by Nancy Moser
She wanted Lottie to leave. Charlotte’s excitement about seeing her again had been replaced by a growing anger at her audacity. If Lottie was going to declare the farce to the world, why didn’t she just do it? Why this torture?
Lottie served Conrad next, then moved on.
“Mrs. Astor?” Lottie said, ready to serve society’s headmistress.
Charlotte glanced to her left and saw a look of consternation on Mrs. Astor’s face, and also on Mrs. Tremaine’s. And then she knew what was wrong. Servants didn’t address the guests. They were invisible— hands to help and arms to aid. They had no personality, no names, no opinions, and certainly no voice.
Lottie had grown bold. Too bold.
Mrs. Tremaine flashed a look at the butler, who quickly assessed the problem. As soon as Mrs. Astor was served and before Lottie could continue her service, he stepped forward, touched her arm, and whispered something for her ears alone.
“But …”
He took the tray from her and continued the rounds himself. The housekeeper quickly showed Lottie the door.
Charlotte could only imagine what transpired next. Poor Lottie.
Yet her sympathy was far overshadowed by relief.
“You must leave. At once,” Mrs. Sinclair said.
Lottie shook her hand off her arm. “Why would I do that?”
“Your services are no longer required. Come with me.”
Mrs. Sinclair took her arm and tried to lead her toward the back stairs to the kitchen.
Once again, Lottie pulled out of her grasp. “No! I won’t go. I belong here.”
“Apparently you don’t. What were you thinking addressing the guests by name?”
So that was it? “I was polite. I used their proper names.”
“Exactly,” Mrs. Sinclair whispered. “You used their names. I don’t know what kind of household you worked in before, but here at the Tremaines’ that’s completely unacceptable.” She nodded to a footman to come to her assistance.
This wasn’t the way it was supposed to transpire. Lottie wouldn’t be manhandled by these servants and removed from the house like some criminal.
As soon as she felt the man’s hands upon her, all reason fell away. “Get your hands off me!”
There was a scuffle, and even as Lottie was in the midst of it—kicking and hitting—she thought, What am I doing? This isn’t like me!
“What’s going on out here?”
All three of them froze.
“Mr. Tremaine,” Mrs. Sinclair said. “I’m sorry, we’re just trying to deal with this servant and she refuses to leave.”
“What’s the problem, girl?”
Lottie smoothed her uniform, her thoughts spinning. Now was her chance to proclaim the truth. And yet …
If she truly wanted to take her place in the Tremaine family and among New York society, she couldn’t do it this way, making a scene, dressed as a maid on the verge of being thrown out. Besides, she’d promised Charlotte she wouldn’t do anything tonight.
“No problem, sir. I’m sorry to have disturbed you. I’m leaving now.”
He looked a little surprised at her agreeable exit but nodded once before returning to the dining room. Lottie could only imagine the table conversation that would follow.
It couldn’t be helped. She’d accomplished what she’d come to do. She’d spoken with Charlotte—with Dora. Now she had to be patient.
Lottie walked toward the back stairs. When the footman and Mrs. Sinclair began to follow, she kept walking, raised a hand to them, and said, “No need. I’ll see myself out.”
So there.
Mr. Tremaine returned to his seat with all eyes upon him. “A small altercation with the help. Nothing more. Carry on. Enjoy your dinner.”
Mrs. Astor shook her head. “Where do you get your help, Martin?”
He smiled and took a sip of his wine. “Off the streets, Caroline. Isn’t that where you find yours?”
Soft laughter ensued and Charlotte let herself breathe. It sounded as though Lottie was gone, and she obviously hadn’t revealed their secret. For the moment, all was well. She felt sorry for Lottie but was glad she was gone.
At her right Conrad spoke only to her. “Quite the eventful evening, eh, Miss Gleason?”
“Quite.”
If he only knew.
“Drop me here,” Lottie called over her shoulder to the driver.
