If I can find Madame’s shop, I shall be all right.
She asked people on the street for directions to Madame’s shop and followed their either vague or detailed directions as best she could, but she never came upon her goal. She walked for hours without seeing a familiar landmark or street sign.
Have I been going in circles? she wondered.
Twilight was falling. She walked on. Shops were closing for the night, and fewer pedestrians were willing to stop and answer her questions.
A smattering of electric street lights winked on, but the carbon arc lamps were poorly maintained. The short-lived electrodes of a number of lamps had burned out. This neighborhood, it seemed, did not warrant the city’s regular attention.
Tory began to panic.
Must I spend the night in a gutter, under a stoop, or curled on a moldy porch? Are Miss Defoe and Madame Rousseau not looking for me? Did Bastiann Declouette speak the truth when he said the court had appointed him my guardian? Can he take me from my friends? From my home with Miss Defoe?
A light rain began to fall. The mist soon became heavy rain and then an uncommon summer sleet. Tory raced down an alley to escape the stinging downpour. She climbed upon a rear porch and huddled, standing up, in its corner to escape the worst of the slushy rain. However, her black worsted dress was already soaked through, and its sodden folds clung to her body. She had lost one of Adeline’s tortoiseshell combs as she ran, so the left side of her hair hung down, dripping rain into her collar.
An hour later, the weather shifted; a balmy draft wafted over Tory and she shivered in her drenched dress. If I spend the night soaking wet, I will sicken. I must walk and let the breeze dry me, Tory decided.
One street over, she saw lighted storefronts and moved that way, thinking the well-lit area might be safer than the dark. As she walked, she reasoned over her situation and, as painful as her conclusions were, she admitted how true they had to be: Bastiann Declouette knows where I work and where I live. If he has the court’s approval to take me, it will never be safe for me to return to Madame’s or to Miss Defoe’s. My presence would even place them in jeopardy.
Tory sucked in a startled, painful breath. That is what Miss Defoe meant. That is what she meant when she shouted, “Run, Victoria! Do not come back!” In the same moment, Tory realized that she had, for the second time in her life, lost her home and everyone she loved.
With a sorrowing heart, she drew near her destination. The shouts and raucous singing told her that the lighted storefronts were bars and gambling houses—precisely the type of area Tory knew she should avoid.
She wept as she stumbled away from the brightly lit street, back into the night. I cannot even return to Miss Defoe’s apartment and retrieve Maman’s dresser set or her jewelry. Horrified, Tory recalled her mother’s photograph safely held between the stiff, folded brocade that had lined her mother’s jewelry box. No! Maman! I cannot leave the only image I have of you—
Tory yanked at the chain around her neck. She drew the locket into her hand and pressed the catch on its side. Even in the near-dark, Adeline’s luminous eyes stared out at Tory, comforting her.
“Oh, Maman,” she whispered. “Please tell me what I should do.”
But no answer came. Tory was alone and terrified, battered by an urgent question repeating in her thoughts: Where in this city can I go that Bastiann will not, eventually, find me?
The answer seemed evident, but it was unthinkable, untenable. “I cannot stay in New Orleans? I must leave? But . . . I do not know where else to go!”
Tory heard soft, quick footfalls behind her. She whirled—almost too late—to see four young men sprinting toward her. She knew what they were; she knew the kind: gangs of homeless street boys who laid in wait to attack and rob the drunken patrons of the saloons and gaming halls. Gangs who preyed upon any woman they found alone.
When they saw she had spotted them, they gave up their attempt to take her unaware.
One yelled, “Boyd—git ahead o’ her, on her left!”
Another hooted, “Oooo, baby! Cain’t wait t’ have a taste o’ you!”
Tory lifted her damp skirts and flew forward, dodging between two buildings to avoid the smallest boy’s attempt to cut her off. She came to an alley and shot left, speeding down the alley’s length, mere yards ahead of the gang—only to come up against a high fence stretching across the alley’s width. The fence was dense with honeysuckle, forming a barrier she could not avoid or climb over. Trash cans overflowing with refuse barred her way, too.
