Masquerade

by Nancy Moser

  “I’m so sorry,” Charlotte said. “I’ve lost family too and—” She realized she’d said too much.

  But Mrs. Tremaine seemed not to notice as she traced her fingers over the porcelain figurines and silver candlesticks above the fireplace. “I was fortunate enough to become a governess.” She looked right at Charlotte. “To the Tremaine family.”

  “Oh my.”

  Mrs. Tremaine nodded and continued her tactile journey. “Martin—Mr. Tremaine—was two years my senior. As I taught his younger siblings he became enamored with me. And I with him. He was so dashing, so full of life.”

  Charlotte wanted to ask how Gertie Gooseman had ever been allowed to marry Martin Tremaine, when the answer was given.

  “The Tremaines were not wealthy back then, but Martin had dreams of opening a department store. He was working with his father, selling lace in a small shop when he asked me to be his wife. And now, thirty years later …” She spread her hands.

  “It’s the sort of story one often hears about in America,” Charlotte said.

  Mrs. Tremaine nodded. “It’s a story I understand. It’s a story I must condone or call myself a hypocrite.”

  What was she saying?

  “Do you love my son?”

  Charlotte jerked at the question. “I … I believe I could.”

  Mrs. Tremaine nodded. “In spite of the dictates of society—dictates that have become my own for lack of something better—I believe love must be present in a marriage. If either party is marrying for reasons other than love, the marriage should not take place.” She cocked her head ever so slightly. “Do you agree?”

  Charlotte found her throat dry. “I do.”

  “Good.” She walked briskly to the door. “Be ready by seven sharp. I’ll send Mary back in to help you.”

  Charlotte was glad she was seated, for she had no strength left. The only reason she could imagine Mrs. Tremaine sharing that story was if she wanted to draw a parallel between her own humble beginnings and—

  Mary slipped into the room, her face full of questions. “Mrs. Tremaine looked a bit sad. Did something happen?”

  “No, nothing,” Charlotte said. “She merely wanted to wish me well.”

  She stood and let Mary help her with the finishing touches of her costume.

  Costume.

  For carrying out a masquerade.

  “Be polite, prompt, pretty, and proper.”

  Lottie’s instructions about being a lady came back to Charlotte as she stood at the door of her bedroom ready to proceed downstairs for her welcome party. Her heart beat like a clock gone wild, and she could find no breath deep enough to sustain her. Her legs were weak, as if her bones had decided to leave the support to her muscles alone.

  Mary held her elbow. “Do you want me to call Dr. Greenfield?”

  Like a comet, Charlotte’s thoughts raced to Edmund. If only he could be at the party, supporting her with a glance, encouraging her with a smile.

  But even if he could, why would he? The party was one more step toward marrying Conrad. She knew Edmund had feelings for her, and she had feelings for him. To witness the gap between them growing before his eyes and be helpless to change it …

  Then stop all this now. Walk down those stairs and keep walking out the door and away. You don’t have to do this. Edmund doesn’t care if you’re high society; all he wants is you.

  “And all I want is … ?”

  “Pardon, miss?”

  Her bravado left her. Whether she wished to admit it or not, Charlotte was excited about her party. What woman wouldn’t be? Tonight was her chance to be the toast of New York City, an American princess.

  “Open the door, Mary. It’s time.”

  Conrad’s mouth dropped as Charlotte walked down the staircase, reinforcing her decision to move on with the evening. The sparkle in his eye and the depth of his smile filled her up, causing her back to straighten and her neck to lengthen.

  He walked to the bottom of the stairway and took her hand. “You’re ravishing.”

  “Thank you.”

  As she took his arm, he leaned close. “You like the necklace?”

  She put a gloved hand to the gems. “How could I not? It’s beautiful.”

  “The first of many gifts.”

  Was she dreaming? Was this real?

