by Nancy Moser
Charlotte didn’t have time to consider more, for within moments the butler showed Dr. Greenfield into the room.
Charlotte waited for his eyes to meet hers. There was such life there, such vibrancy, such passion for …
“Can I get you anything, Doctor?” Mary asked.
“No, I—”
Charlotte broke in. “We would like some tea, Mary.”
She made a face. “Again?” She clearly did not want to leave.
“Yes, again. Please.”
Mary left them alone. Charlotte wanted to pretend she and the doctor were still on the Etruria, waltzing across the floor, strolling the decks, standing at the railing together as the city loomed. “Please sit, Doctor. And thank you for coming. Have you any news?”
He sat upon a brocade chair near hers. “First, I must return something of yours.” He removed a lace-edged handkerchief from his pocket.
Charlotte saw the monogram, DC. Her eyes sought his. He nodded slightly. It was the handkerchief she’d given him at dinner. On the ship. For his shoes.
“Thank you,” she said, pulling it close. “But you needn’t—”
“It isn’t mine to keep. Under the circumstances.”
Without warning Charlotte wanted to take his hands and tell him, But it is yours! I’m yours! Leaving you on the ship, telling you I was nearly engaged … it was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. You’re the one I want. You! Edmund.
He got down to business. “After our talk yesterday I stopped at the Collegiate Church to speak with Pastor Weston.”
The world moved on. She’d lost him. She’d had her chance with this wonderful man, and now it was too late.
He continued. “I was discreet, I didn’t tell him your name, and I gave the impression it was my own inquiry.”
“I appreciate that,” Charlotte said.
“But … the girl Pastor Weston spoke about, the one he mentioned in his sermon, it was your Lottie Hathaway.”
Her sadness about Dr. Greenfield was pushed aside by the news. “Did he know her whereabouts?”
“Partially. He remembered her telling him that an Italian family took her in when she lost all her money and—”
“She lost all her money?”
“Apparently it was stolen.”
Charlotte thought back to Castle Garden. The last she’d seen of Lottie, she’d been holding her jewel box to her chest and—
And she’d just placed all her money inside!
“She has nothing? No means of any sort?”
“The pastor didn’t know the details but for the fact that an Italian family had taken her in to their home.”
“And their name?”
He looked at the floor, then up again. “It starts with an S. He thinks.”
Charlotte let out a huff of air. “That’s no help at all.”
“He did remember they lived in Five Points. On Mulberry Street.”
“Where is that?”
“I’m new here too, so I asked my cousin.” He shook his head. “It’s not good. Five Points is a notorious place, overcrowded with immigrants and rife with crime and misery.”
“Lottie’s not used to any of those things.”
“Few are.”
She realized her statement was foolish, yet in Lottie’s case it was far too true. “Lottie led a sheltered life. She wanted for nothing, was protected from the harshness of the world, and … and liked it that way.”
“She must not have liked it too much,” he said. “She left it all behind to come here and start anew.”
Charlotte walked herself through Lottie’s plan. “She was supposed to go to my cousin’s house. We’d sent a letter and then a telegram announcing …” She stopped herself. “What if Lottie went there and was turned away?”
“It would be no wonder she came here if she’d lost everything.”
The image of Lottie standing on the sidewalk outside the Tremaines’, drenched to the skin, made Charlotte shiver. “Then why didn’t she come to the door?”
Dr. Greenfield let his gaze wander the room. “You said you’ve known each other for years.”
“Yes.”
“And your being here, in this house, was her idea.”
It all became clear. “She wouldn’t want to ruin it for me.” Charlotte thought of another reason that held equal ground. “And she wouldn’t want to admit defeat. She can be quite stubborn.”
“A trait that should come in handy, considering her situation.”
“But what is her situation? We know she’s found shelter, and we assume by their hospitality the family is a good one. But how will she survive? She has no skills, no experience in the world. She must be very fright—”
Mary brought in the tea, and on the tray … “A letter came for you, miss.”
A letter from Lottie?
But no. The handwriting was that of Mrs. Gleason, Lottie’s mother. Surely the letter Charlotte had sent to them hadn’t had time to cross the ocean, so …
She looked at the postmark. It was sent the day after they’d left on their voyage to America. Charlotte opened it and read.
Dearest Daughter,
I regret to inform you that your father has been injured in an accident. He fell from a horse and has broken his leg. It’s a bad break, but the doctor assures us he will recover with time and care.
Charlotte gasped.
“Bad news?”
“Mr.—” She looked at Mary and reminded herself to watch her words. “My father fell from a horse. He broke his leg very badly.”
“Broken bones are extremely painful, and recovery can be tedious and slow.”
“I don’t need to hear that, Doctor.”
“Forgive me.” He pointed at the letter. “When did this occur?”
She looked at the date again. “The day after we left England.”
“You should return home immediately,” the doctor said.
Lottie should return.
He paused and she watched him embrace the predicament before saying, “Did your mother give any more information?”
Charlotte returned to the letter.
I implore you, dear, do not come home. There is nothing you can do here, and what would ease your father’s mind the most is knowing you are cared for and your future is assured. Aunt Agatha and I are managing his care as best we can.
