Masquerade (26 page)

Where the southern neighborhoods had been congested with people and carts, as she neared the Tremaines’, pedestrians were few. Carriages passed by with their coachmen crouched low against the wet cold. The wheels splashed water, dirtying her already dirty shoes and skirt. The people she did pass walked beneath umbrellas and gave her a wide berth, as if her lack of such shelter made her someone to fear. All sane people were inside, where it was dry and warm.

Did that mean she was insane?

Oddly, during her march, she didn’t ponder her predicament: no money, no luggage … Instead, her thoughts focused on her goal: the Tremaines’. There was no need to consider other alternatives. There were none.

Lottie glanced up to check her progress and saw an intersection ahead—what should be
the
intersection. A white stone building stood catty-corner, looming four stories. It reminded her of a library. The buildings on all sides were also formidable, some row houses and others larger than they, all in prime condition. Which house belonged to the Tremaines?

A man hurried across the street toward her, his umbrella raised high to accommodate his top hat.

“Excuse me, sir?”

He walked past her, then reconsidered. “Yes. Well. May I help you, miss?”

“If you please, which house belongs to the Tremaines?”

He pointed at the white stone building. “The servants’ entrance is around back,” he said.

Lottie barely managed a thank-you. Servant? He thought she was a servant? Only after the humiliation had its full say did she realize the Tremaines’ home was the huge building she’d taken for a library. This was a home? For four people? She’d assumed their wealth to be above her own family’s but had never imagined it could match the wealth of English royalty.

She crossed the street to the left and walked on the sidewalk directly across from the home. Her determination faltered.

How could she possibly knock on their door looking as she did—as a servant, or worse, a wet dog, drowned by the rain. Why, she wasn’t even wearing a hat. She never should have given it to Sofia. She needed that hat. If only she had the hat— The addition of the hat would not have changed her condition, for it too would have been soaked, its ribbons and flowers wilted and sagging.

If only it hadn’t started to rain.

If only …

The list was too long.

“Thank you, Mr. Childs,” Charlotte said to the butler as he helped her on with her cloak.

“ ‘Childs’ will do, Miss Gleason,” Mrs. Tremaine whispered. To the servant she said, “The umbrellas?”

A footman and the butler retrieved two umbrellas, which they unfurled as soon as the front door was opened. A carriage awaited the two women, and they hurried down the front steps to get inside, with the two servants straining against the wind to protect them with the umbrellas.

Charlotte sat on the seat and brushed the wetness from her skirt. “It’s a good day for flowers but not much else,” she said.

“Happily for us, Thorley’s House of Flowers has an enormous assortment inside for us to choose from for your party.” The butler closed the door of the carriage, and it began to pull away. Mrs. Tremaine looked outside. “Oh my. Who is that slovenly woman there? I do hope Childs gets rid of her. Beggars are not acceptable in front of private homes.”

Charlotte looked outside too and, as the carriage sped on, craned her neck to see more.

No. It couldn’t be.

Was the woman standing in the rain Lottie?

She raised a hand, as if to wave.

“Do sit back, my dear. It’s not polite to stare.”

Her heart raced. Not polite to stare? Was it polite to assume another woman’s identity?

Lottie had come to the Tremaines’? It could only mean one thing. She wanted to renege on their plan. While Charlotte and Mrs. Tremaine were at the florist’s picking out flowers for her welcome party, Lottie would knock on the front door and say, “Hello, I’m the real Charlotte Gleason.”

“Charlotte, I’ve been speaking to you.”

“Yes. Sorry. What were you saying?”

It didn’t matter what Mrs. Tremaine said or which flowers they might choose. China and sterling patterns, linen, guest lists, and gowns. None of it mattered.

It was over.

That’s her! That’s Dora!

Lottie raised her hand to wave as the carriage pulled away. She ran after it but tripped on the cobblestones and fell hard into a puddle.

Before she could collect herself, a man grabbed her forcefully by the arm and pulled her to standing. “There, now. Be off with you.”

