Masquerade (32 page)

He shook his head.

“Have you heard of Salisbury Cathedral? Or Stonehenge?”

“
Ja.
Sure.”

“They’re in the county of Wiltshire. I lived on an estate near the tiny village of Lacock. I—”

“Lacock? I’ve heard of that town.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Henry F. Talbot. A pioneer of photography, of negatives. Didn’t he live at Lacock Abbey?”

Lottie was amazed. “He did.”

“Small world.”

Minuscule.

“So, Lottie from Lacock, why are you here, across the world?”

“My parents wanted me to marry an American entrepreneur. I came here to do that, but—”

Sven laughed. “It appears you took a wrong turn somewhere.”

She didn’t like him laughing at her. “I decided not to go through with it. In fact, I sent my maid in my place to the Tremaines’. She will marry the man. I’m not who people think I am.”

“Few in Five Points are who they expected to be when they came to America. If wishes were horses, beggars would ride …”

“No, I didn’t mean it that way … I only meant that I’m free to do as I wish.”

He did not laugh this time but looked up and down the street. “I would guess this place, among these people, isn’t what you had in mind.”

Lottie’s defenses sparked. “Do not disparage them, Mr. Svensson. If not for their kindness, I would be in dire straits indeed.”

His countenance softened. “I mean no disrespect to the Scarpellis or any who find themselves living around Mulberry Bend. And I know that this—” he swept an arm from left to right—“this wasn’t what any of these people had in mind when they came to America in search of a dream.” His eyes dropped to the dirt, litter, and horse excrement that masked the ragged cobblestones. Then his gaze turned upward, toward the slice of bright sky that seemed to mock the dark, drab colors of the world below. “These homes—which have no right to be called as much—shut out the sky and are criminal. Some could nearly crumble at a touch, and others are built behind these, and others behind those, so that many rooms are without light or air. Did you know dozens of babies die each year by suffocating in these so-called homes?”

Lottie felt her throat tighten with her own memories of the airless room where six of them slept each night. “They die?”

“Oh yes,” he said, his face tight with anger. “Babies die inside—and out. Babies are left on the street when their parents can’t take care of them, and a great number of the children you see running about have no home at all. No one to watch over them, no one to feed them or hug them or love them.”

Lottie lowered her head, the threat of tears an embarrassment. The thought of other children as sweet and innocent as Sofia left to fend for themselves …

He reached over and gently touched her arm. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you sad. But I’m passionate about revealing the inequities of this place. For these people to leave everything behind and come here to
this
…” He withdrew his hand and sighed deeply. “That’s why I take their photographs and sell them to the papers. To show the world, to show the powers that be the atrocities here. There must be change. There must be reform.” As soon as he finished his declaration, he looked at Lottie and blushed. “Forgive me. It’s a lovely day. You don’t need it darkened by my opinions.”

“On the contrary, I am moved by your zeal, and from what I’ve seen so far, what you state are not opinions but fact. It’s commendable of you to use your talent toward the good of others.”

He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it and instead said, “Thank you.”

They watched as two boys played leapfrog down the street in front of them. “And still they play,” she said.

“The human spirit shows great resilience and strength to endure, and the desire for normalcy turns horrible conditions nearly tolerable.”

Lottie thought of the Scarpellis’ apartment. “I’ve seen that. Mrs. Scarpelli has little space in their apartment yet has hung some fabric as curtains and has family photographs on the walls.”

Sven nodded, then raised an arm. “These people will go far; they’ll rise above. I’ve seen it, and I predict more of it in the future. These immigrants did not come here to sit and wallow; they came to work and better themselves. In return they’ll better this country.”

Lottie felt something new ignite. Pride. She’d always been proud, in a haughty sort of way, but now she felt pride far differently. She was proud of her ability to survive thus far, and looked forward to future accomplishment and the possibilities that lay before her. She recognized this as a better form of the trait, one steeped in endurance rather than arrogance.

“I’m getting a job tomorrow,” she said out of the blue.

He raised an eyebrow. “So you’re not going back to your maid and demanding your place?”

She shook her head as if offended, then stilled it. “I’ve already thought of that, tried that to some degree.”

“Ah.”

“I went to Thirty-fourth Street and stood before the house that could have been mine.” She sighed. “ ’ Tis a very fine house.”

“Did you go inside?”

“I saw my maid exit with an older woman, and—”

“Did your maid see you?”

“She did.”

“You could have ended it right then. You could have stepped forward, admitted the deception, and claimed your rightful place.”

Lottie lowered her head. She noticed her clenched palm and opened it to find the rose petal still there. “I couldn’t do it, because the entire scheme was my idea; I was the one who forced the plan upon Dora. She deserves the chance for such a life. Dora is like a sister to me and—”

“You love her.”

Although she’d never said the words aloud, she knew them to be true. “I love her, and I want her to be happy.” Lottie suddenly laughed at herself.

“You find this funny?”

“I find it ironic that I, who have never thought of anyone beyond myself, have found a dose of compassion. Here.”

“Perhaps the crossing involved more than just the sea?”

She liked the way he thought, the way he expressed himself. “Perhaps.”

Sven looked skyward, squinting against the light. “I best be moving along if I’m to do my work. The light is turning against me.”

He stood and offered her his hand. She rose beside him and, for a moment, found she didn’t want him to let go. He must have felt the same, for when he pulled his hand away his face reddened. He tipped his hat to her. “Thank you for the pleasure of our conversation. I’ll come this way again, and when I do—”

Their discussion was interrupted when a violin began to play. On a stoop across the street a man stood proudly and drew his bow over the strings, calling people to attention. He paused long enough to shout,
“Danza ed essere felici!”

