by Nancy Moser
Lottie felt something new ignite. Pride. She’d always been proud, in a haughty sort of way, but now she felt pride far differently. She was proud of her ability to survive thus far, and looked forward to future accomplishment and the possibilities that lay before her. She recognized this as a better form of the trait, one steeped in endurance rather than arrogance.
“I’m getting a job tomorrow,” she said out of the blue.
He raised an eyebrow. “So you’re not going back to your maid and demanding your place?”
She shook her head as if offended, then stilled it. “I’ve already thought of that, tried that to some degree.”
“Ah.”
“I went to Thirty-fourth Street and stood before the house that could have been mine.” She sighed. “ ’ Tis a very fine house.”
“Did you go inside?”
“I saw my maid exit with an older woman, and—”
“Did your maid see you?”
“She did.”
“You could have ended it right then. You could have stepped forward, admitted the deception, and claimed your rightful place.”
Lottie lowered her head. She noticed her clenched palm and opened it to find the rose petal still there. “I couldn’t do it, because the entire scheme was my idea; I was the one who forced the plan upon Dora. She deserves the chance for such a life. Dora is like a sister to me and—”
“You love her.”
Although she’d never said the words aloud, she knew them to be true. “I love her, and I want her to be happy.” Lottie suddenly laughed at herself.
“You find this funny?”
“I find it ironic that I, who have never thought of anyone beyond myself, have found a dose of compassion. Here.”
“Perhaps the crossing involved more than just the sea?”
She liked the way he thought, the way he expressed himself. “Perhaps.”
Sven looked skyward, squinting against the light. “I best be moving along if I’m to do my work. The light is turning against me.”
He stood and offered her his hand. She rose beside him and, for a moment, found she didn’t want him to let go. He must have felt the same, for when he pulled his hand away his face reddened. He tipped his hat to her. “Thank you for the pleasure of our conversation. I’ll come this way again, and when I do—”
Their discussion was interrupted when a violin began to play. On a stoop across the street a man stood proudly and drew his bow over the strings, calling people to attention. He paused long enough to shout, “Danza ed essere felici!”
The crowd cheered and jumped to their feet.
Another man joined the first, carrying an odd stringed instrument that he strummed on his lap. And then a wooden flute was added. The violinist stomped his foot, creating a beat. “Uno, due, tre …”
A lively song began and the people in the street wasted no time finding partners. Man and woman, child and child, grandmother and grandmother.
“Meraviglioso!”
“Favolosa!”
Vittorio rushed toward her. “Danza venire con me, Signorina Lottie.” His hands were waiting to take hers.
She looked at Sven. He set his pack down and leaned on his tripod. “This I must see.”
“Don’t be rude. I’ll have you know I’m a good—”
Vittorio grabbed her hands and drew her into the melee. “I don’t know this dance. I don’t know—”
It didn’t matter. With a hand upon her waist he led her right, then left, then right in a glorious sashay. One and two, one and two, one and two …
He expertly traveled amid the other dancers, turning her round and round, back and through. They flew across the cobblestones, the music and clapping urging them on, as if pure joy fueled them all.
The strict regimen of the society balls that had permeated Lottie’s life seemed like staid and stodgy wakes compared to this spontaneous outpouring of inner delight. She never wanted it to end.
Lottie’s hair loosened and strands teased her face, but she dared not let go to secure it. Only rarely did her gaze meet Vittorio’s. His attention—by necessity—was focused upon getting them safely through the maze of fellow dancers. Through it all, he beamed from within, as if his troubles had been frightened away by the noise and movement.
Perhaps they had—for this moment. For while the music played and the people danced, the horrid tenements of Mulberry Street disappeared and Lottie could imagine similar dances back in Italy. For the moment all were home among friends. Life was good.
Lottie spotted Sven along the edge of the dancers. He’d set aside his equipment and was dancing with Sofia, like a father dancing with his child.
He spotted Lottie and winked. And the music carried them away to a better place.
I’d rather peel onions than be so bored.
After dinner the Tremaines gathered in the drawing room. The silence that permeated the meal continued on. It was excruciating. Charlotte wondered if there was a set amount of time a family of breeding was required to gather each evening before they could make their excuses and go their separate ways. Perhaps a time delineated by Mr. McAllister?
Charlotte sat on the settee, a volume of Jane Austen’s Emma in her hands. She’d found it in the Tremaines’ library and had grabbed hold of the book, finding comfort in the familiar story that Lottie had loved so much. She escaped into the story of Emma’s matchmaking efforts … There does seem to be something in the air of Hartfield which gives love exactly the right direction, and sends it into the very channel where it ought to flow. “The course of true love never did run smoo—”
“This isn’t a very good likeness, Miss Gleason.”
She looked up to see Beatrice holding a small framed photograph in her hand. Mr. Tremaine looked up from his newspaper, Mrs. Tremaine from her needlework, and Conrad from his book of maps.
In the silence that followed, Beatrice walked the room, making sure everyone saw the photo—of Lottie. Everyone except Charlotte.
