Now, weeks later, the three women waited for Tory to open the little gilt box she stared at.
“What is it, please?” she whispered.
Tickled, the women covered their mouths and laughed into their hands.
“Why, silly girl! Birthday gifts are to be surprises—the nicest kind of surprises,” Mademoiselle Justine answered.
“That is so,” Madame Rousseau interrupted. “You must open your gift to discover what is hidden within.”
Tory was beside herself. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”
“But you have not opened it,” Miss Defoe reminded her. “Go on, now.”
Tory sniffed back her emotions and fiddled with the gold box. The lid lifted off and, nestled within folds of softest cotton, lay an oval-shaped locket, a rose carved from ivory upon its face.
“Oh, my! It is so beautiful.” Tory lifted the locket by its chain—a chain made to be stronger than, perhaps, fashion dictated. “You are all so kind.”
“Victoria.”
“Yes, ma’am?” Tory lifted damp eyes to Miss Defoe’s.
“You will find a tiny clasp on the locket’s side.”
“A clasp?” Tory bent her head and studied the locket, discovered it was hinged, and found the clasp of which Miss Defoe spoke.
Tory pressed the clasp and, with a “click” it released and the locket unfolded like a miniscule book. Tory encountered her mother’s loving reflection staring out at her.
She burst into tears.
“Maman! Oh, Maman!” She pressed the locket to her heart and wept.
The dribbling eyes of Tory’s three protectors met over the girl’s head. The women could only nod what they were thinking: Ah, yes. We chose rightly. Well done.
After the cake had been shared around and their guests prepared to depart, Miss Defoe hrrmmed to draw Tory’s attention. “Now, Victoria, we recommend that you wear this locket tucked into the neckline of your work dresses. To protect it.”
“Of course! I shall care for and treasure it always. Thank you . . . all of you.” She hesitated before, in a faint voice, she added, “When Maman died, Sassy Brown told me to leave our home and come to town. She said a kind shop keeper would give me a job, and she said . . . she said she would pray to Jesus for me.”
She glanced with shy fondness at her benefactors. “I-I do not know who Jesus is but, many times, I think that Sassy Brown’s prayers must have brought me to you.”
Madame Rousseau smiled through tight lips. “Hmm. I am afraid that even should any of the three of us aspire to a religious persuasion, nothing of our lives would commend us to God, Victoria. It was likely that fate brought you to us.”
Tory raised her eyes to Madame Rousseau’s. “Whether God or fate, I am profoundly grateful.”
She fastened the chain about her neck and found it to be long enough that she could open the locket and see her mother’s face with little difficulty. “How did you do this? How did you put my mother’s likeness within the locket?”
“Our Patrice did it, Victoria. She borrowed the photograph you keep in your drawer. You showed it to her once, do you remember?”
Miss Defoe nodded at Tory. “I took it to a good photographer who photographed the picture, thus making a copy. The photographer printed and cut the copy, trimmed your mother’s face to fit the locket, and set it behind the glass in the locket—but it is a gift from all of us.”
“I do not know how to thank you.”
“Wear it with joy, Victoria, to keep your Maman close. Let her nearness comfort you.”
Tory slipped the locket into her dress and felt where it stopped near her heart. “I shall. Always. I promise.”
IN THE SPRING OF THE following year, Tory had completed her morning chores and taken up her sewing when Mademoiselle Justine rushed into the workroom. “Victoria! Come, child! Madame needs you most urgently.”
Tory sprang to her feet, assuming an unfortunate “accident” needed her attention. “Should I bring cleaning supplies?”
“Non, non! No. See, here is Marie. Marie, take off your apron and give it to Victoria. Quickly, now.”
Tory’s eyes widened even as Marie’s expression boiled with humiliation.
Mademoiselle Justine stripped off Tory’s work apron and threw Marie’s fine one over Tory’s shoulders. “Here. Let me tie the bow in back for you.”
She whirled Tory about to study her, picked up her hands and made sure Tory’s nails were clean and trimmed. “Well enough. Now, come with me.”