Panic, fierce and hot, fueled Tory with adrenaline and desperation. Instead of waiting for the gang to converge on her, she grabbed up a metal trash can lid and, screaming with rage, she ran toward the gang. She swung the lid at the boy who arrived first and was satisfied when the metal edge connected with his head and upraised arms, knocking him aside.
His fall made the smallest of gaps, but Tory dashed through it, pushing by an older boy, throwing up the lid between her and his grasping arms. She ran faster than she’d believed she could, but the boys were again a pursuing pack, not far behind.
Up ahead, Tory saw the figure of a man smoking in the alley shadows. Even from a distance, Tory could see the outline of a fedora and overcoat, the glow of his cigarette. Was he a patron of a nearby drinking or gaming house?
Tory, gasping for breath, shouted, “Help me! Please, help me!” and altered her course toward him.
The tip of the man’s cigarette glowed brighter, then he said, just loud enough for her to hear, “Get behind me.”
Gasping, Tory flung herself behind the man, wondering how he expected to fare against four streetwise thugs. She considered bolting as soon as the gang pounced on the gentleman. Her “protector,” however, seemed unconcerned as the gang slowed to a stop to take his measure.
“Hey, old man!” the eldest shouted. “You don’ wanna mess wit’ us. Give up th’ girl, we let you go your way, okay?”
Her would-be benefactor, however, drew down on his cigarette—a long, slow last drag—before flipping the butt away. Tory didn’t notice his fingers snake into his coat pocket, but she did see the gleam of metal in his hand when he pulled it out. He trained the revolver on the gang members. “Actually, young punks, you don’t want to mess with me. Mosey along and find yourself a drunken patsy, like usual, capisce?”
The four boys, ranging in age from fourteen to sixteen by Tory’s reckoning, backed away, but the eldest couldn’t resist flinging a taunt, “You won’t always have a gun at th’ ready, old man. Me an’ m’ boys catch you by surprise, we cut you good.”
Dirt spat inches from the boy, showering his leg. All bravado gone, he turned tail and ran; the others followed. Fedora Man chuckled and pocketed the revolver. “Okay, kid, I’ve done my good deed for the day. Now scoot. I have a train to catch.”
Tory hadn’t seen the suitcase up against the brick wall until Fedora Man picked it up and tipped his hat to her.
“A train? A-are you walking to the station, then?”
“Yup. At a fast trot, too. I, uh, have my own pressing circumstances.” With that, he headed up the alley at a rapid clip in the direction Tory had been running when she called out to him.
She caught up to him. “Could I . . . would you mind if I walked with you? Just in case they come back?” Tory had to quick-march to stay abreast of Fedora Man’s long strides.
He shrugged. “Makes no never mind to me, s’long as you don’t slow me down.”
Tory focused on keeping up with him, but she kept glancing behind them and scanning side streets and shadowed alcoves, vigilant in case the street boys were following behind or were ahead, lying in wait. What she did not see was Fedora Man’s own shifting eyes and grim-set mouth or that he kept their path to the shadows as often as his route allowed him to.
Truth be told, Fedora Man’s hat was pulled low and his face was hidden by the night and the shadow of the hat’s brim. If, in that moment, Tory had been asked to describe him, she would
have been hard-pressed to do so. She knew the man was tall, well-built, and dressed as a gentleman, but she had not been able to clearly glimpse his features in the few minutes they had been together.
As they neared a street corner, he, for the first time in their brisk walk, slowed. Then he whispered out of the side of his mouth, “How good are you at playing along?”
“What?”
“I need a favor—and you owe me, yeah?”
“I-I guess I do.”
“Then just be calm and, if the situation warrants, smile, got it?” He startled Tory when he looped his free arm in hers. “Act like we’re together.”
Tory latched on to his arm, but her head began to swivel.
“Stop that. Look up at me.”
Tory did. Fedora Man’s eyes were shaded by the hat brim, but his mouth was tight with worry.
“You’re my, uh, my daughter, got it? What’s your name, by the way?”
