by Nancy Moser
Her heart raced. Not polite to stare? Was it polite to assume another woman’s identity?
Lottie had come to the Tremaines’? It could only mean one thing. She wanted to renege on their plan. While Charlotte and Mrs. Tremaine were at the florist’s picking out flowers for her welcome party, Lottie would knock on the front door and say, “Hello, I’m the real Charlotte Gleason.”
“Charlotte, I’ve been speaking to you.”
“Yes. Sorry. What were you saying?”
It didn’t matter what Mrs. Tremaine said or which flowers they might choose. China and sterling patterns, linen, guest lists, and gowns. None of it mattered.
It was over.
That’s her! That’s Dora!
Lottie raised her hand to wave as the carriage pulled away. She ran after it but tripped on the cobblestones and fell hard into a puddle.
Before she could collect herself, a man grabbed her forcefully by the arm and pulled her to standing. “There, now. Be off with you.”
“But I know—”
“Mrs. Tremaine does not take kindly to vagabonds lurking outside her house. You get along now, or I’ll call the police.”
“But I’m not lurking, I’m Charlotte—”
The man turned to the other servant on the steps. “George! Go fetch the police.”
The younger man nodded and ran down the street.
Lottie yanked her arm free. “Leave me alone.”
“You’re the one who needs to do the leaving.”
“Fine,” she said, walking toward the intersection. “I’m going.”
“You be doing that.” He pointed a finger at her. “And I’ll be watching you until you’re gone. For good, you hear? For good.”
Lottie saw that the other servant had stopped in the next block and was waiting for her to move on. She had no choice but to walk away in the direction from whence she’d come.
The firm stride that had brought her north abandoned Lottie, as did all determination. Her feet never left the sidewalk but scraped along, one step shuffling into the next. She was beaten. She was vanquished. She was through.
The mist turned to full rain. What couldn’t get worse did.
She couldn’t go on. She would sink to the ground in full surrender. At least she could rest.
A bolt of lightning lit the darkened afternoon, and she looked up and saw she was beside a church.
Sanctuary.
She held on to the stone railing, dragging her feet to follow her mind’s lead. At the landing it took all her strength to open the thick doors, but once inside, the lack of rain offered immediate relief—which was soon replaced with an awful chill.
The narthex was unoccupied and she gained new hope that she could enter the sanctuary unnoticed. She paused at the doorway of the center aisle, noted no one present, then slipped inside. Faint light made the stained-glass windows glow in muted colors, and an intricate cross sat upon the altar, drawing her forward. Holding the pews for support, she bypassed the seats in the back and walked ahead, keeping her eyes on the cross.
Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.
She stood next to the first row and stared at the cross. “Rest,” she whispered. Then she turned into the pew, sprawled across the rich velvet cushion, and was instantly asleep.
You’re safe now. I’ll watch over you. You’re not alone.
Mrs. Tremaine entered the house, immediately removed her gloves, and handed them to Childs. “It’s disappointing that you developed a headache, Miss Gleason. Childs, make sure Mary gets Miss Gleason some medicinals.”
“I’m disappointed too,” Charlotte said. “I didn’t mean to cut short our excursion. Please know that any flowers you choose will be lovely. I trust your taste completely.”
“Hmm.” To the butler Mrs. Tremaine said, “I’ll be in my sitting roomx. Please have coffee brought in.”
Charlotte was left alone with the butler. She handed Childs her gloves slowly, trying to study him at the same time. She awaited the proclamation There was a woman come by who said she was you, Miss Gleason.
But all he said was “I’ll send Mary up to your room, Miss Gleason.”
Had Lottie changed her mind? Was their secret still safe?
Apparently so, because as Charlotte headed to the stairs, she saw Childs go off to get Mary.
Charlotte counted her blessings.
And worried about Lottie.
Chapter Eleven
“Miss? Miss.”
Lottie felt a hand upon her shoulder. Had Davies, the butler, come to wake her? Why wasn’t Dora—?
