Bastiann opened the door wider, and Marguerite swept inside. He waved her into the parlor. She went directly to the sideboard where he kept his liquor and dumped sherry into an expensive Baccarat wine glass. She gulped half of it in one go, then seated herself.
He was amused by her actions—and the traces of dissipation evident in the sagging lines of her face—but he said nothing, sensing that her visit might possess some merit.
She finished the sherry before she said, “You are yet searching for Henri’s bastard, are you not? You wish to find her?”
Bastiann laughed. Marguerite was not often given to crude language. But his brother’s widow was correct: The search for Victoria Washington was his last hope. It consumed him.
“I wish to find her, yes.”
She turned a calculating eye on him. “What is she worth to you, Bastiann? How much will you give me to tell you where she is?”
Heat rose in Bastiann’s face. “You think I will pay you for this information?”
“Ah, but I do.”
His first impulse was to choke the breath from this shrew, to throttle her until her bulging eyes begged him to allow her to tell what she knew.
How little do you perceive, Marguerite, of how close to the edge I sail, of how desperate grows my plight.
But, other than his mother’s pawned pearl earrings, his hired men had uncovered no clues to the girl’s whereabouts. Victoria may as well have vanished from the face of the earth—and Bastiann had little time remaining before he must do the same. Either he fled Louisiana or his creditors would ensure that fishermen found his lifeless body floating far down the river.
Bastiann held but a single card in reserve as a hedge should he need to flee Louisiana—those same pearl earrings. He had hidden them well, had inserted them into the backing of the portrait of his grandmother through a near-invisible slit. Said portrait still hung in the drawing room where Adeline Washington had died.
He controlled his frustration and smoothed his expression into bland lines. “I am afraid my cash flow is as dry as yours must be, my dear. I could . . . perhaps . . . see my way to ten or twenty dollars?”
“What? Only twenty?” She studied him. “If you gain control of Victoria, will you, in future, have more?”
Yes, she was as desperate as he.
“Should that happy occurrence be mine, I could agree to, say, a twice-annual allowance of one hundred dollars?” he lied. “For the period of two years only.”
She tipped the glass into her mouth and was irritated to find it empty. Bastiann was quick to refill it and return it to her hand. She gulped twice before answering.
“Twenty now, four hundred over the next two years?”
“Agreed—if—and only if your information leads to her successful, ah, recovery.”
Marguerite stared at her glass, her face haunted. “I saw her. This morning. I came face-to-face with her, Bastiann. She . . . she has Henri’s eyes. I knew her at once.”
Bastiann could always tell when Marguerite was exaggerating, outright lying—or telling the truth. His heart quickened. “Did you, indeed?”
He withdrew his wallet and, gritting his teeth, counted four precious five-dollar bills into her hand. “Pray, tell me where I can find her.”
Chapter 15
Tory filed through the rear entrance of Madame Rousseau’s shop with Miss Defoe and their fellow employees. She was full of health and vitality, ready to meet the challenges of the day—and she carried her precious sketchpad with her.
Today, Miss Defoe had informed her, Madame Rousseau had agreed to look over Tory’s sketches after the shop closed for the day. Tory would never have dared presume to ask such a thing, but Miss Defoe’s eye had found her designs “promising” and had approached Madame on Tory’s behalf.
Humming under her breath, Tory hung her cloak, tucked her sketch pad into an empty kitchen drawer, and filled the kettle for tea. Fifteen minutes later, the staff sat down for morning tea and biscuits.
The shop opened promptly at nine o’clock, and their first clients of the day kept Daphne and Tory busy. Near eleven o’clock, Mademoiselle Justine dispatched Tory to the kitchen to prepare a tray for their latest customers. Tory went to the kitchen, removed the dressy apron she wore when waiting upon clients, and hung it on a hook to keep it spotless while she prepared the tea and refreshments. Under her apron she wore one of her new black dresses; its simple but tasteful style fit Tory well. The fine dress and Tory’s height added to the illusion that she was nearer fourteen or fifteen than approaching her thirteenth birthday.
