Tory

by Vikki Kestell

  Yes, it is cold outside, but I could walk back to the siding. Perhaps the smithy would let me wait with him for the next train?

  Miss Cleary had taken an opulent, high-backed chair for her seat. She watched Tory, a soft smile playing on her lips, her fingers tapping gently against the chair’s arm.

  William, the man who had opened the front door for them, reappeared.

  “Gretl will serve tea directly, Miss Cleary.”

  “Thank you, William.”

  Tory watched William take up a position near the arched doorway to the foyer, his hands folded before him. She had a terrifying apprehension that William was there to prevent her from leaving, should she try. So great were her apprehensions that she had to clench her jaws together to keep her teeth from chattering.

  She stared at the rich carpet under her feet, visualizing the faded verse folded into the secret pocket in her corset: 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.

  Tory shivered all over. I do not know what is happening. I sense such . . . evil—yes, evil!—in this place, and I am so scared!

  “Ah! Here we are.”

  Tory’s head snapped up when Roxanne spoke. A plain, plump young woman, her expression carefully neutral, carried a tea tray into the parlor. She set it on the low table before Miss Cleary’s chair, bobbed a curtsy, and disappeared as quietly as she had appeared.

  “Come take tea with me, Tory.”

  Tory started to seat herself on the couch.

  “Sit here, please.” Miss Cleary indicated a narrow chair next to her, its back to the foyer. To William. Her tone broached no disagreement.

  Tory glanced at the man before she sank onto the chair. She felt her chest would explode, so rapidly was her heart beating.

  Miss Cleary busied herself pouring tea. “Cream or sugar, Tory?”

  Tory licked her dry lips. “Sugar, please.”

  Miss Cleary handed her a cup and saucer. “There now. Isn’t this cozy?” She sipped from her own cup and sighed. “Ah, I did need this. It has been a long day already.”

  Tory tasted her own tea. The hot, familiar sweetness was calming. “A long day already? Is . . . is there more of this day before you?”

  Miss Cleary chuckled over her cup. “Oh, my. Yes, indeed. Our ‘day’ begins in earnest at six o’clock and it is already near three.”

  “Our day?” Again, Tory heard the sound of voices—women’s voices—echoing faintly down the stairs. “Miss Cleary, who else is in the house? Are those guests I hear?”

  “No, Tory. Our guests do not begin arriving until six each evening.”

  Tory swallowed more tea, her hand rattling the cup when she replaced it on the saucer. “Each evening? But I thought you said the guests came for the brisk mountain air? How do they not arrive earlier in the day? And do they not spend the night?”

  “Our clients come up from the city every evening and return in the early morning hours, Tory.”

  Tory did not like the direction of the conversation. She sat her cup and saucer upon the table. “Miss Cleary, I confess that I am uncomfortable—and I have reconsidered my acceptance of your offer. I wish to return to Denver. Now. This evening, in fact, since you assure me that the trains run at night.”

  Miss Cleary finished her tea as if she had not heard Tory. “Tory, I took you to be a discerning young woman, knowledgeable of the ways of the world. Do you not yet understand what this house is? What we do here?”

  Tory stared at Miss Cleary. Fearing her. Loathing her. “I do not care what this house is. I wish to leave, to go back to Denver. Now. Tonight.”

  Miss Cleary smiled a lazy smile. “Ah, Tory. This house and the one ‘next door,’ so to speak, are the most exclusive brothels in all Colorado. We service only the rich and the famous. In this house, our ladies are handsome, cultured, educated, and talented—if you take my meaning. You, my dear, will be a perfect addition to our selection of beauties.”

  Miss Cleary’s words roared in Tory ears; the point of every qualm and reservation crystalized and became clear.

  “Brothel? No. No, I will not!”

  Tory lurched to her feet, disconcerted to feel William’s presence behind her. He placed his hands on her shoulders and pressed her back into the chair. Held her there.

  “Stop that! Let me go!” Tory tried to push his hands off, but William’s fingers were strong, and she could not move them.

