Masquerade (24 page)

Lucia went next, leaving Lottie alone with the mostly male crowd awaiting their turn. The attention continued, with sly smiles and heads bent toward heads, talking amongst themselves. One man put his fingers to his lips and kissed them.

It was too much. “Stop it!” she said.

They laughed and their talking gained momentum and volume.

Since she was leaving this place, since she would never see these people again, and since they probably didn’t understand English anyway, she decided to tell them what for. She placed her hands on her hips, raised her chin, and said, “My name is Charlotte Gleason and my father has more money than the lot of you will make in ten lifetimes. I’ve been presented to the queen of England and am only here because a thief stole all my jewels and money. So you had best leave me alone and go after women of your own station—whatever that is.”

During her tirade a couple of the men mimicked her, with hands on their hips and bobbing heads. She didn’t care. It felt good to have said it.

With impeccable timing, Lucia emerged from the outhouse just in time for Lottie to take her arm and escape into the building.

Lucia looked over her shoulder at the men they left behind. “What you do?”

“I gave them the scolding they deserve.”

“Cosa?”

Lottie dropped Lucia’s arm and made boxing motions.

Lucia laughed.
“Combatti.”
She made a fist and added a sound,
“Pwue!”

“Pow!”

The five flights up didn’t seem as strenuous with laughter fueling their way.

Charlotte squinted her eyes against the light. Mary was at the windows, pulling aside the heavy drapery. “Good morning, miss. I’m drawing your bath.”

She sat upright, stirred by the thought. Yesterday, she’d seen the large claw-footed tub but had been uncertain as to the protocol of asking for a bath. She didn’t want to cause anyone undue trouble. But to bathe in such a tub …

When she’d first started working at the Gleasons’, they’d just added a bathroom on the second floor that contained a flush toilet, a sink, and a tub. They’d carved the space out of a guest bedroom. The servants hadn’t shared the luxury and had continued to use hip baths in the kitchen and the outhouse in the yard. But the Gleasons’ functional bathroom was primitive compared to the one off of Charlotte’s bedroom. And communal.

The fact she didn’t need to venture into the hallway was luxury indeed. The bath was completely tiled in white and was situated between her own room and another guest room. Mary had intimated that Mr. and Mrs. Tremaine each had their own baths (as well as their own bedrooms), and there was another facility shared by the other two guest rooms. Conrad and Beatrice had their own. There was also a W.C. situated on the first floor near the cloak room, and Mary bragged that even the servants had a complete set of indoor plumbing downstairs.

“I’ve brought some garments into the room for you, miss. And some towels are on the warmers.”

Warmers?

There were a series of pipes coming out of the floor, forming a towel rack before returning to the floor again. They were spaced wide enough for towels to be hung upon them. Charlotte touched one and found it hot.

“There’s nothing like a warm towel after a bath,” Mary said.

“I can imagine.”

And the bathwater itself was enticing, with steam rising …

Mary stood ready to help remove her nightdress. “I’m fine now, Mary. Thank you.”

She bobbed a curtsy. “As you wish, miss. Would you like to wear the blue day dress?”

How many times had she made such suggestions to Lottie? But in this case, Charlotte wasn’t certain. “I don’t know what the Tremaines have planned.”

“ ’ Tis not for me to know, miss.”

Unfortunately, Charlotte wasn’t certain it was for her to know either. The blue dress would do—for a start. She assumed changing clothes was a frequent occurrence.

Mary left her and Charlotte made sure the door leading to the other guest room was locked. Then, just because she could, she locked the door leading to her own bedroom. At the Gleasons’ there were no locks on the doors to any of the servants’ quarters. Charlotte had been thankful Mr. Gleason was not the sort to take advantage, and she’d also been glad there were no Gleason sons. Keeping the hallboy at bay at Dornby Manor had been enough of a challenge.

She pulled her hair into an impromptu knot, then slipped into the bath. The water rose to her chin. A bar of soap sat ready at the side. Unlike the Pears soap Lottie used back home, this bar was shaped into a white rectangle. She brought it to her nose and inhaled a fresh scent that smelled … clean. Carved into the top of the bar was the word
Ivory
.

The tub was designed to offer support for her head. She closed her eyes. Never had she felt so indulgent. To loll in a hot bath, without a care …

On a whim, she slid completely under the water. She blubbered and spit and quickly rose out again, a bit afraid. She’d never been immersed like that. Was this what swimming was like? Emboldened, she took a breath, held it, and slid down once again. All sound ceased but the
bwom-boomp
of her own heart. She’d never heard it so, resounding through the water, ringing in her ears.

Unnerved, she emerged again, glad to be among familiar sounds. Pressing her soaking hair away from her face, she realized combing it would be a challenge. But as she leaned back she let such trivial worries fall away with the bubbles upon the water.

When she let herself fully relax, the experience became more than a mere bath. It was a cleansing of the past, a rebirth. A purification. It was the final washing away of Dora Connors and the transformation of that maid into someone important, someone with a place in society and a purpose beyond meaningless household tasks. It was a baptism marking a new life with a new name.

