Dilemma of Charlotte Farrow, The

by Olivia Newport

  “You have little to lose by taking your time,” Violet suggested. “If Lucy should contact you, then you will have opportunity for consultation after all. In the meantime, you may make every effort to evaluate the circumstances as she would herself.”

  “So we’re really going to keep a baby in the house?” Richard’s voice lilted in anticipation.

  “It would seem so.” Samuel Banning picked up his fork to approach the salad Penard set in front of him. “I would be remiss not to inquire who will be looking after the child during this period of investigation, and at what expense.”

  “If I might speak to the question, sir,” Penard said, divesting himself of the last salad.

  “Please.”

  “As you are aware, on Miss Lucy’s recommendation, we have engaged a new maid to train for the kitchen. The girl is from the orphanage herself. Since she has not yet begun a full range of duties, the household would experience the least unsettledness if we simply reassign her to the child’s care for the time being. She can always take up her kitchen training at a later date.”

  Charlotte’s heart fell, though she hardly expected anything else. Sarah would be caring for her son. At least he was not being sent away in the morning, or even in the next few weeks.

  “We shall have to open the nursery and nanny’s quarters,” Flora said. “Charlotte can oversee that endeavor in the morning. I believe she’s familiar with the resources available in the attic to outfit the rooms. The girl can look after him there. There may even be an old nursemaid’s uniform.”

  “Then it’s settled.” Samuel dabbed his beard with his napkin. “I hope now we can return to a peaceful meal.”

  Mr. Penard bowed slightly. “I deeply regret the intrusion and offer my sincerest apologies. You will be pleased to know that Mrs. Fletcher has baked a red velvet cake for your homecoming.”

  “Lucy’s favorite.” Violet nodded in pleasure. “We shall have to enjoy it on her behalf.”

  Charlotte eased out her breath, hoping for some relief of the pressure in her chest as she gripped the edge of the sink. She had not felt this ill in many months, but in between the waves assaulting her stomach came the realization that she had received the gift of time.

  A hand on her shoulder made her gasp.

  “Charlotte,” Archie Shepard said, “are you all right?”

  6

  S arah set the baby on the cloth on the kitchen floor and turned a couple of chairs on their sides around him.

  Mrs. Fletcher scowled. “What makes you think that’s going to make him stay put?”

  “I have to put him somewhere, and this is what we did before. Is breakfast ready yet?”

  “I do not plan my menus around the needs of an infant. We’re serving sausages, sweet rolls, and fruit.”

  “He doesn’t have enough teeth for that,” Sarah said. “He should have oatmeal again, I suppose.”

  Mrs. Fletcher gestured toward the stove. “Help yourself.”

  “But I haven’t learned to cook yet. You were supposed to teach me. That’s why they sent me here.” Sarah glanced around the kitchen. “Where’s Charlotte?” Sarah asked. That stupid maid would not let him starve.

  “I’ve sent her to the cellar for the day’s vegetables.”

  “Maybe I’ll just mash another banana then, and stir in some milk. We do have fresh milk, don’t we?”

  Mrs. Fletcher sighed but did not answer.

  Sarah opened the icebox and removed a jar of milk. “We must instruct the milkman to increase the daily order. Babies drink a lot of milk, and this one will be here for a few weeks at least.”

  The cook spun and planted her fists on her hips. “You will not tell me how to manage my kitchen.”

  “I simply asked for milk for the baby.” Jar and bowl in hand, Sarah withdrew to the other end of the kitchen, a safe distance from the spatula Mrs. Fletcher wielded in one fist. “I suppose you were here in the days when there was a nursery. I do hope the furniture in the attic is suitable.”

  “It was good enough for the Banning children,” Mrs. Fletcher muttered. “I’ve no doubt it will do for a temporary arrangement for a foundling.”

  “He’ll need a proper high chair for feedings, and a carpet to play on. Of course, my bed will be in the room next to his—not in the servants’ quarters.”

  The baby clattered against his chair-cage. The chair he used to pull himself up slid under his slight weight, and he tumbled to the floor in a wail.

  “Take him out of that ridiculous contraption,” Mrs. Fletcher demanded. “You saw with your own eyes that the child can walk. You can’t confine him for your convenience.” She stepped across the room and picked up both chairs, roughly replacing them at the table and leaving the way wide open for the child to go wherever he wanted.

  “Fine!” Sarah abandoned the bowl and milk. “I’ll take him with me to find a banana.” She snatched the howling child from the floor and stomped into the back hall, passing Archie the coachman as he arrived in search of his breakfast.

  “How are things in the coach house on this first morning back?” Mrs. Fletcher asked from her post at the stove.

  “A fair bit better than they are in here, from the looks of that girl.” Archie scratched under his chin.

  “She’s still learning her place, and if you ask me, that high-minded butler has confused the question by putting the child in her care.”

  “Is that why she’s come to the house,” Archie asked, “to learn her place?”

  “She is only here because Mrs. Edwards asked us to keep the girl at least until she returned to Chicago. But as long as she’s here, she will only make herself miserable by ignoring the order of things.”

  Archie glanced into the empty hall after the girl. “Mrs. Edwards generally has a sound reason when she arranges these things.”