  Miss Cleary leaned toward her. “Tory, compose yourself.” It was not a request; it was a command.

  Tory, her eyes wide, fixed them on the woman who was openly mocking her now. Her terror increased.

  “I give my new girls a choice, Tory, always. I will put that choice to you also. You may choose to acquiesce to my expectations of you, or I shall have a few of my men ‘convince’ you to acquiesce.”

  “You want me to become a prostitute?” Tory moved her head back and forth. “No. I will never do that.”

  Miss Cleary stood and slowly inclined her head. “As you wish. William?”

  William looped one arm about Tory’s neck and grasped its wrist with his other hand. He began to squeeze, just enough to cut off Tory’s air.

  Frantic, Tory struggled, but she could not free herself. Her arms flailed, and her fingers scrabbled at his grip and could find no purchase. She kicked out at Miss Cleary, but the woman dodged Tory’s boots and stepped to her side. The room whirled and spun, and darkness encroached. A sharp buzzing grew louder in her head until . . . she passed into darkness.

  “You may take her,” Miss Cleary directed.

  William picked Tory up, slung her over his shoulder, and followed Miss Cleary up the broad staircase and around a corner to a second set of stairs. He carried Tory into a third-floor room at the end of the hall, a room that contained only a narrow bed, a wardrobe, and a small vanity.

  He dropped Tory on the bed.

  “I will send another man to join you, William—but you both know the rules. When she wakes, I want her suitably broken in. However, other than a few bruises, you must not mark her. Not this first time.”

  “I understand, Miss Cleary.”

  “Oh! And be mindful of the time. We have but a few hours until our guests arrive. You will be needed downstairs by dinner time. When you have finished with the girl, dose her with laudanum. I do not wish our guests to be disturbed by her cries or screams.”

  “Yes, Miss Cleary.”

  Chapter 24

  Tory awoke to terror. All around her was darkness except the faint outline of narrow windows across the room. She fought against the weights that held her—until she realized she was hopelessly tangled in harmless sheets and blankets. Eventually, she disentangled herself and turned over—only to slide off the edge of an unfamiliar bed onto the floor.

  Tory had to hold the edge of the bed as she picked herself up. She was weak and unsteady.

  Disoriented.

  Fearful.

  Naked.

  And in pain.

  Where am I? What—

  Like a fearsome wave, the remembrance of what had happened earlier when she woke in this room crashed over her: Two men had taken turns violating her.

  Tory heaved and threw up on the floor. She retched again and again. When her body had purged itself, she fumbled for a corner of a sheet and wiped her mouth.

  She was parched, but she did not care. I must get away from this place!

  Tory staggered toward the dimly outlined windows and found them shrouded in heavy curtains. When she swept one panel aside, sunlight poured into the room. She covered her throbbing eyes until they could bear the brightness.

  Tory gazed on the scene far below her—at high drifts and virgin powder untouched by human foot or conveyance, the sun’s rays glancing off new-fallen snow. She shielded her eyes against the intense light, but everywhere she looked was snow and more snow.

  She then spied other houses, smaller, more in keeping with the mountain hamlet, no
t far away.

  I must be at the top of this house. Third floor? And I have been here longer than I thought, for the night has passed and it is fully morning.

  Then she remembered. They forced me to drink something . . . afterward. They drugged me.

  She listened . . . and heard nothing. Sweeping the rest of the drapes apart, she searched around the room, hoping to find her clothes and boots.

  After I dress, perhaps I can sneak down the stairs and get away.

  Tory saw nothing in the room that belonged to her. She rushed to the high wardrobe and flung open its doors. The lingerie she saw hanging within brought up her gorge. Again, she vomited, although only a little fluid came up.

  Nothing. Not a single stitch of my own clothing in this room—only these . . . trollop garments. Tory ran to the window a second time, gauging the distance to the ground and the depth of the drifts. I do not know what lies beneath the snow. If I dropped naked from this window, would I survive?

  Smoke rose from the chimneys of the little houses so close but inaccessible. Would the people take me in? Would they believe me?

  Tory heard voices outside her door and froze.

