Masquerade (2 page)

And yet, she also wanted to feel of
use
. There was a stirring inside that niggled like an empty stomach demanding
something
of her. From her. When she felt such discontent she usually sought the outdoors, where the movement of her body and the addition of fresh air were a good counter to her restlessness. Until she could pinpoint the answer to this inner unrest, she planned on marrying well and setting up her own home in a nearby estate. Surely true love would be the key to unlocking her purpose. But marrying an American as her parents suggested? There could be no key in that. Even if he was rich, he would never understand her inner need, and she’d be held in bondage, far from family and friends and the dream she had of becoming …

Something. Someone.

Her mother interrupted her thoughts. “Conrad Tremaine seems to be a very nice young man.”

In this context,
nice
was a lethal word, one that was used when better words like
dashing
,
handsome
, and
debonair
did not apply. Judging from the letters Lottie had received from the
nice
Mr. Tremaine, along with the small photograph … She’d read the letters many times and had dissected the photograph with her father’s magnifying glass, but no matter how hard she looked at his representation in either word or countenance, Mr. Tremaine was no Mr. Darcy. Or Willoughby. Or even Heathcliff. He came off sounding stumbling in the first and looking bumbling in the latter.

And pudgy. With a weakish chin. And a hairline that promised to recede into nothingness sooner rather than later.

Apparently not knowing what else to say, her father repeated his mantra: “It’s a good match, daughter.”

Lottie suffered a shiver of disgust. Her parents had endured an arranged marriage—with emphasis on the word
endured
—and now they expected her to do the same? Although they put up a good front, Lottie recognized her mother’s stern and pinched appearance to be the consequence of enduring rather than enjoying her life. Lottie had become cognizant of it a few years previous when she’d looked more closely at her parents’ wedding photograph. She’d been shocked to find little resemblance between the sweet expectation upon her mother’s face and the dour mask that existed now. Did expectation of
any
sort remain behind that mask? Or had it been extinguished through a union that was false in all aspects but the law?

And her father … his countenance had not changed, nor had his premarriage behavior. He was unfaithful. His longtime mistress, Mrs. Lancashire, lived in Bath, just thirteen short miles away. Certainly Mother knew, for she had long ago refused to go to that city, even though the medicinal benefits of its spas might have helped her chronic health issues.

Lottie had seen this mistress once, at age twelve, when she’d accompanied her father to Bath. Lottie had known nothing of his weaknesses before the trip. But as a young person just awakening to the world of adult desires, her eyes and ears were aware of lingering looks and hushed rumors about her father and “another woman.” When Lottie finally saw her, she found Mrs. Lancashire to be a pretty thing, yet rather mindless in that she laughed too much and too loudly. At the gathering, Mrs. Lancashire had been accompanied by her husband, which had been confusing, considering the rumors. Nanny had tried to explain to Lottie the truth of things as best she could. It was the first time Lottie had ever heard the word
adultery
—the seventh commandment come to life.

After she returned from that trip, Lottie had vowed she would never, ever marry without love. And she would never, ever place herself in a situation where she would have to be the understanding wife to her husband’s indiscretions. She would never, ever—

The butler entered the room with several letters on a silver tray, and Mother perked up at the diversion. “Oh, lovely. The post has arrived.” She extended the top letter toward Lottie. “I recognize this handwriting. Conrad’s ears must have been burning.”

Lottie abandoned the vista of the window, retrieved the letter, and opened it.

“Come now, daughter. Show some enthusiasm. What does Conrad have to say?” her father asked.

Lottie scanned the lines to find something of interest, but the words merged into inane dribble and drabble. “He extends his greetings and those of his parents.”

“How very nice.” Hester nodded to her husband. “We ask that you extend the same to his family in your next correspondence.”

Bland niceties sent across the sea. As passionless and unappealing as milk toast.

