Tory

by Vikki Kestell

  This suited Tory entirely: She adopted a serene and detached air and found appearing this way before wealthy women liberating. As for her emergence as a model for Monsieur LeBlanc’s designs, she was soon his clients’ favored choice, asked for so often that she was engaged all day.

  Before long, Tory had developed an easy rapport with Miss Champlain, Monsieur LeBlanc’s assistant, often selecting accessories for the gowns she modeled that proved a better complement than those the dressers, Miss Pearsall and Miss Fields, provided.

  “You have an excellent eye, Miss Washington,” Miss Champlain stated, “and, if I am not mistaken, some experience also? Have you previously worked in a house of couture?”

  Tory sighed. “I did when I was younger, for the space of a year and three months.”

  “You have a future in fashion, if you wish it.”

  “Thank you. At present, I am content to be a simple mannequin.”

  Tory’s suggested improvements held the potential to upset the shop’s status quo—the employee pecking order and competitive jockeying for position—but her deferential manner defused such feelings before they took hold. She was not seeking promotion; in her heart, she had no desire to “climb.” She was content to live free of Roxanne’s control and work in an industry she loved. She dedicated herself to making Monsieur LeBlanc successful, and her efforts elevated those around her, for she took no credit for her recommendations.

  “I hardly know what to think of this young woman,” Miss Champlain said to her employer.

  “She is a jewel, is she not?” he answered, “but, perhaps, a fragile one? We must not allow the sharp tongues of certain clients to wound her.”

  “I shall watch closely, Monsieur.”

  “Please do.”

  Chapter 31

  Six weeks after Tory began her work for Monsieur LeBlanc, she entered the shop and found it in chaos. Miss Pearsall, Monsieur LeBlanc’s principal dresser, was wringing her hands; his fitters and maids were in tears.

  “What has happened?”

  “Not thirty minutes ago, Miss Champlain was struck by a motorcar as we left the trolley—right in front of the shop,” the distraught dresser exclaimed. “Stupid fool! He was driving entirely too fast, and he raced away leaving poor Miss Champlain lying in the street. I ran to Monsieur for help. He and some passing gentlemen lifted her into his automobile and Monsieur has, himself, taken her to the hospital.”

  “Oh, no! Is she badly hurt?”

  “A broken leg for certain. Perhaps her arm, as well. Fie! I cannot wipe the horrible images from my head!”

  Another maid appeared. “Miss? We have customers outside waiting for the doors to open.”

  Miss Pearsall and Tory looked at each other, and Tory nodded at the older woman. “We must, somehow, carry on in Monsieur and Miss Champlain’s absence, of course. What do the appointments look like today, Miss Pearsall?”

  Miss Pearsall dabbed at her eyes. “Oh, dear. We have the Mayfair bridal party arriving first thing this morning—that must be them, waiting. Monsieur has completed the sketches of Miss Mayfair’s wedding gown and her bridal party’s dresses, but should Miss Mayfair or her mother dislike them, I would not know what to say to them. I am a dresser, not a designer! Please, Miss Tory, could you present the sketches?”

  Tory’s eyes widened. “What? Why, I—”

  “Oh, you must, Miss Tory, for I cannot possibly present the designs; these women terrify me. Please say you will take charge—I promise I can assist you!”

  Tory had seen the designs. She exhaled and straightened.

  When Monsieur LeBlanc returned from the hospital near noon, he gathered his staff and reported that the doctor had splinted Miss Champlain’s leg and wrapped her arm. “Her forearm is badly bruised but, mercifully, it is not broken. Ah, but her leg? It is fractured. She must remain in hospital, with her leg immobile, for two weeks, to be followed by four weeks of careful rest at home.”

  He bowed his head, the worried expression on his face out of character for him, “Miss Champlain’s misfortune is a great blow to me and to my house, but we must, somehow, weather this storm.”

  He lifted his eyes and sought Miss Pearsall. “Have we lost the Mayfair wedding, Miss Pearsall?”

  “No, Monsieur. Miss Mayfair and her mother are pleased, sir. They have approved the designs—with one or two modifications as suggested by Miss Washington.”

