by Nancy Moser
Mary nodded, but her eyes took on their own worry—which added to Charlotte’s. If her maid knew enough to worry … Servants often knew more about what was going on in the house than its residents. Had Mary heard tittle-tattle through the servant grapevine about what the Tremaines truly thought of her?
Charlotte reached a hand upward and stopped Mary’s movement. “If you hear anything you think I need to know, Mary …”
“I’ll tell you. I promise.”
Sending her maid to be a spy. Had it already come to this?
“There you are.”
The implication from Mrs. Tremaine was that Charlotte had lingered too long upstairs. “I’m sorry to make you wait, ma’am.”
“I have plenty to accomplish without waiting upon you, but when I request your presence, it would behoove you not to dally.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I am not your mistress. Mrs. Tremaine will do.”
Charlotte’s chest tightened at the slip. “Yes, Mrs. Tremaine.”
The woman was seated at a dainty but intricately carved desk. She set her pen in a stand and sighed. Had she had enough of Charlotte already?
“It’s appropriate for you to send a letter to your parents, telling them of your arrival.”
Charlotte was taken aback. “We—I—sent a cable upon my arrival. They know I arrived safely.”
“So your responsibility to your parents is through? With a mere cable?”
She felt herself redden. “No, no, of course not. You’re right, of course. I’ll go upstairs and write to them directly. They’ll want to hear of your generous hospitality and—”
Mrs. Tremaine retrieved paper and pen. “You may do so now.”
“Here?”
Her eyebrows rose. “You find my morning room lacking?”
Oh dear.
Mrs. Tremaine pointed to a small table with a chair beside it. “There. Sit there and compose your letter while I continue my work.”
Charlotte took a seat at the table, her mind racing. It wasn’t that she couldn’t compose a letter to Mrs. Gleason. On the ship she and Lottie had talked about which terms of endearment to use, and Charlotte had planned on corresponding in Lottie’s stead. But the samples of Lottie’s handwriting were upstairs in her bedroom. She’d practiced copying the style of the script, but since Lottie was left-handed, the angle was hard to appropriate. Not that Mrs. Tremaine would notice the difference, but Lottie’s mother surely would.
She really needed one of Lottie’s letters to look at while she wrote.
It wasn’t to be. Mrs. Tremaine brought her some stationery and a pen. “I would be remiss if I didn’t encourage your correspondence. I would expect as much if Beatrice were in some other family’s care.”
Charlotte nodded and took up the pen. She remembered her practice sessions when she’d found that turning the paper in the opposite direction from the norm had made it easier to accomplish the left-hand slant that was the most noticeable feature of Lottie’s script.
Mrs. Tremaine returned to her desk, but not her work. “What are you doing?” she asked.
“Excuse me?”
“You turn your paper … backward?”
Charlotte thought fast. She’d never expected to write letters in front of others. “I … I started writing like this as a child and never changed.”
“Your governess never corrected you?”
Charlotte remembered Lottie telling her that as a young child her nanny had tried to get her to do things with her right hand, but with no success. “I’m afraid she indulged me.”
“Spare the rod, spoil the child.”
“Yes, you’re right.”
With a nod Mrs. Tremaine said, “To work, then.”
As she began to write, Charlotte chastised herself for not writing a letter beforehand. During the last day of the voyage, Lottie had suggested she do as much, but Charlotte had put it off. This entire situation could have been avoided if she’d been able to tell Mrs. Tremaine she already had a letter ready to post.
She thought about writing nonsense and writing a real letter later, but the threat of Mrs. Tremaine rising from her chair and coming to check her progress was enough to make her create real sentences. Dear Mother …
The content wasn’t difficult. Charlotte knew the relationship between Mrs. Gleason and her daughter was formal, so the writing flowed and soon she was done. She signed her name, Your daughter, Charlotte. She sat back in the chair and realized she’d been holding her breath during the entire ordeal.
“Are you finished already?”
Finished with this draft. While writing she’d decided she would retire to her room and recopy it with Lottie’s handwriting samples close by. “Yes, Mrs. Tremaine.”
