The Dilemma of Charlotte Farrow (7 page)

“Please, Mr. Leo. You put me in a difficult spot.” Charlotte busied herself by needlessly lifting the flap of a breadwarmer to check on the sweet rolls.

“You still have a couple of months,” Leo said. “Maybe you'll change your mind.”

She doubted it. “May I bring you anything else from the kitchen?”

“No, not from the kitchen.” Leo bit into a sausage. “However, I found myself awake much of the night wondering about the child. I can't help wondering about the mother who would have dropped him off here, and whether there might be some way to trace her. She may have regrets.”

Questions. Fears. No regrets.

“I'm not sure what else to say, sir.” Charlotte picked up the coffeepot on the sideboard and needlessly moved it about six inches.

“What did he have with him when he arrived? Perhaps there's a label in a piece of clothing or a note tucked in somewhere.”

“We didn't find anything like that.” Charlotte chose her words carefully to speak truth. “He arrived only with a faded quilt, a change of clothing, and a few ordinary diaper cloths.”

“What became of the quilt? May I see it?”

The request startled Charlotte. “I . . . I suppose it's in Sarah's room. I believe the child sleeps with it.”

“Would you mind going to get it?” Leo asked.

“Yes, sir. Right away, sir.”

What could he possibly hope to tell by a quilt more than twenty years old? Charlotte scooted through the kitchen and up the back stairs, her heart beating fast. On the third floor, she paused outside Sarah's closed door and knocked softly.

“Yes?”

“It's Charlotte. Mr. Leo has asked to see the baby's quilt.”

Sarah yanked the door open and glowered. “What on earth for?”

“He's hopeful he might find an idea of where it came from.” Charlotte pressed into the room and gathered her grandmother's quilt from where Sarah had thrown it under the bed. Sitting upright on his pallet, Henry reached out, and Charlotte gave his hand a quick pat.

“You can't just barge in here.” Sarah snatched up Henry.

“I'm following Mr. Leo's instructions.” Charlotte moved out to the hall again with the quilt in hand.

Sarah followed Charlotte through the hall, down the stairs, and across the kitchen, protesting every step of the way. When she reached the butler's pantry, Charlotte stopped in her tracks and spun.

“Why are you following me?” Charlotte folded the quilt in quarters with sharp motions. “Have you fed the baby yet this morning?”

Sarah drew her shoulders back. “I was just about to.”

“Now is a good time to do that.” Charlotte pushed into the dining room again.

“Here it is, Mr. Leo.” Charlotte offered the quilt as if on a tray.

Leo put down his newspaper and received the quilt, spreading it in his hands for examination. “It's made by a skillful
needleworker. I've listened to my mother remark on quilts enough to know that these narrow rows of fabric are not easy to piece together. And it's been well mended over the years. This child came from a place where he was loved.”

Yes, he did.

“But it's common calico fabric,” he said, “the sort that one might buy in any mercantile around the state for working class day dresses.” He shook his head. “I doubt we can determine anything from this.” He handed the quilt back to Charlotte. “Thank you.”

“It was good of you to try, Mr. Leo.” She meant what she said—though she was relieved he had discerned nothing useful.

 7 

B
oth sleeves rolled up, Charlotte plunged an arm into the bucket of soapy water, pulled out the rag, and slapped it against the oak slats of the floor once again. Controlled circular movements while on her knees had begun to reveal the sheen hidden beneath years of disuse. Already she had swept the rooms twice to excavate the true wood surface that could be swabbed to a shine, rather than merely creating mud by adding water to dust. Her knees bore witness that she had scrubbed nearly half the floor.

Charlotte had only seen behind the door to these rooms one other time in her months in the Banning house. During Miss Lucy's engagement to Will Edwards, a few gifts of small furniture had been stored temporarily in this room, which was situated on an oddly placed half level with access to both the family bedrooms and the servants' staircase. Charlotte had heard the story then of the room's history. Richard, the youngest of the four Banning children, had left the nursery years ago, and the longtime nanny who had served the family since Oliver's birth had retired. In the intervening time, many of the items that had furnished the rooms had been stored in the attic, but a few of the larger pieces were still in the room.

Leaning back on her heels, Charlotte took stock. The wallpaper featured twisted vines of roses and had responded well to a damp rag. She had not yet removed the cloths draping the heavy shelves or dresser and mirror—pieces that undoubtedly had been too cumbersome to move to the attic—but she had peeked beneath them to admire the luster and craftsmanship of the furnishings. A quick polish was all they would need. The large room was the day nursery—or so Charlotte had been told—where the children spent their waking hours. She had deduced from the stacks of crates and trunks in the attic that the wide mahogany shelves behind brass-trimmed doors once had been stocked to overflowing with books, toys, and dolls. Lucy had preserved a few of her favorite dolls, with china heads and stuffed calico bodies, in her adult bedroom, along with the taffeta and silk dresses that fit them perfectly. Charlotte could easily imagine a broad shelf laden with whatever had made Lucy happy as a child, along with the carved train cars and tin soldiers her brothers must have played with.

