Masquerade (44 page)

Charlotte strolled through the room, her neck craned to see the looming landscapes, portraits, and paintings depicting ancient stories. In a corner behind a settee was an easel. A copy of a pastoral landscape was in progress. Is this what Conrad wanted to show her?

“Do you have hidden talents?” she asked.

He came around the furniture and looked at the painting. “I didn’t know anyone used this space …” He studied the canvas. “It’s quite good, actually.”

Then she remembered … “This must belong to Beatrice.”

He looked aghast. “Surely not.”

“Why not?”

Conrad lowered his chin and eyed the painting a second time. “As I said, it’s quite good.”

“So are your sister’s paintings. Surely you’ve seen some of her work?”

“I knew she dabbled with paints when she was a child, but—”

“It’s far more than dabbling. You should ask to see what she’s created.”

He shook his head and walked away from the easel.

“You should also open this gallery to the public,” Charlotte added.

Conrad laughed. “That
isn’t
Mother’s intent. The right people know of it, and that’s enough for her.”

It was such a waste. “You mentioned a museum. Wouldn’t these paintings be better—?”

He turned to face her. “I didn’t bring you in here for the art, Miss Gleason. I brought you to the gallery
because
no one comes here. I wanted to tell you some exciting news.”

His face was aglow in a way she’d never seen, and her worries about being chastised for going out in the city alone with the doctor evaporated. “It’s obviously good news.”

He nodded. “Remember when I took you to the store and showed you the displays in the windows?”

“Of course.” How could she forget the lackluster displays.

“I saw them with new eyes that day, and your advice …” He took a new breath. “I took your advice and I’ve had them changed. I’d like to show them to you tomorrow.”

“I—”

He put up a hand, stopping her words. “I know tomorrow night is your party, and Mother can keep you busy all day preparing for it, but all I need is an hour or two. Will you come with me and see them?”

She was moved by his need. “I’d love to see the windows.”

His pleasure was evident. He was a man without artifice, and with little effort Charlotte could imagine such an expression on a baker or milliner who wanted to show off his handiwork. Conrad seemed so separate from his family, who—with the exception of Beatrice’s sarcastic ways—seemed intent on never letting down their guard to show true emotion. He was a good man. She was blessed to know him.

She would be blessed to marry him.

Edmund.

“Charlotte?” He was offering her his arm.

She took it. The second arm she’d taken that day.

The second good man.

When it was time to retire, Charlotte passed the closed door of Beatrice’s bedroom.

On impulse she backtracked and knocked.

She heard rustling inside. Then Beatrice opened the door a crack— which seemed odd. She wasn’t in her nightgown yet, for Charlotte spotted the green of the dress she’d worn to dinner.

“Is something wrong?” Beatrice asked.

“Not at all, I was just … I saw your easel in the gallery, and I wanted to tell you that I think you’re very talented.”

Beatrice stared at her for a brief moment, then dodged her head into the hall, looking both ways. “Come in,” she whispered.

Why all the secrecy? Charlotte entered and Beatrice quickly closed the door behind her.

Charlotte expected to find a bedroom similar to her own, if not more grand. She did not expect to find a room lined with paintings. They were leaned against the walls and sat upon countless chairs. Most were reminiscent of the colorful painting Beatrice had tried to show her mother and her friends at tea, but Charlotte recognized others as copies of paintings with the more realistic style of those in the gallery.

“These are magnificent, Beatrice,” she said. “I’m no expert, but even I can see true talent here.” She began to pick up a smaller one, then pulled her hands away. “May I?”

“As you wish.”

The painting was of Central Park, but unlike the paintings in the gallery that could be photographs, the lines were less distinct and the colors applied in layers, giving the figures texture as well as shape. “The Mall, yes?”

Beatrice smiled, and with her smile, Charlotte realized how few times she’d witnessed that expression. “I would love to take an easel there and paint on site as I’ve seen some do, but Mother would have a fit. You heard her at tea. She and her friends cannot fathom the idea of a woman artist. And so …” She swept her arms to encompass the room. “I created my own gallery.”

Charlotte set the painting down and moved to another. “But surely your mother has seen—”

“She doesn’t come to my room, and I don’t invite her.”

How sad. Yet Charlotte couldn’t remember Mrs. Gleason ever visiting Lottie’s room either. Parents and children met in the public areas of the house like acquaintances attending to their duty.

“You should ask to have your work displayed in your mother’s gallery,” Charlotte said.

Beatrice laughed. “But don’t you see? I don’t qualify, for I’m neither male nor deceased.”

It was unfathomable. To have such a talent and be unable to share it. “It’s like …” Charlotte hesitated, then said it anyway. “God tells us not to put our light under a basket. We’re told to let it shine for all the world to see.”

“Ah, but only if one’s light fits within the limits of society. Or one is male.”

