by Nancy Moser
“People with everything given to them often do. Only when it’s taken away do you realize He’s all you’ve got. All you need.”
Nanny led her to the other side of the roof, where two chairs had been placed. They sat and both turned their eyes to the moon.
Lottie remembered her time on the Etruria when she’d found comfort in the moon that shone over home, and sea, and now here. “The inconstant moon,” she murmured.
Nanny shook her head. “Not inconstant at all. It’s always there, a faithful witness in the sky.”
“Witness to my confusion?”
“What confuses you?”
Lottie was taken aback. “What doesn’t confuse me? I come to America and end up in this awful place.”
“This awful place gave you Fitzwilliam and brought you to me.”
Oh. Yes. But. “But I should never have given up my position.”
“Why not?”
“It’s my birthright.”
Nanny shrugged. “This is America, Lottie. Anyone can achieve anything with hard work. The people who own the positions of high society in New York scraped and earned their way there. It’s up to their children to earn their way, to find their own way. Just as it’s up to you to earn and find your own way.”
“But I don’t know the way.”
“Of course you do.”
Lottie sat forward, shaking her head. “But I don’t. A part of me wants to go back to the Tremaines’ and tell the truth. Wouldn’t God approve of that?”
“You don’t want to go there for truth’s sake but for your own.”
She sat back. “I know the life there. I understand it. I belong there.”
“What about Fitz?”
“I’ll take him with me. That’s why I want to marry Conrad now, to provide a good home for my baby.”
Nanny shook her head. “We’ve been through this before. I think you’re dreaming if you think they’ll welcome you and a strange baby into their household.”
“They will if I explain everything.”
“Explain that you lied to them, deceived them?”
Lottie hated hearing Nanny’s words.
Nanny continued. “Even if, miracle of miracles, they’d take you in, do you know the Tremaines? Do you know that Conrad would be a good father?”
“I read his letters. He seems nice enough.”
Nanny snickered. “Nice enough to marry and bring up your child.”
“Well … yes.”
“Or is he merely rich enough?”
“Money is important, Nanny.”
“Money is necessary. But how much do you need? Does Fitz need satin britches and gilded rooms?”
Lottie knew Nanny was merely making a point, but she was amazed at how accurate she was. The Tremaines’ home was a palace.
“Of course he doesn’t need those things, but …”
“Then what does he need?”
Lottie felt herself being expertly drawn toward a conclusion she wanted to reach, yet feared reaching.
“He needs love. And he has it. With me.”
“And with who else?”
“With you.”
“And … ?”
And there it was. The essence of the entire dilemma.
“Sven. With Sven. That’s what you want me to say, isn’t it?”
“I don’t want you to say anything, Lottie. I want you to know, to believe, to do.”
Lottie rubbed her face roughly. Nanny made it sound easy, but it wasn’t.
She felt Nanny’s hand upon her knee. “What do you know, Lottiegirl?”
“I know I love Fitz and want to be his mother. A good mother.”
“Agreed. What do you believe?”
“About what?”
“About life.”
No one had ever asked her that. To Lottie life just was. She’d always let the days play out according to the scenario of others. She’d been a player in someone else’s production. Until America. Until now. “I believe I can be a good mother. I believe I can be a good wife. I believe I can have a good life and be happy and even … even help change things for the better.”
“By doing what?”
The faces of two men flashed before her eyes. Conrad’s image didn’t stay long, for she’d only seen him in passing. It was the face of Sven that lingered and journeyed through a myriad of memories, replete with words said, emotions expressed, and deeds accomplished. She had spent time with Sven. She knew him and wanted to know even more; she respected the man and his work. He’d said he needed her. And she … she loved the idea of being needed.
Her thoughts flashed back to her home in Wiltshire in the weeks before her birthday. She’d been restless, thinking about being of use, of doing something worthwhile.