  Monsieur LeBlanc turned his gaze upon Tory. “You presented the designs, Mademoiselle Tory?”

  “I-I apologize, sir, but . . . no one else was willing.”

  “No apology is needed, my dear; you have my thanks. You have saved a large account, for which I am grateful.” His thumb and forefinger smoothed his little mustache, and his features lost some of their tension. “I think . . . yes. Until Miss Champlain is able to return, it is my wish that you assume her duties.”

  “What? I, sir?”

  He spun on his heel. “Miss Pearsall. How did Miss Mayfair and her mother receive Mademoiselle Tory’s assistance?”

  “They were delighted, sir. And, if I may say so, sir,” Miss Pearsall slanted a look at Tory, “Miss Washington was superb.”

  “Bon! Just so! The matter, it is settled. The showing of my spring collection is but weeks away, and I must have an assistant.”

  “But . . .”

  Monsieur LeBlanc waved his staff away. “Back to work everyone, if you please. We have much to do this day.”

  He gestured to Tory. “Please show me Miss Mayfair’s approved designs and the requested modifications. We must now set my seamstresses to work.”

  THAT EVENING WHEN TORY returned home, Miss Eugenia handed her an envelope.

  “A letter? For me?” Tory opened the envelope and unfolded the fragrant stationery. She glanced at the signature. “From Emily Van der Pol!”

  Tory read the short missive, exclaiming over its contents twice, going back to read it again, then lifting her gaze to the sisters and their open curiosity. “Miss Eloise, Miss Eugenia—I must read this news to you.”

  “Please do,” Miss Eloise murmured. “We are on pins and needles.”

  “Tenterhooks, my dear,” Miss Eugenia corrected. “Tenterhooks!”

  Tory smothered a smile. “This is what Emily writes.”

  My dear Miss Washington,

  I have received momentous news, which I hasten to write to you, as I know you will be rejoicing as much—and likely more—than I at its reception.

  Only days ago, U.S. Marshals and men of the Pinkerton Agency entered Corinth en masse in the hours prior to dawn. They arrived in time to save our dear Miss Thoresen from the man who purportedly owns those abominations, Corinth’s two houses of evil doings. The marshals arrested a Mr. Morgan as well as Banner, Darrow, and their men. They also arrested Roxanne Cleary.

  “To God be the glory,” Miss Eugenia breathed.

  “God be praised!” exclaimed Miss Eloise.

  “I can scarcely comprehend it,” Tory whispered. “How just. Roxanne! Arrested! In jail!”

  “Pray continue, Tory.”

  “Yes, do, please!”

  “Certainly.”

  The marshals were not in time to save the Corinth Mountain Lodge. I am saddened to report that Banner and his men burned it to the ground. I am further saddened to say that Miss Thoresen herself was scandalously mishandled and suffered broken and bruised ribs. She is in much pain, but I am assured that she shall recover with time. She is in the care of her cousin in Corinth’s church parsonage.

  As the lodge had burned and they had nowhere else to go, Joy’s widowed mother, Rose Thoresen (who recently joined her daughter at the lodge), and others from the lodge have taken up residence in the one of the houses—in point of fact, the very house of your own unhappy acquaintance.

  Mrs. Thoresen informed the girls of both houses that they were free to go and offered train tickets to any girl who had a home to go to. Some, but not all, of the girls took advantage of the offer and have departed Corint
h.

  I cannot, at present, say what will become of the remainder of the young women. Miss Thoresen and her mother wish to remove themselves to Denver, acquire a suitable house, and take with them those girls who have no homes and who need a loving environment while they acclimate to their freedom.

  We must wait to see what God will do in that direction, but I did not wish to delay this letter and its happy news any longer: Your friends in Corinth are safe, including your dear Mei-Xing.

  In the name of the One who loves us,

  Emily Van der Pol

  Reading the letter aloud made the news more real, and Tory broke down, sobbing, “Thank you, Jesus! Thank you!”

  “Yes, Lord, we thank you and praise you,” the two sisters echoed.

