Tory tilted her chin toward Charles and forced herself to ignore the man walking down the car’s aisle. Charles said something, and she nodded, as though agreeing.
Charles was talking when the man loomed over them. As though interrupted, Charles looked up. “Yes?”
The man took in the scene, tipped his hat, and continued on. As soon as he left the car, passing to the next, Charles moved into the aisle and stood to the side of their car’s door, observing through its window. After a few minutes, the train began to pick up speed and Charles returned, grinning.
“Is he gone?”
“Yep. Jumped off before we cleared the railyards.”
Tory was relieved. And hungrier. “Oh, good. Say, were you going buy us something to eat?”
The train was going faster now, rocking side to side.
“Not shy, are you? Well, I, too, as the Brits say, am a mite peckish. The refreshment car is that way.” He pointed ahead of them. “I’ll go; you best stay put and keep your head down. If our luck holds, they should have sandwiches.”
Part 2:
St. Louis, Missouri
Chapter 16
August 1903
As the train steamed into the night, most passengers settled down to sleep. Tory began to nod off, but her benefactor seemed restless. He placed his suitcase on his lap, drew a small packet from his breast pocket and, with long familiarity, emptied the packet’s contents into his other hand, closing and returning the empty box to his pocket.
Tory watched, first curious—then fascinated—as Charles shuffled the playing cards, making the deck arc, each card following the others in perfect rhythm, from left hand to right hand and back again. Charles, aware that she was watching, dealt out five cards to three imaginary players and himself.
“Turn those cards over,” he said, pointing to one pile.
Tory did. She was unfamiliar with the strange faces on the cards, but many of the cards had numbers, either black or red.
“To win at poker, you must have the highest hand—or convince the other players that you have the highest hand. A specified hierarchy determines the winning hand: royal flush, straight flush, four of a kind, full house, flush, straight, three of a kind, two pair, one pair, and high card. Takes some time and attention to learn all the combinations and their rankings.”
Tory nodded. For a while, Charles demonstrated different poker hands and variations on the game. Tory heard, “five-card draw,” “five-card stud,” “seven-card stud,” and other names that indicated which rules would be used.
Charles’ explanations droned on. Without realizing it, Tory’s eyelids grew heavy and drooped closed. When her head tipped over to rest on Charles’ shoulder, he stopped talking, but he gathered the deck and, for another hour, practiced shuffling and dealing.
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Tory awoke to the heady scent of hot coffee. She sat up and saw that Charles was holding two cups. He offered her one.
“No, thank you. I do not drink coffee.”
He grinned, still holding the cup toward her. “Tea, then?”
“Tea? How did you know?”
“That is my avocation, Tory. I learn people—learn their tendencies, their penchants, their tells.”
“What is a ‘tell,’ please?”
“It is what gives a man’s intentions away, a clue to what he is thinking or planning. Could be a twitch, a sniff, the touch of a finger to an ear—mostly unconscious behaviors, like when we met and you licked your lips while you were deciding how to answer my questions. I notice these things.”
“How does ‘learning people’ help you?”
“Well, if I can ascertain ahead of time whether a young lady drinks coffee or tea, then I will buy the right beverage.”
Tory frowned. “I do not understand.”
“Never mind. Oh, and I bought us some biscuits, too.” He handed her the beverage, then pulled a brown paper parcel of shortbread biscuits from his suit pocket and offered them to her.
Tory’s smile stretched across her face. “Thank you!”
“When we arrive in St. Louis, it will be late afternoon, close to twilight.” He looked her over. “You’d better see if you can do something with that hair.”
Automatically, Tory’s hand went to her hair. She had forgotten that she’d lost one of her mother’s combs. Her fingers detected her hair’s disheveled condition, and she grimaced. She pulled out the remaining comb and began finger-combing her wiry hair, pulling it back into as tidy a bun as she could manage without a mirror, pinning it in place with the remaining comb.
