by Nancy Moser
They conquered the stairs single file—and a conquest it was. Each landing was piled with someone’s belongings, and on the third flight, they had to step over a sleeping man sprawled across a pile of what looked to be garbage. Lottie heard babies crying, adults arguing, and children running in the hallways.
Floor after floor, step upon step … the group ceased their chatter and concentrated on the task at hand. Although Lottie heard the men puffing behind her, she seemed to be the most affected. After five flights she felt a painful stitch in her side. She had to stop. “Please. I. Can’t. Breathe.”
The Scarpellis halted and talked among themselves. She saw Francesca spread a hand upon her own midsection, then nod at Lottie’s and say something to Lea. They were discussing her corset. It was the first time she’d noticed that the Italian women wore none. Their bodices were loosely bloused.
“I agree with you,” she told the women. “In this, your way is better, and far more conducive to exertion.”
The two women understood nothing but, just the same, exchanged more opinions.
Vittorio pointed up the stairs. “Ci siamo quasi?”
Lea pointed to the next landing. “Sì.” She looked at Lottie. “Top. Siamo lì.”
Lottie nodded and stood straighter to capture another breath. “Go.”
And so they accomplished the final stairs. Lea led them to a door on the right and opened it. “Benvenuti.”
They entered a room that was crowded with furniture—makeshift and real. A young woman was working over a small iron stove. Another daughter? She greeted the relatives, who took turns taking her face in their hands and kissing her. It was obvious they’d last seen her as a child. “Bella Lucia…”
The girl looked at Lottie, then her mother, her face asking the question.
“Lottie Hathaway. Immigrate. Non ha soldi, nessun posto dove andare.”
“Irlandese? Inglese?” she asked.
“Non lo so.”
Lottie understood one of the words. “Yes, British,” she said.
“Wiltshire.”
“Ah.” They all nodded.
Lottie wondered if it mattered, if there were some bad feeling of one culture for another. Surely not here in America, where all came together to start over.
The next hour was spent finding places for all the relatives’ belongings, piling what was already piled even higher. Then they sat around the small table. Chairs were created out of crates and crude benches, but all found a place. Lea and Francesca helped Lucia with the food preparation—which smelled delicious. Lottie had not eaten anything but an apple since leaving the ship. Was that today?
As the dinner was ready to be served—it appeared to be pasta, hunks of cheese, bread, and greens—the door opened and a ruddy man with a mustache entered. The room was once again alive with greetings. This was the man of the house. Dante Scarpelli.
He kissed his wife and put a hand around her waist as he listened to her explanation of the stranger at their table. Dante nodded, and in the end looked at Lottie and extended an open palm from his chest outward. “Benvenuta, Signorina Hathaway.”
“Grazie, Signore Scarpelli.”
The room went silent for a moment, then burst to life with laughter and much talk, and pats on Lottie’s back. “Bene! Ben fatto!”
Mr. Scarpelli took a second look at little Sofia’s new chapeau. The girl nodded toward Lottie. “Me l’ha dato.”
He looked at Lottie, brushed a thick finger across the brim, then winked. “Molte grazie.”
She wished she had another hat to give.
Mary adjusted a curl to pin above Charlotte’s right ear but fumbled it. Again.
“Here, I’ll do it,” Charlotte said. She took over and pinned it in place. The maid had absolutely no talent for dressing hair. It was as if she’d never done it before. It was not the first indication that Mary had little experience as a lady’s maid. In fact, her chapped hands indicated she was more used to duties with pail and water than snaps and hairpins. Charlotte couldn’t help but think Beatrice had something to do with Mary’s present assignment, though she didn’t want to imagine why Conrad’s sister would do such a thing. Beatrice had acted friendly enough.
“You look beautiful, miss. The Tremaines will be very impressed.”
That was the objective.