  SIX MORE WEEKS FLEW by. Monsieur LeBlanc’s spring show was a success; with the show behind them, his entire staff sighed with collective relief. Orders resulting from the show assured staff employment for some weeks. In addition, Miss Champlain’s doctor released her to resume her work the following week.

  “Mademoiselle Tory, I wish to speak with you.” Monsieur LeBlanc rocked back on his heels, a smile playing about his mouth.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Come into my office, if you please.”

  Tory entered and took the seat he held for her.

  “Mademoiselle Tory, I am most pleased with your work in Miss Champlain’s absence.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “And I have reaped the benefits of your design modifications and improvements. Indeed, I have taken a great liberty and have peeked at that sketch pad you carry with you at all times.”

  Tory blushed. “My inadequate attempts, sir.”

  “Non. The emergence of a true designer.”

  Her heart pounding in her throat, Tory stared at the little man. “Sir?”

  “Miss Champlain returns next week, non? She must not do too much at first. We must be careful of her.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You will continue to assist me when Miss Champlain tires. You will also select two of your designs and work with our seamstresses to bring them to completion. I wish to see you model them.”

  “Sir?” Tory was astounded—and more excited at the prospect than she let on.

  “Just as I said. We shall proceed and see where this road takes us, eh? However, I have prayed, and I believe I have God’s mind in this.”

  “Y-yes, sir.”

  TORY, BETWEEN HER WORK supplementing Miss Champlain’s duties, presented her two best designs to Monsieur LeBlanc’s head seamstress. Together, they brought the gowns to life.

  “This one I well like, Mademoiselle Tory.” Monsieur LeBlanc fingered the fabric of one of the finished gowns. “The other not as much—but what do I know? You have an eye for what is ahead, while I, perhaps, look too much to the past.”

  He put his hands upon his hips. “I wish you to present both gowns at my fall fashion parade in October. We shall discover then if my clients like your designs.”

  He changed subjects. “In the meantime, you will continue to assist me as my apprentice.”

  “Your—I beg your pardon, sir?”

  “I offer you an apprenticeship, Mademoiselle Tory. Five years at my side to perfect every aspect of this profession. I shall supply the knowledge you are lacking and help you refine your technique. However, you must stay true to your own unique style. You see, while you will continue with me for the foreseeable future, I predict that you will someday establish your own house.”

  Tory’s head reeled at the possibilities—the unprecedented opportunity—Monsieur LeBlanc offered her. “I am most grateful, sir!”

  With little fanfare, Tory became Monsieur LeBlanc’s apprentice and second in command. She spent half of her time at his side, listening, observing, asking questions, contributing her opinion when requested. The other half of her time she spent designing and working with the seamstresses to birth her creations.

  The labor was demanding, for Monsieur LeBlanc oversaw and checked every detail of her work. He pointed out her design flaws with the precision of a surgeon: “Non, Mademoiselle! One cannot simply drop a waistline without considering the effect upon the décolletage. Harmony! Design must harmonize on every point, every aspect. And what are you thinking to shorten sleeves on a winter dress? Do you also wish to lengthen gloves? Think!”

  She accompanied the little gentleman when he visited cloth merchants and placed his orders—discovering him to be a shrewd bargainer. She peered over his shoulders as he scrutinized finished dresses, appraising every stitch, every line, the cut of the fabric, identifying flaws Tory had not known existed.

  She observed his interactions with his clients, and learned how to convince a woman that a style did not become her without saying, “Madame, your posterior is already large enough without accentuating it” or “Mademoiselle, since you have not the ability to fill the bodice, a ruffle is required to render the illusion of fullness.”

  Monsieur LeBlanc also insisted she review his accounts—then demanded she manage them. After handling the books of the Broadmoor Hotel, the transition was not a difficult one. However, to her chagrin, Tory had to often stay late to balance the books and send out payments to Monsieur’s creditors.

  This is not at all what I envisioned as Monsieur LeBlanc’s apprentice, she laughed to herself with wry humor. I must again call Miss Eugenia and ask forgiveness for missing dinner.

