Tory

by Vikki Kestell

Ah. Now is the appropriate opportunity, she said to herself.

  She went in search of Madame Rousseau and found her with Mademoiselle Justine examining the finishing touches to Miss Isobelle Fouche’s wedding dress. Miss Defoe drew near to wait until they finished their conversation—and was bemused to discover that they were speaking, not of the dress, but of Victoria.

  “The responsibility is mine, of course. I brought the girl into my shop, Annette-Francoise. I brought her into my shop, and I shall take her into my home.”

  “Ah, but consider, Charlotte, how the shop requires your undivided attention. A child would, of necessity, diminish your whole-hearted devotion to this establishment. And isn’t Madame Rousseau’s Haute Couture the child of your heart, the true labor of your lifetime?”

  Miss Defoe’s brows lifted in astonishment: Mademoiselle Justine’s voice had taken on a coaxing, wheedling tone unlike the woman. Quite unlike her!

  Madame Rousseau lifted her chin, which elevated the tip of her powdered nose a hair above Mademoiselle Justine’s. “Ah, but you, Annette-Francoise Justine, you who are nearly five years my senior, do you think yourself—at your age—to possess the liveliness, the vigor, the joie de vivre required to foster a child as intelligent as Victoria?”

  It was sweetly said. A barb twice-dipped in chocolate could not have been sweeter.

  Mademoiselle Justine sputtered, and the volume of her outraged response increased, keeping pace with her indignation. “Wha—? At my age? Why, you barefaced, egotistical—I was not five years your senior on your last birthday, no matter what you tell the public. Have you imbibed a magical youth potion? No, my dear, I fear advancing senility has affected your mental faculties!”

  Madame Rousseau harrumphed and managed to hoist her nose into the air another quarter inch. “Your insults are beneath you, Annette-Francoise. I refuse to respond to them, nor will I tolerate further discussion. The matter is settled.”

  “Indeed, the matter is settled.”

  Startled out of their argument, Madame Rousseau and Mademoiselle Justine spun round to find Miss Defoe, her arms folded across her breasts—a signal they knew all too well.

  Miss Defoe stared them down. “Victoria will come home with me this evening and, if we suit each other, she will continue with me. I am but forty-eight years of age and, of the three of us, I am youngest and best suited to rear her. There can be no contradiction of these facts.”

  Madame Rousseau’s liberal powder did not hide the flush of red rising beneath it. “Patrice Defoe! Why, what gall! What effrontery! What supreme impudence!” she shouted.

  Not one to allow a challenge to stand, Mademoiselle Justine jumped in, “I must agree. Patrice Defoe, how dare you! You who possess not a single experience or prerequisite to qualify you to raise a girl!”

  “Ah, but Charlotte and Annette-Francoise, I once was a girl—unlike you two wrinkled old crones. You were not ‘born’—you were hatched—the both of you, and from cast-off eggs at that. Why, you were halfway to your dotage when I arrived at the orphanage. I was but six years old the day I met the pair of you—ages ten and twelve, as I recall, but both of you already too mature and superior to notice the lowly likes of me. Ah, but I made you notice me, did I not?”

  Madame Rousseau snorted. “You, Patrice Defoe, were a pest—you have always been a pest!”

  “No, I was a girl, while you two were the most supercilious of spinsters six long years before either of you turned eighteen and were thrown out of that hellhole. Why, Charlotte Rousseau, the powder with which you encrust your face is older than I am.”

  She jutted her chin toward the other women and narrowed her eyes. “Victoria shall come home with me.”

  Madame Rousseau and Mademoiselle Justine quivered with speechless impotence. Madame opened and closed her mouth, much like a fish sucking water. Both she and Mademoiselle Justine were too affronted to formulate a sufficiently biting riposte.

  The standoff, the snarling, hatchet-faced impasse dragged on.

  It was Mademoiselle Justine who broke first. She glowered, chewed the inside of her cheek, and clenched her fists—to no avail.

  A giggle—accompanied by a hiccup—burbled from her pinched lips.

  That tore it. The outrage leveled at Miss Defoe evaporated, and the furious, three-sided argument dissolved into snickers followed by snorts of laughter.

  Alone in the kitchen, Tory halted her work as a cascade of cackles echoed from the workshop and down the passageway to her astonished ears.

