Masquerade

by Nancy Moser

  The clothes looked clean enough, though the blouse was much faded from its original green. But this wasn’t about fashion; it was about comfort. And sleep. Lottie longed for sleep more than she’d ever longed for anything.

  She took the clothes from Lucia. “Grazie.” She did like the way her tongue rolled the r. It was fun to say the word.

  Lucia smiled. “Prego.”

  Lottie looked around the room at the people getting settled in for the night—Aldo and Dante were placing a thin mattress on the floor… .

  “Where can I change?”

  Lucia understood, for she grabbed a blanket, nudged Lottie into a corner, and held the blanket as a makeshift wall. It would have to do.

  With difficulty Lottie unbuttoned her skirt, and once that was accomplished, she reveled as its weight fell to the floor. She stepped free of it, untied the bustle padding from her waist, and tossed it on top of the fallen skirt. The serge bodice was next to be sacrificed. The cool air against her skin was a relief. She unhooked the front of her corset from bust to hips, and with its first give of one inch, then another, let herself breathe fully. She always felt relief at the end of a day’s fashion burden, but today above all others the release was especially sweet.

  Lottie pulled Lucia’s skirt over her petticoat, put the blouse over her camisole, and tucked it into the skirt. The light fabric was heavenly, almost like not wearing outer-clothes at all. Next, her shoes. She sat on a box against the wall and unlaced her boots. Her feet responded in a similar manner as her torso. The release, the freedom …

  “All done,” she said.

  Lucia lowered the blanket enough to peek over it. “Good.” She folded the blanket and placed it on the floor. “Bed.” She handed Lottie another blanket and a small sack of rags to use for a pillow.

  Lottie had never slept on a floor, but what choice did she have? Vittorio climbed into the upper sling, and Lucia and Sofia shared the bottom bed, which was barely wide enough for one. Francesca and Aldo huddled together on the skinny mattress that had been unrolled on the floor. And Dante and Lea … Lottie could hear them talking quietly in the main room. She hadn’t noticed a divan or Chesterfield there, nor any chair that was in any way padded. Were the Scarpellis also lying upon the hard floor? She thought of her parents … what would they have done with too many guests?

  They would never have invited them to stay. They certainly would never have given up their own comfort, especially to a stranger.

  It was her turn to take a place on the floor. Her sleeping mat lay next to the sisters’ bed. The folded blanket offered little relief. She turned on her side, but without a proper pillow, comfort was an impossibility. She turned onto her stomach. At least her arms could provide some measure of cushion. And at least she could breathe more easily freed from her corset and heavy clothing.

  “Dio vi benedica. Buona notte,” Dante called from the other room.

  The family offered their own good-nights.

  The oil lamp was extinguished and the room fell into complete blackness. The bedroom had no window, and though the main room had one, the building next door was so close the moonlight could find no entry.

  Lottie’s heart began to beat faster. This was the pit of hell. Such darkness, such closeness, such lack of air …

  Be thankful for this.

  Thankful for sleeping on a floor in an airless room full of strangers who needed a bath as much as she? She’d never been at ease in full darkness and was used to sleeping with a lamp or fireplace lit. How had she moved from her cozy bedroom in Wiltshire to this awful place?

  These people fed you. They cared for you. Be thankful for this.

  Sudden tears threatened. Tears of gratitude? Reflection? Frustration? Or panic? Whatever their cause, they demanded release. She dug her face into her folded arms and let them come.

  Then she felt a gentle hand upon her back. In the darkness she could not see whose it was but heard little Sofia say, “Non essere triste. Tutto andrà bene.”

  Lottie did not understand the little girl’s words but felt their intent. She turned on her side, took the tiny hand in her own, and kissed it.

  “Dormi bene, Lottie.”

  She returned the words as a whisper in the dark. “Dormi bene, Sofia.”

  Be thankful for this.

  She’d try.

  Chapter Ten

  “Ouch!”

  “Scusi!”