  “She’s awake, Miss Cleary. I hear her moving around.”

  A man—a guard—had been outside her door all along.

  I am a prisoner!

  The door opened. Tory grabbed at a drape and wrapped it about her.

  Miss Cleary entered. Behind her were two men—Darrow and another she did not recognize.

  “Ah, I see you are up, Tory. The rest of the girls are still abed, of course, and I hope we can allow them their sleep. They work hard each evening and must have their rest for their labors tonight.”

  Tory clung to the drape and did not answer, but Miss Cleary advanced toward her. The two men followed her.

  Miss Cleary arranged her skirts to sit on the only chair in the room, a tiny seat in front of the room’s vanity. She clasped her hands over her knees. “As I said yesterday, Tory, I operate two houses here in Corinth, two houses with distinctly different purposes to service our clients’ varying needs.”

  She indicated the house they were in. “We proudly advertise this house as the ‘Corinth Gentlemen’s Club,’ the more exclusive of my employer’s houses. Nothing in Denver compares to the Corinth Gentlemen’s Club, I assure you.

  “We generally bring new girls to our “lower” house where our guests pay a high price for the experience of, shall we say, a younger girl. These girls are not talented, merely innocent. I assumed that you, as a more independent and womanly acquisition, could begin here where culture and accomplishments are our stock in trade.

  “Last evening, in the most glowing of terms, I announced your addition to our stable of girls. You should have witnessed the enthusiasm! I described you as tall, graceful, and as regal as an African princess, accomplished, and fluent in French and Italian. You created quite a stir, I assure you.”

  She arched her brows at Tory. “This evening, I expect you to dress in the clothes I shall supply you, join the rest of the house for dinner, and present yourself in the parlor as our guests arrive. Several of our gentlemen have already reserved you.”

  “No.”

  Miss Cleary looked at her hands. “I understand your reticence; however, you seem like a level-headed young woman, Tory, able to grasp life as it is, rather than how you may wish it. Therefore, I must speak plainly. I do not know how to convey to you otherwise the gravity of this moment—this single choice—in terms you will both understand and, if you have the good sense I believe you have, will yield to. I can but do my best.”

  Miss Cleary crooked her finger. The two men stepped forward. Tory saw their repressed excitement.

  “This is how it works, Tory. Last evening, I gave you to Michael and Thomas. I’m certain you remember the experience? Ah, I see that you do. We often break in our new girls in such a manner—but, aside from having their way with you, I did not permit Michael and Thomas to harm you. However, that is not how we will go on.

  “At our club, we pride ourselves in providing the best girls money can buy—only the most beautiful and gifted conversationalists and musicians. This is where I attempt to convince you to join our merry band—or, if I fail, I allow these gentlemen to try their hand and their . . . convincing measures.”

  Tory’s glance flicked from her to Darrow and his companion. Darrow’s small, piggy eyes gleamed with appreciative avarice.

  “Yes, that is right, Tory. You must decide now to accede to my wishes. If you do not, I will give you to Darrow and Jingo.” Miss Cleary’s eyes narrowed. “I really prefer not to resort to such barbaric measures, but they have my leave to enjoy themselves with you until they tire of you, and to employ their fists anywhere on your body they like—except your face. Unless necessary, we do not like to mar our girls’ faces, do we, gentlemen?”

  “No, ma’am,” Darrow whispered. “Unless necessary.”

  “So, what will it be, Tory? You choose. A half-dozen well-mannered gentlemen this evening? Or Darrow and Jingo and whatever punishments they wish to dole out?”

  Tory closed her eyes and saw the futility of her situation. Nothing could save her from what Miss Cleary described. Nothing.

  Tory turned further inward. She pictured her mother before Bastiann Declouette; she saw Adeline capitulating to him—but only after Bastiann had threatened to violate her daughter.

  Me. You were willing to forfeit yourself in this way for me, Maman, to protect me. I shall not lightly throw away what you were willing to sacrifice yourself to save. I will not give in to this woman and her threats. These men may break me, but I will not make it easy for them.

