Masquerade (21 page)

“Stop it,” Conrad whispered. He smiled at Charlotte. “Come this way. Mother is probably waiting in the drawing room.”

Had Mrs. Tremaine been waiting long? Would she be angry because of the time it had taken Charlotte to pass through Castle Garden?

Beatrice took Charlotte’s arm and pulled her back. “Mother can wait a bit longer, brother. Let the poor girl freshen up. She can meet our parents at dinner.”

Conrad looked toward the drawing room, and uncertainty clouded his face. “Are you sure?”

His sister took Charlotte by the arm and led her toward a wide staircase. “You go in and tell Mother the plan just as I have stated it. She won’t bite, Conrad. I’m proof of that.”

Beatrice’s grip was reassuring. She seemed to know what she was doing. “Thank you,” Charlotte said. “I am rather weary.”

“Of course you are. Sometimes my brother acts like a mouse afraid to grab the cheese. He’s so concerned with pleasing our parents that he risks going hungry. He doesn’t even realize that as the only son his place is secure and dripping with favor.”

Charlotte guessed Beatrice did not hold the same position in her parents’ esteem. There was something confrontational about her.

Beatrice patted Charlotte’s arm as they ascended the staircase. “This house may look like a museum, Miss Gleason, but be assured its residents aren’t really as cold and hard as the statues. In spite of all this fine frippery, our grandfather started his career selling Irish lace on the street. He opened his first store in 1846.”

“First store?”

“Before the war. Of course the present store is huge by comparison—five stories encompassing an entire block over on Broadway.”

“No wonder this home has such lovely things.”

Beatrice laughed. “Oh, you won’t find this kind of bric-a-brac at the store. These pretties were specially ordered from Europe and Asia.” They turned down a long hall. “Perhaps we’ll show you our art gallery after you’ve had a few days to acclimate.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Do you have a talent, Miss Gleason?”

Charlotte knew her abilities to dress hair, listen to Lottie read her novels aloud, and mend Lottie’s clothing were not what Beatrice was looking for. “Not really.”

“Good.”

Good?

“Here we are …”

Beatrice let go of Charlotte’s arm and allowed her to enter the bedroom first. Charlotte took a few steps inside, then stopped. “This is my room?”

“If you have trouble sleeping with that chandelier looming above you, put a pillow over your face. That’s what I do.”

The golden chandelier with a dozen white globes was the least of it. The bed was massive mahogany with a headboard that rose halfway up the wall—which was at least fifteen feet from floor to ceiling. The ceiling was edged with intricate carving and painted flowers that complemented the pink and green of the floral carpet. The room was large enough to boast numerous dressers, a dressing table, a green satin couch, a dozen chairs, and a spattering of tables. It was the bedroom of a princess.

“Surely your trunks will arrive soon,” Beatrice said, crossing the room. Suddenly Beatrice looked around as if something was missing. “ ’ Tis a shame about your companion. You never said what happened.”

She reverted to the excuse she and Lottie had concocted. “I’m afraid I lost her.”

“Lost—?”

She should act more upset… . “I saw a man approach her while we were waiting to claim our luggage. I thought it odd that she would talk with a stranger, but Dora was a friendly sort. And then, when I turned around, she was walking away with him. I called after her, but …” She took another breath. “She walked faster. Away. From me. With the man.”

“Just like that?”

“She must have been planning to part company the entire time. It’s quite disturbing. I thought she was a loyal friend.”

“No one’s loyal in this town, Charlotte. There are too many opportunities toward self-gratification. But how rude of her to leave you alone on the dock.”

Charlotte was thankful the story had passed Beatrice’s muster.

“So much for her,” Beatrice said. “Now then. I’ll send in Mary. When your trunks come she’ll be thrilled to unpack your pretty things and help you with your toilette.” Beatrice pointed to a clock on the mantel. “Dinner will be at eight. It would be best if you were down at seven, in the drawing room.”

“What is the attire? I want to make a good impression.”

Beatrice’s eyes darted to the door, then back. “We enjoy full dress for dinner. Mother loves bare arms.”

A ball gown for dinner when there was no ball? Americans must be more formal than back in England.

