Masquerade (48 page)

Lottie’s mind swam.
How can I get to Dora? How can I talk to—?

Mrs. Sinclair stood with her arms crossed. “I’m waiting.”

For what?

“Say, ‘Yes, Mrs. Sinclair.’ You’d better show some respect, girl, or I’ll have Mr. Childs toss your bum on the street.”

He wouldn’t dare.
But even though her anger had been ignited, she said the words that were required. “Yes, Mrs. Sinclair.”

Servitude was clearly not her forte.

“The dress is so heavy.”

Mary was right. The pink and green gown that Mrs. Tremaine had made for Charlotte felt like a hundred stones had been tied around her body, weighing her down, pulling her down …

Drowning her.

If only she could have worn the garnet dress Conrad purchased for her at the store. That dress made her feel pretty and elegant, while this one made her feel as though she were strapped to a garden arbor.

From handling Lottie’s dresses, Charlotte had long ago realized that the wealthy somehow equated layers, bulk, and ornament with status. The heavier the fabric, and the more drapery, bustle, fringe, and bead, the better. With this as a measurement, this evening’s dress earned her the title of countess. Or princess. An American princess who was bringing her own flowers.

There was a knock on the door. Mary answered it, letting Beatrice in.

“Mother said she forgot to order you gloves, so I’m to loan you some of mine.” She handed Charlotte some long butter-colored gloves, then gave the dress a look. She didn’t smile. “So. Do you like the dress?”

Once again, now wasn’t the time for the truth. “As you said, it’s perfection.”

“Humph. I may have said that, but I never meant it.”

“You didn’t?”

Beatrice shook her head. “Mother’s trying too hard with that dress, which means—”

“I look like I’m trying too hard.”

She shrugged. “At least Mother believes you
can
be accepted by the Four Hundred. She’s given up on me.”

“I’m sure that’s not true.”

Beatrice adjusted a yellow flower on Lottie’s hip. “Do you think it’s easy being plain?”

“I …”

“My brother, who’s no looker himself, gets to marry you, a beauty. But because I’m not beautiful, I’m sought after by no one. Even my father’s money can’t make me desirable.” She picked a ribbon from the dressing table and wrapped it around a finger. “Even that scallywag Ward McAllister doesn’t pay attention to me.”

Charlotte remembered Mr. McAllister from their walk in Central Park. The man’s innuendo toward Charlotte had been discomfiting. “I expect there are many women who yearn to be ignored by Mr. McAllister.”

Beatrice let the ribbon spiral from finger to table. “It doesn’t matter. I’ve accepted my state.” She looked up. “As of today.”

“Today?”

Beatrice moved to Charlotte’s side, adjusting the trim on a sleeve. “Since you found a way for my paintings to be displayed, I’ve found my true purpose.”

Charlotte smiled. “I was happy to do it. And you’ll be doing Conrad a favor, your family’s store a favor.”

“You did me a favor.”

Their eyes met for only a moment, but it was enough. This was Beatrice’s way of making amends. When the older girl looked away, Charlotte said, “Do you really think this dress is too much?”

“Absolutely. But Mother, Mrs. Astor, and Mrs. Vanderbilt will love it, and that’s what counts.”

There was another knock on the door, but this time Beatrice answered it. It was Mr. Childs, with a box. Beatrice brought it to Charlotte. “Childs says this is for you. From Conrad.”

“Why didn’t he bring it himself?” she asked, taking the blue velvet box.

“If you haven’t noticed, my brother isn’t the most courageous of beings.”

Yet. In the short time Charlotte had known him, Conrad had made many positive strides in the right direction.

“Well?” Beatrice said. “Aren’t you going to open it?”

Charlotte undid the clasp and opened—

She gasped.

“Emeralds,” Beatrice said. “If I’m not mistaken, they were my grandmother’s.”

Charlotte carefully lifted the necklace, marveling at the sparkle of the green jewels and the diamonds that surrounded them. “It’s magnificent. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Beatrice took it from her, working to open the clasp. “Of course you haven’t.” She put the necklace on Charlotte and hooked the clasp. “There. Take a look.”

Charlotte moved to the full-length mirror. The green in the emeralds perfectly enhanced the green velvet ribbons on her dress. Her fingers flitted from stone to stone as if testing to see if they were truly hers.

“Quite lovely, if I do say so.” Beatrice sighed. “It appears my brother is set on marrying you. He wouldn’t give these to you otherwise.”

“Really?”

“That
is
why you’re here, isn’t it?”

“Yes, of course, but …” Charlotte let it go. She couldn’t think about that right now. She had to get through the evening.

“I’ll leave you, then, for I have some primping of my own to do—as if it will matter. I’ll see you soon.”

“Of course,” Charlotte said. “Thank you for stopping—”

But as Beatrice left, Mrs. Tremaine entered. She scanned Charlotte from head to toe and back again, finally resting her gaze upon the necklace.

“Conrad just gave it to me.”

Her left eyebrow rose. She turned to Mary. “Leave us.”

Mary looked as surprised as Charlotte felt. Was something wrong?

“Please sit.” Mrs. Tremaine indicated a specific chair. She, however, remained standing. “Firstly, I wanted to tell you that I appreciate what you have done for my children.”

“I haven’t—”

She raised a hand, stopping Charlotte’s words. “I am not ignorant to the travails of growing up in a wealthy home, expecting the world, yet having the world expect little in return.”