Or tea. Lottie returned to her chair and took a sip. She’d never liked tea much. And after reading the American novel
Little Women
, she’d tried coffee and had liked both the beverage and the book very much. Those working-class American girls were always drinking coffee, having adventures, and feeling free and loved. Oh, to have three sisters, three confidantes. Lottie had a handful of female friends here in Wiltshire, but none in whom she could fully confide. The only friend she could count on was her lady’s maid, Dora. But it wasn’t the same as having a true sister.

Lottie had never found the courage to ask her mother why she had no siblings. Such subjects were private and beyond mention. But she couldn’t help wondering if her mother’s melancholy countenance was partly the result of this deficit. More children might have changed much.

The March family in
Little Women
was not nearly as wealthy as Lottie’s family, yet the members possessed something the Gleasons lacked with an utter completeness: vitality and
joie de vivre.

Lottie had spent too many teatimes in her parents’ company where no more than a dozen words had been exchanged while her father read some newspaper and her mother created another seated masterpiece. Why gather only to share silence? When the families in her novels got together, there was exuberance and laughter. Sometimes she longed to blurt out something outrageous, just to witness its effect.

Today might be a good time to do such a thing as a means to veer the subject away from this annoying talk of marriage. But what should she yell out?
Tea no more! Down with bustles!

She noticed her mother opening a small note, which caused a furrow to form upon her mother’s forehead.

“Bad news?” Father asked.

Mother shook her head, slipped the note in the space between her skirt and the chair, perused the others in the pile, and offered them the same fate—unopened.

“Aren’t you going to read them?” Lottie asked.

“Later,” Mother said. With one letter remaining, she offered a smile that removed all facial lines. “See here? It’s our turn. For yours is not the only letter from the Tremaines.” She handed it to her husband.

He set his pipe aside, broke open the envelope, adjusted his spectacles, and read to himself, mumbling the words in a totally unintelligible manner.

“Thomas! Read it aloud. Lottie and I would like to hear it too.”

“Yes, yes, of course.” He cleared his throat and began. “ ‘Dear Sir Thomas and Lady Gleason. Greetings from New York City. My wife and I are duly pleased at the connection that has formed between our two children. In order that it might proceed in a suitable manner, we believe it would profit all involved if Miss Charlotte and you, Lady Gleason, sailed to America for a visit as our guests.’ ” Her father read a few more lines to himself, then removed his reading glasses. “They send greetings and request a quick passage before the winter comes in order that Charlotte be there for the start of their social season in mid-November.”

Mother clapped her hands together. “America! And the wedding preparations! The dress, the wedding supper, the flowers, the—”

“I’m afraid you are not well enough to travel, my dear,” Father interrupted.

Her countenance fell. “But I must. Going to America would be a way for me to …” She did not finish the sentence.

Lottie felt a dash of compassion for her mother’s plight, yet in the end, it was not about her, it was about Lottie. And so she stood, unable to tolerate the notion of this marriage a second longer. “All of you are making plans without me. I must have some say in the matter!”

Her parents gave her their respective versions of disapproval. She had to calm herself.

“Forgive me, but from what little I’ve come to know of Mr. Tremaine, I find it hard to imagine … Well, he’s just not …” How could she assemble her thoughts into a tangible defense? Her reasons were as ungraspable as mist upon the air.

Her mother rose and moved the unopened letters to a drawer of her desk nearby. Then she stood behind her husband’s chair, a soft cough accompanying her. “No young couple truly knows one another before marriage,” she said. “It’s not possible.”

Would years of marriage alleviate that issue? Did her parents truly know each other now?

“At any rate, young people don’t know what’s best for them,” her father said. “Marriage is …” He looked to his wife.

She hesitated, and Lottie was truly interested in what she would say.

“Yes, Mother? Marriage is … ?”

Her mother attempted to hide her blush behind the handkerchief at her mouth. “Marriage is a serious responsibility. It is—”

“A measure of a woman’s success,” Father said. “ ’ Tis the only way for a woman to advance her position.” He glanced toward the door, then added, “Women who are independent are incomplete and unfinished. Spinsterhood is failure.”

