The Dilemma of Charlotte Farrow (29 page)

“And the minister?”

Charlotte shrugged. “He was new. I didn't know him well.”

Archie exhaled. “My guess is Lathan got his hands on the paperwork. If he's denying your marriage, perhaps he made sure it was never filed.”

Charlotte sucked in a gasp.

“The state keeps records of valid marriages,” Archie said. “We'll be able to find out the truth.”

“But . . . we were . . . together. I had his baby. If we weren't married—”

Archie pulled her to him. “Shhh. Don't.”

“Even if the State of Illinois does not recognize our marriage, in the eyes of God—”

Archie shook his head. “That was no true marriage. What that man did to you does not make a marriage. God is not fooled.”

Charlotte shuddered in his embrace. Archie tightened his hold on her.

“What have I done, Archie?” she asked hoarsely. “I gave away my son.”

“You were frightened.” He stroked her back. “You were protecting him from a monster.”

“A monster who has no interest in him, a monster who cared more about a lost jar of money than his own child.”

“We'll get Henry back,” Archie said.

“It's too late.” Charlotte's lips barely moved. “It's too late.”

Archie released her, then took her hand and began walking. “The only thing that's too late is the hour. I won't be responsible for Mr. Penard unleashing his wrath on you. I'm taking you home. We'll figure out what to do about Henry in the daylight.”

Charlotte wiped her face with the back of her free hand. “I'll take the streetcar.”

“It's too late for you to be out alone. I'll ride with you to Prairie Avenue.”

“And then? Where will you go, Archie?”

He tilted his head and scratched it. He had been thinking about that question for hours without an answer. “I'll find somewhere.”

“When will I see you again?”

“As soon as possible.”

“But you can't be seen on Prairie Avenue. How will we communicate?”

“I'll figure out something,” he said. “Just be watching.”

They walked along Eighteenth Street from the streetcar stop on Michigan Avenue to Prairie Avenue. At the corner, standing in front of the Glessner house and across the street from the Kimball mansion, Charlotte stopped, turning toward Archie with a hand on his arm.

“You shouldn't go any farther,” she cautioned. “I'll be all right from here.”

“I'll watch until you're safely in the house.”

She stood close enough to feel his breath and the warmth of his presence, with her face upturned, wishing he could kiss her.

Archie kissed only her forehead, then said, “Good night, Charlotte.” He nudged her elbow in the direction of the Banning house.

 30 

C
harlotte minded her own business on Monday afternoon when Mr. Penard interviewed a new coachman at the kitchen table. She had already laid the ornate dining room table for the Bannings' dinner, with three extra places for Pamela Troutman and her parents. Miss Troutman and Oliver Banning had announced their engagement over the weekend, so the evening's meal was even more elaborate than usual. Mrs. Fletcher had been harshly specific in her instructions about the width and angle of the carrot slices for the salad. Charlotte tried three different knives before she found one sharp enough to slice with sufficient precision.

This potential coachman might be a perfectly nice person, she realized, but he was not Archie.

The coachman Mr. Penard was interrogating was older than Archie and came with an impressive list of references. The butler seemed intent on securing a coachman who understood his role in the household and would restore dignity to the position. The man sat painfully erect with the glummest expression Charlotte had ever seen, but he seemed to please Mr. Penard with his answers. By the time Charlotte
moved on to producing paper-thin celery slices, Mr. Penard was shaking the man's hand and promising to recommend him to the Bannings.

Charlotte had heard nothing from Archie since Thursday night. She was grateful to be madly busy so she could not entertain thoughts of him wandering the streets. She preferred to think instead that by now he had turned up at Mickey's shop or in the Irish neighborhood where he had grown up and found both a bed and encouragement. Charlotte availed herself of every opportunity to step outside to shake a rug or put the milk bottles out, or even to stand in darkness and look at the stars, hoping Archie might slip into the courtyard—even though she knew he should not take such a risk.

When she thought of Henry, Charlotte could only envision him in Emmaline's arms on the day she had put them both in the cab to the train station. She had no mental image of her son's new surroundings except those she imagined—a bright, airy nursery with a painted red and yellow rocking horse, a sloping yard where he would tumble in winter snow and spring grass, a library full of books he would someday read voraciously under the guidance of a private tutor. Emmaline had no doubt filled his closet with crisp new clothes that made him look less like a baby and more like a little boy.

And what about my quilt?
Charlotte wondered as she stopped the knife mid-slice. Had Emmaline already replaced that? Would she even keep it? What would she tell Henry about how he came to be her son?

She roused and resumed slicing. Allowing herself to drift into speculation about Henry's new life accomplished nothing. He was gone. She had done what she believed best at the time. And despite Archie's promises of help, the fact remained
that if she had not sent Henry away, if she had claimed him, she would be wandering the streets right alongside Archie, and what good would that do? Certainly it would not have helped Henry.