The crowd cheered and jumped to their feet.

Another man joined the first, carrying an odd stringed instrument that he strummed on his lap. And then a wooden flute was added. The violinist stomped his foot, creating a beat.
“Uno, due, tre …”

A lively song began and the people in the street wasted no time finding partners. Man and woman, child and child, grandmother and grandmother.

“Meraviglioso!”

“Favolosa!”

Vittorio rushed toward her.
“Danza venire con me, Signorina Lottie.”
His hands were waiting to take hers.

She looked at Sven. He set his pack down and leaned on his tripod. “
This
I must see.”

“Don’t be rude. I’ll have you know I’m a good—”

Vittorio grabbed her hands and drew her into the melee. “I don’t know this dance. I don’t know—”

It didn’t matter. With a hand upon her waist he led her right, then left, then right in a glorious sashay.
One and two, one and two, one and two …

He expertly traveled amid the other dancers, turning her round and round, back and through. They flew across the cobblestones, the music and clapping urging them on, as if pure joy fueled them all.

The strict regimen of the society balls that had permeated Lottie’s life seemed like staid and stodgy wakes compared to this spontaneous outpouring of inner delight. She never wanted it to end.

Lottie’s hair loosened and strands teased her face, but she dared not let go to secure it. Only rarely did her gaze meet Vittorio’s. His attention—by necessity—was focused upon getting them safely through the maze of fellow dancers. Through it all, he beamed from within, as if his troubles had been frightened away by the noise and movement.

Perhaps they had—for this moment. For while the music played and the people danced, the horrid tenements of Mulberry Street disappeared and Lottie could imagine similar dances back in Italy. For the moment all were home among friends. Life was good.

Lottie spotted Sven along the edge of the dancers. He’d set aside his equipment and was dancing with Sofia, like a father dancing with his child.

He spotted Lottie and winked. And the music carried them away to a better place.

I’d rather peel onions than be so bored.

After dinner the Tremaines gathered in the drawing room. The silence that permeated the meal continued on. It was excruciating. Charlotte wondered if there was a set amount of time a family of breeding was required to gather each evening before they could make their excuses and go their separate ways. Perhaps a time delineated by Mr. McAllister?

Charlotte sat on the settee, a volume of Jane Austen’s
Emma
in her hands. She’d found it in the Tremaines’ library and had grabbed hold of the book, finding comfort in the familiar story that Lottie had loved so much. She escaped into the story of Emma’s matchmaking efforts …
There does seem to be something in the air of Hartfield which gives love exactly the right direction, and sends it into the very channel where it ought to flow. “The course of true love never did run smoo
—
”

“This isn’t a very good likeness, Miss Gleason.”

She looked up to see Beatrice holding a small framed photograph in her hand. Mr. Tremaine looked up from his newspaper, Mrs. Tremaine from her needlework, and Conrad from his book of maps.

In the silence that followed, Beatrice walked the room, making sure everyone saw the photo—of Lottie. Everyone except Charlotte.

She couldn’t remember the photograph the Gleasons had sent to America when talk had initially begun about a match between Lottie and Conrad. She remembered Lottie assuring her it wouldn’t be an issue, since their faces were similar and the slight differences in the hue of their blond hair wouldn’t be exposed in sepia and white.

Something must be said. Immediately. Charlotte smiled and held out her hand. She perused the likeness quickly, then made a face. “I never did like this photograph, but it was the only one Mother would part with. I look a little like a disgruntled dog, do I not?” She held the frame outward to show the others.

Mr. Tremaine raised his newspaper again. “The new photos are far superior to the old ones when we were forced to remain still for endless minutes. No wonder no one smiled.”

Charlotte held the frame toward Beatrice and noticed an unfortunate quiver in her hand as she did so. Beatrice took it, her face tight.

“How convenient,” Beatrice said.

“Pardon?”

Although Charlotte knew retreat wasn’t the best option, she found herself closing the book, standing, and saying her good-nights.

On the way out of the room, she spotted a footman by the doorway. He broke his statuelike stance to look at her.

Charlotte hurried to her room.

Escaped.

They know; they all know!

“Did something upset you, miss?” Mary asked as she unbuttoned Charlotte’s gown.

“Yes, no. I’m merely finding it hard to fit in.”

“Of course you are. If you don’t mind my saying … Mr. Tremaine’s a rock and the missus is moss—she wouldn’t be nothing if it weren’t for him.”

Charlotte smiled. “How about their children?”

Mary continued her work but answered immediately. She’d obviously thought about this before. “Miss Beatrice is a bird, landing on the rock, pecking at the moss, but flitting away when she realizes she’s getting nowhere.”

“And Mr. Conrad?”

“Mr. Conrad is a bug crawling up the rock, across the moss, hiding from the bird. He’s going to get eaten one of these days. Or squashed.”

Unfortunately, it seemed an apt description.

“Don’t you get squashed, miss. I was hoping you and Mr. Conrad together might …”

“Hide better?”

“Run away.”

Charlotte couldn’t imagine Conrad ever leaving his family or his life here. And he wouldn’t have to leave, not if he found a way to be strong.

She was willing to help him, but …

She thought of the mistakes she’d already made: Mrs. Gleason’s maiden name, her inability to play the piano, the letter fiasco, and tonight, the photograph. If Charlotte’s true identity were found out, her best hopes for Conrad would be for naught.

There was so much at stake.

Too much.

Charlotte remembered her brave talk about finding another job as a maid if things didn’t work out at the Tremaines’. What an ignorant fool she’d been to assume anyone would hire her after she was responsible for the subsequent scandal and humiliation of one of New York’s finest families.