Masquerade (35 page)

“I want to. Now another one. Suitable for a walk in Central Park.”

“Absolument.”
Madame’s eyes glittered with excitement. “Come, come, I know just the one. In a lovely brown, I think.”

“I prefer green. To match Miss Gleason’s eyes.”

Madame’s eyes widened. “Certainly, monsieur.”

What transpired was a fairy tale with Charlotte the princess royal. Before the excursion was over Conrad had purchased the garnet reception dress, a forest green and ivory walking costume, a robin’s-egg-blue day dress, a rust and brown seersucker suit, and a yellow topaz dress with Egyptian lace—along with a gown first seen in brown velvet, and the Congo-colored brocade silk. All with matching shoes, parasols, gloves, and bonnets, of course.

Madame went over the checklist with Conrad. A few stray hairs had broken loose from her coiffure, evidence of her hard work—her lucrative work. Did she receive commission on her sales? Charlotte hoped so.

“I’ll have them sewn immediately. And I do think the scalloped trim on the blue gown will be better than the lace. You have a good eye, Monsieur Tremaine.”

Conrad blushed. “Yes. Well …”

“I’ll have them delivered within the week. Will that be soon enough?”

He looked to Charlotte. “Will that be soon enough?”

She was confused. She’d purchased the dresses, but Madame spoke of having them sewn. “They are made from scratch?” she asked.

“Oh yes, mademoiselle. We have our own workroom of nearly fifty seamstresses. When an order is made we create a custom dress according to the customer’s particular specifications and preferences. You could have had the gowns in a variety of colors.” She cocked her head. “Do you wish to change the order?”

Charlotte couldn’t imagine changing a thing. “I’m very happy with the ensembles as they were presented.”

Madame Foulard’s smile was tinged with relief. “Then within the week it will be accomplished. Good day, mademoiselle. Monsieur Tremaine.”

Charlotte took Conrad’s arm. As soon as they were alone she said, “Your generosity is overwhelming, Mr. Tremaine.”

“Not at all. I did it for me as much as for you. I’ve never had such a delightful time.”

Charlotte couldn’t imagine any man having an interest in women’s clothing. “You are definitely a man among men.”

He suddenly stopped and pulled her to the side, out of the way of the shopping traffic. “Dear Charlotte—may I call you Charlotte when we’re alone?”

The look in his eyes was so intense, so sincere. “Of course.”

“We’ve only known each other a short time and yet … I must say …” He glanced at the people strolling past. “Perhaps this isn’t the place to say …”

She wanted him to say it. “Please.”

“You make me happier than I have ever had cause to be. Just seeing you smile fills me with … with …”

“With?”

He was still searching for the word but suddenly said, “Joy.”

She nodded. “ ’ Tis a good word.”

“ ’ Tis a good feeling. Do you feel it too?”

“I do.”

There was a moment of silence between them, and Charlotte wondered if Conrad was thinking—as Charlotte was thinking—of a future time when those two words might have even greater meaning.

“Come now,” he said, breaking the moment. “Let’s go home.”

Home. I do
. And
joy
.

Glorious words indeed.

There was no clock in the room, and it seemed as if they’d been working for days. But for an occasional trip to the outhouse—six floors below—and ten minutes to eat lunch, there’d been no breaks. What kept Lottie going was thinking about the money she was earning, the dollar she’d found, and how triumphant she would feel when she went to the pawnshop and got her jewels back.

Her aching body interrupted her fantasy. She closed her eyes, arched her back, and moved her neck, trying to relieve the pain. If only she had a back to her chair. Some women did, but she guessed they guarded them with their life.

She heard the voice of Mr. Cavendish—the name of the “Beast”— and immediately got back to work. Lucia was turning in a sleeve to Mr. Silverman; he was inspecting her work.

Lottie looked at her own sleeve. She’d only finished two that met the satisfaction of the foreman. Two sleeves—twenty cents. And her eyes … no matter how often she blinked or rubbed them, they would no longer focus. And her fingers were raw with prickings.

“How much longer?” she asked Maggie, the blonde.

With a look toward the Beast, Maggie took a watch from her pocket. “It’s nearly two. Five hours more.”

Five hours! Lottie’s heavy sigh made a few of the women laugh—softly, for the Beast didn’t abide laughter. Even conversation was frowned upon.

“You ’ave a husband, dearie?” Maggie asked.

She shook her head. “I live with Lucia’s family.”

“You a lodger or a boarder?”

Lottie was confused. “I’m sorry but … what’s the difference?”

“A lodger makes their own food and a boarder gets breakfast.”

“A boarder, then.”

“How much you pay ’em?”

Nothing yet … She glanced at Lucia, who was still talking with the foreman. “How much should I pay them?”

