Masquerade (42 page)

Mrs. Tremaine was skeptical about Dr. Greenfield’s plan to take Charlotte to see her old nanny, but with both men of the family at work and Beatrice visiting friends, the lady of the house gave in. Charlotte wondered if she did so to be relieved of the chore of entertaining Charlotte for an afternoon.

Once they reached the area near Five Points, the open hack drove slowly out of necessity. The swell of people on the streets forbade easy travel. The crush forced Charlotte to cling to Dr. Greenfield’s arm—or so she would say if pressed. She loved being so close to him. If only they were riding through Central Park, where they could marvel at the beauty.

There was little beauty here.

“The number of people astounds me,” he said.

Her fantasy fully evaporated. “It’s as though Castle Garden in its entirety has moved here.”

“This
is
the destination of most immigrants,” the doctor said. “My cousin told me sixty thousand come every month. There are a million people in this small space.”

A million?
“We’ll never find Lottie.”

He did not contradict her.

The driver spoke to them over his shoulder. “You’re the second group I’ve taken down here this month—slumming it, seeing how the other half lives.”

Charlotte hated his term. “We are not ‘slumming it’; we are searching for a dear friend.”

He shrugged.

Charlotte noticed men in black coats, black beards, and flat hats. Along either side of their faces were long tendrils of hair.

“Who are those men?” she asked Dr. Greenfield.

“They are Jewish, I believe.” He pointed to some signs on the shops. “That’s Hebrew. Or is it Russian?”

Charlotte didn’t know.

“This here’s Jewtown,” the driver said. “A strange lot they are, but I’ve heard they’re great tailors. The I-ties are straight ahead. Yessiree, we’ve got yer Jews here, Greeks, Irishmen, Chinamen, black men, and even some red ones. Toss a pebble and you’ll hit somebody who speaks babble. And here,” he pointed ahead. “Here’s Mulberry Street.”

The carriage turned south off Bayard Street, and within a block the population changed from Jewish to Italian.

Both sides of the street were lined with vendors of every sort. “Does everyone have something to sell?” she asked.

“They’d sell your mother if you let them,” the driver said.

“Enough, if you please,” Dr. Greenfield said.

“Suit yerself. Where do you want me to stop?”

Charlotte found her head shaking back and forth. It was all too daunting. How would they ever find Lottie? Yet she had to try. Lottie had to know about her father. And for her own sake, Charlotte needed to know Lottie was all right.

Dr. Greenfield pointed to a relatively clear space in the street ahead.

“Let us off there.” He looked to Charlotte. “Yes?”

“It’s as good a place as any.”

The hack stopped and Dr. Greenfield asked the driver to wait. Then he helped Charlotte from the carriage. Within two steps she found herself stepping over a heap of spilled ash—and worse. An old woman was sweeping the sidewalk with a handmade broom, but surely her task was eternal with this many people living in such close proximity.

As they walked toward the pushcarts, Charlotte spotted an old man sitting on a chair beside a brick wall with a baby lying on a coat on the ground beside him. He was tending his pipe with more interest than he gave the fussy child. Why didn’t he pick—?

Just steps away from the hack, Charlotte and Dr. Greenfield were surrounded by a passel of children, their faces dirty, their clothes torn.

“Per favore, signora. Soldi.”

“Dammi soldi.”

“Signore, per favore mi aiuti.”

Some offered a bit of coal or a wilted flower, but most accosted them with open hands.

“I have nothing to give them.” Charlotte realized how odd it was to live in a palatial mansion yet not have a penny to her name.

Dr. Greenfield reached into his pocket and offered a few coins, then shooed the rest of the children away. He put an arm around her waist and led her toward the nearest pushcart.

“Ma’am?” he said to the woman there. “We’re looking for a friend of this lady.”

The woman offered them an apple. Then a potato.
“Mela, signore? O una bella patata?”

“No, no,” he said, waving away her wares. “We’re looking for a woman. My name is Dr. Greenfield and this is Miss Gleason and—”

The woman’s eyes grew wide.
“Dottore? Andare. Vada al piano superior. Le persone sono malate!”

She took hold of his hand and did not let it go, even as she spoke to a boy nearby. He came forward, eyed the doctor and Charlotte, then nodded to the woman.