  Lottie was yanked from sleep by Aldo stepping on her foot. The room was still dark until Lea brought in a lantern, which cast light and undulating shadows over the crowded space.

  “Buon giorno,” she said.

  Vittorio sat up in his upper bed, hitting his head on the ceiling. “Aiye … buon giorno.”

  Lottie had no choice but to arise with the rest and move her blankets out of the way. How could it be morning? She’d barely slept, what with the hard floor, the lack of a proper pillow, the stale air, and Aldo’s snoring.

  She needed to use the facilities, but cringed at the thought of traipsing down all those flights of stairs to the outhouses in the alley. Her excursion last night—after discovering that neither the Scarpellis nor anyone else in the building had indoor water closets—had made her wish such bodily functions were not necessary.

  After folding her blankets, she tugged on Lucia’s sleeve but had no idea what the Italian word was to explain her need. “I …” She looked around the room, hoping the men were not listening. She pointed outside and bounced twice. “W.C.?”

  Lucia’s eyes showed recognition. “Toilette?”

  “Yes, sì.”

  Lottie was glad Lucia didn’t point to the chamber pot in the corner. Privacy was impossible. Instead, she took Lottie’s arm, walked through the main room—offering good-mornings to her family—then led the way to the stairs. At the end of the hall they had to wade through a queue of women carrying vessels to fill with water from the spigot on the wall. One spigot per floor. It was unfathomable. How she longed to wash her face and brush her teeth, but she sensed such personal use would seem frivolous compared to all these women trying to make breakfast for their families. Lottie would take a real bath once she got to the home of Dora’s cousin. All this filth would be behind her soon. But not too soon.

  As had been the case the night before, Lottie smelled the outhouses long before she entered the alley to use one. She put a hand to her nose, hoping to squelch the horrific stench. When necessity had forced her to come here last night, it had been dark. The place had frightened her, but she assumed it would be more tolerable with the daylight.

  What daylight? The alley was narrow and the tenements high. She doubted sunlight ever reached this awful place. Why would it waste its rays here? But without its presence, shadows greedily consumed the alley. Windows dotted the side of the buildings like dark holes in a birdhouse. At least a dozen lines of laundry hung overhead, spanning the buildings. The clothes hung lifeless. There was no air.

  They passed doors on the left, and just as Lottie was thinking these might be storage rooms of some sort, a door opened. Inside, Lottie glimpsed a tiny apartment full of children. People lived in these spaces? Here? With a dozen feet separating the place they ate and slept from the long row of outhouses that spanned the other side of the alley?

  There were lines of people waiting to use the facilities—yet the term was far too sophisticated a title. Inside, the outhouses were little more than a few planks of wood spaced just far enough apart to …

  She stayed close to Lucia’s side. The men in line gave her looks of curiosity along with other looks that made her want to run upstairs.

  Lucia let her go first. In the rickety outhouse, Lottie wasn’t certain which sense was assaulted first. Her nose from the stench, her eyes from the absence of light but for the bit coming through the slits in the wood, or the sense of suffocation from lack of fresh air and lack of space to maneuver her skirt and underclothes. Necessity made her endure it all. She vowed that as soon as she retrieved her trunk, she
would get out of these underclothes and burn them.

  Lucia went next, leaving Lottie alone with the mostly male crowd awaiting their turn. The attention continued, with sly smiles and heads bent toward heads, talking amongst themselves. One man put his fingers to his lips and kissed them.

  It was too much. “Stop it!” she said.

  They laughed and their talking gained momentum and volume.

  Since she was leaving this place, since she would never see these people again, and since they probably didn’t understand English anyway, she decided to tell them what for. She placed her hands on her hips, raised her chin, and said, “My name is Charlotte Gleason and my father has more money than the lot of you will make in ten lifetimes. I’ve been presented to the queen of England and am only here because a thief stole all my jewels and money. So you had best leave me alone and go after women of your own station—whatever that is.”

  During her tirade a couple of the men mimicked her, with hands on their hips and bobbing heads. She didn’t care. It felt good to have said it.