She opened her eyes and shot to sitting.
“Now, now. Don’t panic. You’re fine,” the man said.
He stood on the altar side of the first pew, dressed in clerical garb with a pastor’s collar.
Pews, altar, cross.
The past raced through her memory in a flash. She pressed a hand against her damp hair, trying to pin drooping curls into place.
“Nah, nah, lassie. Don’t trouble yourself. I see you’ve been out in the rain. It’s the wondering why that’s on my mind.” He took a step to the side, gesturing for her to follow. “Come and get by a fire, and you can tell me all about it.”
She wasn’t going to tell him anything, but the thought of being warm enticed her to follow.
They exited the sanctuary through a side door leading to a room in the back. He hurried to the fire and stirred it to life, then added another log. As he motioned toward a chair, a woman came from another room.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“We have a guest, Mattie. Get a blanket.”
She shook her head and came to Lottie, leading her into the room she’d left. “A blanket won’t be doing her much good, Douglas. She needs to get out of her wet clothes. I’ll take care of her.”
They entered an eating area and then a small sleeping alcove beyond. The woman took a skirt and blouse from a hook. “Here. Put these on.” She pulled a curtain to give her privacy.
It had all happened so fast, Lottie found herself undressing before she was fully awake. Propriety begged her to go, but reality pressed her to stay. She needed help. That’s all there was to it.
Removing her sodden clothes was a relief, as was the feel of dry fabric upon her back. She left on her undergarments but did remove the bustle and petticoats.
“You ’bout done?” the woman asked. “Hand me yer things and I’ll get them to dryin’.”
Lottie stopped buttoning the dry blouse and handed the woman the clothes through the curtain.
“Ey, these weigh a hundred pounds,” the woman said.
Indeed, Lottie felt liberated. She finished her buttoning and passed through the curtain. The woman was spreading Lottie’s garments on drying racks by the fire that served the kitchen. Her task complete, she turned to look at Lottie. “Well, now. They may not be fancy, but at least they’re dry.”
For the first time, Lottie spoke. “They’re wonderful. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Now, go sit with me husband by the fire while I get you something to eat.” When Lottie hesitated, she added, “He’s a good listener.”
Ah yes. She remembered his wanting her to tell him all about it.
Lottie went into the main room and saw the pastor seated by the fire in one of two upholstered chairs, with another wooden chair brought close to make three. He rose and offered her the most comfortable chair. “Here, now. That’s better. My wife has taken good care of you, hasn’t she?”
“She has.”
Lottie sat and was immediately warmed by the now roaring flame.
“So now.” The man’s receding hair glowed silver in the firelight. “I’m Pastor Weston, and that lovely woman in the other room is my wife, Matilda. And you are?”
It was a good question. The truth begged for release, but Lottie ended up saying, “I’m Lottie Hathaway.”
He nodded once, as if satisfied the introductions were properl
y accomplished.
Mrs. Weston returned to the room with a tray. “Here, now. Some soup, bread, and coffee.” She set the tray on Lottie’s lap.
Smelling the food, seeing it … Lottie gave her hunger free rein. She hadn’t eaten anything since early that morning at the Scarpellis’, and now it was—
She finished chewing a bite of bread. “May I ask the time?”
Pastor Weston glanced at a wall where a clock hung. “Half past one.”
She’d left the Scarpellis’ at seven. No wonder she was hungry.
Lottie took a sip of coffee and found it less potent than the brew she’d had at the Scarpellis’. If only the characters from Little Women were with her now, enjoying a cup together. She could use their fine company.
“Soup,” Mrs. Weston said. “Take some soup.”
Lottie did as she was told. The soup was a balm.
Mrs. Weston sat in the other chair, and Pastor Weston took the hard one. They let her eat for a moment in silence. When she stopped to take a breath, the pastor asked, “So, Miss Hathaway. Why were you out in the rain without cover? What brings you to sleeping on a pew at Marble?”