A loud and contentious commotion from the front of the store startled Tory. She crept into the passageway and heard Madame Rousseau’s raised protests clash with a man’s loud demands for the shop’s clients to get out. Miss Defoe was already at the junction of hall and passageway, listening to the disturbance.
The face she turned to Tory frightened the girl, as did her stern command. “Victoria, slip out the rear door and go home. Do not linger—go straight home.”
“But why? What is happening?”
“Men have entered the shop, and I heard one of them shout your name. Do as I say: Run home as fast as you can, but hide yourself across the street until I call for you. Darling girl, be brave and quick—do you understand me?”
Tory nodded and ran to the kitchen door. She put one eye to the door’s peephole and was dismayed to find two burly males loitering on the stoop. She knew at once that Bastiann Declouette had found her—and that Marguerite Declouette had been the means of her discovery.
She flattened herself against the wall next to the door, screaming inside. What should I do? What should I do?
Tory’s mind went blank under a wave of terror. She was standing against the wall when the door crashed open. She scrabbled for the door’s handle to prevent it from bouncing against her and swinging away, disclosing her. Tory was taller and fuller than she had been when Madame Rousseau had taken her in fifteen months ago, but she was as lean and as lithe as a sapling, easily concealed behind the door.
The men may have seen nothing that aroused their suspicions, but they stood sentry in the kitchen, ostensibly guarding the rear exit against Tory’s escape. Almost immediately, Tory heard Miss Defoe enter the kitchen and shout, in her most authoritarian manner, “Who are you men? How dare you break into Madame Rousseau’s shop! We keep no money here! Whatever do you want?”
Familiar as she was with Miss Defoe, Tory caught the nervous shrill in the woman’s voice—although she was convinced that the strange men facing the imperious Miss Defoe saw only a rock of propriety and decorum, arms folded over her breasts, an austere and formidable force of nature not to be lightly dismissed.
“We, uh, we came for the girl.”
“The girl? Which girl? We employ many girls.”
“Guess her name’s Victoria Washington.”
Miss Defoe’s voice hardened. “Oh? What business do you have with her?”
“She’s Mr. Bastiann Declouette’s niece. The court has ’pointed him as her guardian. We’ve come t’ fetch her.”
Miss Defoe’s demeanor stiffened further. “And that gives you the authority to break down our doors and terrify helpless women? For shame! Your actions are quite outside the scope of any court order. Why—”
The heavy boots of the men from the front of the store clomped down the hallway, curtailing her tirade. Unbeknownst to Tory, while Miss Defoe was haranguing the men, she had also been maneuvering herself into the kitchen—between the two invaders and the kitchen’s back door, waving them, with her last words, toward the passageway.
As soon as she had placed herself between them and the door, Miss Defoe—without turning her head—shouted, “Go! Now!”
Tory bolted from her slot behind the door and flew out the open rear exit, the man’s words clanging in her ears: She’s Mr. Bastiann Declouette’s niece. The court has ’pointed him as her guardian. We’ve come t’ fetch her.
One man roared, “Th
ere she is!” Both men rushed to follow Tory. That was when Miss Defoe grabbed and slid a bench across their path. The shorter of the men tripped and fell; the other leapt over the bench; as he stumbled and regained his balance, Miss Defoe kicked the back of his leg, sending him to the floor.
These were but temporary impediments at best. Tory’s pursuers were up and after her in seconds—but they were precious, vital seconds: Tory knew the plaza, and they did not. She had rounded the corner of a storefront before they set eyes on her. They gave pursuit, one going this way, the second another, but they had lost sight of her, and Tory was away toward home, running like the wind.
Miss Defoe pushed the bench back into its place and sat down hard, her breath coming in gasps, feeling her age in the pounding of her heart in her throat and chest.
Three men herded Madame Rousseau’s workshop employees into the kitchen. Two more men, one a sheriff’s deputy, followed on their heels. The deputy drove Daphne and Mademoiselle Justine before him and dragged Madame Rousseau into the kitchen by her arm.
The stately woman looked her question to Miss Defoe who lifted one brow a miniscule fraction—to Madame’s relief.
