Soon Maman will call me back to my lessons, Tory imagined. I must wash my face at the pump so Maman does not know I have been running in the orchard.
After I finish my lessons, Sassy will make little strawberry tarts and Maman and I will take our tea in the parlor. We will smile and sip our tea, and I will savor the one bite of tart Maman allows me.
She could hear Adeline’s sweet voice, and even feel her smooth, ebony skin beneath her fingertips. A Southern woman curtails her appetite, her mère murmured. She must not allow her figure to suffer from overindulgence.
Oui, Maman.
After a while, Tory slept.
IT WAS THE HOUSEKEEPER, not Tory, who found Charles tied to a chair in the morning. He had passed the long night in transitory self-flagellation, followed by planning his next moves while waiting for Tory to come down and loose him, then fearing for her life when he heard no sounds from the second floor as the night passed.
“Do not bother with the knots, Mrs. Frye; they are too tight for your fingers to undo. Fetch a sharp knife from the kitchen.”
The frightened woman did as Charles demanded. When she had freed him, he sent her home.
Dreading what he would find on the second floor, Charles stretched out his stiff muscles and mounted the stairs. Tory’s bedroom door hung askew; the pieces of a chair lay scattered on the planks and carpet of her room.
Tory’s form, unclothed and motionless, lay amid the tangled bedclothes.
He crept closer. “Tory?”
Nothing.
“Tory?”
Was that breath? Did she stir?
Tory awoke gradually and shivered with cold. She blinked as Charles pulled the coverlet over her body. “Charles?”
“Yes, my dear, I am here. Are you . . . are you all right, Tory?”
Tory struggled to sit up, and she winced in pain—the horror of the previous night flooding back. “No! No! That man! Is he gone?”
Charles nodded. “Yes, but . . . Tory, I fear we must leave St. Louis. Today. We must make haste to pack what we wish to take with us.
Tory’s eyes focused on Charles. “Leave? With you?” Anger and abhorrence filled her. “This is your fault, Charles. All of it. Your pride and ego. You broke your own rules—and I have paid the price!”
Charles backed away and folded his arms. Tory watched coldness settle on his expression. “Be it as you say, Tory, my culpability does not change the urgency of our situation. We have until this evening to leave St. Louis. Waring and Drake will send a gang of thugs to check on us; if they find us here, what we suffered last night will be repeated—or worse.”
“What we suffered?”
Charles, an expression of regret on his face, looked away for a long moment before he replied. “I will set water to heat on the kitchen stove, Tory. I urge you to get up and bathe. Afterward, you must pack. Take whatever you like. You may go with me or you may do as you please. I leave it to you to choose.”
He paused at her door. “I intend to sell the car and whatever else I can liquidate this afternoon and take a cab from here to the station to catch the 4:30 westbound train. Waring and Drake stole a portion of my capital, but I have enough hidden away to reestablish us elsewhere. If you decide to come with me, be ready to leave no later than three o’clock.”
Tory lay back down, her head spinning, her body aching. She could make no decisions, and the bed seemed to weigh her down, to press in on her aching body.
Forty minutes later, Charles reappeared. “Your bath is ready, Tory.”
When Tory did not respond, he pulled back the coverlet, exposing her nakedness to the cool air in her room. He grimaced at the sight of her bruises, then said, “Come, now. Let me help you up.”
At first Tory fought him, but she tired quickly, and Charles was insistent. He helped her into her robe, then down the stairs to the kitchen where a steaming tub waited.
“I am leaving the house for an hour or two, so take your leisure—but bear in mind that the clock is ticking. Oh, and you will not be disturbed. I have given Mrs. Frye the day off. She will not return until tomorrow—when she does, she will find us gone.”
Only when Tory heard the front door close and lock behind him did she move. Before she felt safe enough to disrobe, she checked the back door. It, too, was locked, but she unlocked and relocked it, twisting the knob to be certain.
