by Nancy Moser
He was still searching for the word but suddenly said, “Joy.”
She nodded. “ ’ Tis a good word.”
“ ’ Tis a good feeling. Do you feel it too?”
“I do.”
There was a moment of silence between them, and Charlotte wondered if Conrad was thinking—as Charlotte was thinking—of a future time when those two words might have even greater meaning.
“Come now,” he said, breaking the moment. “Let’s go home.”
Home. I do. And joy.
Glorious words indeed.
There was no clock in the room, and it seemed as if they’d been working for days. But for an occasional trip to the outhouse—six floors below—and ten minutes to eat lunch, there’d been no breaks. What kept Lottie going was thinking about the money she was earning, the dollar she’d found, and how triumphant she would feel when she went to the pawnshop and got her jewels back.
Her aching body interrupted her fantasy. She closed her eyes, arched her back, and moved her neck, trying to relieve the pain. If only she had a back to her chair. Some women did, but she guessed they guarded them with their life.
She heard the voice of Mr. Cavendish—the name of the “Beast”— and immediately got back to work. Lucia was turning in a sleeve to Mr. Silverman; he was inspecting her work.
Lottie looked at her own sleeve. She’d only finished two that met the satisfaction of the foreman. Two sleeves—twenty cents. And her eyes … no matter how often she blinked or rubbed them, they would no longer focus. And her fingers were raw with prickings.
“How much longer?” she asked Maggie, the blonde.
With a look toward the Beast, Maggie took a watch from her pocket. “It’s nearly two. Five hours more.”
Five hours! Lottie’s heavy sigh made a few of the women laugh—softly, for the Beast didn’t abide laughter. Even conversation was frowned upon.
“You ’ave a husband, dearie?” Maggie asked.
She shook her head. “I live with Lucia’s family.”
“You a lodger or a boarder?”
Lottie was confused. “I’m sorry but … what’s the difference?”
“A lodger makes their own food and a boarder gets breakfast.”
“A boarder, then.”
“How much you pay ’em?”
Nothing yet … She glanced at Lucia, who was still talking with the foreman. “How much should I pay them?”
“Fifty cents a week.” Maggie looked to the other women. “Yes?”
Another woman with glasses perched on her nose said, “My family charges forty, but our boarder has been with us for three years.”
“Aye, Mr. Tim. I’ve heard ya talk about that one.” Maggie raised her eyebrows suggestively. “Why don’ you jus’ marry the man?”
“He’s fifty to be sure.”
“You ’ave a better offer?”
“Maybe,” the girl said.
Maggie laughed.
“Enough squawking!” the Beast yelled.
Fifty cents a week?
There went her dollar.
Lottie clung to Lucia’s arm, her legs leaden. She stumbled on the cobblestone street. It was an effort to keep her head erect. Each stoop they passed tempted her to rest. She didn’t need to get to the Scarpellis’. She would sleep right here in the open.
Lights were on in the buildings around them, but instead of finding comfort in their glow, Lottie was disheartened. “It was dark when we went to work, and now it’s dark when we go home.”
“This time of year hard,” Lucia said. “Days short. Nights long.”
The darkness may have been long, but Lottie feared this night would be too short.
She spotted a woman dumping a basket of rags and refuse in a garbage heap on the curb. The smell of rotten food wafted over them as they passed by.
But then, without warning to herself or Lucia, Lottie stopped walking and returned to the heap. There, amid the trash, was a blue blouse.
She held it up for inspection. The sleeve was torn from the bodice and it was missing a few buttons. But it looked the right size.
“Lottie, no! Put back!” Lucia made a face.
I can mend this.
Lottie rolled the blouse into a bundle and caught up with her friend. “I need another blouse. I can fix it. And wash it.”
Lottie was glad her parents weren’t there to see her.
Or Suzanna, or Ralph, or especially Edith Whitcomb.
For the first time since their arrival, Charlotte was eager for the evening meal. She was looking forward to letting Mr. and Mrs. Tremaine know she fully enjoyed the family’s store.