As Charles had predicted, the day was nearly spent when they arrived in St. Louis. Charles helped Tory down the steps onto the platform and led her into the station—into a chaotic clash of diverging crowds and shouted departure announcements.
In the center of the station, Charles faced her. “This is where we part, young chick,” he murmured.
“I-I . . . yes. Th-thank you for your many kindnesses,” Tory stammered. She stared about her, frozen, blinking back tears.
I am so far from home! I do not know what to do or where to go!
Charles watched her, his expression indecipherable. As he picked up his suitcase and turned away, Tory panicked. When he had gone a few steps, she ran to catch up with him. She kept her distance and said nothing for fear he would wheel about and demand that she cease following him.
She trailed him through the bustling station, taking care that she did not lose sight of him in the pressing throng. He wound his way to an exit and stopped outside on the sidewalk to ask directions from a man waiting for a cab.
Then Charles stood on the curb, looking up the street and, for one terrifying moment, Tory thought he was going to hail his own cab—leaving her behind. Instead, he set off on foot, and Tory followed him.
Several blocks later, he squinted up at a lighted sign: Hotel Carlson. He pushed through the swinging door. Tory dithered on the sidewalk, then pushed through after him.
She spied him across the lobby at a counter, speaking to someone. As nonchalantly as she could manage, she wandered along the edge of the lobby, working her way behind him, where she could hear the exchange between Charles and the clerk from a distance of several feet.
“How many nights, sir?” the clerk asked.
“Two, to begin with. I’m new to the city and will be looking for a house.”
“A single room, then?”
“Yes; however, I’ll need two beds.”
“A second bed?” the clerk glanced around. “For another gentleman? A business associate?”
“No, for my daughter.”
Charles pivoted on his heel and fixed Tory with a look of . . . amused resignation? Tory—startled that he had known she was following him all along and had given no sign of it—breathed a sigh of relief and joined him at the counter. She tried not to smile, but she could not stop the grin tugging at her mouth.
The clerk looked Tory over, one lip curling. “Sir, this person . . . is your daughter?”
Charles glared at the man, and Tory saw his jaw clench. The clerk noticed it too. He flushed and ran his tongue over his bottom lip.
Why, that man has a tell.
Tory shifted her glance to Charles. He must have read her mind, for his head turned a fraction and the eye facing away from the clerk winked. Tory squirmed. She wanted to giggle in the worst way. Instead, she smoothed her expression into bland lines, taking her cue from Charles, whose countenance did not waver.
“Your key, sir,” the clerk murmured.
“Thank you.”
When the door to their room closed behind them, Charles dropped his suitcase on his bed and pointed a finger at her. “Sit.”
Wary, Tory sat on the edge of the other bed, her eyes jumping around the room. She was unsure of Charles now that they were alone.
“If you are going to stick with me, you have to earn your keep, got it?”
“Yes, sir. I . . . I can cook and clean and mend, Mr. Luchetti.”
> He snorted. “Good to know. And I already told you not to call me Mr. Luchetti. It’s Charles. Capisce?”
“Yes, sir.”
He put one foot on the bed frame, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it. As the acrid smell of the sulfur match and burning paper hit Tory’s nose, she cleared her throat and told herself not to cough.
Charles blew smoke Tory’s way. “I will be renting a house as soon as I find one suitable to my purposes. If you are to figure into my strategy, you will need to learn some things and . . .” he looked her over, “you will need some clothes. If you work hard and prove you’re worth it, I will buy the clothes you need.”
He took another drag. “But let me warn you: If you slack off or have no aptitude for what I teach, I will kick you to the curb. I aim to invest time and money in you, Tory. If you prove to be a bad investment, I will cut you loose. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Charles. Call me Charles.”
“Yes . . . Charles.”
He scratched his jaw, thinking. “We will begin in the morning, so get yourself to bed. Oh. And from now on, you’re my foster daughter. Daughter of an old friend who passed away, leaving you an orphan.”