  With impeccable timing, Lucia emerged from the outhouse just in time for Lottie to take her arm and escape into the building.

  Lucia looked over her shoulder at the men they left behind. “What you do?”

  “I gave them the scolding they deserve.”

  “Cosa?”

  Lottie dropped Lucia’s arm and made boxing motions.

  Lucia laughed. “Combatti.” She made a fist and added a sound, “Pwue!”

  “Pow!”

  The five flights up didn’t seem as strenuous with laughter fueling their way.

  Charlotte squinted her eyes against the light. Mary was at the windows, pulling aside the heavy drapery. “Good morning, miss. I’m drawing your bath.”

  She sat upright, stirred by the thought. Yesterday, she’d seen the large claw-footed tub but had been uncertain as to the protocol of asking for a bath. She didn’t want to cause anyone undue trouble. But to bathe in such a tub …

  When she’d first started working at the Gleasons’, they’d just added a bathroom on the second floor that contained a flush toilet, a sink, and a tub. They’d carved the space out of a guest bedroom. The servants hadn’t shared the luxury and had continued to use hip baths in the kitchen and the outhouse in the yard. But the Gleasons’ functional bathroom was primitive compared to the one off of Charlotte’s bedroom. And communal.

  The fact she didn’t need to venture into the hallway was luxury indeed. The bath was completely tiled in white and was situated between her own room and another guest room. Mary had intimated that Mr. and Mrs. Tremaine each had their own baths (as well as their own bedrooms), and there was another facility shared by the other two guest rooms. Conrad and Beatrice had their own. There was also a W.C. situated on the first floor near the cloak room, and Mary bragged that even the servants had a complete set of indoor plumbing downstairs.

  “I’ve brought some garments into the room for you, miss. And some towels are on the warmers.”

  Warmers?

  There were a series of pipes coming out of the floor, forming a towel rack before returning to the floor again. They were spaced wide enough for towels to be hung upon them. Charlotte touched one and found it hot.

  “There’s nothing like a warm towel after a bath,” Mary said.

  “I can imagine.”

  And the bathwater itself was enticing, with steam rising …

  Mary stood ready to help remove her nightdress. “I’m fine now, Mary. Thank you.”

  She bobbed a curtsy. “As you wish, miss. Would you like to wear the blue day dress?”

  How many times had she made such suggestions to Lottie? But in this case, Charlotte wasn’t certain. “I don’t know what the Tremaines have planned.”

  “ ’ Tis not for me to know, miss.”

  Unfortunately, Charlotte wasn’t certain it was for her to know either. The blue dress would do—for a start. She assumed changing clothes was a frequent occurrence.

  Mary left her and Charlotte made sure the door leading to the other guest room was locked. Then, just because she could, she locked the door leading to her own bedroom. At the Gleasons’ there were no locks on the doors to any of the servants’ quarters. Charlotte had been thankful Mr. Gleason was not the sort to take advantage, and she’d also been glad there were no Gleason sons. Keeping the hallboy at bay at Dornby Manor had been enough of a challenge.

  She pulled her hair into an impromptu knot, then slipped into the bath. The water rose to her chin. A bar of soap sat ready at the side. Unlike the Pears soap Lottie used back home, this bar was shaped into a white rectangle. She brought it to her nose and inhaled a fresh scent that smelled … clean. Carved into the top of the bar was the word Ivory.

  The tub was designed to offer support for her head. She closed her eyes. Never had she felt so indulgent. To loll in a hot bath, without a care …

  On a whim, she slid completely under the water. She blubbered and spit and quickly rose out again, a bit afraid. She’d never been immersed like that. Was this what swimming was like? Emboldened, she took a breath, held it, and slid down once again. All sound ceased but the bwom-boomp of her own heart. She’d never heard it so, resounding through the water, ringing in her ears.

  Unnerved, she emerged again, glad to be among familiar sounds. Pressing her soaking hair away from her face, she realized combing it would be a challenge. But as she leaned back she let such trivial worries fall away with the bubbles upon the water.