The cart of firewood came to a stop, and Lottie hopped off the open back. “Thank you.”
The man gave her a one-finger salute and moved along the dark street.
Lottie staggered toward the Merciful Child Foundling Home. She tried the door, but it was locked. She knocked. If no one answered, she vowed to sleep on the stoop, for she could go no farther.
She had no idea what time it was. After she’d left the Tremaines’ she’d walked south until the upper-class streets had deteriorated into neighborhoods where few risked the darkness. Along the way she’d considered stopping at the church again, but the thought of seeing Fitz drew her onward.
When a cart had come by, Lottie flagged it down and begged a ride. The thought A Gleason does not beg for anything had come and gone before it even became a completed thought. Who was she to say what a Gleason did anymore? Her family’s status was waning—if it wasn’t already completely lost, her father was injured, and her mother and aunt were playing nursemaid. Nothing was as it had been. Nothing was as it should be.
Lifting her fist to knock one last time took enormous effort, but luckily the door opened before her feeble attempt could fail.
“Lottie!”
Nanny. Dear Nanny.
Lottie fell into her arms and let herself be led into the warm kitchen. “It all went wrong. I went to the Tremaines’ and ended up being a servant and—”
“Shh,” Nanny said as they entered the room. “Fitz is sleeping.”
Lottie looked toward the fire and was shocked to see Sven there, holding the boy. “Miss Hathaway.”
“Sven. What are you doing—?”
“Mr. Svensson came over after his work was finished for the day to check on little Fitzwilliam.” Nanny led Lottie to a chair by the fire. “Fitz has a cold and was fussy, and no one was able to comfort him like Sven.”
“He just wanted to be swaddled tight,” Sven said. He adjusted the blanket under the boy’s chin, then rose to give him to Lottie. “Søde baby, søde dreng.”
Although Lottie was exhausted beyond measure, the feel of the baby in her arms tapped into a hidden source of strength. “Oh, sweet baby, I missed you so much.”
Fitz opened his eyes for but a moment before falling back to sleep.
“Apparently you also have a knack with him, child,” Nanny said.
Lottie looked at Sven. For him to spend his entire evening, helping out …
“I really appreciate your help, Sven. But you can go now. I’m sure your wife is worried about you.”
Sven plucked a string from his pants and let it float to the floor. “I need to talk to you.”
“Yes, he does,” Nanny said. She abruptly turned on her heel and left the room.
“What’s all this about?” Lottie asked.
Sven escaped the bondage of his chair and moved behind it, gripping its back. “I … I missed you, Miss Hathaway. More than I expected.”
She felt a twinge of pleasure. “I was only gone a short time.”
“But with the intention of being gone forever. You may not have said so, but I knew.” He cocked his head. “So your plan to regain your rightful place as Charlotte Gleason didn’t turn out?”
“No.” Then she added, “Not yet.”
“Oh.”
She was surprised by his look of distress. Why would he care if she was successful at the Tremaines’ or—?
Lottie looked down at the baby. “I see you’ve grown attached to Fitz.”
His face softened as his gaze fell upon the boy. “I have. He’s a fighter, that one is. A survivor. He smiles at me.”
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br /> “Of course he does.”
Sven opened his mouth to speak, closed it, then tried again. “But you think wrongly, Miss Hathaway, about my reasons for being interested in your success at the Tremaines’.”
“Oh?”
“I …” He began to pace, running a hand through his hair. “I didn’t mean to tell you a falsehood, but when you assumed … I should have righted the misconception at once, but your interest and abilities were a little unnerving and—”
He certainly had her interest. “What are you taking about?”
He returned to his place behind the chair. “I’m not married. I don’t have a wife.”
Lottie was glad she was sitting down. “But you—”
“I said I was good with children and you assumed I meant my children. And I … I let you continue the assumption.”
She tried to remember the first conversation where his marital status had come up, but couldn’t recall who’d said what. There begged a larger question. “But why didn’t you set me straight?”