“Mmm.” She put her own pen aside. “By the way … isn’t your mother a cousin of Lord Mortonbridge?”
What? Charlotte had no idea. Yet she had to assume Mrs. Tremaine wasn’t trying to trick her. “Yes, I believe that’s true.”
“Your mother’s maiden name was Caste … Caste …”
“Castenet.” It was the first name that came to mind.
Mrs. Tremaine raised an eyebrow. Then she rose from her chair. “Give me your letter and I’ll post it for you.”
“But I can post it myself. You needn’t bother.”
“Nonsense.” She held out her hand, and Charlotte had no choice but to relinquish the letter. Mrs. Tremaine gave it a cursory look, put it inside an envelope she had already addressed, and set it on her desk. “Now, go amuse yourself for a short while. At three o’clock a few acquaintances will arrive that I want you to meet. I’m going to check with Mrs. Dyson about the refreshments.”
Charlotte eyed the letter. I need it back.
“You are excused.”
Charlotte got an idea. “May I have a few pieces of stationery to bring up to my room in case I’m inspired to write further letters?”
Mrs. Tremaine opened the center drawer of her desk and handed Charlotte a stack of six or seven sheets. “And take the fountain pen along for your use.”
“Thank you.” Charlotte left the room. On the way upstairs, interrupting her panic about the letter, she suddenly stopped.
“Castalan!” she whispered. Mrs. Gleason’s maiden name was Castalan, not Castenet! Charlotte looked toward the morning room. Had Mrs. Tremaine noticed the mistake? She hadn’t said anything …
“Is something wrong, miss?”
Mary stood at the top of the stairs, a stack of fresh laundry in her arms.
Charlotte’s thoughts returned to the letter—the letter that must not be sent. Perhaps Mary could help.
She hurried up the stairs. “Come, Mary.”
They entered her room and Charlotte closed the door behind them. “I need you to do something for me.”
“Anything, miss.”
How would she explain it? “I need you to do as I say and don’t ask questions. Understand?”
Mary’s brown eyes grew wary, but she said, “Yes, miss.”
“There’s a letter in an envelope on Mrs. Tremaine’s desk. It’s addressed to my mother, Mrs. Thomas Gleason, in Wiltshire. I need you to retrieve that letter for me.”
“Steal it?”
“It’s my letter, but I wish to write a better one and replace it for the letter currently inside.” She thought of a key point. “Without Mrs. Tremaine knowing it’s been done.”
Mary bit her lower lip.
“You have a pocket in your skirt, yes?”
She put her hand inside to show the affirmative.
“Slip the letter inside and bring it up to me; then I’ll insert the new letter and you can return it to the desk. Mrs. Tremaine told me she’s checking with the cook about refreshments for a visit from friends. The room should be unoccupied.” When Mary didn’t respond, Charlotte added, “It’s very important, Mary. Can you do that for me?”
With less hesitation than expected, Mary nodded and headed for the door.
“Discretion, M
ary. Discretion is essential.”
“I understand, miss.”
Charlotte hurried to the bureau and removed a stack of papers she’d brought with her from London. She found the examples of Lottie’s penmanship and set to work writing a new letter to Mrs. Gleason in much better form than the one she’d created downstairs.
Haste prevented perfection, but Charlotte was glad for the chance to redo the letter, as she’d forgotten Lottie’s unique way of writing her g’s at the end of words, with the bottom loop originating from the left, not the right.
She’d just finished the letter and was looking it over when Mary slipped into the bedroom.
“Did you get it?”
She drew it out of her pocket.
Charlotte released the breath she’d been saving, then folded the new letter in half and replaced the old letter in the envelope. How fortunate Mrs. Tremaine hadn’t sealed it.
“Here,” she said, handing it to Mary. “Back to the desk it goes.”
And she was gone. Charlotte fell onto a chair, drained from the effort. Her life was a deception. How could she ever keep it up? And how could any good come from it?
