by Nancy Moser
Sven directed the duo, and Lottie guarded the pack that contained the plates Sven fit into his camera—those new and those used and ready for him to develop elsewhere. The photograph was taken, and Sven handed the woman a few coins.
Lottie was glad to leave. That was four photographs so far today. Only two more. “Where to now?” Lottie asked as they made their way toward the alley.
“I’ve heard of a stale beer dive where men pay two cents to drink deadly stuff and sleep in a chair. I’d like to photograph it, but it’s far too dark in there. If only there was a way for me to provide my own light.”
Lottie was glad there wasn’t. “How can people stay in such places?”
“They sink to the level of their necessity,” he said. “One half of the world has no idea how the other half lives.”
She’d never thought of it that way, but it was probably true. As a rich girl Lottie had had no knowledge of the poor, and the poor probably had no knowledge of the rich. They lived in separate worlds. Wasn’t it better that way? They passed the man huddled against the cold and she wondered.
They walked back through the alley onto the main street, and Lottie relished the increase in light and air. Sven turned south, and they wove their way through the peddlers’ stalls and people milling about. People. Everywhere people trying to eke out a living.
She thought of the job she’d given up at the sweatshop. How many of those women had suffered the treatment she’d experienced with the Beast? Or worse? And how many had quit that sort of job hoping in vain for a better one? How many—?
Lottie heard a baby’s cry. It wasn’t a foreign sound, for there were children and babies in abundance, but this cry was different because it continued without comfort. Its intensity heightened.
She looked to her right, toward the sound, and expected to see a woman rocking a child in her arms.
Instead she saw a bundle on the cobblestones, placed against a building.
She looked right, then left. No one ran to the baby’s aid. No one even looked in its direction.
She pulled on Sven’s arm. “Stop. There’s a baby on the ground over there.”
He looked in the direction where she pointed. “Poor child.”
He just looked at it.
“Aren’t you going to do something?”
“I did something the first time I found an abandoned baby. And the second. And the third. I picked them up and held them and tried to find their parents. But it’s the parents who put them there. Too many mouths to feed and women constantly with child, making more babies who can’t survive. Five hundred a year abandoned, at least a hundred found dead.” He shook his head.
The baby’s cries were plaintive and panicked. Lottie picked it up and cradled it in her arms. “There, there. Shhh. You’ll be all right.”
“Don’t make promises …” Sven said. “Put it back. I’m losing the light.”
Lottie was appalled. “How can you care about light when this baby needs our help?”
“Your help, not mine,” he said. “Although I admit it’s a tragedy beyond bearing, it’s not our business, Miss Hathaway. You and I have only four hands between us, and there are thousands upon thousands in need.”
Suddenly a fire sparked within her. She’d had enough of walking on by. “So we don’t even try to help? What happened to your high-andmighty talk about being a witness and getting people to act? Have we no responsibility to act?”
He shook his head. “You’re right, of course, but …”
“But nothing.” Lottie looked at the baby in her arms. He’d quieted now and gazed up at her with deep brown eyes. Was he Italian in descent? There was that look about him yet also something else. Something different. Sven had said there were a lot of Romanians here… .
Lottie realized she’d called him he. Although the baby appeared to be just a few months old, there was a distinguished look about him. This baby was not a girl. And though there was a certain way to find out, Lottie recoiled from the idea of changing a diaper—if the child even wore one.
Yet as the boy adjusted himself in her arms, seeking comfort and finding it, she knew she would do that awful duty and many others for his sake.
“Come on now, Miss Hathaway. We have to keep going.”
She looked at Sven with a new determination. “I’m not leaving him here.”
“Him?”
“It’s a boy.”
“How can you tell? I mean …”
“I just know.”
“You can’t take him.”
“I can and I will.”
Sven ran a hand over his face, clearly exasperated. “Do you always expect to get your way?”
She cocked her head as if considering, but there was only one answer. “Yes.”
“Fine, then. Take him with you. We’re a few blocks from the Merciful Child Foundling Home. You can take him there.”
But as they walked east, as the baby fell asleep in her arms, as it wrapped its tiny fingers around hers …
No! Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t keep the child. It’s impossible.
Had impossible ever stopped her before?
When they paused to let some horses pass, Lottie made her pronouncement. “I’m not turning him in. I’m keeping him.”
“You can’t do that.”
She remembered her talent for getting what she wanted and implemented it now. She smiled at Sven, and as she rocked the baby, she turned him toward the photographer. “See how he senses my concern for him, my caring?”
“No one is disparaging your compassion, Miss Hathaway. Only your sanity.”
“Finding a baby abandoned in the street is the essence of insanity.” A thought came to her. “God placed this child in my path so I’d take him and keep him safe.”
“I’m not going to argue God’s ways with you, but if I were Him, I would’ve at least placed the child in the path of someone who has a home and a husband with a well-paying job.”
His logic annoyed her. “Perhaps He did, but that person chose not to take him.”
“So you’re God’s second choice?” He looked far too amused.
“Never, Mr. Svensson.”
“I thought not.”
