When they had spent their tears, Madame Rousseau and Tory pulled apart to search each other’s eyes. Then they joined Miss Defoe at the table, Miss Defoe and Madame clutching Tory’s hands, still incredulous and thanking God for her return.
After many minutes, Tory had to ask the question, the question that would explain the profound change of heart she witnessed in both Miss Defoe and Madame Rousseau.
“I hear you thanking God. Are you . . . are you followers of Jesus, now? How is this possible?”
“It was Miss Sarasses,” Miss Defoe answered. “When you ran—when I shouted to you not to come back—we were profoundly grateful you had escaped that monster, Bastiann Declouette, but we were distraught for ourselves. Brokenhearted. Miss Sarasses, who has long lived her life for Christ before us, spoke hope into our sorrow. We had forbidden her to talk about her faith for years but, when you left, we were desperate, and she was very brave—brave enough to risk our wrath many times to tell us about Jesus. Eventually, we listened.”
Miss Defoe turned to the girl Tory had sent to fetch her—the same girl who had run to Madame Rousseau to report strange happenings in the kitchen. She had looked on, boggle-eyed, as Madame and Miss Defoe alternately wept and caressed the stranger.
“Go quickly, Danielle. Help Miss Sarasses bring Mademoiselle Justine here.”
“Help her?”
Madame Rousseau clasped Tory’s hand more tightly. “Our Mademoiselle Justine has had a stroke, Tory,” she whispered.
“Oh, no!”
Madame Rousseau patted the hand she held. “Do not worry. We have cared for her and shall continue to. Patrice and I found a place for the three of us to live together. It is small, but we make do. We bring her to work with us in a wheeled chair and she spends the day in the workroom, happy among those who love her.”
“The three of us,” Miss Defoe said with a sigh, “have been together a long time. We were in the same workhouse as children, although Charlotte and Annette-Francoise were a few years older than I. We were hungry together and suffered abuse and neglect together. We . . . wandered down some terrible paths together, too, before we landed in a factory and learned a few useful skills.”
“It was Patrice who dreamed up our grand scheme, who showed us how we might escape poverty and drudgery,” Madame Rousseau whispered. “I am ashamed of the many things we did to break free in order to better ourselves. We started a small sewing shop in a sordid New Orleans ward, working twelve hours a day to keep a roof over our heads and food on the table—and using our feminine charms at night to add bit by bit to our nest egg, until we had the seed money we needed.”
Miss Defoe nodded. “With that seed money, we left our old haunts and established ourselves in a better neighborhood, teaching ourselves to speak and act as women of distinction while saving every spare penny until we had enough to rent space in this plaza. Then we created new personas and assumed false airs—Charlotte was best at pretending to be a French émigré—and established this shop and our new lives. But, years later, you showed us, Tory, that we had gained only material security and acceptance. We had given up on love.”
“Yes, love,” Madame repeated. “When you fled Bastiann Declouette, you shattered our hearts and took the fragments with you. Miss Sarasses showed us a God who cared about our wounded hearts. We surrendered our lives to him—”
“And he has brought you back to us,” Miss Defoe finished.
At that moment, Miss Sarasses, pushing a chair on wheels, entered from the passageway. Her face lit with joy when she recognized Tory. “God be praised! You have come back!”
Mademoiselle Justine, too, realized who the tall stranger was. She waved a curled fist at Tory, and one side of her face smiled.
The other side sagged and did not move.
Tory knelt and embraced the woman who had, with great patience, trained her to be a maid in a house of couture, whose lessons Tory employed as she built her own house of fashion.
Madame Rousseau stood and announced, “Miss Sarasses, the shop is closed.”
“Madame?”
“Please inform the staff in the workroom that I give them a holiday—with pay. I shall inform our clients in the front that we are closing early, shoo them out the door, and lock it behind them.”
Her powdered face quivered with exultation. “Our daughter has come home, and we shall praise God and celebrate.”
