“H-he w-what?”
He nodded. “I shall not, at this time, go into the specifics of the will’s provisions. However, if I am to explain tonight’s events, we must look first to the year 1902, the year Henri Declouette died. To our knowledge, you, Miss Washington, disappeared from your home in Louisiana the same month—May of 1902. By 1909, you had been missing seven years, and a certain individual petitioned the courts of Orleans Parish to declare you dead in absentia.
“Oh!”
“I, as the standing attorney for your father’s estate and the trustee of your inheritance, placed new notices in newspapers across the South asking for information as to your whereabouts. My uncle and I had done so many times to no avail, but this time a Miss Defoe and a Madame Rousseau saw and answered those notices. Their sworn statements declared that you had appeared upon the doorstep of Madame Rousseau’s establishment in May 1902 and that you had remained in their care for fifteen months, until August of 1903.
“Now I must backtrack a little. According to court records, your father’s brother, Bastiann Declouette, petitioned the courts for your guardianship in 1902 and had been granted custody of you. However, he did not discover your whereabouts—at Madame Rousseau’s Haute Couture—until August 1903. When he came to claim you, Miss Defoe and Madame Rousseau attest that you immediately fled, and no one had heard from you since.”
Her voice rough from more than her injured throat, Tory interrupted, “Miss Defoe . . . Madame Rousseau. Are they . . . are they well?”
Jack smiled. “They are. If I do not mistake the fervor with which they asked after you, I believe they would give anything to see you again, Miss Washington.”
Tory’s breath caught on a sob.
“Shall I continue?”
Tory nodded.
“Although Miss Defoe and Madame Rousseau’s account did not lead us to you, their testimony did provide a last-known sighting—in August 1903, not May 1902—six years past, not seven. And so, I was able to delay the petition to declare you dead in absentia and intensify my search for you.”
Jack Monroe’s eyes were sympathetic. “The man remanded to police custody is the same man who petitioned the courts to declare you dead. He is also the man who pushed you into the street last week and tried to strangle you tonight. His name is Devereaux Declouette. Your half-brother.”
“M-my half-brother?”
Monroe nodded. “Your half-brother frittered away much of his inheritance and, having never been required to work a day in his life, sought to wrest what remained of his father’s estate to himself before he went broke. It is my understanding that his mother had often railed at the injustice of his father leaving anything to you . . . his illegitimate and mixed-blood daughter.”
Tory sighed. Marguerite Declouette.
“When the court delayed the petition to have you declared dead, Declouette hired detectives to search for you—not so he could restore you to the bosom of your friends and family. Not so you could receive your rightful inheritance. My sense is that he wanted to find you before anyone else did and ensure that your untimely and, er, unexplained demise ended any possibility of your ever inheriting from your father. You see, in the event of your death without spouse or posterity, what was meant to be yours would flow back to him.
“Declouette’s detectives traced you first to St. Louis, where you were said to be in the company of one Charles Luchetti. From there, they traced Luchetti and, presumably, you, to Denver. Declouette traveled to Denver and took up rooms at the Broadmoor Hotel, believing he would find you there—only to discover that you had taken employment elsewhere and your present location was unknown.
“At the outset of his short and frustrating sojourn in Denver, Declouette struck up an acquaintance with an employee of the hotel, one Trudy Visser, who hinted that she knew more than she was saying. Using flattery and feigned attentions to gain her confidence, Declouette became convinced that Miss Visser knew where you had gone.
“In the end, he bribed Miss Visser—whose greed was as strong as her desire for a beau—to tell him exactly what had become of you. For the right price, she told him why he need never fear that you would resurface.”
Monroe offered half of a smile. “I apologize if my recounting of these things distresses you.”
Tory bowed her head. It was too painful for her to talk, physically or emotionally.
“But how did Declouette get from Denver to Philadelphia?” O’Dell asked. “Miss Washington’s location after her escape from Corinth was a closely held secret at the time.”
