Masquerade (36 page)

Chapter Fourteen

“Shh, lei dorme.”

“Povera ragazza.”

Lottie heard the voices of Lucia and Lea but didn’t have enough energy to open her eyes. She sensed she still held the blouse she’d been repairing in her lap, and wondered after the needle.

She slept …

There was a draft. Lottie pulled her blanket tighter. Then she turned her head and suffered a decided crick in her neck. The pain pulled her from sleep and she sat upright. Sat? She was seated on a chair. Someone had put a blanket over her shoulders.

Lottie looked around the main room of the Scarpellis’ apartment, where she’d spent the night. Lea was stoking the fire in the stove, talking softly to Dante as he folded their bedding. Sofia shuffled into the room from the bedroom, her hair ruffled from sleep. Lea picked her up and the girl cuddled in her mother’s arms. Sofia whined a bit and Lea put a hand to her forehead.

I slept in here last night? In this chair?

Then she remembered. Last evening she’d sat near the lamp in order to mend the blouse she’d found in the trash. She’d been so tired, she remembered putting her head in her arms—for just a moment.

She must have fallen asleep there.

Lea noticed Lottie was awake and handed Sofia to her father. “
Buon giorno,
Lottie. You sleep good?”

She rubbed the back of her neck. “I slept. I’m sorry I was in your room.”

“
Nessun problema.
First day job hard.”

And the second day won’t be any easier.

Lottie looked around for her blouse. “Do you know where my blouse—?”

“Here,” Lea said, showing the blouse draped over a chair near the stove. “I wash last night.”

Lottie moved to the stove, walking like an old woman with a stiff back. The blouse was nearly dry. Its color was still a faded blue, and it was horribly wrinkled, but to have it clean …
“Grazie
. You didn’t need to do that.”

Lea shrugged. “You work hard on it. Now clean.”

Impulsively, Lottie embraced the woman. It was awkward at first— Lottie wasn’t prone to hug others—but once in Lea’s grasp, once encircled by her warm, soft arms …

Lottie melted. And began to cry.

“Oh, no, no …” Lea said.
“Non piangere, cara ragazza mia. Shhhh.”

This was becoming an embarrassing habit. To succumb to tears, to show such weakness in front of others …

There was nothing else she could do.

“There, my dear. What do you think of it?”

Charlotte looked at herself in the massive mirror in Mrs. Tremaine’s bedroom. “It’s lovely. Truly lovely.”

She wasn’t lying. Exactly.

The gown Mrs. Tremaine had ordered made for Charlotte’s party was a complicated affair in rose and green. Its lower skirt was layered with odd pointed flounces that hung like pink petals. Covering the hips and creating a bustle was silk drapery that was pleated in scarves and held in place with bows and loops of green velvet ribbon to which two huge bouquets of multicolored flowers were added—one for each hip. The dress had short puffed sleeves and a center bodice panel made from rows of lace and edged with a wide band of the velvet ribbon. It looked as though the seamstress had utilized every style, every trick in her book.

“She doesn’t like it, Mother,” Beatrice said.

Charlotte chastised herself. She knew her face revealed far too much. The dress was extravagant—though not in a good way.

“Is Beatrice correct, Charlotte? Do you dislike the dress?”

Like it or not, now wasn’t the time for the truth. Charlotte willed herself to smile and say, “It’s far more elegant than I deserve. Perhaps … too elegant?”

Mrs. Tremaine stood beside Charlotte and peered into the mirror, her eyes meeting Charlotte’s in this indirect manner. “The Tremaine family is presenting you to New York society.
We
know the degree of elegance that is required. Or do you believe you know best?”

Charlotte’s throat turned dry. “No, of course not, Mrs. Tremaine. I … I was just a bit overwhelmed by …” She ran her hands over the bouquet of flowers balanced upon each hip.

“Its perfection?” Beatrice offered.

Although Charlotte knew Beatrice meant it sarcastically, it was an ample word. The only word she had at present. “Exactly,” she said. “Its perfection.”

The seamstress sat on a low stool and checked the length. “I do think it’s a tiny bit short. I’ll add some fringe at the bottom perhaps?”

Fringe. Why not? All she needed now was an ostrich feather in her hair and she could be the opening act in the burlesque show at the Gaiety in London. Barney had offered to take her there once, but she’d declined.

The image of Barney, the butcher’s assistant, assailed her. If she’d stayed in Wiltshire, she would have married him. What would he think of her now? His parting words were plucked from her memory:
“You and your fancy ways and proper talkin’. The Gleasons ’ave done you no favors making you think yourself better than the rest of us clods.”

Did she think herself better now? She looked at her dress and the luxurious gowns on Beatrice and Mrs. Tremaine. Who was she to judge its beauty, or even to wear it? She was Dora Connors, a maid. She wasn’t a society woman; she wasn’t an equal to the likes of the Tremaines. She was a phony.

She remembered what Beatrice had said about hating imposters …

“Are you all right, miss?” asked the seamstress.

Suddenly Dora—Charlotte—knew she wasn’t all right. The weight of the dress was nothing compared to the weight of her guilt. “I don’t feel very well.”