MANY HOURS LATER, ONLY Tory, Miss Defoe, and Madame Rousseau remained in the shop’s kitchen. Tory had sent Jack on his way with her thanks; Mademoiselle Justine had grown fatigued so Miss Sarasses had taken her to the house shared by Miss Defoe, Madame Rousseau, and the crippled Mademoiselle Justine.
“I, too, found the Savior,” Tory whispered. She tugged at a chain about her neck and drew out the locket that hung on it. The crack in the ivory rose on the locket’s face had given way, and half the flower had fallen off, but Tory wore it near her heart, day and night.
She flicked open the locket with practiced ease and stared at her mother’s faded photograph. “This locket, the image of my dear Maman, and the memories I had of you kept me from giving up through many difficulties—as did a scrap I tore from a Gospel tract:
“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.
“I did not understand the words, but they held a power over me that kept me wondering, ‘Is God real? Does he care for me? Does he see me? Will I find him if I search for him with all my heart, as he promises?’
“And I did. I found the Savior,” Tory whispered, “or should I say, he found me? But the road to him was . . . difficult.”
Tory spoke of the nine years since she had seen them last, beginning with the hours after she fled her uncle and Charles Luchetti took her under his wing, to those harrowing moments at her Denver fashion parade. At times, she spoke dispassionately; at other junctures, her throat closed on the words she tried to speak.
Madame Rousseau was tearfully attentive throughout Tory’s telling. Miss Defoe asked many questions. By the end of Tory’s account, the three of them were spent and silent in their own thoughts.
Finally, Miss Defoe broke the hush. “You say you have a shop and . . . friends in Colorado. Does this mean you have not come back to stay, Victoria?”
Tory sighed. “In many ways, I had forgotten what the South is like. When Jack—Mr. Monroe—drove me here, a policeman forbade me from setting foot on the boardwalk. Because I am ‘colored.’”
Madame Rousseau’s fist struck the table. “Unconscionable! If I owned this plaza, why, I—”
“The laws have become stricter in recent years,” Miss Defoe interjected, “the prejudices more engrained, the color lines more defined and separate.”
Tory shrugged. “I am a woman of mixed blood. I accept that fact . . . but things are better for me in Denver. I am not saying the city is without its faults and sins—not at all. Among other faults, Denver is a bastion of prostitution and vice. But I . . . that is why God has called me to live there. I have a work to do for him in Denver, helping other women such as myself.”
Her friends nodded, their expressions accepting but bleak.
Tory, to break the silence, exclaimed, “Oh! How could I have forgotten? I have learned that my father left me a bit of money. Could you . . . could you think of joining me in Denver? We could buy a house, a nice one, large enough for us all to live together. We could hire a nurse to care for Mademoiselle Justine. You could help me in my shop, but relax a little, too.”
Miss Defoe and Madame Rousseau locked eyes in unspoken communication. Madame shook her head once, and Miss Defoe folded her hands before she answered.
“This place, this Denver, is considerably different from Louisiana, is it not? Mountains instead of bayous? Snow and ice in winter? Freezing te
mperatures? We do not feel Annette-Francoise could make such an adjustment. Her condition is fragile, her mind often confused. She requires routine and familiar surroundings. She is our friend, and we are all she has. You understand.”
“I do understand, but . . . how long can the two of you continue to work so hard? Will you not retire at some point?”
The women did not respond at first, and Tory observed a dogged stubbornness creep onto Madame Rousseau’s features. Tory glanced at Miss Defoe and glimpsed . . . sorrow? Defeat?
“What is it? What are you not telling me?”
Miss Defoe reached for Tory’s hand again. “Ah, child. The fact is, we cannot stop working. We spent nearly all we had saved when Annette-Francoise fell ill. If we do not work, we have nothing to live on. And, sadly, this shop does not make as much as it once did. Ready-made clothing has improved and costs much less, as you know.”
Tory sat back, humbled by Miss Defoe and Madame Rousseau’s great love for their friend but distraught that, after a lifetime of toil, they had nothing to sustain them during their sunset years.
