Tory Read online

  Table of Contents

  Tory

  Prologue

  Part 1: Louisiana

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Part 2: St. Louis, Missouri

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Part 3: Denver, Colorado

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Part 4: Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Part 5: He Restores All Things

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Postscript

  Books by Vikki Kestell

  A Prairie Heritage

  Girls from the Mountain

  Nanostealth

  About the Author

  Tory

  Girls from the Mountain, Book 2

  by Vikki Kestell

  Available in Print and eBook Format

  Victoria Washington—sophisticated and elegant, owner of Victoria’s House of Fashion, designer of haute couture gowns for the wealthy and elite of Denver, a brilliant and successful businesswoman in her own right. Tory, as she is known to her friends, is also a supporter of Palmer House—a most extraordinary refuge for young women rescued from prostitution.

  Deceived, kidnapped, and beaten into submission, the girls of Palmer House had been held captive in Corinth, the little mountain village above Denver, forced into an occupation not of their own choosing, until freed by the combined efforts of U.S. Marshals and Pinkerton detectives. Through no fault of her own, Tory was one of those girls—also rescued from a life of shame and degradation.

  And Tory’s past hides more than one dark secret: She was born in the deep South to Adeline Washington—a negress, the daughter and granddaughter of slaves, and the “kept” woman of a wealthy, married white man. Tory’s mixed blood, her illegitimate birth, and the shame of her exploitation follow her down the mountain and haunt her, even to the cusp of her success.

  What will happen when those who hate Tory expose her secrets? Will her business and reputation survive the scandals? Or are the rumors a cover for a more sinister plot? Is Tory’s life also in danger? And, if so, why?

  Tory

  ©2017 Vikki Kestell

  All Rights Reserved

  Scripture Quotations Taken From

  The King James Version (KJV)

  Public Domain

  Faith-Filled Fiction™

  http://www.faith-filledfiction.com/

  http://www.vikkikestell.com/

  Acknowledgements

  Many thanks

  to my esteemed teammates,

  Cheryl Adkins and Greg McCann,

  who give selflessly of themselves

  to make each new book the most effective

  instrument of God’s grace possible.

  I love and appreciate you.

  Additional thanks

  to my wonderful launch team!

  Cindy, Deborah, Emily, Jessica,

  LuAnn, Mary Ellen, Patricia,

  Rita, Sharon, and Sharyn.

  Your insights have helped make Tory

  a blessing to many hearts.

  Cover design

  Vikki Kestell

  What a Friend We Have in Jesus

  Lyrics, Joseph M. Scriven, 1855

  Music, Charles C. Converse, 1868

  Public Domain

  In Heaven Above

  Lyrics, Laurentius L. Laurinus, 1622

  Norwegian Folk Melody

  Revised, John Astrom

  Public Domain

  Alas! And Did My Savior Bleed

  (At the Cross)

  Lyrics, Isaac Watts, 1707

  Music and Refrain, Ralph E. Hudson, 1885

  Public Domain

  I Must Tell Jesus

  Lyrics and Music, Elisha Hoffman, 1893

  Public Domain

  ’Tis So Sweet to Trust in Jesus

  Lyrics, Louisa M.R. Stead, 1882

  Music, William J. Kirkpatrick, 1882

  Public Domain

  My Jesus, I Love Thee

  Lyrics, William R. Featherston, 1864

  Music, Adoniram J. Gordon, 1876

  Public Domain

  To My Readers

  This book is a work of fiction,

  what I term Faith-Filled Fiction™.

  While the characters and events are fiction,

  they are situated within the historical record.

  To God be the glory.

  Prologue

  Denver, Colorado

  February 1911

  Victoria Washington entered the ballroom to enthusiastic acclaim. She wore a gown of her own design for the fashion parade—a lovely, beaded creation that sparkled and shimmered along her slim figure as she moved. The light glinting from the amber beads infused her gleaming caramel skin with rich fire. The mahogany fox stole draped about her arms was the perfect accent.

  Tory had accomplished the impossible: She—a woman of mixed blood, illegitimate parentage, and sullied past—had established a thriving house of haute couture in the heart of Denver. Tory did not, however, claim her achievement to be entirely of her own creation: She owed much to the backing of wealthy benefactors and the friendship of powerful figures in the city. She owed far more to her God—the God who forgives and restores.

  Tory circulated among a throng of guests, the cream of Denver society. She thanked them for coming to view her spring lineup and accepted their accolades while wearing a small smile—an expression that projected confidence and satisfaction, but it was a smile that gave nothing away. Particularly her fear.

  Near the end of the reception, Tory retired from the crowd and stood near a watermarked silk curtain overhanging a cozy nook. From her vantage point in the room, Tory studied her guests and patrons—the wealthy and pampered of Denver. Without turning her head, Tory swept her eyes across the room, searching. Searching for that one individual in the crowd Mr. O’Dell had insisted would attend her event: the unknown someone who had proven himself determined to destroy her reputation and her business.

  The same person who had already made one attempt on her life.