“But second choice or no, I’m not giving up this child. He’s mine.” The passion of her declaration shocked her. But before she could rationalize the situation, she pressed forward. “And his name is Fitzwilliam.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I just named him after Fitzwilliam Darcy from Pride and Prejudice. I’ll call him Fitz for short.”
Sven set his tripod down, resting it against his hip. “You are one determined woman.”
“I’m glad you finally figured that out.”
“What is the family you’re living with going to think about this— about Fitz?”
The image of herself sleeping on the floor with Fitz beside her initiated a smile. “The Scarpellis are a loving family. They won’t mind.”
“I think you overestimate their generosity—or the generosity of any family.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
Yet as she held Fitz close and pressed her lips against his tiny head … what was she doing?
Charlotte waited for Dr. Greenfield to return from speaking with Pastor Weston. And waited. Her headache—which had never been worthy of a doctor’s care—went away, but she remained in her room. She didn’t trust her ability to act as if nothing was amiss.
And nothing was amiss. Not really. Dr. Greenfield—her Edmund Greenfield from the ship—was privy to the truth, or rather, privy to Lottie’s and Dora’s lies. That he hadn’t marched down the stairs and declared to the Tremaines that an imposter lay abed in their house was a relief beyond measure. That she was still attracted to him was a dilemma that had no resolve.
Charlotte couldn’t remove him from her mind, and much of her time feigning illness was spent remembering the way she’d felt on the ship when they’d danced and walked and talked, and the look of
his smile when she’d first given him her handkerchief because she’d spilt upon his shoes.
What had he said upon parting—when she’d hurt him by telling him of her upcoming betrothal?
“Permit me to let my prayers and the decision of God finish our story … until fate allows.”
She sat upright. “Until fate allows … What are the chances that Dr. Greenfield would come into my room, to attend to me?”
The answer was unspoken but was, at the least, astronomical. The only explanation came from Dr. Greenfield’s own words. Was God finishing their story? Did He wish it to be finished? Together?
There was a knock on the door, but instead of Mary entering as she always did upon announcing herself, it remained closed.
“Come in.”
It was Conrad, carrying a tray. “I heard you weren’t feeling well. I had Mrs. Dyson prepare a tray for you.”
Guilt washed over her. To think she’d spent the afternoon dreaming of Dr. Greenfield, when all the while there was a man in this very house who cared for her—who deserved to be cared for by her.
“You are too kind, Mr. Tremaine. Thank you.”
“Conrad. Please.”
“Conrad.”
He looked about the room for a place to set it, but paused for a moment, his eyes upon the dressing table. “You kept my flower from the park.”
Yes indeed. She’d had Mary find a small vase, and there it had 272 remained since that outing.
Charlotte left the bed and pointed to a table near a grouping of two chairs. “There, I think,” she said.
“Should you be out of bed?”
“I … it’s good for me to move about a little.” She moved a bird figurine so there was room for the tray. He adjusted the table to her reach from a nearby chair.
“This looks marvelous,” she said, perusing the tea, soup, bread, and slices of ham and cheese.
“Mother wouldn’t say exactly what was wrong, so …” He blushed. “So I told the cook to make it soothing.”
“You are very kind.” Too kind.
He stood by, a bit awkward.
“Do sit, Conrad. Give me some company while I eat.”
He seemed relieved to do so. “I was told the dressmaker was here today. Do you like your gown?”
His face was so hopeful, she couldn’t tell him the complete truth. “I liked the gowns you bought me at Tremaine’s better.”
“Then, wear one of—” He stopped himself. “Thank you for the compliment, but I think it will be best if you wear the one Mother had made for you.”
His acquiescence made her sad, and yet he was right. “I agree.”
His sigh secured the decision.
Another knock on the door and Mary entered, carrying a note on a silver tray. “This just came for you, miss.”
The envelope was addressed to Miss Gleason. “May I?” she asked Conrad.
“Please.”
She opened it, saw it was from Dr. Greenfield, and hungrily read his words: I’ll visit tomorrow morning. Hope you’re feeling better. E.G.
“Good news?” Conrad asked.
Her face must have revealed as much. “Dr. Greenfield will return to check on me tomorrow morning.”
“That’s good of him. But Greenfield? What happened to Dr. Carlton?”
“I believe they are cousins and partners. Dr. Greenfield recently arrived from England.”
“Ah. So.” He pressed his hands to his thighs and stood. “I best not tax your strength. I do hope you are well by morning and have no need of the good doctor.”
No need. Much need.
It was getting complicated.
Because of the baby they took no more photographs that day. Fitz demanded Lottie’s attention, and Sven even paid for some condensed milk, a feeding bottle, and some rags for diapers before walking her back to the Scarpellis’.
I still have my dollar… .
“I’m so sorry for cutting the day short,” she said. “You don’t have to walk me back. I could find my—” Fitz began to fuss. “Shh, say there. It’s all right.”
But Fitz wouldn’t be appeased.
Sven stopped walking and set his equipment down. “Let me take him.”
“It’s all right. I can handle—”
He held his arms out. “Please.”
She handed Fitz over. Instead of cradling him as Lottie had done all day, Sven set the boy upright against his shoulder. Fitz immediately stopped fussing. “See? He just wants a chance to see what’s going on.”