Please pray for your father and for us all.
With warmest regards,
Mother
“She tells me to stay here, with the Tremaines.”
“Well then,” the doctor said—with a glance at Mary. “But your friend. You must tell your friend.”
She must tell Lottie. But how?
Suddenly she knew what must be done. “Will you take me there, Doctor? To …” If only Mary would leave, if only I could think of a reason for her to leave. “To that street we spoke about.”
“You don’t want to go there.”
“But I must. Surely someone would have seen … seen Miss Hathaway.” She thought of a way to cover up the excursion. “Miss Hathaway was my nanny for years and years. She must be told. And besides, I need her comfort in this stressful time.” Charlotte was proud of herself for thinking on her feet so quickly. She was only half lying, because there was a real Miss Hathaway, Lottie’s nanny.
Dr. Greenfield fidgeted in the chair. “The Tremaines will never allow you to—”
“They will if you make the petition for me. And if you say you will accompany me. And if you’re not specific about the destination.”
When he stood, there was reluctance in his stance. “I’ll see what I can do. For the good of my patient.”
But she didn’t want to be his patient.
Chapter Sixteen
Mrs. Tremaine was skeptical about Dr. Greenfield’s plan to take Charlotte to see her old nanny, but with both men of the family at work and Beatrice visiting friends, the lady of the house gave in. Charlotte wondered if she did so to be relieved of the chore of entertaining Charlotte for an afternoon.
Once they reached the area near Five Points, the open hack drove slowly out of necessity. The swell of people on the streets forbade easy travel. The crush forced Charlotte to cling to Dr. Greenfield’s arm—or so she would say if pressed. She loved being so close to him. If only they were riding through Central Park, where they could marvel at the beauty.
There was little beauty here.
“The number of people astounds me,” he said.
Her fantasy fully evaporated. “It’s as though Castle Garden in its entirety has moved here.”
“This is the destination of most immigrants,” the doctor said. “My cousin told me sixty thousand come every month. There are a million people in this small space.”
A million? “We’ll never find Lottie.”
He did not contradict her.
The driver spoke to them over his shoulder. “You’re the second group I’ve taken down here this month—slumming it, seeing how the other half lives.”
Charlotte hated his term. “We are not ‘slumming it’; we are searching for a dear friend.”
He shrugged.
Charlotte noticed men in black coats, black beards, and flat hats. Along either side of their faces were long tendrils of hair.
“Who are those men?” she asked Dr. Greenfield.
“They are Jewish, I believe.” He pointed to some signs on the shops. “That’s Hebrew. Or is it Russian?”
Charlotte didn’t know.
“This here’s Jewtown,” the driver said. “A strange lot they are, but I’ve heard they’re great tailors. The I-ties are straight ahead. Yessiree, we’ve got yer Jews here, Greeks, Irishmen, Chinamen, black men, and even some red ones. Toss a pebble and you’ll hit somebody who speaks babble. And here,” he pointed ahead. “Here’s Mulberry Street.”
The carriage turned south off Bayard Street, and within a block the population changed from Jewish to Italian.
Both sides of the street were lined with vendors of every sort. “Does everyone have something to sell?” she asked.
“They’d sell your mother if you let them,” the driver said.
“Enough, if you please,” Dr. Greenfield said.
“Suit yerself. Where do you want me to stop?”
Charlotte found her head shaking back and forth. It was all too daunting. How would they ever find Lottie? Yet she had to try. Lottie had to know about her father. And for her own sake, Charlotte needed to know Lottie was all right.
Dr. Greenfield pointed to a relatively clear space in the street ahead.
“Let us off there.” He looked to Charlotte. “Yes?”
“It’s as good a place as any.”
The hack stopped and Dr. Greenfield asked the driver to wait. Then he helped Charlotte from the carriage. Within two steps she found herself stepping over a heap of spilled ash—and worse. An old woman was sweeping the sidewalk with a handmade broom, but surely her task was eternal with this many people living in such close proximity.
As they walked toward the pushcarts, Charlotte spotted an old man sitting on a chair beside a brick wall with a baby lying on a coat on the ground beside him. He was tending his pipe with more interest than he gave the fussy child. Why didn’t he pick—?
Just steps away from the hack, Charlotte and Dr. Greenfield were surrounded by a passel of children, their faces dirty, their clothes torn.
“Per favore, signora. Soldi.”
“Dammi soldi.”
“Signore, per favore mi aiuti.”
Some offered a bit of coal or a wilted flower, but most accosted them with open hands.
“I have nothing to give them.” Charlotte realized how odd it was to live in a palatial mansion yet not have a penny to her name.
Dr. Greenfield reached into his pocket and offered a few coins, then shooed the rest of the children away. He put an arm around her waist and led her toward the nearest pushcart.
“Ma’am?” he said to the woman there. “We’re looking for a friend of this lady.”
The woman offered them an apple. Then a potato. “Mela, signore? O una bella patata?”
“No, no,” he said, waving away her wares. “We’re looking for a woman. My name is Dr. Greenfield and this is Miss Gleason and—”
The woman’s eyes grew wide. “Dottore? Andare. Vada al piano superior. Le persone sono malate!”
