by Nancy Moser
“A woman known for her painting?”
“She deserves recognition,” Beatrice said.
“Does she attempt to make money at it?” Mrs. Standish asked.
“I assume so. Isn’t the worth of art usually determined by the price people are willing to pay for it?”
Mrs. Tremaine stood and took the painting away, setting it on the floor by a music stand. “Be assured Beatrice does not paint for income—or show. I can’t imagine going to an exhibit of art painted by females.”
“I can’t imagine there ever being such a thing,” Mrs. Bryon said.
“But why shouldn’t there be?” Charlotte had held her tongue as long as she could. She knew the way of the world; she knew women of bearing were not to have a career of any sort, but during the discussion she’d watched Beatrice’s expression fall, then tighten, and had seen a crease form between her eyes as if she was desperately trying to hold her emotions in check.
The women tittered between themselves, defending the right and privilege of women of worth to be deemed the “leisure class.” They were proud of their duty to do nothing and considered it a sign of their status and station.
Beatrice returned to her seat. Charlotte caught her eye for just a moment and in that one look saw a glimmer of gratitude.
“Lottie!”
Sofia ran toward her—ran into her—wrapping her little arms around Lottie’s legs. She looked up and offered a long string of Italian words, of which Lottie understood none.
And yet … she understood everything. And felt the same way.
She cupped Sofia’s chin in her hand. “I’m very glad to be back too, Sofia.” She resisted the urge to swipe a handkerchief over her grimy cheeks.
If she had a handkerchief.
Which she didn’t.
Besides, her own face was probably none cleaner.
“Mamma?” she asked.
Sofia took Lottie’s hand and pulled her inside the Scarpelli tenement and up the stairs. She chattered the entire time, which was an unexpected salve to Lottie’s nerves.
Finally on the top floor, Sofia burst into her family’s apartment, causing her mother to put a hand to her chest.
But when Lea saw Lottie, her surprise became joy and she too embraced her.
“Meraviglioso! Benvenuta, Lottie!”
In the woman’s ample arms, Lottie began to cry.
Lea didn’t let go. “Famiglia …” she whispered in Lottie’s ear.
Lottie was done flying. It felt good to land.
Chapter Twelve
Lottie wasn’t sure about this, not one little bit.
Yet she couldn’t very well stay behind when the Scarpellis went to church Sunday morning. Church was nothing new to her. She went every Sunday with her parents. In the village church in Lacock they had their own pew.
Her trepidation involved going to a Catholic church. St. Patrick’s. She already felt like an outsider among the mass of Italians that entered the church, but to sit through a mass itself …
It was all so new.
Everyone had put on their nicest clothes, and the women covered their heads with shawls or pretty pieces of lace. Lottie was lent a piece to cover her own hair. Little Sofia wore Lottie’s hat. One feather leaned precariously until Lottie tucked it back into place.
The cathedral was on Mulberry Street, just a few blocks away. They walked. Upon entering, the men removed their hats and they all dipped their hands in a vessel of water in the narthex and bowed at the aisle, touching their heads and chest with their hand. Lottie had no idea what they were doing, but it seemed to be a gesture of respect, so she did the same. Then she walked down the aisle between Lucia and Sofia and went into a pew. They did not sit at first, but knelt in prayer.
Lottie’s prayers were an assortment of need, gratitude, and fear. Her life was in a shambles. She had no possessions, only the dime Pastor Weston had given her for the hack ride, no permanent place to stay, and no plan. Yet because her jewels and money had been stolen, she’d met the Scarpellis. Which meant she wasn’t alone. That was worth something.
During her long walk from Pastor Weston’s back to Mulberry Street, she’d had plenty of time to think. What would have happened if she’d somehow arrived at the house of Dora’s cousin without ever meeting Lea and her family? What would have happened if she’d arrived with her money and jewels intact? Either way she would have been alone. Completely and utterly.
