He was right. She could feel herself changing—her timidity falling away—and she was beginning to like this new version of herself.
“I’m going to help the Italian immigrant I told you about,” she said, pulling her glove off to fish a coin out of her purse. “I need to convince this man to sign an employment waiver.”
“Wait a minute. A man she doesn’t know is going to hire her? What sort of work is this?” He stepped to the side to allow a couple of businessmen to rush past him.
She rolled her eyes. “Do you think I’d really send her to a gangster or a pimp? I’m hoping Mr. Lancaster will hire her as a maid or a washerwoman. Something like that.”
“Where does this fellow live?”
“Park Avenue.”
Fritz whistled. “Your little friend is already connected in high places. I’d definitely like to see this.”
Alma smiled. He was too curious to resist coming with her, even as tired as he was.
They waited in a short line and purchased their train tickets. He looped his arm through hers as they boarded the train.
“To be honest, I’m relieved you’re coming with me.” She sank down next to him on a seat. “I was worried how it would look to have a strange woman, unescorted, on the Lancasters’ doorstep at this time of night. That’s just the sort of thing that matters to rich people.”
As the train gained speed and they began their northbound journey, Alma read the employment waiver she’d brought with her for the third time. What if Mr. Lancaster turned her away? Or what if he wasn’t at home? She bit her bottom lip, anxious to get there. Francesca had only two more days. Should Mr. Lancaster decide not to help, all would be lost for her.
But at least I will have tried, she told herself, at the cost of my own neck. Should Mrs. Keller find out Alma had become involved with an immigrant’s welfare and hustled a job for her, Alma likely wouldn’t be returning to Ellis Island. She might even face some questioning from the police.
Her stomach swarmed with bees the entire walk from the station to the Lancasters’ home, yet she hesitated only a moment when they arrived. She couldn’t let Francesca down now. And there was something more; something inside Alma had begun to uncoil and stretch—even Fritz had noticed it—and it urged her forward now.
She peered up at the intricate frieze along the front-facing edge of the house, the sweeping staircase that led to an oaken door and large ceramic pots already flourishing with early spring flowers.
“Would you look at this place,” Fritz said, mouth agape as he took in the house’s splendor.
“I know,” she said, looking down at her matron’s attire and at Fritz’s muddy trousers. It was probably best to knock at the staff entrance. The Lancasters wouldn’t take kindly to receiving a pair below their station at the main door, especially with one of them so unkempt.
“You do all the talking,” Fritz said, a dubious expression on his face.
Gathering her nerve, she took the steps that led below the street level to what she assumed was the staff entrance and banged the knocker against the door.
A butler in a fine coat and tie greeted them, his chest puffed out like a peacock’s. “Can I help you?”
“Hello, I’m Alma Brauer and this is my brother, Fritz. Is Mr. Marshall Lancaster at home?” She flashed his calling card.
“He isn’t seeing visitors now, miss. Perhaps you can call again another day.”
Alma bit her lip and advanced a step closer. “I must insist on seeing him. Please, it’s urgent.”
“Has he made your acquaintance, Miss Brauer?”
“No, but I’m here on behalf of Francesca Ricci, a young woman he met on the steamship several weeks ago.”
“Is he expecting you?”
“No, I—”
The butler held up his hand to stop her. “Then you will have to come back another time. Good day.”
He began to close the door, but Fritz caught its edge with his well-muscled hand. “Look, Mr. Lancaster will be angry to learn he missed us. And we wouldn’t want to anger him, now, would we?”
The butler took in Fritz’s scruffy appearance, lips pinched. “One moment, please.” He closed the door in their faces.
“That cretin acts like he’s better than us.” Fritz glanced down at his slacks, at the mud caked around the bottom hem and on his work boots. He looked up, amusement in his eyes. “Well, I suppose I am a little dirty, aren’t I?”
“Maybe a little.” Alma laughed softly, grateful for his humor in the awkward situation.
The door swung open again. “Right this way, Miss Brauer, Mr. Brauer.” The butler turned stiffly and led them inside a spacious kitchen filled with the aroma of roast beef and vanilla cake and something else buttery. A round woman worked fastidiously over the stove, singing as she went, and a second older woman sat in a chair at the staff dining table mending a pair of stockings.
Everyone paused in their duties to stare at them.
“You may wait here as the master requests,” the butler said and reached for a pair of fine shoes he’d been in the midst of polishing when they’d called at the door.
Neither Alma nor Fritz sat at the table and instead watched the butler finish his task as if it were the most interesting thing in the world.
Within minutes, a round but elegant man in an impeccable suit, his hair slicked expertly with almond oil, bounded down a set of steps into the room. “Good evening. I’m Marshall Lancaster. My butler tells me you’re here on behalf of Miss Ricci.”
Alma was struck immediately by the gentleman’s English accent. So he was an immigrant, too. She’d never met an immigrant from the upper class before, but then again, how would her path have crossed with his? First class wasn’t expected to suffer the inconvenience of waiting in long lines or being questioned like the masses that passed through the halls of Ellis Island. And Mr. Lancaster certainly didn’t seem the type to take a tour of her end of town to stare at the poor and the working classes like a spectator, unlike the many journalists in recent years.
Fritz held out his hand and shook Lancaster’s hard enough to elicit a slight grimace on the older man’s face. “Good evening, sir. I’m Fritz Brauer, and this is my sister Alma.”
Alma nodded. “How do you do, sir.”
Mr. Lancaster eyed his staff, who suddenly pretended to be thoroughly engaged in their duties. “Why don’t we take tea in the parlor? We’ll have more privacy there.”
He led them up a staircase, through a marbled hall decorated with colorful panels of stained glass, and into a sitting room. They stood awkwardly a moment, taking in the silk-covered furniture, plush Turkish rug, and a chandelier that looked as if it was made of the finest crystal. There were three portraits in places of prominence on the walls: one of a woman dressed in a stunning white gown and feathered hat, a teardrop pearl necklace at her throat; another of a young girl who couldn’t be more than ten; and one other of a gentleman in black smoking jacket and tie.