Masquerade (12 page)

Dora pushed her hand away. “I can’t go back to the dining room.”

“You must.”

“They’ll stare at me. They’ll talk about me.”

“They have already done both. But if you return with your head held high and a hint of
Ç’est la vie
, they’ll—”

“Sayla-what?”

“Such is life. Things happen but life goes on, Dora.” She took her arm. “And so do we. Besides, I’m famished.”

At least Dora would go down with a full stomach.

Dinner was under way. Lottie had secretly wished it were not so, for now they had to enter the room as the only ones standing. They would be noticed.

She paused at the door and said to a footman, “Table seven, please.”

They snaked their way through the tables to the far side of the room. Lottie smiled and nodded. Her arm ached from the clench of Dora’s grip.

To their credit, some diners barely gave them notice, but others leaned head to head and whispered.

Just a little farther …

With only a few steps to go, Lottie felt Dora let go of her arm and, to her horror, saw her detour to the left. Lottie nearly called after her, but simply stopped instead.

And waited.

And watched.

Dora approached a table of eight, and those present halted their eating and conversation.

Where is she going?

Dora moved halfway around the table and stopped beside a gentleman with long sideburns. He looked up at her expectantly—but also with a bit of trepidation. “Yes, Miss … ?”

“Connors.” She handed him her lace-edged handkerchief. “For your shoes.”

He took the handkerchief and studied it a moment. He ran a finger along the monogram:
DC.
Then he let out a laugh. “Good show. Yes, yes, good show.”

Dora offered a small bow, then returned to Lottie. Her smile was perfect—self-composed, amused, and above all, in control.

She took Lottie’s arm and said, “Shall we dine, Miss Gleason?”

“Absolutely.”

Bravo, Dora.

“Are you asleep?”

“No,” Lottie answered.

“I
can
do this, you know. Be a lady.”

“I know.”

Dora turned on her side and adjusted the pillow against her cheek. The rest of the dinner had gone well. She’d followed Lottie’s advice about listening and observing, and had even joined the conversation on more than one occasion.

Yet the highlight of her evening, her biggest triumph, had been when she’d made the gentleman laugh.

During that one moment she knew she’d found the key to getting by in society.

Chapter Six

Dora moved her parasol aside to let the sunlight bathe her face. “ ’ Tis a grand day.”

Lottie fiddled with the buttons on her gloves as they strolled around the first-class deck. “I’m glad you’re not content to sit under the awnings. Those ladies there, afraid of a little sun. I know it can wreak havoc on the complexion and Mother always warned me it would make me look common, but to sit in the shade all one’s life … what a waste.”

Dora loved the sun. The awnings set up for shade made her feel as if she were sitting in a tent, far removed from the world.

Which is exactly what they were. Under way for the second day, beyond sight of land, the sea and the sky stretched endlessly. It was invigorating, yet also a bit frightening.

“I do think we should keep track of the number of times we make a go round this deck,” Lottie said. “I believe this is number four?”

Dora wouldn’t have objected to it being number forty-four. This was the first time she had experienced the sky from horizon to horizon, to horizon, to horizon. It was as if God had inverted a lovely blue bowl over the ocean, which, in turn, gratefully reflected its blueness. And the air … although she was used to the clear country air of Wiltshire, this air seemed bitingly fresh.

She gazed over the white-capped sea looking for the sea gulls that had seen them on their way, dipping low on the water before rising into the sky. Their freedom to soar had made her feel as if the world were hers.

But the birds were gone. Was the ship too far out to sea for their comfort? Had they instinctively returned to the safety of land rather than taking a chance on this contraption moving through the water? The ship was so large. How did it ever float at all? And if everyone suddenly moved to one side of the ship, would it capsize? The depth of the water was beyond Dora’s comprehension, other than to know there would be no way to survive in it.

She studied the people around her. No one else looked worried. She was being silly and had tainted her delight of the lovely day.