Charlotte was genuinely interested. She would never have imagined such a statement from Mrs. Tremaine.

The woman strolled as she talked, the train of her dress following obediently behind her. “I know my children’s weaknesses: Conrad gives in too easily, and Beatrice has erected a wall of sarcasm. Yet you, in your brief time here, have given them purpose. I’ve never seen Conrad so enthusiastic about the store, nor seen Beatrice drop her guard enough to let me witness a glimmer of the innocent, hopeful girl she once was.”

Charlotte was going to denounce her involvement, yet decided just to say, “I’m glad you approve.”

“I do more than approve, I’m grateful.” She paused in front of the empty jewel box and shut it with a snap. “When you first arrived I was skeptical, and honestly, you didn’t seem to be the girl we thought you were. There were times—” she found Charlotte’s eyes—“times when I didn’t know
who
you were.”

Charlotte felt sick to her stomach. What had started as a conversation of gratitude had veered toward one of exposure.

I know who you are, Miss Gleason—or should I say, Miss Connors?

“I’m sorry if I’ve disappointed you in any way,” Charlotte said. “And I apologize for the mistakes I’ve made. It’s been a bit unnerving coming here, across the world. I’ve done my best to—”

“I received some information earlier today, from a man who works for my husband.”

The man with the red curly hair and the droopy mustache?
Charlotte tried to recall if she’d ever seen the man before and thought not. So what could he have against her?

Mrs. Tremaine moved the jewelry box to Charlotte’s vanity table. “Honestly, I don’t know what to think of his allegations.”

“Allegations? I …” The defense
I’ve done nothing wrong
was halted before the lie could fall into the space between them.

Mrs. Tremaine looked upon Charlotte long enough for the girl to feel a twitch in her jaw and a clenching of her innards.

I have to tell her. She deserves to know. She already knows. It was wonderful while it lasted, but Lottie and I were stupid to think we could ever get away with—

Mrs. Tremaine broke her stance and walked to the mantel. “Did you know my maiden name was Gertie Gooseman?”

Surely she was joking.

Her lack of a smile revealed otherwise. “I didn’t know that,” Charlotte said.

“I came to America with my parents in 1850. We escaped the horrible potato famine in Ireland. My two siblings died on the trip over, and my mother died the next year in childbirth. My father … amid his sorrow he took to drink.”

“I’m so sorry,” Charlotte said. “I’ve lost family too and—” She realized she’d said too much.

But Mrs. Tremaine seemed not to notice as she traced her fingers over the porcelain figurines and silver candlesticks above the fireplace. “I was fortunate enough to become a governess.” She looked right at Charlotte. “To the Tremaine family.”

“Oh my.”

Mrs. Tremaine nodded and continued her tactile journey. “Martin—Mr. Tremaine—was two years my senior. As I taught his younger siblings he became enamored with me. And I with him. He was so dashing, so full of life.”

Charlotte wanted to ask how Gertie Gooseman had ever been allowed to marry Martin Tremaine, when the answer was given.

“The Tremaines were not wealthy back then, but Martin had dreams of opening a department store. He was working with his father, selling lace in a small shop when he asked me to be his wife. And now, thirty years later …” She spread her hands.

“It’s the sort of story one often hears about in America,” Charlotte said.

Mrs. Tremaine nodded. “It’s a story I understand. It’s a story I must condone or call myself a hypocrite.”

What was she saying?

“Do you love my son?”

Charlotte jerked at the question. “I … I believe I could.”

Mrs. Tremaine nodded. “In spite of the dictates of society—dictates that have become my own for lack of something better—I believe love must be present in a marriage. If either party is marrying for reasons other than love, the marriage should not take place.” She cocked her head ever so slightly. “Do you agree?”

Charlotte found her throat dry. “I do.”

“Good.” She walked briskly to the door. “Be ready by seven sharp. I’ll send Mary back in to help you.”

Charlotte was glad she was seated, for she had no strength left. The only reason she could imagine Mrs. Tremaine sharing that story was if she wanted to draw a parallel between her own humble beginnings and—

Mary slipped into the room, her face full of questions. “Mrs. Tremaine looked a bit sad. Did something happen?”

“No, nothing,” Charlotte said. “She merely wanted to wish me well.”

She stood and let Mary help her with the finishing touches of her costume.

Costume.

For carrying out a masquerade.

“Be polite, prompt, pretty, and proper.”

Lottie’s instructions about being a lady came back to Charlotte as she stood at the door of her bedroom ready to proceed downstairs for her welcome party. Her heart beat like a clock gone wild, and she could find no breath deep enough to sustain her. Her legs were weak, as if her bones had decided to leave the support to her muscles alone.

Mary held her elbow. “Do you want me to call Dr. Greenfield?”

Like a comet, Charlotte’s thoughts raced to Edmund. If only he could be at the party, supporting her with a glance, encouraging her with a smile.

But even if he could, why would he? The party was one more step toward marrying Conrad. She knew Edmund had feelings for her, and she had feelings for him. To witness the gap between them growing before his eyes and be helpless to change it …

Then stop all this now. Walk down those stairs and keep walking out the door and away. You don’t have to do this. Edmund doesn’t care if you’re high society; all he wants is you.

“And all I want is … ?”

“Pardon, miss?”

Her bravado left her. Whether she wished to admit it or not, Charlotte was excited about her party. What woman wouldn’t be? Tonight was her chance to be the toast of New York City, an American princess.

“Open the door, Mary. It’s time.”