She covered her face with her hands and let the tears come. Mary slipped back in the room and was immediately taken aback. She hurried to Charlotte’s side. “It’s all right, miss. I did it. The letter is back on the desk. I saw Miss Beatrice in the entry, but I don’t think she suspects anything. It’s done. No need for tears.”
Oh, there was plenty of need for tears. Should she end it all now? Just tell Mary she wasn’t Charlotte Gleason, but merely a maid like herself?
Before she could talk herself out of it, she heard herself saying, “I’m not who you think I—”
A knock on the door saved her from herself. Or had it prevented her salvation?
Mary spoke with someone at the door, then returned to Charlotte’s side. “Mrs. Tremaine’s maid said the coffee has been postponed by half an hour. It will begin at half past instead of on the hour.”
The chance for disclosure had passed. “Thank you, Mary. That will be all for now.”
Mary looked at her askance. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Perfectly. I simply felt a wave of homesickness.”
Left alone, Charlotte breathed in and out, quite willing to let God spur her to go after her maid and reveal the truth, or …
She felt no nudge to go after Mary.
It was a relief.
“And this is Mrs. Charles Sonomish, Mrs. Thomas Standish, and Mrs. Reginald Byron.”
Charlotte executed a curtsy. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, ladies.”
“My, my, Gertrude, she is a lovely thing.”
“Conrad should be very pleased.”
“To think you found her across the pond. How extraordinary.”
It was as though Charlotte need not even be present. She felt like a pretty bauble, acquired to be admired.
“She has good teeth too.”
All heads turned in Beatrice’s direction.
“That will be enough, Beatrice.”
She shrugged as the ladies settled into the chairs of the music room.
Mrs. Sonomish removed her gloves and tucked them between skirt and chair. “I’m sure it is a delight for you to have another young woman in the house, Beatrice.”
“Oh yes,” she said with an intensity that negated whatever she would say next. “I’ve always wanted a sister.”
She offered Charlotte a pulled smile that surely revealed its duplicity to all in the room.
Mrs. Tremaine began pouring the beverage. The smell of coffee permeated the room. “Before the season fully begins, we’re having a proper party for Miss Gleason to introduce her to society, but I wanted you ladies—being my special friends—to meet her first.” She gazed at Charlotte. “I don’t know how such things work in Wiltshire, but here in New York the season begins on the fifteenth of November and ends on January fifteenth.”
“Of course, the late winter is then consumed by charity balls,” Mrs. Sonomish said. “Are you good at needlework and such?”
Charlotte was relieved she could honestly answer in the affirmative. “I can sew a bit.”
“Good, for during charity season there is an endless need for items to sell at the events.”
“As if the world needs another doily or pillow sham,” Beatrice said.
Her mother flashed her a look.
“In the summer when the heat gets oppressive here, we all go to Newport for their season,” Mrs. Byron added.
“Heaven forbid we miss a ball,” Beatrice said under her breath.
But for a spare glance the ladies ignored her.
Mrs. Byron returned her cup to her saucer. “Tell me, Miss Gleason, do you miss your family back in Hampshire?”
“Wiltshire,” Charlotte corrected.
“Hampshire, Wiltshire …” Beatrice said. “Miss Gleason doesn’t miss her family because she keeps in vigorous touch with them. Didn’t you send them a letter this very day?”
The way she looked at Charlotte … Mary had mentioned seeing Beatrice in the hall when she was switching the letters. Did Beatrice know more than she let on?
Mrs. Tremaine answered for Charlotte. “Indeed. Miss Gleason is a good daughter and wrote a letter to her parents.”
“That is indeed commendable,” Mrs. Standish said. “It’s of utter importance for a daughter to be on amiable terms with her parents.” Her eyes passed over Beatrice.
The point was made and acknowledged. Charlotte hoped Beatrice would remain silent—and for once, that’s just what she did.
Mrs. Tremaine offered a plate of shortbread cookies. “Miss Gleason is an accomplished pianist. That’s why I decided to have our soiree here in the music room.”
“Oh, do play for us,” Mrs. Standish said.