  Her words quavering, giving lie to the decision of her will, Tory said quietly, “I will not be a whore for you.”

  Miss Cleary tilted her head, considering Tory. “I thought as much.”

  To Darrow and Jingo, she said, “I believe Tory to have exceptional strength of character. Rather than prolong her rebellion, I will forego my usual restrictions. You have my leave to use whatever means are necessary to force her capitulation.”

  “Yes, ma’am!”

  Darrow’s eager grin elicited a sharp rebuke. “I warn you, Mr. Darrow: Do not break any bones. She must heal and be ready to work five to seven days from now.”

  She stood, sighing. “As it is, I shall have several disappointed clients this evening.”

  “THERE, THERE. DO NOT struggle so, Tory.”

  The soft voice belonged to a young girl, not Miss Cleary. Tory moaned as a cold cloth dabbed at her mouth.

  “I know it hurts, but I must clean it. I shall be as gentle as I can be.”

  Tory tried to open her eyes. She commanded her eyelids to rise, but one of them refused to respond; the other lifted only a little, affording Tory but a cloudy glimpse of the person who tended her.

  A lamp near the bed glowed with low light, and a girl with a wealth of honey-brown hair soaked a rag in a basin. When she turned, Tory again recoiled.

  “I promise not to intentionally hurt you, Tory, but I must get you cleaned up.”

  The girl hesitated, and Tory thought she frowned. “The blood has dried and crusted. It would be painful for me to keep dabbing at or rubbing your wounds, so I am going to place this wet cloth on your face and allow it to soften the dried blood.”

  She laid the cold rag across Tory’s face. At first it stung like fire, but soon the cloth’s coolness seeped into Tory’s skin, soothing her. Without meaning to, Tory drifted off to sleep. She woke a while later when the cloth was lifted.

  “Much better, I think. I’ll try sponging you with a bit of warm water now.”

  She returned with a warm cloth. “I am Helen, by the way. Helen Hawthorne.”

  She washed Tory’s face, rinsing the rag many times, before applying an ointment. Tory kept her eyes closed and her body immobile. Her mind kept replaying what Darrow and Jingo had done to her—in addition to the hitting, slapping, and pinching—and she was afraid to move
her body, was repulsed to acknowledge how they had used her. Had owned her.

  She had never felt such deep shame.

  “Tory, I must bathe the rest of you, now,” Helen whispered.

  “No . . . No, please . . .”

  “I-I am so sorry, but Miss Cleary insists that I . . . clean you.”

  Another choice removed.

  To escape the backdrop of last night’s horror and the present invasion of her privacy, Tory willed herself to drift away. She returned to Sugar Tree, to the grassy orchard and the distant, shimmering river. She wandered toward the scent of lilacs and the sounds of Sassy singing to herself while frying catfish on the old cookstove.

  Tory cried out as the pain jerked her back to reality.

  “I am so sorry, Tory. You are torn; it will hurt until you heal.”

  Tory heard something in Helen’s apology. She opened the one eye that would obey her. Yes, tears stood in Helen’s eyes, even as she finished her ministrations and lifted the sheet to cover Tory.

  Helen swiped away her tears. “I must get some food and water in you now. I have water and a bit of soup here. It is all Miss Cleary will allow you . . . until you join us at the table.” She held a glass to Tory’s mouth.

  When the precious liquid reached Tory’s throat, she coughed and choked. Helen lifted her up to sitting and held the glass to her lips again. Tory drank it all.

  “More, please.”

  She downed another full glass. “More.”

  “I am sorry. You are not allowed any more. Take a spoonful of broth, instead.”

  Tory did, but the salt in the soup stung where fists had struck, cutting the inside of her mouth against her teeth. She refused more.

  “I will come back later, Tory. Please rest now.”

  Helen placed her hand on Tory’s forehead and caressed her. Tory focused on the gentle touch of the girl’s fingers until she slept again.

  When she awoke, she heard low, feminine voices prattling softly, and the swish of dress and footstep as they passed her door. Although her head pounded, she forced her eyes to open.