She couldn’t remember the photograph the Gleasons had sent to America when talk had initially begun about a match between Lottie and Conrad. She remembered Lottie assuring her it wouldn’t be an issue, since their faces were similar and the slight differences in the hue of their blond hair wouldn’t be exposed in sepia and white.
Something must be said. Immediately. Charlotte smiled and held out her hand. She perused the likeness quickly, then made a face. “I never did like this photograph, but it was the only one Mother would part with. I look a little like a disgruntled dog, do I not?” She held the frame outward to show the others.
Mr. Tremaine raised his newspaper again. “The new photos are far superior to the old ones when we were forced to remain still for endless minutes. No wonder no one smiled.”
Charlotte held the frame toward Beatrice and noticed an unfortunate quiver in her hand as she did so. Beatrice took it, her face tight.
“How convenient,” Beatrice said.
“Pardon?”
Although Charlotte knew retreat wasn’t the best option, she found herself closing the book, standing, and saying her good-nights.
On the way out of the room, she spotted a footman by the doorway. He broke his statuelike stance to look at her.
Charlotte hurried to her room.
Escaped.
They know; they all know!
“Did something upset you, miss?” Mary asked as she unbuttoned Charlotte’s gown.
“Yes, no. I’m merely finding it hard to fit in.”
“Of course you are. If you don’t mind my saying … Mr. Tremaine’s a rock and the missus is moss—she wouldn’t be nothing if it weren’t for him.”
Charlotte smiled. “How about their children?”
Mary continued her work but answered immediately. She’d obviously thought about this before. “Miss Beatrice is a bird, landing on the rock, pecking at the moss, but flitting away when she realizes she’s getting nowhere.”
“And Mr. Conrad?”
“Mr. Conrad is a bug crawling up the rock, across the moss, hiding from the bird. He’s going to get eaten one of these days. Or squashed.”
Unfortunately, it seemed an apt description.
“Don’t you get squashed, miss. I was hoping you and Mr. Conrad together might …”
“Hide better?”
“Run away.”
Charlotte couldn’t imagine Conrad ever leaving his family or his life here. And he wouldn’t have to leave, not if he found a way to be strong.
She was willing to help him, but …
She thought of the mistakes she’d already made: Mrs. Gleason’s maiden name, her inability to play the piano, the letter fiasco, and tonight, the photograph. If Charlotte’s true identity were found out, her best hopes for Conrad would be for naught.
There was so much at stake.
Too much.
Charlotte remembered her brave talk about finding another job as a maid if things didn’t work out at the Tremaines’. What an ignorant fool she’d been to assume anyone would hire her after she was responsible for the subsequent scandal and humiliation of one of New York’s finest families.
The thought of hurting Conrad … why had she and Lottie never thought about him when they’d developed their scheme? He was a good man who deserved a good woman.
Could she be that woman?
If things didn’t work out—
There was no “if.” This had to work. For everyone’s sake.
Chapter Thirteen
Lucia nudged Lottie’s shoulder. “Up. We go to work.”
Lottie opened her eyes to see if the sun was up, but was immediately reminded there were no windows in the bedroom she shared with five others.
A lamp was lit and its flame fluttered from the movement of the household. Only Sofia could return to sleep, rolling over on the now spacious cot she usually shared with her sister.
Lottie could hear Lea and Francesca preparing the morning meal, as well as lunches for the workers to take with them.
The three men buttoned their shirts and adjusted their suspenders as they discussed the day to come. Aldo and his son, Vittorio, from Italy had found work on the docks with Dante, and Lucia would do her best on Lottie’s behalf in the garment sweatshops. As for Lea and Francesca? They would stay home with Sofia, and all three would work on making artificial flowers for ladies’ hats. No hand was idle. Not if one wanted to eat.
Lottie laced her boots and thought of the times Dora had laced them for her: she, sitting like a queen on a throne, waiting to be dressed by another. It was a bit embarrassing to think of how helpless she’d been—or had pretended to be. She’d usually slept until late morning and had spent much of her day changing clothes for various social interactions that involved sitting, smiling, and making polite conversation. To work, to physically work … was she capable of such a thing? She had no skills—unless someone would pay her for playing Chopin or needed to know the name of the insipid cousin who proposed to Elizabeth Bennet in Pride and Prejudice.
Lucia must have seen her apprehension, for she put a hand on her arm. “You said you know sewing, yes?”
“I know needlework.” But Lottie wasn’t very good at it. Her mother often made her tear it out and start again. And never had she been allowed to work on her mother’s cherished seat cushions. “I’ve never sewn clothing.”
“Not even button?”
“Not even button.” How pitiful it sounded. Was.
A crease formed between Lucia’s brows but vanished with her smile. “It will be all right. I help you.”
It had to be all right. It was imperative Lottie earn a living for her own sake, but also for the sake of the Scarpellis. Although she sensed they would let her stay indefinitely, she knew their resources were already stretched by the influx of their family from Naples. She had no right to intrude any longer than necessary.
