by Nancy Moser
“Regarding that … where is your mistress—she now goes by Lottie Hathaway, you say?”
Charlotte nodded. “I don’t know where she is. I saw her once, briefly, standing in the rain outside this house.”
“So she wanted to end the charade?”
She hesitated. “I don’t know.”
He gave her a stern look.
“Yes, you’re right. I can’t think of any other reason for her to be here. But she didn’t do anything toward that end.”
He looked pensive. “Do you know where she’s living?”
“No.” She thought of something. “During the sermon on Sunday the pastor at the Tremaines’ church mentioned a woman who’d stopped there the same day I saw Lottie, and … he might know where she is, but I haven’t been able to get free of this place to go back and ask him.”
Dr. Greenfield stood and put the chair in its place. “I could go to him.”
“Would you?”
“I will. But if she can be found … what then?”
Charlotte had no idea. She’d grown fond of Conrad. But sitting in front of her was Edmund Greenfield. She felt something for him too. If she offered Lottie the chance to resume her proper place … would that be a good thing? Or … ?
“I don’t know what then,” she said.
“Perhaps you should think some on it.”
There was one thing she did know. “I need to find out if Lottie’s all right. I miss her. We’ve spent every day together since we were young girls. To be apart and to not know …”
Mary returned with the tea, and Dr. Greenfield moved to the door. “I’ll check back with you, Miss Gleason. In the meantime, mind you don’t stress yourself.” He let himself out.
“Here, miss.” Mary handed her a cup of tea. “The doctor’s right. Chamomile soothes a body well. I know that for a fact.”
Seeing Dr. Greenfield again, having him know the worst about her, having him look at her in a way far different than he had on the ship … All that, added to the uncertainty of her future.
It would take more than tea to soothe her now.
Lottie sensed rather than felt the presence of the Beast coming up behind her. She’d known the man for only a day, yet she already knew he was without honor, a man to avoid. When she was finished with a sleeve, she made a point of waiting until Mr. Silverman was free to check it. She wasn’t alone in this, which unfortunately gave the Beast more free time to roam the workroom like an infection in search of a weakened host.
Feeling him close, she did not look up but hunched over her work even more, hoping he would pass her by.
The sound of his boots upon the floor ceased. Across the table she noticed that Maggie’s and Helga’s hands faltered in their stitching. All conversation around her stopped.
As had the Beast. Behind her. She could smell the stench of his stale clothes and the tobacco on his breath.
Still she didn’t look up. Please go away. Leave me alone.
“Well, now.” She felt his breath upon her hair. “How is our lovely new Brit doing?”
Lottie felt an involuntary shiver course through her. She hoped the Beast didn’t notice. “Fine, sir.”
She worked on.
“I saw that Mr. Silverman made you redo one of your sleeves three times yesterday.”
“Yes, sir. I was learning. It wasn’t right—at first. I know how to sew them properly now.”
He leaned to her ear, his breath hot. “If you bring your work to me, I’ll see it gets passed. I’m certain we can make an agreeable arrangement.”
She closed her eyes and clenched her jaw. This man was appalling. A disgrace. “Thank you, sir, but I prefer to get it passed on its own merit. You’ll need to make an arrangement with someone else.”
Suddenly he put his hands on Lottie’s upper arms and lifted her to standing. “Up! Come with me.” He dragged her down the narrow space between the rows of chairs, causing women to be bumped and hairdos to become disheveled.
“Stop it!” she yelled. “Let go of me!”
Lottie caught sight of Lucia’s look of alarm, but she knew that neither she nor the other women could risk speaking out.
Where was Mr. Silverman?
She glanced toward his normal station, but he was gone. No wonder the Beast chose this particular moment to do his dirty work.
Which constituted what, exactly?
“Ow! Get your hands off me, you brute!”
“Shut your trap, missy, or you’ll get the worst of it.”
What was it?
He dragged her out of the workroom, past the landing, and into another room. He shut the door and blocked her exit. “There, now. This is better, ain’t it?”
I’m in such trouble. Horrible trouble. Please, God. Save me!
She sensed he fed on fear, so she gathered all her strength and lifted her chin. Then she smoothed her skirt. “I’d like to return to work now, Mr. Cavendish. I’m behind on my quota and—”
He strolled toward her. “Which is why I’ve brought you here, Miss Brit. You ain’t a fast worker, I can tell that already. You’ll never catch up with the other girls. Unless …”
She took a step back. “I’ll catch up.”
“Which is why I’m giving you the chance to ease your mind and your load. You ain’t like those other girls in there, those I-ties, Krauts, and Jews. You’ve got good blood in you. I can tell.” He walked toward her, forcing her to back up against the wall. His right arm was outstretched, his hand heading toward her waist.
Anger swelled and demanded release. And patience. When he was finally close enough … Lottie heaved her knee into his groin. To her surprise, he buckled over and fell backward.
Run! Run!
She ran to the door and threw it open. Through the opened door to the workroom she spotted Mr. Silverman speaking with Lucia, but she didn’t dare stop. Instead she lurched down the stairs, her spine prickling with the anticipation of hearing the footsteps of the Beast behind her.
