Masquerade (50 page)

Perhaps the mention of Fitz would help her cause. “I have a child,” she said.

Dora’s eyes widened. “What? You have a—?”

“I found a baby abandoned on the street and took him in. I love him, Dora. I never thought I could love someone like I love that boy. But he needs a good home.”

“Where is he now?”

“With Nanny. I found Nanny running a foundling home. That is
my
miracle.”

Dora shook her head, and Lottie could tell it was too much for her to comprehend. “I have to go,” Dora said. “I have to get back.” She stood and moved to the door, then stopped. “You’re not going to do anything tonight, are you?”

Although Lottie had thought about it … “No. I promise you that. Not tonight. But come to me tomorrow at the foundling home and we’ll talk some more.” She pulled an address from her pocket.

“Tomorrow.”

Dora took the note, nodded, and left the room.

There. It was done.

Left alone in the gallery, Lottie turned a full circle, taking it all in. She gave her own nod to the paintings. “I’ll be back.”

Chapter Nineteen

Charlotte was relieved the dinner in her honor wasn’t as prone to silence as the usual Tremaine meals. This sampling of the elite of New York society were skilled at banter. Meaningless banter. There was no talk of politics, religion, or money, but plenty mention of opera, balls, and gossip. Ward McAllister provided much of that. Other than the occasional polite question, they ignored Charlotte. Which was fine with her.

Her main point of nervousness was caused by Lottie’s presence. Every time she looked in her direction, Lottie looked back. It was as though they had already resumed their original roles. Charlotte might be wearing satin and emeralds and Lottie a maid’s uniform, but Lottie was the one in control, and Charlotte felt the restraints of their old relationship falling into place, the dynamics of Lottie the mistress and Charlotte—Dora—the maid.

But it’s not fair! She can’t come back here and ruin everything!

This whole thing had been Lottie’s idea. Dora hadn’t asked to assume her identity. She would never have thought of such a notion. But now that things were nicely in place …

It was just like Lottie to change her mind and expect the world to stop turning so she could step back on.

“Miss Gleason?”

Lottie stood behind Charlotte’s shoulder, waiting to serve the squab with cherry sauce.

“Yes. Please.”

Lottie used silver tongs to put the bird on Charlotte’s plate, then changed utensils to spoon the sauce over it. She brushed Charlotte’s arm. Charlotte felt one of her gloves slip from her lap to the floor— where she left it.

“Pardon me, miss.”

The brush had been on purpose. Charlotte knew it.

She wanted Lottie to leave. Charlotte’s excitement about seeing her again had been replaced by a growing anger at her audacity. If Lottie
was
going to declare the farce to the world, why didn’t she just do it? Why this torture?

Lottie served Conrad next, then moved on.

“Mrs. Astor?” Lottie said, ready to serve society’s headmistress.

Charlotte glanced to her left and saw a look of consternation on Mrs. Astor’s face, and also on Mrs. Tremaine’s. And then she knew what was wrong. Servants didn’t address the guests. They were invisible— hands to help and arms to aid. They had no personality, no names, no opinions, and certainly no voice.

Lottie had grown bold. Too bold.

Mrs. Tremaine flashed a look at the butler, who quickly assessed the problem. As soon as Mrs. Astor was served and before Lottie could continue her service, he stepped forward, touched her arm, and whispered something for her ears alone.

“But …”

He took the tray from her and continued the rounds himself. The housekeeper quickly showed Lottie the door.

Charlotte could only imagine what transpired next. Poor Lottie.

Yet her sympathy was far overshadowed by relief.

“You must leave. At once,” Mrs. Sinclair said.

Lottie shook her hand off her arm. “Why would I do that?”

“Your services are no longer required. Come with me.”

Mrs. Sinclair took her arm and tried to lead her toward the back stairs to the kitchen.

Once again, Lottie pulled out of her grasp. “No! I won’t go. I belong here.”

“Apparently you don’t. What were you thinking addressing the guests by name?”

So that was it?
“I was polite. I used their proper names.”

“Exactly,” Mrs. Sinclair whispered. “You used their
names.
I don’t know what kind of household you worked in before, but here at the Tremaines’ that’s completely unacceptable.” She nodded to a footman to come to her assistance.

This wasn’t the way it was supposed to transpire. Lottie wouldn’t be manhandled by these servants and removed from the house like some criminal.

As soon as she felt the man’s hands upon her, all reason fell away. “Get your hands off me!”

There was a scuffle, and even as Lottie was in the midst of it—kicking and hitting—she thought,
What am I doing? This isn’t like me!

“What’s going on out here?”