“Actually, when Declouette left Denver in September 1909, he returned home to New Orleans, confident that all he need do was wait another year and renew his petition to declare Miss Washington dead in absentia. The seven years would expire in August of 1910, with no one in Louisiana—save Declouette—any the wiser that Miss Washington was known to be alive less than two years previously.”
“Go on,” O’Dell urged.
“You are familiar with the saying, ‘The best laid plans of mice and men’? A month later, in October 1909, now seventeen months ago, Declouette’s detectives spotted articles and photographs of Miss Washington in the fashion pages of Philadelphia papers—and reported this information to Declouette. Can you imagine his chagrin? He was expecting, in a matter of ten months, to renew his petition to have Miss Washington declared dead.
“As you and I might surmise, the news of Miss Washington’s whereabouts threw Declouette into a fit of action. He left for Philadelphia forthwith and, over a few weeks’ time, ingratiated himself into the city’s polite society and, when he found opportunity, began a campaign of insidious rumors based on the information he had gained from Miss Visser.”
“The incomparable Miss Visser,” O’Dell drawled. “She and I have an appointment with her soon-to-be former employer at a not-too-distant date.”
“Good,” Monroe declared.
O’Dell frowned. “How is it that you are in possession of these facts, Mr. Monroe?”
“Ah. This is where Providence truly comes in, Mr. O’Dell. Only weeks ago, you called the Pinkerton office in New Orleans, asking them to look into Miss Washington’s childhood. Two of their agents were the very detectives Declouette had hired to locate Miss Washington. With a little digging in Orleans Parish records, those detectives found the petition to declare Miss Washington dead in absentia—and, knowing Miss Washington to be verifiably alive, realized that Declouette’s interests in “locating” Miss Washington were nefarious, to say the least.
“My name as the attorney for Henri Declouette’s estate was on the petition to declare Miss Washington deceased, and I soon after received a visit from them.”
Monroe’s eyes swept the room, ending with Tory. “I believe that when Declouette located Tory in Philadelphia, she was too sheltered and inaccessible for him to do her the harm he intended. He soon devised a smear campaign designed to ostracize Miss Washington and drive her from The City of Brotherly Love, far from the friends who protected her.
“In a new locale where she was unknown, Declouette felt he could more easily arrange an ‘accident.’ He never dreamed Miss Washington’s friends would send her back to Denver with ample funding to establish herself—and where even more powerful friends surrounded her. By this time, Declouette was, himself, strapped for money and, I presume, growing desperate.”
“We are beginning to comprehend the direction of your story, Mr. Monroe,” O’Dell said. “Please continue.”
“Declouette’s dwindling resources made it impossible for him to enter Denver society with the same flair and style by which he had entered Philadelphia society. Thus, he found inciting a smear campaign against Miss Washington to be harder going than in Philadelphia. Eventually, however, his rumors gained some traction.”
“That ‘traction’ must not have met his expectations since he attempted to kill Miss Washington last week,” O’Dell growled. “And I find it quite fortuitous that you happened to be there, as they s
ay, ‘in the nick of time.’”
“I don’t believe in fortune or luck, Mr. O’Dell. I believe in God. He put me in the right place at the right time. However, while I saw her shoved into the street and was able to pull her to safety, I did not see the face of the man who pushed her—although I had strong suspicions.”
“You say you knew who I was, that I was Pinkerton. Why did you not come to the Denver Pinkerton office and tell me everything you had uncovered?”
Monroe growled, “Should I have trusted you, Mr. O’Dell, given that the Pinkertons had—unwittingly, I admit—led Declouette to Miss Washington in the first place? Could I have known you were not in Declouette’s pocket?”
O’Dell nodded. “I take your point.” He was beginning to like the man in spite of his initial instinct to disbelieve him.
Beginning to like him—but not trust him. Not yet.
“What of this inheritance?” he asked.
“It is, of course, a private matter, for Miss Washington’s ears only.”