Yet as usual, conversation was sparse. She kept hoping Conrad would tell his parents about their shopping excursion, but old habits were apparently deeply rooted.
Finally, after enduring some horribly tough roast beef, Charlotte took a chance. “I had the most delightful trip to your store today, Mr. Tremaine, and I can honestly say it’s the most magnificent establishment I’ve ever visited.”
He seemed pleased. But instead of answering her, he turned to his son. “So you did take Miss Gleason to the store?”
Conrad set his fork down. “I did, Father. She’d expressed interest in the apparel we offered and so we …” He looked to Charlotte and smiled—a smile that faded when he looked back to his father. “I ordered Miss Gleason a few costumes. Madame Foulard assisted us.”
“Hmph.” The snicker came from Beatrice.
“She was very helpful,” Charlotte said.
“She’s a pretender,” Beatrice said. “I doubt she’s even French. And to think she knows anything about fashion …”
Any plan Charlotte had to impress the Tremaines was extinguished. Until …
“Don’t be a snob, Beatrice,” Mr. Tremaine said. “Your life of privilege is directly related to the clerks I employ at the store. And your contempt for the fashion we sell there is unconscionable.”
Beatrice looked to her mother as though wanting an ally.
But Mrs. Tremaine disappointed. “Your father is right, Beatrice. It’s not right to look down upon the merchandise your father has painstakingly chosen for the store.”
“But—”
“I know what I’m doing, young lady,” he said.
Her posture deflated as if her core had been undermined.
“Forgive me, Father. I meant no disrespect for the merchandise, but—” she looked at Charlotte—“but I can’t stand people who pretend to be something they’re not.”
Charlotte mishandled her water goblet and it tipped, spilling water upon the lace tablecloth. “Oh dear! I’m so sorry. How clumsy of me.”
The footman attended to the damage and she was assured it was nothing, but when Charlotte glanced at Beatrice, the girl’s face held a haughty contempt that served as a warning that the real damage was yet to come.
There was a knock on the door. Charlotte hesitated because she’d just gone to bed. But she went to the door and cracked it open.
“Beatrice. Is something wrong?”
Beatrice pointed a finger at her. “If you think you can ingratiate yourself into this family by ordering a few dresses from the store, you’re wrong.”
Charlotte was stunned. “I don’t think any such thing, nor did I order the dresses with—” She stopped herself. While ordering the dresses she had considered what the Tremaines would think. “Truly, Beatrice, I didn’t intend to offend anyone.”
“Well, you did.” Beatrice turned on her heel to leave, then turned back. “I saw Mary switch the letter to your mother. I don’t know what you’re up to, but it will come out. I’ll see to it.”
Charlotte closed the door and rested her forehead against it. This wasn’t going to work. The masquerade was coming to an end. It was just a question of how soon she would be unmasked.
Chapter Fourteen
“Shh, lei dorme.”
“Povera ragazza.”
Lottie heard the voices of Lucia and Lea but didn’t have enou
gh energy to open her eyes. She sensed she still held the blouse she’d been repairing in her lap, and wondered after the needle.
She slept …
There was a draft. Lottie pulled her blanket tighter. Then she turned her head and suffered a decided crick in her neck. The pain pulled her from sleep and she sat upright. Sat? She was seated on a chair. Someone had put a blanket over her shoulders.
Lottie looked around the main room of the Scarpellis’ apartment, where she’d spent the night. Lea was stoking the fire in the stove, talking softly to Dante as he folded their bedding. Sofia shuffled into the room from the bedroom, her hair ruffled from sleep. Lea picked her up and the girl cuddled in her mother’s arms. Sofia whined a bit and Lea put a hand to her forehead.
I slept in here last night? In this chair?
Then she remembered. Last evening she’d sat near the lamp in order to mend the blouse she’d found in the trash. She’d been so tired, she remembered putting her head in her arms—for just a moment.
She must have fallen asleep there.
Lea noticed Lottie was awake and handed Sofia to her father. “Buon giorno, Lottie. You sleep good?”
She rubbed the back of her neck. “I slept. I’m sorry I was in your room.”