The idea of being alone in New York City had not fazed her when she was on the ship with Dora, but now that she was here and had experienced firsthand the complex and mysterious ways of this city and its inhabitants … money was the least of her problems and even her needs. Being completely alone would have been devastating.
Yet God had taken care of that, right from the start.
Lottie glanced to her right, at Lucia’s bowed head. Her lips offered soft murmurings of prayer. In that one glance Lottie’s heart pulled with a tenderness that was a bit disconcerting. In her old world, she would never, ever, ever have had anything to do with someone like Lucia, and yet now, in the midst of her new life, a friendship had formed between them that could not be denied. Since the door linking herself to Dora had been so harshly closed, had God opened a window with Lucia? Did He understand how much Lottie needed a friend—even more than she realized that herself?
Lottie was thankful for the Scarpellis, for a roof over her head, for food in her stomach, and … for the hope of a job. Lucia promised to take her to the garment sweatshops in the morning.
The idea of working …
Was Lottie a good worker? She’d never worked. She’d never needed to. Yet could it be that she did need to work, that everyone needed to work? If not to earn a living, perhaps the act of working served some other purpose?
The congregation began to sit, and Lottie looked at the altar and beyond. A large crucifix was displayed at the front with Jesus suffering on the cross. She’d never thought much about His pain, and it was difficult to look at Him. She was more at ease thinking about Christmas and Easter, His birth and resurrection.
A priest came in behind a young boy, both clad in white, their hands held before them in supplication. Words were said, prayers prayed, but it took Lottie a few moments to realize the service wasn’t being said in English, or even Italian, but in Latin.
She glanced at Lucia. Did she understand Latin? Did all these people—most of whom were not educated—know Latin?
Yet the look of peace upon many of the faces … peace and awe. Perhaps their faith wasn’t dependent upon words heard or words said but stemmed from an inner need fulfilled.
She closed her eyes, letting the cadence of the Latin wrap around her as she attempted to open a place in her heart and mind where her faith lived. God? Are you here with me?
The priest began to pray. “Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificétur nomen tuum: advéniat regnum tuum…”
Although Lottie didn’t understand the words, she had an odd notion that she did. The cadence of the prayer seemed familiar. Was it the Lord’s Prayer? The prayer prayed in her own church, in every church? No matter what their differences might be in ceremony or language, they had this in common.
Suddenly the miles between here and home fell away and she was seated next to her mother and father in their own church: thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven … Lottie said the rest of the prayer on her own and felt a strength and security accompany the words.
She looked up at the cross, to Jesus suffering. For her sins.
And there were many. Oh so many.
Lottie bowed her head, ashamed. She’d deceived her parents in order to do what she wanted to do. They needed to know she was safe and that she was sorry for lying to them.
I’ll write them a letter.
But what about Dora? If Lottie’s parents knew Dora had assumed her identity and was at the Tremaines’ with the hopes of marrying Conrad …
Lottie shook her head in short bursts. No. Although she�
�d tried to end the masquerade, it wasn’t her place to ruin Dora’s chances of a happy life. If Dora and Conrad didn’t find each other amiable, there would be no wedding, and Dora would leave the Tremaines’ and continue her life elsewhere. Love would determine Dora’s fate. Since all of this had been Lottie’s idea, she wouldn’t humiliate her friend or the Tremaines with exposure. There would be no more visits to the big marble mansion.
But she could ease the burden of her own deception by writing a letter to her parents with lesser disclosure.
Or could she?
She had no address to give them. No job. If she told her parents she was doing well, it would be yet another lie. And if she told the truth? She didn’t feel up to using the piece of blackmail against her father—that he’d better not inform the Tremaines that it was a mere maid living in their home or Lottie would reveal the Gleason family scandals. Who was she to use extortion against her own parents? She, who had already deceived so many. Was she any better than they?