  By the end of summer, Tory had found her footing. Tasks that had seemed overwhelming fell into place. Vast details became daily trifles, keeping the books routine. Her sketches took on a more professional patina and her line of clothing an elegant simplicity that the dressers—and Monsieur LeBlanc’s clients—applauded.

  IN LATE AUGUST, TORY received a second letter from Emily Van der Pol.

  “Miss Eloise? Miss Eugenia?”

  “Yes, dear. We are in the drawing room.”

  Tory was flushed with excitement. She held an opened letter in her hand. “I have received a second letter from Mrs. Van der Pol. May I read a portion to you?”

  “But of course, Tory! What does the dear woman say that is of such great import?”

  Tory scanned down the letter to the right place. “Here it is.”

  A precious (but entirely unpredictable) friend, Martha Palmer, has astounded us all. This godly elder woman has given her old house to your dear acquaintance, Miss Thoresen, and her mother, Rose. The house is quite large but has been closed up for years and is in a sad and neglected state.

  Miss and Mrs. Thoresen have now taken up residence in Denver with the girls from the mountain who elected to come with them. Joy and her mother intend to make the house into a home for these young women who have nowhere else to go. They have christened the establishment Palmer House in Martha Palmer’s honor.

  Of course, each young lady must find work, a difficult proposition given their previous occupation. (I write plainly to you, Tory, knowing you will take no offence.) To that end, Joy and her mother hope to train the girls in various vocations. Joy feels that they should teach some of the girls to sew, in particular how to run the newest of electric-powered sewing machines. Joy has declared herself unfit for such a task, so, of course, I thought of you.

  Miss Eugenia sat up straight. “She thought of you, Tory?”

  “Well, of course she did, Eugenia. Tory must be one of the few girls from that place equipped to make her own way in the world.”

  “But, Eloise, why would she say, ‘Of course, I thought of you’?”

  “I think it is because I know enough to teach others to sew, and I know how to run a hotel and am learning to run a dressmaking shop.”

  The two spinsters stared at Tory until Miss Eugenia said, “You have not been long with Monsieur LeBlanc, Tory, and your period of apprenticeship is five years. It will not be complete for some time.”

  Eugenia had not an unkind bone in her body; she was merely stating facts.

  “That is true, and Monsieur LeBl
anc has already been too good to me. I would never presume to dishonor my agreement with him.”

  “But?” This from Eloise.

  Tory shrugged. “I can only say that my heart leapt in my chest when I read Mrs. Van der Pol’s words. I can think of no better service to God than to dedicate my life to helping those who have been misused as I was. It is true that five years is a long time to wait. However,” and here she smiled, “God’s timing is always perfect, is it not?”

  “Indeed, it is,” Eugenia murmured. She slid her eyes toward her sister.

  “Yes, I quite agree,” Eloise echoed.

  But Eugenia was not fooled. She recognized the contemplative expression on her sister’s face. After Tory had left the room, she lifted her chin. “I know you, Eloise. What are you thinking?”

  “What am I thinking? I am thinking we should pray. God did not rescue Tory from a life of hopeless depravity merely to clothe the idle rich.”

  Eugenia clasped her sister’s hand. “How insightful, Eloise. Just so. We will pray.”

  Chapter 32

  October arrived and, with it, Monsieur’s fall showing—his autumn fashion parade.

  “Think of it, ma chère!” her mentor enthused. “You shall introduce yourself to all Philadelphia at this showing. I wish you to have, at a minimum, six dresses and three gowns on the parade circuit. We must hire more models to accommodate your line.”

  The showing was deemed a grand success—and so was Tory. At the reception afterward, Monsieur LeBlanc spoke of nothing but Tory’s future. “Mark my words,” he told his clients, “Mademoiselle Tory will outshine us all.”

  His words were captured in the fashion pages of the city’s newspapers—as were photographs of Tory herself when she took her bow at the end of the show and while greeting the show’s attendees at the reception. For weeks following the show, Monsieur’s clients came to the shop asking for Tory. Monsieur LeBlanc soon set aside two showrooms specifically for her and assigned Miss Fields as her permanent assistant.