“Fifty cents a week.” Maggie looked to the other women. “Yes?”

Another woman with glasses perched on her nose said, “My family charges forty, but our boarder has been with us for three years.”

“Aye, Mr. Tim. I’ve heard ya talk about that one.” Maggie raised her eyebrows suggestively. “Why don’ you jus’ marry the man?”

“He’s fifty to be sure.”

“You ’ave a better offer?”

“Maybe,” the girl said.

Maggie laughed.

“Enough squawking!” the Beast yelled.

Fifty cents a week?

There went her dollar.

Lottie clung to Lucia’s arm, her legs leaden. She stumbled on the cobblestone street. It was an effort to keep her head erect. Each stoop they passed tempted her to rest. She didn’t need to get to the Scarpellis’. She would sleep right here in the open.

Lights were on in the buildings around them, but instead of finding comfort in their glow, Lottie was disheartened. “It was dark when we went to work, and now it’s dark when we go home.”

“This time of year hard,” Lucia said. “Days short. Nights long.”

The darkness may have been long, but Lottie feared this night would be too short.

She spotted a woman dumping a basket of rags and refuse in a garbage heap on the curb. The smell of rotten food wafted over them as they passed by.

But then, without warning to herself or Lucia, Lottie stopped walking and returned to the heap. There, amid the trash, was a blue blouse.

She held it up for inspection. The sleeve was torn from the bodice and it was missing a few buttons. But it looked the right size.

“Lottie, no! Put back!” Lucia made a face.

I can mend this.

Lottie rolled the blouse into a bundle and caught up with her friend. “I need another blouse. I can fix it. And wash it.”

Lottie was glad her parents weren’t there to see her.

Or Suzanna, or Ralph, or especially Edith Whitcomb.

For the first time since their arrival, Charlotte was eager for the evening meal. She was looking forward to letting Mr. and Mrs. Tremaine know she fully enjoyed the family’s store.

Yet as usual, conversation was sparse. She kept hoping Conrad would tell his parents about their shopping excursion, but old habits were apparently deeply rooted.

Finally, after enduring some horribly tough roast beef, Charlotte took a chance. “I had the most delightful trip to your store today, Mr. Tremaine, and I can honestly say it’s the most magnificent establishment I’ve ever visited.”

He seemed pleased. But instead of answering her, he turned to his son. “So you
did
take Miss Gleason to the store?”

Conrad set his fork down. “I did, Father. She’d expressed interest in the apparel we offered and so we …” He looked to Charlotte and smiled—a smile that faded when he looked back to his father. “I ordered Miss Gleason a few costumes. Madame Foulard assisted us.”

“Hmph.” The snicker came from Beatrice.

“She was very helpful,” Charlotte said.

“She’s a pretender,” Beatrice said. “I doubt she’s even French. And to think she knows anything about fashion …”

Any plan Charlotte had to impress the Tremaines was extinguished. Until …

“Don’t be a snob, Beatrice,” Mr. Tremaine said. “Your life of privilege is directly related to the clerks I employ at the store. And your contempt for the fashion we sell there is unconscionable.”

Beatrice looked to her mother as though wanting an ally.

But Mrs. Tremaine disappointed. “Your father is right, Beatrice. It’s not right to look down upon the merchandise your father has painstakingly chosen for the store.”

“But—”

“I know what I’m doing, young lady,” he said.

Her posture deflated as if her core had been undermined.

“Forgive me, Father. I meant no disrespect for the merchandise, but—” she looked at Charlotte—“but I can’t stand people who pretend to be something they’re not.”

Charlotte mishandled her water goblet and it tipped, spilling water upon the lace tablecloth. “Oh dear! I’m so sorry. How clumsy of me.”

The footman attended to the damage and she was assured it was nothing, but when Charlotte glanced at Beatrice, the girl’s face held a haughty contempt that served as a warning that the real damage was yet to come.

There was a knock on the door. Charlotte hesitated because she’d just gone to bed. But she went to the door and cracked it open.

“Beatrice. Is something wrong?”

Beatrice pointed a finger at her. “If you think you can ingratiate yourself into this family by ordering a few dresses from the store, you’re wrong.”

Charlotte was stunned. “I don’t think any such thing, nor did I order the dresses with—” She stopped herself. While ordering the dresses she
had
considered what the Tremaines would think. “Truly, Beatrice, I didn’t intend to offend anyone.”

“Well, you did.” Beatrice turned on her heel to leave, then turned back. “I saw Mary switch the letter to your mother. I don’t know what you’re up to, but it
will
come out. I’ll see to it.”

Charlotte closed the door and rested her forehead against it. This wasn’t going to work. The masquerade was coming to an end. It was just a question of how soon she would be unmasked.