She looked around the kitchen and at the steaming tub, wondering why, after three years in this house, every detail seemed strange. Unfamiliar. Foreign.
Finally, she dropped her robe, stepped into the tub, and sank down into the comforting warmth—only to cry out when the heat touched where she was torn.
So. I am a woman now. Soiled. Isn’t that what they call a woman who has been ruined?
Tory cleaned herself as best she could, then simply soaked and nodded, falling back into a numb somnambulistic state.
Maman.
Maman?
THE CHILL OF THE WATER as it cooled roused Tory. Struggling through stiffness and pain, she forced herself to climb out, towel off, and put her robe back on. She hurt as she climbed the steep staircase. Once in her room, Tory was tempted to crawl under the covers and fall into the deep sleep that pulled at her.
Charles’ warning about the men Waring would send at nightfall made her resist the pull. She grew anxious. I must pack. Leave. Go, before more men come. But go where? Where can I go where I will be safe?
Suddenly frantic, Tory searched through her discarded clothing, the dress and underthings Drake had torn from her the night before. When she found her corset, she clasped it to herself, and felt for the secret pocket where she kept her locket.
It was there, safe.
I must dress, must put on my corset to hide and keep my treasure, she told herself.
The corset’s ties were broken, and one whalebone stay had snapped in two. Tory opened her sewing kit, took up a pair of sharp shears, and made a slit in the corset. She pulled out the broken stay, then stitched the torn ties together.
“They may never again pull smoothly, but they must do until I can replace them,” she whispered.
She patted the secret pocket once more and began to hook herself into the corset, when a crumpled scrap of paper on the floor caught her eye. She stooped and picked it up. It was the pamphlet the pale-faced girl had given her.
Her eyes fell on the wrinkled print.
For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, saith the Lord, thoughts of peace, and not of evil, to give you an expected end. Then shall ye call upon me, and ye shall go and pray unto me, and I will hearken unto you. And ye shall seek me, and find me, when ye shall search for me with all your heart.
Thoughts of peace? Again, the panic struck her. Where can I go? Where can I hide? What if . . . what if I conceive a child? Her last thought almost undid the last remnants of her control. Everything about the passage jangled and warred against her present state of mind and body. But something also called to her.
And ye shall seek me, and find me, when ye shall search for me with all your heart.
Without understanding why she did so, Tory grabbed up her scissors and roughly cut out the passage. She folded it in quarters and, unhooking her corset and unbuttoning her locket’s hiding place, tucked it inside with her locket. By dint of sheer determination, Tory finished dressing and turned to fixing her disheveled hair.
Looking in the mirror, she marveled that she looked no different than she had the night before as she had prepared for the evening’s party. How could she look no different when so much had changed and could never be mended? She pondered the strange phenomenon.
I may look the same, but I see the stain upon my heart. I wonder . . . can anyone else see it?
When she was dressed, she sat on her bed and took inventory of her room.
I must leave here in a matter of hours. I have no money, no friends, no means of travel, no place to go—and Charles demands that I pack?
Rain pattered on the windows, reminding T
ory that it was winter. A harsher reality forced itself on her.
I have nowhere to go where I would not freeze within hours, let alone days. As much as I loathe him, I must, for now, continue on with Charles.
Resigned, Tory placed an open suitcase on the bed. She laid her cloak, warm gloves, and umbrella on the bed beside the open case. A small trunk waited by her wardrobe. Considering what she needed most, she began to pack.
WHEN CHARLES RETURNED, more than three hours later, he found her waiting at the foot of the stairs, her suitcase and trunk ready by the door.
“Have you decided to come with me?”
Tory stirred herself, but did not look at him. “For now.”
He nodded. “I have sold the motorcar, collected my funds, and bought our tickets.”
“You knew I would come with you?”
He hesitated before answering. “I hoped you would.”
Tory chuckled without mirth. “Why? Where are we going?”