“Come,” he said. “Follow.”

“No, no,” Dr. Greenfield said. “We’re looking for a woman, an Englishwoman and—”

The boy gestured to the building beside them. “Upstairs. Sick. Come.”

Dr. Greenfield looked at Charlotte. “Apparently I’m needed.” He hesitated. “I don’t feel right leaving you here.”

She didn’t feel right about that either. At home, or even in London, she might have felt at ease in crowds on the street, but this was America, or rather, it was like being in Italy. Either way she was a stranger in a strange land. There was no alternative but to go with him. “I’m coming too.”

The building was dark upon entering, and Charlotte was immediately assailed with a feeling of suffocation. Gone was the brisk autumn air and the sounds of the multitude on the street. Inside, the air was fallow, and though it still held a chill, there was no invigoration in it, only a sense of desolation, the difference between cold that refreshed and cold that caused discomfort.

They started up the stairs with Charlotte holding Dr. Greenfield’s arm with one hand and her skirts with the other. The sounds of the building took her back to her childhood, when she’d lived with her family in a third-story flat in London. There had been no privacy there, not even when they’d been in their two-room apartment, for the walls had only blocked the view of the neighbors. All sounds had been communal.

Even the smells that assailed her were familiar. Sweat, ash, damp, and rotting food. But as they turned the first landing, the pile of garbage announced the difference. Although their flat had been meager, it had owned a level of sanitation lacking here.

Or maybe as a child she simply hadn’t noticed.

Dr. Greenfield glanced at her, his face pulled with concern. “Are you all right?”

Clearly, as Charlotte Gleason, a young woman of society, she was supposed to be appalled by such a place. Perhaps she should scrunch up her face in disgust or squeal in squeamish horror.

But Dr. Greenfield knew her true identity, and she felt neither the energy nor the inclination to put on such a show. “I’m fine.”

His eyebrows lifted in surprise, and Charlotte reveled in it. She’d surprised him—in a good way. His reaction spurred a decision to bravely endure whatever was to come.

She lost count as to the number of floors they ascended and was relieved when the boy veered down a hall and stopped at a door. He knocked loudly.

A woman answered and the two exchanged words. Charlotte heard a word that sounded like
doctor
, and the woman’s face changed from overwrought to hopeful. She looked up, saw them, and immediately motioned them inside.

She tucked some stray hairs behind her ears. “Doctor, yes?”

“My name is Dr. Greenfield. This is Miss Gleason. Are you in need of my services?”

Charlotte could see in the woman’s eyes that she didn’t understand every word, but she nodded and motioned them into an adjoining room, where a little girl lay on a bed, her hair matted to her head.

The doctor took one look and turned to Charlotte. “She’s feverish. You must go into the other room.”

The little girl looked so sweet, so weak. “No,” Charlotte said. “I can help. What do you need? What can I do?”

He looked impressed by her willingness, but she hadn’t offered in order to impress but to help. She’d been around sick people before.

“Not this time, Charlotte. Not when I don’t know what’s causing the fever. Please.”

She reluctantly retreated. The mother stayed with the doctor, leaving her alone.

“Buon giorno.”

She started, a hand to her chest. A woman was sitting near the window at a table. She blended into the chaos of the room, which had household items piled halfway up the wall.

“Good day,” Charlotte said.

She noticed the woman was making flowers of some sort and moved closer to see them. They were made of paper and looked like violets. They were very well done.

“These are lovely,” Charlotte said, nodding and smiling, hoping she would be understood.

“Per un cappello,”
the woman said.

“I’m sorry, I …”

The woman put a flower on top of her head.

“Oh, cap, hat. They go on a hat.”

“Hat.
Sì.
”

They both turned toward the bedroom when they heard the girl whimper.

“Sofia è malata. Prego che il medico la possa curare
.
”
Then the woman touched her forehead, her chest, and both shoulders.

Charlotte didn’t understand the words or the gesture, but she understood their intent. She hoped Dr. Greenfield could help the girl.

Once again memories assailed her. Another little girl, a baby girl just born. Charlotte’s baby sister had only lived a few days.

A prayer escaped.
Please make the girl well.