The clock on the mantel struck seven. “I’m going to be late!” Charlotte hurried from the room and headed toward the front stairs. She paused at the top of the sweeping steps to collect herself, then ran a hand along the pink satin that lay in folds at her hips and fell into an elaborate bustle and train edged in matching ruffles. The embroidered and beaded front panel culminated in silk pleats at the floor. A corsage of variegated roses balanced on the small band that crossed her shoulder. She felt pretty in pink. She hoped the Tremaines agreed.
She adjusted her long gloves and made her descent, with memories of Lottie’s lessons on the rules of dining accompanying her every step.
“Firstly, Dora, you will enter the dining room in a specific order. The host will offer the highest-ranking woman his arm, and then the other women will follow on the arms of their partners in order of their status, with the hostess coming in last upon the arm of the husband of the woman escorted by the host.
“When going in to dinner, your escort will always offer his left arm. But don’t hold tightly. Barely touch him. It’s all a matter of show. We are led, but act as though we don’t need leading. We are together, yet apart, all dolls upon display.
“The most prominent man sits to the right of the hostess, with the most prominent female sitting to the right of the host. The second in rank to their left, with the rest of the table alternating male and female toward the center. You never want to be at the center of the table, for that is where the least important are seated.”
If “least important” was a measure of visibility, Charlotte would be happy to fade into a center seat.
“Your chair will be pulled back and you will sit, pulling your train to the side.
“Remove your gloves and place them in your lap. Then take the napkin from the table and set it on top of your gloves. Occasionally the footman will place your napkin for you.”
Occasionally? Not always? So should Charlotte wait or do it herself or …
Upon reaching the bottom of the stairs, the details of dining were replaced by panic. She was lost. Was the drawing room to the left or right?
She spotted the statue of the cowering woman that Beatrice had teased about and got her bearings. To the right. She prayed she wasn’t the first one there, nor the last. Lottie had stressed the importance of proper timing—unfortunately, how to achieve such timing had not been discussed.
The drawing room doors were open and she heard voices. How many? She would know presently.
The intricacy of the room’s architecture made her bedroom seem austere. Every surface of wall, ceiling, and floor was adorned. Two massive chandeliers sparkled with dozens of lights. Mirrors reflected—and doubled—the grandeur, and there were chairs and settees to seat at least thirty.
“Well now,” Conrad said. “And here she is.” He started to come to greet her, held back ever so slightly, then began again, taking her hand in his. His face was flushed—with pleasure or nerves? And why had a crease formed between his brows?
He led her to his parents. Mrs. Tremaine sat upon a settee, regal in a deep burgundy dress—with a high neck and full sleeves—but before Charlotte had time to assess the difference in the woman’s gown compared to her own, Mr. Tremaine cleared his throat. He stood behind his wife, his hand hooked within the watch pocket of his evening clothes.
“Charlotte, may I present to you my parents, Mr. and Mrs. Martin Tremaine. Mother, Father … this is Miss Gleason, our Charlotte.”
Mrs. Tremaine blinked, and Charlotte wondered if it was because of her son’s use of the word our. That one blink was proof their engagement was not official. She was on trial here.
Charlotte managed a
curtsy with only the smallest sway off-balance. “I am so pleased to be here. Thank you for your generous hospitality.”
“Yes, well. It needed to be done.” Mr. Tremaine flipped her gratitude away.
Mrs. Tremaine took over, and upon her first words, Charlotte knew this was the way of it. Mrs. Tremaine was the one to impress. “We trust your journey was agreeable? The accommodations on the Etruria were satisfactory?”
The Tremaines had paid for their passage—two passages. Had Beatrice told them the story about her “companion”?
“It was a delightful trip, but I am reluctant to inform you that my traveling partner was caught up in the excitement at Castle Garden and …” She sighed for dramatic effect. “She ran off.”
“Ran off?” Mr. Tremaine asked. “To where?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps she was lured away by a man making claims about a better life. I saw her talking with—”
“Castle Garden is full of men making claims.” They all turned toward Beatrice’s voice as she entered the room. “Sorry to be late. I shan’t do it again.”
