Tory

by Vikki Kestell

  “If you will not share your pain with me, Mademoiselle, how can I help you?”

  “You cannot help,” Tory whispered. “I have nothing left. This person—this gossip, whoever it is—has taken everything from me. What can anyone do to help? Nothing. Nothing can be done. It is all gone now. I may not even look to the happiness a woman hopes for. A husband. A family. I am ruined.”

  “Ah, ma chère, I comprehend your pain so much more than you know. First, your innocence was taken, non? I, too, could make the same claim. Your childhood was stolen—as was mine.” He coughed politely into his hand, but Tory saw it for what Charles had taught her: a gesture of discomfort. A means to delay, to gather his composure, to find the right words.

  “I hesitate to speak of such indelicate issues,” he began again, “but I feel I must overcome my natural reticence and say what is in my heart, or you may never recover from the wounds you have suffered.”

  He patted and clasped her hands, and his gentle brown eyes captured and held Tory’s as she, with reluctance, gave him her complete attention.

  “You see, mademoiselle, the innocence of a boy may be stolen in the same manner as a young woman who is forced.”

  As his meaning came clear, Tory’s lips parted in anguish. “No. You do not mean that!”

  “Ah, but I do mean it, Mademoiselle Tory.”

  “Then . . . then you-you . . .”

  “Oui. I am, sadly, by virtue of my own experience, in possession of the intimate details of your anguish and, more to our conversation today, the longevity of that agony, the residue of cruel misuse at the hands of another human being and the shame such misuse engenders. But I wish to ask you a question, dear woman, if I may?”

  “Whatever you ask, Monsieur LeBlanc. I-I owe you so much.”

  “We shall not frame our conversation in terms of ‘owing,’ shall we? As two creatures made in the image of God Almighty, let us share the fellowship we have in him, eh?”

  “As you say, sir. What did you wish to ask me?”

  “Trés bien. My question to you is, do you observe in my manner—my attitude and day-to-day state of disposition—a defeat of mind and spirit? Do you sense, in my word or deed, the pain of which we speak?”

  Tory’s brow creased a little. “No, Monsieur. You are a gentleman of invariably steady and cheerful temperament.”

  “Bon. And do you distinguish in my mood or outlook that which is disingenuous or, as they say, ‘put on’?”

  “Not at all, sir. I find your joy to be authentic; it is an example I admire and would seek to emulate . . . if but I could.”

  “You humble me, mademoiselle. However, if you give me leave to ask, if you admire and desire to emulate my joy, will you receive a word of advice from one whose concern is only for your happiness?”

  Tory’s eyes stung and began to water. “You are too kind, Monsieur LeBlanc, but—”

  “But you do not wish to recover and live a full and happy life?”

  “Well, certainly, I do, but my future here is at an end. I shall never live down these reports.”

  “Forgive me, Mademoiselle Tory, mais oui ou non—the answer is either yes or no: Do you or do you not wish to leave the past forever in its grave and look to your future with hope and joy?”

  “I-I do wish it.”

  “Then you must no longer be the victim.”

  Shocked, Tory stood and stepped away. “The victim! Must no longer be the victim? Monsieur LeBlanc, I am the victim!”

  She stared at the floor, the tips of her shoes, the legs of her bed, her bureau, the clothes she had left scattered on the floor and saw none of those things, only the parade of men—beginning with Drake but extending through her eleven months in Corinth—men who had degraded her, had made her laugh and smile while she pleasured them, had forced her to pretend to enjoy their attentions and lustful behaviors. And then the man who had dogged her steps filled the ears of the whole city with her shame. Tears filled and overflowed her eyes.

  “Mademoiselle Tory, please to look at me.”

  “I-I cannot.”

  “I do not force you, mademoiselle; I ask, most humbly. I beg your leave: Please to look at me.”

  Tory sniffed back her tears, patted her cheeks, and pinched the bridge of her nose. When she felt in sufficient control of herself, she lifted her eyes and looked at him. Her chin trembled when she admitted to the compassion she saw in his expression.

  “Please. Please to answer my questions?” he asked. “Yes or no only: Do you wish to recover? Can you answer me?”