“Nessun problema. First day job hard.”
And the second day won’t be any easier.
Lottie looked around for her blouse. “Do you know where my blouse—?”
“Here,” Lea said, showing the blouse draped over a chair near the stove. “I wash last night.”
Lottie moved to the stove, walking like an old woman with a stiff back. The blouse was nearly dry. Its color was still a faded blue, and it was horribly wrinkled, but to have it clean … “Grazie. You didn’t need to do that.”
Lea shrugged. “You work hard on it. Now clean.”
Impulsively, Lottie embraced the woman. It was awkward at first— Lottie wasn’t prone to hug others—but once in Lea’s grasp, once encircled by her warm, soft arms …
Lottie melted. And began to cry.
“Oh, no, no …” Lea said. “Non piangere, cara ragazza mia. Shhhh.”
This was becoming an embarrassing habit. To succumb to tears, to show such weakness in front of others …
There was nothing else she could do.
“There, my dear. What do you think of it?”
Charlotte looked at herself in the massive mirror in Mrs. Tremaine’s bedroom. “It’s lovely. Truly lovely.”
She wasn’t lying. Exactly.
The gown Mrs. Tremaine had ordered made for Charlotte’s party was a complicated affair in rose and green. Its lower skirt was layered with odd pointed flounces that hung like pink petals. Covering the hips and creating a bustle was silk drapery that was pleated in scarves and held in place with bows and loops of green velvet ribbon to which two huge bouquets of multicolored flowers were added—one for each hip. The dress had short puffed sleeves and a center bodice panel made from rows of lace and edged with a wide band of the velvet ribbon. It looked as though the seamstress had utilized every style, every trick in her book.
“She doesn’t like it, Mother,” Beatrice said.
Charlotte chastised herself. She knew her face revealed far too much. The dress was extravagant—though not in a good way.
“Is Beatrice correct, Charlotte? Do you dislike the dress?”
Like it or not, now wasn’t the time for the truth. Charlotte willed herself to smile and say, “It’s far more elegant than I deserve. Perhaps … too elegant?”
Mrs. Tremaine stood beside Charlotte and peered into the mirror, her eyes meeting Charlotte’s in this indirect manner. “The Tremaine family is presenting you to New York society. We know the degree of elegance that is required. Or do you believe you know best?”
Charlotte’s throat turned dry. “No, of course not, Mrs. Tremaine. I … I was just a bit overwhelmed by …” She ran her hands over the bouquet of flowers balanced upon each hip.
“Its perfection?” Beatrice offered.
Although Charlotte knew Beatrice meant it sarcastically, it was an ample word. The only word she had at present. “Exactly,” she said. “Its perfection.”
The seamstress sat on a low stool and checked the length. “I do think it’s a tiny bit short. I’ll add some fringe at the bottom perhaps?”
Fringe. Why not? All she needed now was an ostrich feather in her hair and she could be the opening act in the burlesque show at the Gaiety in London. Barney had offered to take her there once, but she’d declined.
The image of Barney, the butcher’s assistant, assailed her. If she’d stayed in Wiltshire, she would have married him. What would he think of her now? His parting words were plucked from her memory: “You and your fancy ways and proper talkin’. The Gleasons ’ave done you no favors making you think yourself better than the rest of us clods.”
Did she think herself better now? She looked at her dress and the luxurious gowns on Beatrice and Mrs. Tremaine. Who was she to judge its beauty, or even to wear it? She was Dora Connors, a maid. She wasn’t a society woman; she wasn’t an equal to the likes of the Tremaines. She was a phony.
She remembered what Beatrice had said about hating imposters …
“Are you all right, miss?” asked the seamstress.
Suddenly Dora—Charlotte—knew she wasn’t all right. The weight of the dress was nothing compared to the weight of her guilt. “I don’t feel very well.”
“Another headache?” Mrs. Tremaine asked. There was little sympathy in her voice.
Oh dear. She had used that excuse before. Yet the door offering release from the moment had opened, and she wasn’t about to let it close. “Yes,” she said. “I’m afraid so.”