Even by the firelight she could see his blush. “This may sound conceited, but I could tell you were interested in me—as a man. I haven’t had that much experience with women, Miss Hathaway, and your skill—”
She didn’t like the way he was making it sound. “I haven’t had that much experience with men, either, Mr. Svensson. I assure you—”
“No, no. I meant no offense against your character or reputation, I only meant to say that you were so at ease talking with me, teasing me, being charming.”
“Flirtation is a talent finely honed in high society. I was only doing what I was brought up to do. I didn’t mean to unnerve you.”
“I know, and I should have reacted differently. But when you left me …” He came around the chair and sat upon it, leaning toward her with his arms resting upon his legs. “I have feelings for you, Miss Hathaway. And the thought of losing you forever … I haven’t taken a single photo since you left.” He sighed. “I need you.”
Lottie laughed. “So you didn’t replace me?”
“You have no replacement. And …” He paused. “My need goes far beyond my work. I need you. Me. Sven.”
His eyes were so sincere, his face so open and hopeful.
Lottie was disconcerted. She looked to Fitz to hide her confusion. Sven had feelings for her? And Fitz? Images of the three of them being a family elicited an overwhelming sense of warmth, security, constancy, and togetherness.
He suddenly sat back. “I’m sorry. I’ve spoken when I should have remained silent. You don’t belong in this world, but to another. I have little to offer you.” He began to rise.
She rose too and reached for his hand. “I’m glad you spoke as you did. It’s just so new… . It changes everything.”
“Does it?”
She hesitated. She wouldn’t lead him on. “Perhaps.”
He nodded. “But may I say one thing more before I leave you to think?”
“Of course.”
“No one is the same person they started out to be. That’s the way of life. We are supposed to change—for the better. You didn’t plan to be here, but here you are, different from whom you sought to be. Yet … I don’t care whether your name is Hathaway or Gleason. What I wish is for your name to be Svensson.”
A laugh escaped. “Is that a proposal, sir?”
Sven gathered his coat and hat. “Which person will you become?
It’s your choice.”
She’d always wanted the chance to choose for herself. Yet now, to be offered this choice was daunting.
He moved to the door. “I’ll give you the time you need. For I too have changed because of you and Fitz.” He returned to them and put a hand upon Fitz’s head. “I am sincere, Miss Hathaway. I speak what’s on my heart.”
He kissed the baby’s head, and then … Lottie’s cheek.
She heard his footsteps recede down the hall and the door tap shut.
Within moments Nanny returned.
“So?” she asked.
“What should I do?”
Nanny put her hands on her hips and shook her head. “The right thing.” She took Fitz from her arms. “I’ll put the babe to bed and be up on the roof if you need me.”
“The roof?”
Nanny nodded toward the stairs. “If you need me.”
The last guest left.
Mr. Tremaine turned to his family and sighed. “Quite successful, I think.” He looked to his wife. “Don’t you agree?”
Mrs. Tremaine shrugged. “I did grow tired of Mrs. Vanderbilt going on and on about wanting to marry Consuelo off to some titled European. How gauche.”
The two of them moved toward the staircase as if the three young people left behind didn’t exist.
Beatrice turned to follow. “Good night. You did fine, Charlotte. Really.”
Charlotte was surprised by Beatrice’s … civility. Were they finally friends? “Thank you, Beatrice,” she said. Then she called after the elder Tremaines, who were ascending the stairs. “And thank you for the lovely party.”
Mr. Tremaine didn’t turn around but acknowledged her gratitude with a raised hand. All in a day’s work.
Charlotte touched Conrad’s arm. “I wish to thank you too. You helped me through every snare.”
“I should have warned you that this set tends to sneer rather than smile, at least until they get to know you.”
“And accept me.”
He scanned the foyer, then took her hand. “Come with me.”
Charlotte was far too tired for the evening to be extended even shortly, but she had no choice. When Conrad led her into the gallery, her thoughts immediately returned to Lottie and the conversation that had transpired just hours before.