Finally at the bottom of the last stair she ran out to the street and—
Tripped on a horse lying in the gutter, falling on top of it.
Appalled, she scrambled away on her hands and knees. No, no, no, no! Three little boys gaped at her, sticks in their hands. Had they been poking the horse? Was it dead?
A man took her arm and helped her up. “Miss Hathaway? What’s wrong? What happened?”
It was Mr. Svensson, the photographer.
She pointed up the stairs. “That man, the Beast … he tried to …” She couldn’t speak of such a thing.
Sven looked at the building. “There’s a sweatshop up there?”
“I was working there until he …” She put a hand to her mouth, then, realizing it had touched the dead horse, wiped it on her skirt. “I can’t go back to work there. I just can’t.”
“You don’t need to.”
Only then did she notice his camera set up on the street, aimed at the dead horse. “Actually, I could use an assistant. The boy who’s been helping me got a better job with a blacksmith. Would you care to take his place?”
Anything, yes, anything would be better than the sweatshop. Lottie checked for the Beast again, but so far he hadn’t followed her down. She gathered a new breath. “I don’t know anything about photography.”
“Did you know anything about sewing?”
She turned her pricked fingers under.
There was only one choice. “Yes, I’ll help you.” Her newly honed practical nature came to the forefront. “But I need to be paid a fair wage.”
He shook his head, incredulous. “Demanding higher pay before you’ve even started?”
She gasped at her own effrontery. Where were her manners?
Back in England.
“I’m … I’m sorry. And a bit embarrassed. I know I have no right, but—”
He sighed. “You’ve just hit upon the problem with the entire system, Miss Hathaway. No worker has any rights here.”
She felt streng
thened by the fact that he hadn’t chastened her. “So what will you pay me, Mr. Svensson?”
“Just Sven.” He stepped back to his camera, shooing away the children who were paying it too much attention. “What did you get paid at the sweatshop?”
She considered lying, then told the truth. “Ten cents a sleeve.”
“And how many could you do a day?”
She hesitated. “Not many now, but Lucia can do six, and I was getting better, and—”
“How about ten cents a photograph?”
“How many do you do a day?”
“We’ll work toward six. How does that sound?”
She held out her hand for him to shake. “It’s a deal, Mr. … Sven.”
“Agreed.” They shook on it.
Just then Mr. Cavendish burst onto the street, followed by Mr. Silverman. “There she is! You get yourself back to work, you hussy!” He rushed forward and tried to grab her arm, but Lottie hid behind Sven.
Mr. Silverman put a hand on his arm. “Joe … that’s not the way.”
“Leave her alone, man,” Sven said. “And don’t go calling her names. You’re the one who—”
“Get out of my face, blondie! Who do you think you are to interfere? This has nothing to do with you.”
“But it does,” Sven said. “Miss Hathaway is my employee.”
Cavendish let out a huff. “Since when?”
“Since now. So I’d advise you to go back to your sweatshop. And if I hear of you bothering any of the other girls, I’ll call the coppers on you. Or perhaps you’d like me to take a photograph of the conditions there?”
Cavendish made a move toward Sven, but Silverman drew him off. “Upstairs, Joe. Come on. It’s over.”
The two men went back inside. Suddenly applause rained down from above. The windows on the street side of the sixth floor were filled with Lottie’s fellow workers, who’d watched the entire exchange.
“Good going, Lottie!” Maggie yelled.
A few of the girls looked toward the room and seemed to decide it would be best to get back to their places before the bosses returned. Lucia waved. “You all right?”
Lottie called up to her. “I’m fine. I’m working for Sven now. I’ll see you at home tonight.”
With a glance toward the workroom, Lucia nodded and disappeared inside.
For the first time since the entire incident had begun, Lottie took a deep breath, then let it out with deliberation. “Well then. This isn’t how I expected to end my day.”
“End? I think not,” Sven said. “The day’s far from over. Come and hold my pack while I take a photograph of the horse before they haul it away.”
Lottie complied. Gladly.
Sven was really quite handsome in a refreshing Nordic way. It was as though a constant wind tousled his hair and a biting cold ruddied his cheeks.
Lottie found it odd to scrutinize his looks while they moved through the horrors of the slums, but she couldn’t help it. And perhaps it was self-preservation. For if she allowed her thoughts and feelings to fully acknowledge the revolting things she was seeing, she feared the burden would press upon her shoulders, pushing her down. Down. Down, into hopelessness.
Besides, flirting was what she did best; it’s what she’d been groomed to do. From earliest childhood she’d learned that the right smile, the right tilt of her head, and the appropriate look of yearning in her eyes could get her whatever she wanted. At first she’d used her talent upon her father (and the occasional male servant who’d hesitated to give in to her whims) and then had broadened the scope of her power beyond the household and into society, where she was thrilled to find that boys (and then men) would do her bidding with little effort expended on her part.
She remembered one particularly momentous time when she’d been fourteen and her mother insisted she have piano lessons. Herr Baumgartner had been a lovely German man. During the first few lessons he’d sat on the piano bench beside her, helping her find the F-sharp and the D-flat when she faltered—and falter she did, for she knew exactly what she was doing. He had the deepest brown eyes.