A final image usurped her past as she remembered Sven holding Fitz in his arms, loving the baby as if he were his—
“Sven.”
“Sven what?”
“I care for Sven.” She angled her body toward Nanny. “I care for him, he cares for me, and we both care for Fitz.”
Nanny threw her hands into the air and let them fall upon her lap. “Well then.”
It suddenly became as clear as the night sky. “Was I brought here for this, Nanny? Was everything taken from me so I’d end up with the Scarpellis? Was I assaulted on my job so Sven would take me under his wing? Did I find Fitz and find you so … all this could happen?”
Nanny laughed. “So you’re not mad at the Almighty anymore?”
I’ll watch over you.
Lottie must have gasped, because Nanny said, “What’s wrong?”
“I just remembered a feeling I had on the deck of the ship coming over here. I was looking at the moon and … I get the same feeling now.”
“What feeling is that?”
“It’s as if God is saying He’ll watch over me. And actually, I asked Him to do just that.”
Nanny spread her hands. “And He answered. You are where you’re supposed to be.”
Could it be as simple as that? Could her purpose be here?
Through a tightened throat Lottie nodded, accepting it all.
“I’m engaged! What am I going to do?” Charlotte asked herself. There were no other ears to hear. Or care. She had absolutely no one to talk to.
She’d never felt so alone.
Charlotte sat on the window seat in her bedroom, in her nightgown, unable to sleep. Most girls who were newly betrothed would be restless due to excitement and joy. But Charlotte …
She pulled the lace curtain aside and sought the moon. There it was. It was comforting—and rather awe-inspiring—to know that everyone the whole world over saw this same moon. Had her mother looked at the moon tonight? Or Barney?
Her past relationship with Barney had grown hazy. He appeared in her memory in snippets, nearly static, like a mental photograph without life or movement. It was hard to imagine marrying him, and yet that was the path she’d been following.
Besides her mother and Barney, who else did she have in her life?
Her best friend was Lottie. But at the moment, could Lottie truly be considered a friend? Did friends threaten to spoil and upset another friend’s life?
Conrad had proposed. This was exactly what they’d wanted to happen. Their plan had succeeded.
For the moment. Until Lottie came back and ruined everything.
Maybe she’ll have a change of heart.
Charlotte remembered the commotion Lottie caused outside the dining room during dinner. It was classic Lottie, wanting her own way and fighting to get it. Apparently, in spite of the hardships she’d endured since coming to America, she hadn’t mellowed. If anything, she seemed poised to fight harder to regain what she’d lost.
Who else was there?
Edmund.
The name fell into her thoughts like a droplet of rain, cool and gentle, with the promise of refreshment and restoration.
Unlike her thoughts of Barney, her images of Edmund were vibrant and full of life, so
und, and light. She closed her eyes and easily saw them dancing on the ship, saw his face when they first spoke, and felt the proximity of his body against hers in the carriage as they ventured to Five Points.
But it was more than the physical spark that fueled her thoughts. Charlotte remembered his kindness, his joy, his humor, and his tender nature.
To think it had all started with a spilled glass and a handkerchief. She still had that handkerchief. He’d returned it to her.
She needed it now.
Charlotte went to the dressing table, where she kept it close and—
It was gone.
She turned on the gas lamp and scoured the tabletop, the drawers, the porcelain boxes. She got on her hands and knees and searched the floor.
“Where is it?”
Charlotte reached for the bell pull that would call Mary, then stopped. If the Tremaine house was anything like the Gleasons’, any pull of a bell would sound in the basement, causing the housekeeper or butler to trudge up to the third story to summon Mary, who would have to get dressed and—
She couldn’t do that. She wouldn’t. The handkerchief hadn’t been thrown away. It was somewhere. And in spite of her frenzy, it wasn’t a holy artifact.
Holy. God. Holy God.
