Gilded Age Creator's Cotillion

“Oh, Charlotte, you scared me...” she said, attempted a reassuring smile. “Where’s your nanny?”

Charlotte mumbled something, gaze fixed firmly on the floor to avoid Gladys’ stare.

Gladys couldn’t quite make out the words, but could guess easily enough, given her own penchant for making escapes from the nursery, that she’d waited for the nanny to fall asleep and slipped away. “Did you have a nightmare?”

Charlotte nodded. She chanced meeting Gladys’ gaze – if only for a second – but when she did, her eyes were swimming with tears.

Something in the fear in her eyes brought Gladys right back to having nightmares as a child, to being afraid and having no one to turn to for comfort. She shifted over in the bed and pushed aside the covers in a silent invitation to settle in bedside her.

Charlotte considered the situation – and her trust in this stranger she’d been told was her sister – and debated whether she was safe. Gladys could understand that; she’d been ripped from her home, her family...everything she’d ever known. She’d been dragged across the country to a new home, a new family, and told this was her life now.

Gladys didn’t think she could do it, not with half the grace and poise with which Charlotte had handled herself. She’d been ‘home’ all of eight hours and been bombarded by a thousand new sights and sounds that would surely overwhelm anyone, let alone a small child, but she’d been the perfect picture of composure the entire time. (Gladys couldn’t help but think Charlotte to have taken after their mother in more ways than one, as it was surely Bertha’s influence that she was able to maintain her perfect child facade under duress.)

After a lengthy internal debate, Charlotte seemed to ultimately decide Gladys trustworthy and wordlessly toddled ‘round the bed and hoisted herself to sit beside her. Once again, she mumbled something, but being closer now, Gladys was able to discern the words. My name isn’t Charlotte.

“What should I call you, then?” she asked, wondered whether her parents had stopped to ask, whether they cared...or whether they were so entranced with the idea of bringing Charlotte home that it no longer mattered.

“Lucy,” the girl whispered. For the first time, Gladys thought maybe she’d seen a ghost of a smile.

Gladys extended a hand towards the girl, then waited to see whether she would accept it. At first, she wasn’t sure she would, skittish as she was, but after a few long moments of distrustfully staring at her hand, Charlotte’s little fingers wrapped around Gladys’.

“I’m scared...”

Immediately, he was at her side and his appearance was just dishevelled enough for her to discern that he’d spent the night on the chaise lounge. That, in addition to the fact that she remained in her nightgown, suggested that her assumptions were correct. Which then begged the question: why?

Before she can begin to vocalize the thought, though, her stomach lurched and she knew she was going to be sick. Immediately, George was at her side, holding back her hair as she vomited the meagre contents of her stomach.

“I’ve never felt this ill in my life,” she groaned as he helped her settle back in bed. He couldn’t help but think that she looked alarmingly pale against the rich red of his sheets. She seemed to read his mind in that moment because he’d no sooner had the thought than she was scolding, “Don’t even think about calling Dr. Miller.”

“Bertha...” he started to argue, “I don’t think it overly cautious of me to want you to seek medical attention after you fainted.”

She was quick to argue, “Fainted is putting it rather dramatically. I merely swooned.” He seemed like he would have liked to argue the matter, but ultimately decided not to. “I suppose Larry and Gladys are both in a tizzy over the matter as well?” she asked, set to be cross about something else.

“I wouldn’t know,” he said. When she raised a brow in question, he explained, “I gently suggested they both get out of the house for the day. I imagine right now they’re enjoying the Imperial Ballet’s performance of La Bayadère.”

Raising a brow, she said dryly, “I suppose you mean Larry has found yet another excuse for him to whisk Miss Brook away from prying eyes.”

He couldn’t help but grin, just a little, given the very real veracity of her words. “You remember what it’s like to be young and in love, don’t you?”

“Which are you suggesting I no longer am?” she asked and it was almost a joke. Almost. But just as quickly as the ghost of a smile crossed her lips, it had vanished. Things between them were still so raw...

