Masquerade (34 page)

Mrs. Tremaine set her coffee cup on its saucer with a clink. “You will do no such thing!”

The woman’s ire was unexpected. “I’m sorry. I—”

Conrad turned to his father. “I would be happy to take her, Father.”

“She has an appointment here,” his mother said.

“Oh,” Conrad said. “That’s right.”

Charlotte found the discourse ridiculous when both parties
could
be appeased. “Perhaps we could see Mrs. Devereau today and go to the store tomorrow?”

“I have a meeting tomorrow,” Conrad said. “But I could take Miss Gleason with me today.”

Mr. Tremaine looked at his wife. “Call the dressmaker and have her come tomorrow.”

The look on his wife’s face exposed a realization she’d lost the argument—and was not happy about it one little bit. “Yes, Martin.”

“Then it’s settled,” he said.

They ate the rest of the meal in awful silence. Charlotte tried to eat slowly because she was certain there had to be a rule about not finishing a meal before her host and hostess. But it was hard to make a piece of bread and jam last interminably.

Finally Mr. Tremaine put his napkin on the table. A footman came to his aid, pulling his chair from the table. “Good day, all.”

And he was gone.

Just as Charlotte was feeling her first breath of relief, full release came from an unexpected source.

Conrad looked at her, then at her plate. “Are you finished? Because if you are …”

She set her napkin on the table. “I am.” She looked to Mrs. Tremaine. “If I may be excused?”

Mrs. Tremaine flipped a hand and Charlotte and Conrad made their exit. As the footman closed the dining room door, she heard Beatrice say, “Well, what do you expect from her sort?”

For a moment Charlotte’s stomach grabbed. Her
sort
?

But her attention was drawn to a jubilant Conrad.

“I can’t believe I did that,” he whispered.

“Did what?”

“Stood up to Mother.”

If he thought
that
was equal to taking a serious stand … “I’m very proud of you,” Charlotte said. “And I’m excited to see the store.”

He held out his arm. “As I am excited to show it to you.”

Tremaine’s Dry Goods encompassed one full city block and was five stories in height. The street outside was bustling with carriages and pedestrians, all going somewhere, wanting to buy something.

Charlotte and Conrad were let off near the main entrance, and Charlotte could sense his eagerness. He paused on the sidewalk and looked up. “This is it. The source of our good fortune.” He caught himself and looked down at her. “Our God-given good fortune.”

“Your clarification is duly noted.”

He always seemed so relieved when she spoke to him, as if her words countered a prevailing ring of doubt that threatened to strangle him. She was glad she could help, and vowed to do as much as she could to release him from his restraints.

He turned her to the north. “Here is the Ladies’ Mile.”

“Ladies’—?”

He pointed up the street. “It’s Broadway. It’s the entire world laid at the feet of all who come to shop, to dine, to flirt, to find amusement, and to meet acquaintances.”

She’d never seen anything like it. To think of it: store after store, catering to women …

Instead of going inside, Conrad led her farther up the street, showing off the huge windows that showcased the goods inside.

In a way.

The clothing was displayed on dress forms, and other goods to purchase—such as bedding and house furnishings—sat willy-nilly amid the dresses. There was no continuity, no stimulation, no incentive to buy.

“What do you think?” Conrad asked.

She hesitated. His ego was delicate. Would she do it damage by telling him the truth? “The displays are very nice.”

“Ah.”

She risked a glance. “But they are a bit … dry.”

His eyes lit up as though she’d told him they were exquisite. “Really? You really think so?”

“Why, yes.”

“I’m so glad it’s not just my opinion. Father insists on a strictly functional displaying of the wares, but I think it could be improved with a little creativity, a little more color and arrangement.” He motioned to the steady stream of people walking by. “See how they glance but don’t stop to look? That’s because we give them nothing to look
at
, nothing to engage them.”

“Nothing to make them
have
to go inside and buy.”

