by Nancy Moser
She, on the other hand …
She examined the tear in her skirt. An entire panel of vertical pleats had pulled away from her waist and was drooping forlornly. She tried tucking it in, but it refused to stay in place. The damage was impossible to conceal. The entire world would see.
A couple strolled by, staring at her. She fiddled with the sagging panel, offering an explanation. “I’ll never hire a hack from that company again.”
The man nodded and the couple walked on.
As did Lottie. What choice did she have?
But as she looked around, her attention was drawn to the shops. Hats, flowers, gloves, dresses, jewelry, parasols … Oooh, isn’t that brown hat divine?
Then she realized that the shop windows she’d been looking at actually belonged to one store. It was a huge department store taking up the entire block. Looking up, she saw that it was Tremaine’s Dry Goods.
Her heart flipped. Tremaine’s! This was their store. This would be her store when she married Conrad.
She had to go inside.
The foyer opened to multiple stories with a sweeping staircase luring shoppers deeper into the store.
I’m home.
Lottie belonged in a store such as this. In London she’d shopped at Harrods with her mother and Aunt Agatha. The clerks had catered to their every need and desire.
A clerk approached from the department to her immediate left. “Good morning, miss. Can I interest you in a bonnet?”
Lottie put a hand to her head. She was bareheaded. No woman of standing went into public without a hat.
“Yes, I believe you can,” she said. After the hack ride she had no money, but the millinery department wasn’t terribly busy. She wanted— no, she needed—to try on a few bonnets, just to remember what it was like. It would be a reawakening, a transition from the working girl Lottie Hathaway to the socialite Charlotte Gleason.
The woman showed her a display of a dozen bonnets, and Lottie felt her heart beat faster. “They are all so beautiful,” she said.
“Indeed.” The clerk put a finger to her lips, assessing Lottie’s attire. “There is a certain bonnet in the window that would be perfect… . Just a moment and I’ll get it.” She moved to a display that stood in front of the large street windows and returned with a hat. “The violets on the crown would accentuate the green cast of your suit.”
She was right. It was a wonderful bonnet. And the violets looked exactly like the ones Francesca and Lea made every day. But Lottie took it off, needing more. “May I try on that one, please? And perhaps that one?”
The clerk was solicitous, and Lottie experienced a surge of joy. She felt like herself again.
Until …
“May I box these up for you, miss? And we have a team of seamstresses on duty who could mend that nasty tear in your skirt.”
The hats had made Lottie forget the tear. As for the bonnets? “I …”
“I would be happy to put them on your family’s … perhaps your husband’s account?”
With intense regret, Lottie removed the bonnet and handed it to the clerk. “Not today.”
The clerk gave her a knowing look, and there was a hint of annoyance in her eyes. “As you wish.”
The old Lottie would have charged them to her father’s account— all of them. The new Lottie …
First things first. First she had to get to the Tremaines’.
She took one last lingering look at the store, exited to the street, and turned north. With difficulty she kept her eyes averted from the temptations of the stores.
“Let us off here.”
The Tremaine carriage stopped at the far corner of the store, and Conrad helped Charlotte to the sidewalk. “I want you to see the windows as the shopper does, at eye level.”
His excitement was catching. And fetching. Charlotte had never known a man who truly enjoyed his profession. Mr. Gleason hadn’t, the servants she’d worked with in the Gleason home hadn’t, and certainly neither had her Barney.
Her Barney?
Just Barney now.
Conrad placed himself on the street side, and Charlotte took his arm for their stroll. As they approached the first window he patted her hand. “And here … here it begins.”
The window—which had previously contained a single item on a pedestal—now offered a grouping of hats on different levels, showcased in different ways. Some were on mannequin heads; one was on a chair along with a scarf and gloves as if cast off after an outing. While they were looking at the display, a clerk appeared and propped a lavender bonnet with violets against a pair of lavender evening shoes, with a fan half opened nearby.