He doesn’t answer that, not that she was really expecting him to.

“I will concede,” she said at length, “That if I don’t feel entirely well tomorrow, then you may call the doctor.” It was more a concession borne of a desire to placate him than any actual giving in to him – and they both knew it – but they both pretended like it wasn’t.

“I’ll give you eight hours,” he bargained, though it came off significantly gruffer than he’d intended.

Several moments of brittle silence followed. It wasn’t in either of their nature to stay silent, but they were in uncharted waters here. Ultimately, though, she didn’t disagree, which could have meant everything and nothing.

When the silence stretched on to the point of discomfort and she could no longer stand the blistering cold that had settled between them, she turned away from his gaze. “Perhaps it would be best if I returned to my room...”

A beat.

Then, in a small voice, “Stay.” She looked up at him, unsure what it was she’d find in his eyes, but seeking something...reassurance or, perhaps, some sign that he still loved her.

In the next moment – and she couldn’t have said with perfect confidence how exactly – she found herself in a crushing embrace. She could scarcely breathe for the strength of it, but she certainly wasn’t going to complain when it was the most affection he’d shown her in weeks.

“George...” she managed to whisper and it was almost a plea, though neither of them was entirely certain for what.

“Well?” he prompted when the doctor emerged, checking his own pocket watch, then scrawling something in his notebook, then putting both away. “Is she...”

“Congratulations, Mr. Russell,” Dr. Miller announced. “Now, I really must be on my way – busy schedule, you know.” And with that, he was out the door, leaving George flustered in his wake.

He remained rooted to the spot for several long moments, struggling to make his mind comprehend the situation. He truly had no idea how this had happened. When they’d began their family, both he and Bertha had agreed that two children was the perfect number. However, following Gladys’ birth, something in Bertha had changed.

An almost overwhelming maternal desire had gripped her and all she ever seemed to think about was a third baby. Maybe it was because of the melancholy that had prevented her from bonding properly with Gladys as an infant. Maybe it was that neither Larry nor Gladys seemed to truly take after her in the way that she could point to and show that, yes, this was her child.

Whatever the reason, she’d been rather insistent. And, whatever his reason, George had been easily convinced. (Not that he’d ever been all that good at denying her to begin with.)

Reality, though, wasn’t quite that simple.

For the next four years, they tried to conceive another child, but to no avail. They’d all but given up on ever growing their family by the time Charlotte came along.

Which made this development particularly perplexing.

He was still deeply entrenched in his internal dialogue when Bertha came down the stairs to see him standing in the foyer looking lost and confused. She waved a hand in front of his face in an effort to coax some kind of reaction from him. “George?” she prompted, “Are you in there?”

He shook himself back to awareness and plastered on a small smile. “It’s good news, I’ve been told?” he said. Anyone not deeply familiar with the pair would have missed the slight flicker of expression that crossed her face.

“Is it?” she prompted, curious as to what his thoughts were on the matter. She studied his expression, watching for the slightest giveaway as to what he was truly thinking. Afterall, they were still mourning Charlotte’s loss, Gladys was newly engaged, and they’d barely spoken since the night of the opera. “Things are so very different now – we’re different now...”

“It won’t be easy,” he said eventually, which wasn’t an answer.

Her self-restraint broke then and she asked the one question that she could no longer wait to have answered. “Do you plan to leave?”

He wished he could answer that. Truly, he did.

“Do you still love me?” she asked in spite of herself.

He didn’t hesitate but a moment in answering, “Always.”

The more pressing issue on her mind was rather whether Charlotte would know her. Whether any trace of her remained in Charlotte’s memory after all this time. She’d spent a lot of time over the past months trying not to ruminate endlessly on the kinds of conditions Charlotte was enduring – whether she was safe, whether she was fed...whether she was loved. If there was one thing Bertha refused to abide, it was thinking that she was living without love.

