Masquerade (38 page)

“Rear tenements. Back shacks. They have no ventilation, no water, no toilets. It’s inhuman.”

And unnatural. Lottie thought longingly of the great expanse of green that comprised the land surrounding Dorby Manor: the full sky, the sound of the breeze in the trees, the smell of flowers and grass. She’d taken so much for granted. She missed
green.

Lottie spotted movement to her right and saw an ancient man curl upon the ground, his arms hugging a ragged jacket to his body. On any exposed skin were open sores. When he looked at her, his eyes appeared dead. It was only a matter of time before the rest of his body would follow.

Sven nodded toward the man. “Most are happy to be picked up by the police, for at least there they’ll get a bed and some breakfast.”

A woman and her child walked by. Even the child gave the man no notice.

Lottie squealed when a bird flew from an upper perch and pecked at the man before rising into the air as if biding its time for a full meal. She shuddered and turned away but immediately felt Sven’s hand upon her arm. “Don’t avert your eyes, Miss Hathaway. Open them and be a witness. This is why I take photographs for the newspapers, to make people see. And hopefully act.”

The man held out a hand. More than anything, Lottie wanted to give him something, wanted to help him. But she had nothing to give. Not a penny, not a blanket. Nothing.

You have the dollar you found … and the dime …

But she couldn’t give it to him. It was all she had, and she owed the Scarpellis rent and …

No wonder the mother and child had kept their eyes averted. To continually see and not be able to help … What did such a conundrum do to hearts longing to feel compassion?

Sven set up his camera. “Go to the front door of that shack and see if the inhabitants will come outside to have their photograph taken.”

The thought of approaching such a structure was revolting. It was little more than a shanty built with scraps of building material somewhat—somehow—attached to the building behind. That people actually lived there was hard to comprehend.

Sven looked up from his work. “What if I dock your wages for the times you refuse my direction? I can hire another boy off the streets, one that won’t complain.”

“Surely you understand my hesitation? I’m not used to being around these conditions.”

“Who is?” he said. “Now, go. Do as I told you, Miss Hathaway. Smile to get your way with them the same as you do with me.”

She felt her face grow red. “I don’t smile to get my way with you.”

“Go.”

She had no time to defend herself more—if there was anything that could be defended.

The hut was a slapdash affair of boards, sheets of tin, and even cloth. The door didn’t fit the opening but left a gap of three inches along a side and across the top. She imagined snow blowing through the gap and accumulating on the floor.

Lottie walked toward the structure, stepping between piles of stinky garbage. Sven would owe her extra for this one.

She readied her fist to knock but hesitated. The idea of any part of her body touching this—

She jumped back when a rat squeezed through the gap in the door.

“Sven!”

“Go on. Ask them. I need this picture.”

With one hand she took a wad of her skirt to hold it above the ground, and with the other she knocked on the door.

A woman—very visibly pregnant—opened the door. Her eyes were dull, as if they hadn’t seen anything to brighten them for far too long.

Lottie pointed to Sven. “Mr. Svensson is a photographer. He’d like to take your picture out front—and pay you for your trouble.”

The woman studied Sven a moment, then looked back to Lottie. “I had a photo taken once. For my wedding.”

The idea of this woman being dressed in a bridal gown was incongruous.

“I’ll be right out,” the woman said. She closed the door.

Lottie immediately stepped away, much preferring the proximity nearer Sven.

In less than a minute the woman emerged with a grubby little boy wearing pants that were far too short and a man’s vest that made his torso look as though it began at his knees. His hair had been slicked to the side. The mother attempted to secure the loose strands of hair that had fallen from her bun.

Such a gesture was ridiculous. She cared about her appearance? What about the shack where she lived? How did a woman who had enough money to have a photograph taken to commemorate her wedding end up in a hovel like this? How could she raise a child and give birth to a baby in such a place? Since there were no answers, Lottie tried not to think about it.

Sven directed the duo, and Lottie guarded the pack that contained the plates Sven fit into his camera—those new and those used and ready for him to develop elsewhere. The photograph was taken, and Sven handed the woman a few coins.

Lottie was glad to leave. That was four photographs so far today. Only two more. “Where to now?” Lottie asked as they made their way toward the alley.

“I’ve heard of a stale beer dive where men pay two cents to drink deadly stuff and sleep in a chair. I’d like to photograph it, but it’s far too dark in there. If only there was a way for me to provide my own light.”

Lottie was glad there wasn’t. “How can people stay in such places?”

“They sink to the level of their necessity,” he said. “One half of the world has no idea how the other half lives.”

She’d never thought of it that way, but it was probably true. As a rich girl Lottie had had no knowledge of the poor, and the poor probably had no knowledge of the rich. They lived in separate worlds. Wasn’t it better that way? They passed the man huddled against the cold and she wondered.

They walked back through the alley onto the main street, and Lottie relished the increase in light and air. Sven turned south, and they wove their way through the peddlers’ stalls and people milling about. People. Everywhere people trying to eke out a living.

She thought of the job she’d given up at the sweatshop. How many of those women had suffered the treatment she’d experienced with the Beast? Or worse? And how many had quit that sort of job hoping in vain for a better one? How many—?

Lottie heard a baby’s cry. It wasn’t a foreign sound, for there were children and babies in abundance, but this cry was different because it continued without comfort. Its intensity heightened.

She looked to her right, toward the sound, and expected to see a woman rocking a child in her arms.

Instead she saw a bundle on the cobblestones, placed against a building.