Sofia leaned against Lottie, dozing. Lottie raised her arm, letting the little girl in. The hat tipped precariously and Lottie carefully untied the ribbons beneath Sofia’s chin and removed it, allowing her the freedom to burrow her head against Lottie’s breast.
Lottie stroked her hair. Such a child … such a dear child …
The priest kissed the altar and said, “Pax tecum.”
All replied, “Et cum spiritu tuo.”
Amen.
Going to church with the Tremaines was a production Charlotte was used to. Back in Lacock she’d been expected to accompany the Gleasons to church on Sunday. The only difference was in where she sat today—in the family pew up front, rather than a few pews behind with the other servants.
But also not in the first pew.
Charlotte wondered about the identity of the families seated in the pews in front of them. Did the ranking of society continue in church? If so, which families were more important than the Tremaines? Whoever they may be, she was also disappointed to be seated between Beatrice and Mrs. Tremaine. Would she never get time alone with Conrad?
The organ played a song to remind everyone that God had arrived, and the pastor took his place in the pulpit. He was a squat man with receding silver hair. He had a ruddy Scottish look about him—which was confirmed when he spoke. The lilt of his voice was a comfort. Were the Gleasons in church this very day, praying after the safety of their daughter? Was Lottie safe?
Charlotte closed her eyes and offered her own prayer.
The pastor cleared his throat. “One day Jesus saw a rich man putting money in a collection plate. Then he saw a poor widow put in two small coins. This caused Him to make an observation as to which offering counted the most. The donation from the rich man who would never miss his offering? Or the gift given by the poor woman who’d sacrificed all she had? Jesus declared that her offering was worth more than all the rest.”
The pastor put a hand upon the Bible and looked at his congregation. “Yesterday I came upon a young woman sleeping in these very pews, wet and cold from the storm. She had nothing and had nowhere to go. Yet she was full of wisdom as she reminded my wife and me of this very story and …”
Charlotte shivered as a thought coursed through her. Yesterday she’d seen Lottie standing in front of the Tremaine mansion, soaking wet from the rain. Had Lottie taken sanctuary in the church?
Charlotte looked down at the red pew cushion upon which they sat. Had Lottie been lying right here when the pastor found her? Had she been the inspiration for his sermon? If so, where was she now?
Without trying to look obvious, Charlotte scanned the chancel, hoping the pastor would produce his inspiration in person. Unfortunately, it was impossible to peruse the congregation without turning around.
Lottie, where are you? How are you?
Once again Charlotte was forced to recognize she had nothing to offer her friend but her prayers.
They stood in line to shake the pastor’s hand. More than anything, Charlotte wanted to ask him about the girl in his sermon but wasn’t sure how to do so while surrounded by the Tremaines.
She overheard Mr. Tremaine grumble to Conrad, “All this talk of the poor woman’s offering being worth so much … so our money isn’t good enough? Perhaps Pastor Weston would like to see what the offering plate is like without our beneficence.”
“Shh!” Mrs. Tremaine said.
It was their turn to shake hands. When it was Charlotte’s chance, she said, “Excuse me, but I was interested in the woman who—”
Mr. Tremaine stepped forward. “Pastor, I would like to introduce you to Miss Charlotte Gleason, visiting us from England.”
The pastor looked confused as he shook Charlotte’s hand. But then his gaze grew intense. He was studying her.
What had Lottie told him? Did he recognize her name? Had Lottie told him that she was the real Charlotte Gleason?
Instead of wanting time to talk with the pastor, Charlotte suddenly wanted nothing more than to be down the steps and away.
“Nice to meet you,” she said, and let the rest of the family take their turn.
But once she got in the carriage, she looked back at the church and saw him watching her. What did he know?
Charlotte sat back to hide from his gaze.
Charlotte wasn’t sure how to accomplish it, but she knew she had to try.
At the noon meal, she broached the subject.
“Excuse me, but I was wondering if it would be possible to visit the church this afternoon? I would like to speak with Pastor Weston.”
“Whatever for?” Beatrice asked.