  “Yes,” Tory whispered.

  His small smile was kind. “Tell me, have Mademoiselle Eloise and Mademoiselle Miss Eugenia shared the Good News of Jesus with you?”

  “Yes, they have.”

  “And have you surrendered your heart to the Seigneur Jésus?”

  “I . . . I have.”

  “And have you felt the miracle of the new birth, the new heart?”

  Tory nodded. “Yes.”

  “Bon. The Scripture, it tells us many things about our new life in Christ. When we are first born, we are like God’s little children, oui? But soon, our heavenly Father calls us higher, and we must grow up into maturity. The Scriptures, in the Epistle to the Ephesians, says we must ‘henceforth be no more children.’ But each one must decide if he will grow or remain a child. It is a choice—do you see?”

  “I . . . yes.”

  “The process of maturation, of growing, is not un mystère, a mysterious thing. It is not veiled or hidden. The Scripture tells us,

  But speaking the truth in love,

  [we] may grow up into him in all things,

  which is the head, even Christ

  “Truth, then, is required for growth. Truth, oui?”

  Tory nodded.

  “The passage continues thus:

  This I say therefore, and testify in the Lord,

  that ye henceforth walk not as other Gentiles walk,

  in the vanity of their mind.

  “We, the redeemed of the Lord, are not to walk in vain, fruitless, futile, unproductive thinking, like those of the unregenerate. We are to, the Holy Book tells us, Put off the old man, and be renewed in the spirit of our minds. Our minds, it seems, have many problems. We must wash our minds with the truth—but what is truth? Is this not the age-old question?”

  He turned and stared out across her room before he spoke again. “Here is truth, mademoiselle: Everyone has suffered wrong. This is the fact, is it not? I have in my acquaintance many people, some of poor means, some of wealth. I know of no man or woman, great or small, who has not been wronged, who does not carry a burden of suffering in one manner or another.

  “My dear woman, if you have suffered more wrong than I have, I promise you, someone has suffered deeper wrong than you. And if that man or woman’s pain is greater than yours, another has suffered even more.

  “You must admit to this truth, this fact of life, that you are not alone in your pain, mademoiselle, nor are you unique in your suffering. This does not lessen the trespass you have suffered nor does it diminish the anger of God at such sinners. But we are not talking of justice at this moment, eh? We are speaking of your future. It is your future at stake. For your future’s sake, you must commit these wrongs into the hand of God.”

  “But someone has ruined my life in Philadelphia! If I stay here, your life’s work will be tarred with the same stain! And will no one ever be punished for these wrongs, Monsieur LeBlanc? Will they escape justice? It is not fair! It is not right!”

  “No, mademoiselle, it is neither fair nor right; however, no one escapes justice. Indeed, justice comes to all people, whether in this life or the next.”

  He bent his chin to his chest. “But to live free now? In this life? Ah, that is the conundrum—and that is why, for the sake of your freedom, Scripture commands that we are not to avenge ourselves but leave room for God’s wrath. Of this you may be sure, mademoiselle: The justice of God will find its way. Wait for it. It i
s coming.”

  “Wait? Shall I wait here, in this room, forever dependent upon the kindness of Miss Eloise and Miss Eugenia? No work, no future, no hope?”

  “Non, mademoiselle. You must go.”

  Tory stopped. Her mouth worked. “You . . . Miss Eugenia and Miss Eloise are casting me out?”

  “Only in the meaning of the Scripture that commands us, ‘Cast thy bread upon the waters: for thou shalt find it after many days.’ The Misses Wright and I have concluded that we must cast our bread upon the waters of Denver. You are our bread, and you shall go, Mademoiselle Tory, and open a fashion salon—and also a sewing school for the girls of this Palmer House the Misses Wright speak of.

  “You shall be our seed in that city to raise up strong, independent women of these ‘girls from the mountain.’ Where Satan has harmed and broken, Jesus shall heal and make whole.”

  Tory blinked and stammered. “Y-you will s-send me to Denver?”