  I am poised on the brink of success in this city while this man plots to harm me—but why? I do not understand. And will the reasons matter if he succeeds in ruining me?

  Tory exhaled to calm her nerves. The “why” was unimportant at the moment and must wait for an answer.

  Mr. O’Dell believes this man—whomever he is—will be here, that my event presents him with a favorable time and opportunity to strike, neither of which he will pass over.

  “He is likely here already,” Tory breathed, “waiting, biding his time.”

  She blinked as a thought occurred to her. It must be a person with great personal animosity in his heart toward me—so it must be someone from my past.

  Someone from my past . . .

  Part 1:

  Louisiana

  Chapter 1

  Author’s Note

  I have attempted to craft this story within the historical frame
of reference. We learn from history, whether it was kind or harsh, right or wrong, and it is important that we maintain an authentic and accurate picture of our past.

  As an author, I dare not (and should not) alter or moderate historical/cultural facts (such as ugly, offensive, and racially disparaging designations) to fit present-day sensibilities. A truthful recounting of our history shows us how far we’ve grown—or deteriorated—as a society. As George Santayana wrote, “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.”

  I beg your forgiveness if aspects of Tory’s experiences are painful to read.

  —Vikki Kestell

  But thou, O Lord,

  art a shield for me; my glory,

  and the lifter up of mine head.

  Psalm 3:3

  April 1901

  THE HOURS FOLLOWING dawn promised balmy skies and warming temperatures. The trees of the orchard flowered and dropped their blossoms; the mingled fragrances of lilac, honeysuckle, and wild wisteria saturated the heavy, moist air.

  On any ordinary morning this lovely, Tory would pursue her studies for three hours under the watchful eyes of her mère, Adeline. When Tory had completed her lessons to her mother’s satisfaction, the two of them would wander the grounds of Sugar Tree for an hour.

  Not this morning. No, this day was far too significant for school work or frivolous pleasures, and Tory gave no thought to engaging in ladylike outdoor play.

  Ladylike outdoor play.

  Tory giggled aloud. Adeline also allowed Tory forty minutes of unsupervised play time each afternoon—and she expected Tory to amuse herself in the proper manner of a genteel young lady, such as dressing her dolls or some similar sedate pastime. Tory almost always used those forty minutes to run wild through their orchard, racing along the lip of the bluff, glimpsing the shimmer of the river to their south, flying as fast as her long legs could carry her.

  She would run until her lungs caught fire—and she would keep running, pushing herself faster and faster as the fire spread throughout her entire body and a second burst of energy fueled her forward. Afterward, Tory would bathe her face at the pump in the courtyard behind the house, tidy her hair and dress, and wait, her hands folded demurely in her lap, on the bench near the garden’s fountain for her mère to call her to tea.

  Adeline, never the wiser, usually remarked, “The fresh air does you much good, Victoria.”

  Tory smiled. No, she would not be “playing” today.

  She scrutinized her white kid gloves. The gloves’ tiny pearl buttons ran along the inside of her slender wrists. The gloves were so tight that the buttoned closure pinched her wrists’ tender skin. Tory worried that her long, tapered fingers might burst the seams at the gloves’ tips, for she hadn’t had a new pair of gloves in more than a year, and her hands—indeed, her entire frame—had shot up since last spring.

  Tory’s stomach growled. The small portion of mush and half slice of toast she was allowed for breakfast never satisfied her for long. She grimaced—it was not as though food at Sugar Tree was scarce! This morning Tory had eyed with longing the plate of sausages and eggs intended for her mother. Adeline, however, admonished her daughter at every meal to curb her hunger just as she restrained hers.

  “A Southern woman curtails her appetite,” Adeline murmured. “She must not allow her figure to suffer from overindulgence.”

  It was a discipline Adeline practiced and intended to instill in her daughter: Whatever food was placed before Adeline, she ate no more than five bites of it. Adeline expected the same restraint in Tory. The girl received a full bowl of mush swimming in cream and two slices of buttered toast but, under Adeline’s watchful eye, Tory ate the allowed half a slice of toast and five bites of mush.

  The remains were removed from the table—and Tory imagined the servants gobbling them down.

  I know I would.

  The remembrance of hot, juicy sausages brought on further complaints from Tory’s deprived belly, and her dark brows knotted.

  Tory suspected that Adeline’s resolve in curtailing her daughter’s appetite was, in part, to slow Tory’s unprecedented growth. However, the limits put upon Tory’s eating were in vain: Her body grew of its own will until Tory looked to be all long arms and gangly legs. As a consequence of her height, Tory was often thought to be older than she actually was.

  I am but ten years old, yet my chin is as high as Sassy’s great-granddaughter’s—and she is thirteen.

  Tory pulled her mouth into a solemn moue as she pondered this phenomenon, and her wide-set chocolate-brown eyes grew thoughtful. The fact that Tory was tall for her age presented a number of difficulties. For example, the hem of Tory’s skirts, according to her mother’s well-thumbed fashion magazines, should have ended somewhere around mid-calf.