  “Let me show you around before people arrive.” Conrad led her to the dining room, where the table was set for thirty. At the Gleasons’ she’d witnessed many fancy dinners, but none compared to the opulence of this table. The china was set on silver chargers and the glasses were rimmed in the same silver. The middle of the table contained five floral displays of red roses, yellow lilies, and orange zinnias. As filler in the arrangements were cuttings of trees, with their leaves the colors of a vivid autumn. Four silver candelabra were ready to light. And compotes of fresh fruit were arranged to entice—but not to touch—as stands of molded butter promised fresh bread.

  “It’s all for you,” Conrad said.

  Charlotte put a hand to her mouth as tears threatened. “But I don’t deserve this. I’m not … it’s too much.”

  “It’s just enough. Just the beginning.” He turned her toward the foyer again. “Come see the drawing room. There’s a floral arrangement inside that has to be five feet in height.”

  Five feet—at least. It stood on a mahogany pedestal next to the entrance, refusing to be missed.

  “Here she is,” Conrad said. His parents and Beatrice were already present.

  Mr. Tremaine came to greet her first, his face florid with pleasure. “My, my, look at you. If Caroline Astor doesn’t drool over that dress, then I’ll move us to Albany.” He kissed Charlotte’s hand, then glanced at his wife. “Well done, my dear. Well done.”

  Mrs. Tremaine accepted his praise. “The dress often makes the woman, but sometimes I do believe the woman makes the dress.”

  Was that a compliment?

  Beatrice hung back, her blue gown its own lovely masterpiece. And yet … her grim countenance lessened its beauty. Perhaps Mrs. Tremaine’s statement was correct. There was something about attitude that made a gown extraordinary.

  Charlotte started when the doorbell chimed. “They’re here.”

  Mrs. Tremaine placed herself next to her husband. “Indeed they are.”

  The black fabric of the maid’s uniform was starched, stiff, and uncomfortable. Lottie was used to lush fabrics like silk and velvet, not this scratchy cotton. She put the white ruffled apron over her head and tied the bow in back. She attempted to see her rear view, but the small mirror on the wall of the storage room offered scant reflection.

  Next, the cap. It was a silly thing with a tiny row of lace along its edge and a fluttering of fabric down the back. Two hairpins had been provided to secure it to her hair—which Mrs. Sinclair had told her must be upswept and contained, with not a single strand loose.

  Lovely.

  Finally ready, Lottie took one last look at herself. When she’d come up with the idea of having Dora take her place, she’d assumed she would find a new life in America, but had never imagined herself in Dora’s position as the hired help. Once again God must be having a good laugh at her expense.

  She looked heavenward and gave Him her opinion. “You laugh now, but just wait. The night is young.”

  In a few hours everything would once again be as it should be.

  Or would it? Logically, the Tremaines would not celebrate the details of the truth that would play out this night. It would take time for Lottie to earn their trust and a place in their lives and home.

  Lottie hated logic. And waiting.

  Mrs. Astor didn’t look very happy for being the head of the Four Hundred, the queen of New York society. Her mouth was slightly pulled as if she’d smelled something unseemly, and her eyebrows were raised above eyes that missed nothing and judged everything.

  When it was time for Charlotte to be presented, she nearly took the woman’s hand and kissed it, offering a full curtsy as
she’d heard was proper when meeting Queen Victoria. But Mrs. Tremaine had warned her that all that was required—or sought—was a deferential nod.

  And then it was done. Mrs. Astor moved away without saying a word.

  “Not even a hello,” Charlotte murmured.

  Beatrice took her elbow and led her aside. “She has no need to talk to others. The fact she is even here is a victory for Mother.”

  “Is she unmarried? I see no Mr. Astor.”

  “William B. is the second son and, as such, has little to do. Rumor has it he spends most of his time at his upstate New York estate or on his yacht—which admittedly is the largest in the world.”

  “She doesn’t go with him?”

  “Heavens no. Her kingdom is here. Her brother-in-law JJ—John Jacob—is the heir and lived next door to William and Caroline until he died, and now his son causes a score of trouble for ‘Aunt Lina,’ as he calls her. He’s furious she calls herself ‘the Mrs. Astor,’ as if she’s the only one. It’s even written that way on her calling card. The nephew’s wife takes offense, which is probably why Mrs. Astor does it.”