  “Mrs. Edwards is on a boat in the middle of the ocean.”

  “Yes, with her husband, who is not from Prairie Avenue, because Mrs. Edwards dares to disrupt the order of things as well.”

  Mrs. Fletcher turned to inspect him. “Since when have you become the troublemaker?”

  Archie met her gaze. “I’m not a troublemaker. For the time being, I’m just a coachman hungry for his breakfast.”

  “Has Mr. Penard spoken to you about the furniture in the attic?” Mrs. Fletcher dropped a knife through the center of a large sweet roll fresh from the oven.

  “Only in passing.”

  “You’ll have to go up there and see what Charlotte wants for the nursery.”

  “I thought Sarah was to be in the nursery.”

  “She is. But for some reason Mrs. Banning put Charlotte in charge of setting things up. I expect Mr. Penard will ask you to carry things down for her.”

  “I’ll be happy to. I’ll get Karl to help. Karl has a stronger back than the rest of the grooms put together.” Archie considered the opportunity to change the subject. “Charlotte seemed troubled last night. How is she this morning?”

  Mrs. Fletcher shrugged and dropped a pair of sausages on the sizzling griddle. “She was up before dawn doing just what she was supposed to be doing.” She glanced over her shoulder at the door to the hall. “It does seem it’s taking her overly long to bring the vegetables up.”

  “I think having the baby here has affected her somehow,” Archie said cautiously. “Has she said anything to you about why it would be troublesome for her to have a baby around?”

  “We don’t discuss our personal lives. She has never seemed interested.”

  Archie nodded. “That’s my experience too. I inquired last night when it seemed to me she might collapse, but she would not answer me.”

  “You’re exaggerating. Why would she collapse over a baby? Once she gets the nursery set up, she won’t even have anything to do with him.”

  Archie suspected that was precisely what bothered Charlotte, but he held his tongue.

  “All I know is I’ve lost both my kitchen maids for the day,” Mrs. Fletcher groused,
“with a mountain of food to prepare for the weekend.”

  Charlotte came in from the hallway with a basket of vegetables hanging over her arm. “I’m sorry I took so long, Mrs. Fletcher.” She laid the produce on the counter.

  Archie waited to see if she would offer more explanation for her tardiness, but she did not.

  “The laundress is coming today,” Mrs. Fletcher announced. “I only just learned she is Karl’s sister. In any event, she’ll come in two days a week from now on. You’ll be glad to know you won’t have to iron any more sheets for a while.”

  Charlotte shrugged. “I didn’t mind so much.”

  “I’m going to the workroom to see if the water is heating up satisfactorily. You can mind the sausages.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Charlotte moved to the array of sausage slices and began arranging them on the griddle.

  Archie moved toward her, but she seemed to step away. “Charlotte, I only meant to be helpful last night.”

  “I know.” She did not look at him. “You needn’t bother about it.”

  “You must know how I feel about you.”

  His voice was low, but the words paralyzed her nevertheless. It happened every time he came near enough for her to smell his scent or to feel the brush of air against her skin that his movements caused. Her breath stalled every time, and every time she forced it out in an even flow. His hand followed hers as she reached for more meat, his fingers brushing against hers.

  “I’ve made no secret these last few months,” Archie said, “that I have come to admire you. I only hope to understand you as well.”

  Charlotte picked up a spatula and flipped several sausages. “You’ve been most kind to me, Archie.”

  He had first held her hand last Christmas Eve, eight months ago, while singing a carol at church, and she had pulled away after only a few seconds. Longing for his touch now would accomplish nothing.

  “I have not been nearly as kind as I would like to be,” Archie murmured, standing behind her at the stove, “if only you would allow me.”

  She could never tell him. Never. “I think our breakfast is nearly ready. Would you mind calling up the stairs to the other maids, and let the grooms know?”

  “You can ask me to do anything, Charlotte Farrow,” he said. “Anything.”

  No. Never.

  The staff breakfast behind her, Charlotte moved on to the dining room to ensure all was ready for the family’s breakfast. The coffee finished perking just as Leo entered and took his seat.

  “Your newspaper, sir.” Charlotte laid the paper in front of him.

  “Sausage and fruit will be sufficient, and coffee of course.” Leo unfolded the newspaper. “Let’s see what the commentators have to say about the World’s Columbian Exposition today. The news in Lake Forest always seemed stale.” He scanned his paper. “We missed Illinois Day at the fair yesterday. Five thousand members of the Illinois National Guard marched down the Midway Plaisance, followed by warriors from around the globe. Governor Altgeld himself led the parade. That must have been a sight.”

  “Yes, sir.” Charlotte murmured in the same way she always did when family members spoke to her.

  Leo dropped his newspaper. “Charlotte, the rumor around the house is that you’re afraid to go up in Mr. Ferris’s wheel at the fair.” Leo grinned at the maid.

  “I admit it makes me a bit nervous, sir.” Charlotte dipped her head.

  “I’m an engineer and I believe the construction is sound. Lucy’s husband is an architect, and he believes it’s safe. Don’t you trust us?”

  “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 hist
ory. 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.