Seeing the confusion on her face, he added, “Part of the game, Tory, is to never draw too much attention to yourself. Every time I say you’re my daughter, it gins up more questions—and we don’t want more questions.”
Tory’s head was spinning. She had no idea what he wanted from her, but at least she had a place to sleep for the night.
“Yes, Charles.”
THEIR FIRST DAY IN St. Louis was a maelstrom of activity. At breakfast in the hotel dining room, Charles announced, “I cannot take you around in that getup, Tory. Your dress is too plain and, understandably, soiled. We must get you some real clothes today.”
Tory swallowed. “I am sorry, Charles.”
He shrugged. “The cost of doing business, my dear.” However, as they were finishing their meal and Charles was smoking, Tory felt his eyes appraising her.
“What is it?”
“Your hair. Surely something better can be done with it?”
“I must have a jar of pomade . . . to make it behave.”
He nodded. “Tell me where to find it.”
“I-I am not certain. A barber may be able to tell you.”
He tapped out his cigarette in the ashtray. “While I am out, bathe and wash your hair.”
Tory did as she had been told; she bathed and washed her hair, sponged the stains from her soiled black worsted, and was dressed in it when Charles returned. He carried the required dressing for her hair, a different brand than Tory was accustomed to, but a welcome sight.
“Deucedly difficult stuff to find. Your suggestion of a barber did help—he pointed me to a pharmacy store. The woman who waited on me there suggested I also buy a large comb. And I picked up some hairpins. All women need hairpins.”
He watched as Tory rubbed the oily pomade into her hair, worked it through, and combed out her hair. As usual, she braided the two sides, twined the two braids into a chignon at the base of her neck, and pinned it there.
“Nice,” he said, “but too old for you. Too severe. Pull a few tiny strands loose to curl about your neck.”
Tory used the comb to tug loose a few wisps.
“Better.”
Charles then walked Tory to a ready-to-wear clothing store and, to Tory’s indignation, gave her into the hands of a “capable” clerk. “My foster daughter is nearly fifteen and requires a walking ensemble suitable to a young lady of her age and station. I shall expect to see her dressed appropriately when I finish my errands.”
“Of course, sir.”
When he returned, Tory was fidgeting under the constraints of her first corset. The stiff stays squeezed her breathless and pushed her budding breasts up, producing a conspicuous profile. Tory also wore new bloomers, camisole, stockings, petticoat, and hoop underskirt, over which was buttoned a stylish (although, in Tory’s estimation, mediocre) deep-blue walking dress edged with black velvet piping.
Tory had argued with the clerk over the size of the hoop underskirt, insisting that wider hoops had passed out of style, quoting from one of Madame Rousseau’s Parisian fashion magazines to make her point.
The clerk, had, at Tory’s insistence, fitted her with narrower hoops. “I tell you, miss, the skirt was made for wider hoops; without them, the hem will drag the ground.”
“Perhaps not. My height should make up the difference.”
Tory had been right. With a sniff, the clerk had pronounced the length “perfect.”
“Turn, please,” Charles commanded. “And stand up straight. You are going to be a tall woman—do not be shy about it.”
As Tory rotated, the swish of her skirt hinted at elegant black walking boots with tall tops and dozens of hooks and buttons. To complete the ensemble, Tory sported baby-blue gloves buttoned at the wrist and a hat that added to her height and the illusion that she was a young woman in her teens. Shopping bags containing additional undergarments, a nightgown, a robe, and her soiled black dress waited nearby.
Charles nodded his approval. “Yes, this will do until we have you in to see a proper dressmaker.”
During the hour Tory was being clothed, Charles had not wandered idly but had sought out a reputable tailor and a dressmaker. Now it was Tory who waited through Charles’ appointment as the tailor took Charles’ measurements and the two men discussed bolt after bolt of suit fabric. When the appointment ended, Charles had ordered two daytime suits and vests, a sleek gray day coat with a complementary charcoal fedora, and two complete suits of evening clothes.