“But I know—”

“Mrs. Tremaine does not take kindly to vagabonds lurking outside her house. You get along now, or I’ll call the police.”

“But I’m not lurking, I’m Charlotte—”

The man turned to the other servant on the steps. “George! Go fetch the police.”

The younger man nodded and ran down the street.

Lottie yanked her arm free. “Leave me alone.”

“You’re the one who needs to do the leaving.”

“Fine,” she said, walking toward the intersection. “I’m going.”

“You be doing that.” He pointed a finger at her. “And I’ll be watching you until you’re gone. For good, you hear? For good.”

Lottie saw that the other servant had stopped in the next block and was waiting for her to move on. She had no choice but to walk away in the direction from whence she’d come.

The firm stride that had brought her north abandoned Lottie, as did all determination. Her feet never left the sidewalk but scraped along, one step shuffling into the next. She was beaten. She was vanquished. She was through.

The mist turned to full rain. What couldn’t get worse did.

She couldn’t go on. She would sink to the ground in full surrender. At least she could rest.

A bolt of lightning lit the darkened afternoon, and she looked up and saw she was beside a church.

Sanctuary.

She held on to the stone railing, dragging her feet to follow her mind’s lead. At the landing it took all her strength to open the thick doors, but once inside, the lack of rain offered immediate relief—which was soon replaced with an awful chill.

The narthex was unoccupied and she gained new hope that she could enter the sanctuary unnoticed. She paused at the doorway of the center aisle, noted no one present, then slipped inside. Faint light made the stained-glass windows glow in muted colors, and an intricate cross sat upon the altar, drawing her forward. Holding the pews for support, she bypassed the seats in the back and walked ahead, keeping her eyes on the cross.

Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.

She stood next to the first row and stared at the cross. “Rest,” she whispered. Then she turned into the pew, sprawled across the rich velvet cushion, and was instantly asleep.

You’re safe now. I’ll watch over you. You’re not alone.

Mrs. Tremaine entered the house, immediately removed her gloves, and handed them to Childs. “It’s disappointing that you developed a headache, Miss Gleason. Childs, make sure Mary gets Miss Gleason some medicinals.”

“I’m disappointed too,” Charlotte said. “I didn’t mean to cut short our excursion. Please know that any flowers you choose will be lovely. I trust your taste completely.”

“Hmm.” To the butler Mrs. Tremaine said, “I’ll be in my sitting roomx. Please have coffee brought in.”

Charlotte was left alone with the butler. She handed Childs her gloves slowly, trying to study him at the same time. She awaited the proclamation
There was a woman come by who said she was you, Miss Gleason.

But all he said was “I’ll send Mary up to your room, Miss Gleason.”

Had Lottie changed her mind? Was their secret still safe?

Apparently so, because as Charlotte headed to the stairs, she saw Childs go off to get Mary.

Charlotte counted her blessings.

And worried about Lottie.

Chapter Eleven

“Miss? Miss.”

Lottie felt a hand upon her shoulder. Had Davies, the butler, come to wake her? Why wasn’t Dora—?

She opened her eyes and shot to sitting.

“Now, now. Don’t panic. You’re fine,” the man said.

He stood on the altar side of the first pew, dressed in clerical garb with a pastor’s collar.

Pews, altar, cross.

The past raced through her memory in a flash. She pressed a hand against her damp hair, trying to pin drooping curls into place.

“Nah, nah, lassie. Don’t trouble yourself. I see you’ve been out in the rain. It’s the wondering why that’s on my mind.” He took a step to the side, gesturing for her to follow. “Come and get by a fire, and you can tell me all about it.”

She wasn’t going to tell him anything, but the thought of being warm enticed her to follow.

They exited the sanctuary through a side door leading to a room in the back. He hurried to the fire and stirred it to life, then added another log. As he motioned toward a chair, a woman came from another room.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“We have a guest, Mattie. Get a blanket.”

She shook her head and came to Lottie, leading her into the room she’d left. “A blanket won’t be doing her much good, Douglas. She needs to get out of her wet clothes. I’ll take care of her.”