She heard children’s laughter and was drawn to a railing that overlooked a lower deck. Boys were throwing someone’s shoe into the air, teasing the younger one by keeping it just out of reach.

“Come away,” Lottie said, pulling on her arm. “We shouldn’t watch—”

Dora knew the emigrants made Lottie uneasy, but
she
was fascinated with them. The first-class deck was spotted with proper ladies and gentlemen taking a stroll or sitting upon deck chairs, reading a book or sharing refined conversation. But the lower decks—she’d heard their accommodations called
steerage
—teemed with families dressed in dark colors and drab, functional clothes. Mothers rocked babies, and men gathered in groups, nursing their pipes amid animated conversation. And children ran and played, finding joy within their constrained space.

A woman looked up at her. Dora began to wave, then thought better of it. The emigrants wouldn’t look upon her kindly. She was a
have
and they were definitely
have-nots
. Yet the knowledge that they were traveling to America to find a new beginning did cause her to admire them.

“Dora, away.” Lottie’s voice was softly urgent.

When Dora turned back to the first-class deck, she found more than Lottie’s eyes upon her. Apparently looking down upon the lower classes was only acceptable in less literal ways.

She took Lottie’s arm and returned to their circuit.

The children’s laughter faded.

“This isn’t fair,” Lottie said. “You look as if that dress were meant for you—as if all my dresses were made for you.”

Dora stopped adjusting the floral trim that diagonally bisected the lace bodice and culminated beneath two silken bows upon her shoulders. “You’re very kind, Lottie. But I will never forget these are your dresses. And this one would look lovely on anyone.”

Lottie appreciated her effort to appease but knew Dora’s statement was not true. The peach-colored gown of silk with layers of ivory lace looked far different on the present Dora than it had on the maid Dora, who’d first tried it on in Lottie’s bedroom. At first, trying on the possible gowns for the trip had overwhelmed the maid, but now
she
wore the dresses; they did not wear her. Dora was truly taking on the persona of a lady.

She put on earrings—also borrowed from Lottie. “I certainly hope I don’t tread upon anyone’s toes at the ball tonight. You’ve been a patient teacher, but I fear I will forget every lesson once the music begins.”

Lottie was more concerned that no one would invite Dora to dance. Her first-night faux pas still rumbled through the occasional overheard conversation. There was not an official shunning afoot, but neither was there acceptance. Tonight would be a true test as to how the rest of the sailing would go.

“This train …” Dora said, taking a few steps. “Its weight, coupled with the fact that it will be in the way …”

“Use its weight,” Lottie advised. “There is nothing like the swing of a train as you sail across the floor.”

“What if I trip?”

Lottie didn’t want either of them to think of that.

They left their cabin and headed to dinner—and the ball.

The ballroom was more intimate than Dora expected, but considering it was aboard a ship … it still glittered with light, jewels, and beaded gowns.

She fanned herself in order to have something to do and noticed a few sideways glances from other attendees, a few whispers behind ornamental fans. Were they still holding last night’s gaffe against her? Her confidence waned. Maybe she should return to the cabin and let Lottie attend alone.

Just then a man with long sideburns approached—her man with the wetted shoes. Had his laughter last night been reconsidered?

But when he smiled, relief washed over her.

“Good evening,” he said with a bow.

“Good evening.”

“Forgive me for not introducing myself last evening. The name is Edmund Greenfield.” He clicked his heels together and nodded.

She offered a small curtsy. “Dora Connors.” She now had reason to use the fan. He was a handsome man, a bit swarthy, and definitely intriguing.

He removed something from his pocket and unfurled it into the air between them. “I believe this is yours?”

It was her handkerchief. “Yes, thank you,” she said. But on a whim she returned it to him. “The night is young, Mr. Greenfield. Perhaps you should keep it. Who knows what I might spill.”

He laughed and the handkerchief returned to his pocket. He pointed to his shoes. “They
are
good as new.”

“Glad I could be of service.”