Masquerade (33 page)

The thought of hurting Conrad … why had she and Lottie never thought about him when they’d developed their scheme? He was a good man who deserved a good woman.

Could she be that woman?

If things didn’t work out—

There was no “if.” This had to work. For everyone’s sake.

Chapter Thirteen

Lucia nudged Lottie’s shoulder. “Up. We go to work.”

Lottie opened her eyes to see if the sun was up, but was immediately reminded there were no windows in the bedroom she shared with five others.

A lamp was lit and its flame fluttered from the movement of the household. Only Sofia could return to sleep, rolling over on the now spacious cot she usually shared with her sister.

Lottie could hear Lea and Francesca preparing the morning meal, as well as lunches for the workers to take with them.

The three men buttoned their shirts and adjusted their suspenders as they discussed the day to come. Aldo and his son, Vittorio, from Italy had found work on the docks with Dante, and Lucia would do her best on Lottie’s behalf in the garment sweatshops. As for Lea and Francesca? They would stay home with Sofia, and all three would work on making artificial flowers for ladies’ hats. No hand was idle. Not if one wanted to eat.

Lottie laced her boots and thought of the times Dora had laced them for her: she, sitting like a queen on a throne, waiting to be dressed by another. It was a bit embarrassing to think of how helpless she’d been—or had pretended to be. She’d usually slept until late morning and had spent much of her day changing clothes for various social interactions that involved sitting, smiling, and making polite conversation. To work, to physically work … was she capable of such a thing? She had no skills—unless someone would pay her for playing Chopin or needed to know the name of the insipid cousin who proposed to Elizabeth Bennet in
Pride and Prejudice.

Lucia must have seen her apprehension, for she put a hand on her arm. “You said you know sewing, yes?”

“I know needlework.” But Lottie wasn’t very good at it. Her mother often made her tear it out and start again. And never had she been allowed to work on her mother’s cherished seat cushions. “I’ve never sewn clothing.”

“Not even button?”

“Not even button.” How pitiful it sounded. Was.

A crease formed between Lucia’s brows but vanished with her smile. “It will be all right. I help you.”

It had to be all right. It was imperative Lottie earn a living for her own sake, but also for the sake of the Scarpellis. Although she sensed they would let her stay indefinitely, she knew their resources were already stretched by the influx of their family from Naples. She had no right to intrude any longer than necessary.

Lucia dug in a felt box and pulled out a small pair of scissors and two needles stuck in a piece of fabric. “Here. You will need.”

“They don’t supply—?”

“They charge. Better to bring your own.”

Bread and coffee were quickly consumed and kisses were given in parting. Even though the sun had not yet found its way past the buildings, Mulberry Street was fully awakened with workers leaving and peddlers opening their shops for the day’s business. The men of the family headed south while Lucia and Lottie headed north.

“What if they won’t give me a job?” Lottie asked.

“They will. One girl left to have baby. You take her place.”

“Will she return?”

“Not today.” Lucia shrugged. “Do not worry. One foreman, Mr. Silverman, he like me. I will smile and get my way.”

Lottie had done more than her share of smiling to get her way. She didn’t like the sound of that. “Don’t do anything that will—”

Lucia understood. “No, no
. Non sia mai.
Mr. Silverman good man. Other foreman … he not so. Mr. Silverman help. You will have job today.”

Lottie hoped so.

“Look!”

Lottie ran toward the shiny object she’d seen on the ground. She was right! It was a coin!

“How much?” Lucia asked.

She looked at the woman’s face on the front side and recognized it from the coins she’d received at Castle Garden. “It’s a dollar!”

“That more than day’s wage!” Lucia said.

Lottie felt rich. To have a dollar to add to the dime from the pastor …

“What you buy?” Lucia asked.

What could she buy with a dollar?

Thoughts of buying food or putting it toward her own apartment were quickly usurped by the memory of her ruby necklace at the pawnshop. Perhaps if she took the money to the owner and put it down toward the purchase …

She slipped the dollar into the pocket of her skirt. It was a sign. Things were looking up.

Lottie had expected … she wasn’t certain what she’d expected, but the building they entered to go to work looked little different than any of a hundred tenements they’d passed. The pale sunlight of the early morning was sorely missed once the front door was closed and they traipsed up endless dark stairs, higher and higher. Lottie moved upward completely by the feel of the railing in her hand. She even closed her eyes once, just to see … There was little difference between no light and the light available.