She looked right, then left. No one ran to the baby’s aid. No one even looked in its direction.

She pulled on Sven’s arm. “Stop. There’s a baby on the ground over there.”

He looked in the direction where she pointed. “Poor child.”

He just looked at it.

“Aren’t you going to do something?”

“I did something the first time I found an abandoned baby. And the second. And the third. I picked them up and held them and tried to find their parents. But it’s the parents who put them there. Too many mouths to feed and women constantly with child, making more babies who can’t survive. Five hundred a year abandoned, at least a hundred found dead.” He shook his head.

The baby’s cries were plaintive and panicked. Lottie picked it up and cradled it in her arms. “There, there. Shhh. You’ll be all right.”

“Don’t make promises …” Sven said. “Put it back. I’m losing the light.”

Lottie was appalled. “How can you care about light when this baby needs our help?”

“Your help, not mine,” he said. “Although I admit it’s a tragedy beyond bearing, it’s not our business, Miss Hathaway. You and I have only four hands between us, and there are thousands upon thousands in need.”

Suddenly a fire sparked within her. She’d had enough of walking on by. “So we don’t even try to help? What happened to your high-andmighty talk about being a witness and getting people to act? Have
we
no responsibility to act?”

He shook his head. “You’re right, of course, but …”

“But nothing.” Lottie looked at the baby in her arms. He’d quieted now and gazed up at her with deep brown eyes. Was he Italian in descent? There was that look about him yet also something else. Something different. Sven had said there were a lot of Romanians here… .

Lottie realized she’d called him
he
. Although the baby appeared to be just a few months old, there was a distinguished look about him. This baby was not a girl. And though there was a certain way to find out, Lottie recoiled from the idea of changing a diaper—if the child even wore one.

Yet as the boy adjusted himself in her arms, seeking comfort and finding it, she knew she would do that awful duty and many others for his sake.

“Come on now, Miss Hathaway. We have to keep going.”

She looked at Sven with a new determination. “I’m not leaving him here.”

“Him?”

“It’s a boy.”

“How can you tell? I mean …”

“I just know.”

“You can’t take him.”

“I can and I will.”

Sven ran a hand over his face, clearly exasperated. “Do you always expect to get your way?”

She cocked her head as if considering, but there was only one answer. “Yes.”

“Fine, then. Take him with you. We’re a few blocks from the Merciful Child Foundling Home. You can take him there.”

But as they walked east, as the baby fell asleep in her arms, as it wrapped its tiny fingers around hers …

No! Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t keep the child. It’s impossible.

Had
impossible
ever stopped her before?

When they paused to let some horses pass, Lottie made her pronouncement. “I’m not turning him in. I’m keeping him.”

“You can’t do that.”

She remembered her talent for getting what she wanted and implemented it now. She smiled at Sven, and as she rocked the baby, she turned him toward the photographer. “See how he senses my concern for him, my caring?”

“No one is disparaging your compassion, Miss Hathaway. Only your sanity.”

“Finding a baby abandoned in the street is the essence of insanity.” A thought came to her. “God placed this child in my path so I’d take him and keep him safe.”

“I’m not going to argue God’s ways with you, but if I were Him, I would’ve at least placed the child in the path of someone who has a home and a husband with a well-paying job.”

His logic annoyed her. “Perhaps He did, but
that
person chose not to take him.”

“So you’re God’s second choice?” He looked far too amused.

“Never, Mr. Svensson.”

“I thought not.”

“But second choice or no, I’m not giving up this child. He’s mine.” The passion of her declaration shocked her. But before she could rationalize the situation, she pressed forward. “And his name is Fitzwilliam.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I just named him after Fitzwilliam Darcy from
Pride and Prejudice.
I’ll call him Fitz for short.”

Sven set his tripod down, resting it against his hip. “You are one determined woman.”

“I’m glad you finally figured that out.”

“What is the family you’re living with going to think about this— about Fitz?”

The image of herself sleeping on the floor with Fitz beside her initiated a smile. “The Scarpellis are a loving family. They won’t mind.”

“I think you overestimate their generosity—or the generosity of any family.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

Yet as she held Fitz close and pressed her lips against his tiny head … what was she doing?

Charlotte waited for Dr. Greenfield to return from speaking with Pastor Weston. And waited. Her headache—which had never been worthy of a doctor’s care—went away, but she remained in her room. She didn’t trust her ability to act as if nothing was amiss.

And nothing was amiss. Not really. Dr. Greenfield—her Edmund Greenfield from the ship—was privy to the truth, or rather, privy to Lottie’s and Dora’s lies. That he hadn’t marched down the stairs and declared to the Tremaines that an imposter lay abed in their house was a relief beyond measure. That she was still attracted to him was a dilemma that had no resolve.

Charlotte couldn’t remove him from her mind, and much of her time feigning illness was spent remembering the way she’d felt on the ship when they’d danced and walked and talked, and the look of his smile when she’d first given him her handkerchief because she’d spilt upon his shoes.

What had he said upon parting—when she’d hurt him by telling him of her upcoming betrothal?

“Permit me to let my prayers and the decision of God finish our story … until fate allows.”

She sat upright. “Until fate allows … What are the chances that Dr. Greenfield would come into
my
room, to attend to
me
?”

The answer was unspoken but was, at the least, astronomical. The only explanation came from Dr. Greenfield’s own words. Was God finishing their story? Did He wish it to be finished? Together?

There was a knock on the door, but instead of Mary entering as she always did upon announcing herself, it remained closed.