Lottie realized he had lowered his voice in case Aunt Agatha had returned from her errands in the village. At age thirty-eight, never married, with all prospects long ago extinguished, her mother’s sister had no recourse but to live on the charity of her family.

Mother continued her definition. “Above all, marriage is an act of faith in order to perpetuate, to propagate …”

“Yes, well,” Father harrumphed. “We know where that goes.”

Actually, Lottie knew nothing about where that went, or how it was accomplished. She’d been taught to be pretty and alluring but had little knowledge of what to do once she was successful. She’d certainly received no clues from her mother. Her childhood had been best accomplished under the charge of her beloved nanny, Eliza Hathaway. Except for her formal education under the tutelage of a stern governess whom Lottie had detested, she had looked to Nanny to provide all of her personal needs until Lottie grew too old and Dora came along and filled the bill as companion and overseer. Lottie rarely saw her mother for more than meals or an outing into society. And she never confided in her. Dora was the one who was privy to all her he-said-she-said anecdotes. In fact, Dora was the one who had explained the facts of womanhood when Lottie’s body had traversed from childhood to adolescence. And now that her mother wanted her to marry … Lottie wished to know the private issues marriage involved but would never dream of asking her mother. And certainly not her father, who knew far too much.

Would Dora know of such things?

Lottie found her voice. “If I were to marry this man and have a family with him, I must love him.” She thought of something to strengthen her stand. “Even the Bible says we are to love one another. If there is no love, there should be no marriage.”

Her father’s eyebrows rose. “Where does the Bible say that? About marriage specifically?”

She was suddenly confused. “I’m sure it does. Somewhere.”

Mother returned to her chair. “Of course we wish for love to be present, Lottie. But how can love blossom between you and Conrad if you don’t even meet him?”

Lottie could not imagine traveling to America and being beholden to a strange family that would scrutinize her every ruffle and flaw. She liked her life here in Wiltshire. She was quite willing to stay here in the loving arms of …

“Ralph Smythe has continued to show interest in me,” she said.

Her father adjusted himself in his chair, making grunting sounds— caused by his posture or Lottie’s comment? “I’m afraid you don’t understand, daughter. And perhaps I’ve been remiss in not telling you more about what has occurred.”

“Then tell me,” she said. “If I’m old enough to travel to America, if I’m old enough to marry a stranger, then I’m old enough to know why all this is being thrust upon me.”

Her father retrieved his pocket watch, snapped open its gold cover, then stood. “I must go check on the horses. A mare is due to foal.”

She rushed to his side, putting a hand upon his arm. “Please, Father. Tell me why you’re so keen on my marrying this American.”

He didn’t meet her eyes. “Do as you’re told, girl.”

As soon as he was gone, Lottie turned to her mother. “Why won’t he tell me?”

Mother’s voice was soft. “Why won’t he tell
me
?”

It had never occurred to Lottie that her mother was unaware of the details of their life. If she knew about Father’s mistress, certainly she knew about other, less delicate matters.

But instead of an explanation, Mother stood and went to the mantel. “I wish your father had not had to leave, but I know he wanted you to have this birthday gift from the two of us.”

All thoughts of Conrad Tremaine were forgotten as Lottie took the velvet box. The shape divulged the contents as jewelry, Lottie’s favorite gift in the world.

She untied the pink satin ribbon and opened the hinged case. Inside was a ruby necklace.

“It was my mother’s.”

“I know.”
I know, I know, I know.
Lottie had seen her mother wear the necklace a hundred times and had always thought it an oldfashioned, vulgar thing. It was fitting for a woman turned ninety, not nineteen. Her parents knew her taste flowed toward more modern stylings. They’d always done well with their previous choices, even having pieces custom-made.

“Don’t you like it?”

Lottie forced herself to at least feign pleasure. “It’s quite … nice.”

“You don’t like it.”

If only she had a less-transparent face. Unfortunately, every emotion felt was heralded for all to see. In order to avoid her mother’s gaze, Lottie kissed her cheek. “Thank you for thinking of me, Mother.”