“I thought Denver. A fresh start.”
When Tory only nodded and did not comment, he added, “I will give up gambling, Tory. Turn over a new leaf. I have enough saved to open a business or, perhaps, buy one. We shall be respectable, you and I.”
Respectable? Not I.
She frowned. “You have that much money, even after . . .” Tory did not finish.
“They took my strong box but, as I’ve often said, I never keep all my eggs in one basket.”
Tory sighed. “Denver?”
Charles assumed his usual manner. “Yes. I must pack now. The cab will be here in thirty minutes.”
He left her with her own thoughts.
Part 3:
Denver, Colorado
Chapter 20
January 1907
Charles and Tory arrived in Denver near noon, two days later. During their journey, Tory had said little, and Charles had not attempted to draw her into conversation. They traveled together but, in spirit, had sat far apart.
As they were steaming into Denver’s Union Station, Charles turned toward Tory. “We will find a respectable boarding house to begin with while I scout the city for a business opportunity. When I begin to see some return on my investment, we shall seek a more permanent residence.”
He hesitated before speaking again. “I comprehend the grave offense I have caused you, Tory. I do not fault you for holding it against me. However, if we are to continue on together, we should come to some sort of resolution.” He sighed. “The silence between us is discouraging.”
Tory looked the other way. She could scarcely abide Charles, but she, too, understood—from a practical standpoint—that she had to come to terms with her anger. “I shall look for work in Denver.”
“What would you do?”
“I was a fair seamstress; I can become adept with a needle or a machine again.”
“Such hard, ordinary work seems . . . beneath you.”
She lifted her chin. “I would like to earn my own money and become independent.”
Charles nodded, hesitated, then said, “I care about you, Tory, and I am crushed that my choices have hurt you. If I could have stopped . . . if I could have prevented Drake from doing . . . what he did to you, I would have done so. I . . . I would give my life to change what happened.”
Tory stared at her gloved hands, not convinced that she believed Charles, uncertain if she could ever trust him again.
Charles choked on his next words. “Tory, you . . . you have grown dear to me these last three years, as though you truly were my daughter. Please . . . please let me take care of you.”
Tory still did not answer, but she bobbed her head once, if only slightly.
The train came to a jarring stop, and they disembarked to find a much colder winter than what they had experienced in St. Louis. Tory wrapped her cloak about her body to ward off the freezing wind.
“Go inside the terminal, Tory. I will fetch our bags and your trunk.”
Tory heeded Charles and walked directly into the station where, at least, she was out of the wind. Thinking to be of use, she approached a ticket counter. “Pardon me. Could you suggest any clean, respectable boarding houses in the city?”
The ticket man took her measure. “Least expensive but still respectable is the Greenbriar or, if you can afford it, perhaps the Broadmoor Hotel would suit you. Both rent by the week or the month.” Without being asked, the man cited the cross streets for both establishments.
Tory took a pencil from her handbag and, on the back of her ticket wrote “Greenbriar” and “Broadmoor” and their locations.
“Thank you. You have been most kind.”
“Welcome to Denver, miss.”
When Charles found her, she had asked a porter, a conductor, and a woman selling hot coffee their opinions of both places.
“The consensus was that the Broadmoor is cleaner and the food better,” Tory reported. “Also, it is located on the edge of the shopping district.”
“The Broadmoor it is, then.” Charles was pleased that Tory had taken some initiative; he was more pleased that she was speaking to him. It portended, he hoped, a healing of their relationship.
The Broadmoor, a four-story brick edifice with two wings, had small suites available, each with a sitting room and two adjacent bedrooms. Although the rooms were clean, as reported, the establishment had fallen upon lean times. It was evident why the Broadmoor had devolved from a first-class hotel to boarding house: The carpets were worn, the furnishings well used, and the mattresses thin.
After viewing the available suites and choosing one, Charles and Tory returned to the front desk to pay for a month’s lodging.