Charlotte felt the blood drain from her face. Lottie Gleason was a pianist—though far from accomplished, but Dora Connors couldn’t play a note.
“I would love to hear something by Liszt,” Mrs. Sonomish said.
“I’m afraid I’ve not heard—”
Mrs. Sonomish put a hand to the lace at her neck. “Franz Liszt? The Hungarian composer? Why, he’s the world’s most accomplished pianist.”
“Didn’t I read in the newspaper that he died recently?” Mrs. Tremaine asked.
“Yes, I believe he did,” Mrs. Byron said. “Such a loss. But fortunately we still have all that wonderful music he composed.” She turned to Charlotte. “Who is your favorite composer, Miss Gleason?”
Flee! Fall down. Break an arm. Pray the earth opens up and the house falls into a crevasse, stopping all talk of—
Beatrice set her cup and saucer upon her lap. “Perhaps our guest’s talents were … exaggerated?”
Oddly, within the snide remark was a way out. Although unappealing, it was something. “I’m afraid Miss Tremaine is correct. My parents may have overstated my musical abilities.” Charlotte sighed for effect and to calm her nerves. “A child off the street has more musical talent than I do.”
The ladies’ disapproval hung in the air between them. “Your parents shouldn’t have done such a thing,” Mrs. Byron said.
“You’re right,” Charlotte agreed.
“At least you told the truth now,” Mrs. Standish said.
“Had no choice but to tell the truth …” Beatrice mumbled.
“What did you say, daughter?”
“I was merely of the same opinion, that Miss Gleason’s character is heightened by her honesty.” Beatrice clapped her hands softly. “Bravo, Miss Gleason.”
Beatrice’s attitude suggested the worst: she knew the truth, or at the very least, suspected something was amiss.
Mrs. Sonomish sipped her coffee, then said, “It’s not a crime not to have musical talent. Either one does or one doesn’t.”
“Exactly,” Mrs. Tremaine said.
“Do you paint perhaps?” Mrs. Bryon asked.
“I’m afraid I’m with
out that talent too.”
Mrs. Standish put a finger to her lips. “Beatrice … you paint, do you not?”
“Yes, I believe I do.” She stood. “Would you like to see one of my paintings?”
Mrs. Tremaine shook her head. “I don’t think—”
Beatrice ignored her and left the room.
As they waited for her return, the ladies chatted about various events of the upcoming social season.
“We just returned from Newport, though it’s taken me a good while to get the house back in shape again,” Mrs. Byron said. “We pay the servants to maintain the premises while we’re gone, yet I swear they do nothing but eat our food and play pinochle. My Reginald found two decks of cards missing from the game room.”
“Did you find the culprit?” Mrs. Standish asked.
“No, but we will. ‘Steal and be gone’ is our motto.”
“It’s so hard to get good help, loyal help,” Mrs. Sonomish said. “We have a hard time keeping servants beyond a year.”
“They get restless,” Mrs. Tremaine said. “Do you find that a problem in England, Miss Gleason?”
Not at all. The Gleasons’ servants had all been employed for years— until they were let go due to the family’s financial difficulties. She knew it would be simpler to agree, but a dose of pride welled up and she said, “We rarely have such problems—at least not in the Gleason household. My lady’s maid, Dora Connors, has been with me since I was twelve.”
“Commendable indeed,” Mrs. Byron said.
Beatrice entered the room with a canvas. “Here is my latest attempt.”
The women gave it their full attention and motioned her closer for a personal look. “My, my,” Mrs. Byron said. “It’s … lovely, Beatrice. You show true talent.”
Charlotte noticed Mrs. Tremaine raise her eyebrows, as if surprised. “We are very proud of our daughter.”
It was Beatrice’s turn to raise an eyebrow.
Mrs. Sonomish held the painting upon her lap. “The use of color to distinguish the flowers while keeping them indistinct upon close inspection … it’s very interesting.”
“The style is called Impressionism,” Beatrice said. “It’s all the rage in France. Monet, Manet, Degas, and even a woman, Berthe Morisot.”