Miss Defoe, however, sat up straight and grew animated, as though recalling an item of import. “Victoria! You must come home with us. Now. This evening.”
“I-I have a hotel room. My things are there.”
“Yes, yes. I do not mean come and spend the night—but you must walk home with us. Will you?”
“Yes. Certainly.”
THE HOUSE THE WOMEN rented was not in the best neighborhood, nor was it adequate for their needs, but it was clean, and they kept the minuscule yard tidy and pleasant. Mademoiselle Justine slept in one bedroom, while Madame Rousseau and Miss Defoe shared the second.
As soon as they entered the house, they went to the kitchen where Madame Rousseau put on the kettle. Miss Defoe disappeared. She returned minutes later and placed a bulky bundle tied up in a scarf in Tory’s hands.
“Open it,” Miss Defoe commanded.
Tory laid the bundle on the table and undid the knot that bound it. The scarf fell open, disclosing a matching mirror, brush, and comb. And a familiar velvet bag.
Tory touched the ornate back of the mirror. “Why, this . . . these are Maman’s things!”
“Yes, they are. Now, open the bag, Victoria.”
She undid the bag’s drawstring, and poured out a handful of jewelry, a few dollar bills, and some change.
“Maman’s jewels!”
“Do you remember when you came to live with me and we hid your mother’s jewels in the floor of my apartment? I assured you then that you had nothing to fear from me. For nine years I have kept them for you.”
Tory picked them up, piece by piece, each one a treasure trove of memory—she saw her beautiful mother brushing back her sleek, raven hair and fastening diamonds to her ears. Only the pearl earrings were missing.
Beneath the bag of jewelry lay a square of stiff, faded brocade, folded in two. Tory knew what was inside, but her fingers trembled as she lifted the brocade and slid the photograph from its protective embrace.
She stared at the full image of her mother for a long time, tears dripping down her cheeks, then turned it over, knowing what she would find written there: For Henri, my only love and the father of Victoria, my greatest joy.
JACK MONROE ARRIVED at Tory’s hotel in the morning to drive her to Sugar Tree. It had been a restive night for Tory, as she grappled with her emotions and the difficult decisions before her.
While Jack steered his motorcar down the road leading out of town, Tory tried to picture herself, at age eleven, walking the same graveled road. O Lord, I believed I would never return to Sugar Tree, yet you have brought me full circle. Your love and faithfulness humble me.
“I hope your expectations are not too high, Miss Washington. The house at Sugar Tree was neglected under Bastiann Declouette’s short ‘guardianship,’ then vandalized when he was killed. After his death, my uncle took possession of the estate, to preserve it for you. We closed up the house and appointed a caretaker, someone to live here and keep an eye on the house for us. We hired a crew to work the orchard and maintain the grounds.”
Tory nodded. She didn’t want to talk; she only wanted to breathe in the moist air of spring, redolent with lilac, honeysuckle, and wild wisteria. This morning is not unlike the morning I discovered that Henri Declouette was my father, the day that put in motion so many heartaches, she realized.
Jack seemed to understand, for he said no more until they turned onto the winding drive. The Southern sugar maples lining the drive had leafed out, their new-green foliage bright and bold.
“It is never cold enough in Louisiana to tap the trees for their sap,” Tory murmured. “I think naming the land Sugar Tree spoke to the sweetness of life here. And it was sweet for my early childhood.”
They continued up the drive until the house came into view. It looked no different to Tory, except a little smaller than she remembered, and her heart lurched in her chest. Oh, Maman! How I wish you were here, still mistress of this house!
“As you can see, the ground floor windows are boarded up. I have a key, but perhaps you wish to look around the grounds first?”
Tory nodded. She knew the way and did not wait for him. She found the path and started around the house. And she knew what pulled her, that she would not stop until she reached the orchard.
The trees had been pruned and the tall grass among the trees had been mowed. Many trees were in bloom: A riot of blossoms and the hum of bees sipping nectar greeted Tory. She wandered through the trees until . . .
