Tory

by Vikki Kestell

  The nearby lamp still burned, and Tory could see enough to make out the furnishings. She needed to use the room’s chamber pot most desperately, so she sat up, groaning as she did. Her fingers explored tender places on her chest, stomach, and legs, knowing they were bruised, remembering the blows that had inflicted so much agony.

  Eventually, Tory swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood. When she had relieved herself, she checked the door to her room: locked from the outside.

  She crawled back into the bed. Her mind drifted. She was back at the Broadmoor, choosing wallpaper for the grand suite, discussing carpet with Charles and—

  Charles.

  Charles had deceived her. He had betrayed her trust, had knowingly sent her to this hellhole. She wondered how it was that he could go to such lengths—and such depths—to rid himself of her . . . simply to please Belinda Holmes, all to save himself and his precious hotel.

  Tears leaked from under Tory’s swollen lids. “I trusted you. You said you cared for me like a father cares for a daughter, Charles, but you lied.”

  HELEN RETURNED HOURS later in the still-dark hours of morning to bring Tory a little more water and help her to the chamber pot. “I must go to my room and sleep now, but I have left a half-filled glass for you on the table. Please try to rest more, Tory.”

  Tory’s mouth was sore and her tongue was thick, but she spoke anyway. “Th-thank you for . . . kindness.”

  Helen took Tory’s hand. “It was not that long ago that I was the one lying in that bed, Tory. I am grieved you have come to this . . . place. I know what they did to you. All I can say is that if you set your mind to survive here, you can do it.”

  Tory managed to shake her head. “No. Want . . . die.”

  Helen bowed her head. “I understand. It would be a mercy.”

  It would be a mercy.

  Helen’s words repeated in Tory’s mind, even as dreamless sleep sucked her down into insensibility.

  TORY WOKE AGAIN TO the stirring of the house, girls’ whispers, shuffling feet, creaking floors, and closing doors. The door to her room opened. Helen peeked in.

  “You are awake? Good. Miss Cleary has directed me to tend you as soon as breakfast is over. I will be back shortly.”

  A while later, Helen returned with a tray. She again washed Tory’s wounds and applied ointment. Then she offered Tory a spoonful of broth.

  The salty bouillon still stung the inside of Tory’s mouth, but Tory sucked it down. Helen handed Tory the cup and spoon to feed herself. She was ravenous and drank down the broth in moments.

  Helen saw the hunger for more in Tory’s eyes. “I need to tell you something, Tory.”

  Wary, Tory waited.

  “I need to tell you . . . that this place has rules. Strict rules. When we break a rule—any rule—the punishment is . . . severe.”

  Tory watched Helen’s face, noting the sorrow and compassion on it.

  “You are recovering from your first beating, but they will not hesitate to beat you again—any and every time you defy Miss Cleary or break a rule. This, what I am doing for you? Every girl here is, eventually, required to do the same for another new girl. I am helping you, but I am also ‘putting you in the know,’ apprising you of Miss Cleary’s rules.

  “One of her rules is that a girl who does not work, does not eat. You will receive nothing more than water and a twice-daily dish of broth until you begin to work for Miss Cleary. That is how she controls us: She withholds food and water, and she directs Darrow and his men to beat us and . . . use us.”

  Helen sighed. “When Miss Cleary speaks, the only acceptable answer is, ‘Yes, Miss Cleary.’ If we talk back, if we refuse, if we exhibit a ‘bad’ attitude? We are punished. We are not permitted to call her ‘Roxanne’—although behind her back we often do. We are careful with our little rebellions, Tory, for if we are caught mocking her, we are punished.

  “When you are nearly recovered and are entirely hungry, Miss Cleary will call you to her office. One of us girls will help you undress before her. She will examine you and determine whether you are well enough to work.”

  Helen gathered the rags and empty dishes onto the tray. “Miss Cleary has certain expectations of her girls: We must always be cheerful and willing, and we must not complain. The cardinal rule, the law above all others? We must never create a scene before our guests. Those who do so disappear, Tory. They are taken away immediately. We never see them again.”