She must not have heard him correctly. “Marble?”
“Marble Collegiate Church. Don’t you know where you are, lassie?”
His wife swatted his arm. “Tact, Douglas, tact.” She looked at Lottie. “You are fair welcome here, please know that. But we’re concerned because you’re obviously a lady of standing, and such ladies don’t often enter the church in your … condition.”
Pastor Weston looked at his wife. “Didna I just ask the same thing?”
“I did it better,” his wife said.
Their banter made Lottie smile. She set down the spoon, tried to settle on how much to tell them, and decided a portion of the truth might be better than none. “I know someone who lives north of here. I went—”
“Who is it you know?”
This, she couldn’t say. “Just a friend. But she wasn’t able to receive me, and so I started walking home and—”
“And home is where?” the pastor asked.
Lottie found her mouth agape, unable to say. An awkward moment passed.
“Home is where the heart is,” Mrs. Weston said. “Isn’t that so, Miss Hathaway?”
She couldn’t nod or even shake her head. Home was a foreign land that couldn’t be reached by any means. Home was locked away in a past that forbid her reentry.
The pastor put a hand upon her arm. “So ‘as a bird that wandereth from her nest, so is a man that wandereth from his place.’ ”
Tears sprang forward unannounced. “That’s exactly how I feel,” she said. “I’m flying around with no place to land.”
Mrs. Weston stood and urged her husband to trade chairs with her. She took the tray from Lottie, then moved the wooden chair close and gave Lottie a shoulder to cry upon. “There, there. You’ve landed here. God’s brought you here.”
Had He? She remembered looking up through the rain and seeing the church. Had God led her to this safe haven and to these kind people? Even after she’d been mad at Him and vowed to do things her way?
The pastor handed her a handkerchief. “Your accent … you’re English.”
“Yes, I’m from Wiltshire. I just arrived …” She had to think. The answer was hard to fathom. “Yesterday?”
Their eyebrows rose in tandem. “You came through Castle Garden?”
“Yes.”
“How did you end up here? ’Tis a long way north.”
“I walked.”
“Where did you spend last night?”
“With the Scarpellis. They—”
“Who are the Scarpellis?” the pastor asked.
“An Italian family. Mrs. Scarpelli was at Castle Garden to meet some family who’d arrived from Italy, and she saw when a man stole my jewels and money, took pity on me, and took me into their home, where I slept in a room with Aldo and Francesca and Lucia and Vittorio—and little Sofia. She held my hand, and I gave her my hat and—”
Lottie noticed the pastor and his wife looking at her, incredulous. She’d said too much, too fast.
“They were very kind to me.”
The pastor recovered himself. “I’m sure they were, but where … where do they live?”
“Mulberry Street. Near Five Points?”
Their eyes grew wide. “You stayed in such a place? Alone?”
“I wasn’t alone. They took me in when I had no one and nothing, even though they’re struggling themselves.” The comparison with their behavior and the reception she’d received at the Tremaines’ was huge. Lottie thought of a Bible story, one of the few she remembered. “Like the poor widow who put all she had in the offering. Didn’t Jesus declare her gift of more worth than the rich who gave only a little of their wealth?”
The couple looked at each other; then the pastor nodded. “You have humbled us, Miss Hathaway. For indeed you found a gem in the Scarpellis, a gem amid the horrors of Five Points. We haven’t seen, but we’ve heard the stories.”
“Is it as dismal a place as they say?” Mrs. Weston asked.
Lottie wanted to lie, to defend the place for the Scarpellis’ sake, but the memory of the beggar children, the stench, the crowding, and the dilapidation could not—should not—be ignored. “It is horrible. Yet the people have found a way to carry on in spite of it. There’s a strength there.” It was unnerving that she hadn’t acknowledged that strength until now.
“ ‘The Lord will give strength unto his people; the Lord will bless his people with peace.’ ”
“I’m not sure how much peace they have,” Lottie said, “but they are strong.”
