Masquerade Read online

  Masquerade

  Books by

  Nancy Moser

  Mozart’s Sister

  Just Jane

  Washington’s Lady

  How Do I Love Thee?

  Masquerade

  Masquerade

  Copyright © 2010

  Nancy Moser

  Cover design by Andrea Gjeldum

  Cover photography by Trevillion Images

  Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan.

  Printed in the United States of America

  * * *

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Moser, Nancy.

  Masquerade / Nancy Moser.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-0-7642-0751-8 (pbk.)

  1. Heiresses—Fiction. 2. Household employees—Fiction. 3. British—United

  States—Fiction 4. New York (N.Y.)—19th century—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3563.O88417M37 2010

  813’.54—dc22

  2010007457

  * * *

  To Emily, Laurel, and Mallory

  For the wonderful women you are—and will come to be

  NANCY MOSER is the author of three inspirational humor books and twenty-one novels, including Mozart’s Sister, Just Jane, and Time Lottery, a Christy Award winner. She is an inspirational speaker, giving seminars around the country. She has earned a degree in architecture; run a business with her husband; traveled extensively in Europe; and performed in various theaters, symphonies, and choirs. She and her husband have three grown children and make their home in the Midwest. Read more about her books at www.nancymoser.com.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Dear Reader

  Fact or Fiction in Masquerade

  The Fashion of Masquerade

  Discussion Questions for Masquerade

  Chapter One

  DORNBY MANOR

  WILTSHIRE, ENGLAND

  SEPTEMBER 1886

  “I’ve told you, Father, I won’t marry him.”

  Thomas Gleason held a matchstick to the bowl of his pipe and puffed repeatedly, luring the tobacco to ignite. “It’s a good match, daughter. Everyone has heard of the Tremaines, even here in England.”

  Heard of their money, perhaps …

  Lottie remembered the whispered rumors about the Tremaines. She knew her parents hated gossip—or pretended to for propriety’s sake— but now was not the time for her to be timid. “Some say the Tremaines are nouveau riche. The elder Mr. Tremaine is but one generation away from those who peddled their goods on the streets of New York City.”

  Her father pointed his pipe at her. “Perhaps. But Tremaine’s Dry Goods has grown to encompass a five-story building, taking up an entire city block.”

  Mother shook her head and said beneath her breath, “A glorified shopkeeper.”

  Father shot her a glance.

  Mother nodded to the maid, Dora, to pour the tea. “We are the ones doing the Tremaines the favor. You are Sir Thomas Gleason,” she said. “The Gleasons have ties to Richard the Second. Our name is listed in Debrett’s.”

  A puff of smoke billowed in front of Father’s face. “Now, now, Hester. By seeking a goodly match for our daughter, we’re not negating our own roots. It’s a blessing the Tremaines have shown interest in our Charlotte, especially since they’ve never met any of us. And considering—”

  Lottie interrupted. “You act as if meeting me might cause them to change their minds. I may not be a ravishing beauty, Father, but I’ve been complimented many times regarding my appearance.”

  “No, no,” he said. “Don’t take offense. You’re a lovely girl. I was merely pointing out the odd circumstances of … our situation.”

  Hester coughed and put her ever-present handkerchief to her mouth.

  Lottie tried unsuccessfully to squelch her annoyance at her mother’s cough. Hack, hack, hack. Perhaps if Mother spent more time outside, walking the grounds of their Wiltshire estate, her health would improve. But Mother prided herself on indoor pursuits, namely her needlepoint chair cushions. Best in the county, she bragged. Lottie didn’t care for such nonsense. To go to so much work only to have someone sit upon it was absurd.

  As was this conversation.

  Lottie set her teacup down, rose from her chair, and moved to the windows that overlooked the front lawn. “I don’t see why we have to talk about this now.” Or ever. “It’s my birthday and my friends will be arriving for my party soon and …” She turned to her mother directly. “Speaking of my party, why aren’t you bustling about? A dozen of my friends will arrive in just a few hours, yet if I didn’t know better, I’d think the party was next Tuesday rather than today.”

  The handkerchief rose once again. “You said you didn’t want an extravagant soiree, dear, just a light repast with cakes and sweets for your friends. Mrs. Movery is quite busy with the food preparations, I’m sure.” She glanced at Dora. “In fact, toward that end … Dora, why don’t you go see how things are coming along in the kitchen.”

  Dora said, “Yes, ma’am,” and left them.

  Lottie wished she would have stayed. Dora was her lady’s maid and her best friend in the entire world. But lately her parents had started asking Dora to do other tasks, even helping out in the kitchen, which was unthinkable. Lottie had noticed a few of the housemaids and parlormaids were no longer in service with the family, but that didn’t mean Dora should suffer. “I don’t understand why Dora is suddenly being asked to expand her duties. She’s my maid. I assure you I keep her very busy.”

  “I’m sure you do, daughter,” her father said. “But … well …”

  Mother continued the thought. “With the preparations for your party this afternoon …”

  Something wasn’t being said. Lottie wished her parents would tell her what was going on. She had a good mind. She could practically recite the novels of Jane Austen and the Brontë sisters by heart. Didn’t that prove she had an intellect worth utilizing? Sometimes Lottie thought she would scream for lack of purpose. To sit in the house all day, reading or doing needlework, waiting for someone of consequence to call, was silly. She would happily trade two women of means for one person who could offer amusement or witty conversation. Odd how those attributes were sorely lacking in polite society, among people who were far too polite to be of interest.

  But now, looking out upon the front drive and the vista of the green that carpeted the house to the road, she abandoned her worries for the anticipation of seeing carriage after carriage arriving for her party. Guests laden with presents—for her. Perhaps purpose was overrated. In all her nineteen years she’d fo
und it quite acceptable—pleasant, really—to let the world beyond their country home dip and spin without her. What did she care of labor acts or problems in Ireland or whether Queen Victoria became Empress of Burma? Where in the world was Burma?

  Lottie preferred experiencing life through novels where the characters were always enjoying a lovely ball or romp through the countryside that would lead them to their one true love. Her copies of Pride and Prejudice, Sense and Sensibility, and Little Women were threadbare. Lottie especially enjoyed stories about sisters—perhaps because she had none. Conversely, she did not enjoy the books of Elizabeth Gaskell or Charles Dickens with the same zeal, finding their stories too driven by social inequities. She didn’t want to read about the world’s problems. She wanted romance, diversion, passion, and a happy ending—in her books and in real life.

  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 gree
tings 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.”