  Charlotte looked around the room. The other woman Mrs. Tremaine had urged her to impress was Mrs. Vanderbilt. Yet looking at her and Mrs. Astor, holding court on opposite sides of the room … “Mrs. Astor and Mrs. Vanderbilt don’t seem to care much for each other.”

  “Mrs. Astor has family roots that go back to colonial times and has made a point of not associating with tradesmen. The Vanderbilts are nouveau riche—newly rich. A grandfather made his money in railroads, I believe. But the fact remains they are rich. Two years ago, after their grand house was finished, Mrs. Vanderbilt planned a great masquerade ball and didn’t invite Mrs. Astor because Mrs. Astor hadn’t called and left her card. But Mrs. Astor’s daughter wanted to go so badly that Mrs. Astor gave in and had her driver bring her card by. Since then, they’ve accepted each other, but they are certainly not friends. Even our family has been slow to be accepted. I know that’s one reason Father built this mansion right across from Mrs. Astor’s. It makes their brownstone look like a tenement. It forces our position.”

  “It’s all so complicated,” Charlotte said. And too much an eye for an eye.

  “Such is friendship when money and power are involved.”

  Beatrice motioned a maid to bring a tray of champagne flutes close. She took a glass for herself, but Charlotte shook her head. Her stomach was still in knots.

  “Are you sure, Miss Gleason?” the maid asked.

  For the first time, Charlotte looked at the servant’s face.

  And nearly fainted.

  It was Lottie!

  Charlotte gasped and stepped back. Alarmed, Beatrice took her arm. “What’s wrong?”

  Lottie slipped away into the crowd. “I’m … I just need to sit down.”

  “Over here.” Beatrice indicated a chair close by.

  It was too close. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll step into the foyer for a few moments. All these people …”

  “I’ll go with—”

  “No. I’ll be all right. I just need a few moments.”

  A few thousand.

  Lottie saw Dora exit the room. She still had four glasses on her tray, so she made a sweep through the crowd, quickly emptying it.

  She followed Dora into the grand foyer, finding it hard not to run.

  Lottie didn’t see her at first, but then, to the left, behind a statue …

  “Psst!”

  Dora extended her hands to Lottie. “You’re here! I can’t believe you’re here. I’ve missed you so much.”

  For a moment, Lottie was shocked by the greeting. She’d been so focused on seeing Dora for the express purpose of calling off the charade that she’d ignored the reunion aspect of their meeting. But once in Dora’s presence, she took pleasure in the comfort and familiarity of the contact.

  Except that Dora was dressed in satin and lace and she …

  Dora stepped back to look at her and smiled. “My, my. I never thought I’d see you in a shirtwaist and bib. It’s not your best look.”

  Lottie was embarrassed to have their roles so utterly reversed, but it led nicely toward her mission. She looked around the foyer. It was too risky to remain. They might be found, and it would be hard to come up with an explanation. Although she wanted to expose the farce, the situation must be handled with aplomb.

  “Is there a place we could talk?” she asked.

  Dora hesitated for only a moment. “The gallery. Follow me.”

  The room took her by surprise. “It’s like a museum.”

  “I know,” Dora said. “Yet no one ever comes here.”

  Lottie pointed to a painting of some Flemish peasants at an open market. “Is that a Bruegel?”

  Dora looked up. “I have no idea.”

  “This is astounding,” Lottie said.

  “We don’t have time for this, I must get back.” Dora took Lottie’s hand. “I went to Five Points. I saw your hat in that apartment. Did you go to my cousin’s? Where are you staying now? How are you?”

  The events that had occurred since arriving in America raced through Lottie’s mind—and were quickly discarded. None of that mattered now. For now was about to change everything.

  “I want to call it off.”

  “Off?”

  “I want to be myself again.”

