by Nancy Moser
The scene brought Lottie back to her childhood, when she’d often visited the servants belowstairs. Mrs. Movery the cook, Mr. Davies the butler, and Mrs. Reynolds the housekeeper … they’d often seemed more her family than her mother and father. They told her stories and she learned about their lives. They let her lick the cake bowl and …
Another memory demanded attention. It was her tenth birthday and her parents had forgotten. Feeling low, Lottie had gone downstairs to discover that Mrs. Movery had made an apple cake just for her. And the other servants had gone together to buy her a copy of Mansfield Park. It had been her best—and worst—birthday.
She rinsed a peeled potato in the sink and looked around the room. The smell of baking bread was heavenly, and the murmur of voices mingled with the sounds of utensils at work was somehow comforting.
Yet to think all of this was for Dora.
It could have been for me.
The thought brought her back to the reason she was at the Tremaines’. It wasn’t to help with the party, but to …
To what?
Crash the party?
Could she really do that? How would she do that? She didn’t want to embarrass Dora in front of New York society. That wouldn’t serve her own purposes well. For her to wait for the party to begin, clang a spoon against a serving tray to get their attention, and then declare, “I’m the real Charlotte Gleason” would lead to her own ostracism instead of acceptance.
And the maid had said Charlotte and Conrad were going to be engaged. What of Dr. Greenfield? Lea had implied he and Charlotte were a pair.
She needed to talk to Dora. Alone.
But how could she accomplish that if she was stuck in the kitchen?
Why couldn’t things be easy?
Lottie was so enrapt with her thoughts that she didn’t notice Mrs. Dyson coming up behind her. “Come on, girl. We need those potatoes in the pot. Now.”
“I’m sorry. I’m just not very good—”
Mrs. Dyson plucked the knife out of her hands. “Over here.” She nodded to another girl. “Potatoes, Millie.”
Millie glared at Lottie but left her place in the corner where she was …
No, no … don’t make me do that!
“Here you go,” Mrs. Dyson said. “There’s no talent to plucking feathers. Get to it.”
Lottie chided herself for not catching on to potato peeling. To touch a dead chicken. To pull its feathers out …
“Don’t give me that look, girl. Ain’t you ever seen a chicken before?”
“Not in its … entirety.”
Mrs. Dyson rolled her eyes. “Well, introduce yerself. I need girls who can help, not hinder.”
Lottie sat on the stool. “Actually, my experience is with serving dinner, not making it.”
Mrs. Dyson put her hands on her hips. “Well, aren’t you lardydardy.”
The other servants offered their own looks of contempt. Lottie hated their reaction, yet she wasn’t there to make friends.
All eyes turned toward the door leading to the house as the butler came in—the same man who’d met her at the front door.
He seemed to sense something was amiss and looked at Mrs. Dyson. “Is there a problem here?”
“No, Mr. Childs. No problem. Just a little mutiny by one of the girls. She says she’s only used to serving the food, not making it.”
Lottie’s first inclination was to avert her head. She didn’t want Mr. Childs to recognize—
Or did she?
“If you’ll excuse me, sir,” Lottie said. “My experience is upstairs, not in the kitchen.”
The butler looked her over. “We could use another maid to serve. What are your references?”
I’ve eaten a lot of food served by maids… . “I just got in from Wiltshire, where I’m familiar with the homes of Sir Charles Sonomish, Mr. Thomas Standish, and the Reginald Byrons.” She added the pièce de résistance. “I’ve also been in attendance at the Prince Regent’s on more than one occasion.” She did not add “as a guest.”
The butler’s eyebrows rose. “Mrs. Dyson, you’ll have to deal with two fewer hands. Come with me … ?”
“Lottie,” she said. “Lottie Hathaway.”
Chapter Eighteen
The interior of the Tremaine mansion was grander than any English home Lottie had ever seen. It rivaled even the royal palaces. To think this could be mine.
Mr. Childs led Lottie into the dining room and introduced her to the housekeeper, Mrs. Sinclair. He looked pointedly at Lottie before leaving her. “You do whatever Mrs. Sinclair tells you to, understand?”