“You will forgive all of us in this room if we refuse to allow Miss Washington to meet with anyone ‘privately’ for some time to come.”
“I suppose I cannot fault you on that count,” Monroe answered.
Tory signaled Monroe. “Tell,” she rasped.
“You give me leave to speak of your inheritance before these people?”
Tory nodded, and Emily handed Tory the glass so she could sip the icy water. “Yes,” she managed.
“As you wish.” But he ran a hand through his hair, not entirely at ease with the idea.
“Mr. Monroe?” O’Dell asked.
“Yes?”
“May I alleviate your discomfort? We cherish Miss Washington and are concerned only for her welfare. None of us want or need her inheritance.”
“I see. Very well.” He looked at Tory again and sighed. “Your father left you five thousand dollars, Miss Washington, in a trust over which my uncle was, and I am at present, the sole trustee. He also left one thousand dollars to your mother, who died before she could receive Henri Declouette’s bequest. Both sums of money have sat, untouched, for nine years. The interest on them has accrued nicely.”
Tory swallowed the lump in her throat—one unrelated to the bruises on her neck.
“A second, specific bequest was for the painting, Joseph Reveals Himself to His Brothers, by Groote van Nierop. Van Nierop was a talented Renaissance painter, the apprentice of a great Dutch master. His work has come into its own in recent years. This single painting is valuable, should you ever wish to sell it. And, of course, you own Sugar Tree.”
Tory’s eyes widened and her lips formed the word, “no,”—but not a sound emerged.
“Yes, you do,” Monroe repeated.
“How does one inherit a tree?” Grace Minton asked, as puzzled as Emily and O’Dell were.
“Not a tree, madam, but an estate removed some ten miles from New Orleans and so named ‘Sugar Tree.’ It is where Miss Washington was born and spent her childhood. It is where her mother, Adeline Washington, is buried in the orchard.”
Tory was weeping now, overcome with Monroe’s sweeping revelations.
“When you are fully restored to health, Miss Washington, you must accompany me to New Orleans and present yourself to the court to disprove the assertion that you are dead. You will then receive your inheritance.”
Straining, Tory whispered, “I cannot. I . . . business to run; fashion parade . . . some success, but reputation . . . ruined. Must . . . work.”
Emily spoke up. “My dear Tory, an inheritance is just what is needed to shore up your flagging ‘reputation.’” She half smiled, and her voice took on a biting edge of cynicism. “Nothing inspires Denver’s vain, nouveau riche society quite like the scent of money. Most of them have their own closet skeletons and will ignore both scandal and humble beginnings—if you possess an adequate bank account. Why, just ask Margaret Brown—although most of Denver calls her Molly.”
Emily laughed a little. “Tory, if I were you, I would instruct my entire staff to remark to the public in general that I am returning to Louisiana to receive my father’s fortune.”
Grace laughed with her. “Oh, yes, my dear. Why, the clients will positively flood in!”
Monroe grinned; O’Dell grinned, too. Emily and Grace giggled.
And no one had anything to add.
Chapter 39
March 1911
Jack was familiar with their destination and insisted upon driving Tory her first morning back in the city she had left as a child of twelve years. Her breath caught when the familiar plaza came into view. As Jack navigated the plaza’s circumference, skirting the grassy park, Tory’s eyes followed the iron fence to the ornate benches edging the brick-paved circle.
In the center of the circle she spied the pump—still in use—the pump she had drunk from the day the beggar boy had brought her out of the grimy slums of New Orleans in exchange for a share of her sweet rolls.
We licked the icing from the paper. How well I remember its sweet taste.
Tory tore her eyes away to stare at the covered boardwalk and the sign attached to the balcony railing over the shop.
Haute Couture
Madame Charlotte Rousseau, Modiste.
O Jesus! Please let them be there. Please let them be just as they were.
Jack pulled his motorcar alongside the boardwalk and came around to assist her down. He took Tory’s arm and they started up the steps.
“I bid you good morning, sir.”