Charles took Tory’s arm in his and steered her down two blocks into the dressmaker’s shop where Charles informed the owner that he wanted a morning dress, two additional walking dresses, and three evening gowns for Tory. This appointment went better than Tory’s visit to the ready-wear shop as Tory—to the dressmaker’s initial astonishment and then delight—was able to speak with confidence on current styles and showed herself competent in the selection of fabrics and patterns.
Tory was exhausted when they left the shop, but Charles was not. They next visited a stationer’s where Charles perused card stock and typefaces, while Tory, her new boots pinching her feet, stood by until he had ordered a set of cards with his name on them.
Finally, they stopped for lunch at a local bistro, and the food and calm atmosphere revived Tory’s flagging energy.
Tory could not help but gape at the money Charles was spending. Compared to Miss Defoe, Charles was a wastrel. Tory, however, made no remark on it: Charles knew what he wanted and his word was law. She went along with his demands although, in the back of her mind, she knew that payment on his “investment” would come due soon enough.
That afternoon, Charles hired a cab that drove them to a St. Louis real estate leasing office. As they neared their destination, Charles, perhaps discerning Tory’s thoughts, murmured, “It is important that we present ourselves well when we look at homes, Tory. If you are to be my foster daughter, then you must dress and act the role.”
“I understand, Charles.”
The leasing agent took them to see three houses. Charles selected the second of the three, a two-story townhome on Crescent Street in the heart of St. Louis. He asked Tory’s opinion only after he had made his decision and they were returning to the hotel.
“It is a lovely house, Charles, although it may be much larger than what we need.”
“It is exactly the right size, Tory. Once we have purchased furnishings, engaged a housekeeper, and are suitably established, we shall have many guests. And you shall be my hostess.”
Tory blurted, “Your hostess! Why, I did not know you were acquainted with so many people in St. Louis, Charles.”
His laugh was long and relaxed. “I am acquainted with no one in the city at present, Tory, but that will soon change. Inside of a month, we shall be hosting card games one or two—
no more than two—evenings a week. These will be exclusive games, by invitation only.”
He glanced over to her. “In preparation, we must begin your training. Initially, you will simply make our guests welcome. I will teach you to pour drinks, greet our guests, and see to their comfort. You have the face, manners, and gentility to put our guests at ease, Tory. I wish you to use your Southern charm and grasp of language to create a calm and pleasant experience for our callers.”
“And what will you do, Charles?”
“Me? Oh, I shall engage our guests in friendly poker games and endeavor not to fleece them too close to the bone, or they shall go away indignant—and indignant losers generate problems.”
“Fleece them?”
“Hmm? Oh, yes. I am, as they say, a card sharp. One of the best, if my many marks are to be given credence.”
“Marks? What are they?”
Charles grinned and lit a cigarette. “A mark, Tory, is a patsy, someone easily manipulated, such as a novice poker player. However, I don’t bother with the novices. I prefer the jaded and well-heeled. They have money, they play for high stakes, they lose often, and they come back for more. The wealthy care less about the loss if you have granted them the excitement they crave, if you have alleviated their boredom a little and made their pointless lives more palatable.”
He sobered. “Mixed within the affluent, however, are those whose means have dried up but who keep up the appearance of wealth, carefully hiding their bankrupt state. These men are dangerous. When they play, they are desperate to win, and desperate men are unpredictable. For such as these, a good hand means they return home with a windfall—conversely, an evening of loss may spell an end to their reputation and social standing.”
Tossing his finished cigarette out the window, Charles added, “If you beat such a man, if you embarrass him and deprive him of his standing before his friends, you may be sure he will seek to redress his injury upon you—even when his loss is the fault of his inferior abilities.”
Tory Page 19