Charlotte eyed the bed. What she wanted most was a long nap.

Beatrice moved to the door, her short train swishing against the thick carpet. “Get some rest. You have the balance of your life to spend here, Charlotte. Gain what strength you can now. You’ll need it.”

What did she mean by that?

“There. City Hall,” Lea said. “And courthouse.”

Lottie was uninterested in municipal buildings and took little notice. What drew her eye was to their far right. “That bridge … it’s huge.” An enormous brick structure loomed castlelike above all the other buildings in the distance. It was pierced with high arches that reminded Lottie of pictures she’d seen of Roman aqueducts. But strung on top were great wires leading to the next higher edifice, and then to the next like intricate lace. She’d seen bridges in London, of course, but they were low-lying, while this …

“That Brooklyn Bridge. It finished three years now. Many men work hard.”

“I can imagine. Can people walk across it?”

“Who has time? Or a penny.” Lea pointed ahead. “We nearly home.”

Lottie was glad for that. Her arms ached from carrying the satchel, and she’d spent much of her time changing it from one arm to the other. For the most part she’d not spoken with the Italians who walked with her, and they seemed content to chatter away. It was the first time she’d heard another language beyond short snippets, and she found it delightful. And animated. Vittorio was especially vibrant. His words popped and crackled like oil sputtering on a hot pan. Occasionally a term would surface that she could understand:
madre, padre, ristorante, appartamento, familia.
She took comfort in it.

But as they walked farther up Park Street, the buildings began to change. Most were five or six stories tall and made of brick, but some made of wood looked as if they could collapse at any moment. The tops of the buildings became obscured as they walked down the middle of a street full of litter, a street pressed from both sides with pushcarts selling fruit and kitchen utensils and hats. Awnings shaded whatever shop might be behind the carts, and the smells were unlike any she’d ever experienced: spicy and pungent and far too close.

The people were as fragrant as their wares. The street flittered with women—most older than herself. They wore their hair in simple buns and had much-used aprons covering their dresses. Shawls were tied around their shoulders or over their heads. A few had babies in a shawlsling and showed no signs of being hampered by their presence.

A little boy wearing suspenders and a cap ran toward them with a piece of wood in his hands, as if broken from a crate.
“Legno da bruciare, signora?”

Lea shoved him back.
“Vattene via!”

The boy ran away to another group of people. He didn’t appear upset by the rebuff. Did he do this all day long? How much money could he make selling a scrap of wood?

The noise hit her next. The voices. At Castle Garden, Lottie had heard a cacophony of unfamiliar languages, but here, it seemed everyone was Italian, as if she’d walked into a street in Rome or Florence and everyone was talking at once. She was familiar with the narrow streets in London, but the streets there were for carriages and horses. Here, it was as if the middle of the street was but a crowded sidewalk. If a carriage needed to pass, it would have to fight for the privilege.

She heard Aldo say something to his son, then noticed the two men move to the outer edges of their group of five. She was glad for their protection and hung closer to Lea. If the men felt threatened …

Most people gave them little notice except to offer their goods for sale, but when their eyes did land upon Lottie, they lingered, and their mouths drew down in distrust. Although her clothing was a simple traveling suit, the jaunty bow and feather on her hat, the striped green fabric of her bodice, and the drape of the bustle in the back singled her out as a stranger.

No one accosted her, no one pointed and said, “Get away! You do not belong here!”—in Italian, of course—but neither did they smile or nod a greeting as vendors in London would have done, hoping for her business.

“Not far,” Lea said to her.

Although her feet and arms were glad to hear it, they were the only parts of Lottie’s anatomy that appreciated Lea’s words. Lea lived in such a place as this? They were traversing a gauntlet of the Italian masses, in a maze that seemed to go on and on and on… .

They approached an intersection, and Lottie took a deep breath, hoping that here, in this expanse, there would be a burst of fresh air to rid her senses of the claustrophobic presence of the crowd.

“This Five Points,” Lea said. She repeated it in Italian for her family.
“Ciò è Cinque Punti.”

They nodded and exchanged a few words, as if this had been their destination.

