Masquerade (30 page)

But she
could
ease the burden of her own deception by writing a letter to her parents with lesser disclosure.

Or could she?

She had no address to give them. No job. If she told her parents she was doing well, it would be yet another lie. And if she told the truth? She didn’t feel up to using the piece of blackmail against her father—that he’d better not inform the Tremaines that it was a mere maid living in their home or Lottie would reveal the Gleason family scandals. Who was she to use extortion against her own parents? She, who had already deceived so many. Was she any better than they?

Sofia leaned against Lottie, dozing. Lottie raised her arm, letting the little girl in. The hat tipped precariously and Lottie carefully untied the ribbons beneath Sofia’s chin and removed it, allowing her the freedom to burrow her head against Lottie’s breast.

Lottie stroked her hair. Such a child … such a dear child …

The priest kissed the altar and said,
“Pax tecum.”

All replied,
“Et cum spiritu tuo.”

Amen.

Going to church with the Tremaines was a production Charlotte was used to. Back in Lacock she’d been expected to accompany the Gleasons to church on Sunday. The only difference was in where she sat today—in the family pew up front, rather than a few pews behind with the other servants.

But also not in the first pew.

Charlotte wondered about the identity of the families seated in the pews in front of them. Did the ranking of society continue in church? If so, which families were more important than the Tremaines? Whoever they may be, she was also disappointed to be seated between Beatrice and Mrs. Tremaine. Would she never get time alone with Conrad?

The organ played a song to remind everyone that God had arrived, and the pastor took his place in the pulpit. He was a squat man with receding silver hair. He had a ruddy Scottish look about him—which was confirmed when he spoke. The lilt of his voice was a comfort. Were the Gleasons in church this very day, praying after the safety of their daughter?
Was
Lottie safe?

Charlotte closed her eyes and offered her own prayer.

The pastor cleared his throat. “One day Jesus saw a rich man putting money in a collection plate. Then he saw a poor widow put in two small coins. This caused Him to make an observation as to which offering counted the most. The donation from the rich man who would never miss his offering? Or the gift given by the poor woman who’d sacrificed all she had? Jesus declared that her offering was worth more than all the rest.”

The pastor put a hand upon the Bible and looked at his congregation. “Yesterday I came upon a young woman sleeping in these very pews, wet and cold from the storm. She had nothing and had nowhere to go. Yet she was full of wisdom as she reminded my wife and me of this very story and …”

Charlotte shivered as a thought coursed through her. Yesterday she’d seen Lottie standing in front of the Tremaine mansion, soaking wet from the rain. Had Lottie taken sanctuary in the church?

Charlotte looked down at the red pew cushion upon which they sat. Had Lottie been lying right here when the pastor found her? Had she been the inspiration for his sermon? If so, where was she now?

Without trying to look obvious, Charlotte scanned the chancel, hoping the pastor would produce his inspiration in person. Unfortunately, it was impossible to peruse the congregation without turning around.

Lottie, where are you? How are you?

Once again Charlotte was forced to recognize she had nothing to offer her friend but her prayers.

They stood in line to shake the pastor’s hand. More than anything, Charlotte wanted to ask him about the girl in his sermon but wasn’t sure how to do so while surrounded by the Tremaines.

She overheard Mr. Tremaine grumble to Conrad, “All this talk of the poor woman’s offering being worth so much … so our money isn’t good enough? Perhaps Pastor Weston would like to see what the offering plate is like without our beneficence.”

“Shh!” Mrs. Tremaine said.

It was their turn to shake hands. When it was Charlotte’s chance, she said, “Excuse me, but I was interested in the woman who—”

Mr. Tremaine stepped forward. “Pastor, I would like to introduce you to Miss Charlotte Gleason, visiting us from England.”

The pastor looked confused as he shook Charlotte’s hand. But then his gaze grew intense. He was studying her.

What had Lottie told him? Did he recognize her name? Had Lottie told him that
she
was the real Charlotte Gleason?

Instead of wanting time to talk with the pastor, Charlotte suddenly wanted nothing more than to be down the steps and away.

“Nice to meet you,” she said, and let the rest of the family take their turn.

But once she got in the carriage, she looked back at the church and saw him watching her. What did he know?

Charlotte sat back to hide from his gaze.

Charlotte wasn’t sure how to accomplish it, but she knew she had to try.

At the noon meal, she broached the subject.

“Excuse me, but I was wondering if it would be possible to visit the church this afternoon? I would like to speak with Pastor Weston.”

