Masquerade (47 page)

“The servants’ entrance is around back.”

She looked in the direction the butler pointed. The back entrance wasn’t her entry of choice, but at least it would get her in the house.

She retreated to the sidewalk and walked around the side of the house, finding a narrow walkway leading to the back. There were no stairs to climb here, but rather a few stairs down to an entrance below ground level.

Lottie looked at the hanging trim of her dress and got an idea. With a few yanks, she pulled the length off the skirt. Then she knocked.

A very young girl wearing a mobcap came to the door. “May I help you?”

“I was wondering if I could borrow a needle and thread to mend my—”

“Are you here to help with the party?”

“What party?”

“The party to welcome Miss Gleason.”

“Miss … ?”

The girl gripped the doorframe to lean closer in confidence. Her hands were red and chapped. “She’s goin’ to be the wife of Mr. Conrad. But none of the Four Hundred knows her, so tonight they’s introducing her and … You want a job? They can use the help.”

Wife?

The girl glanced behind her, as if nervous someone would snap at her for lingering at the door. Then she looked back at Lottie. “Well, do ya want the job?”

“I do.”

Lottie had never—ever—worked so hard.

The Tremaines’ cook, Mrs. Dyson, had accepted her presence with nary a glance. Help was help—at least in the kitchen. Lottie was told to go in a storeroom and find something to wear. She’d heard Mrs. Dyson add under her breath, “Who does she think she is? Coming for a job wearing a fancy suit.”

A suit too fancy for downstairs and not fancy enough for abovestairs.

After she’d changed into a faded skirt and blouse that still smelled of the previous wearer, Lottie was told to peel potatoes.

There were two baskets stacked high. “All of them?” slipped out.

“No. Just one or two.” Mrs. Dyson pointed to a knife. “Don’t you start complainin’ befores you even get started.”

Lottie made a few slices of the potato skin, but it was awkward. The girl who’d met her at the door came to her rescue. “Like this,” the girl whispered. She held the potato in the palm of her hand and ably ran the knife down its side. “Don’t push too hard or you’ll waste the potato and have to peel more.”

“Thank you,” Lottie said.

“And don’t cut yerself. Cook don’t like blood in the potatoes.”

Very funny.

As Lottie worked so did a dozen others, not counting the steady stream of deliverymen bringing in bushels of fruit and vegetables. The top of the cast-iron stove was covered with pots boiling and pans simmering. The large table that sat as an island in the middle of the room was used by four servants, cutting, dicing, kneading, and mixing.

The scene brought Lottie back to her childhood, when she’d often visited the servants belowstairs. Mrs. Movery the cook, Mr. Davies the butler, and Mrs. Reynolds the housekeeper … they’d often seemed more her family than her mother and father. They told her stories and she learned about their lives. They let her lick the cake bowl and …

Another memory demanded attention. It was her tenth birthday and her parents had forgotten. Feeling low, Lottie had gone downstairs to discover that Mrs. Movery had made an apple cake just for her. And the other servants had gone together to buy her a copy of
Mansfield Park.
It had been her best—and worst—birthday.

She rinsed a peeled potato in the sink and looked around the room. The smell of baking bread was heavenly, and the murmur of voices mingled with the sounds of utensils at work was somehow comforting.

Yet to think all of this was for Dora.

It could have been for me.

The thought brought her back to the reason she was at the Tremaines’. It wasn’t to help with the party, but to …

To what?

Crash the party?

Could she really do that? How would she do that? She didn’t want to embarrass Dora in front of New York society. That wouldn’t serve her own purposes well. For her to wait for the party to begin, clang a spoon against a serving tray to get their attention, and then declare, “I’m the real Charlotte Gleason” would lead to her own ostracism instead of acceptance.

And the maid had said Charlotte and Conrad were going to be engaged. What of Dr. Greenfield? Lea had implied he and Charlotte were a pair.

She needed to talk to Dora. Alone.

But how could she accomplish that if she was stuck in the kitchen?

Why couldn’t things be easy?

Lottie was so enrapt with her thoughts that she didn’t notice Mrs. Dyson coming up behind her. “Come on, girl. We need those potatoes in the pot. Now.”

“I’m sorry. I’m just not very good—”

Mrs. Dyson plucked the knife out of her hands. “Over here.” She nodded to another girl. “Potatoes, Millie.”

Millie glared at Lottie but left her place in the corner where she was …

No, no … don’t make me do that!

“Here you go,” Mrs. Dyson said. “There’s no talent to plucking feathers. Get to it.”

Lottie chided herself for not catching on to potato peeling. To touch a dead chicken. To pull its feathers out …

“Don’t give me that look, girl. Ain’t you ever seen a chicken before?”

“Not in its … entirety.”

Mrs. Dyson rolled her eyes. “Well, introduce yerself. I need girls who can help, not hinder.”

Lottie sat on the stool. “Actually, my experience is with serving dinner, not making it.”

Mrs. Dyson put her hands on her hips. “Well, aren’t you lardydardy.”

The other servants offered their own looks of contempt. Lottie hated their reaction, yet she wasn’t there to make friends.

All eyes turned toward the door leading to the house as the butler came in—the same man who’d met her at the front door.

He seemed to sense something was amiss and looked at Mrs. Dyson. “Is there a problem here?”

“No, Mr. Childs. No problem. Just a little mutiny by one of the girls. She says she’s only used to serving the food, not making it.”

Lottie’s first inclination was to avert her head. She didn’t want Mr. Childs to recognize—

Or did she?