  Tory began to tremble, then shake, and Helen clasped her hand.

  “Listen to me, Tory. Your bruises will fade. In a few days, Miss Cleary will call you to her office.” Taking a deep breath, Helen added, “Now that you understand the rules and the consequences of defying them, you need to consider carefully what your response to Miss Cleary will be.”

  Tory’s breath was moving in and out so quickly that Helen squeezed her hand. Hard.

  “Be careful, Tory. I do not want to see you hurt again.”

  With that, Helen picked up the tray and left.

  Faint from her rapid, shallow breaths, Tory stared at the walls.

  O God, if you exist? O God . . . I am calling on you. Please help me.

  THREE AFTERNOONS LATER, Tory stood stiff and mistrustful before Miss Cleary. A girl who said her name was Sarah had helped Tory into a robe and led her downstairs to Miss Cleary’s office. Sarah stood by in passive silence while Miss Cleary examined Tory’s naked body. Then, at the wave of Miss Cleary’s hand, Sarah departed, as silent as she had arrived.

  “You may don your robe, Tory. But tell me, how do you feel today?”

  Tory managed to croak, “Better.”

  “Your bruises are quite faded now. Have you thought of what we discussed when you first arrived? Are you prepared to go to work this evening?”

  Tory did not answer, but all the moisture in her mouth dried at the recollection of what Miss Cleary expected of her. She tried to swallow and began coughing.

  “Dear me. Do take a little water, Tory.” Miss Cleary stood and poured water from a crystal decanter into a glass. She put her arm about Tory and held the glass to Tory’s mouth.

  “Sip it. That’s it. You have had a terrible time; you must be parched—and famished, too.”

  Tory was famished, something Miss Cleary knew full well. She had allowed Tory nothing in five days except a single cup of broth, morning and evening, and limited water.

  While Tory obeyed Miss Cleary’s injunction to sip at the glass the woman held, Tory was determining whether or not she could kill the woman. I am taller and likely stronger than she is; if I grabbed the decanter, I could strike her over the head and . . .

  Tory could not get past “strike her over the head” for, in her mind, she continued to strike Miss Cleary—again and again and again and again. She did not realize she had gone still, her eyes fixed on the heavy decanter.

  “You must not entertain such thoughts, Tory. Why, even if you were to succeed in harming me, do you know how many men surround this house? Do you comprehend what they would do—will do—to you should you attempt to run?”

  Tory shifted her gaze to Miss Cleary’s face. “I will not do what you ask,” she whispered.

  Miss Cleary sighed. “It distresses me to hear this, Tory.” She returned to her desk and reached for the nearby silver bell. Her hand hovered just above it. “Shall I ring for Darrow and his men to escort you back upstairs?”

  Tory felt her determination crumble. “No!” In a smaller voice she pleaded, “No, please do not.”

  “Then will you agree to dress for the evening and take up your responsibilities? Will you do this, or shall I ring for Darrow?”

  “No—I mean . . . yes.” Tory sobbed, just once. “Yes, I will . . . dress for the evening.”

  “And take up your responsibilities? I really must hear you submit to me, Tory.”

  “Yes . . . I will take up my . . . my responsibilities.”

  “Good. Now, be aware: Darrow will be your shadow this evening. If
he perceives any but the most pleasing of behaviors, he will escort you from the room. However, if you charm our guests—as I am persuaded you are capable of doing—we shall have no difficulties and you will discover that life here is not terribly strenuous.”

  Miss Cleary folded her hands. “Our daily schedule begins thusly: My girls rise at ten each morning, partake of breakfast in the dining room, and perform their daily chores. I assign chores according to what must be done and who is best suited. Later, we have dinner and receive our guests.”

  She glanced at the clock on her desk. “Ah. It is half past three o’clock now. Dinner is at five; our guests begin arriving at six. You may go now to attend to your dress and appearance.”

  “Miss Cleary?” Tory had to know. She had to know if Charles had knowingly sent her to this place, to suffer a life of humiliation and shame. She had to know if, after all they had weathered together, he had chosen to sell her into slavery.