Tory, casting a glance back at the astonishment of the workroom, followed Mademoiselle Justine down the hallway toward the reception area.
“What am I to do, Mademoiselle? What does Madame wish of me?”
“You shall see. Hurry.”
She parted the curtains and led Tory into the reception area. There, Madame Rousseau waited upon a longtime customer and the matriarch of the Vivant family, old Mrs. Vivant. Seated with her upon a crushed velvet settee was a companion of similar years. To her left sat a much younger woman.
Victoria curtsied first to Madame and then to the clients, keeping her chin tucked to her breast.
“Ah, Victoria. This is Mrs. Vivant. Her cousin, Signora Bellini, is from Milan. Signora Bellini and her granddaughter speak only Italian. As Mrs. Vivant insists that her Italian has grown rusty, I assured her that you would be able to serve as interpreter.”
Tory swallowed. Within the powdered folds of skin around Madame Rousseau’s eyes, she saw hope and trepidation warring. Tory realized, Madame has staked the success of this moment upon my having said I was fluent in Italian!
“Of course, Madame. It would be my pleasure.”
She curtsied again to the clients and addressed herself to the elder of Mrs. Vivant’s companions. “Buongiorno signora,” she greeted her. Then, casting her eyes down and continuing in Italian, she asked, “How may I be of assistance?”
For the next two hours, Tory conversed with the two Italian women, conveying their wishes to Mrs. Vivant, Madame Rousseau, and Mademoiselle Justine, serving tea and cake to the clients, and generally smoothing the way to a satisfactory order of three walking dresses and an evening gown for Signora Bellini’s granddaughter.
By the time the clients departed, Victoria was exhausted. She had used every speck of her mère’s wisdom and instruction to accommodate the clients’ needs and desires, in particular, those of old Signora Bellini, who was growing hard of hearing. Tory had nearly shouted her answers in the old woman’s ears.
The following day at lunch, while the staff was gathered for their brief noonday meal, Madame Rousseau praised Tory. “You did well yesterday, Victoria. Our clients were delighted, and I am pleased. They will be returning for Miss Bellini’s fitting in a week.”
She coughed to ensure she had everyone’s attention. “I have decided to promote Victoria to lady’s maid, half-time. Of course, the scullery work must be done. Therefore, you will work by Mademoiselle Justine’s side each morning and return to your other duties in the afternoons.”
She nodded to Marie. “Marie, you will alternate with Victoria. Mornings as scullery, afternoons with Mademoiselle Justine.”
Mademoiselle Justine and Miss Defoe smiled their approval, and the staff added a smattering of applause. Everyone congratulated Tory. Everyone except Marie. The young woman’s expression was stiff. Brittle. Tory squirmed in her seat and cut a glance toward Marie.
She shivered at the hatred sparkling in the maid’s eyes.
“VICTORIA, PLEASE SERVE tea to our clients.”
Tory curtsied. “Oui, Mademoiselle.”
She had been assisting in the reception area for several months and was growing more comfortable in her new role. She brewed the tea, arranged beignets on a plate, and prepared a tray. She carried the tray to the reception area, and placed it upon a low table before two women, a mother and daughter who, Tory had been told, were preparing for the daughter’s upcoming wedding.
The mother, a tiny but still beautif
ul woman of middle age, addressed Madame Rousseau. “Mr. Richard Follinger, attorney, administers my daughter’s trust fund. His office is on Court Street. You may send the bill for my daughter’s gown and trousseau to him.”
“Cream or sugar, madam?”
“Just cream. For both of us.”
Tory smiled and nodded while taking in the unnatural puffiness marring the woman’s lovely skin—a sign, Mademoiselle Justine had whispered to Tory only yesterday, of a lady who drew to excess upon the liquid courage and the temporary comfort alcohol afforded.
The woman took a teacup from Tory’s hand. As she did, she glanced into Tory’s face and faltered, nearly losing her hold on the cup and saucer.
Tory managed to regain her grip on them both before they tipped and spilled. She again placed the cup and saucer in the woman’s hand and smiled. “I apologize, madam.” She had nothing to apologize for, but Madame Rousseau had taught Tory to smooth away the distress of a social faux pas by assuming responsibility for mishaps.
