Masquerade (29 page)

“Didn’t I read in the newspaper that he died recently?” Mrs. Tremaine asked.

“Yes, I believe he did,” Mrs. Byron said. “Such a loss. But fortunately we still have all that wonderful music he composed.” She turned to Charlotte. “Who is your favorite composer, Miss Gleason?”

Flee! Fall down. Break an arm. Pray the earth opens up and the house falls into a crevasse, stopping all talk of—

Beatrice set her cup and saucer upon her lap. “Perhaps our guest’s talents were … exaggerated?”

Oddly, within the snide remark was a way out. Although unappealing, it was
something
. “I’m afraid Miss Tremaine is correct. My parents may have overstated my musical abilities.” Charlotte sighed for effect and to calm her nerves. “A child off the street has more musical talent than I do.”

The ladies’ disapproval hung in the air between them. “Your parents shouldn’t have done such a thing,” Mrs. Byron said.

“You’re right,” Charlotte agreed.

“At least you told the truth now,” Mrs. Standish said.

“Had no choice but to tell the truth …” Beatrice mumbled.

“What did you say, daughter?”

“I was merely of the same opinion, that Miss Gleason’s character is heightened by her honesty.” Beatrice clapped her hands softly. “Bravo, Miss Gleason.”

Beatrice’s attitude suggested the worst: she knew the truth, or at the very least, suspected something was amiss.

Mrs. Sonomish sipped her coffee, then said, “It’s not a crime not to have musical talent. Either one does or one doesn’t.”

“Exactly,” Mrs. Tremaine said.

“Do you paint perhaps?” Mrs. Bryon asked.

“I’m afraid I’m without that talent too.”

Mrs. Standish put a finger to her lips. “Beatrice … you paint, do you not?”

“Yes, I believe I do.” She stood. “Would you like to see one of my paintings?”

Mrs. Tremaine shook her head. “I don’t think—”

Beatrice ignored her and left the room.

As they waited for her return, the ladies chatted about various events of the upcoming social season.

“We just returned from Newport, though it’s taken me a good while to get the house back in shape again,” Mrs. Byron said. “We pay the servants to maintain the premises while we’re gone, yet I swear they do nothing but eat our food and play pinochle. My Reginald found two decks of cards missing from the game room.”

“Did you find the culprit?” Mrs. Standish asked.

“No, but we will. ‘Steal and be gone’ is our motto.”

“It’s so hard to get good help, loyal help,” Mrs. Sonomish said. “We have a hard time keeping servants beyond a year.”

“They get restless,” Mrs. Tremaine said. “Do you find that a problem in England, Miss Gleason?”

Not at all. The Gleasons’ servants had all been employed for years— until they were let go due to the family’s financial difficulties. She knew it would be simpler to agree, but a dose of pride welled up and she said, “We rarely have such problems—at least not in the Gleason household. My lady’s maid, Dora Connors, has been with me since I was twelve.”

“Commendable indeed,” Mrs. Byron said.

Beatrice entered the room with a canvas. “Here is my latest attempt.”

The women gave it their full attention and motioned her closer for a personal look. “My, my,” Mrs. Byron said. “It’s … lovely, Beatrice. You show true talent.”

Charlotte noticed Mrs. Tremaine raise her eyebrows, as if surprised. “We are very proud of our daughter.”

It was Beatrice’s turn to raise an eyebrow.

Mrs. Sonomish held the painting upon her lap. “The use of color to distinguish the flowers while keeping them indistinct upon close inspection … it’s very interesting.”

“The style is called Impressionism,” Beatrice said. “It’s all the rage in France. Monet, Manet, Degas, and even a woman, Berthe Morisot.”

“A woman
known
for her painting?”

“She deserves recognition,” Beatrice said.

“Does she attempt to make money at it?” Mrs. Standish asked.

“I assume so. Isn’t the worth of art usually determined by the price people are willing to pay for it?”

Mrs. Tremaine stood and took the painting away, setting it on the floor by a music stand. “Be assured Beatrice does not paint for income—or show. I can’t imagine going to an exhibit of art painted by females.”

“I can’t imagine there ever being such a thing,” Mrs. Bryon said.

“But why shouldn’t there be?” Charlotte had held her tongue as long as she could. She knew the way of the world; she knew women of bearing were not to have a career of any sort, but during the discussion she’d watched Beatrice’s expression fall, then tighten, and had seen a crease form between her eyes as if she was desperately trying to hold her emotions in check.

The women tittered between themselves, defending the right and privilege of women of worth to be deemed the “leisure class.” They were proud of their duty to do nothing and considered it a sign of their status and station.

Beatrice returned to her seat. Charlotte caught her eye for just a moment and in that one look saw a glimmer of gratitude.

“Lottie!”

Sofia ran toward her—ran into her—wrapping her little arms around Lottie’s legs. She looked up and offered a long string of Italian words, of which Lottie understood none.

And yet … she understood everything. And felt the same way.

She cupped Sofia’s chin in her hand. “I’m very glad to be back too, Sofia.” She resisted the urge to swipe a handkerchief over her grimy cheeks.

If she had a handkerchief.

Which she didn’t.

Besides, her own face was probably none cleaner.

“Mamma?” she asked.

Sofia took Lottie’s hand and pulled her inside the Scarpelli tenement and up the stairs. She chattered the entire time, which was an unexpected salve to Lottie’s nerves.

Finally on the top floor, Sofia burst into her family’s apartment, causing her mother to put a hand to her chest.