  “With our full backing, mademoiselle. You shall locate the right building for the establishment of your salon and sewing school. The Misses Wright and I shall pay to furbish the sewing room, reception area, and showrooms. We shall purchase machines. From my own stock, I shall send fabric, notions, and every necessary supply. And I shall ask of my best seamstresses, ‘Who of you wishes to become Mademoiselle Tory’s head seamstress and the teacher of those she hires?’ All will be done, Mademoiselle Tory, to give you a successful start.”

  Tory’s response was whispered. “But . . . surely, Denver . . . someone, some man will recognize me. Remember me. The rumors will fly again.”

  “Ah, but the Misses Wright assure me that you have many friends in Denver—powerful, wealthy, and influential friends—whose custom and open support will sustain you. Is this not so?

  “Also, and this is most important: You must never again play the victim, Mademoiselle Tory: It is fact that men injured and abused you, but it is truth that Christ has redeemed you. And before all of heaven and earth, Christ’s truth has defeated fact.”

  Monsieur LeBlanc stood to take his leave. He placed gentle hands upon Tory’s arms. “Your work will be for the Lord of Heaven. As Scripture declares of the Lord, He is the glory and the lifter up of mine head. When you arrive in Denver, mademoiselle, you must stand tall, lift your head high, and walk as a queen.”

  Tory reeled at his directive—at the words already so familiar to her. “I must . . . stand tall . . . and walk as a queen?”

  “Oui, mademoiselle—because you are no longer a child of shame. You are a daughter of the Most High King. For no other reason, you must behave as such.”

  TORY, MISS EUGENIA, and Miss Eloise sat together late into the evening. Tory bared her heart to the sisters, weeping and confessing her anger toward the gossips who had ruined her blossoming career in Philadelphia. Tory apologized to the sisters for her hurtful behavior toward them. Then they prayed together, asking the Lord to fulfill his will in Tory’s life.

  “Of course, we do not wish you to leave, Tory,” Miss Eloise whispered. “You are as dear as life to us. And yet it seems evident that you must go.”

  “Yes, you must go,” Miss Eugenia echoed, “but please remember that not one iota of this turmoil is a surprise to our great God. He knows the end from the beginning—”

  “The end from the beginning,” her sister interjected.

  “—and no act of man can prevent the Lord’s will from being accomplished in your life—if you are careful to obey him.”

  Tory slowly nodded her understanding. “This move will be difficult for me, but I have purposed to obey him. Months ago, when Emily’s letter arrived describing Palmer House and the need for the women there to have respectable employment, my heart yearned to help. I suppose I would never have answered his call as long as I was content here.”

  “Ah, yes. Contentment. Contentment can be a great stumbling block,” Miss Eloise murmured. “While it is accurate that those vicious rumors wounded and shamed you, they also served to push you out of your contentment and into God’s call upon your life.”

  “Into God’s will!” echoed Miss Eugenia. “Just so. Now let us ask the Lord for his guidance and direction as we make our plans, shall we?”

  TORY RETURNED TO MONSIEUR LeBlanc’s shop that week—not as designer, dressmaker, or model, but as a lowly seamstress, unseen by the public that had so lately adored and sought after her. Monsieur LeBlanc’s responses to all inquiries into Tory’s past or her role in his shop were, “Mademoiselle Washington is no longer available.” And, although Monsieur’s shop experienced a temporary decline in orders, his loyal clients soon returned.

  Through many frank discussions, Tory and Monsieur determined that Tory’s last weeks in Philadelphia would be spent honing and perfecting her basic sewing skills: patternmaking and cutting, the operation and maintenance of the machines she would be taking with her, and every aspect of dressmaking, from concept through completion, so she would be prepared to oversee those tasks.

  Monsieur LeBlanc spoke to his sewing staff, extending the offer to move someone to Denver and take up the position of Tory’s head seamstress. One accomplished woman, Mrs. Bellows, accepted.

  “I am a widow. I have but one daughter who has married and moved away. I am secure in my position with Monsieur LeBlanc; however, I am too far down in seniority to advance here. I wish the opportunity to oversee your sewing shop, Miss Washington.”