Dr. Greenfield came out of the room, his face dour. “More cold cloths,” he told the mother, motioning with his hands. “On her head. Over her body. The fever needs to break.” He looked to Charlotte. “I wish I’d brought my bag. I need my stethoscope and tools.” He turned back to the mother. “What is the address here? I’ll send a messenger over with some tonic, some medicine. Medicino?” He made a drinking motion.

The mother pointed to a bottle on a table.

“No, no, I don’t need a drink. I want to get Sofia some medicine.” He pointed toward the girl, then himself, then made a drinking motion.

The mother nodded.
“Sì. Medicina.”

“Yes!
Medicina.
Now … what is your address?” He pointed downward, to the floor. “Here.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Where are we?” He made a motion for her to write it down.

Her eyes lit up.
“Indirizzo stradale.”
She found a pencil and wrote on a scrap of paper.

“Grazie,”
he said with a sigh.

Charlotte shared his frustration, and yet … there was one more thing she had to ask this woman.

“Pardon me, ma’am, but we’re looking for my friend, Lottie Hathaway. She’s British like me, and …” Charlotte knew she was using far too many words but couldn’t think of a way to shorten her question.

The woman stared at her. Oddly. And then she said, “No, no. No Lottie Hathaway.
Non è qui. Non è qui.
” She pressed a loaf of bread into the doctor’s hands.

“My payment? No, no. No charge.” He gave it back.

The woman shrugged, then ushered them to the door. “
Grazie, dottore, buon giorno.
Good day.”

But on the way out Charlotte spotted something on top of a pile of suitcases. It was a green hat with a bow on top and a feather on the back of the crown.

“That’s Lottie’s hat!” she said. “Why do you have Lottie’s hat?”

The woman became more adamant about saying her good-byes. She physically pressed Charlotte toward the door. “Good day, good-bye.”

“But I can’t leave. You know where Lottie is! You have her hat!”

When the woman opened the door, Charlotte and Dr. Greenfield were accosted by a crowd. The people pressed toward the doctor, all talking at once.

“Dottore, mia madre …”

“Mio padre è malato.”

“Mi fa male lo stomaco.”

“Venga a vedere mio bambino.”

Dr. Greenfield shook his head. “I’m sorry, I don’t have my medical bag with me. I can’t help you. I wish I could but …” He reached for Charlotte’s hand. “We need to get out of here.”

“But Lottie’s hat? That woman knows where she is. I have to—”

“Charlotte, we have to leave. Now.”

With his arm protectively around her shoulder, they quickly descended the stairs and went out to the street. Some of the residents from the building followed, still talking, still wanting his help.

Dr. Greenfield looked to the left. “There. The hack. He actually waited.”

They hurried through the throng and got inside.

“You’ve gained a following, I see,” the driver said.

“Get us out of here,” Dr. Greenfield said. “Now, man. Take us back to the Tremaines’.”

Charlotte looked over her shoulder. “But I can’t leave. That hat
was
Lottie’s. She was wearing it the day we arrived here. That woman knows her. I saw it in her face.”

“And I saw something in the faces of all those desperate people. I’m not prepared to help them. Even if I had my bag, I’m not sure I could help or that I would ever find an end to the need. I wish I could, but …”

She felt him shiver and shared his frustration.

“Caring for the royal family did
not
prepare me for this. I want to help each and every one, yet how can I?”

He was noticeably shaken. Charlotte set aside her own needs and patted his arm. “You helped the little girl. You did as much as you could.”

“I offered a crumb to a girl in need of a feast.” He closed his eyes and pressed a gloved hand to his forehead. “How can people live like that? What hope is there of good health when they’re packed like sardines in a can, with no fresh air, no sanitation, no hope?”

Charlotte was a bit surprised at his distress—and his naïveté. She too was upset, but her past had dulled her reaction to the conditions She’d lived in such a place. She knew hunger and poverty and even death.

As they turned away from Mulberry Street, the doctor gained his composure. “I’m so sorry. To have taken you into a place like that and subjected you to—”

“I don’t mind such a place, for remember who I am, Doctor. I’m a maid in lady’s clothing. I came from simple surroundings not so different from these.”