But when Lea saw Lottie, her surprise became joy and she too embraced her.

“Meraviglioso! Benvenuta, Lottie!”

In the woman’s ample arms, Lottie began to cry.

Lea didn’t let go.
“Famiglia …”
she whispered in Lottie’s ear.

Lottie was done flying. It felt good to land.

Chapter Twelve

Lottie wasn’t sure about this, not one little bit.

Yet she couldn’t very well stay behind when the Scarpellis went to church Sunday morning. Church was nothing new to her. She went every Sunday with her parents. In the village church in Lacock they had their own pew.

Her trepidation involved going to a Catholic church. St. Patrick’s. She already felt like an outsider among the mass of Italians that entered the church, but to sit through a
mass
itself …

It was all so new.

Everyone had put on their nicest clothes, and the women covered their heads with shawls or pretty pieces of lace. Lottie was lent a piece to cover her own hair. Little Sofia wore Lottie’s hat. One feather leaned precariously until Lottie tucked it back into place.

The cathedral was on Mulberry Street, just a few blocks away. They walked. Upon entering, the men removed their hats and they all dipped their hands in a vessel of water in the narthex and bowed at the aisle, touching their heads and chest with their hand. Lottie had no idea what they were doing, but it seemed to be a gesture of respect, so she did the same. Then she walked down the aisle between Lucia and Sofia and went into a pew. They did not sit at first, but knelt in prayer.

Lottie’s prayers were an assortment of need, gratitude, and fear. Her life was in a shambles. She had no possessions, only the dime Pastor Weston had given her for the hack ride, no permanent place to stay, and no plan. Yet
because
her jewels and money had been stolen, she’d met the Scarpellis. Which meant she wasn’t alone. That was worth something.

During her long walk from Pastor Weston’s back to Mulberry Street, she’d had plenty of time to think. What would have happened if she’d somehow arrived at the house of Dora’s cousin without ever meeting Lea and her family? What would have happened if she’d arrived
with
her money and jewels intact? Either way she would have been alone. Completely and utterly.

The idea of being alone in New York City had not fazed her when she was on the ship with Dora, but now that she was here and had experienced firsthand the complex and mysterious ways of this city and its inhabitants … money was the least of her problems and even her needs. Being completely alone would have been devastating.

Yet God had taken care of that, right from the start.

Lottie glanced to her right, at Lucia’s bowed head. Her lips offered soft murmurings of prayer. In that one glance Lottie’s heart pulled with a tenderness that was a bit disconcerting. In her old world, she would never, ever, ever have had anything to do with someone like Lucia, and yet now, in the midst of her new life, a friendship had formed between them that could not be denied. Since the door linking herself to Dora had been so harshly closed, had God opened a window with Lucia? Did He understand how much Lottie needed a friend—even more than she realized that herself?

Lottie was thankful for the Scarpellis, for a roof over her head, for food in her stomach, and … for the hope of a job. Lucia promised to take her to the garment sweatshops in the morning.

The idea of working …

Was Lottie a good worker? She’d never worked. She’d never needed to. Yet could it be that she
did
need to work, that everyone needed to work? If not to earn a living, perhaps the act of working served some other purpose?

The congregation began to sit, and Lottie looked at the altar and beyond. A large crucifix was displayed at the front with Jesus suffering on the cross. She’d never thought much about His pain, and it was difficult to look at Him. She was more at ease thinking about Christmas and Easter, His birth and resurrection.

A priest came in behind a young boy, both clad in white, their hands held before them in supplication. Words were said, prayers prayed, but it took Lottie a few moments to realize the service wasn’t being said in English, or even Italian, but in Latin.

She glanced at Lucia. Did she understand Latin? Did all these people—most of whom were not educated—know Latin?

Yet the look of peace upon many of the faces … peace and awe. Perhaps their faith wasn’t dependent upon words heard or words said but stemmed from an inner need fulfilled.

She closed her eyes, letting the cadence of the Latin wrap around her as she attempted to open a place in her heart and mind where
her
faith lived.
God? Are you here with me?

The priest began to pray.
“Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificétur nomen tuum: advéniat regnum tuum
…”

Although Lottie didn’t understand the words, she had an odd notion that she
did.
The cadence of the prayer seemed familiar. Was it the Lord’s Prayer? The prayer prayed in her own church, in every church? No matter what their differences might be in ceremony or language, they had
this
in common.

Suddenly the miles between here and home fell away and she was seated next to her mother and father in their own church:
thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven …
Lottie said the rest of the prayer on her own and felt a strength and security accompany the words.

She looked up at the cross, to Jesus suffering. For her sins.

And there were many. Oh so many.

Lottie bowed her head, ashamed. She’d deceived her parents in order to do what
she
wanted to do. They needed to know she was safe and that she was sorry for lying to them.

I’ll write them a letter.

But what about Dora? If Lottie’s parents knew Dora had assumed her identity and was at the Tremaines’ with the hopes of marrying Conrad …

Lottie shook her head in short bursts. No. Although she’d tried to end the masquerade, it wasn’t her place to ruin Dora’s chances of a happy life. If Dora and Conrad didn’t find each other amiable, there would be no wedding, and Dora would leave the Tremaines’ and continue her life elsewhere. Love would determine Dora’s fate. Since all of this had been Lottie’s idea, she wouldn’t humiliate her friend or the Tremaines with exposure. There would be no more visits to the big marble mansion.