Beatrice’s pain was Charlotte’s own. “I’m so sorry, Beatrice. Surely there’s some way you can show your work.”

She raised her chin as though assuming a familiar mental stance. “I don’t need others to give my work worth. I paint for myself, an audience of one.”

“Two,” Charlotte said. When Beatrice raised an eyebrow, Charlotte pointed heavenward. “The Giver of the gift sees and appreciates.”

Beatrice looked at a painting as if studying it, but Charlotte could see her thoughts were elsewhere.

“I should be going,” Charlotte said.

Beatrice nodded and moved toward the door with her. Then she said, “I’m sorry to hear about your father. Are you close?”

Charlotte’s thoughts bypassed Mr. Gleason and moved to her own father. She’d never known him as an adult. “When I was small we were.”

Beatrice put her hand on the doorknob. “I used to be Daddy’s little princess.”

“Maybe you still are?”

Beatrice shook her head. “My father doesn’t even see me anymore. I’m a disappointment.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Why not? It’s the truth.” She opened the door. “Sleep well, Charlotte. Come back anytime.”

“Thank you, I will.”

If not for herself, for Beatrice.

Chapter Seventeen

I might not be back.

It was an awkward morning at the Scarpellis’. Unbeknownst to them, today Lottie was going to the Tremaines’. If all went well …

Eating a piece of bread, she looked around their apartment. It was hard to imagine that this had ever been home to her. She remembered her first night, crammed into the bedroom, lying on the floor, afraid of the dark.

Although conditions hadn’t changed, she’d changed. What had seemed appalling was now appreciated. That these strangers had cared for her, had saved her …

She looked at Sofia, sitting on Lea’s lap, weak but on the mend. Their eyes met, and Lottie made a funny face to make her smile. Then she watched as Dante and Aldo talked about the upcoming day over their coffee. Francesca scolded Vittorio for something as she started to get out the supplies to make paper flowers. Lucia made lunches for all of them. Everyone had a purpose, a place.

Except Lottie. She helped as much as she could, but unlike the others who were bound by blood and history, she stood alone.

What will be different at the Tremaines’?

They were her people.

Or were they? She had never witnessed New York society. Would she feel at home there? Or would they gather in their own little groups, once more leaving her set apart?

Movement in the room increased, indicating it was time for all to go to work. Lottie lingered, pretending to have an issue with her shoe. She wanted to be the last one out; she wanted to have a moment with Sofia and Lea.

Lucia paused at the door, waiting for her.

“Solo un minuto,”
Lottie said. “
Ciao.
See you later.”

Lucia nodded and left the apartment without her. Lottie despaired at seeing her go. How she wished she could have told Lucia her plans and offered a full good-bye. But to do so would be to admit her deception. Lottie didn’t want Lucia to think badly of her. After everything was settled—if it was settled—Lottie would come back and explain.

She finished tying her shoe with true difficulty. She was wearing her corset today, and the suit she’d worn the first day Lea had seen her at Castle Garden. She needed to look her best for the Tremaines but feared her suit would raise questions with Lea.

“Well, I’m going,” she said, dropping her skirt over her shoes.

Francesca gave her a glance, and Lea said, “You pretty.”

“Thank you. I thought it was time I wear my own clothes.” She didn’t know how much Lea understood. She didn’t want to share her plans, or that she might not be back, because the truth was, she
might
be back this very evening. Her stomach tightened at the uncertainty of her day. Yet this had to work. It was the only way for her to move forward and create a life with her baby.

When Lottie stood, Sofia slipped out of her mother’s arms and ran to her. Lottie scooped her up, and as usual, Sofia wrapped her legs around her hips. But instead of looking at each other eye to eye, sharing smiles and words, Sofia wrapped her arms around Lottie, leaning her head upon her shoulder.

It’s as if she knows.

Lottie battled tears. They were unacceptable until she was alone. She put a hand on the back of Sofia’s head and whispered in her ear, “I love you, little girl. You were a light in this very dark place. God bless you and keep you safe and well.”

She kissed her forehead and let her go. Lea looked at her quizzically. Lottie longed to fully express her gratitude, but now wasn’t the time. When she was established at the Tremaines’, she’d find a way. Perhaps she could convince Conrad to find the Scarpellis a proper home—at his expense. Then she could see them anytime she wished. After all, they were her family.

As Lottie opened the door, Sofia brought Lottie her hat. Lottie held it a moment and was tempted to take it, for it would make her look like a lady. But as she moved the hat toward her head, her hands detoured and put it on Sofia’s head instead of her own.

“This is yours, sweet girl. Forever and always. To remember me by.”

Then she left.

Tears accompanied her down the stairs to the street.

“I can’t work today,” Lottie declared to Sven.

He paused and adjusted the equipment on his shoulder. “Is something wrong?”

She hesitated to say anything. “I have something I must attend to.”