Masquerade

by Nancy Moser

  “Really?” Charlotte was genuinely surprised, for she’d never heard of a woman artist of any sort until Beatrice had mentioned a woman painter in France. She tried to determine what the sculpture was. A woman? Or an angel?

  “You wish to see it closer?” Conrad asked.

  “Please.”

  They walked down the stone stairs to see the fountain firsthand. “It’s called the Angel of the Waters,” Conrad explained. “See how she blesses the water with one hand, while holding a lily, the symbol of purity, with the other. Do you like lilies, Miss Gleason?”

  She didn’t know many flowers by their names, but looking at the flower in the angel’s hand she could easily say, “Yes, yes I do.”

  Suddenly, Beatrice gripped her arm. “Oh dear. Oh no. There’s McAllister.”

  “Who’s—?”

  “Shh. Smile.”

  Charlotte could feel the muscles in Conrad’s arm tighten. With a glance she saw his jaw do the same. Who was this McAllister?

  “Ward,” Conrad said, tipping his hat to the man. “A lovely day, is it not?”

  The man’s gaze fell upon Charlotte like the keen eyes of a vulture finding its prey. “A beautiful day, to be sure.” He seemed to remember his manners and looked to Beatrice. “Miss Tremaine.”

  “Mr. McAllister.”

  Conrad dropped his arm, forcing Charlotte to stand alone. “I would like to introduce you to our visitor from England, Miss Charlotte Gleason.”

  The man took her hand and drew it to his lips. The thought of touching either his shock of a beard or his long mustache was distasteful, and Charlotte was glad for her gloves. “Enchanté, Miss Gleason. The whole of the city has been awaiting your arrival.”

  She withdrew her hand, bobbed a curtsy, and said, “You are too kind.”

  “I hear there is a welcome soiree planned soon?”

  “You are planning to attend, are you not?” Conrad asked.

  His eyes still leered at Charlotte. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

  She cringed at the thought of seeing him again.

  He made his good-byes and left them.

  Charlotte was glad when they began to walk. “Who was that horrid man?”

  Beatrice laughed. “I commend you on your instincts. That is Ward McAllister, the self-appointed czar of New York society.”

  Conrad patted her hand, which was once again upon his arm. “He isn’t so bad.”

  Beatrice stopped their walk to confront her brother. “You can only say that because you are not a woman.”

  Conrad began to speak but remained silent.

  “Is he married?” Charlotte asked.

  Beatrice laughed. “As if that matters to cretins such as he. Yes, he is married. Poor woman.”

  “Beatrice, please …”

  Beatrice put a hand to her chest in mock surprise. “Are you implying I’ve shocked our dear Charlotte? Do marital infidelities not occur in England?”

  Charlotte felt herself redden. Yes, she knew they did occur, and had occurred since time began, but she didn’t appreciate Beatrice being so open about it. The subject hit too close to home.

  “Enough, Beatrice,” Conrad said. “Let’s take a stroll down the Mall.”

  Beatrice began to come along, but then met a friend and stopped to chat. Charlotte finally had some time alone with Conrad.

  But what to say?

  She looked up at the trees that canopied the lane leading away from the fountain. “It’s beautiful here.”

  “Mmm,” he said. “When I need to think, this is often where I run to.”

  Run to? “You feel the need to run away often?”

  “Oh no, not run away. Assuredly, my life is full. I have no right to— I have no complaints.”

  Charlotte sensed a need in him, a yearning, an absence. Instead of causing her to think less of him, she felt a desire to draw closer, to draw him closer. “Discontent knows no class boundaries,” she said. “Even a king can be discontented.”

  His walk slowed. Then stopped. He plucked a yellow flower from along the path and handed it to her. “A token.” Then he motioned toward a bench. “May we sit?”

  Charlotte lowered her parasol. Whatever sun dappled through the leaves overhead was a pleasant counter to the cool air.

  When Conrad didn’t speak right away, she was alarmed. Had she misinterpreted his comments? Was the issue not discontentment? Had she misspoken?