Charlotte sank upon the bench of the dressing table. All her worries about having no one to talk to …
She clasped her hands to her chin and looked heavenward. “I’m sorry for forgetting about you. Please help. It’s all too complicated for me.” She paused a moment, trying to determine exactly what to pray for. What did she really want? What was best? What should happen? Her confusion led to the only prayer that made any sense. “Do what you think is best.”
That said, Charlotte returned to her bed.
God was the only one who could handle the situation.
Charlotte only hoped she’d like what He had in mind.
Chapter Twenty
Lottie felt herself rise to the surface of her dreams. She heard whispers. Sensed movement.
She opened her eyes. Three faces stood inches away.
She blinked, trying to focus, and as she did so, she saw that her entire bed was surrounded with children—ragged, ragtag children with enormous eyes and hair rumpled from sleep.
“Who are you?” asked a boy with a German pull to his voice.
“I’m Lottie.”
“Are you Fitz’s mamma?” asked another.
She didn’t hesitate. “Yes, I am.”
“Can you be my mamma too?”
The other children chimed in, each making their case. They touched her, pulled her to sitting, and climbed upon the cot with her, crowding in.
At first it was disconcerting. Yet as they snuggled close, she found herself letting them in, wanting them upon her lap and under her arm, relishing the feel of their hands in her own.
“I be son,” said an Italian boy. “Fitz’s fratello.”
“No, I be Fitz’s Bruder,” the first boy said. “I here first.”
A near scuffle ensued, causing Lottie to stand and let the little bodies fall upon each other in her absence.
She faced the bed and clapped her hands, getting their attention. Once she had it, she wasn’t sure what to do. Spotting a kerchief on a girl’s head, she took it off and wrapped it around her hand, pulling up two ears and pulling down a makeshift nose. Then she made the hand-animal talk. “Hello! How are you today?”
The children giggled and laughed, and a cap was added by the German boy, making the animal very funny indeed.
Lottie saw Nanny enter the room with Fitz. “My, my, we have quite a show going on here.”
A little girl was trying to make her own kerchief animal, and Lottie had to stop in order to help wrap the scarf properly. Once finished Lottie took Fitz into her arms. The children clamored to see the baby, so she sat on the bed and let them fill the space around her.
“Gentle, now,” she told their eager hands.
Fitz responded to the attention with smiles and coos, which elicited more smiles from the children. Lottie looked at Nanny and saw approval in her eyes. “They want me to be their mother.”
“And why wouldn’t they? They know a good heart when they see it.”
Me? Have a good heart?
Lottie’s consternation must have shown upon her face, for Nanny gave her a surely-you-know-this look.
“I didn’t know I could feel this way about others, about children I don’t even know,” Lottie said.
“ ‘If we love one another, God dwelleth in us, and his love is perfected in us.’ ” Nanny shook her head. “What I’m seeing before me is pretty perfect.”
“It feels perfect.”
“Well then. There you have it.”
“Just like that?”
Nanny scooted a child over so she could sit next to Lottie. “Not just like that. You’ve always had the potential to love, Lottie-girl. It’s just been asleep, waiting.” She put a finger in Fitz’s hand. “This little boy did the waking, God bless him.”
God bless him indeed.
Charlotte awakened, surprised she’d slept. She sensed movement in the room and sat up. Mary was putting away a stack of newly pressed clothing.
“Morning, miss. Did you sleep—?”
“Did you take the handkerchief I had on my dressing table?”
Mary was taken aback. “Why yes, miss. I put it in the laundry. It looked rumpled and used.” She set the stack on a bureau. “Let’s see if it’s in here.”
Charlotte leapt out of bed to witness the looking. Although she would have rather had the handkerchief in the same condition that Edmund had given it to her, just having it at all would be enough.
Mary reached the bottom of the pile. “It’s not here.”
“Look again.”
Mary repeated the process to no avail.
“Let me.” Charlotte took each piece of clothing, each camisole, each stocking, each petticoat and bloomer, and shook it, willing the handkerchief to float to the floor.