Charlotte thought of the simple wooden spoon she had handed her little boy on the afternoon he arrived at the Banning house, probably the best plaything he had ever had. At Mrs. Given's house, he used to like a ball made out of strip rags wound tightly together, and pounding a tin cup against the floor was a favorite pastime. Even as she imagined him lying on the pallet in Sarah's room with his quilt—her quilt—Charlotte resisted the urge to dash to the servants' quarters and look in on her sleeping son, who was down for a late morning nap. Sarah had made quite the production out of saying how closely she was going to watch him, though Charlotte was sure Sarah was merely using the time for a nap herself.

At least Sarah had stopped calling Henry an “it.” Most of the time.

No one called Henry anything but “the baby” or “the child” or “him.” Charlotte did not dare speak his name aloud. She knew he would turn toward the familiar sound if she did and meet her eyes in recognition. Even if they were alone, she tried not to call him anything in particular. She could not risk that anyone might hear.

Charlotte sloshed more water on the floor. Sarah was smug about Charlotte's having been given the task to scour the nursery rooms, but the truth was Charlotte was grateful to be doing something for her son.

Behind the large dayroom were two small bedrooms. One, hardly more than an alcove, would be Henry's, and Sarah would occupy the other, which was not much larger than the servant rooms on the third floor. For the moment, Henry was safe and was likely to be with the Bannings for a few weeks. But then what?

It was the best thing for Henry, she was sure of it. Look where he was. Soon he would sleep peacefully in the Banning nursery, of all places, while people were trying to sort out what was best for him. And Charlotte could be nearby and see him every day, not just Thursdays and every other Sunday afternoon. She felt like Moses's mother, hired to take care of her own child. Her grandmother had loved that Bible story and frequently offered it as evidence that God always had a plan.

Clattering steps in the hall pulled Charlotte's gaze toward the sound. Archie and Karl carried two trunks between them, one stacked on top of the other.

“Both of these trunks are linens,” Archie said. “Where do you want them?”

“Out of the way over there until I finish the floor.” Charlotte pointed to a corner she had already scrubbed. “Did you see the high chair and the crib?”

“Both seem to be in working order. We'll bring them down next.”

Karl brushed dust off his hands. “There's a fine-looking rocking horse up there—one of the big ones with a red mane and a leather saddle.”

“Oh!” Charlotte said. “Don't you think he's small for a rocking horse?”

“He looks like a strapping boy to me,” Karl responded, “and he's only going to get bigger. There's no harm in bringing it down, is there?”

“No, I suppose not.” Charlotte was nervous at the thought of Sarah Cummings in charge of her baby on a rocking horse. “Thank you for the help. I don't expect either of you planned to spend your day crawling around an attic. You're to have the afternoon off, aren't you, Karl?”

The under-coachman nodded. “The Midway Plaisance is wooing me. I'm going up on the wheel today.”

“Go on upstairs and sort out what to bring down next.” Archie nudged Karl back toward the door. “I'll be there in a moment.”

Karl left, and Archie squatted on the floor beside Charlotte. His closeness unnerved her.

“You don't have to bring everything.” Charlotte swirled water in a direction that would demand she move away from Archie. “It's just one child, and he may not be here long.” She could barely stand to say that aloud.

“Still,” Archie said, “Sarah will be staying in these rooms, and she'll need a bed as well, and a table for her own meals.”

“You're right, of course.” Charlotte leaned into the rag again. “If you see a carpet, bring that as well.”

“Charlotte,” Archie said, “I was hoping you would agree to come out with me on your next Sunday half day. I can trade the afternoon with Karl and get a few hours myself.”

Archie was nothing if not persistent. Charlotte scrubbed even harder. “I'm afraid that's not possible.”

“Why not?”

“I can't explain it.” She knew if she looked at him, even for a second, his shining eyes would grip her. Charlotte could not risk glimpsing Archie's eyes, much less spending her time off with him.

“I wish you'd try.”

She merely shook her head and sloshed more water. Finally he stood up and left the room.

Charlotte paused, staring into the hallway and listening to his steps on the stairs. Archie Shepard was a good man. He did not deserve to get entangled with this. And she could not take that risk.

Charlotte scrubbed faster and harder. With the two bedrooms to do and furniture to consider, she could not spend all day on this floor. If these rooms were going to be her son's world, they would be the best she could make them.