  “I’m sorry if I said too much,” she began. “I meant no—”

  “No,” he said, shaking his head vigorously. “You did not misspeak. You perceived my situation quite rightly.” He looked at her. “Quite wisely.”

  The sincerity in his words was evident in his face and made her throat tighten. At last they’d found a connection, a bridge between him and her and back again. She found she wanted nothing more than to listen to his concerns and worries and thoughts.

  “Is … is it difficult being the eldest child? The only son?”

  A soft explosion of air escaped and he smiled. “How do you do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “Know my thoughts? Sense the issues that plague me?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  He grew serious again and took her hand in his. “God has brought you here, Miss Gleason, and if we never spoke another word, by the words we have spoken here today I would somehow find the courage to be content, for I have now experienced the joy of knowing that one other person on earth understands me. And cares.”

  Charlotte put a hand to her mouth. No one had ever spoken to her like this. No one had ever given her credit for merely listening.

  “I’ve upset you.”

  She shook her head. “I’m just moved by your words, for they …” Would it be too forward to say it? “For they reinforce a new feeling that has also been borne in me today.”

  Relief washed over his face, and with his smile he looked far younger than his years. “It’s a good beginning, yes?”

  “It is.”

  Their moment was interrupted as Beatrice approached. “There you are.”

  Interrupted but not completely over. For before they stood to join his sister, Conrad squeezed Charlotte’s hand, as if securing the new bond between them.

  Charlotte squeezed his hand in return, put the flower to her cheek, and looked up at him. The gleam in his eyes sealed the moment.

  Forever.

  Sunday afternoon on Mulberry Street transpired—on the street.

  The stalls and shops were closed for the Sabbath, leaving more space for the children to run and the families to gather on the steps and on chairs brought into the open air.

  After coming home from church with the Scarpellis, Lottie took Lucia’s suggestion and slipped out of her tight clothes and into the freedom of one of Lucia’s blouses and skirts. Then she joined the rest of the family on the street, nearly feeling like one of them but for her blond hair among the mass of raven heads.

  Lottie sat upon the chair Vittorio brought for her. “Grazie,” she said to him.

  He winked.

  It felt wonderful to have learned a few basic words. And sitting beside Lea, with the rest of the family coming and going, with the refreshing air filled with the leftover smells of the noon meal wafting from the open windows, surrounded by a symphony of foreign but melodic words …

  Lottie realized she was happy.

  “Huh,” she said to herself.

  “Mi scusi?”

  She felt herself redden. “Nothing. I’m just …” How could she explain? She spread an arm across the scene. “Lovely.”

  Lea nodded. “Bella. Splendida.”

  “Splendid. Yes it is.”

  Sofia ran toward them and presented each woman with the petal from a flower left behind by yesterday’s flower carts.

  Lea kissed her on the head and Lottie touched the tip of the girl’s nose. Then Sofia surprised her by climbing upon her lap. Lottie made room and reveled in the touch of another person, the warmth, and the
exquisite sensation of the child’s cuddly body submitting to her own. Impulsively, she gave the little girl a hug.

  Sofia glanced back at her and smiled, and Lottie felt her heart expand to a new size. She opened her hand—which still held the petal—and whispered in Sofia’s ear. “I treasure this petal as if it were the finest rose.”

  The dip in Sofia’s brow showed she didn’t understand, but that was all right.

  Lottie remembered her family’s home being filled with flowers— vivid arrangements from the garden or flowers sent as a thank-you by guests. She’d taken them for granted and was surprised to find them only a vague recollection. None held a place in her memory as lovely as this one petal.

  There was a sudden break in the momentum of the street. Conversations stopped, and heads turned to the right.

  What was going on?

  A man was walking through the crowd, coming toward them. He looked northern European in descent, with fair skin and fairer hair. He wore a suit with a blue and gray plaid vest, and over his shoulder he carried a wooden stand of some sort, with a box attached to the top—

  Was it a photographic camera? Lottie and her family had had their photograph taken a few times but always in a studio. She’d never seen a camera outside in the open air.

