Masquerade (46 page)

“Let us off here.”

The Tremaine carriage stopped at the far corner of the store, and Conrad helped Charlotte to the sidewalk. “I want you to see the windows as the shopper does, at eye level.”

His excitement was catching. And fetching. Charlotte had never known a man who truly enjoyed his profession. Mr. Gleason hadn’t, the servants she’d worked with in the Gleason home hadn’t, and certainly neither had her Barney.

Her Barney?

Just Barney now.

Conrad placed himself on the street side, and Charlotte took his arm for their stroll. As they approached the first window he patted her hand. “And here … here it begins.”

The window—which had previously contained a single item on a pedestal—now offered a grouping of hats on different levels, showcased in different ways. Some were on mannequin heads; one was on a chair along with a scarf and gloves as if cast off after an outing. While they were looking at the display, a clerk appeared and propped a lavender bonnet with violets against a pair of lavender evening shoes, with a fan half opened nearby.

The clerk looked out the window at Conrad and Charlotte, recognized Mr. Tremaine, and smiled. Conrad pointed at the bonnet and indicated she should tilt it a bit to the left. Which she did.

“The items in this window seem so genuine,” Charlotte said. “As if they’re items to be used—bought and used. They aren’t stagnant as they were before. They make me want to go inside and try them on.”

“Exactly!” Conrad led her toward the next window. “I’m especially proud of this one.”

There were four mannequins in the window: a woman, a man, a little boy, and a young girl. They were dressed for a Sunday walk in the park. The girl carried a doll.

“I can imagine them in Central Park,” Charlotte said. “They’re even facing the right direction.”

“I’m so glad you noticed. The clerk who was helping me thought such a detail was silly.”

“Not at all. Those shoppers who notice will feel like they’ve discovered a secret.”

The glow on his face made Charlotte wish she could find a hundred nice things to say.

They moved to the third window. “I tried to create a still-life scene as in one of the paintings in Mother’s gallery.”

The composition was excellent: a table draped with a fringe-edged cloth of damask, set with china, crystal, a fruit compote, and candelabrum. An urn painted with a pastoral scene stood on a pedestal nearby.

It was beautiful, but something seemed to be miss—

Charlotte gasped.

“What is it?”

“I know what will make all the windows complete.”

“They aren’t complete?”

She squeezed his arm. “Yes, but I know how to make them extraordinary.”

“Then tell me.”

She looked down the street. Where was their carriage? “We have to get home first.”

“Home? But I don’t understand.”

“You will.”

The front door of the Tremaine residence opened before Conrad could do it himself. A man with curly red hair and a long mustache was exiting. He paused on the stoop a moment and tipped his hat. “Mr. Tremaine.”

“Mr. Dooley.”

The way he eyed Charlotte made her take a step back, using Conrad as a shield.

“I brought the rent for yer father.”

“Thank you.”

“The place is jumping,” the man said. “Your mother said there’s a party here tonight?”

Conrad gently pulled Charlotte forward. “Yes indeed. A welcome party for Miss Gleason, a friend from England.”

“So your mother said.” His eyes seemed to hint at a knowledge that made Charlotte even more uncomfortable. He tipped his hat to her. “Miss Gleason.” The way he stroked her name …

“Good day, Mr. Dooley,” Conrad said as he led Charlotte inside.

Once Childs had closed the door, Charlotte asked, “Who was that man?”

“Father has rental properties in the southeast portion of the city, and Mr. Dooley collects the rent.”

Southeast? Five Points and the apartment where Lottie was staying was in that part of the city. Charlotte couldn’t imagine the Tremaines being the landlord to any of the awful tenements she’d experienced with Edmund.

She didn’t want to ruin the moment, and yet … “I’ve heard that part of the city is filled with the most terrible tenements. Surely you don’t own—”

“I don’t have anything to do with the rentals,” Conrad said. “I have enough on my plate with the store.”

That Conrad wasn’t involved offered her a little relief. Hopefully his father’s properties were of better quality than the buildings she’d seen.

When they entered the foyer, Mrs. Tremaine came out of her morning room. “Where have you two been? There are preparations for the party to attend to. You can’t go gallivanting around—”

“Where’s Beatrice?” Conrad asked.

“I’m not sure. I suppose she’s in her—”

Conrad took the stairs two at a time. Charlotte rushed after him, excitement propelling her upward.

Mrs. Tremaine called after them, “What’s going on? Conrad?”

When Conrad ignored her, Charlotte stopped her climb and looked over the railing. “We’ll be down in a few minutes, Mrs. Tremaine. I promise.” She hated leaving her in ignorance, but this was Conrad’s moment.

By the time Charlotte reached the second floor, Conrad was already knocking on the door to Beatrice’s bedroom. “Bea? Come to the door. It’s important.”

The door opened. “What’s all the racket? Is something wrong?”

Charlotte reached the door, a hand upon her corset, out of breath. “Not at all,” she said. “Listen to your brother. Show him your room.”