“Perhaps it got in with someone else’s clothing,” Mary said. “I could go check—”
Check for a woman’s handkerchief that was monogrammed with DC? “You needn’t bother.”
It was lost. Her one token from Edmund was gone forever.
Charlotte retrieved a petticoat and began to fold it, but Mary took it out of her arms. “I’ll do that, miss.”
Of course she would.
“Would you like me to draw you a bath?”
Why not? She could sit and soak and prune.
And wonder about what could have been—and what would be.
Charlotte passed the butter to Conrad, trying to meet his eyes. When she’d come down to breakfast she’d expected to be greeted with congratulations from his family. But the meal had commenced without fanfare. Either Conrad hadn’t told them of their engagement or … perhaps they disapproved?
Yet certainly they would have been vociferous about the latter.
Was Conrad having second thoughts? Or had the old Conrad slunk back, the Conrad who would never think of risking his parents’ ire?
Finally, just after the sausages were served, Conrad put down his fork, pushed back his chair, and stood. “I have an announcement to make.”
“Just a minute, brother.” Beatrice pulled something from her sleeve. “Before you make any announcement, I have a question for Charlotte.” She unfurled the item, revealing Charlotte’s handkerchief.
“Where did you get that?” Charlotte asked.
“So you admit it’s yours?”
“Of course …” She stopped, unsure what to say.
Beatrice rearranged the handkerchief, smoothing the lace edge to showcase the monogram. “Hmm. If this is Charlotte’s handkerchief, one would think the monogram would read CG.”
“DC?” Mr. Tremaine asked. “Who is DC?”
Beatrice glared at Charlotte. “Perhaps you’d like to answer that?”
A lie came to her, a story she could make up. But the ef
fort was too much.
And so it was over. Just like that.
Conrad’s head shook back and forth. “Beatrice, enough.”
“Not enough, I say. Let her answer. Or are you afraid of what she’ll say?”
Conrad looked to his mother for support, but even Mrs. Tremaine looked away. Mrs. Tremaine knew the truth, but did Conrad?
Mr. Tremaine slammed his napkin upon the table. “Will someone please tell me what’s going on here?”
Beatrice tossed the handkerchief across the table toward Charlotte. It missed its mark, landing near her goblet.
Charlotte wasn’t sure if she should retrieve it, but she finally did, drawing it into safekeeping in her lap.
“It is my handkerchief. And …” The next words would change her world forever, yet how could she not say them? The truth shall make you free.
“My name is not Charlotte Gleason. My name is Dora Connors.”
Conrad sat down, clearly stunned. He hadn’t known? Only Mrs. Tremaine seemed unsurprised.
“Who is Dora Connors?” Mr. Tremaine asked.
“I am—I was—the maid of Charlotte Gleason.”
“A maid?” he asked.
Beatrice nodded, her face showing great satisfaction. “I suspected it from the beginning. She’s an imposter, trying to marry Conrad for our family’s riches.”
“I was not after the riches,” Charlotte said. She couldn’t have Conrad think that. She looked at him, but he was staring at the table. “I care for you. I really do. But …” And then, as if a veil had been lifted, she knew the full truth of it. “But I can’t marry you.”
“You proposed?” Mr. Tremaine asked. “When was this?”
“Last night after the party,” he said quietly. “And Charlotte accepted.” His eyes found hers. “You accepted.”
Beatrice slapped the table. “What are you talking about? She’s a maid pretending to be a lady! You can’t marry her, no matter how nice she seems.”
“Actually he could.” It was the first time Mrs. Tremaine had spoken. She looked to her husband. “Remember, I was but a governess.”
Beatrice was clearly beside herself. Her face was florid, her eyes darting. “Then why not just pull someone off the street?”
Charlotte remembered the discussion at dinner the night before regarding servants, about getting their servants off the street. “Actually, the real Charlotte Gleason was here last night.”