Mademoiselle Justine sat down next to Miss Defoe, her back straight, her nose as far in the air as her short neck could manage. Mrs. Horringer put her arm around Miss Sarasses, who was sobbing and holding her wrist. The younger girls, Pauline, Suzanne, Simone, Rachael, Daphne, and Marie, huddled behind the table, as though the senior-most women could protect them from the intruders.
The leader of the invaders paced the kitchen, then stopped and surveyed Madame and her employees. At once, Miss Defoe knew him to be Tory’s uncle: tall, wiry of build, a high brow line, and golden-brown eyes set wide with the defining slant so similar to Tory’s. There the resemblance ended, for his expression was cold and angry. Heartless.
My girl could not be more different from you, Miss Defoe exulted. She met Bastiann Declouette’s gaze with unflinching satisfaction.
He rocked slowly back on his heels, considering her. “Do you know who I am?” he asked softly.
Miss Defoe shrugged, that very Continental lift of one shoulder that denoted “no” and “I could not care less” with equal disdain.
She was unprepared for the clenched fist that struck her face a glancing blow. She slid to the floor, gasping in pain.
A general melee ensued: Mademoiselle Justine cried out and dropped beside Miss Defoe to help her, the huddled girls shrieked and screamed, and Madame Rousseau roared, “Stop this! Stop this at once, you bully! You have no right—”
But Bastiann Declouette’s bellow quashed all protest. “SHUT UP! Shut up, you screeching peahens! Unless you wish to see your friend suffer more, you will be silent and you will cooperate with me.”
He looked around to ensure he had the complete attention of the room. “My name is Bastiann Declouette; I am Victoria Washington’s uncle, and I hold here a court order granting me legal custody of her. So, no more interference! Now, where is my niece?”
When no one answered, he studied the faces before him: fearful, belligerent, angry, or indignant. All but one. He moderated his expression and voice and, in a long, languid movement, withdrew his wallet from his breast pocket. From the wallet, he extracted the last of his cash and fanned the bills.
“Perhaps I am going about this all wrong? I would be happy to offer an . . . incentive in exchange for helpful information, such as, where Victoria lives?”
He lifted his eyes to that one face, the one whose expression was neither angry nor fearful but shrewd. “You, miss? Do you know where Victoria lives?” He licked his finger and thumb and slid one bill from the sheaf . . . and then another. He held them out toward her.
Marie reached for the two ten-dollar bills—as much money as she would earn in two months. “Victoria lives with her.” She pointed at Miss Defoe, who remained stupefied, her nose bleeding, her cheek swelling.
When Marie tried to pluck the offered bills from Bastiann’s hand, he did not release them.
“See, does it not feel good to do what is right? What is legal?”
“You said—”
“Oh, dear. I am quite sorry.” He tipped a sly smile toward the men around him, letting them in on the joke. “But I think it a terrible waste of hard-earned cash to pay for that which I can persuade a gullible girl to give me.”
One of his men chuckled. They all grinned.
“You are a liar!” Marie spat.
“And what are you, eh? That you would sell out a friend for money?”
Marie recoiled, slapped with a bitter truth.
Bastiann jerked his head at Miss Defoe. “Take her. Oh. And take that one, too.” He pointed at Mademoiselle Justine. “Some leverage, should this one refuse to lead us to her home.”
Miss Defoe did not fight the deputy as he dragged her out the back of Madame’s shop. She only hoped Tory would do what was necessary when the time came—for Miss Defoe recognized Tory’s uncle to be a man desperate enough to manipulate and misuse Tory for his purposes, no matter the outcome. And the wild light in Bastiann Declouette’s eyes spoke of other harm that would likely come to Tory should she fall into his hands—harm no child should ever endure, as Patrice Defoe, from her own childhood, knew too intimately.
I cannot allow you to fall into this man’s hands, and I shall not hesitate to surrender my life for you, darling girl, Miss Defoe vowed. I will buy you the time you need, but you must be both wise and ruthless in its use.
She led the men to her apartment over the grocer’s. Keeping her head facing forward, Miss Defoe’s eyes scanned back and forth, searching the opposite side of the street for any sign of Tory.