The seamstress stood, assessing Charlotte’s dress one last time. “I believe I have the measurements I need.”
Mrs. Tremaine waved a dismissive hand. “Then get her undressed.” She turned to her maid and said, “Go tell Mary Miss Gleason needs her assistance.”
“I’m so sorry,” Charlotte said as the train and bustle were removed. “I know I’ll feel better soon.”
“That would be best,” Mrs. Tremaine said.
Apparently infirmities were yet another thing not well tolerated in the Tremaines’ world.
She should keep a list.
“You and your fancy ways and proper talkin’. The Gleasons ’ave done you no favors making you think yourself better than the rest of us clods.”
Suddenly Barney grabbed hold of the flowers perched on her hips and yanked hard. A thousand petals scattered to the ground and—
“Miss? Miss!”
Charlotte was shaken awake by Mary. “What? What is it?”
“A doctor is here to take a look at you.”
She pushed herself to sitting on the bed. “I don’t need a doctor.”
“Mrs. Tremaine thinks you do.” Mary began to adjust the afghan she’d placed over Charlotte when there was a rap on the door. A doctor entered.
He looked at Charlotte and—
Pulled up short. “Miss—?”
Charlotte’s heart leapt to her throat. “Dr. Greenfield?”
He appeared confused, a condition that wasn’t eased when Mrs. Tremaine entered.
“There you are, Charlotte. I called our physician to come right away, and he sent his new partner, a Dr. Greenbaum?”
“Greenfield, ma’am.”
“Yes. Well. See to Miss Gleason. This is the second debilitating headache she’s had in a few days. Her welcome party is approaching, and we need her well.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Mrs. Tremaine stood by the door. Charlotte wished she would leave. She had to talk to Dr. Greenfield alone, to greet him, to revel in his presence. To explain.
To try to explain.
The doctor got his bearings and approached the bedside. “Well, Miss …”
“Gleason,” she said.
“Miss Gleason. Describe the sort of pain you’re experiencing.”
&nb
sp; Her headaches were nothing compared to the pain in her heart at seeing him while knowing their situation was untenable. “It’s—”
Mrs. Tremaine stepped forward. “She’s missed an appointment with the florist and had to cut short a fitting for her gown. Such interruptions cannot be tolerated, so I implore you to get to the bottom of her infirmity.”
Charlotte knew her facial expression wasn’t doing her any favors. She kept looking at Mrs. Tremaine—willing her to leave, then back at Dr. Greenfield—willing him to understand.
There was a knock on the door. Mrs. Tremaine answered, spoke a few words, then turned toward the room. “If you’ll excuse me. It appears Mrs. Dyson has some questions about dinner.”
Charlotte’s heart beat once again.
“Can I get you something, Doctor?” Mary asked.
Mary. They still had Mary in the room.
“If you could bring Miss Gleason some chamomile tea, I think that will be a good start to her recovery.”
“Of course, sir.”
As soon as the door clicked shut, he turned to Charlotte. “Charlotte Gleason? Wasn’t that the name of your friend on the ship?”
“Yes, but …”
“So is your name Dora Connors or … ?”
“It’s Dora, but …” She wanted him to take her hands, to smile at her, to tell her how happy he was to see her.
Instead he pulled a chair to the side of the bed and sat. “Perhaps you’d better explain.”
The truth that had been pounding on the door of her conscience since they’d landed in America burst into the open. Her words spilled out until the room from whence they’d come was empty.
“So that’s the lot of it,” she said.
He sat in silence a moment. “No wonder you have headaches.”
“I’m not good at lying.”
“Apparently you’re good enough. The Tremaines don’t suspect?”
She looked toward the door. “I think the daughter suspects something, though I don’t think she’s determined exactly how it fits together as yet.”
“A credit to your acting ability, no doubt.”
There was an edge to his voice. Did he think she’d been acting on the ship in regard to her feelings for him? “I am no actress. I can only take on this role because I know the real Charlotte Gleason like a sister. We’ve been together since we were children.”