  “Yes, Tory?”

  “I wish to know, that is, could you tell me if . . . if Charles knew?”

  The woman studied her. “Did Mr. Luchetti know who I was and what sort of ‘employment’ I was offering you?”

  Tory blinked away tears of betrayal. “Yes. Did he . . . did he . . .”

  Miss Cleary laughed softly. “No. Mr. Luchetti may be a fool, but he is innocent of that charge.”

  “But then, who? How?”

  “Ah! Now, that is the right question! You wish to know whom to spend your nights hating? Is that what you are asking?”

  Tory stared at her. “Yes.”

  Miss Cleary laughed again. “I apologize, but this truly is delicious, and I must explain. You see, my dear, at one time, some years ago now, a friend and I shared a room. It was a dirty little room, but it was all we could afford working together in a factory as we were.

  “We were young and grew weary of the squalid life, and I suggested that we were suited to much better things. Soon, we began ‘working’ on the side, shall we say, at a different, more lucrative sort of job. Oh, I had the aptitude and ambition for it, but my friend, I fear, did not. When her brother’s wife died unexpectedly, she moved in with him, but we kept in touch, even after I took up my position here in Corinth.”

  “You . . . are you describing Miss Visser?”

  “You are insightful, Tory. My friend was Trudy Visser. She dislikes you, you know. You are beautiful, regal, and intelligent and, above all, you were a woman—and a black woman at that—in a man’s world doing a man’s job with authority and independence. I believe Trudy aspires to such independence.

  “When the wealthy Miss Holmes arrived in Denver and set her cap on your Charles, Trudy saw an opportunity. You see, you were quite the impediment to Miss Holmes’ aspirations, Tory. It seems Miss Holmes saw how Charles doted on you, but she desired all of Charles’ attentions and affections. She wanted control of the hotel, too, and knew that as Charles’ ally, you would withstand her. Oh, and yes—she could not abide the thought of a ‘family’ connection with someone of your inferior blood.”

  Tory’s mouth opened as the pieces joined together.

  “When Miss Holmes and Trudy realized they shared a common enemy—you—they became friends and confidants. Trudy suggested that I might have use for you, and dear, sweet, genteel little Belinda absolutely adored the idea.”

  Tory swore under her breath, using words she had heard Charles and his poker guests use when they forgot she was within earshot.

  Miss Cleary’s eyes glittered. “I did not agree to their scheme for the benefit of Miss Holmes, Tory. I did it for my old friend, Trudy. Miss Holmes has promised her your position in the hotel—to be advised and guided by Miss Holmes, of course, and by her impeccable élan.”

  Miss Cleary gave full voice to her laughter then. “I thought the décor of the Broadmoor’s lobby to be exquisite—you have flawless taste, Tory. Sadly, I predict that, within the year, the Broadmoor will succumb to gold-painted furnishings and velveteen-flocked wallpaper. Really, it is too bad.”

  The ring of Miss Cleary’s little bell startled Tory from her shock. Darrow entered the room.

  “Darrow, Miss Tory will be joining us this evening. Please escort her to her new room so she may attend to her toilet. And send Helen to her to give her instructions.”

  Darrow showed Tory to a different room on the third floor. The room was narrow—as though the framers had built as many bedrooms onto the floor as space would allow—but the room was decorated much like the parlor—beautiful furniture, carpets, draperies, and bed linens. Helen arrived soon after.

  “This is your room now,” she said. “This is where you will entertain guests and sleep. When the evening ends, Darrow will give us a signal and we retire to our rooms. We are not permitted to leave our rooms until ten o’clock the following morning. They lock our doors after the club closes, in any event.”

  “Helen, I brought luggage with me when I came here. What became of my bag and trunk? Where are my things?”

  “I am sorry, Tory. Miss Cleary does not allow us to have personal possessions unless we earn them.”

  “But, do you know where my clothes are?”

  Helen chewed a nail. “I might—but I cannot bring them to you. You must understand, Tory. It would break a rule.”