  “Oh, Patrice, what a devilish sharp tongue you hold in your mouth,” Madame Rousseau gasped between snickers and guffaws. “How you do not slice yourself bloody is beyond me!”

  “I-I-I-I-” Mademoiselle Justine could not catch her breath to agree. Her stutters set the old friends to laughing again. They tittered, sniggered, chuckled, and chortled until the pain of their levity forced them to hold their sides.

  “Hush!” Mademoiselle Justine finally managed. “Hush now. Victoria will hear us.”

  “She will learn soon enough how little of our bark is bite,” Miss Defoe sniffed. She fingered the gilt watch face pinned to her bodice and read the time. “My, but I must go. I want that girl bathed before I put her into a clean bed.”

  The women looked at each other with frank affection and respect. Madame Rousseau spoke next. “I have no doubt Victoria will do well with you, Patrice, but she will need nourishing food and appropriate clothing—expenses you should not bear alone. I must insist on helping to defray the cost of her upkeep.”

  “Yes. I agree. Victoria will do well with you, Patrice—and I will help also,” declared Mademoiselle Justine. “An extra dollar each week will ease the burden you have taken upon yourself.”

  Miss Defoe’s chin quivered. “You are the most generous of women, my dear friends. I shall welcome your assistance.”

  Madame Rousseau sighed. “Ah, but we three orphans have a soft spot for those we see in straits similar to those we endured, have we not? And I-I confess . . . that I had begun to think the girl would fill a spot in my heart, a place that often, of an evening, feels a bit empty.”

  Mademoiselle Justine nodded. She tipped her head toward Madame Rousseau. “I comprehend what you imply, Charlotte. Why, look at us: We are three self-made women who scratched and scrabbled our way up from the ranks of poverty, three confirmed spinsters, too old to attract husbands.”

  She spread open her hands. “Do we have hope of children or family before us? Non. It was . . . alluring to look upon that child and wonder, ‘what if?’ What if I could give Victoria a little of the love and care that is stored up and wasting away in my heart?”

  Madame Rousseau took Mademoiselle Justine’s outstretched hands and held them between hers. “Well said, Annette-Francoise. Well said. You have put your finger upon it exactly.”

  They sank into that intimate silence that deep affection permits and remained so for the passing of several minutes before Miss Defoe unfolded her arms. Cleared her throat.

  “I shall do my best for Victoria, my friends. But, no doubt, I shall frequently call upon you for your advice. Perhaps our combined wisdom will prevail and we shall make something good of her—this child whom fate has cast upon our barren shores.”

  MISS DEFOE OCCUPIED a small suite of rooms not far from Madame Rousseau’s shop. Her apartment, located above a grocer and a barber, featured a tiny veranda overlooking the street. Her landlord let an adjacent apartment to the barber and his wife. Their apartment and Miss Defoe’s apartment shared a wall and matching verandas, but separate stairs, on opposite sides of the grocer and barber’s shops, led to their rooms.

  “I do not live above my means, Victoria,” Tory heard as they climbed the narrow steps and Miss Defoe unlocked the door to her home. “Mine is a simple life, but you shall have enough to eat and a clean bed with me. However, since my apartment is small, we shall avoid disagreements by observing a clean and an orderly household.”

  Tory saw what Miss Defoe meant when she
took in the woman’s lodgings: The apartment consisted of a tiny sitting room, a tinier kitchen on one wall, a miniscule water closet, and a single, small bedroom. Tory’s bed, as it turned out, was a mattress Miss Defoe pulled out from beneath her own bedstead.

  “You must make up your bed and slide it under mine first thing each morning. I do not wish to trip over it, nor do I want to be bothered by the unsightly view of an unmade bed.”

  “Yes, miss. No, miss.”

  “I will say at the outset, that I prefer plain and forthright speech, Victoria, and I expect the same from you. I am not easily offended; if you have somewhat to say to me, do not beat about the bush. I shall do likewise. It is my belief that if we dispense with unconstructive pretenses, you and I shall get on nicely.”

  “Yes, miss,” Tory answered. She hardly knew what to think of Miss Defoe’s offer to take her in; she was too worn down physically to voice any objections or questions.

  “In the spirit of candor, then, we must get you a bath. You have kept your hands and face clean enough, but the rest of you grows rank.”

  Tory bowed her head. “I apologize if I stink, Miss Defoe.”