  He tipped his hat as he passed the families and received greetings in return. Then he looked in their direction. And stopped. And stared.

  The attention made Lottie feel uncomfortable. She didn’t know this man, and she wished he would look elsewhere.

  “You’re being rude, sir,” she told him.

  He blinked, breaking his gaze. “Forgive me, miss. I meant no disrespect.”

  She’d been right about his heritage. His words owned a Scandinavian inflection. Lottie’s family had employed a gardener from Copenhagen once, and he’d also owned the up-and-down cadence of the northern countries.

  She expected him to walk on, but instead he came toward her. “If it would be all right with you, miss, and you, signora, I would like to take your photograph.”

  Sofia wriggled in Lottie’s arms. “Giù.” She wanted down.

  “No, no,” the photographer said, waving his arm toward the girl. “Please stay, piccolina. I want the three of you. Three lovely ladies on an autumn day.”

  Lea said something to her daughter, and the little girl sat still.

  It took only a few moments for the man to set his camera and its stand in place. He put a square plate inside its back, looked through the box, and covered his head with a cloth while holding on to the lens in front. “Hold it!” He removed the cover on the lens for a few seconds, replaced it, and then unfurled himself from the contraption. “There!” he said. “Grazie.”

  He’d gained an audience with his work and immediately had a swarm of people accosting him, tugging on his shirt, wanting their own photograph to be taken. Men removed their hats and smoothed their hair, shirts were buttoned, and aprons removed to reveal a cleaner skirt beneath.

  “Whoa, now,” he said, trying to contain the crowd. “I’ll take a few more, but I don’t have enough plates to take pictures of all of you.”

  A young boy snatched the wooden-edged plate from the man’s hands and started to run away with it. Lottie reached out and grabbed the boy’s arm as he tried to sneak behind the women. “Oh, no you don’t.” She took the plate back and returned it to its owner.

  “A quick hand!” he said. “Thank you. The photograph is on there, waiting to be revealed.”

  “You need more than my help,” she said. She spotted Vittorio, Aldo, and Dante close by and called their names, then added, “Per favore. Aiuto.”

  Lea also came to the rescue and instructed the men of her family into action. Soon the crowd had parted enough for the photographer to breathe.

  Which he did—in one long sigh steeped with relief.

  “Thank you,” he said to Lottie. “Grazie,” he said to the Scarpellis. He righted the tripod, which had been on the brink of destruction just moments before. “I try to be unobtrusive, but with the weather so fine …” He set some of his equipment down and extended his hand. “My name is Anders Svensson, but everyone calls me Sven.”

  She shook his hand. She couldn’t tell him her true name. She didn’t know him. “I’m Lottie Hathaway, and your rescuers are the Scarpelli family.”

  He lowered his voice. “Are you staying … ?” He started again. “Hathaway isn’t an Italian name.”

  “Neither is Svensson.”

  He laughed.

  His laughter led her to explain. “I’m new here and had everything stolen at the dock. The Scarpellis have kindly taken me in.”

  “You’re from England, then?”

  “Wiltshire.”

  He nodded. “I came from Denmark nine years ago.”

  Sofia came toward them, holding a cup of water in her hands.

  “Grazie, piccolina,” Sven said. “I could use that.”

  He drank it and handed her the cup. She ran back to the safety of her mother’s lap.

  Sven’s eyes scanned the street. “The children are so precious. I mourn for the way many of them live.”

  “So do I,” Lottie said. “Yet there is a strength here, in spite of everything against them.”

  He cocked his head as if surprised by her insight. “Do you think we could sit on the step a while? I need to rearrange my equipment, and I’d enjoy talking with you.”

  Back home Lottie would never have considered such a thing. Sven was far below her station—a tradesman. Women of society didn’t speak to such men.