  The girl was knowledgeable of fashion for her age: She studied each precious periodical with more care than did her mother. Tory knew that knee-length hemlines had been appropriate for her last year when she was nine. However, Tory was ten now, and she had grown—and yet she was wearing the same dress she had worn on a similar day the previous spring.

  Tory tried to swallow down her concern. Will he notice how ill my dress fits me? Will he remark on it?

  Four times a year, the household spun itself into a frenzy of cleaning and cooking for today’s visitor. Four times a year, Maman fretted over her own toilet and appearance—leaving nothing to chance and no detail undone. And four times a year, Adeline expected Tory to deliver a flawless presentation before today’s guest.

  Tory sighed and examined her hands, looking for offending smudges. Finding the gloves to be spotless, she smoothed the gossamer folds of her dress. She dared not blemish or stain the delicate fabric—such a faux pas could ruin the day. As she touched the fabric, Tory willed the voluminous skirts to, at the least, cover her knees. Yes, their visitor was exacting, but Adeline Washington was more so—and Tory wanted to please her mother.

  Tory gave the gloves one last tug, hoping to stretch them even the tiniest bit and relieve the pressure the gloves’ tight seams exerted upon her fingertips. The gloves did not move even a smidge.

  Now that she was primped and ready, Tory would wait at a drawing room window for their guest to arrive. She spent the time with one of her mother’s fashion magazines propped before her, a pad of paper on her lap. Tory generally sketched whatever caught her eye, but what captured her interest the most were the women pictured within the pages of the magazines and their lovely apparel. Tory had filled a folio with her fashion sketches—many pages bearing her own improvements or changes, even if her artistry was immature.

  Every few minutes, Tory would tear her attention from her sketch pad and peer between the curtains, looking for their visitor to appear. Monsieur Declouette always arrived midmorning upon his magnificent dappled bay, Victorieux. Tory loved the spectacle of Monsieur Declouette galloping up the long, graveled drive, his tall, upright figure one with his horse. Victorieux would toss his head and prance in high spirits as his master reined him in.

  In past years, the groom would take Monsieur Declouette’s steed, the butler would announce the visitor, and Tory’s mother, Adeline, would receive him in the parlor. Monsieur Declouette and Adeline would take tea and visit for the space of an hour before Adeline summoned Tory.

  And in past years, Tory’s governess, Miss La Forge, would oversee her dress, hair, and other preparations. Once Monsieur Declouette had arrived, Miss La Forge would wait with Tory in the library that served as their school room until Tory’s mother rang the delicate silver bell in the parlor.

  At the sound of the bell, Tory would walk—with great decorum—to the parlor and knock upon the door. Tory’s mother would answer, “Come,” in her low, sweet voice, and Tory would enter the room, closing the door behind her.

  Tory, with her hands clasped before her, would offer her mother a kiss on each cheek. Then she would greet their visitor.

  Tory would approach his chair and sink into a deep curtsy.
“Bonjour, Monsieur Declouette.” She always spoke her greeting in French, and he answered her in the same.

  “Bonjour, Victoria. Come. Let me have a look at you.”

  Tory would stand before him, and he would run his eyes over her and comment upon her appearance and how well she was turned out. Then, at his request, Tory would recite poetry, play on the tiny pianoforte, and offer examples of her schoolwork for his examination. She particularly liked showing him her sketches.

  “Victoria has a gift, Adeline,” Monsieur Declouette once remarked, “a keen sense of style and fashion. Why, soon her drawings will be every whit as good as those found in newspapers and magazines.”

  “Thank you, Henri. Yes, she has a lovely hand,” Adeline had replied, and Tory had beamed with pleasure and pride.

  Before she was dismissed, Monsieur Declouette would put a number of questions to her, after which he would present her with a gift—a book, a card of ribbons, or some such trinket.

  The questions Monsieur Declouette asked varied, but the routine did not. The formal ritual was long established.

  After a private luncheon, Adeline and Monsieur Declouette would climb the stairs and retire to Adeline’s chambers for an hour. Adeline described this recess as “a rest” before Monsieur Declouette took his leave for the ride back to his home in the city proper. Tory was not allowed upstairs while Monsieur Declouette “rested,” so she entertained herself in the schoolroom or, if the weather permitted, out-of-doors to walk the garden or orchard paths with her sketch pad until something caught her eye.

  When Adeline and their guest descended the stairs, Tory would again, from behind the drawing room curtains, observe as Monsieur Declouette mounted Victorieux and galloped away. He would return in another three or four months, always sending a letter in advance to announce the date of his next visit.

  In a manner Tory did not comprehend, she and her mother were dependent upon Henri Declouette. Since Tory’s mère had hinted at their dependence (through exhortations for Tory to do her best not to disappoint the gentleman), Tory had drawn her own conclusions. She understood that their large, comfortable home and the orchards and grounds around them had belonged to Monsieur Declouette’s late mother. Tory assumed that he had inherited the house and grounds. She also supposed that the funds to manage the household came from him—although, of late, the amount seemed to be far less than what was needed.