  Dora stared at her, her mouth agape. “But you can’t do that. I … this is my welcome party. I’ve just been presented to the elite of New York society. You can’t just pop in and say you are the real Charlotte Gleason.”

  “Actually, I can. I could.”

  Dora’s expression crumpled. “But I’ve made a life here.”

  “Are you engaged yet?”

  “Not yet, but—”

  “What about Dr. Greenfield?”

  Dora’s eyes widened. “How do you know about him?”

  “He was at the Scarpellis’, yes? Lea told me you two looked as though you had feelings for each other.”

  Dora found a chair. “I do. We do. It’s a miracle he found me. When he walked into my bedroom here, it was as though God had brought him to me.”

  “Do you love him?”

  “I …” She faltered. “Conrad is a good man too, and we care for each other, and—”

  Lottie pounced. “So you have two men on your hook?”

  “No, yes, I mean …”

  “Isn’t that being a bit greedy?”

  The look on Dora’s face softened Lottie’s heart. She’d been unnecessarily cruel. This was her best friend. The two of them were in this predicament because of her idea.

  She knelt beside Dora’s chair. “I’m sorry to spring this on you. But ever since you left me at Castle Garden, things have gone from bad to worse. I thought being alone in America would afford me adventure and fresh chances, but instead I’ve endured poverty and hopelessness.” The thought of Sven and Fitz flashed by, but she didn’t let their images land. Sven was married. As much as she admired him, he had no feelings for her. And Fitz … she was doing this for Fitz. If she could get established in a prosperous home, if things went as planned, Fitz could have all the advantages money could buy.

  Perhaps the mention of Fitz would help her cause. “I have a child,” she said.

  Dora’s eyes widened. “What? You have a—?”

  “I found a baby abandoned on the street and took him in. I love him, Dora. I never thought I could love someone like I love that boy. But he needs a good home.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “With Nanny. I found Nanny running a foundling home. That is my miracle.”

  Dora shook her head, and Lottie could tell it was too much for her to comprehend. “I have to go,” Dora said. “I have to get back.” She stood and moved to the door, then stopped. “You’re not going to do anything tonight, are you?”

  Although Lottie had thought about it … “No. I promise you that. Not tonight. But come to me tomorrow at the foundling home and we�
�ll talk some more.” She pulled an address from her pocket.

  “Tomorrow.”

  Dora took the note, nodded, and left the room.

  There. It was done.

  Left alone in the gallery, Lottie turned a full circle, taking it all in. She gave her own nod to the paintings. “I’ll be back.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Charlotte was relieved the dinner in her honor wasn’t as prone to silence as the usual Tremaine meals. This sampling of the elite of New York society were skilled at banter. Meaningless banter. There was no talk of politics, religion, or money, but plenty mention of opera, balls, and gossip. Ward McAllister provided much of that. Other than the occasional polite question, they ignored Charlotte. Which was fine with her.

  Her main point of nervousness was caused by Lottie’s presence. Every time she looked in her direction, Lottie looked back. It was as though they had already resumed their original roles. Charlotte might be wearing satin and emeralds and Lottie a maid’s uniform, but Lottie was the one in control, and Charlotte felt the restraints of their old relationship falling into place, the dynamics of Lottie the mistress and Charlotte—Dora—the maid.

  But it’s not fair! She can’t come back here and ruin everything!

  This whole thing had been Lottie’s idea. Dora hadn’t asked to assume her identity. She would never have thought of such a notion. But now that things were nicely in place …

  It was just like Lottie to change her mind and expect the world to stop turning so she could step back on.

  “Miss Gleason?”

  Lottie stood behind Charlotte’s shoulder, waiting to serve the squab with cherry sauce.

  “Yes. Please.”

  Lottie used silver tongs to put the bird on Charlotte’s plate, then changed utensils to spoon the sauce over it. She brushed Charlotte’s arm. Charlotte felt one of her gloves slip from her lap to the floor— where she left it.

  “Pardon me, miss.”

  The brush had been on purpose. Charlotte knew it.