She felt George’s presence as he approached behind her, his hands landing on her shoulders. She waited for him to speak, but it seemed that words failed him in that moment as well. Afterall, what was there to say? He’d already said it all – trying to keep her hopes from being dashed if this was only someone trying to pull the wool over their eyes. She knew it might not be Charlotte, but if there was even the slightest chance it was her... Well, it was a nice change to have something to believe in.

She took a steadying inhale and there was something about the warmth of his cologne that was comforting and, in spite of the gravity of the situation, she felt the ghost of a smile cross her lips. She realized it was the closest they’d been since the night of the opera and the smile was gone as quickly as it had arrived, replaced with sadness.

Before she could begin to pluck at that tenuous thread, though, the door before them opened.

_____

Somehow – and, looking back, she couldn’t have said with confidence how exactly – they’d managed to talk their way into the Melancons’ palatial mansion and were now seated in their sitting room while a maid scuttled about with iced tea for everyone.

The Melancons were seated below a stately family portrait, clearly done recently and with a great deal of talent behind the brush, and Bertha might normally have thought to ask after the artist, but all her attention was devoted solely to the little girl in the portrait. Even on canvas, she looked like a Russell.

“I’m sorry you came all this way,” William drawled with his Cajun accent, “I don’t know what you were told, but I can assure you Lucille most certainly is not your daughter.”

George had come prepared, expecting to be met with stiff resistance, and he was quick to launch into the legal arguments. Bertha was only half listening. She’d been desperately eager for them to produce Charlotte, but – whether deliberately or not – they seemed less than willing to present the child. It seemed, though, that Charlotte – or Lucille, it would seem she answered to – had other thoughts on the matter.

From the corner of her eye, she caught movement on the elegant staircase leading into the foyer and knew immediately how appealing this conversation must have been to a small child.

The girl locked eyes with Bertha for a moment and immediately froze, anticipating a scold. When none ensued, an impish smile crossed her lips, and she crept forwards so that she remained just out of sight of her ‘parents’.

Bertha wasn’t so naive as to believe that Charlotte would immediately know her, but she’d been optimistic enough to hope that there might be a flicker of recognition somewhere deep inside her. Some small sign that she still remained somewhere in her daughter’s heart – that’s all she asked for...

And perhaps there was, but it remained hidden as Charlotte was far more concerned with eavesdropping. Bertha couldn’t help but smile, if only to herself, as Charlotte had always been precocious, right from birth. There was no doubt in her mind that this was the very same child who had grown in her womb, who’d suckled at her breast, who’d slept night after night in her bed, steadfastly refusing to be soothed by anyone other than her mother.

She knew she should be grateful, as things between them most certainly could have gotten very rocky, very quickly, but there was a fight hanging in the air and she craved the release of having said fight. (That’s not to say that things had necessarily been peaceable, per se...afterall, neither of them was particularly known for keeping their tempers – and tongues – in check.)

She burst into George’s study, hackles raised, only to find a strange tableau laid out before her: George, their lawyer, and the Pinkerton man they’d bought and paid for, all hunched over the desk looking grave. None of the men seemed to notice her presence, in spite of the dramatic flourish with which she’d entered.

“I don’t see that we have any choice,” George said at last, thumping his fist down on the desk. In spite of the emphatic gesture, he sounded...weary, perhaps even desolate. Like all the fight had gone out of him, leaving only bone-deep exhaustion. “We’ll have to give them what they want.”

“A-are you quite certain?” the lawyer stammered, which surprised Bertha as he’d always been an unflappable, if downright stony man, so if he seemed unsure to the point of stuttering, this must truly be a risky venture.

George said nothing at first. He sank down into his chair as if he could suddenly feel the weight of the world on his shoulders and remained gravely silent for a long time. (It wasn’t news to Bertha that he carried an immense burden – perhaps even more than he’d ever let on – but there’s something about seeing him look so utterly encumbered by this latest development that shakes her to her very core...) Then, with all the gravity of a man headed to the gallows, he vowed, “If there’s even the slightest chance it’s the real Charlotte, I’m bringing her home.”