  But, as was abundantly clear, this wasn’t home, and to chat with someone who spoke English would be wonderful. So she nodded and they moved to the step of the Scarpellis’ tenement. He took her hand and helped her sit down. She expected his hand to be rough, but it was smooth. And strong.

  “So, Miss Hathaway. Tell me more about how you came to be here, in this place.”

  Before she had time to create a story, she told the truth. “I’m from a family of standing back in Wiltshire.”

  He shook his head.

  “Have you heard of Salisbury Cathedral? Or Stonehenge?”

  “Ja. Sure.”

  “They’re in the county of Wiltshire. I lived on an estate near the tiny village of Lacock. I—”

  “Lacock? I’ve heard of that town.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Henry F. Talbot. A pioneer of photography, of negatives. Didn’t he live at Lacock Abbey?”

  Lottie was amazed. “He did.”

  “Small world.”

  Minuscule.

  “So, Lottie from Lacock, why are you here, across the world?”

  “My parents wanted me to marry an American entrepreneur. I came here to do that, but—”

  Sven laughed. “It appears you took a wrong turn somewhere.”

  She didn’t like him laughing at her. “I decided not to go through with it. In fact, I sent my maid in my place to the Tremaines’. She will marry the man. I’m not who people think I am.”

  “Few in Five Points are who they expected to be when they came to America. If wishes were horses, beggars would ride …”

  “No, I didn’t mean it that way … I only meant that I’m free to do as I wish.”

  He did not laugh this time but looked up and down the street. “I would guess this place, among these people, isn’t what you had in mind.”

  Lottie’s defenses sparked. “Do not disparage them, Mr. Svensson. If not for their kindness, I would be in dire straits indeed.”

  His countenance softened. “I mean no disrespect to the Scarpellis or any who find themselves living around Mulberry Bend. And I know that this—” he swept an arm from left to right—“this wasn’t what any of these people had in mind when they came to America in search of a dream.” His eyes dropped to the dirt, litter, and horse excrement that masked the ragged cobblestones. Then his gaze turned upward, toward the slice of bright sky that seemed to mock the dark, drab colors of th
e world below. “These homes—which have no right to be called as much—shut out the sky and are criminal. Some could nearly crumble at a touch, and others are built behind these, and others behind those, so that many rooms are without light or air. Did you know dozens of babies die each year by suffocating in these so-called homes?”

  Lottie felt her throat tighten with her own memories of the airless room where six of them slept each night. “They die?”

  “Oh yes,” he said, his face tight with anger. “Babies die inside—and out. Babies are left on the street when their parents can’t take care of them, and a great number of the children you see running about have no home at all. No one to watch over them, no one to feed them or hug them or love them.”

  Lottie lowered her head, the threat of tears an embarrassment. The thought of other children as sweet and innocent as Sofia left to fend for themselves …

  He reached over and gently touched her arm. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you sad. But I’m passionate about revealing the inequities of this place. For these people to leave everything behind and come here to this…” He withdrew his hand and sighed deeply. “That’s why I take their photographs and sell them to the papers. To show the world, to show the powers that be the atrocities here. There must be change. There must be reform.” As soon as he finished his declaration, he looked at Lottie and blushed. “Forgive me. It’s a lovely day. You don’t need it darkened by my opinions.”

  “On the contrary, I am moved by your zeal, and from what I’ve seen so far, what you state are not opinions but fact. It’s commendable of you to use your talent toward the good of others.”

  He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it and instead said, “Thank you.”

  They watched as two boys played leapfrog down the street in front of them. “And still they play,” she said.

  “The human spirit shows great resilience and strength to endure, and the desire for normalcy turns horrible conditions nearly tolerable.”

  Lottie thought of the Scarpellis’ apartment. “I’ve seen that. Mrs. Scarpelli has little space in their apartment yet has hung some fabric as curtains and has family photographs on the walls.”

  Sven nodded, then raised an arm. “These people will go far; they’ll rise above. I’ve seen it, and I predict more of it in the future. These immigrants did not come here to sit and wallow; they came to work and better themselves. In return they’ll better this country.”