Jack and Tory found the owner of the greeting, a police officer, standing above them.
“Yes, officer?”
“Begging your pardon, sir, but coloreds are not allowed in the plaza. That means you, girlie.” His eyes looked Tory up and down. “Don’t matter how you dress a darky, they’s still a darky.”
Jack’s face flamed as red as a fire engine. “Does that injunction include me?”
“You, sir?” The policeman scrutinized him. “You look white enough to me.”
“White enough? My great-grandmother on my mother’s side was negro. Guess that makes me octoroon.”
The officer’s affable expression hardened. “Then get along afore I makes you sorry you bothered me.”
Tory tugged discreetly on Jack’s arm and they returned to his motorcar. “I take it things have not improved since I was here last,” she murmured.
“Hardly. The laws and attitudes have worsened. I am ‘white enough’ to not often be questioned, but I suppose I did not think through the likelihood of your being affronted, Miss Washington. I apologize most profusely for my thoughtlessness.”
Tory shrugged. “Jack, if you will drive around that corner—which is out of the plaza—you will find an alley behind these shops.”
“You wish to enter through the alley?”
Tory nodded. I suppose it is fitting that I return the same way I left.
He parked in the alley and helped Tory down. “Do you wish me to go in with you?”
Tory smiled. “Thank you for offering, but no. I wish to do this alone.”
He smiled in return. “I shall wait for you, but do not hurry on my account.”
She took a breath, nodded again, opened the back door to the shop, and stepped inside.
Tory closed the door behind her, conscious at once of the scent of spicy tea and shortbread biscuits. She squeezed her eyes closed, again the hungry child so grateful for a cup of hot, sweet tea and three sugary biscuits.
“May I help you, miss?”
Tory sniffed and cleared her throat. “I beg your pardon. Is . . . is Miss Defoe at work today?”
The girl studied Tory, twisting a tea towel in her hands. “Miss, this is the worker’s kitchen. We do not, of a rule, receive customers here . . . or negro customers at all, for that matter.”
Tory exhaled slowly. “Well, I am not a customer. Would you kindly inform Miss Defoe that . . . an old friend is calling?”
“An old friend, miss? W
ould you give me your name?”
“Just say, ‘an old friend,’ please.”
Armed with wary curiosity, the girl marched away.
Several minutes went by. Tory grew nervous. Then anxious. She walked the length of the kitchen, her back to the passageway.
“This is most unusual, miss. May I ask your business?”
Tory turned. There stood her beloved Miss Defoe, arms crossed, imperious frown in place. Her hair was grayer and thinner perhaps, yet all else was the same.
Tory tried to smile; she could not.
Her heart was too full.
It overflowed her eyes.
She could only sob, “Miss Defoe . . . I have come back.”
The frown dropped from Miss Defoe’s face; incredulity replaced it. “V-victoria?”
Tory stepped toward her. She was now many inches taller than Miss Defoe, but that woman’s arms wrapped themselves about her and pressed Tory’s face to her shoulder.
“Oh, dear God in heaven! You have brought my child home! Dear God! Thank you!”
Then, somehow, they were seated on a bench at the table, arms twined about each other, weeping in complete accord. When Tory could lift her head, she found Miss Defoe, her tears unabated, studying her.
“You have grown into such a beautiful woman, Victoria,” she managed. “I always knew you would, but how I have missed you! How I have prayed that God would have mercy upon me and bring you back to me.”
“He did! It was God! He brought me home to you.”
“What is this? What is going on?”
Tory would have known that voice anywhere.
On shaky legs, she stood. Curtsied as low as her trembling knees would take her. “Bonjour, Madame.”
The folds of Madame Rousseau’s powdered cheeks drooped with shock and disbelief. “No. It cannot be.” She looked to Miss Defoe. “Patrice?”
“It is our Victoria, Charlotte. She has come home to us!”
Madame swept Tory into an embrace, and muttering, “Thank you, God! Thank you, God!” she wept upon Tory’s shoulder.
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