moved.

  “Marie! The cap, if you please.”

  A girl perhaps three or four years older than Tory jumped up, curtsied, murmured, “Yes, Madame,” and left the table.

  Madame Rousseau nodded to the remainder of the group. “Please continue with your tea and biscuits as usual. I apologize for the interruption.” Almost as an afterthought, she glanced at Tory. “You may have a cup of tea and something to eat with the others after you wash up, Victoria.”

  In the washroom, Tory bathed her face and scrubbed her hands and nails until they were raw. All she could see before her eyes were the biscuits waiting on the table. She was trembling when she sank to the bench at the table. One of the women handed her a cup of tea, murmuring something at the same time.

  “I beg your pardon?” Tory whispered.

  “Cream and sugar are here,” the woman repeated, pointing.

  When Tory did not respond, two of the older women looked at each other. One of them reached for Tory’s cup, dosed it liberally with cream and sugar, stirred it, and set it in front of Tory.

  One woman with an inscrutable expression ordered, “Drink up, girl. We have a long day before us.”

  Tory, lost in a fog of fatigue, lifted the cup and sipped. As the sweet brew hit the back of her throat, Tory sighed—and sucked down the cup’s contents. She did not notice the bemused glances exchanged around the table.

  Someone took the cup from her hands and refilled it. Added three of the hard shortbread biscuits to her saucer. “Eat, Victoria.”

  Tory blinked, lifted a biscuit to her lips, and bit down on it. Within moments, she had consumed her second cup of tea and all three biscuits. Energy flowed into her body and her mind began to clear.

  The girl, Marie, held out a white cap, spoke to her. “Well, go on, now. Change out of that fancy dress and apron; you don’t want to ruin them with the scrubbing and mucking out you will be doing. See me as soon as you are ready.”

  “Yes, miss.” Tory stood, took the mobcap and, with rising strength, found her way back to her “room.” As quick as she could, she changed into one of her clean work dresses and the apron she had hemmed to hide the burned spot. The apron was clean but wrinkled. It would have to do.

  Tory hung her good black dress and her mother’s flounced apron on a nail to the side of the shelves, closed up her carpet bag, and raced to the wash room where she again scrubbed her face and hands. She pulled the cap over her hair, tucked in a few strands of hair, and checked her reflection in the mirror.

  The face staring back at Tory startled her: a wide forehead and two huge brown eyes peered out from a pinched face.

  How much longer would I have lasted on the streets if Madame had not taken me in? A rush of gratitude coursed through her. I shall do my best to repay her kindness, Tory vowed.

  And she knew it was kindness that had caused Madame Rousseau to take her in.

  Tory shivered. But for the couturière’s soft heart, Tory would be outside, on the streets of the city, hungry, weak, and failing.

  She left the washroom and returned to the kitchen. Five of the workers had dispersed, but the four older women lingered over their tea. Marie, her arms folded across her chest, looked Tory up and down.

  “Please,” Tory whispered. “Where may I find Madame so she may approve my appearance?”

  “Marie will take you,” one of older women answered.

  Tory curtsied. “Thank you kindly.”

  “Well, come on then,” Marie growled. Under her breath she muttered, “Don’t know why I am strapped with the dirty mulatto.”

  “Marie!” A hand slapped the table in anger.

  Tory was starting to distinguish between the older women still seated, was beginning to recognize how their positions in Madame Rousseau’s establishment were different—higher—than that of the others. And of the four senior women, the most severe of them stood out in authority and manner.

  Marie jerked as the table resonated under the woman’s blow. She stared at the floor, her face flushing. “Yes, Mademoiselle Justine.”

  “I do not tolerate such vile talk. You will apologize—to Victoria and to us all.”

  Marie flicked a seething glance at Tory. “I apologize.”

  With wisdom beyond her eleven years, Tory understood that she must not, in any manner, jeopardize her newly formed and fragile position within Madame Rousseau’s domain. In particular, she could not afford to make an enemy.