  When she let herself fully relax, the experience became more than a mere bath. It was a cleansing of the past, a rebirth. A purification. It was the final washing away of Dora Connors and the transformation of that maid into someone important, someone with a place in society and a purpose beyond meaningless household tasks. It was a baptism marking a new life with a new name.

  Through amazing circumstances, she was now Charlotte Gleason, and with due effort, determination, and God’s help, she would become Charlotte Tremaine. With that one act her mother would have her sweet shop, Lottie would gain the freedom she craved, and Charlotte would live like a princess with a good man at her side.

  What kind of life this would be!

  What kind of life would this be?

  Back in her own clothes—including her dreaded corset—Lottie finished her good-byes to the Scarpellis. Dante had already left for work with the men, and Lucia was leaving also. Lea encased her with a warm embrace. “Take care, sì?”

  “Sì.”

  “Che Dio sia con te. God be with you.”

  She was touched. “And also with you.”

  Sofia stood at her mother’s side, and Lottie knelt to see her face-to-face. She adjusted a flower in Lottie’s bonnet, which the little girl had donned upon rising. “Take care of my hat for me. You look very pretty. Bella.”

  Sofia smiled shyly, then reached out and touched Lottie’s cheek.

  She’d better leave soon or she would cry.

  There was one last Scarpelli …

  Lottie stood before Lucia and took her hands. “I’ll miss you.” And oddly, it was true. Although they’d known each other only a few hours, although they’d only exchanged a few dozen words, they shared a bond that seemed instinctive, inherent, and strong. Yet perhaps not inevitable. For Lottie felt an attachment with this Italian girl beyond any fondness she’d ever felt in Wiltshire among the young women of her own set.

  Lucia nodded at Lottie and her brows furrowed. Her chin quivered. “I miss you too.”

  Not knowing what else to say, Lottie put a hand upon her heart. Lucia did the same.

  Lottie made a vow that once she was settled she would return to Mulberry Street to visit Lucia. Yet as she left the tenement and walked north toward the address of Dora’s cousin, she was not sorry to leave the chaotic conditions of Five Points behind. She was used to order and cleanliness, with quiet and measured days, not this chaos, filth, and cacophony.

  But while walking alone up the street, she heard a
faint mental admonition. It was her mother’s voice. “A woman is not allowed to walk alone on the street until she’s married.” Indeed, Lottie had never done so, and with greater thought she realized the times she’d walked at all were not to go anywhere or to achieve anything. She’d walked on the estate grounds for a diversion or to find a lovely place to read. In the village of Lacock she’d always been accompanied by her mother or aunt, and while in London they’d walked in parks to be seen. She and her mother had been the walking equivalent of the Gleason family jewels, brought out in fine weather to be noticed and appreciated, their worth assessed and noted for future reference.

  How silly it now seemed and yet how safe. For they hadn’t ventured onto the city streets for their promenade, but were taken by carriage to a location where other walking, breathing jewels were displayed.

  What was more disturbing than the acknowledgment of this absurdity was the fact that Lottie had enjoyed it. Very much. The highlight of her week had been the stroll through the village or the park, especially when she was in possession of a new gown, bonnet, or parasol.

  Now, on the other side the world, she also received attention and appreciation, but these stares and indecipherable comments were unwelcome. Although her traveling suit was not in any way ostentatious, it still made her stand out. If only she could have left her suit behind in exchange for the ease and anonymity of Lucia’s skirt and blouse. But comfort had to be forfeited. Lottie had to be dressed well to meet Dora’s cousin. Thinking of that coming event, she tugged at the sleeves of her suit and put a hand to her hair. She felt naked without her bonnet. No woman of bearing entered public without one. Oh well. It couldn’t be helped. There was no way she could have taken her hat from Sofia.

  In the first block she hugged the left side of the street, following the up and back of the pushcarts. Such close proximity left her susceptible to the occasional call of the owner to buy this or that, but also gave her a sense of security. If they believed she had money to buy, perhaps they would let her pass unbothered.