Henry's world.

As Charlotte moved her bucket to the final quadrant of the room, she allowed herself to picture Henry here, in a high chair or in the crib or playing on a carpet.

His bright smile on the rocking horse—when he was bigger.

The certain meals.

The toys that would amuse him.

A safe bed.

A good school in a few years.

Security.

Choices he could make for himself.

Her throat locked with the uncertainty that she could ever give her son that kind of a childhood.

But Mrs. Banning's cousin could. She might not be as wealthy as the Bannings, but Charlotte had no doubt she was well positioned. And she wanted a child.

Maybe Charlotte's child.

Charlotte scrubbed furiously.

 8 

C
harlotte balanced the tray against her hip with one hand and used her free hand to turn the knob on the day nursery door. Every time she did this, five times a day, her stomach tightened as she imagined what she might find on the other side. Had Sarah bathed Henry? Had she made sure he had a good nap? Was his diaper dry?

Charlotte crossed the nursery with firm steps and set the tray on the small round table draped almost to the floor with a pink-and-green-checked cloth and topped by a simple white linen square that could be changed daily.

“What have you brought me for lunch?” Sarah sniffed, then frowned.

Charlotte ignored the girl's tone as she lifted the tea towel covering Sarah's plate. “Mrs. Fletcher has been creative with leftovers again. The lamb is from Tuesday and the rice croquettes and vegetables from last night.”

Sarah had moved into the nursery with the baby six days ago and spent her days as separate from the rest of the household staff as she could manage. The trays Charlotte carried up included nourishment for both Sarah and Henry. Charlotte knew Sarah always ate before feeding the baby, but at least
Henry's small bowls were scraped empty when Charlotte picked up the trays. Her son was not going hungry.

Arrangements for Henry had fallen into a routine. Though she spent most of her time in the nursery, once each afternoon Sarah carried Henry down the narrow back stairs and put him in a buggy for a stroll. Archie and Karl had come to expect the request for the buggy to be wheeled from the coach house to the servants' entrance at midafternoon. Charlotte had found a child's straw hat in the cartons of clothes Richard used to wear, and the entire staff giggled at how adorable Henry looked under the hat when he sat up in the buggy with his broad grin and iridescent blue eyes.

Charlotte took Sarah's plate off the tray and arranged a place setting at the table. She put Henry's bowl on the high chair's wooden tray.

Her son whined a little and toddled toward Charlotte, pulling on her skirt when he reached her. She glanced down at him and steeled herself not to pick him up. “I think he's hungry.”

“That makes two of us.” Sarah picked up a fork.

“Well, only one of you is old enough to feed the other. His rice is creamed with a bit of soft spinach.” Charlotte stirred the mixture, but Sarah barely glanced at it. “There are a few bites of scraped meat he might like to try.” Charlotte allowed herself to drop a hand and brush the boy's head ever so briefly.

Sarah put half a rice croquette on her fork and stuffed it in her mouth as Henry slapped a hand against the leg of the high chair. He opened his mouth and gave a cry.

“I rather think he wants to eat,” Charlotte said.

“And he will.” Sarah stabbed a piece of lamb.

“Mr. Penard asked me to give you a message.” Charlotte
finally relented, picked up the baby, and settled him in the chair. She left the dish out of his desperate reach, though, still hoping that Sarah would choose to fulfill her responsibility to feed the baby before he upended the bowl on the floor.

“What does he want?”

“It's a request from the family, actually. Mrs. Banning has asked to see the child during tea this afternoon and interview you as to his temperament and progress.”

Sarah dropped her fork. “What do they want me to say?”

Irritation welled. “Simply tell them how he is adjusting. Is he sleeping? Is he in good temper? Does he seem to like to play?”

Sarah shrugged. “He's a baby. Everyone knows not to play with babies. It only makes them cranky.”

“Or it makes them happy.” Charlotte could ignore her son's hunger no longer. She dipped his little spoon in the creamed rice and offered it to him.

“Nonsense.”

“All you have to do is answer their questions,” Charlotte said. She gave Henry another bite. “You might want to give him a bath and make sure he has fresh clothing.”

“Don't tell me how to do my job.”

“Maybe if you would do your job, I wouldn't have to.”

“Stop feeding him. I'll do it.” Sarah roughly grabbed the spoon and stabbed it into the creamed rice.

“Tea is promptly at four.” Charlotte pulled the door closed behind her and leaned against it, her eyes closed. Why didn't this get easier? At least she and Henry were under the same roof.

“Charlotte?”

Archie.

Her eyes fluttered open and she tried to make them bright. “Hello, Archie.”

“Are you all right?”