Archie wished the moon was not nearly full. The last thing he needed was a bath of light poured over his movements while he slowly turned the corner at Twentieth Street and moved north along Prairie Avenue. He paused briefly, shaking his head, in front of the mansion belonging to Marshall Field Jr. and his young bride. The enormous home had been a gift from the senior Marshall Field when the young couple married three years earlier, about the time Archie first came to Prairie Avenue. Indignation gurgled in Archie's throat at the privilege young men like Marshall Field Jr. took for granted. The entire neighborhood screamed injustice. Archie was not sorry to leave. He only wished to find a way to take Charlotte with him.

And Henry.

No matter what Charlotte said, Archie would not accept that it was too late to reclaim her son. That one injustice he intended to rectify. Somehow.

Archie moved along, pausing again in front of the senior Field home to scan the area around the Banning house. He recognized the Troutmans' carriage at the curb in front, a groomsman stroking the neck of one of the mares for want of anything better to do while he waited. Knowing well the man could be out there for hours, Archie was inclined to invite the man into the coach house, and he had to remind himself he had no right to do so any longer.

He expelled his breath with aggravation. He had come all this way, much of it on foot, to see Charlotte, but of course he had no way to communicate with her. He had hoped to catch one of the servants outside, even if briefly, just long enough to send Charlotte a message. With female guests, however, Elsie would be busy attending to all the ladies, and Archie knew from experience that Mrs. Troutman could be unusually demanding. If Charlotte was serving, Lina had probably been conscripted to help in the kitchen. Karl would be the best bet, Archie decided. If the Bannings were dining in, he would be in the coach house making sure the horses were cooled and fed and the carriages spit-shined above reproach. Archie did not dare approach the coach house. He would have to wait to see if Karl would wander outside at some point in the evening.

He kept walking, past the Ream house, the Doane house, and finally to Judge Dent's home next door to the Bannings—though why everyone used the title, Archie did not know. Thomas Dent had never been a judge. Turning his collar up and tipping his hat down, Archie leaned against a light post. He couldn't stay there long. Without a uniform, clearly he was out of place on Prairie Avenue and would be spotted quickly.

And then he saw her. Sarah.

Why couldn't it be Charlotte who needed to step outside?

She had spotted him, he was sure, and now turned her steps toward him in determination. Momentarily he would have to decide whether to trust her.

Sarah tucked the silver tray she carried under her arm. The cook at the Keith house had prepared some specialty pastries
for Mrs. Fletcher to serve for the engagement dinner. Sarah had not expected to run into the likes of Archie Shepard when she ducked across the street to return the tray.

“Archie Shepard, what are you doing here?” Sarah demanded to know. “If Mr. Penard sees you—”

He put up both hands to stop her barrage. “He already dismissed me. What more can he do?”

“He could have you arrested for trespassing.”

“I'm on a public sidewalk.”

Sarah rolled her eyes. She seemed unable to rile him tonight. “I still want to know what you're doing here. You can't possibly have any business on Prairie Avenue, especially at this time of night.”

“My business is my business,” Archie said, “and I'll thank you not to presume you know anything about it.”

Sarah decided to change tactics. “Where are you staying now?” She smiled. “I hope you've found a warm place to sleep and perhaps a new position already.”

“I need to see Charlotte,” Archie said.

“I'm sure she'll ask you the same questions. Besides, she's busy. The Bannings have dinner guests.”

“I can see that. The Troutmans. No doubt Oliver has finally decided to marry.”

Sarah smiled quite deliberately again. “Both families are excited. It's sure to be the social event of the year.”

“I know Charlotte is busy,” Archie said, “but I need you to tell her I'm out here.”

“Mr. Penard won't let her come see you.”

“It's Charlotte's decision,” Archie responded. “All I'm asking you to do is tell her I'm out here. I'll wait for her around the corner, outside the Glessners' coach house.”

Sarah nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, you'll be out of sight from the Bannings' house there.”

“So you'll tell her?”

“What if she can't get away?” Sarah's lips twisted to one side. “She would want me to tell her everything I know, so perhaps you should tell me how you're situated.”

“I'll wait as long as it takes.” His tone did not waver. “Please just tell her I'll be there.”

Sarah sighed. He was impossible. What he saw in Charlotte she would never know.

“All right. But you could be out there all night, you know. The dinner party will go late, and Mr. Penard will lock up the house.”

Charlotte had cleared away the vegetable dishes, and Mr. Penard was serving the salad now. After this final course, only dessert and coffee remained. Charlotte heard movement in the servants' hall and looked up to see Sarah coming through the back door with a strange look on her face.

“Is everything all right?” Charlotte could barely stand to look at Sarah, and every time she did, she thought of Lucy's letter. But something about Sarah's expression seemed suspicious. What had the girl done now?

“Everything's fine,” Sarah answered. “I suppose I should start washing up.”

“I'm sure Mrs. Fletcher would appreciate it if you did.”

“Where is she?”

“Her gout is giving her trouble tonight. The meal is almost over. There was no need for her to stay down here in pain.”

“How thoughtful of you,” Sarah said.

Charlotte tossed a dishrag on the butcher block. “Sarah, if you have something to say, just say it.”

The girl pressed her lips together as if to consider her options. Charlotte sighed and turned to begin cleaning up the butcher block.