I want to call the whole thing off. I want to be myself again.
Once in the room, Conrad swung her away, then toward him under his arm, as if they were dancing. His face was positively giddy. Had the evening pleased him that much?
He ended the figure by drawing her toward himself. When he stopped, his giddiness faded. In its place was an earnestness that drew her gaze to his.
Then suddenly he dropped to one knee.
A proposal? A proposal!
Before she had time to think further, he began. “Miss Gleason, Charlotte. In the short time we’ve known each other I’ve grown to respect you and care for you very much. I appreciate your unique ability of seeing the truth and telling me your opinions in a way that brings out the best in me. Better than the best, for you have awakened in me ideas and enthusiasm I never knew I owned. In short, dear Charlotte, I’m a better man for knowing you.”
Charlotte only half heard his compliments as she tried to figure out what to do. She cared for him too, but if Lottie was going to go through with her plan to halt the scheme …
Conrad changed from one knee to the next, trying to find comfort on the marble floor. “I didn’t plan on doing this tonight, so I have no ring, but please know this proposal isn’t extended on a whim but is something I’ve intended to do ever since our walk in Central Park. Did you enjoy that walk as much as I did?”
This question she could answer. “I did enjoy it. Immensely.” It had also been a turning point for her, as it had been the first time she’d seen Conrad as a true friend—with the possibility of being more than a friend.
Conrad bit his lip, then said the words, “Will you marry me, Charlotte Gleason?”
But I’m not Charlotte Gleason and—
“Will you?”
A tiny voice in her head niggled at her like a fly demanding attention. Say yes and you will fully claim the position of Charlotte Gleason.If you don’t do it, Lottie will.
So she said it.
“Yes. Yes, I’ll marry you.”
With a moan and groan, and with her assistance, Conrad rose from his knees. Once upright, he awkwardly put a hand on her arm and leaned forward to kiss her.
She kissed him back. Just one short kiss. A seal to their pact.
But what of Dora Connors?
The right thing. Nanny told me to do the right thing.
Which was?
Lottie sat in the chair by the fireplace. The fire was just embers now, and despite the time elapsed, she had no answer.
When a log gave way to a weaker one beneath, she started … and remembered Nanny’s offer. “I’ll be up on the roof if you need me.”
Lottie sat upright, gripping the arms of the chair. Certainly too much time had passed for Nanny to still be there, yet she had to try. Nanny was the wisest person she knew. She’d been stupid to try to figure out this predicament on her own.
Lottie lit a lamp and climbed the stairs of the foundling home to a landing that led to many bedrooms. Around again, up another flight to more rooms with more closed doors. Yet in the dim light of the lamp she noticed one small door ajar.
She opened it and saw a steep narrow stair. This must be the way.
Lottie held her skirts high to negotiate the steps and at the top found another door ajar. All she had to do was push it open.
And there was the roof, a flat space nearly as large as the footprint of the house, dotted with chimneys and stacks. Lottie walked carefully to the edge and peered down at the street four stories below. It made her dizzy, so she took a step back and looked out upon the city. The moon was the only brightness in this dark place. Rooftops lay before her like stepping-stones above an abyss. In the moonlight she could see laundry strung from chimney to chimney, furniture scattered about, the occasional glow of a lamp. Did people sleep on their roofs?
The night was chilly and she wished she’d brought a shawl.
“Here,” came a voice from behind her. “Put this on or you’ll catch your death.” Nanny came out of the shadows, a shawl covering her own head and shoulders. “I thought you’d never come.”
Lottie gratefully took the extra shawl and wrapped it close. “I’m sorry. I tried to figure it out on my own, but then I realized I needed to turn to you.”
Nanny shook her head. “Not me, dear girl.” Then she pointed skyward.
Ah. Yes. God.
Lottie lowered her head, ashamed. “Why do I forget?”