As the woman continued to scrutinize Tory, the cup and saucer in her hands trembled and rattled.
“Mama? Whatever is wrong?” The daughter, perhaps seventeen, took her own cup from Tory and placed it to the side of her chair on one of the little tea tables, to lean toward her mother.
Tory, truly seeing the girl for the first time, stared, blinked, and turned back to the mother, trying to hide her confusion.
The mother did not answer her daughter. Instead, her eyes never leaving Tory, she whispered, “Girl, tell me your name.”
Tory was seized by a dread premonition. She stuttered, but felt obligated—no, compelled—to answer.
How could she not?
“V-victoria, madam.”
The woman’s cup slid from her saucer and fell to the floor, sloshing tea down the skirt of her dress and onto the carpet.
“Mama!”
Mademoiselle Justine, ever vigilant of her customers’ needs, excused herself from another client and rushed to Victoria’s aid. “Quickly. Fetch Marie,” she ordered.
Tory fled from the front of the shop and dispatched Marie to manage the cleanup, but she, herself, did not return. Alarms clanged in Tory’s heart. Something about the girl, a hint in the slant of her eyes, the lift of her chin, frightened Tory.
Madame Rousseau and Mademoiselle Justine found her later, in the kitchen, cleaning as if her life depended upon it.
“Upon my word, Victoria! Whatever has happened?” Madame asked. Her powdered brow was creased in concern. “Mrs. Declouette and her daughter left without placing an order. They fled my shop as if pursued by demons!”
“Mrs. D-Declouette?” Tory could not stop shaking. “Mrs. Henri Declouette?”
“Yes, Marguerite Declouette, the widow of Henri Declouette.”
Tory’s legs gave way; she sank onto a bench and dropped her face into her hands. No wonder the girl stirred my heart. She has the look of her father.
My father.
She and I are sisters.
Madame Rousseau waved a distracted hand to Mademoiselle Justine. “Annette-Francoise, fetch Patrice, please.”
“At once.”
As soon as Miss Defoe arrived, Madame Rousseau hurried herself and Mademoiselle Justine back to their waiting clients. Madame whispered in Miss Defoe’s ear as they passed, “Something has disturbed Victoria. It has to do with Mrs. and Miss Declouette.”
At that moment, Madame was glad that she had lost the argument over who would foster Tory; she was grateful her friend had insisted on taking charge of the girl.
Miss Defoe sat down next to Tory. “What is it, child? What has happened?”
“Oh, Miss Defoe! She knew me!”
“Who did? Marguerite Declouette?”
“Yes. She asked my name. When I told her my name was Victoria, she knew who I was.”
Miss Defoe mulled Tory’s words for a minute before the possibility of their meaning came to her: For Henri, my only love and the father of Victoria, my greatest joy.
“Are you saying Henri Declouette was your father? Is that it?”
Tory nodded. “I-I perceived the resemblance in Miss Declouette’s features, particularly her eyes. They stirred a remembrance in me, but I didn’t, right away, attach the resemblance to my memories of her father. His eyes were . . . distinctive.”
“Then that must be how Mrs. Declouette knew you, also.”
Tory’s brow crinkled. “I have his eyes, too?”
“Your eyes possess a wide, noteworthy cant, Victoria, the likely evidence of Cajun-French blood—Arcadian or possibly a Spanish influence. Louisiana bloodlines have been mixed many times since Europeans landed upon this continent.”
“I-I always knew I was different, that something was wrong with me, but I did not know what it was. Sassy and Venus clucked over my skin because it wasn’t black enough. Miss La Forge fretted because my hair had odd strands of gold in it. All of them frowned at me because I was different, as though different was unsuitable. Inappropriate. Wrong.
“I did not even comprehend that I was half white until I was ten . . . when I discovered Henri Declouette was my father. It is his blood in my veins that makes me unacceptable.”