“Another headache?” Mrs. Tremaine asked. There was little sympathy in her voice.

Oh dear. She
had
used that excuse before. Yet the door offering release from the moment had opened, and she wasn’t about to let it close. “Yes,” she said. “I’m afraid so.”

The seamstress stood, assessing Charlotte’s dress one last time. “I believe I have the measurements I need.”

Mrs. Tremaine waved a dismissive hand. “Then get her undressed.” She turned to her maid and said, “Go tell Mary Miss Gleason needs her assistance.”

“I’m so sorry,” Charlotte said as the train and bustle were removed. “I know I’ll feel better soon.”

“That
would
be best,” Mrs. Tremaine said.

Apparently infirmities were yet another thing not well tolerated in the Tremaines’ world.

She should keep a list.

“You and your fancy ways and proper talkin’. The Gleasons ’ave done you no favors making you think yourself better than the rest of us clods.”

Suddenly Barney grabbed hold of the flowers perched on her hips and yanked hard. A thousand petals scattered to the ground and—

“Miss? Miss!”

Charlotte was shaken awake by Mary. “What? What is it?”

“A doctor is here to take a look at you.”

She pushed herself to sitting on the bed. “I don’t need a doctor.”

“Mrs. Tremaine thinks you do.” Mary began to adjust the afghan she’d placed over Charlotte when there was a rap on the door. A doctor entered.

He looked at Charlotte and—

Pulled up short. “Miss—?”

Charlotte’s heart leapt to her throat. “Dr. Greenfield?”

He appeared confused, a condition that wasn’t eased when Mrs. Tremaine entered.

“There you are, Charlotte. I called our physician to come right away, and he sent his new partner, a Dr. Greenbaum?”

“Greenfield, ma’am.”

“Yes. Well. See to Miss Gleason. This is the second debilitating headache she’s had in a few days. Her welcome party is approaching, and we need her well.”

“I’ll do my best.”

Mrs. Tremaine stood by the door. Charlotte wished she would leave. She had to talk to Dr. Greenfield alone, to greet him, to revel in his presence. To explain.

To try to explain.

The doctor got his bearings and approached the bedside. “Well, Miss …”

“Gleason,” she said.

“Miss Gleason. Describe the sort of pain you’re experiencing.”

Her headaches were nothing compared to the pain in her heart at seeing him while knowing their situation was untenable. “It’s—”

Mrs. Tremaine stepped forward. “She’s missed an appointment with the florist and had to cut short a fitting for her gown. Such interruptions cannot be tolerated, so I implore you to get to the bottom of her infirmity.”

Charlotte knew her facial expression wasn’t doing her any favors. She kept looking at Mrs. Tremaine—willing her to leave, then back at Dr. Greenfield—willing him to understand.

There was a knock on the door. Mrs. Tremaine answered, spoke a few words, then turned toward the room. “If you’ll excuse me. It appears Mrs. Dyson has some questions about dinner.”

Charlotte’s heart beat once again.

“Can I get you something, Doctor?” Mary asked.

Mary. They still had Mary in the room.

“If you could bring Miss Gleason some chamomile tea, I think that will be a good start to her recovery.”

“Of course, sir.”

As soon as the door clicked shut, he turned to Charlotte. “Charlotte Gleason? Wasn’t that the name of your friend on the ship?”

“Yes, but …”

“So is your name Dora Connors or … ?”

“It’s Dora, but …” She wanted him to take her hands, to smile at her, to tell her how happy he was to see her.

Instead he pulled a chair to the side of the bed and sat. “Perhaps you’d better explain.”

The truth that had been pounding on the door of her conscience since they’d landed in America burst into the open. Her words spilled out until the room from whence they’d come was empty.

“So that’s the lot of it,” she said.

He sat in silence a moment. “No wonder you have headaches.”

“I’m not good at lying.”

“Apparently you’re good enough. The Tremaines don’t suspect?”

She looked toward the door. “I think the daughter suspects something, though I don’t think she’s determined exactly how it fits together as yet.”

“A credit to your acting ability, no doubt.”

There was an edge to his voice. Did he think she’d been acting on the ship in regard to her feelings for him? “I am no actress. I can only take on this role because I know the real Charlotte Gleason like a sister. We’ve been together since we were children.”

“Regarding that … where is your mistress—she now goes by Lottie Hathaway, you say?”

Charlotte nodded. “I don’t know where she is. I saw her once, briefly, standing in the rain outside this house.”

“So she wanted to end the charade?”

She hesitated. “I don’t know.”

He gave her a stern look.

“Yes, you’re right. I can’t think of any other reason for her to be here. But she didn’t do anything toward that end.”

He looked pensive. “Do you know where she’s living?”

“No.” She thought of something. “During the sermon on Sunday the pastor at the Tremaines’ church mentioned a woman who’d stopped there the same day I saw Lottie, and … he might know where she is, but I haven’t been able to get free of this place to go back and ask him.”

Dr. Greenfield stood and put the chair in its place. “I could go to him.”

“Would you?”