Beatrice hesitated, her eyes flitting from Conrad to Charlotte and back again. “Come in, then,” she said.

They entered and Conrad’s gaze devoured the bedroom. “Bea … these paintings … they’re beautiful.” He turned full circle, then looked at her. “You painted all these?”

“Of course I did.”

“When?”

“While you and Father are at work and Mother is busy climbing the social ladder, I have to do something with my time.”

“A good use, I’d say.” He seemed to remember why they were there and looked toward Charlotte. “I see what you mean, and I believe you’re right.”

“What are you talking about?” Beatrice asked.

Conrad gestured to Charlotte to do the honors. But she shook her head. It would mean more to Beatrice coming from him.

“Miss Gleason and I were just at the store, where I’ve taken her advice in regard to the window displays. And though the displays are much improved, she still thought something was missing, and—”

“Not missing,” Charlotte said. “But I realized the displays could be further enhanced if they had some—”

Beatrice waved her words away. “One of you get to the point.”

Conrad pressed a hand against his chest, finding a fresh breath. “I—we—would like to display your paintings in the windows of the store.”

Beatrice blinked once, then shook her head. “I don’t think so. I don’t want people gawking at my paintings.”

“They would gawk in awe, sister.” He walked to a landscape sitting on the floor beside the fireplace. “This was inspired by Central Park, yes?”

“Anyone can see it’s the Mall.”

Charlotte knew what Conrad was thinking. “It would look perfect in the window with the family taking a Sunday outing,” she said.

“That’s what I was thinking.” Conrad scanned the room. “We could put this one, and perhaps that one, and that … on easels behind the family, creating a backdrop to their stroll.”

Charlotte’s mind raced. “Or instead of easels, perhaps the paintings could be hung from the ceiling on wires. The wires would be nearly invisible, so it would look like the paintings were floating and—”

“Stop!”

They looked at Beatrice. “Who says I wish to have my paintings on display to the world? I’m quite content having them here, for my own enjoyment.”

“But that’s not right,” Charlotte said.

The subsequent silence indicated she’d spoken too harshly. She tried again. “You have great talent. But as I told you before, God gave it to you—to share. It’s not to be locked in a room.”

“What if Michelangelo had only painted the ceiling of his bedroom,” Conrad said, “or Botticelli’s Venus was displayed in a bath?”

“I have seen neither, brother. Only you were afforded the grand tour of Europe.”

Conrad blushed but wasn’t deterred. “My point is that art is meant to be seen.”

“I am not Michelangelo or Botticelli, or even Monet.”

“Who?”

Beatrice shook her head. “My point stands. I’m not … them.”

“No, you’re not,” Conrad said. “But that doesn’t mean your paintings aren’t worth seeing.” He picked a still life off a chair and held it toward Charlotte. “The china window?”

“Perfect.”

Beatrice snatched the painting out of his hands. “As I stated, I don’t wish for my work to be gawked at and judged and—”

“I judge it to be very excellent, my dear.”

They all turned toward the doorway. Mrs. Tremaine entered the room, her reaction similar to her son’s. “I knew you painted, daughter, but I had no idea it was to this extent, nor that you had grown so accomplished.”

Beatrice’s face … Charlotte had never seen such an expression. Gone were the tightness and the sarcastic wall. Beatrice was a child again, longing for her mother’s approval. “Do you … I mean, can you see some good in them?” she asked quietly.

“Much good.” Mrs. Tremaine strode to her daughter, cupped her head with a hand, and kissed her forehead. Then she removed the still life from her grasp. “The way you’ve captured the light and shadow is masterful.” She looked at her son. “You wish to use this in a window display at the store?”

As mother and son discussed the idea, Charlotte moved closer to Beatrice. “I hope you don’t mind that I told Conrad about your work.”

Charlotte received a quick shake of the head. The space between Beatrice’s eyes dipped, and Charlotte could tell she was fighting emotion.

Finally, Charlotte heard a soft whisper. “Thank you.”

Charlotte whispered back, “You’re welcome.”

At least it wasn’t raining.

Standing in front of the Tremaines’ mansion, Lottie remembered the last time she’d been there—soaked to the skin, looking like a drowned puppy.

Although she was exhausted from the walk, today she could approach the front door with some semblance of confidence. She was wearing the same traveling suit—still sans a proper bonnet—but with a few last-minute corrections to tidy her hair, she was ready.

Please, God, let this be over.

She straightened her back, took a fresh breath, and ascended the stairs leading to the front door. Her hand trembled as she reached for the bell.

A butler answered—the same man who had shooed her away the last time. Would he recognize her?

He looked her over, head to toe, in one quick moment. “The servants’ entrance is around back.”

She reached down to the torn skirt. “I’m not a servant, sir. I simply tore my skirt when my hack driver—”

He closed the door on her.

Hack driver. The Tremaine set didn’t hire hacks. They hired carriages. Or owned their own.

Lottie wanted to yell at the door:
I’m the real Charlotte Gleason! Let me in!
but she predicted such aggression would be seen as hysteria or insanity, negating her ever getting inside.