Lucia dug in a felt box and pulled out a small pair of scissors and two needles stuck in a piece of fabric. “Here. You will need.”
“They don’t supply—?”
“They charge. Better to bring your own.”
Bread and coffee were quickly consumed and kisses were given in parting. Even though the sun had not yet found its way past the buildings, Mulberry Street was fully awakened with workers leaving and peddlers opening their shops for the day’s business. The men of the family headed south while Lucia and Lottie headed north.
“What if they won’t give me a job?” Lottie asked.
“They will. One girl left to have baby. You take her place.”
“Will she return?”
“Not today.” Lucia shrugged. “Do not worry. One foreman, Mr. Silverman, he like me. I will smile and get my way.”
Lottie had done more than her share of smiling to get her way. She didn’t like the sound of that. “Don’t do anything that will—”
Lucia understood. “No, no. Non sia mai. Mr. Silverman good man. Other foreman … he not so. Mr. Silverman help. You will have job today.”
Lottie hoped so.
“Look!”
Lottie ran toward the shiny object she’d seen on the ground. She was right! It was a coin!
“How much?” Lucia asked.
She looked at the woman’s face on the front side and recognized it from the coins she’d received at Castle Garden. “It’s a dollar!”
“That more than day’s wage!” Lucia said.
Lottie felt rich. To have a dollar to add to the dime from the pastor …
“What you buy?” Lucia asked.
What could she buy with a dollar?
Thoughts of buying food or putting it toward her own apartment were quickly usurped by the memory of her ruby necklace at the pawnshop. Perhaps if she took the money to the owner and put it down toward the purchase …
She slipped the dollar into the pocket of her skirt. It was a sign. Things were looking up.
Lottie had expected … she wasn’t certain what she’d expected, but the building they entered to go to work looked little different than any of a hundred tenements they’d passed. The pale sunlight of the early morning was sorely missed once the front door was closed and they traipsed up endless dark stairs, higher and higher. Lottie moved upward completely by the feel of the railing in her hand. She even closed her eyes once, just to see … There was little difference between no light and the light available.
After six flights they entered a huge room. It was as though the entire floor had gobbled up the existing apartments, knocking down the walls but for an occasional column holding up the ceiling. She hoped it was holding up the ceiling.
The room was consumed by rows of long tables with women sitting shoulder to shoulder on both sides. Some were already at work.
Lucia slipped her hand through Lottie’s arm and led her toward two bearded men at the front of the room. She whispered in her ear, “Smile.”
That she could do.
The men looked up when the girls approached, and one smiled back. He must have been Mr. Silverman.
“I have new worker, sirs.”
“We don’t need a new worker,” the other man said.
“To take Maria Romano’s place?” Lucia offered.
“Who?”
Mr. Silverman nodded. “The one having the baby.” He looked at Lottie. “Can you sew?”
Lottie didn’t hesitate. “Yes.” She refrained from adding “Of course.”
The other man was distracted when a woman brought him a sleeve for approval. He eyed it closely, then barked, “Not enough stitches!” Then he yanked at the sleeve, ripping the lining from it. “Do it over!”
Mr. Silverman looked at the girls, his eyes showing some embarrassment at the behavior of his co-worker. “Get to work, then. Don’t let me down, Miss …”
“Hathaway.”
Lucia hurriedly sped her past a barrel of sleeves, grabbing two, then led Lottie to the middle of a middle row. There was only one chair here and one there, but Lucia said something to the women, and a place
was made for Lottie next to her friend.
They got out their needles and scissors, and Lucia handed Lottie a spool of black thread.
Thread a needle. She could do that.
But not easily. The light originated from a few gas lamps and whatever light came through the windows on either end of the room. But it was a cloudy October day and the sunlight that reached the middle of the room was played out and dim.
She pricked her finger. “Oww!” She immediately put it in her mouth. The other women glanced at her, shook their heads, and made soft comments to their neighbors—most likely about the novice who thought a pricked finger was something to exclaim about.
“Here,” Lucia said softly with a glance toward the other foreman. “You pull the lining so and stitch into wool like this …” She expertly sewed three stitches. “Only this little bit shows, see?”
A blonde across the table spoke up. “And make sure it’s flat, dearie, or the Beast’ll make you rip it out.”
“He rip for you,” said a girl with a guttural accent.
Yes indeed, she’d already witnessed that.
“No thank you.”
Mrs. Tremaine looked at Charlotte askance. “Don’t you like oatmeal?”
No, she did not. The texture reminded her of the awful gruel Mrs. Movery served on cold days. “I’m not very hungry this morning.” She was still worried they were on to her. The photo confrontation the night before had plagued her sleep.
Conrad’s bowl was filled to the top. “Mother is an avid purveyor of Quaker Oats. It’s quite new—though it is a bit bland.” He smiled and reached for the sugar bowl. “But I do like it with brown sugar and milk.”
“You always did have a sweet tooth.” Mr. Tremaine made the statement as though it were equal to a flaw in his son’s character.
“Sorry, Father.” Conrad passed the sugar bowl on. “See? I’ll try it without today.”