  She curtsied low before Marie. “Miss Marie, I am in your hands. You do me great honor to assign me my tasks.”

  Marie studied Tory through slitted eyes, but Tory remained in her humbled, bent position, chin tucked to her breast, eyes downcast. Finally, Marie sniffed a grudging, “Nicely done. Come with me.”

  Mademoiselle Justine spoke again. “Marie, please acquaint Victoria with the shop first—the clientele areas versus the workshop, where she may go and not go, how she must behave in each. I would not have her embarrass Madame by her ignorance of our expectations.”

  “Of course, Mademoiselle Justine.”

  Tory followed Marie from the kitchen, out into the reception area at the front of the shop. They stood in the center of the room, and Marie recited, as though schooled in what she said, “This is where we receive our patrons and their maids. The shop opens promptly at nine o’clock each morning and closes for the day at six in the evening. The staff takes a thirty-minute recess at noon, during which time the doors are locked. Madame Rousseau and Mademoiselle Justine have the sole keys and only they may lock or unlock the doors.”

  Tory nodded her understanding. Mademoiselle Justine is Madame’s principal dresser. Before the clients, she is Madame’s lieutenant, her second in command.

  She followed Marie into the hall; the girl led her into the first room on the left.

  “These are our clients’ private showrooms. Only Madame, our dressers, and Madame’s lady’s maids may enter the reception area or showrooms during shop hours.”

  She lifted her chin with pride. “Daphne is the senior maid. I am the junior maid. We come and go from the client area during shop hours as Madame, Mademoiselle Justine, or a dresser directs us. We assist the dressers during fittings and see to our clients’ comfort, such as serving tea and refreshments.

  She studied Tory. “A maid must be properly trained and garbed. The dress and apron you wore this morning might suit a maid’s position—but do not aspire to what you cannot hope for.”

  Her sneer returned. “Even properly clothed, Madame would not train you. You will never, under any circumstances, enter this part of Madame’s establishment du
ring shop hours—except to see to the washrooms as needed.”

  Tory nodded and swallowed down Marie’s ill will. I must not care, she told herself. I will perform whatever task is given me. I must endear myself to Madame Rousseau and repay her kindness with my devotion.

  Her eyes flitted everywhere, trying to take in the several rooms and what they contained. In each show room Tory noted a round dais with mirrors surrounding it on three sides.

  “Please . . . what purpose does the pedestal serve?”

  Marie sneered. “Pedestal, eh? In spite of your fancy words, your question betrays your ignorance. The fitting platform is where our clients stand while our dressers take their measurements, pin the hems of their garments, and assure a perfect fit.”

  Tory ignored Marie’s taunt. “Ah. I see. Thank you, Miss Marie.”

  Marie turned on her heel; Tory ran to keep up with her. Before the hall intersected the dim passageway, Marie pointed to a last door on the left. “Our clients’ washroom. We are never to use it ourselves—it is for our customers’ particular use only. You are to keep it clean and sweet smelling.”

  Marie opened the door between the hall and passageway, turned right. She passed the employee washroom and opened yet another door. “Be unobtrusive and quiet in all you do and say within these doors,” she warned.

  They stepped into a broad and open room of vaulted ceiling, polished wooden floor, and many high windows that poured abundant light into the space within. Tory’s mouth opened in stunned amazement. She had not surmised—had not so much as suspected—such a vast space was concealed behind the hall opposite the client showrooms.

  This, this subdued bustle of design and creation, was the heart of Madame Rousseau, the couturière, the modiste.

  Tory’s eyes devoured the workroom and its arrangement. She observed a long cutting table, five sewing machines, dozens of wire dressmaking forms, and a wall of shelves burgeoning with bolt after bolt of fabric. Seven of the ten women Tory had met in the kitchen were at work; four occupied machines whose motors generated soft, intermittent whirrs.

  Marie nodded at a small older woman. “Miss Defoe is our principal seamstress. She manages the workshop.”