Lottie bobbed a curtsy as she’d seen her own servants do a thousand times. “Yes, Mr. Childs.”
Mrs. Sinclair eyed her skeptically. “He says you have experience serving?”
Lottie felt a knot in her stomach. Being served and serving were far different things. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Your attire … you can wear those clothes now because we have work to do setting the table and such, but you’ll have to change into blacks for tonight.”
“Understood, Mrs. Sinclair.”
The older woman stepped to the side, revealing a long credenza piled high with china and glassware. “All this has to go there,” she said, pointing to the enormous dining table that had been covered with a lace tablecloth.
Lottie felt panic rise. She’d attended dozens of formal affairs and knew which fork to use for what, but setting a table to the Tremaines’ specifications was daunting. And how would the Tremaines accept her as the real Charlotte Gleason if they remembered her serving them as a maid?
First things first. She felt her plan—such as it was—was better served abovestairs rather than below, so she had to do a good job.
“I don’t wish to do it wrong, Mrs. Sinclair. Would you mind setting up one place as you’d like it and I’ll do the rest?”
Mrs. Sinclair’s look was indecipherable. Had Lottie given herself away? Did all maids know how to set such a table?
But then the housekeeper nodded once and said, “That’s the smartest thing I’ve ever heard said to me, girl. There’s no shame in not knowing, only in not asking. Here, let me show you how it’s to be done.”
Lottie watched intently, feeling quite triumphant.
Out of the corner of her eye, Lottie spotted Mrs. Sinclair bob a curtsy. She looked to the door of the dining room and saw a regal-looking woman enter. Was this—?
“Mrs. Tremaine,” Mrs. Sinclair said, halting the placement of candles in the four sterling candelabra.
The lady of the house walked toward the dining room table, her eyes seeing everything.
Lottie stopped her work and had to retrieve her heart from her shoes. This was the woman. This was her future mother-in-law.
Step up! Tell her who you are!
But instead of stepping forward, Lottie found herself taking two steps back, away from the table, giving Mrs. Tremaine room to walk around unhindered.
The woman adjusted a fork here, a glass there—a quarter of an inch at the most. After she’d moved to the other side of the table, she looked up and saw Lottie. Her eyes lingered a moment.
Does she recognize me from the photograph we sent them? In the split second that followed, Lottie tried to remember her expression in that photograph. If she matched it just so …
She offered a slight smile.
But too late. Mrs. Tremaine had moved on, her eyes on the table. “Who is responsible for the setting?” she asked Mrs. Sinclair.
“That girl, over there. A new girl brought in for the party.”
Once again, Mrs. Tremaine stopped and looked at Lottie. “The job is done well, girl.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Tremaine.” Her impulses warred with common sense. I’m not a maid! I’m Charlotte Gleason! You see, it was all an idiotic idea of mine to let my maid take my place and—
“What’s your name, girl?”
Oh. My. Goodness. Now was her chance.
Lottie tried to suppress the frantic
beating of her heart. “My name is Lottie, Lottie—”
Crash!
Mrs. Tremaine hurried into the foyer, followed by Mrs. Sinclair. There was commotion and Lottie heard reference to a vase and flowers.
She stood alone in the dining room, transfixed, unable to move. Her head began to shake in small bursts. Because she’d hesitated, her chance had been lost. Gone.
Was the lost chance a blessing or a blunder?
Mrs. Sinclair returned. “Stupid boy. Can’t even carry a vase from one room to the other without tripping over his own feet.” She glanced at Lottie. “You did good, girl, but back to work with you.”
“But Mrs. Tremaine? Is she coming back?”
“What? You want further praise? Be thankful for what you got. Mrs. Tremaine has more to do than gush over you. And so do I. When you get done with the table, I’m going to have you help me set up a beverage buffet in the drawing room.”
Now that Lottie had seen one of the Tremaines, now that she’d spoken to one, she didn’t want to be relegated to busywork. She had to see Dora, and see her now.
