Masquerade (27 page)

They entered an eating area and then a small sleeping alcove beyond. The woman took a skirt and blouse from a hook. “Here. Put these on.” She pulled a curtain to give her privacy.

It had all happened so fast, Lottie found herself undressing before she was fully awake. Propriety begged her to go, but reality pressed her to stay. She needed help. That’s all there was to it.

Removing her sodden clothes was a relief, as was the feel of dry fabric upon her back. She left on her undergarments but did remove the bustle and petticoats.

“You ’bout done?” the woman asked. “Hand me yer things and I’ll get them to dryin’.”

Lottie stopped buttoning the dry blouse and handed the woman the clothes through the curtain.

“Ey, these weigh a hundred pounds,” the woman said.

Indeed, Lottie felt liberated. She finished her buttoning and passed through the curtain. The woman was spreading Lottie’s garments on drying racks by the fire that served the kitchen. Her task complete, she turned to look at Lottie. “Well, now. They may not be fancy, but at least they’re dry.”

For the first time, Lottie spoke. “They’re wonderful. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Now, go sit with me husband by the fire while I get you something to eat.” When Lottie hesitated, she added, “He’s a good listener.”

Ah yes. She remembered his wanting her to tell him all about it.

Lottie went into the main room and saw the pastor seated by the fire in one of two upholstered chairs, with another wooden chair brought close to make three. He rose and offered her the most comfortable chair. “Here, now. That’s better. My wife has taken good care of you, hasn’t she?”

“She has.”

Lottie sat and was immediately warmed by the now roaring flame.

“So now.” The man’s receding hair glowed silver in the firelight. “I’m Pastor Weston, and that lovely woman in the other room is my wife, Matilda. And you are?”

It was a good question. The truth begged for release, but Lottie ended up saying, “I’m Lottie Hathaway.”

He nodded once, as if satisfied the introductions were properly accomplished.

Mrs. Weston returned to the room with a tray. “Here, now. Some soup, bread, and coffee.” She set the tray on Lottie’s lap.

Smelling the food, seeing it … Lottie gave her hunger free rein. She hadn’t eaten anything since early that morning at the Scarpellis’, and now it was—

She finished chewing a bite of bread. “May I ask the time?”

Pastor Weston glanced at a wall where a clock hung. “Half past one.”

She’d left the Scarpellis’ at seven. No wonder she was hungry.

Lottie took a sip of coffee and found it less potent than the brew she’d had at the Scarpellis’. If only the characters from
Little Women
were with her now, enjoying a cup together. She could use their fine company.

“Soup,” Mrs. Weston said. “Take some soup.”

Lottie did as she was told. The soup was a balm.

Mrs. Weston sat in the other chair, and Pastor Weston took the hard one. They let her eat for a moment in silence. When she stopped to take a breath, the pastor asked, “So, Miss Hathaway. Why were you out in the rain without cover? What brings you to sleeping on a pew at Marble?”

She must not have heard him correctly. “Marble?”

“Marble Collegiate Church. Don’t you know where you are, lassie?”

His wife swatted his arm. “Tact, Douglas, tact.” She looked at Lottie. “You are fair welcome here, please know that. But we’re concerned because you’re obviously a lady of standing, and such ladies don’t often enter the church in your … condition.”

Pastor Weston looked at his wife. “Didna I just ask the same thing?”

“I did it better,” his wife said.

Their banter made Lottie smile. She set down the spoon, tried to settle on how much to tell them, and decided a portion of the truth might be better than none. “I know someone who lives north of here. I went—”

“Who is it you know?”

This, she couldn’t say. “Just a friend. But she wasn’t able to receive me, and so I started walking home and—”

“And home is where?” the pastor asked.

Lottie found her mouth agape, unable to say. An awkward moment passed.

“Home is where the heart is,” Mrs. Weston said. “Isn’t that so, Miss Hathaway?”

She couldn’t nod or even shake her head. Home was a foreign land that couldn’t be reached by any means. Home was locked away in a past that forbid her reentry.

The pastor put a hand upon her arm. “So ‘as a bird that wandereth from her nest, so is a man that wandereth from his place.’ ”

Tears sprang forward unannounced. “That’s exactly how I feel,” she said. “I’m flying around with no place to land.”

Mrs. Weston stood and urged her husband to trade chairs with her. She took the tray from Lottie, then moved the wooden chair close and gave Lottie a shoulder to cry upon. “There, there. You’ve landed here. God’s brought you here.”

Had He? She remembered looking up through the rain and seeing the church. Had God led her to this safe haven and to these kind people? Even after she’d been mad at Him and vowed to do things her way?

The pastor handed her a handkerchief. “Your accent … you’re English.”

“Yes, I’m from Wiltshire. I just arrived …” She had to think. The answer was hard to fathom. “Yesterday?”

Their eyebrows rose in tandem. “You came through Castle Garden?”

“Yes.”

“How did you end up here? ’Tis a long way north.”

“I walked.”

“Where did you spend last night?”

“With the Scarpellis. They—”

“Who are the Scarpellis?” the pastor asked.

“An Italian family. Mrs. Scarpelli was at Castle Garden to meet some family who’d arrived from Italy, and she saw when a man stole my jewels and money, took pity on me, and took me into their home, where I slept in a room with Aldo and Francesca and Lucia and Vittorio—and little Sofia. She held my hand, and I gave her my hat and—”

Lottie noticed the pastor and his wife looking at her, incredulous. She’d said too much, too fast.

“They were very kind to me.”

The pastor recovered himself. “I’m sure they were, but where … where do they live?”

“Mulberry Street. Near Five Points?”