“What?” Bertha breathlessly choked out before she even knew she was going to speak. She stood rooted to the spot, struggling to breathe – this couldn’t be happening. It couldn’t. She refused to believe that someone might take advantage of their grief in this way...the alternative, though, was to believe that, against all odds, they’d buried an imposter.

Immediately, she had the three men’s attention...and none of them seemed entirely prepared for her to have found out the truth this way. George was quick to move to her side, instinctively seeking out her hand (in spite of how far apart they may have been emotionally, he can’t help his instinct to protect her from all life’s cruelties), but she’s loathe to let him reassure her. “Tell me the truth,” she demanded in a tone that very much reminded him that he was still on thin ice after the fallout from Turner’s revelation, “Have they found her?”

“I believe so,” he answered.

She studied him intently, searching for any kind of tell. “But they want something?” she asked, when she found nothing in his expression that might lead her to believe him to be lying.

He nodded.

“Money?”

He nodded again.

It wasn’t as if she was old, but she was a realist. She knew that the chances were essentially a non-issue. As such, they never bothered to use contraceptives. Likely, they should have, all things considered...they were hardly the image of a stereotypical chaste marriage – George slept in her bed more often than he slept in his own and that was hardly the only place they’d had relations.

She thought all of those things (and many more besides) as she frantically flipped the pages of her daily calendar in desperate search of the small spot of ink she used to denote her monthly bleed and failing to find one in the eight and a half weeks since she’d last definitely had one.

She could hear her heartbeat in her ears. How could this be happening? She’d spent literal years clawing her way into the maddening circus that was New York’s high society, had planned everything down to a science...she certainly hadn’t even begun to entertain notions that all those plans might be derailed by a surprise late-life pregnancy.

There was a knock on the door and she looked up from her calendars with all the sharpness of someone who’d long-since gotten lost in the worst-case-scenario spiralling.

George poked his head into her study. “Is everything alright?” he asked, his tone suggesting that he’d knocked a few times.

She nodded, forcing a smile that, she hoped, didn’t look nearly as false as it felt. “I was just about to head up to change,” she said, hoping to shift his attention away from the frankly unhinged state of her just then.

“Do you want company tonight?”

In spite of herself, she barked out a laugh. He raised a brow at the odd reaction and she was forced to admit, “That’s rather how we got into this predicament in the first place...”

“Predicament?” he repeated quizzically.

She felt her cheeks heating up with shyness. She hadn’t intended to tell him just then – hadn’t even begun to fathom how to tell him – but the words had sort of tumbled out completely devoid of any sort of control on her part.

“Bertha?” he chided gently.

“I-I...” she started, faltered. With a huff of frustration at her own inability to form coherent speech, she made a second attempt, “I’m with child.” His initial reaction too, was to bark out a laugh, thinking her joking...which was obviously the wrong thing to do. “I’m being serious, George,” she admonished, “I hardly think laughter is the appropriate response.”

She watched as the colour seemed to drain from his face as it became abundantly clear that she was, in fact, serious. He spent a few moments struggling to stammer out a response and, what ultimately ended up escaping was a weak, “But...how?”

“If you’re not already aware of the mechanisms by which we ended up here...” she said dryly, letting the sentence hang unfinished.

He supposed she was right about that, but the news was too fresh for him to laugh about it just then. “Are... Are you quite certain?” he did manage to stammer.

“You know these things are never certain this early,” she reminded him, “However, it does explain my recent illness, among other things.” He nodded slowly, swallowed thickly. “George?” she prompted when he didn’t seem about to comment any further. “Have words failed you or are you just digesting the news?”

Once again, he let out a small nervous laugh before remembering the earlier scolding. “I’m merely shocked,” he said. “I didn’t think... I mean... At your...”

She shot him a pointed look and said, “I’d advise you to be very careful with what you say next.”