  Tory liked the woman’s spirit, but she needed to be sure that Mrs. Bellows understood the challenges ahead. “You have heard the reports about my past, Mrs. Bellows?”

  “Aye.”

  “The, er, house I lived in was not far from Denver. It is possible that my past will come out in that city, just as it has come out here. My reputation and that of my salon—and those who work for me—will face censure because of it.”

  “I am a Christian woman, Miss Washington. I believe in forgiveness and redemption, and I would like my life to count for more than just earning my daily bread.” She raised her plain face. “And frankly, I have seen nothing but chaste, godly behavior in you. That is good enough for me to cast my lot with yours.”

  Tory worked to stem the moisture that threatened to fill her eyes. “Thank you, Mrs. Bellows.” When she could speak without choking, she said, “In the beginning we shall hire experienced seamstresses and a few novices to train. The untrained girls will come from Palmer House—and you will have your hands full with them. Some will be rough, coarse, and vulgar. Patience and a firm hand will be required to mold their character as well as their skills.”

  “Aye. You may count on me to polish them up, Miss Washington.”

  Tory smiled. She already liked Mrs. Bellows.

  From late January through the first week of April, Tory worked and prepared. She and Monsieur LeBlanc formulated lists of equipment and supplies. Tory wrote to Emily Van der Pol and told her of her plans. The letter she received in reply read,

  My dear Miss Washington,

  I cannot tell you how delighted I was to receive your news. I have shared it with my good friends, Viola and Grace; however, at your request, I have not informed Mrs. Thoresen or the others at Palmer House of your plans. I understand your desire to make yourself known to them after you have arrived in Denver.

  Please consider my home open to you and Mrs. Bellows until you have found suitable lodgings.

  In God’s grace,

  Emily Van der Pol

  When April arrived, the equipment and supplies for Tory’s shop were crated up. They would be shipped to Tory after she located and leased a proper location. Mrs. Bellows would not leave Philadelphia to join Tory until that time.

  The Misses Wright had been busy during this preparation period also. They had insisted upon buying Tory a wardrobe appropriate for the proprietor of Denver’s first house of haute couture. Tory’s new clothes were a compilation of Monsieur LeBlanc’s and Tory’s best designs—everything she would need to show herself to Denver society as a woman of outstanding tast
e and distinction.

  At the beginning of the third full week in April, Tory said her goodbyes, first to Monsieur LeBlanc. With her voice quavering, she told him, “I thank God for you, Monsieur. You have seen me at my best and at my worst. I shall never forget your kindness.”

  When she took her leave of Monsieur, he kissed her upon both cheeks. “I shall pray for you every day, Mademoiselle.”

  Benson drove her to the train station early the following morning. Tory sat on the rear seat, Miss Eloise and Miss Eugenia on either side, holding her hands. At the final moment of parting, Tory could not speak.

  “We are confident of one thing, Tory,” Miss Eugenia whispered, “that our God who began his good work in you is not finished. He will complete it until the day of Jesus Christ.”

  “He will complete it,” Miss Eloise repeated.

  As the train steamed away, a curtain of tears hid the station and her dear friends from Tory.

  Part 5:

  He Restores All Things

  Chapter 34

  April 1910

  Tory gaped.

  Palmer House.

  She had visualized the house through Emily’s descriptions, but still she gawked. “It is so . . . big!”

  To call it palatial would not be overstating the fact: The three-story Victorian splendor sat far back on the corner lot surrounded by a tall iron fence. The second, third, and attic floors boasted pediment-topped dormer windows and gables; from the third floor, three octagonal turrets stretched toward the sky. Palmer House was even larger than the Corinth Gentlemen’s Club had been—it was a house of impressive and enduring character.

  Tory looked closer. As imposing as the house was, it was aging and had not been kept in the best of conditions. She noted mismatched shingles and flaking paint, although the yard showed signs of recent tending.

  She unlatched the iron gate and started up the walk—taking care not to trip on paving stones that tree roots had lifted. The steps up to the front door led to a wraparound porch that crossed the breadth of the house and terminated at a gazebo at one end. The porch was clean and swept, even if the paint was chipped and faded.