All three of them froze.

“Mr. Tremaine,” Mrs. Sinclair said. “I’m sorry, we’re just trying to deal with this servant and she refuses to leave.”

“What’s the problem, girl?”

Lottie smoothed her uniform, her thoughts spinning. Now was her chance to proclaim the truth. And yet …

If she truly wanted to take her place in the Tremaine family and among New York society, she couldn’t do it this way, making a scene, dressed as a maid on the verge of being thrown out. Besides, she’d promised Charlotte she wouldn’t do anything tonight.

“No problem, sir. I’m sorry to have disturbed you. I’m leaving now.”

He looked a little surprised at her agreeable exit but nodded once before returning to the dining room. Lottie could only imagine the table conversation that would follow.

It couldn’t be helped. She’d accomplished what she’d come to do. She’d spoken with Charlotte—with Dora. Now she had to be patient.

Lottie walked toward the back stairs. When the footman and Mrs. Sinclair began to follow, she kept walking, raised a hand to them, and said, “No need. I’ll see myself out.”

So there.

Mr. Tremaine returned to his seat with all eyes upon him. “A small altercation with the help. Nothing more. Carry on. Enjoy your dinner.”

Mrs. Astor shook her head. “Where
do
you get your help, Martin?”

He smiled and took a sip of his wine. “Off the streets, Caroline. Isn’t that where you find yours?”

Soft laughter ensued and Charlotte let herself breathe. It sounded as though Lottie was gone, and she obviously hadn’t revealed their secret. For the moment, all was well. She felt sorry for Lottie but was glad she was gone.

At her right Conrad spoke only to her. “Quite the eventful evening, eh, Miss Gleason?”

“Quite.”

If he only knew.

“Drop me here,” Lottie called over her shoulder to the driver.

The cart of firewood came to a stop, and Lottie hopped off the open back. “Thank you.”

The man gave her a one-finger salute and moved along the dark street.

Lottie staggered toward the Merciful Child Foundling Home. She tried the door, but it was locked. She knocked. If no one answered, she vowed to sleep on the stoop, for she could go no farther.

She had no idea what time it was. After she’d left the Tremaines’ she’d walked south until the upper-class streets had deteriorated into neighborhoods where few risked the darkness. Along the way she’d considered stopping at the church again, but the thought of seeing Fitz drew her onward.

When a cart had come by, Lottie flagged it down and begged a ride. The thought
A Gleason does not beg for anything
had come and gone before it even became a completed thought. Who was she to say what a Gleason did anymore? Her family’s status was waning—if it wasn’t already completely lost, her father was injured, and her mother and aunt were playing nursemaid. Nothing was as it had been. Nothing was as it should be.

Lifting her fist to knock one last time took enormous effort, but luckily the door opened before her feeble attempt could fail.

“Lottie!”

Nanny. Dear Nanny.

Lottie fell into her arms and let herself be led into the warm kitchen. “It all went wrong. I went to the Tremaines’ and ended up being a servant and—”

“Shh,” Nanny said as they entered the room. “Fitz is sleeping.”

Lottie looked toward the fire and was shocked to see Sven there, holding the boy. “Miss Hathaway.”

“Sven. What are you doing—?”

“Mr. Svensson came over after his work was finished for the day to check on little Fitzwilliam.” Nanny led Lottie to a chair by the fire. “Fitz has a cold and was fussy, and no one was able to comfort him like Sven.”

“He just wanted to be swaddled tight,” Sven said. He adjusted the blanket under the boy’s chin, then rose to give him to Lottie.
“Søde baby, søde dreng.”

Although Lottie was exhausted beyond measure, the feel of the baby in her arms tapped into a hidden source of strength. “Oh, sweet baby, I missed you so much.”

Fitz opened his eyes for but a moment before falling back to sleep.

“Apparently you also have a knack with him, child,” Nanny said.

Lottie looked at Sven. For him to spend his entire evening, helping out …

“I really appreciate your help, Sven. But you can go now. I’m sure your wife is worried about you.”

Sven plucked a string from his pants and let it float to the floor. “I need to talk to you.”

“Yes, he does,” Nanny said. She abruptly turned on her heel and left the room.

“What’s all this about?” Lottie asked.

Sven escaped the bondage of his chair and moved behind it, gripping its back. “I … I missed you, Miss Hathaway. More than I expected.”

She felt a twinge of pleasure. “I was only gone a short time.”

“But with the intention of being gone forever. You may not have said so, but I knew.” He cocked his head. “So your plan to regain your rightful place as Charlotte Gleason didn’t turn out?”