The clerk looked out the window at Conrad and Charlotte, recognized Mr. Tremaine, and smiled. Conrad pointed at the bonnet and indicated she should tilt it a bit to the left. Which she did.
“The items in this window seem so genuine,” Charlotte said. “As if they’re items to be used—bought and used. They aren’t stagnant as they were before. They make me want to go inside and try them on.”
“Exactly!” Conrad led her toward the next window. “I’m especially proud of this one.”
There were four mannequins in the window: a woman, a man, a little boy, and a young girl. They were dressed for a Sunday walk in the park. The girl carried a doll.
“I can imagine them in Central Park,” Charlotte said. “They’re even facing the right direction.”
“I’m so glad you noticed. The clerk who was helping me thought such a detail was silly.”
“Not at all. Those shoppers who notice will feel like they’ve discovered a secret.”
The glow on his face made Charlotte wish she could find a hundred nice things to say.
They moved to the third window. “I tried to create a still-life scene as in one of the paintings in Mother’s gallery.”
The composition was excellent: a table draped with a fringe-edged cloth of damask, set with china, crystal, a fruit compote, and candelabrum. An urn painted with a pastoral scene stood on a pedestal nearby.
It was beautiful, but something seemed to be miss—
Charlotte gasped.
“What is it?”
“I know what will make all the windows complete.”
“They aren’t complete?”
She squeezed his arm. “Yes, but I know how to make them extraordinary.”
“Then tell me.”
She looked down the street. Where was their carriage? “We have to get home first.”
“Home? But I don’t understand.”
“You will.”
The front door of the Tremaine residence opened before Conrad could do it himself. A man with curly red hair and a long mustache was exiting. He paused on the stoop a moment and tipped his hat. “Mr. Tremaine.”
“Mr. Dooley.”
The way he eyed Charlotte made her take a step back, using Conrad as a shield.
“I brought the rent for yer father.”
“Thank you.”
“The place is jumping,” the man said. “Your mother said there’s a party here tonight?”
Conrad gently pulled Charlotte forward. “Yes indeed. A welcome party for Miss Gleason, a friend from England.”
“So your mother said.” His eyes seemed to hint at a knowledge that made Charlotte even more uncomfortable. He tipped his hat to her. “Miss Gleason.” The way he stroked her name …
“Good day, Mr. Dooley,” Conrad said as he led Charlotte inside.
Once Childs had closed the door, Charlotte asked, “Who was that man?”
“Father has rental properties in the southeast portion of the city, and Mr. Dooley collects the rent.”
Southeast? Five Points and the apartment where Lottie was staying was in that part of the city. Charlotte couldn’t imagine the Tremaines being the landlord to any of the awful tenements she’d experienced with Edmund.
She didn’t want to ruin the moment, and yet … “I’ve heard that part of the city is filled with the most terrible tenem
ents. Surely you don’t own—”
“I don’t have anything to do with the rentals,” Conrad said. “I have enough on my plate with the store.”
That Conrad wasn’t involved offered her a little relief. Hopefully his father’s properties were of better quality than the buildings she’d seen.
When they entered the foyer, Mrs. Tremaine came out of her morning room. “Where have you two been? There are preparations for the party to attend to. You can’t go gallivanting around—”
“Where’s Beatrice?” Conrad asked.
“I’m not sure. I suppose she’s in her—”
Conrad took the stairs two at a time. Charlotte rushed after him, excitement propelling her upward.
Mrs. Tremaine called after them, “What’s going on? Conrad?”
When Conrad ignored her, Charlotte stopped her climb and looked over the railing. “We’ll be down in a few minutes, Mrs. Tremaine. I promise.” She hated leaving her in ignorance, but this was Conrad’s moment.
By the time Charlotte reached the second floor, Conrad was already knocking on the door to Beatrice’s bedroom. “Bea? Come to the door. It’s important.”