Pastor Weston nodded. “It appears God provided for you twice— through the Scarpellis and through your visit with us here.”
Lottie was taken aback. Was it true? Had God helped her both times?
Mrs. Weston returned the tray to her lap. “Eat some more. You need your nourishment.”
The pastor sat back in his chair and crossed one leg over the other. “Are you going to try to see your friend again?”
“You could stay here with us tonight and try tomorrow,” Mrs. Weston said.
Lottie looked toward a window. The storm had passed, and the sun was attempting to shine. She didn’t want to burden this couple any longer. “The rain has stopped. I must be moving along.”
“Let me get you a hack,” Pastor Weston offered.
She began to object, but he’d already left the room. Mrs. Weston said, “Let us do this for you, child. You’ve walked enough these two days. Now, finish your soup.”
Lottie did so quickly, and with Mrs. Weston’s blessing took the bread for later. Mrs. Weston helped her get dressed again, and Lottie reluctantly put on the restrictive bustle and petticoats. She was ready when Pastor Weston returned.
“A hack is waiting outside.” He pressed some coins into her hand. “For the fare.”
Again, Lottie wanted to refuse, but now wasn’t the time to be proud. Instead she said, “Thank you. Thank you both.”
Mrs. Weston embraced her and looked deeply into her eyes. “You know where we are.”
Lottie kissed the woman’s cheek and left quickly before the threat of tears gained momentum. She backtracked through the church to the street. A hack sat ready to take her north—to the Tremaines’.
You can’t go there. You’re not welcome.
And then she knew where she must go.
“Miss?” the driver said.
She felt the weight of the coins in her hand. It was the only money she had. “I’ve decided to walk.”
He looked perturbed but gave the reins a shake. “Suit yerself.”
As the hack headed north, Lottie began to walk.
South.
Charlotte recovered from her headache in time to suffer through the midday meal. The food was flavorful but the company bland. It being Saturday, Mr. Tremaine and Conrad were present, which logically should have made the conversation of more inte
rest—but was otherwise. Did this family ever just talk? And when would she have time alone with Conrad? How could she be expected to marry the man when the only time she saw him was together with his entire family?
Beatrice was the one distraction, yet Charlotte found herself tightening whenever she spoke because of the certain conflict that followed. Beatrice showed no concern for the effect she had on others, and in fact seemed to thrive upon it.
Charlotte wasn’t sure how to feel about the girl. When she’d first heard Conrad had a sister, she’d imagined a confidante. But Beatrice had already proven herself to be unsuited for such a bond. And since she’d also shown herself to be completely contrary to her parents, Charlotte wasn’t sure a further closeness was a good idea even if Beatrice could be trusted. Charlotte might be called upon to take sides between Beatrice and Mrs. Tremaine. And if so, Mrs. Tremaine needed to win. It was a question of who had the power. Power—or the lack thereof. That was the source of both girls’ discontent.
She wondered why Beatrice wasn’t married yet. Charlotte could think of no tweak of society that would prevent the younger child—if there were no other daughters—from marrying before her older brother. Had Beatrice’s penchant for confrontation held her back? No man would be attracted to a woman with such strong opinions, especially if she slapped the face of the prevailing social order.
And honestly, it could have been due to Beatrice’s lack of beauty. From Charlotte’s observations of the social set back in England, it wasn’t unheard of for a plain woman to marry, but her goal was certainly harder gained. And in Beatrice’s case … when pensive, when unoccupied, her face wasn’t without appeal. There was a strength in her chin, and her cheekbones offered a stately shape to her face. But alas, the moments of peace were few, and the rest of the time Beatrice’s face hardened with a defensiveness that made one wish to recoil rather than engage.
“Are you worried about something, miss?”
The meal was long over, and Mary stood behind Charlotte in her room, adjusting her hair for a summons to Mrs. Tremaine’s morning room.
Just everything. Yet Charlotte gave the correct response. “No, of course not. What do I have to be worried about?”