“If you’ll excuse me, sir,” Lottie said. “My experience is upstairs, not in the kitchen.”

The butler looked her over. “We
could
use another maid to serve. What are your references?”

I’ve eaten a lot of food served by maids
… . “I just got in from Wiltshire, where I’m familiar with the homes of Sir Charles Sonomish, Mr. Thomas Standish, and the Reginald Byrons.” She added the
pièce de résistance
. “I’ve also been in attendance at the Prince Regent’s on more than one occasion.” She did not add “as a guest.”

The butler’s eyebrows rose. “Mrs. Dyson, you’ll have to deal with two fewer hands. Come with me … ?”

“Lottie,” she said. “Lottie Hathaway.”

Chapter Eighteen

The interior of the Tremaine mansion was grander than any English home Lottie had ever seen. It rivaled even the royal palaces.
To think this could be mine.

Mr. Childs led Lottie into the dining room and introduced her to the housekeeper, Mrs. Sinclair. He looked pointedly at Lottie before leaving her. “You do whatever Mrs. Sinclair tells you to, understand?”

Lottie bobbed a curtsy as she’d seen her own servants do a thousand times. “Yes, Mr. Childs.”

Mrs. Sinclair eyed her skeptically. “He says you have experience serving?”

Lottie felt a knot in her stomach. Being served and serving were far different things. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Your attire … you can wear those clothes now because we have work to do setting the table and such, but you’ll have to change into blacks for tonight.”

“Understood, Mrs. Sinclair.”

The older woman stepped to the side, revealing a long credenza piled high with china and glassware. “All this has to go there,” she said, pointing to the enormous dining table that had been covered with a lace tablecloth.

Lottie felt panic rise. She’d attended dozens of formal affairs and knew which fork to use for what, but setting a table to the Tremaines’ specifications was daunting. And how would the Tremaines accept her as the real Charlotte Gleason if they remembered her serving them as a maid?

First things first. She felt her plan—such as it was—was better served abovestairs rather than below, so she had to do a good job.

“I don’t wish to do it wrong, Mrs. Sinclair. Would you mind setting up one place as you’d like it and I’ll do the rest?”

Mrs. Sinclair’s look was indecipherable. Had Lottie given herself away? Did all maids know how to set such a table?

But then the housekeeper nodded once and said, “That’s the smartest thing I’ve ever heard said to me, girl. There’s no shame in not knowing, only in not asking. Here, let me show you how it’s to be done.”

Lottie watched intently, feeling quite triumphant.

Out of the corner of her eye, Lottie spotted Mrs. Sinclair bob a curtsy. She looked to the door of the dining room and saw a regal-looking woman enter. Was this—?

“Mrs. Tremaine,” Mrs. Sinclair said, halting the placement of candles in the four sterling candelabra.

The lady of the house walked toward the dining room table, her eyes seeing everything.

Lottie stopped her work and had to retrieve her heart from her shoes. This was the woman. This was her future mother-in-law.

Step up! Tell her who you are!

But instead of stepping forward, Lottie found herself taking two steps back, away from the table, giving Mrs. Tremaine room to walk around unhindered.

The woman adjusted a fork here, a glass there—a quarter of an inch at the most. After she’d moved to the other side of the table, she looked up and saw Lottie. Her eyes lingered a moment.

Does she recognize me from the photograph we sent them?
In the split second that followed, Lottie tried to remember her expression in that photograph. If she matched it just so …

She offered a slight smile.

But too late. Mrs. Tremaine had moved on, her eyes on the table. “Who is responsible for the setting?” she asked Mrs. Sinclair.

“That girl, over there. A new girl brought in for the party.”

Once again, Mrs. Tremaine stopped and looked at Lottie. “The job is done well, girl.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Tremaine.” Her impulses warred with common sense.
I’m not a maid! I’m Charlotte Gleason! You see, it was all an idiotic idea of mine to let my maid take my place and—

“What’s your name, girl?”

Oh. My. Goodness. Now was her chance.

Lottie tried to suppress the frantic beating of her heart. “My name is Lottie, Lottie—”

Crash!

Mrs. Tremaine hurried into the foyer, followed by Mrs. Sinclair. There was commotion and Lottie heard reference to a vase and flowers.

She stood alone in the dining room, transfixed, unable to move. Her head began to shake in small bursts. Because she’d hesitated, her chance had been lost. Gone.

Was the lost chance a blessing or a blunder?

Mrs. Sinclair returned. “Stupid boy. Can’t even carry a vase from one room to the other without tripping over his own feet.” She glanced at Lottie. “You did good, girl, but back to work with you.”

“But Mrs. Tremaine? Is she coming back?”

“What? You want further praise? Be thankful for what you got. Mrs. Tremaine has more to do than gush over you. And so do I. When you get done with the table, I’m going to have you help me set up a beverage buffet in the drawing room.”

Now that Lottie had seen one of the Tremaines, now that she’d spoken to one, she didn’t want to be relegated to busywork. She had to see Dora, and see her now.

“If Miss Gleason needs extra help getting ready, I would be happy to oblige.”

Mrs. Sinclair turned toward her, candle in hand. “What are you? A jack-of-all-trades?”

“I used to be a lady’s maid too.”

“Well, aren’t you special? Did you also work as a stableboy and a butler?”

“No, I just—”

“You just do as you’re told. One compliment from the mistress doesn’t earn you the right to choose your work. Now finish up.”