There. Miss Defoe caught the flash of Tory’s eyes from behind a shrub on the corner. She gave the girl no sign, and turned to the steps leading up to her apartment.
Ten seconds were all that were needed for Bastiann’s men to ascertain that Tory was not hiding in the small apartment. One man yanked the mattress from beneath Miss Defoe’s bed then ripped the bed apart, scattering frame, mattress, and linens.
“Where else might she be?” Bastiann Declouette demanded, wrenching her arm.
Miss Defoe allowed her eyes to drift toward the door leading to the veranda. Declouette immediately dragged her to the door, threw it open, and stepped out above the street.
This was the moment Miss Defoe had hoped for. She threw back her head and shouted with all her strength, “RUN, VICTORIA! Do NOT come back! Run! Do NOT—”
Bastiann’s hand slapped the words from Miss Defoe’s mouth even as he glimpsed the flash of a girl’s figure speed from the shrubs at the corner. Shouting for his men to give chase, he attempted to throw Miss Defoe aside—only to find her gripping him with hands made strong by her fervent, tenacious love for Tory.
Bastiann drove his fisted hand into Miss Defoe’s stomach. Her fingers released without her permission, and she fell limp at his feet.
“Take this woman into custody, deputy,” Bastiann shouted over his shoulder. He ran after his men to pursue Tory.
The deputy left Miss Defoe on the floor. It was many minutes before she regained her breath and was able to sit up. When she got to her feet, he grasped her arm and began forcing her down the stairs.
“Wh-where are you taking me?”
“T’ the jail.”
“Wh-what have . . . what have I done?” Every breath was an effort, a sharp, pain-filled gasp.
“Interfered in a legal proceeding,” the deputy replied. “Harbored a fugitive.”
“Victoria . . . no fugitive! One must . . . commit . . . crime . . . to be . . . fugitive.”
“Not for me t’ decide,” the deputy answered. “Tell it t’ th’ judge.”
TORY SHIVERED WHEN she saw Bastiann Declouette drag Miss Defoe onto her veranda. His menacing presence clawed at Tory even from across the street. It was all she could do to remain still, waiting in obedience to Miss Defoe’s commands.
Guess her name’s Victoria Washin
gton. She’s Mr. Bastiann Declouette’s niece. The court has ’pointed him as her guardian. We’ve come t’ fetch her.
We’ve come t’ fetch her.
We’ve come t’ fetch her.
At Miss Defoe’s shouted warning, Tory bolted from her hiding place across from the apartment and ran as though pursued by the hounds of hell. As she flew, Miss Defoe’s shouted warning lent speed to her feet: RUN, VICTORIA! Do NOT come back! Run! Do NOT—
Do NOT come back?
Not ever?
Her skirts clutched in her hands, Tory raced through the streets; she fled as fast as her legs could carry her. The lessons she had learned on the streets of New Orleans, fifteen months gone by, steered her between buildings, over fences, through tight cracks, and down alleys. At first, the commotion behind her—Bastiann’s men giving chase—spurred her on. But soon she heard only her own breath rasping in and out of her throat and her heart thundering against her ribs.
When Tory collapsed against the back of a building, unable to go any farther without rest, she was disoriented. She had lost her bearings during her headlong escape from Bastiann and his men. Her only confidence at that moment was that she had also lost her hunters—for the time being.
Tory crept out near the front of the building and studied the street. Foot traffic seemed normal. She spotted no men who appeared to be searching.
All Tory wanted was to find her way back to Miss Defoe’s apartment and her welcome embrace. Should I go home? Why would Miss Defoe say, ‘do not come back’? Does she mean for me to leave her? To leave Madame Rousseau’s employ? Forever? But where would I go?
Against her better judgment and Miss Defoe’s shouted command, Tory decided to return to her familiar neighborhood, only . . . she stared about her, uncertain which way to start. She knew not whether Miss Defoe’s apartment lay in the direction of the sunrise or sunset—or, at that moment, which way either of those might be: The sun was high overhead, and she could not distinguish which way it was moving. She had no address for the apartment—although, from Madame Rousseau’s establishment, she knew the way.
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