Yet during the next lesson Herr Baumgartner remained standing, a position he adopted for the next six months, until her interest waned. Interest in the piano waned.
The interest in her own power of flirtation had just begun. In the years between then and now, Lottie had honed the skill into an art. If she desired a man’s interest, she could get it. That her skills occasionally elicited the attention of an unwanted male was a drawback she’d learned to live with. There’d been one young gent who’d not been put off by her rebuff and she’d had to take slightly harsher methods to be rid of—
“There now,” Sven said, pulling her to a stop. “Stand here a moment and let your eyes adjust.”
Here was the entry to an alley so narrow they could only pass single file. Two tenements rose on either side, and as Lottie looked up she saw an arm extend out a window in one tenement handing something to an outstretched hand in the window across the way. To have a neighbor so close was unimaginable.
The window situation was soon forgotten when they reached the back of the alley.
“Perfect,” Sven said to himself as he eyed his next subject.
Perfect? The back of one row of tenements met the back of the tenements from one street away. Sandwiched in the small space between the two were ramshackle hovels.
“People live here?” Lottie said.
“Rear tenements. Back shacks. They have no ventilation, no water, no toilets. It’s inhuman.”
And unnatural. Lottie thought longingly of the great expanse of green that comprised the land surrounding Dorby Manor: the full sky, the sound of the breeze in the trees, the smell of flowers and grass. She’d taken so much for granted. She missed green.
Lottie spotted movement to her right and saw an ancient man curl upon the ground, his arms hugging a ragged jacket to his body. On any exposed skin were open sores. When he looked at her, his eyes appeared dead. It was only a matter of time before the rest of his body would follow.
Sven nodded toward the man. “Most are happy to be picked up by the police, for at least there they’ll get a bed and some breakfast.”
A woman and her child walked by. Even the child gave the man no notice.
Lottie squealed when a bird flew from an upper perch and pecked at the man before rising into the air as if biding its time for a full meal. She shuddered and turned away but immediately felt Sven’s hand upon her arm. “Don’t avert your eyes, Miss Hathaway. Open them and be a witness. This is why I take photographs for the newspapers, to make people see. And hopefully act.”
The man held out a hand. More than anything, Lottie wanted to give him something, wanted to help him. But she had nothing to give. Not a penny, not a blanket. Nothing.
You have the dollar you found … and the dime …
But she couldn’t give it to him. It was all she had, and she owed the Scarpellis rent and …
No wonder the mother and child had kept their eyes averted. To continually see and not be able to help … What did such a conundrum do to hearts longing to feel compassion?
Sven set up his camera. “Go to the front door of that shack and see if the inhabitants will come outside to have their photograph taken.”
The thought of approaching such a structure was revolting. It was little more than a shanty built with scraps of building material somewhat—somehow—attached to the building behind. That people actually lived there was hard to comprehend.
Sven looked up from his work. “What if I dock your wages for the times you refuse my direction? I can hire another boy off the streets, one that won’t complain.”
“Surely you understand my hesitation? I’m not used to being around these conditions.”
“Who is?” he said. “Now, go. Do as I told you, Miss Hathaway. Smile to get your way with them the same as you do with me.”
She felt her face grow red. “I don’t smile to get my way with you.”
<
br /> “Go.”
She had no time to defend herself more—if there was anything that could be defended.
The hut was a slapdash affair of boards, sheets of tin, and even cloth. The door didn’t fit the opening but left a gap of three inches along a side and across the top. She imagined snow blowing through the gap and accumulating on the floor.
Lottie walked toward the structure, stepping between piles of stinky garbage. Sven would owe her extra for this one.
She readied her fist to knock but hesitated. The idea of any part of her body touching this—
She jumped back when a rat squeezed through the gap in the door.
“Sven!”
“Go on. Ask them. I need this picture.”
With one hand she took a wad of her skirt to hold it above the ground, and with the other she knocked on the door.
A woman—very visibly pregnant—opened the door. Her eyes were dull, as if they hadn’t seen anything to brighten them for far too long.
Lottie pointed to Sven. “Mr. Svensson is a photographer. He’d like to take your picture out front—and pay you for your trouble.”
The woman studied Sven a moment, then looked back to Lottie. “I had a photo taken once. For my wedding.”
The idea of this woman being dressed in a bridal gown was incongruous.
“I’ll be right out,” the woman said. She closed the door.
Lottie immediately stepped away, much preferring the proximity nearer Sven.
In less than a minute the woman emerged with a grubby little boy wearing pants that were far too short and a man’s vest that made his torso look as though it began at his knees. His hair had been slicked to the side. The mother attempted to secure the loose strands of hair that had fallen from her bun.
Such a gesture was ridiculous. She cared about her appearance? What about the shack where she lived? How did a woman who had enough money to have a photograph taken to commemorate her wedding end up in a hovel like this? How could she raise a child and give birth to a baby in such a place? Since there were no answers, Lottie tried not to think about it.