“Until next time,” her mother said.
She shrugged and Charlotte was immediately struck by her gown— which was of dark green velvet, with high lace collar and cuffs at her wrists. She felt like a fool in pink, and with bare arms and décolletage besides.
Beatrice found a chair. “What a lovely ball gown, Miss Gleason.”
Charlotte felt her jaw tighten but withheld her anger. “Thank you. My dinner gowns suffered some damage with the crossing, so I’m afraid you’ll have to bear with my state of overdress.”
Beatrice offered a slight smile and nod, as if to say touché. It was quite evident she’d misdirected Charlotte on purpose. But why would she do such a thing?
Mrs. Tremaine’s face softened slightly. Was she relieved there was some explanation for Charlotte’s fashion misstep?
Conrad fiddled with his cuff links, as if he sensed there was something going on between the women but was uncertain what. He returned to the previous subject.
“Since your companion ran away, Miss Gleason, should we call the police and send someone after her? For her own good?”
“Pfupft,” Beatrice said. “She’s long gone by now. Do you want to dive into the immigrant slums and hunt her down? I surely don’t.”
Immigrant slums? Charlotte hated to sound ignorant, but … “What are you talking about?”
Mr. Tremaine answered. “A place with too many people, too many languages, and too little money.”
“I hear they live under horrible conditions,” Conrad said.
Mr. Tremaine shook his head. “They’re fortunate to have a roof over their heads. If they work hard enough they can move elsewhere. In the meantime I imagine they find comfort in being with like kind.”
“As do we,” Beatrice said under her breath.
Her mother flashed her a scathing look. “What was that, Beatrice?”
Instead of backing down—as Lottie would have done—Beatrice repeated her words. “As do we, Mother. Isn’t New York society all about being with people of like kind?”
“That will do, daughter.”
“Au contraire, ma chère mère. I think it’s only appropriate we let Charlotte know how things are here in New York. How can she be expected to be accepted in our society when she is unaware of its … foibles?”
“Beatrice …” Conrad looked at her imploringly.
Mr. Tremaine relinquished his place behind his wife and came round to address his daughter. “As a member of English society, I’m certain Miss Gleason is very familiar with the dictates and manners of proper intercourse.”
Beatrice crossed one leg over the other, revealing an ankle. “Dictates … but does England have a dictator like we do? Or should I say, dictator-ess?”
“Cover yourself!” Her father nodded at her ankle. His face was florid.
She rolled her eyes but put both feet upon the floor, straightened her back, and clasped her hands in her lap. Charlotte couldn’t imagine Lottie talking to her parents in such a fashion, or exposing herself in that way—and never in mixed company.
But Beatrice wasn’t finished. “Have you told her about the Four Hundred yet, Conrad?”
“No, I … you know very well Miss Gleason and I have not had a chance to have a full conversation as yet.”
“As yet,” Beatrice repeated.
Seeing the look on Mrs. Tremaine’s face, Charlotte was afraid the subject would be dropped, but she didn’t want it dropped, for Beatrice had sparked her curiosity. “Mrs. Tremaine, if I may ask, what is the Four Hundred?”
The woman looked taken aback.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“No,” Mrs. Tremaine said. “It’s nothing, really.”
“Not so, Mother,” Beatrice said. “We’ve all heard Mrs. Astor speak of such a thing. She holds the keys to who’s who on the list.”
“There is no list.”
“Oh, there’s a list,” Beatrice said. “If not on paper …” She tapped a finger against her temple.
Mrs. Tremaine’s focus moved from her daughter to the doorway, where a butler declared, “Dinner is served, ma’am.”
“Ah. So.” She held out her hand and her husband helped her to standing. Conrad extended his arm to Charlotte, and the two couples paraded toward the dining room.
With Beatrice following behind.
Alone.
Dinner was a staid affair. Charlotte was used to eating with the other servants in the servants’ hall or from a tray in her room. Although she had never attended a family meal at the Gleasons’ in any capacity but to serve, she knew they spoke to one another. A little.