Charlotte had thought of an answer. “I wasn’t brought up in your denomination, and I would like to speak with him about the differences.”
“You were brought up Church of England, correct?” Mr. Tremaine asked.
“Yes.”
“Then there is no need for such a meeting.”
“But—”
“Besides,” Mrs. Tremaine said, “Conrad has plans for you this afternoon, don’t you, son?”
Conrad had plans?
Put on the spot, he blushed and appeared ruffled. “Yes, I … well, I thought the two of us could take a … It’s such a beautiful day—”
“He wants to take you for a walk in Central Park,” Beatrice said.
Her parents flashed her looks of reprimand.
“What? I was simply trying to help. After all, I’m to be their chaperone.”
Conrad cleared his throat and turned his eyes upon Charlotte. “Will you accompany me, Miss Gleason?”
Finally! She’d been wanting some time with him. “I’d be delighted.”
Her quest to talk to Pastor Weston would have to wait.
They rode in the carriage some blocks to the north, to a large green area on their left. It continued on. And on. And on.
“Is this the park we’re going to?” Charlotte asked.
“Yes indeed,” Conrad said. “It’s called Central Park and is comprised of eight hundred forty-three acres. Two good friends of ours designed it: Frederick Law Olmsted and Calvert Vaux. They had ten million cartloads of debris removed and brought in a half million cubic feet of topsoil and—”
Beatrice covered her ears. “Enough, Conrad. We did not come for a history lesson.”
Actually, Charlotte would’ve liked to hear more. She missed reading the Gleasons’ newspaper or books borrowed from Lottie. Ever since arriving at the Tremaines’, it was as though she’d stepped into an intellectual abyss. Not that she considered herself educated or wise, but she had prided herself on being informed.
She looked at Conrad, intending to give him a supportive smile, but he was looking out the window and then rapped on the carriage to alert the driver to stop. He exited the carriage first and then helped the ladies out. After offering Charlotte his arm, they joined a busy procession of beautifully clad New Yorkers entering the park. The men wore derbies or top hats and cutaway coats in many shades of brown. The women were in bri
ghter colors in deep hues, as though the cool winds of autumn had expelled all memory of the pastels of spring and the vivid shades of summer and happily called to the fore a completely new palette: intense and bold, with a hint of the musky flavors and aromas of the season.
Before coming to the park, Charlotte had liked her own costume, but now she found its layers of black chantilly lace too mournful, the glimpses of burgundy decoration too few. She much preferred Beatrice’s ensemble, which combined a gray-blue cashmere with Turkey-red borders and bows. Even Beatrice’s parasol was adorned with a red bow. Charlotte’s was solid black.
“I look like I’m in mourning,” she whispered to Beatrice, who walked beside her on the right. “The colors here are full of life.”
“I didn’t wish to say anything to you, my dear, but as you see, the bustles in fashion are a bit higher than what you’re wearing.”
Charlotte had never noticed it before, but did so now. Indeed, the bustles of the women around her extended behind at waist level, almost like a shelf. “Their bustles give the appearance of the hind quarters of a horse.”
“Excuse me?”
She’d given offense. “I’m sorry, it was merely a first impression.”
Conrad chuckled. “An apt one, to be sure. I have no knowledge of women’s couture, but I admit to wondering about the logic of the bustle in general. I believe I much prefer the bell-like shapes Mother wore when I was little.”
“You liked them because there was more skirt to hide behind when I chased you.”
Conrad changed the subject by drawing them to an intricately carved balustrade from which they looked down upon a fountain and a lake beyond.
The view took her breath away. “It’s beautiful,” Charlotte said.
“This is Bethesda Terrace.”
The scene below them was lovely, with boats serenely floating on the lake and smart couples strolling beside the fountain and on the grass. It reminded Charlotte of home. She didn’t realize she’d missed the green expanse of the Wiltshire countryside until now.
“The fountain was created by a woman sculptor,” Beatrice said.