“If Miss Gleason needs extra help getting ready, I would be happy to oblige.”
Mrs. Sinclair turned toward her, candle in hand. “What are you? A jack-of-all-trades?”
“I used to be a lady’s maid too.”
“Well, aren’t you special? Did you also work as a stableboy and a butler?”
“No, I just—”
“You just do as you’re told. One compliment from the mistress doesn’t earn you the right to choose your work. Now finish up.”
Lottie’s mind swam. How can I get to Dora? How can I talk to—?
Mrs. Sinclair stood with her arms crossed. “I’m waiting.”
For what?
“Say, ‘Yes, Mrs. Sinclair.’ You’d better show some respect, girl, or I’ll have Mr. Childs toss your bum on the street.”
He wouldn’t dare. But even though her anger had been ignited, she said the words that were required. “Yes, Mrs. Sinclair.”
Servitude was clearly not her forte.
“The dress is so heavy.”
Mary was right. The pink and green gown that Mrs. Tremaine had made for Charlotte felt like a hundred stones had been tied around her body, weighing her down, pulling her down …
Drowning her.
If only she could have worn the garnet dress Conrad purchased for her at the store. That dress made her feel pretty and elegant, while this one made her feel as though she were strapped to a garden arbor.
From handling Lottie’s dresses, Charlotte had long ago realized that the wealthy somehow equated layers, bulk, and ornament with status. The heavier the fabric, and the more drapery, bustle, fringe, and bead, the better. With this as a measurement, this evening’s dress earned her the title of countess. Or princess. An American princess who was bringing her own flowers.
There was a knock on the door. Mary answered it, letting Beatrice in.
“Mother said she forgot to order you gloves, so I’m to loan you some of mine.” She handed Charlotte some long butter-colored gloves, then gave the dress a look. She didn’t smile. “So. Do you like the dress?”
Once again, now wasn’t the time for the truth. “As you said, it’s perfection.”
“Humph. I may have said that, but I never meant it.”
“You didn’t?”
Beatrice shook her head. “Mother’s trying too hard with that dress, which means—”
“I look like I’m trying too hard.”
She shrugged. “At least Mother believes you can be accepted by the Four Hundred. She’s given up on me.”
“I’m sure that’s not true.”
Beatrice adjusted a yellow flower on Lottie’s hip. “Do you think it’s easy being plain?”
“I …”
“My brother, who’s no looker himself, gets to marry you, a beauty. But because I’m not beautiful, I’m sought after by no one. Even my father’s money can’t make me desirable.” She picked a ribbon from the dressing table and wrapped it around a finger. “Even that scallywag Ward McAllister doesn’t pay attention to me.”
Charlotte remembered Mr. McAllister from their walk in Central Park. The man’s innuendo toward Charlotte had been discomfiting. “I expect there are many women who yearn to be ignored by Mr. McAllister.”
Beatrice let the ribbon spiral from finger to table. “It doesn’t matter. I’ve accepted my state.” She looked up. “As of today.”
“Today?”
Beatrice moved to Charlotte’s side, adjusting the trim on a sleeve. “Since you found a way for my paintings to be displayed, I’ve found my true purpose.”
Charlotte smiled. “I was happy to do it. And you’ll be doing Conrad a favor, your family’s store a favor.”
“You did me a favor.”
Their eyes met for only a moment, but it was enough. This was Beatrice’s way of making amends. When the older girl looked away, Charlotte said, “Do you really think this dress is too much?”
“Absolutely. But Mother, Mrs. Astor, and Mrs. Vanderbilt will love it, and that’s what counts.”
There was another knock on the door, but this time Beatrice answered it. It was Mr. Childs, with a box. Beatrice brought it to Charlotte. “Childs says this is for you. From Conrad.”
“Why didn’t he bring it himself?” she asked, taking the blue velvet box.
“If you haven’t noticed, my brother isn’t the most courageous of beings.”
Yet. In the short time Charlotte had known him, Conrad had made many positive strides in the right direction.
“Well?” Beatrice said. “Aren’t you going to open it?”