  “No apology is needed, Victoria. How could you have done otherwise in your situation?” Miss Defoe patted a straight-backed chair. “You may set that precious bag of yours here and unpack it. When I see what you have, we can determine how many hooks you might need. By the by, how long were you . . . without a place to rest your head?”

  Tory placed her bag on the chair as directed and unlatched it. “I-I am not entirely certain, miss. Longer than a week, but not so much as two weeks, I think. I . . . the count of days got away from me.”

  Miss Defoe did not press her. She presumed that Tory would offer up further details on her homeless experience when she grew accustomed to her new surroundings and had regained her strength and equilibrium.

  “I see. Well, then, let me have a look at what you have.”

  Tory unpacked her few belongings: her other work dresses, some underthings, a nightgown, her mother’s black dress and frilly apron. She lifted out her mother’s comb, brush, and mirror and laid them on Miss Defoe’s bed.

  Miss Defoe noted their costliness. “Very pretty.”

  “They were Maman’s,” Tory whispered.

  “Ah.” Miss Defoe pursed her lips at the pathos contained in those few whispered syllables. A moment later, she suggested, “Perhaps a place of honor upon my bureau?” She gestured to a weighty set of drawers wedged into the corner between the bedroom door and the room’s window.

  “Yes. Thank you.” Tory laid her mother’s tortoiseshell combs and the matching mirror, brush, and comb on the bureau’s dresser scarf, stroking the back of the ornate mirror once.

  Miss Defoe did not miss the tears that glistened in Tory’s eyes. She cleared her throat. “I am glad to see you have comb and brush. Madame Rousseau said your hair was in need of them. When you bathe, we shall wash your hair and, afterward, see what can be done with it.”

  “Oh!”

  “What is it?”

  “I did not—that is, I forgot—to pack the jar of pomade.”

  “Pomade? Is this ‘jar of pomade’ a necessity?”

  Tory nodded. “Oh, yes. My hair is difficult to manage without it.”

  “Hmm. I see.” Miss Defoe did not see, but she was a woman who knew how to keep an open mind.

  Tory again reached inside her bag and hesitated.

  “What is it, child? Is the bag empty?”

  “No, miss.”

  Miss Defoe heard a wariness in Tory’s voice, a fear that Miss Defoe wished to allay. “I assure you, Victoria, that I have no designs upon your belongings. What is yours, is yours alone.”

  Tory chewed her lip, hesitant. A little fearful. “I . . . well, you see, Sassy Brown told me to take Maman’s jewelry. I believe the pieces to be of some value; however, for sentimental reasons, I should not like to part with them—not any of them.”

  A further loss lurked behind Tory’s words. Miss Defoe hoped again that, with time, Tory would choose to share her hurt.

  The child needs to grieve. I should like to comfort and help her through her pain.

  Miss Defoe folded her arms in that imperious manner Tory now recognized. “You are quite right, Victoria. If the pieces belonged to your mother, then you must keep them safe. I have a spot in mind for them. You may decide if you wish to employ it.”

  With no little effort, she squeezed her fingers between the bureau and the wall and began to push the heavy dresser from the corner toward the door. When a space of about eight inches had opened between the bureau and the corner, Miss Defoe knelt down. Victoria leaned over her shoulder to see what she was doing.

  The woman’s fingernails scrabbled against a floorboard. A moment later, one end of a short length of board popped up. Miss Defoe grasped the end and pried the plank from the floor, revealing a shallow hiding place. A small tin box was the hole’s sole occupant.

  Tory gasped. “How cunning!”

  “Yes, thank you. I believe your mother’s jewelry will be safely hidden here. What do you think?”

  Tory thought for a moment. “If I may know, Miss Defoe, what is in the box?”

  Miss Defoe sat back on her heels and Tory, once more, found herself face to face with the woman. In addition to the deep vertical lines above Miss Defoe’s nose, Tory noticed the care lines around her pale blue eyes. Those eyes met Tory’s and did not blink. More than their physical attributes, Tory discerned the frank honesty staring out from them while they appraised her.

  “That insignificant box contains my life’s savings, Tory—all I have stored up to keep me in my old age. You see, I trust you. I trust you to not betray my confidence, just as you are considering whether to entrust me with yours.”