The door opened. “What’s all the racket? Is something wrong?”
Charlotte reached the door, a hand upon her corset, out of breath. “Not at all,” she said. “Listen to your brother. Show him your room.”
Beatrice hesitated, her eyes flitting from Conrad to Charlotte and back again. “Come in, then,” she said.
They entered and Conrad’s gaze devoured the bedroom. “Bea … these paintings … they’re beautiful.” He turned full circle, then looked at her. “You painted all these?”
“Of course I did.”
“When?”
“While you and Father are at work and Mother is busy climbing the social ladder, I have to do something with my time.”
“A good use, I’d say.” He seemed to remember why they were there and looked toward Charlotte. “I see what you mean, and I believe you’re right.”
“What are you talking about?” Beatrice asked.
Conrad gestured to Charlotte to do the honors. But she shook her head. It would mean more to Beatrice coming from him.
“Miss Gleason and I were just at the store, where I’ve taken her advice in regard to the window displays. And though the displays are much improved, she still thought something was missing, and—”
“Not missing,” Charlotte said. “But I realized the displays could be further enhanced if they had some—”
Beatrice waved her words away. “One of you get to the point.”
Conrad pressed a hand against his chest, finding a fresh breath. “I—we—would like to display your paintings in the windows of the store.”
Beatrice blinked once, then shook her head. “I don’t think so. I don’t want people gawking at my paintings.”
“They would gawk in awe, sister.” He walked to a landscape sitting on the floor beside the fireplace. “This was inspired by Central Park, yes?”
“Anyone can see it’s the Mall.”
Charlotte knew what Conrad was thinking. “It would look perfect in the window with the family taking a Sunday outing,” she said.
“That’s what I was thinking.” Conrad scanned the room. “We could put this one, and perhaps that one, and that … on easels behind the family, creating a backdrop to their stroll.”
Charlotte’s mind raced. “Or instead of easels, perhaps the paintings could be hung from the ceiling on wires. The wires would be nearly invisible, so it would look like the paintings were floating and—”
“Stop!”
They looked at Beatrice. “Who says I wish to have my paintings on display to the world? I’m quite content having them here, for my own enjoyment.”
“But that’s not right,” Charlotte said.
The subsequent silence indicated she’d spoken too harshly. She tried again. “You have great talent. But as I told you before, God gave it to you—to share. It’s not to be locked in a room.”
“What if Michelangelo had only painted the ceiling of his bedroom,” Conrad said, “or Botticelli’s Venus was displayed in a bath?”
“I have seen neither, brother. Only you were afforded the grand tour of Europe.”
Conrad blushed but wasn’t deterred. “My point is that art is meant to be seen.”
“I am not Michelangelo or Botticelli, or even Monet.”
“Who?”
Beatrice shook her head. “My point stands. I’m not … them.”
“No, you’re not,” Conrad said. “But that doesn’t mean your paintings aren’t worth seeing.” He picked a still life off a chair and held it toward Charlotte. “The china window?”
“Perfect.”
Beatrice snatched the painting out of his hands. “As I stated, I don’t wish for my work to be gawked at and judged and—”
“I judge it to be very excellent, my dear.”
They all turned toward the doorway. Mrs. Tremaine entered the room, her reaction similar to her son’s. “I knew you painted, daughter, but I had no idea it was to this extent, nor that you had grown so accomplished.”
Beatrice’s face … Charlotte had never seen such an expression. Gone were the tightness and the sarcastic wall. Beatrice was a child again, longing for her mother’s approval. “Do you … I mean, can you see some good in them?” she asked quietly.
“Much good.” Mrs. Tremaine strode to her daughter, cupped her head with a hand, and kissed her forehead. Then she removed the still life from her grasp. “The way you’ve captured the light and shadow is masterful.” She looked at her son. “You wish to use this in a window display at the store?”