Their eyes grew wide. “You stayed in such a place? Alone?”

“I wasn’t alone. They took me in when I had no one and nothing, even though they’re struggling themselves.” The comparison with their behavior and the reception she’d received at the Tremaines’ was huge. Lottie thought of a Bible story, one of the few she remembered. “Like the poor widow who put all she had in the offering. Didn’t Jesus declare her gift of more worth than the rich who gave only a little of their wealth?”

The couple looked at each other; then the pastor nodded. “You have humbled us, Miss Hathaway. For indeed you found a gem in the Scarpellis, a gem amid the horrors of Five Points. We haven’t seen, but we’ve heard the stories.”

“Is it as dismal a place as they say?” Mrs. Weston asked.

Lottie wanted to lie, to defend the place for the Scarpellis’ sake, but the memory of the beggar children, the stench, the crowding, and the dilapidation could not—should not—be ignored. “It is horrible. Yet the people have found a way to carry on in spite of it. There’s a strength there.” It was unnerving that she hadn’t acknowledged that strength until now.

“ ‘The Lord will give strength unto his people; the Lord will bless his people with peace.’ ”

“I’m not sure how much peace they have,” Lottie said, “but they are strong.”

Pastor Weston nodded. “It appears God provided for you twice— through the Scarpellis and through your visit with us here.”

Lottie was taken aback. Was it true? Had God helped her both times?

Mrs. Weston returned the tray to her lap. “Eat some more. You need your nourishment.”

The pastor sat back in his chair and crossed one leg over the other. “Are you going to try to see your friend again?”

“You could stay here with us tonight and try tomorrow,” Mrs. Weston said.

Lottie looked toward a window. The storm had passed, and the sun was attempting to shine. She didn’t want to burden this couple any longer. “The rain has stopped. I must be moving along.”

“Let me get you a hack,” Pastor Weston offered.

She began to object, but he’d already left the room. Mrs. Weston said, “Let us do this for you, child. You’ve walked enough these two days. Now, finish your soup.”

Lottie did so quickly, and with Mrs. Weston’s blessing took the bread for later. Mrs. Weston helped her get dressed again, and Lottie reluctantly put on the restrictive bustle and petticoats. She was ready when Pastor Weston returned.

“A hack is waiting outside.” He pressed some coins into her hand. “For the fare.”

Again, Lottie wanted to refuse, but now wasn’t the time to be proud. Instead she said, “Thank you. Thank you both.”

Mrs. Weston embraced her and looked deeply into her eyes. “You know where we are.”

Lottie kissed the woman’s cheek and left quickly before the threat of tears gained momentum. She backtracked through the church to the street. A hack sat ready to take her north—to the Tremaines’.

You can’t go there. You’re not welcome.

And then she knew where she must go.

“Miss?” the driver said.

She felt the weight of the coins in her hand. It was the only money she had. “I’ve decided to walk.”

He looked perturbed but gave the reins a shake. “Suit yerself.”

As the hack headed north, Lottie began to walk.

South.

Charlotte recovered from her headache in time to suffer through the midday meal. The food was flavorful but the company bland. It being Saturday, Mr. Tremaine and Conrad were present, which logically should have made the conversation of more interest—but was otherwise. Did this family ever just
talk
? And when would she have time alone with Conrad? How could she be expected to marry the man when the only time she saw him was together with his entire family?

Beatrice was the one distraction, yet Charlotte found herself tightening whenever she spoke because of the certain conflict that followed. Beatrice showed no concern for the effect she had on others, and in fact seemed to thrive upon it.

Charlotte wasn’t sure how to feel about the girl. When she’d first heard Conrad had a sister, she’d imagined a confidante. But Beatrice had already proven herself to be unsuited for such a bond. And since she’d also shown herself to be completely contrary to her parents, Charlotte wasn’t sure a further closeness was a good idea even
if
Beatrice could be trusted. Charlotte might be called upon to take sides between Beatrice and Mrs. Tremaine. And if so, Mrs. Tremaine needed to win. It was a question of who had the power. Power—or the lack thereof. That was the source of both girls’ discontent.

She wondered why Beatrice wasn’t married yet. Charlotte could think of no tweak of society that would prevent the younger child—if there were no other daughters—from marrying before her older brother. Had Beatrice’s penchant for confrontation held her back? No man would be attracted to a woman with such strong opinions, especially if she slapped the face of the prevailing social order.

And honestly, it could have been due to Beatrice’s lack of beauty. From Charlotte’s observations of the social set back in England, it wasn’t unheard of for a plain woman to marry, but her goal was certainly harder gained. And in Beatrice’s case … when pensive, when unoccupied, her face wasn’t without appeal. There was a strength in her chin, and her cheekbones offered a stately shape to her face. But alas, the moments of peace were few, and the rest of the time Beatrice’s face hardened with a defensiveness that made one wish to recoil rather than engage.

“Are you worried about something, miss?”

The meal was long over, and Mary stood behind Charlotte in her room, adjusting her hair for a summons to Mrs. Tremaine’s morning room.

Just everything.
Yet Charlotte gave the correct response. “No, of course not. What do I have to be worried about?”

Mary nodded, but her eyes took on their own worry—which added to Charlotte’s. If her maid knew enough to worry … Servants often knew more about what was going on in the house than its residents. Had Mary heard tittle-tattle through the servant grapevine about what the Tremaines truly thought of her?

Charlotte reached a hand upward and stopped Mary’s movement. “If you hear anything you think I need to know, Mary …”

“I’ll tell you. I promise.”

Sending her maid to be a spy. Had it already come to this?