“Exactly!” He paused a moment to look at her. “You understand.”

“I’m trying to.”

“No,” he said, his voice softening. “You really understand me. No one understands me.”

The way he looked at her made her nervous even as it made her heart race. “Perhaps I understand you because I’m much like you.”
And I like you.

With new purpose he led her toward the entrance. “You deserve something very special today, Miss Gleason, and I intend to give it to you.”

Charlotte’s first glimpse of the store’s interior elicited unrestricted awe. The entire first floor was as ornate as the Tremaines’ home, with arches and filigree, ornaments and carving. A marble staircase swept down from an open mezzanine above and was flanked by two enormous lampposts that boasted a dozen white globes of light.

As they walked past the millinery department on their left and men’s clothing on their right, Conrad was accosted by clerk after clerk after clerk.

“Good morning, Mr. Tremaine.”

“Nice to see you this morning, Mr. Tremaine.”

“Wonderful weather today, eh, Mr. Tremaine?”

Although Charlotte could imagine employees offering salutations out of duty or to satisfy personal ambition, all who extended greetings seemed to be doing so from a genuine fondness.

And how could she think otherwise? During their short acquaintance, Charlotte had found Conrad to be affable, kind, and true.

And insecure, weak, and fearful.

Perhaps she could help. If only she could. She’d spent her entire life in service, helping others, sensing their needs even before they were recognized.

They ascended the grand staircase. “We have an elevator, but I like the vista from the stairs. Are you all right to walk?”

She nodded and carefully lifted her skirt so as not to trip. “I also enjoy the view.” And she did. Walking up the staircase afforded a splendid view of the first floor with its shoppers, clerks, and displays. But there was another reason Charlotte preferred to walk. Although she had been in an elevator in London, she still was not used to such an enclosed space, nor used to trusting a machine for her safety.

Conrad led her through counters heavy-laden with all sorts of enticing goods of every color and sort: parasols, gloves and lace mitts, shoes and—

She stopped in front of a display. “What are these?”

Conrad looked embarrassed and nodded to a clerk to come forth. “These are hair goods, miss,” the girl said. She brought forward a pile of very curly hair. “This is a ‘Langtry bang’ after Lillie Langtry, the famous actress.”

Charlotte nodded in awe. Everyone in England had heard of Lillie Langtry, the mistress of the Prince of Wales. She was embarrassed to ask the next, so leaned forward a bit. “How does it … work?”

The woman placed it on a cloth form, on the crown of the head. “See how the frizzy curls frame the face? Mrs. Langtry was the one who started the style.” She quickly moved to another display of a hairpiece with a part in the center that fell into masses of tight curls. “And this is called the Empress. It’s ventilated for comfort.”

She must have seen the gleam in Charlotte’s eyes, because she moved to yet another display of long extensions. “This is our chatelaine twist. You just place it up under your own twist in the back. All of our hair is real and matched to your …” She stopped, her eyes on Conrad.

Charlotte looked over and saw that Conrad’s face was almost comical in its curiosity. “These are quite amazing,” Charlotte told him. “I assure you I’ve never seen anything like these in England.”

Realizing his interest had drawn their attention, he shuffled his shoulders and took out a pocket watch. “At Tremaine’s we aim to please,” he said.

“We must be going,” Charlotte said to the clerk. “But thank you for showing me.” She smiled and lowered her voice. “I hope to be back.” She took Conrad’s arm and they walked away. “I’m impressed, Mr. Tremaine. The variety of goods you offer is astonishing. A woman wouldn’t know where to start.”

“Or finish,” he said. “We often have ladies come in for the entire day. And we also cater to the rural customer who is weary of country stores that offer inferior goods at high prices. We even have a day parlor just for their use and special transportation to the train or ferry station.”

“How innovative.”

“I suggested as much to Father five years ago, but he was against it until Bloomingdale’s started offering the service.”

“At least he finally listened to you.”