As mother and son discussed the idea, Charlotte moved closer to Beatrice. “I hope you don’t mind that I told Conrad about your work.”
Charlotte received a quick shake of the head. The space between Beatrice’s eyes dipped, and Charlotte could tell she was fighting emotion.
Finally, Charlotte heard a soft whisper. “Thank you.”
Charlotte whispered back, “You’re welcome.”
At least it wasn’t raining.
Standing in front of the Tremaines’ mansion, Lottie remembered the last time she’d been there—soaked to the skin, looking like a drowned puppy.
Although she was exhausted from the walk, today she could approach the front door with some semblance of confidence. She was wearing the same traveling suit—still sans a proper bonnet—but with a few last-minute corrections to tidy her hair, she was ready.
Please, God, let this be over.
She straightened her back, took a fresh breath, and ascended the stairs leading to the front door. Her hand trembled as she reached for the bell.
A butler answered—the same man who had shooed her away the last time. Would he recognize her?
He looked her over, head to toe, in one quick moment. “The servants’ entrance is around back.”
She reached down to the torn skirt. “I’m not a servant, sir. I simply tore my skirt when my hack driver—”
He closed the door on her.
Hack driver. The Tremaine set didn’t hire hacks. They hired carriages. Or owned their own.
Lottie wanted to yell at the door: I’m the real Charlotte Gleason! Let me in! but she predicted such aggression would be seen as hysteria or insanity, negating her ever getting inside.
“The servants’ entrance is around back.”
She looked in the direction the butler pointed. The back entrance wasn’t her entry of choice, but at least it would get her in the house.
She retreated to the sidewalk and walked around the side of the house, finding a narrow walkway leading to the back. There were no stairs to climb here, but rather a few stairs down to an entrance below ground level.
Lottie looked at the hanging trim of her dress and got an idea. With a few yanks, she pulled the length off the skirt. Then she knocked.
A very young girl wearing a mobcap came to the door. “May I he
lp you?”
“I was wondering if I could borrow a needle and thread to mend my—”
“Are you here to help with the party?”
“What party?”
“The party to welcome Miss Gleason.”
“Miss … ?”
The girl gripped the doorframe to lean closer in confidence. Her hands were red and chapped. “She’s goin’ to be the wife of Mr. Conrad. But none of the Four Hundred knows her, so tonight they’s introducing her and … You want a job? They can use the help.”
Wife?
The girl glanced behind her, as if nervous someone would snap at her for lingering at the door. Then she looked back at Lottie. “Well, do ya want the job?”
“I do.”
Lottie had never—ever—worked so hard.
The Tremaines’ cook, Mrs. Dyson, had accepted her presence with nary a glance. Help was help—at least in the kitchen. Lottie was told to go in a storeroom and find something to wear. She’d heard Mrs. Dyson add under her breath, “Who does she think she is? Coming for a job wearing a fancy suit.”
A suit too fancy for downstairs and not fancy enough for abovestairs.
After she’d changed into a faded skirt and blouse that still smelled of the previous wearer, Lottie was told to peel potatoes.
There were two baskets stacked high. “All of them?” slipped out.
“No. Just one or two.” Mrs. Dyson pointed to a knife. “Don’t you start complainin’ befores you even get started.”
Lottie made a few slices of the potato skin, but it was awkward. The girl who’d met her at the door came to her rescue. “Like this,” the girl whispered. She held the potato in the palm of her hand and ably ran the knife down its side. “Don’t push too hard or you’ll waste the potato and have to peel more.”
“Thank you,” Lottie said.
“And don’t cut yerself. Cook don’t like blood in the potatoes.”
Very funny.
As Lottie worked so did a dozen others, not counting the steady stream of deliverymen bringing in bushels of fruit and vegetables. The top of the cast-iron stove was covered with pots boiling and pans simmering. The large table that sat as an island in the middle of the room was used by four servants, cutting, dicing, kneading, and mixing.