She took hold of his hand and did not let it go, even as she spoke to a boy nearby. He came forward, eyed the doctor and Charlotte, then nodded to the woman.
“Come,” he said. “Follow.”
“No, no,” Dr. Greenfield said. “We’re looking for a woman, an Englishwoman and—”
The boy gestured to the building beside them. “Upstairs. Sick. Come.”
Dr. Greenfield looked at Charlotte. “Apparently I’m needed.” He hesitated. “I don’t feel right leaving you here.”
She didn’t feel right about that either. At home, or even in London, she might have felt at ease in crowds on the street, but this was America, or rather, it was like being in Italy. Either way she was a stranger in a strange land. There was no alternative but to go with him. “I’m coming too.”
The building was dark upon entering, and Charlotte was immediately assailed with a feeling of suffocation. Gone was the brisk autumn air and the sounds of the multitude on the street. Inside, the air was fallow, and though it still held a chill, there was no invigoration in it, only a sense of desolation, the difference between cold that refreshed and cold that caused discomfort.
They started up the stairs with Charlotte holding Dr. Greenfield’s arm with one hand and her skirts with the other. The sounds of the building took her back to her childhood, when she’d lived with her family in a third-story flat in London. There had been no privacy there, not even when they’d been in their two-room apartment, for the walls had only blocked the view of the neighbors. All sounds had been communal.
Even the smells that assailed her were familiar. Sweat, ash, damp, and rotting food. But as they turned the first landing, the pile of garbage announced the difference. Although their flat had been meager, it had owned a level of sanitation lacking here.
Or maybe as a child she simply hadn’t noticed.
Dr. Greenfield glanced at her, his face pulled with concern. “Are you all right?”
Clearly, as Charlotte Gleason, a young woman of society, she was supposed to be appalled by such a place. Perhaps she should scrunch up her face in disgust or squeal in squeamish horror.
But Dr. Greenfield knew her true identity, and she felt neither the energy nor the inclination to put on such a show. “I’m fine.”
His eyebrows lifted in surprise, and Charlotte reveled in it. She’d surprised him—in a good way. His reaction spurred a decision to bravely endure whatever was to come.
She lost count as to the number of floors they ascended and was relieved when the boy veered down a hall and stopped at a door. He knocked loudly.
A woman answered and the two exchanged words. Charlotte heard a word that sounded like doctor, and the woman’s face changed from overwrought to hopeful. She looked up, saw them, and immediately motioned them inside.
She tucked some stray hairs behind her ears. “Doctor, yes?”
“My name is Dr. Greenfield. This is Miss Gleason. Are you in need of my services?”
Charlotte could see in the woman’s eyes that she didn’t understand every word, but she nodded and motioned them into an adjoining room, where a little girl lay on a bed, her hair matted to her head.
The doctor took one look and turned to Charlotte. “She’s feverish. You must go into the other room.”
The little girl looked so sweet, so weak. “No,” Charlotte said. “I can help. What do you need? What can I do?”
He looked impressed by her willingness, but she hadn’t offered in order to impress but to help. She’d been around sick people before.
“Not this time, Charlotte. Not when I don’t know what’s causing the fever. Please.”
She reluctan
tly retreated. The mother stayed with the doctor, leaving her alone.
“Buon giorno.”
She started, a hand to her chest. A woman was sitting near the window at a table. She blended into the chaos of the room, which had household items piled halfway up the wall.
“Good day,” Charlotte said.
She noticed the woman was making flowers of some sort and moved closer to see them. They were made of paper and looked like violets. They were very well done.
“These are lovely,” Charlotte said, nodding and smiling, hoping she would be understood.
“Per un cappello,” the woman said.
“I’m sorry, I …”
The woman put a flower on top of her head.
“Oh, cap, hat. They go on a hat.”
“Hat. Sì.”
They both turned toward the bedroom when they heard the girl whimper.
“Sofia è malata. Prego che il medico la possa curare.” Then the woman touched her forehead, her chest, and both shoulders.
Charlotte didn’t understand the words or the gesture, but she understood their intent. She hoped Dr. Greenfield could help the girl.
Once again memories assailed her. Another little girl, a baby girl just born. Charlotte’s baby sister had only lived a few days.
A prayer escaped. Please make the girl well.
Dr. Greenfield came out of the room, his face dour. “More cold cloths,” he told the mother, motioning with his hands. “On her head. Over her body. The fever needs to break.” He looked to Charlotte. “I wish I’d brought my bag. I need my stethoscope and tools.” He turned back to the mother. “What is the address here? I’ll send a messenger over with some tonic, some medicine. Medicino?” He made a drinking motion.
The mother pointed to a bottle on a table.
“No, no, I don’t need a drink. I want to get Sofia some medicine.” He pointed toward the girl, then himself, then made a drinking motion.
The mother nodded. “Sì. Medicina.”
“Yes! Medicina. Now … what is your address?” He pointed downward, to the floor. “Here.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Where are we?” He made a motion for her to write it down.
Her eyes lit up. “Indirizzo stradale.” She found a pencil and wrote on a scrap of paper.