Charlotte undid the clasp and opened—
She gasped.
“Emeralds,” Beatrice said. “If I’m not mistaken, they were my grandmother’s.”
Charlotte carefully lifted the necklace, marveling at the sparkle of the green jewels and the diamonds that surrounded them. “It’s magnificent. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Beatrice took it from her, working to open the clasp. “Of course you haven’t.” She put the necklace on Charlotte and hooked the clasp. “There. Take a look.”
Charlotte moved to the full-length mirror. The green in the emeralds perfectly enhanced the green velvet ribbons on her dress. Her fingers flitted from stone to stone as if testing to see if they were truly hers.
“Quite lovely, if I do say so.” Beatrice sighed. “It appears my brother is set on marrying you. He wouldn’t give these to you otherwise.”
“Really?”
“That is why you’re here, isn’t it?”
“Yes, of course, but …” Charlotte let it go. She couldn’t think about that right now. She had to get through the evening.
“I’ll leave you, then, for I have some primping of my own to do—as if it will matter. I’ll see you soon.”
“Of course,” Charlotte said. “Thank you for stopping—”
But as Beatrice left, Mrs. Tremaine entered. She scanned Charlotte from head to toe and back again, finally resting her gaze upon the necklace.
“Conrad just gave it to me.”
Her left eyebrow rose. She turned to Mary. “Leave us.”
Mary looked as surprised as Charlotte felt. Was something wrong?
“Please sit.” Mrs. Tremaine indicated a specific chair. She, however, remained standing. “Firstly, I wanted to tell you that I appreciate what you have done for my children.”
“I haven’t—”
She raised a hand, stopping Charlotte’s words. “I am not ignorant to the travails of growing up in a wealthy home, expecting the world, yet having the world expect little in return.”
Charlotte was genuinely interested. She would never have imagined such a statement from Mrs. Tremaine.
The woman strolled as she talked, the train of her dress following obediently behind her. “I know my children’s weaknesses: Conrad gives in too easily, and Beatrice has erected a wall of sarcasm. Yet you,
in your brief time here, have given them purpose. I’ve never seen Conrad so enthusiastic about the store, nor seen Beatrice drop her guard enough to let me witness a glimmer of the innocent, hopeful girl she once was.”
Charlotte was going to denounce her involvement, yet decided just to say, “I’m glad you approve.”
“I do more than approve, I’m grateful.” She paused in front of the empty jewel box and shut it with a snap. “When you first arrived I was skeptical, and honestly, you didn’t seem to be the girl we thought you were. There were times—” she found Charlotte’s eyes—“times when I didn’t know who you were.”
Charlotte felt sick to her stomach. What had started as a conversation of gratitude had veered toward one of exposure.
I know who you are, Miss Gleason—or should I say, Miss Connors?
“I’m sorry if I’ve disappointed you in any way,” Charlotte said. “And I apologize for the mistakes I’ve made. It’s been a bit unnerving coming here, across the world. I’ve done my best to—”
“I received some information earlier today, from a man who works for my husband.”
The man with the red curly hair and the droopy mustache? Charlotte tried to recall if she’d ever seen the man before and thought not. So what could he have against her?
Mrs. Tremaine moved the jewelry box to Charlotte’s vanity table. “Honestly, I don’t know what to think of his allegations.”
“Allegations? I …” The defense I’ve done nothing wrong was halted before the lie could fall into the space between them.
Mrs. Tremaine looked upon Charlotte long enough for the girl to feel a twitch in her jaw and a clenching of her innards.
I have to tell her. She deserves to know. She already knows. It was wonderful while it lasted, but Lottie and I were stupid to think we could ever get away with—
Mrs. Tremaine broke her stance and walked to the mantel. “Did you know my maiden name was Gertie Gooseman?”
Surely she was joking.
Her lack of a smile revealed otherwise. “I didn’t know that,” Charlotte said.
“I came to America with my parents in 1850. We escaped the horrible potato famine in Ireland. My two siblings died on the trip over, and my mother died the next year in childbirth. My father … amid his sorrow he took to drink.”