She saw a bench, a lovely wrought iron bench in the shade of a peach tree. Close by was a headstone. Tory stumbled toward it. Upon the stone, in plain-carved letters, she read,
Adeline Thérèse Washington
1873–1902
Loving Mother
Tory dropped to her knees before the gravestone and leaned her cheek against its cool surface. She traced the year of her mother’s birth, realizing, for the first time, that her mother had been only seventeen when she gave birth—three years younger than Tory was on this day.
“Maman! I am here. I have come back,” Tory whispered.
“Bin a-prayin’ ye would find your way,” a rough voice whispered.
Tory raised her head slowly. Bent, thinner and frailer, her black face creased more deeply with years, there stood Sassy Brown.
Tory rose from her mother’s grave. “You came back, too!”
“Aye. Couldn’t abide Venus’ shack or her man. Sleep behind th’ kitchen, I do, same’s before.”
Tory drew closer. “Is it really you?”
“Come give this ol’ woman the hug she bin yearnin’ for, child.”
Tory drew Sassy into her arms, half afraid she would break Sassy’s bones, as fragile as she looked and felt. “Dear Sassy! Seeing you again makes me believe Maman is just inside the house, reading in the parlor, and soon I shall join her for tea.”
“Many’s th’ time I’ve thought th’ same, child.”
“But what are you doing here?”
“What am I doin’ here? Why, I’s th’ caretaker—din’t yer lawyer tell ye that?”
“You!”
“Aye. Naught t’ do but walk th’ land once, twice a day, weed th’ garden, eat, and sleep. Th’ groundsmen come an’ go, but I stay.” Sassy stared up at Tory. “Can ye kneel, child, and let this old woman look in your face?”
Tory knelt, which put them nearly eye to eye. Sassy laid a thin hand on Tory’s cheek and studied her.
“S’much of your mother. But as much of your father, too, I ’spect. A child o’ two peoples.”
“A child of the King of Kings, Sassy. That is what matters.”
“Is so? Is so? Glory t’ God, my prayers be answered!”
“I remembered you saying you would pray for me, Sassy. I wondered, for the longest time, who was this Jesus you had wished to tell me of. Then I found him for myself.”
“Glory t’ God, Miss Tory. And now ye are grown—
and grown more beautiful than your mère. Din’t think it possible, but ’tis true.”
Tory shook her head, unable to believe Sassy.
“I see you have met the caretaker, Miss Washington.”
Tory rose to her feet and turned to Jack. “A better choice you could not have made.” She looked toward her mother’s grave. “Who did this?”
“Sassy showed my uncle where your mother was buried. We agreed her grave needed a permanent marker.”
“Thank you. From the deepest place in my heart, I thank you.”
“WHAT WILL YOU DO NOW, Miss Washington?” Jack asked. They were walking the grounds of Sugar Tree in comfortable companionship. “What will you do now that Sugar Tree is yours, you have the means to restore the house, and you are reunited with your somewhat unconventional family?”
“I wanted to discuss the house and grounds with you . . . and my wishes regarding them.”
He stopped and drew away a bit where he could study her. “You do not intend to stay?”
“No, I cannot. God called me to Denver to help other women who have suffered abuses similar to mine, the cruelties of forced prostitution. My soul’s desire for these women—some not much older than school girls—is for God to heal them of their wounds and show them how to live strong, independent lives, full of grace and dignity, free from every shame—even the ones others will, either intentionally or without malice, heap upon them. That is what God has called me to; it is what I shall do.”
It was the first time Tory had used such blunt language in front of Jack. She looked sideways to see him first flinch, then nod in acceptance.
Tory continued, “Of course, a part of my heart will always live here, and I hope to visit at least once a year.”
“So, you will not be selling Sugar Tree?”
“No, I could never sell Sugar Tree, but neither will it sit empty and wasted.” She drew a deep breath. “What I wish, Mr. Monroe—”
“Will you call me Jack, Miss Washington? We have been through a great deal together, have we not? I was hoping you might consider me . . . a friend?”
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