Fitz’s bright eyes peeking over Sven’s shoulder proved him right.
“You’re very good with children,” Lottie said.
“So I’ve been told. I’ve learned by experience.”
Just the way he said it implied … much.
Sven was married. Why had he never said anything before now?
She should have known something was amiss when he didn’t respond to her flirting. Lottie felt herself strangely disappointed. Not that she’d ever be interested in such a man, but—
“Here,” Sven said. “You can have him back now. You need to get him home. The day’s turning nippy.”
Yes, cold. Very very cold.
What would the Scarpellis say about Fitz?
As they neared Mulberry Street, the question plagued Lottie’s thoughts. Yet every time she looked at his lovely face, she knew she’d done the right thing.
At the door to her tenement, Sven pressed forty cents into her hand.
“No, I can’t accept this. You’ve already paid for—”
“It’s your pay, Miss Hathaway. Four photos, forty cents.” He placed a gentle hand on Fitz’s head. “You’re a good assistant—or were so before this one grabbed your eye. I’m sad to see you go.”
“Go? I’m not going anywhere. I’ll work with you tomorrow and the next day—if you’ll have me.”
“What about Fitz?”
She’d thought it through. “Hopefully Lea and Francesca will take care of him. I’ll pay them something for the service. And Sofia will help. Little girls love playing with babies. The arrangement has to work so I can work.”
He looked skeptical. “If it comes together as you hope, meet me at the corner at seven o’clock. Don’t be late.”
“I’ll be there.”
Lottie received many curious looks as she ascended the stairs of the tenement. Those who knew her as the British friend of the Scarpellis wondered about the sudden appearance of a baby.
“Bambino?”
Although she wasn’t certain they’d understand, she said, “His name is Fitzwilliam and he’s mine now.”
He’s mine now? As the last flight of stairs drained her remaining energy, the question remained.
Oddly, the door to the Scarpellis’ apartment was open, and the front room was filled with women. Lottie entered, looking for Lea.
A woman recognized her, glanced at the baby, then gestured toward the bedroom. “Sofia è malata. Sick.”
Sofia?
She entered the bedroom and saw Lea and Francesca kneeling on the floor beside Sofia’s bed. Lea had a cloth to Sofia’s forehead. The little girl lay deathly still.
“Lea?”
Lea looked up, then rose from her knees, handing the cloth to Francesca. “Sofia sick. Febbre.”
Fever? Sofia’s face was flushed. “But she was all right this …” Lottie thought back to the morning and remembered seeing Sofia in her mother’s arms. “Have you called a doctor?”
Lea looked at Francesca and repeated the word in Italian. “Medico.” They shared a sarcastic laugh. “No doctor come here.”
Only then did Lea’s eyes light upon Fitz. “Bambino?”
“Baby. Yes. I found him abandoned in the gutter. I couldn’t leave him there.”
“Fuori! Vattene! Via con quel bambino! Out! No baby!”
Lea was right. Fitz couldn’t be around Sofia. But where could they go?
Lea frantically spoke to the other ladies. All eyes turned on Lottie and Fitz, then
back to Lea. When she finished speaking, there was a pause. Then, reluctantly, one woman raised her hand.
“Grazie, Maria.” She turned to Lottie. “You go with Signora Rossi. She take you till Sofia well.”
Mrs. Rossi motioned for Lottie to follow. What choice did she have?
The Rossis lived on the third floor of the same building in an apartment smaller than the Scarpellis’. Although at the moment it was only occupied by a very elderly grandmother, a young woman holding her own baby, and Mrs. Rossi, Lottie had no idea how many would join them once evening fell.
Mrs. Rossi made introductions, and Lottie heard her name among the string of Italian words. The grandmother shrugged, then returned to her nap. The young mother gave Fitz a cursory glance before giving her attention to her own baby. Neither woman showed any real interest in him. And why should they? Babies were plentiful in the tenements and grew up—if they grew up—to be children who demanded more care, more food, and more space.
Unless they got sick and died.
Sofia. Lottie longed to be upstairs with her. But with Fitz in her arms, and with none of the Rossis showing any willingness to take care of him, she couldn’t risk it. Instead she sat on a chair in the corner and rocked him—as she rocked herself.
Amidst her need for comfort she found herself praying: What should I do? alternated with Make Sofia well.
She believed God was listening.
But how would He answer?
Chapter Fifteen
A baby cried.
Lottie ordered the sound out of her dreams. Shh. I’m trying to sleep.
The cry persisted.
A male voice barked, “Silenzio!”
Another said, “Fache il bambino smetta di piangere!”
She opened her eyes—and, with the help of the moonlight, remembered where she was. She’d fallen asleep in a chair in the Rossis’ apartment, her head resting against a wall.
Fitz lay sprawled upon her lap, fallen from the comfort of her arms. Crying. Real. Her responsibility.
She picked him up. “Shhh, sweet baby. Shhh.”
A woman’s form filled the doorway leading to the bedroom. “Here,” said Carmela, the Rossi daughter. “Dammi il bambino.”