“Whatever for?” Beatrice asked.

Charlotte had thought of an answer. “I wasn’t brought up in your denomination, and I would like to speak with him about the differences.”

“You were brought up Church of England, correct?” Mr. Tremaine asked.

“Yes.”

“Then there is no need for such a meeting.”

“But—”

“Besides,” Mrs. Tremaine said, “Conrad has plans for you this afternoon, don’t you, son?”

Conrad had plans?

Put on the spot, he blushed and appeared ruffled. “Yes, I … well, I thought the two of us could take a … It’s such a beautiful day—”

“He wants to take you for a walk in Central Park,” Beatrice said.

Her parents flashed her looks of reprimand.

“What? I was simply trying to help. After all, I’m to be their chaperone.”

Conrad cleared his throat and turned his eyes upon Charlotte. “Will you accompany me, Miss Gleason?”

Finally! She’d been wanting some time with him. “I’d be delighted.”

Her quest to talk to Pastor Weston would have to wait.

They rode in the carriage some blocks to the north, to a large green area on their left. It continued on. And on. And on.

“Is this the park we’re going to?” Charlotte asked.

“Yes indeed,” Conrad said. “It’s called Central Park and is comprised of eight hundred forty-three acres. Two good friends of ours designed it: Frederick Law Olmsted and Calvert Vaux. They had ten million cartloads of debris removed and brought in a half million cubic feet of topsoil and—”

Beatrice covered her ears. “Enough, Conrad. We did not come for a history lesson.”

Actually, Charlotte would’ve liked to hear more. She missed reading the Gleasons’ newspaper or books borrowed from Lottie. Ever since arriving at the Tremaines’, it was as though she’d stepped into an intellectual abyss. Not that she considered herself educated or wise, but she
had
prided herself on being informed.

She looked at Conrad, intending to give him a supportive smile, but he was looking out the window and then rapped on the carriage to alert the driver to stop. He exited the carriage first and then helped the ladies out. After offering Charlotte his arm, they joined a busy procession of beautifully clad New Yorkers entering the park. The men wore derbies or top hats and cutaway coats in many shades of brown. The women were in brighter colors in deep hues, as though the cool winds of autumn had expelled all memory of the pastels of spring and the vivid shades of summer and happily called to the fore a completely new palette: intense and bold, with a hint of the musky flavors and aromas of the season.

Before coming to the park, Charlotte had liked her own costume, but now she found its layers of black chantilly lace too mournful, the glimpses of burgundy decoration too few. She much preferred Beatrice’s ensemble, which combined a gray-blue cashmere with Turkey-red borders and bows. Even Beatrice’s parasol was adorned with a red bow. Charlotte’s was solid black.

“I look like I’m in mourning,” she whispered to Beatrice, who walked beside her on the right. “The colors here are full of life.”

“I didn’t wish to say anything to you, my dear, but as you see, the bustles in fashion are a bit higher than what you’re wearing.”

Charlotte had never noticed it before, but did so now. Indeed, the bustles of the women around her extended behind at waist level, almost like a shelf. “Their bustles give the appearance of the hind quarters of a horse.”

“Excuse me?”

She’d given offense. “I’m sorry, it was merely a first impression.”

Conrad chuckled. “An apt one, to be sure. I have no knowledge of women’s couture, but I admit to wondering about the logic of the bustle in general. I believe I much prefer the bell-like shapes Mother wore when I was little.”

“You liked them because there was more skirt to hide behind when I chased you.”

Conrad changed the subject by drawing them to an intricately carved balustrade from which they looked down upon a fountain and a lake beyond.

The view took her breath away. “It’s beautiful,” Charlotte said.

“This is Bethesda Terrace.”

The scene below them was lovely, with boats serenely floating on the lake and smart couples strolling beside the fountain and on the grass. It reminded Charlotte of home. She didn’t realize she’d missed the green expanse of the Wiltshire countryside until now.

“The fountain was created by a woman sculptor,” Beatrice said.

“Really?” Charlotte was genuinely surprised, for she’d never heard of a woman artist of any sort until Beatrice had mentioned a woman painter in France. She tried to determine what the sculpture was. A woman? Or an angel?

“You wish to see it closer?” Conrad asked.

“Please.”

They walked down the stone stairs to see the fountain firsthand. “It’s called the Angel of the Waters,” Conrad explained. “See how she blesses the water with one hand, while holding a lily, the symbol of purity, with the other. Do you like lilies, Miss Gleason?”