Not so the Tremaines. And what could have been accomplished in one half hour took nearly two. There were six courses—which showed Charlotte her standing. A dinner of three courses would signal she was of no consequence, and one of eight or ten would indicate they wished to impress. Six courses implied respect for her presence, but also a superiority.
Each course was ceremoniously accomplished and eaten while the Tremaines spoke around each other. Mr. Tremaine seemed content to let his wife initiate what little talk occurred, and Conrad was quick to nod in complete agreement with whatever his mother had to say. Only Beatrice offered any amusement, yet as most everything she said seemed to grate upon her family, Charlotte couldn’t risk showing too much pleasure in it. Besides, Beatrice had shown herself untrustworthy. She was a woman to be watched. Carefully.
Mostly, Charlotte was relieved that the questions asked about herself were easily answered. Perhaps the Tremaines’ reticence would be a blessing. Perhaps their general disinterest in deep discussion would prevent a verbal mishap on her part.
As one course faded into the next—some which looked appetizing enough but which Charlotte had no appetite to eat—she found her eyelids drooping, and the sound of Mrs. Tremaine’s voice began to hum… .
“Miss Gleason!”
Her head jerked erect. Had she dozed?
“Is our company so tiresome?”
Conrad extended a hand upon the table toward his mother. “It’s her journey that’s been tiresome, Mother. Miss Gleason has had an exhausting day.”
Charlotte was overjoyed at his defense—because the reason for her weariness was genuine, and because it was the first time she’d witnessed him showing some gumption. “I apologize,” she said. “I do assure you my fatigue is not due to either the delicious meal or the fine company. My eyelids have simply mutinied and demanded their way.”
Beatrice laughed softly, and Charlotte saw that even Mr. Tremaine smiled.
It was her way out and away, so she scooted her chair back and stood. “If you will please excuse this weary traveler, I promise to be bright-eyed tomorrow.”
The men rose, and Charlotte assured them she could see herself to her room. She was relieved when no one followed. Each step upon the staircase was accomplished with effort. She leaned on the railing, hoping she
wouldn’t fall asleep right then and there.
Mary must have been alerted, because she came running down the hallway and helped Charlotte negotiate the final steps to her bedroom.
“My, my,” Mary said, closing the door behind them. “You’re as pale as a ghost.”
“Bed, Mary. Please.”
Charlotte stood in the middle of the room and let Mary release her from her fashion bondage. Free of the heavy drapery and finally the corset, she took several deep breaths before raising her arms like a child being readied for bed. She felt a soft nightdress being pulled into place, and with Mary’s hand at her elbow, she negotiated the few steps to the bed.
The pillows swelled around her heavy head, and the covers Mary placed over her shoulders reminded her of the days when her mother had tucked her in.
Sleep rushed to meet her.
At the Scarpellis’ the sleeping arrangements took Lottie by surprise. When she’d first entered their apartment she had assumed there were multiple bedrooms beyond. But no. There was only one very small bedroom. Windowless. Inside were a set of makeshift beds built upon stilts, creating one bed above the other. The upper bed was no more than a sling of fabric tied to posts. Using those beds … two could sleep top and bottom. But what about the rest of them?
Lucia tapped her on the arm, then pointed to her midsection. “Togli il corsetto.”
Her corset? Lottie looked down at herself, then at Lucia. As she’d noted before, the girl was wearing a loosely fitting blouse. Yes indeed, it would be nearly impossible to sleep wearing her corset. And her travel suit was made of fabric too stiff to bend and bow. She longed for her nightgown.
But as Lottie glanced around the room, she saw that no one was donning a nightshirt or gown. They were removing their shoes, their suspenders, and their coats, and that seemed to be that. All were unencumbering themselves of their daytime clothing as best they could while maintaining some semblance of modesty in this communal space.
Lucia retrieved another blouse and skirt from a small dresser. “Mettiti queste.”