Masquerade (53 page)

Charlotte leapt out of bed to witness the looking. Although she would have rather had the handkerchief in the same condition that Edmund had given it to her, just having it at all would be enough.

Mary reached the bottom of the pile. “It’s not here.”

“Look again.”

Mary repeated the process to no avail.

“Let me.” Charlotte took each piece of clothing, each camisole, each stocking, each petticoat and bloomer, and shook it, willing the handkerchief to float to the floor.

“Perhaps it got in with someone else’s clothing,” Mary said. “I could go check—”

Check for a woman’s handkerchief that was monogrammed with
DC
? “You needn’t bother.”

It was lost. Her one token from Edmund was gone forever.

Charlotte retrieved a petticoat and began to fold it, but Mary took it out of her arms. “I’ll do that, miss.”

Of course she would.

“Would you like me to draw you a bath?”

Why not? She could sit and soak and prune.

And wonder about what could have been—and what would be.

Charlotte passed the butter to Conrad, trying to meet his eyes. When she’d come down to breakfast she’d expected to be greeted with congratulations from his family. But the meal had commenced without fanfare. Either Conrad hadn’t told them of their engagement or … perhaps they disapproved?

Yet certainly they would have been vociferous about the latter.

Was Conrad having second thoughts? Or had the old Conrad slunk back, the Conrad who would never think of risking his parents’ ire?

Finally, just after the sausages were served, Conrad put down his fork, pushed back his chair, and stood. “I have an announcement to make.”

“Just a minute, brother.” Beatrice pulled something from her sleeve. “Before you make any announcement, I have a question for Charlotte.” She unfurled the item, revealing Charlotte’s handkerchief.

“Where did you get that?” Charlotte asked.

“So you admit it’s yours?”

“Of course …” She stopped, unsure what to say.

Beatrice rearranged the handkerchief, smoothing the lace edge to showcase the monogram. “Hmm. If this is Charlotte’s handkerchief, one would think the monogram would read
CG
.”

“
DC
?” Mr. Tremaine asked. “Who is
DC
?”

Beatrice glared at Charlotte. “Perhaps you’d like to answer that?”

A lie came to her, a story she could make up. But the effort was too much.

And so it was over. Just like that.

Conrad’s head shook back and forth. “Beatrice, enough.”

“Not enough, I say. Let her answer. Or are you afraid of what she’ll say?”

Conrad looked to his mother for support, but even Mrs. Tremaine looked away. Mrs. Tremaine knew the truth, but did Conrad?

Mr. Tremaine slammed his napkin upon the table. “Will someone please tell me what’s going on here?”

Beatrice tossed the handkerchief across the table toward Charlotte. It missed its mark, landing near her goblet.

Charlotte wasn’t sure if she should retrieve it, but she finally did, drawing it into safekeeping in her lap.

“It
is
my handkerchief. And …” The next words would change her world forever, yet how could she not say them?
The truth shall make you free.

“My name is not Charlotte Gleason. My name is Dora Connors.”

Conrad sat down, clearly stunned. He hadn’t known? Only Mrs. Tremaine seemed unsurprised.

“Who is Dora Connors?” Mr. Tremaine asked.

“I am—I was—the maid of Charlotte Gleason.”

“A maid?” he asked.

Beatrice nodded, her face showing great satisfaction. “I suspected it from the beginning. She’s an imposter, trying to marry Conrad for our family’s riches.”

“I was not after the riches,” Charlotte said. She couldn’t have Conrad think that. She looked at him, but he was staring at the table. “I care for you. I really do. But …” And then, as if a veil had been lifted, she knew the full truth of it. “But I can’t marry you.”

“You proposed?” Mr. Tremaine asked. “When was this?”

“Last night after the party,” he said quietly. “And Charlotte accepted.” His eyes found hers. “You accepted.”

Beatrice slapped the table. “What are you talking about? She’s a maid pretending to be a lady! You can’t marry her, no matter how nice she seems.”

“Actually he could.” It was the first time Mrs. Tremaine had spoken. She looked to her husband. “Remember, I was but a governess.”

Beatrice was clearly beside herself. Her face was florid, her eyes darting. “Then why not just pull someone off the street?”

Charlotte remembered the discussion at dinner the night before regarding servants, about getting their servants off the street. “Actually, the real Charlotte Gleason was here last night.”

That
stunned the listeners to silence.

For a moment.

“Where?” Mrs. Tremaine asked.

“The maid who got into trouble, the one you had to dismiss? That was Charlotte Gleason.”

Mrs. Tremaine nodded as if connecting the dots.

“So you traded places? She’s now a maid?” Beatrice asked.

“Not exactly.” How could she explain it in the simplest of terms? Once she began, Dora avoided looking at Conrad. “Lottie was on her way here to marry Conrad, and I was her companion. But on the ship she changed her mind. She has an adventurous streak. It was nothing against any of you.”

“Sounds like a slight to me,” Mr. Tremaine said.

“Lottie is actually very caring. Instead of just saying no and letting that be that, she thought of her parents and how much they were depending—” That wasn’t the right word. “How excited they were at the idea of her marriage.”

Beatrice slapped the table again. “Excited about their daughter marrying Conrad for his money.”

Dora shook her head. “Not at all. Lottie gave up the chance to live this wonderful life. But she didn’t want to disappoint her parents. That’s why she asked me to take her place—which I was very willing to do.”

“Of course you were,” Beatrice said, linking her arms across her chest. “You had a chance to marry one of the richest men in New York.”