“Five streets,” Lea explained, pointing to the five streets that converged at this place. “Worth, Park, Baxter …”

A squealing pig ran between them, making Lottie drop the satchel. When she went to pick it up, Vittorio took it for her and smiled.

“Thank you.”

“Prego.”

Though younger than herself, he was quite nice looking, with an aquiline nose, soft brown eyes, and the promise of becoming fully handsome in a few years time. She could tell that he also appreciated her looks. Being able to subtly flirt with him had given her something familiar to do as one block progressed into another.

They continued up Park Street to the next intersection, Mulberry.

“There, up there,” Lea said.

The street still swarmed with people, but these knew Lea and many ran to their group, chattering with the newcomers, greeting them as if they were expected.

Lottie was the only one unexpected and, as such, stepped to the edge of the group to wait. She was unused to the generous displays of affection going on before her. Her own mother hugged others only on great occasion, and she could not remember her father offering her anything beyond a nod or handshake.

A little girl came running, weaving her way through the crowd. “Mamma! Mamma!” Lea opened her arms, and the girl wrapped her arms around her legs. She made further introductions to her family.
“Mia figlia, Sofia.”

Sofia was five or six. She shared her mother’s large eyes and lovely skin.

She spotted Lottie and pointed.
“Chi è lei?”

“Amica.”
Lea looked at Lottie and smiled. “Friend.”

The little girl’s eyes were locked on Lottie’s hat. On impulse Lottie knelt down and put a hand to the bows. “Do you like my hat?”

Sofia hooked a finger in her mouth but kept looking at it.

Lottie untied the bow under her chin, placed the hat on the girl, and retied the bow. The hat was a cheerful topping to the girl’s faded dress. “There. Very pretty.”

“Bella!”
Lea said.

Sofia beamed and skipped away toward the ladies in the stall nearby. They oohed and aahed over her.

Lea touched Lottie’s hand. “
Grazie mille
, Lottie.”

It was then Lottie realized her bonnet was gone for good. She had never meant to
give
it to the girl.

And yet … to see the smile on Sofia’s face, to watch the neighbor ladies adjust the bow, to see Sofia pull out the corners of her paltry dress and attempt a curtsy … the loss might have been gain.

“Vieni dentro la nostra casa
,
”
Lea said, gesturing toward stone steps. She looked for her daughter. “Sofia!
Vieni dentro
.”

They all followed her inside, and Lottie was immediately struck by the sudden darkness. Two of Lea’s family bumped into the back of Lottie as she pulled up short in order to let her eyes adjust. Sofia ran around them all and raced up the stairs.

A lone gaslight flickered its meager offering. The air was dank and smelled of rotting wood and food, and places and people unclean.

They conquered the stairs single file—and a conquest it was. Each landing was piled with someone’s belongings, and on the third flight, they had to step over a sleeping man sprawled across a pile of what looked to be garbage. Lottie heard babies crying, adults arguing, and children running in the hallways.

Floor after floor, step upon step … the group ceased their chatter and concentrated on the task at hand. Although Lottie heard the men puffing behind her, she seemed to be the most affected. After five flights she felt a painful stitch in her side. She had to stop. “Please. I. Can’t. Breathe.”

The Scarpellis halted and talked among themselves. She saw Francesca spread a hand upon her own midsection, then nod at Lottie’s and say something to Lea. They were discussing her corset. It was the first time she’d noticed that the Italian women wore none. Their bodices were loosely bloused.

“I agree with you,” she told the women. “In this, your way
is
better, and far more conducive to exertion.”

The two women understood nothing but, just the same, exchanged more opinions.

Vittorio pointed up the stairs.
“Ci siamo quasi?”

Lea pointed to the next landing.
“Sì.”
She looked at Lottie. “Top.
Siamo lì
.”

Lottie nodded and stood straighter to capture another breath. “Go.”

And so they accomplished the final stairs. Lea led them to a door on the right and opened it.
“Benvenuti.”

They entered a room that was crowded with furniture—makeshift and real. A young woman was working over a small iron stove. Another daughter? She greeted the relatives, who took turns taking her face in their hands and kissing her. It was obvious they’d last seen her as a child.
“Bella Lucia
…”