Tory swallowed. “V-victoria.”
“Victoria. Meet your dad, Charles Luchetti. That makes you Victoria Luchetti. We’re originally from New York, but we’re headed to St. Louis tonight. Capisce?”
It was too much for Tory to take in. “Non capisco, signore.”
“What? You speak Italian? Incredible. Well, it doesn’t matter whether you understand my game or not; just follow my lead, got it?”
His eyes flicked forward and Tory saw three figures waiting in the middle of the street, billy clubs in their hands. Then her rescuer leaned toward her a second time, his manner familiar and comfortable. “Just relax and play along.”
Arm in arm, they kept walking. Fedora Man—Charles Luchetti—lifted his hat to the men as they approached them. “Good evening, gentlemen.”
He kept walking, pulling Tory with him.
A voice behind them barked, “Hey. Hey, you. Hold up.”
Charles turned and, with mild, unconcerned curiosity, asked, “Yes? May I be of assistance?” His diction had altered; it had shifted from a mixture of common and cavalier to genteel and mannered in an instant.
The man who had called to them answered, “Yeah, you can. We’re lookin’ for somebody.” He glanced from Charles to Tory and then fixed on Tory.
Tory started to tremble, but the pressure of Charles’ hand clasping her arm was reassuring. Stabilizing.
“Who’s the girl?”
“The girl,” Charles inserted a testy edge to his formal reply, “is my daughter. Please show some respect.”
The man snorted. “The darky’s your daughter? Yeah, right.”
The edge in Charles’ voice sharpened. “I am not reluctant to admit that my wife was negro, nor do I take kindly to comments that besmirch our marriage or our child.”
The man’s thick brows came together as though Charles’ fine words were over his head. “Yeah? Well, we don’t cotton t’ mixed marriages ’round here.”
“Then I am happy to report that we were not married ‘round here’ as you put it. In any event, my wife passed away last year—not that it is your concern. Now, if you please, do not delay us further; we have a train to catch.”
One of the man’s companions shuffled his feet. “Let it go, Bob. We got a job t’ do.”
“Yeah. All right.” Bob lifted his chin to Charles. “You have a good night.”
“You also.” Charles’ nodded.
He and Tory continued on their walk toward the train depot. They had gone a block when he blew out a breath. “That went well. Thanks for your help.”
“Were those men looking for you, then?”
“Most assuredly.”
“Why?”
“What’s it to you?”
Stung, Tory went silent and they walked on.
They were within sight of the depot, twenty minutes later, when Tory ventured another question. “Are you really going to St. Louis, Mr. Luchetti?”
“Yes; I am relocating to ‘the Paris of the West.’”
“Will you . . . will you take me with you?”
Charles stopped, let go her arm, and faced her. For the first time, Tory saw him clearly: dark eyes and brows, a strong jawline, and thin lips. She thought him to be in his early forties—not young but not old, either.
“Well, that brings us to your situation, doesn’t it, kiddo? What’s an educated, well-mannered—although somewhat bedraggled—young woman such as yourself doing on the wrong side of town at night?”
Tory’s jaw jutted forward. “I got caught in the rain.”
“No kidding. But that doesn’t answer my question or tell me why you want to go to St. Louis.”
Tory lifted her nose and stared without blinking, a perfect copy of Miss Defoe. “I want to go to St. Louis because it is not New Orleans.”
“So those street thugs aren’t the only ones you’re running from?”
Tory licked her lips, unsure of how to answer him.
“Ah. Your tell gives you away. Who’s chasing you and why?”
Irritated by his brazen manner, Tory threw his own words back at him. “What’s it to you?”
He tossed back his head and started to laugh. “My, you are a feisty one, aren’t you? And you can run like the wind, I’ll give you that—but you’re far too young to come along with me. It wouldn’t look right. You’re what? Fifteen?”
“Sixteen,” Tory retorted.
Charles stopped laughing. “You, my dear, are not a day over fifteen.” His piercing eyes impaled her. “I’ll let you in on a little secret, Victoria: I always know when I’m being lied to. Always. Now, when is your birthday?”