Charlotte could have denied it, but chose not to. “Of course that intrigued me. I’ve been in service since I was thirteen. It’s all I’ve ever known. To have the chance to live a different life, a better life? What girl wouldn’t take that chance if offered?”

“Indeed,” Mrs. Tremaine said.

“Then how did the real Charlotte end up a maid?” Mr. Tremaine asked.

“She’s not really a maid. She came here to see me, to ask me to end our charade. She decided impersonating a maid would get her in the door.”

“There is far too much deception going on here,” he said.

“I know,” Charlotte agreed. “And I apologize for all of it. We truly meant no harm. It was a way to get to America. To start over.” She thought of the stories she’d heard. “Isn’t that how America came to be? Through people wanting to start fresh?”

“At whose expense?” Beatrice asked. “You duped us.”

Charlotte remembered the softer Beatrice who’d showed Charlotte her paintings and who’d come alive with the thought of displaying them at her family’s store. “No matter what name I came under, I’ve lived here as myself. All I’ve said and shared and felt has been genuine.” She looked at each Tremaine. “I care for all of you. I have lied by assuming another identity, but I’ve been totally honest with you in all my other actions.”

The silence was palpable, and Charlotte lowered her head, avoiding their eyes.

Finally Conrad spoke. “So? Will you still marry me?”

She looked up. “Marry—?”

“I don’t know about that, son.”

Mrs. Tremaine shushed them. “Let her answer.”

Conrad found Charlotte’s hand and took it in his. “Will you marry me, Char … Dora?”

Charlotte was stunned. All this time she’d feared exposure and its consequences, yet now she was going to be allowed …

She clutched the handkerchief in her lap and raised it enough to see it and remember all it represented.

Edmund. I love Edmund.

With tears in her eyes, she looked upon Conrad. He was so trusting, so generous to ignore her deception. “Thank you, Conrad, but … but I can’t marry you.”

“What?” Mr. Tremaine threw his hands in the air. “Are you crazy, girl?”

“Perhaps,” she said. And she meant it. She had no guarantee that Edmund would want to marry her. By giving up Conrad she might lose both men in her life. But the truth had come this far; she couldn’t backtrack into a lie.

Conrad leaned close as if trying to achieve a measure of intimacy amid his family’s presence. “Why, Dora? Why change your mind? I forgive you. I love you no matter what your name is.”

Oh, how she hated to hurt him. She put a hand upon his cheek. “You’re an amazing man, Conrad Tremaine. You’re creative and strong and wise and kind, and your family is privileged to have you take over the business. But you deserve someone who loves you as a wife should love a husband. I’ll always love you as the dearest friend. But I can’t marry you.”

He studied her a long moment, then touched the hand upon his cheek, kissed it, and let her go.

Charlotte rose. She couldn’t stay among them a moment longer. “I must go now. I’ll pack and—”

“You’re not taking all those dresses we got for you,” Beatrice said.

Mrs. Tremaine raised a hand. “She can take whatever she wishes.” She extended her hand toward Charlotte.

Her generosity and forgiving nature were surprising. Charlotte went to her, gripped her hand, and gave her a kiss upon the cheek.

“Be well, dear girl. And remember that Gertie is here if you need her.”

Charlotte ran from the room.

Dora burst into her bedroom and shut the door. Then she fell to her knees, letting her hands cushion her forehead upon the carpet. “Oh, God, thank you. I never ever imagined it could happen like this.”

She stayed in that position before the heavenly throne a good while, her heart overflowing with gratitude and awe. Her exposure had ended in a manner beyond her imaginings. Not only had she not been kicked out, not only were the police not called, but Dora Connors was leaving with the family’s blessings.

Only a knock on the door pulled her from her prayers.

“Yes?”

Mary popped her head inside and showed surprise at seeing her mistress on the floor. “Are you all right?”

Dora held out her hand and Mary helped her to standing. “I’m fine.”

Mary faltered. “I thought maybe you was feeling poorly, because Dr. Greenfield is here to see you.”

Dora laughed aloud at God’s amazing provision. “Send him up.”

With Mary gone to fetch him, Dora looked at the handkerchief that had started and consummated her amazing journey from Dora to Charlotte and back again.

There was a soft rap on the door. Dora’s heart leapt as she said, “Come in.”

Dr. Greenfield entered—Edmund entered, his countenance clearly confused. “Your maid said I should come up? Are you feeling poorly?”

She grinned. “Not at all.”

He was still confused. “You seem very happy.”

“Oh yes.”

A nod. “I came here to see … I passed Conrad on his way out. He said he’d proposed and … I was to ask you about it?” He straightened his back, putting on a mask of formality. “I wish to congratulate you on your engagement.”

She was nearly bursting, wanting to proclaim her love. Yet she couldn’t, not without knowing how he felt.

“I’m not engaged to Conrad,” she said. “He asked, but I told him I couldn’t marry him.”

Edmund blinked, then blinked again. “Couldn’t?”

“No, I couldn’t. Because I didn’t love …
him
.”

She watched as comprehension washed over his face. His eyes began to sparkle. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“I’m not.” She reached out a hand. If he took it …

Edmund stared at it for but a second before taking hold, then found her other hand and pulled her close. “It appears I am not sorry either.”

“Because … ?” She smiled up at him.

“Because if he were to marry you, then … then I could not.”

She stepped back and spread their arms wide, lifting her face to the heavens, fully and completely happy.