Through amazing circumstances, she was now Charlotte Gleason, and with due effort, determination, and God’s help, she would become Charlotte Tremaine. With that one act her mother would have her sweet shop, Lottie would gain the freedom she craved, and Charlotte would live like a princess with a good man at her side.

What kind of life this would be!

What kind of life would this be?

Back in her own clothes—including her dreaded corset—Lottie finished her good-byes to the Scarpellis. Dante had already left for work with the men, and Lucia was leaving also. Lea encased her with a warm embrace. “Take care,
sì
?”

“Sì.”

“
Che Dio sia con te.
God be with you.”

She was touched. “And also with you.”

Sofia stood at her mother’s side, and Lottie knelt to see her face-to-face. She adjusted a flower in Lottie’s bonnet, which the little girl had donned upon rising. “Take care of my hat for me. You look very pretty.
Bella
.”

Sofia smiled shyly, then reached out and touched Lottie’s cheek.

She’d better leave soon or she would cry.

There was one last Scarpelli …

Lottie stood before Lucia and took her hands. “I’ll miss you.” And oddly, it was true. Although they’d known each other only a few hours, although they’d only exchanged a few dozen words, they shared a bond that seemed instinctive, inherent, and strong. Yet perhaps not inevitable. For Lottie felt an attachment with this Italian girl beyond any fondness she’d ever felt in Wiltshire among the young women of her own set.

Lucia nodded at Lottie and her brows furrowed. Her chin quivered. “I miss you too.”

Not knowing what else to say, Lottie put a hand upon her heart. Lucia did the same.

Lottie made a vow that once she was settled she would return to Mulberry Street to visit Lucia. Yet as she left the tenement and walked north toward the address of Dora’s cousin, she was not sorry to leave the chaotic conditions of Five Points behind. She was used to order and cleanliness, with quiet and measured days, not this chaos, filth, and cacophony.

But while walking alone up the street, she heard a faint mental admonition. It was her mother’s voice.
“A woman is not allowed to walk alone on the street until she’s married.”
Indeed, Lottie had never done so, and with greater thought she realized the times she’d walked at all were not to go anywhere or to achieve anything. She’d walked on the estate grounds for a diversion or to find a lovely place to read. In the village of Lacock she’d always been accompanied by her mother or aunt, and while in London they’d walked in parks to be seen. She and her mother had been the walking equivalent of the Gleason family jewels, brought out in fine weather to be noticed and appreciated, their worth assessed and noted for future reference.

How silly it now seemed and yet how safe. For they hadn’t ventured onto the city streets for their promenade, but were taken by carriage to a location where other walking, breathing jewels were displayed.

What was more disturbing than the acknowledgment of this absurdity was the fact that Lottie had enjoyed it. Very much. The highlight of her week had been the stroll through the village or the park, especially when she was in possession of a new gown, bonnet, or parasol.

Now, on the other side the world, she also received attention and appreciation, but these stares and indecipherable comments were unwelcome. Although her traveling suit was not in any way ostentatious, it still made her stand out. If only she could have left her suit behind in exchange for the ease and anonymity of Lucia’s skirt and blouse. But comfort had to be forfeited. Lottie had to be dressed well to meet Dora’s cousin. Thinking of that coming event, she tugged at the sleeves of her suit and put a hand to her hair. She felt naked without her bonnet. No woman of bearing entered public without one. Oh well. It couldn’t be helped. There was no way she could have taken her hat from Sofia.

In the first block she hugged the left side of the street, following the up and back of the pushcarts. Such close proximity left her susceptible to the occasional call of the owner to buy this or that, but also gave her a sense of security. If they believed she had money to buy, perhaps they would let her pass unbothered.

But her ploy soon failed as the children began to notice her. Many approached with something to sell—rags or a flower or a piece of bread—and others came boldly with their palms outstretched. The distinction between peddler and pauper was not noticeable, as all wore clothes that were shredded or holey or sized too big or too small. None wore coats against the October chill, and a few, shockingly, were barefoot.

“No, no,” she repeated. “I have nothing. I’m sorry, but I have nothing for you.”

They were unfazed by her disclaimers, and the crowd of four children became eight, then a dozen. There were none older than twelve, and many should have been sitting on their mother’s laps. Their eyes pleaded and cut into her soul. She felt a tug within that threatened to either strangle or snap and break her.

Where were their parents? Where did they live? When was the last time they’d eaten? Or bathed? Or been hugged?

A little girl of not more than four tripped within the gaggle and fell to the ground. Out of instinct, Lottie knelt to help her up. The children took advantage of her lessened height and pressed harder against her, their dirty hands grabbing, imploring, needing… .

Frightened, she pushed their hands away. “Stop it! Get away from me!”

Apparently taken aback by her shouts, they backed away, letting her pass.

She stumbled free of them, her breath ragged. Within a dozen steps she ran into the path of a man dressed in black with long ringlets at his ears.

“Umph!” he said, taking her arms to steady her.
“Obserwuj1 to!”

She broke free of him and ran as fast as she could.

“Sí wy dobrze?”

Lottie didn’t look back.