After six flights they entered a huge room. It was as though the entire floor had gobbled up the existing apartments, knocking down the walls but for an occasional column holding up the ceiling. She hoped it was holding up the ceiling.

The room was consumed by rows of long tables with women sitting shoulder to shoulder on both sides. Some were already at work.

Lucia slipped her hand through Lottie’s arm and led her toward two bearded men at the front of the room. She whispered in her ear, “Smile.”

That
she could do.

The men looked up when the girls approached, and one smiled back. He must have been Mr. Silverman.

“I have new worker, sirs.”

“We don’t need a new worker,” the other man said.

“To take Maria Romano’s place?” Lucia offered.

“Who?”

Mr. Silverman nodded. “The one having the baby.” He looked at Lottie. “Can you sew?”

Lottie didn’t hesitate. “Yes.” She refrained from adding “Of course.”

The other man was distracted when a woman brought him a sleeve for approval. He eyed it closely, then barked, “Not enough stitches!” Then he yanked at the sleeve, ripping the lining from it. “Do it over!”

Mr. Silverman looked at the girls, his eyes showing some embarrassment at the behavior of his co-worker. “Get to work, then. Don’t let me down, Miss …”

“Hathaway.”

Lucia hurriedly sped her past a barrel of sleeves, grabbing two, then led Lottie to the middle of a middle row. There was only one chair here and one there, but Lucia said something to the women, and a place was made for Lottie next to her friend.

They got out their needles and scissors, and Lucia handed Lottie a spool of black thread.

Thread a needle. She could do that.

But not easily. The light originated from a few gas lamps and whatever light came through the windows on either end of the room. But it was a cloudy October day and the sunlight that reached the middle of the room was played out and dim.

She pricked her finger. “Oww!” She immediately put it in her mouth. The other women glanced at her, shook their heads, and made soft comments to their neighbors—most likely about the novice who thought a pricked finger was something to exclaim about.

“Here,” Lucia said softly with a glance toward the other foreman. “You pull the lining so and stitch into wool like this …” She expertly sewed three stitches. “Only this little bit shows, see?”

A blonde across the table spoke up. “And make sure it’s flat, dearie, or the Beast’ll make you rip it out.”

“He rip for you,” said a girl with a guttural accent.

Yes indeed, she’d already witnessed that.

“No thank you.”

Mrs. Tremaine looked at Charlotte askance. “Don’t you like oatmeal?”

No, she did not. The texture reminded her of the awful gruel Mrs. Movery served on cold days. “I’m not very hungry this morning.” She was still worried they were on to her. The photo confrontation the night before had plagued her sleep.

Conrad’s bowl was filled to the top. “Mother is an avid purveyor of Quaker Oats. It’s quite new—though it is a bit bland.” He smiled and reached for the sugar bowl. “But I do like it with brown sugar and milk.”

“You always did have a sweet tooth.” Mr. Tremaine made the statement as though it were equal to a flaw in his son’s character.

“Sorry, Father.” Conrad passed the sugar bowl on. “See? I’ll try it without today.”

What did oatmeal matter when Charlotte’s life was teetering on the edge of a precipice?

But in the silence that ensued, her self-concerns were replaced with concern for Conrad. She hated how he kowtowed to his parents over the smallest things. It went beyond respect and revealed a weakness. Or fear. Or even laziness. For wasn’t it easier to give in than stand tall?

She thought about taking some oatmeal anyway, yet wouldn’t that be her own act of desperate deference? The decision was taken from her when the servant moved on to Beatrice, who took an extra large helping. What did that say about
her
temperament? And who would have thought the transaction of breakfast food could reveal moral fiber?

“So, Mother,” Beatrice said, “what are the plans for today?”

Mrs. Tremaine poured cream into her coffee. “Mrs. Devereau is coming to fit us for the gowns for Charlotte’s party.”

A gown? “You’re having a gown made for me?”

“Of course, dear. We didn’t want you to have to rely on the gowns you brought from home.”

“We couldn’t risk them being smart enough,” Beatrice said.

“Beatrice!”

The girl put a hand to her mouth in a practiced attempt of acting contrite. “Forgive me. I meant no offense.”

Of course you did.

Mr. Tremaine rolled his eyes. “Gowns?”

His wife made her defense. “You expect us to wear something old to such an event?”

“I do own a department store, my dear. There are plenty of gowns there, and it might behoove you to patronize our own establishment.”

Charlotte recognized a way to gain favor. “I would be happy to wear a gown from your store, Mr. Tremaine. Perhaps Conrad could take me there today and—”