Conrad shook his head. “Listened to a competitor.”

It saddened her to learn the father ignored his son’s ideas. “But you thought of it first.”

He shrugged, then brought her through a columned portico. “This is the women’s emporium.”

It was like walking into a female heaven. Luscious dresses and suits were displayed on mannequins like a contingent of mute well-wishers luring her inside.

“Ooooh.”

Conrad laughed. “I’m glad you like it.”

“Back home Lott— I had my clothes made by a dressmaker, which was often a hit-or-miss proposition. The dressmaker’s vision didn’t always match my own. But to see the ensembles ready-made is a heady prospect.”

Conrad raised a hand and a middle-aged woman rushed to his side. “Yes, Mr. Tremaine?”

“Madame Foulard, I would like you to meet Miss Charlotte Gleason, just here from England.”

She bobbed. “A pleasure, mademoiselle.”

“Miss Gleason has shown interest in our little store here, and I thought it would be a glorious idea if we treated her. I would like you to personally assist her in trying on whichever—and however many—of your lovely costumes please her.”

Madame’s eyes lit up, and Charlotte felt her own heart flutter with excitement. “I get to try these on?”

Conrad removed his gloves and hat and sat upon a plush lavender sofa. “And I will be your delighted audience.”

Madame Foulard extended an arm toward the offerings. “Come, Miss Gleason, come show me what pleases you.”

It was a dream, a lovely dream. It had to be. The clerk showed Charlotte one dress after another. Charlotte couldn’t help but touch each length of fringe or ruffle of exquisite lace and marvel at the visual depth of the velvets, the sheen of the satins, and the ever-changing watered pattern of the moirés.

“This gown exhibits some of our newest colors,” Madame said. “This Congo tone… . isn’t it superb next to the Palestine color?”

Charlotte had never heard of colors by those names, but liked the coppery color of the Congo combined with the mauve tone of the Palestine. “It’s truly lovely. I’m having a difficult time deciding.”

“Then let me do that for you,” Madame said. She escorted Charlotte into a large dressing room lined with mirrors. A young girl in a maid’s uniform was waiting for her and bobbed a curtsy. “This is Bridget. She will help you undress.”

It was a bit awkward disrobing before a stranger, but Bridget was very attentive and by the time Charlotte was down to her undergarments, Madame Foulard came in with her arms heavy-laden with two gowns.

“This one first, I think,” she said, handing Bridget a red reception dress.

Together, the two clerks ably helped Charlotte into the dress with Madame offering a running commentary of the gown’s attributes. “This costume is made of grosgrain satin with six bands of jet gimp. Since the fabric is stiffened, the front is flat and the back bustle is folded rather than draped. This is the garnet color, but we can get it for you in navy, brown, or black.”

Charlotte looked at herself in the mirror. “I like the garnet very much.”

“It is very striking on you, mademoiselle.”

They all started when there was a rapping on the door. Madame Foulard pulled the door ajar, spoke a few words, then returned. “Monsieur Tremaine wishes to see you in the gowns.” She said something in French to Bridget, who was finishing the final touches on the bustle.

Charlotte was not at all certain it was proper for her to model in front of Conrad, but she was in no position to argue. She looked in the mirror, smoothed her hair, and exited the dressing room.

As Charlotte approached the sofa, Conrad stood, his face awash with awe and admiration. “You look stunning, Miss Gleason.”

“Is she not?” Madame said. “The dress fits as though it were made for her.”

“Turn round,” Conrad said. “If you please?”

Charlotte felt sheepish doing so, but she walked a tight circle to show Conrad the full effect.

“You are like a canvas with the gown as your paint, Miss Gleason. In its grasp you become a work of art.”

Madame put a hand to her chest. “My, my, Mr. Tremaine. You are so gallant.”

And kind. And eloquent. And—

“We’ll buy that one,” he said.

Charlotte was surprised. “You don’t have to do—”