  They gazed into each other’s eyes, taking the measure of the other, for a long, solemn moment before Tory nodded. “I shall trust you, Miss Defoe.”

  “I accept your trust as a sacred duty, Victoria, and declare that you need never fear my intentions toward you.”

  Tory nodded. She got up, fetched the velvet bag holding her mother’s jewelry. Then she dug into her pocket and extracted the money remaining from the sale of Adeline’s earrings. She tugged at the drawstring, placed the money inside the bag, and handed it to Miss Defoe.

  She watched Miss Defoe tuck the bag next to the tin box and replace the floorboard. Together, they put their backs to the bureau and shoved it into the corner, concealing their secret hidey hole.

  “There. That does it. Safe and sound.” Miss Defoe opened the bureau’s bottom drawer and removed the clothing in it. “This shall be your drawer, Victoria. When we’ve laundered your underthings, you may fold them and place them in your drawer. And you may tuck your empty carpet bag away under my bed, alongside your pallet.”

  “Yes, miss.” Before Tory fastened the bag’s closure, she drew out the stiff, folded brocade holding her mother’s image. She placed it on the bottom of her drawer, then slid the bag under Miss Defoe’s bed.

  Tory had her bath in a tin tub in the living room. Miss Defoe had but a single-burner gas hob, and it had taken three-quarters of an hour to heat enough water to fill the tub with only six inches of blissful heat. Tory sank down into it and remained there until the water began to cool. Then she scrubbed herself all over while Miss Defoe heated more water to wash and rinse Tory’s hair and to launder Tory’s underthings and mobcap.

  It was when Tory removed her mobcap that Miss Defoe began to understand the challenge the girl’s hair presented. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Tory undo the straggling braids and finger comb the tangles. Released from its constraints, Tory’s hair stood out all over, a dark, gold-flecked mass of curls, tangles, and frizz.

  “Oh, dear.” Not much in life was beyond Miss Defoe’s abilities and determination; however, when it came to Tory’s hair, she acknowledged her limitations. She was unprepared to deal with the task of styling Tory’s hair—it dwelled in the rea
lm of the unfamiliar.

  “Victoria, ah, where would one purchase a jar of this pomade of which you spoke?”

  Tory’s brows rose—just as quickly, they bunched together in concentration. “Why, I do not know, Miss Defoe. Maman gave the shopping list to our maids once a month. Maman and I did not leave Sug—” Tory stopped herself before saying “Sugar Tree.” “Maman and I did not leave the grounds of our house.”

  “You and your mother stayed at home? Always? You have never gone shopping?”

  “No, miss. I . . . when I set out for town some days back, it was the first time I had ever set foot away from home.”

  Miss Defoe busied herself soaping Tory’s filthy chemise and bloomers. No wonder the child is so innocent—so naïve. She knows nothing of the world, nothing at all. How she survived on the streets until she came to us, I cannot imagine. She frowned. And how will I locate a jar of this miraculous “pomade” of which she speaks?

  The need for pomade became clearer after Miss Defoe had soaped Tory’s hair, rinsed it clean, and toweled it dry. Miss Defoe ran her fingers through Tory’s thick hair, discovering a texture and resistance she was ill-equipped to address.

  This girl’s hair will never take a comb without the help of a smoothing oil.

  She glanced at her wall clock. “Tory, I am going out for a few minutes. I will only be next door to speak to my neighbor. Dry yourself, put on your nightgown, bail your dirty bath water down the sink, rinse the tub, and hang it out on the veranda, please.”

  “Yes, miss.”

  Miss Defoe walked down the steps to the outside and along the walk to another set of steps. By the time she reached the top and knocked, she was winded.

  Mrs. Bogg, wife of the barber, answered. “Ah! Good evening, Miss Defoe. So nice to see you. Please do come in.”

  Miss Defoe sat on the Bogg’s divan and sipped a welcome cup of tea. She allowed for the obligatory exchange of niceties before, at the first possible interlude, she managed to ease into her errand.

  Mr. Bogg was succinct enough; it was Mrs. Bogg who tended to get on Miss Defoe’s nerves. Miss Defoe had little patience for Mrs. Bogg’s propensity to rehash and restate the obvious and, in general, talk a thing to death. This evening, however, Miss Defoe needed the Boggs’ assistance. She was willing to tolerate a little idiocy in exchange for useful information.