Tory hung her head. “Next month.”
“So, you’ll be fifteen next month.”
Tory would be thirteen in September, but she simply nodded her agreement. Charles had convinced himself of her age, and Tory was not going to dispute his conclusion.
“Well, I don’t think it a clever idea for a girl of fifteen to travel with me.”
Confounded, Tory sucked in her upper lip and chewed on it. “But . . . you see, I need . . . I need to get away from this city. I am . . . not safe here.”
“Are you in trouble with the law?”
“Certainly not!”
He nodded. “You’re telling the truth about that. Okay, let’s walk—that train’s not going to wait for me and, as I said, I have a pressing need to be on it when it steams out of town.” He took her arm again and hurried them on.
“Does that mean you’ll take me with you?”
He laughed again, a low rumble in his chest. “How good are you with your hands?”
“What do you mean? I can sew. Even intricate beadwork.”
“Sew? What the devil do I need with a seamstress! No, I mean can you handle cards?”
“Cards?”
“Playing cards. Can you shuffle? Deal?”
“I-I am sorry. I do not know what those things are.”
He laughed again, louder. “What a babe in the woods. Listen, kiddo, I’m more than flush at the moment, and I’m feeling generous, so I’ll buy you a ticket to St. Louis—and who knows? You may again provide cover for me along the way. But I can’t promise more than that.”
“You will buy me a ticket? Thank you, Mr. Luchetti.”
“Call me Charles. A ticket—but that’s it. When we disembark, Tory, you’re on your own.”
“You called me Tory.” She was astounded—only Sassy had ever called her that.
“Did I? Sorry. Victoria is a mouthful and puts me in mind of ‘her majesty,’ that stuffy former monarch from across the pond.”
“Tory is fine . . . I was just surprised.”
They were approaching the station now, and Tory could see the tangle of tracks and trains within the rail yard. The idling, coal-burning monstrosities were the loudest things Tory had ever heard. They belched soot and steam that mixed in the moist air and rained down upon the train yard and passengers.
It was terrifying.
“What’s wrong?”
“I-I have never seen a train.”
&
nbsp; “You kidding me?”
“N-no.”
He chuckled. “By golly, Tory, you’re a tonic. Haven’t laughed this much in months. Come on; I need to buy our tickets.”
A few minutes later, they were seated on the train, Tory next to the window, her eyes wide, taking in everything—the rushing porters and baggage carts, the passengers bidding friends and family goodbye, the sheer numbers of people rushing in all directions, each with their own agenda and destination.
A conductor stopped in the aisle at their seats. Charles handed over their tickets, but the man frowned in Tory’s direction.
Forestalling him, Charles inclined his head toward Tory and said, “My daughter.”
“Uh, yes sir; a very unusual situation, I’m sure, sir. However, the cars for colored are farther back—”
“You’ll make an exception this time, won’t you?”
Tory saw a bill appear like magic between Charles’ fingertips.
The conductor saw it too. He hesitated, then looked away. At the same time, he palmed the proffered bill.
“Have a good trip, sir.”
Five minutes later, the conductor, standing on the platform but holding onto the railing of their car, shouted a last time, “Alllll aboooooard!” The train lurched, then began to ease slowly out of the station; the conductor jumped onto the bottom step and climbed up to the platform between their car and the next.
The train was barely making headway through the station, when another man grabbed the railing and pulled himself onto the steps. Tory sensed Charles stiffen.
“All right, Tory,” he whispered, “time to sing for your supper.”
Tory had missed two meals and could feel the emptiness clear down to her toes. “I cannot boast to a cultured singing voice; I do not think you will care for it. But, will you really buy me supper if I sing?”
Charles sputtered and ran a hand across his mouth. “Kid, you amaze me. No, what I mean is, play along again, right? You’re my daughter; I’m your dad.”
Tory saw the man at the head of their car and understood. “Oh.”
Charles picked up her hand and held it. “Don’t look at him; look at me and pretend you’re listening.”
Tory Page 18