  “I am only looking for one thing, Helen, something small but precious to me. It is . . . it is hidden in the corset I was wearing.”

  “Darrow and Jingo ruined that corset when they . . . you know. It may be in the scrap bag in the sewing room. We toss useful bits, such as buttons and stays, into the bag to replace ours when they break.”

  Tory’s eyes implored Helen. “Can you . . . is there any way to retrieve it?”

  Helen studied Tory for a long moment. “Come with me. And be quick about it.”

  She led Tory down a back flight of stairs to a small room on the second floor. Tory saw a sewing machine against one wall.

  “Here is the scrap bag. Hurry.”

  The bag was deep and filled. Tory pawed through torn garments; she pressed and felt the folds of fabric, searching for whalebone stays.

  “Hurry, Tory!”

  Tory’s fingers found the hard stays and pulled them toward her. “I have it.” She undid the button on the hidden pocket and withdrew the locket. She nearly left the scrap of paper. At the last instant, she took it with her.

  “Come on, Tory. We must wash and dress now.”

  Tory returned to her room and slipped the locket and bit of paper under her mattress. I will find a better place to hide Maman’s picture soon. Then she turned herself to the unhappy task of preparing for the night ahead.

  A FEW HOURS LATER, Tory stood in a corner of the parlor, surrounded by gentlemen who flattered her and, without disguising their lust, competed for her attention and time. Darrow was not far away, his piggy eyes daring Tory to fail.

  “I understand that you and I have an engagement, Miss Tory,” one portly man declared. He grinned around at the other guests, openly flaunting his victory. “Shall we withdraw upstairs?”

  Tory nearly panicked, but one glance at Darrow returned her attention to the man who held out his hand to her. “Of course, Tobias. It is Tobias, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Quite right, my dear!”

  Her heart failing her, Tory led the way.

  Chapter 25

  Nights of agony dragged by. The “club” was closed only on Mondays, meaning the girls worked long hours, six nights a week. They had no time of their own and no interests of their own, for when they were not working or sleeping, Roxanne kept them busy. Roxanne stripped “her girls” of every vestige of freedom.

  Tory had expected to feel guilt, indignation, humiliation, rage, and disgust, and she had—initially—but soon, she felt nothing. She moved through the evenings, smiling, conversing, “flirting,” and “performing” in a deadened state, her emotions insensate and unresponsive. She did what she was told with a heart as frozen as an icefield—except when she pulled her locket fro
m beneath her mattress and stared into her mother’s loving eyes.

  What she felt then was anxiety. Her locket was her sole connection with her past life, who she really was. She fretted over the locket, worried that someone would discover it—and her mother’s irreplaceable photo—under her mattress. She understood that the discovery would result in the loss of both locket and photograph and some sort of punishment, and Tory did not relish additional punishment.

  She agonized over where to best hide the locket: If she sewed it into the risqué corset she had been given, a guest might feel the slight lump of it and ask what it was, even ask to see it, and then mention it to Roxanne Cleary. In addition, where would she hide the locket when she laundered her corset?

  Weighing her limited options, Tory chose what she felt was the safest course of action. Since the girls slept during the first morning hours, all the bedrooms had thick, darkening drapes. Tory stole a straight pin from the sewing room and picked open a seam in the corner hem of a heavy panel. The panel hung nearest the wall and was least often handled. She inserted the locket into the hem and, with the pin, closed it up.

  She was content most days to know the locket was safe. She drew it out only in those darkest hours when despair raised its ugly head and she contemplated ending her life. She would gaze at the picture, close her eyes, and feel her mother’s touch, her kiss upon Tory’s cheek or forehead. Then Tory would close the locket and, rubbing her thumb across the now-cracked ivory rose, remember Miss Defoe, Mademoiselle Justine, and Madame Rousseau and the happiness she had found with them.

  The scrap of paper with the enigmatic passage was different. Tory folded it and placed it under a leg of the armoire to keep it hidden and safe. She did not need to take it out to read it, for she had committed it to memory. She found herself thinking on the verse more often than her locket.

  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.