“Good afternoon.” Charles looked at the clerk’s gold-plated name tag. “Miss Visser, is it?”
“Yes. Mr. Visser is the hotel manager; I am Mr. Visser’s sister.”
Tory studied Miss Visser. The woman, perhaps in her late thirties, was lean and angular. Why, everything about this woman is sharp-edged, Tory thought, her chin, her nose, her eyes—even her voice.
“My name is Charles Luchetti. I should like to take Suite 109 for a month, please.”
Miss Visser looked from Charles to Tory.
“May I present my foster daughter, Victoria?”
Miss Visser’s mouth thinned and she lifted her pointy chin. It was apparent that she did not believe Charles. “One key, then?”
“No, two, if you please.”
She handed him his key and placed Tory’s key on the counter. “Dinner at six, Mr. Luchetti, Miss Luchetti.”
“It is Miss Washington,” Tory murmured.
One side of Miss Visser’s mouth lifted, but she did not acknowledge Tory’s correction.
Charles handed Tory her key. “Thank you kindly.” He gestured for the bellman to gather their luggage, then took Tory’s elbow and steered her toward their suite.
Tory waited until the door closed behind the bellman to comment. Charles had begun unpacking, hanging his suits in the wardrobe.
“Miss Visser has the wrong impression about us, Charles.”
“That is her misfortune.” Changing the topic, he added, “I suggest we dress down a little for dinner. The hotel’s clientele is, perhaps, not up to our St. Louis standards—and we do not wish to offend or stand out.”
At dinner, they were seated at their own little table and discovered the food to be passable, their fellow diners respectable and cordial—and a little nosy. As other boarders approached their table, they welcomed and scrutinized Charles and Tory in equal parts.
With each introduction, Charles answered, “A pleasure to meet you. I am Charles Luchetti; this is my foster daughter, Victoria Washington. We have just arrived in Denver.” If their dinner companions asked after the reason for Charles and Tory’s move to the city, Charles’ answer never varied. “We are looking to settle here and are in search of an investment opportunity. A business, perhaps.”
Most of their dining companions made their living in the city; some were clerks; one was a
teacher, another an accountant. One gentleman was a supervisor for the railroad. It became clear to Charles that none of their fellow boarders were entrepreneurial in nature.
“I shall have to move in other circles to catch wind of the type of prospect we seek.”
“How? What other circles?”
Charles shrugged. “I know of but one means of rubbing shoulders with successful businessmen.”
“You said you would give up gambling, Charles.”
“I can visit gaming houses and attend card parties without playing.”
Tory flushed. “And a fish can sit in a stream without swimming.”
“A fish that does not swim soon turns belly up. We cannot live forever without an income, Tory. I have the means of buying into the right venture, but such an opportunity will not drop into my lap. I must seek one out.”
Tory pressed her lips together. And I, too, must find employment, Charles, so that I can, at some point, separate my life from yours.
That afternoon and the following, Charles and Tory strolled the streets of Denver, acquainting themselves with the city’s municipal and cultural centers and its various districts. Charles purchased newspapers and perused the financial sections; Tory searched the employment advertisements.
As they finished breakfast, four days into their stay at the Broadmoor, the hotel manager, George Visser, came alongside their table.
“Good morning, Miss Washington, Mr. Luchetti. I hope I find you both in good health and spirits this morning?”
“You do,” Charles answered, dabbing the napkin to his lips.
“I am pleased to hear it. Mr. Luchetti, might I have a word with you when you have finished your meal? At your leisure, sir. Do not rush on my account.”
Tory looked at Charles. “I shall be fine. I believe I shall make some inquiries as to local dress shops.”
He nodded to Visser. “Shall we say, in fifteen minutes?”
“Excellent. You will find me in my office.”
When Tory and Charles concluded their breakfasts, Tory went to their suite to collect her cloak, hat, and gloves. Charles went to the manager’s office.
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