Miss Defoe resisted the impulse to pull the girl into her arms and insist—to vow—that Victoria was perfect, that there was nothing wrong with her. She longed to comfort Tory, but she resisted her impulse because, difficult as it would be, Tory would have to meet this challenge alone. She would need to arrive at her own insights: That the ugly prejudices people carried in their hearts could not be easily fixed. That people could not be made to conform to her expectations. That the world did not work that way.
Miss Defoe, fighting back her indignation, murmured with quiet conviction, “My dear girl, listen to one who cares for you very much: You must accept, here and now, that while those who love you also accept you, the world contains many who will loathe you and never accept you. Even more important than understanding this, you must decide, you must choose—regardless of whether you are loved or hated—you must choose to live an upright life, a life unswayed and unaffected by those who despise you. You must never allow their hate to enter your heart.”
It was the most profound thing Tory had heard in her short life.
“I-I will try, Miss Defoe. I will.”
“You already succeed, my lamb. You are a humble, gentle soul. We love you, and you are ours. We will allow nothing to ever take you from our hearts and lives.”
Then Miss Defoe gave into the yearnings of her soul. She opened her arms, and Tory came to them, sobbing with joy and relief, releasing the hurts of her childhood into Miss Defoe’s bosom.
It was a pure, defining moment, binding Tory to her surrogate mother, and Miss Defoe to the daughter of her childless heart, their embrace solidifying their affections forever.
Neither of them had any sense of how soon their attachment would be sundered.
BASTIANN DECLOUETTE heard the engine of a motorcar in Sugar Tree’s courtyard and, leery of unexpected visitors, threw open the house’s front door. He was less than thrilled to find his former paramour alighting from a hired conveyance.
With the execution of Henri’s will, Marguerite’s financial straits had obliged her to relinquish her own motorcar and live in a much-restricted fashion. And since Bastiann had moved to Sugar Tree, it had been more than a year since they had met. Her unannounced and unwelcome visit—and the expense of a hired car to bring her from town—spoke of either the woman’s desperate attempt to reclaim her former relationship with him or a family crisis for which she required his intervention.
He ardently hoped for the latter. He was, after all, uncle to her children, and family crises could be dealt with. Unwanted former lovers, on the other hand, hung about one’s neck like the proverbial millstone.
Bastiann snorted. If Marguerite hoped he could alleviate her financial woes, she would be sadly disappointed. His own circumstances were worse than hers. In the weeks following the readin
g of Henri’s will, while Bastiann had waited for the money from the sale of his shares of the family business, he had been unable to make the rent on his apartment in town. He had been forced to rely upon the grudging hospitality of various acquaintances, spending three or four nights with one before moving to the next.
When the sale of his stocks concluded and he received the proceeds, Bastiann had paid his creditors half the money he possessed. His creditors would have taken everything, every penny—still far less than he owed—but he had promised them Sugar Tree as full payment of his debt when he gained physical custody of Victoria. The desirability of Sugar Tree, its rare location on a bluff above the river, raised the house’s value to five times Bastiann’s debt; however, his vow to surrender the estate had been Bastiann’s only play, the only means of staving off his creditors’ ire.
With the remaining half of the stock sale, Bastiann had then parted with a sizeable “gift” as inducement for a certain judge to expedite and approve his application for guardianship over his niece. After his guardianship was approved, Bastiann had taken up residence at Sugar Tree, the same judge ruling that his presence in the house would prevent looters or squatters from ransacking the estate and ruining its value.
Bastiann had shelled out additional funds to detectives and informants to find Victoria. They had been searching for her for more than a year to no avail—and Bastiann’s creditors’ latest warning rang in his ears: Find the girl and force the “sale” of the estate to them . . . or else.
The thin stack of bills he carried in his wallet was all he had left, and the length of time remaining for him to locate Victoria was thinner than his wallet.
He managed a tight smile. “Marguerite. To what do I owe the distinction of your presence?”
She glanced over her shoulder at her driver. “Do let me in, Bastiann. I do not wish the driver to report that you kept me waiting on your doorstep.”
“Will letting you inside lessen the gossip your visit is certain to provoke?”
“Shut up. I must talk to you—and, I am convinced, you will want to hear what I have to say.”
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