She met his warm brown eyes briefly, then broke the gaze. She had learned from months of experience that if she looked into his eyes for more than a few seconds, her heart would quicken and her breathing would grow shallow. She would want to reach out and touch him, and she simply could not afford to give in to such a sensation.

“Of course I'm all right,” she finally managed to say. “I've just brought lunch up.”

Archie glanced at the closed door. “And I suppose Sarah is just as unappreciative as she always is.”

Charlotte nodded. “I don't think she cares much for the child.”

Archie shrugged. “She seems to fancy herself quite the nanny.”

“She's not even an under-nursemaid,” Charlotte insisted, “just a girl who has been told to look after a baby temporarily. They only opened up the nursery so he wouldn't be underfoot in the kitchen.”

Archie searched out her eyes again. “I think the Bannings truly are trying to determine what's best for him. His mother brought him here for a reason, and they are trying to respect her wishes somehow.”

Charlotte could not form the words for a response.

“I know you miss Mrs. Edwards,” Archie said softly. “She's one of the kindest people I've ever known, and I believe she's fond of you.”

Charlotte nodded.

“I don't know everything that is between you, but her
parents are trying to do as Mrs. Edwards would do. The baby will have a home soon enough—perhaps a very good one. Maybe you shouldn't let yourself get so close to the situation.”

If only he knew it was far too late for such advice.

“Lina could bring the trays up to the nursery.” Archie raised his eyebrows.

“That's not necessary.” Charlotte was not going to trade away her only opportunities to check on Henry. She pushed away from the door.

Archie reached for her arm as she brushed past, but Charlotte hastened her pace and did not look back.

Charlotte pushed the tea cart into the parlor promptly at four o'clock. Lina had come to the kitchen a few minutes ago and reported that Mrs. Banning had expressly asked that Charlotte serve the tea today. Charlotte had dashed up to the third floor to put on her evening service uniform and a proper cap, all the while scrambling for any reason why Mrs. Banning should ask for her. When she entered the parlor, she was even more dumbfounded.

No one had told her Miss Brewster was coming. She sat on the green and gold settee next to Violet Newcomb. Charlotte had never heard a complete story of how Emmaline Brewster was related to sisters Violet Newcomb and Flora Banning, but she had served Emmaline dinner a number of times earlier in the summer when she came from New Hampshire for Lucy's wedding. She had stayed with Miss Newcomb at the time, but Charlotte knew she had been up to the lake house with the family.

“Thank you, Charlotte,” Flora Banning said perfunctorily.

“Hello, Charlotte.” Emmaline Brewster caught the maid's eye briefly.

Charlotte curtseyed and dipped her head. “Miss Brewster. Miss Newcomb.”

“Charlotte,” Flora said, “Emmaline has been enjoying a few extra days in Lake Forest as the guest of family friends, but she has now decided to stay in the city for a few weeks to take in the world's fair and other cultural attractions before she goes home to New Hampshire. I have offered her Lucy's suite for her accommodations.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Charlotte nervously poured tea into china cups and wondered why Mrs. Banning was telling her this.

“I have a particular need which you may be able to satisfy,” Emmaline said. “You will recall I was traveling with my own ladies' maid. I had to dismiss her rather abruptly because I discovered her dallying with a young man in a most unsuitable manner. Mrs. Banning has kindly given her consent for you to assist me as a ladies' maid during my stay in Chicago.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Charlotte said.

Violet chimed in. “I told Emmie you have some experience in the role with Lucy and assured her you know what you're doing.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“I'm confident we'll get on well enough for a few weeks,” Emmaline said. “I realize you have other responsibilities. Primarily I will ask for assistance in the morning and in the evening, and of course when changes of clothing are required during the day.”

“I want Emmie to enjoy her time in Chicago,” Violet said, “so I'm arranging some social engagements for her.”

“She'll be making calls and receiving callers,” Flora added.

Charlotte nodded. “Shall I come to the suite tonight?”

“I shall expect you at about ten o'clock.”

Flora Banning, in her favorite floral-patterned William Morris side chair, gestured that she was ready for her tea. The cup clinked faintly as Charlotte handed it to her before turning to the tray for a plate of pastries to set before the three women.

“One more thing,” Flora said. “When you go back to the kitchen, please inform Sarah that I am ready for her to bring the child. I must decide whether it would be suitable to write to my cousin Louisa. I want to reassure myself of the child's temperament before I do so.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Choking on trepidation, Charlotte forced her feet to move.

Did he not trust her to walk through the dining room on her own?

Sarah resented Mr. Penard's insistence that he would accompany her to her interview in the parlor. It was true she had not been in the dining room since the day the Bannings came home from the lake, but what did he think would happen if she walked through? However, she had the good sense not to provoke an argument with the butler as they crossed through the family's living space.