Dilemma of Charlotte Farrow, The

by Olivia Newport

  “She didn’t exactly start out happy.” Archie finally took his eyes off Charlotte to look at the baby’s entourage. Miss Brewster pushed the pram with besotted pride. Sarah trailed a step or two behind and made little effort to disguise her scowl.

  The horse trotted past the baby buggy, and Charlotte rotated in the seat to look over her shoulder at Miss Brewster, Sarah, and the child.

  He would never know what she was looking for if he did not ask. “Charlotte—”

  “Let’s go to the post office first.” Charlotte cut him off and faced forward once again. She inched away from him. “We have to get rid of the packages so we have room for the staples and produce.”

  “Yes, ma’am!” Archie clicked his tongue, and the mare picked up her pace. Whatever had come over Charlotte as they passed the baby was behind them. She was all business now. Perhaps he could still extract a smile. “Would madam prefer to wait in the carriage while I go in the post office?”

  Charlotte sat up primly. “Madam is nowhere near that helpless.”

  “But madam must be exhausted from the effort of digesting her luncheon.”

  “One might think so, but madam has become quite accomplished at digesting luncheon.”

  Archie laughed. “See? Even you can see how ridiculous they seem sometimes.”

  Charlotte shrugged. “It’s all they know. They’ve always lived that way.”

  “Because of people like us! Have you ever stopped to calculate how many servants it takes to keep them comfortable? The live-in staff is only the beginning. Day workers come in and out of the house all day. I doubt the Bannings can even tell you the name of the woman who scrubs their clothes or the man who trims the hedges along the side of the house.”

  “Archie, do we have to talk about this now? I thought we were just having a bit of fun, but you sound ready to stand on a corner soapbox and give a speech.”

  Though he had made her smile, his own mood had shifted. “I want better. For myself. For you. For us.”

  Charlotte fell silent again as Archie guided the horse to the curb in front of the post office. No matter how many times he hinted at his hope for the future, she never responded in kind. Her silent discouragement was not enough, but she dreaded hurting him with the truth that there could be nothing between them.

  A streetcar rattled by.

  “Miss Lucy likes to ride the streetcars,” Archie said. “I used to pretend I didn’t know she was doing that when she was not using a carriage.”

  “I know.” A half smile crossed Charlotte’s face. “She’s the one who taught me how easy it is to get around that way.”

  “But now you never go anywhere.”

  “I don’t have anywhere to go.” Her smile faded.

  “I’m going to fix that,” Archie said, “starting today.”

  In front of the post office, Archie jumped down and reached for the packages tied together on the floor of the cart. He dispensed with the packages, and they proceeded to the dressmaker’s shop to pick up fabric samples from New York City. When Charlotte returned to the cart with the swatches, Archie grinned at her and nudged the horse into motion.

  “Where are we going?” Charlotte asked. “The grocer is in the other direction.”

  “I know where the grocer is,” Archie assured her. “But I have you to myself, and I’m going to make the most of it.”

  “Archie, what are you talking about? The vegetables—”

  “The vegetables will still be there in an hour. And the rice and the flour and the sugar.”

  “An hour! Archie, you’re making me nervous.”

  “No need. My intentions are entirely honorable.”

  “But Archie—”

  “You deserve a special day,” Archie said, “and I intend to give it to you.”

  Charlotte gasped. “How did you find out it’s my birthday?”

  Archie’s jaw dropped. “It’s your birthday? Today?”

  “You mean you didn’t know?”

  He shook his head, chuckling. “No, I did not know. I just thought you deserved to relax for a while. Your birthday is all the more reason to take a slight detour.”

  “You could have turned around there.” Charlotte swiveled toward the disappearing row of familiar shops.

  “One hour, Charlotte. With everything on our list, even Penard is not expecting we’ll make it back in time for tea. We have time.”

  He slowed the carriage at an intersection, and they waited for a train to rumble past.

  “I think carriages are becoming old-fashioned.” Archie shouted over the roar of the train. “Streetcars and trains are so much faster.”

  “But it’s hard to carry three bushels of vegetables on a streetcar.”

  “I haven’t forgotten about the vegetables.” The train passed, and Archie moved the horse through the intersection, then to the curb outside a tea and sandwich shop. He jumped down. “Let’s go in.”

  Charlotte’s eyes grew wide. “To a tea shop? In the middle of the afternoon?”

  Archie laughed and tied the reins to a post. “Surely you’ve been to a tea shop before.”

  She fumbled with her skirts. “A time or two when Miss Lucy insisted. But in general, no, I don’t go into tea shops.”

  “Then today is your lucky day, birthday girl.” He offered her a hand. She hesitated but then laid her hand in his. He held it tight.

  She used to leave the house regularly on Thursdays and be gone for hours, and every other Sunday afternoon. Where did she go, he wondered, if she did not even go to tea shops?

  Charlotte had to admit that sitting in a shop with Archie Shepard was a pleasurable experience. The shop was not fancy—nothing like the Palmer House Hotel or the restaurants in Marshall Field’s department store. It was a world away from the exquisite shops along the lakeshore with their stone fireplaces and crystal chandeliers. This shop had only a half dozen small tables with green and white striped tablecloths hanging down a scant six inches. Archie seemed on friendly terms with the shop’s owner, which made Charlotte wonder just how often he managed to stretch an errand with a brief side trip.

  “Mickey, your best pot of tea.” Archie signaled the man behind the counter. “And a couple of your famous corned beef sandwiches. We have a birthday girl here!”

  Mickey came out from behind the counter to serve the tea and sandwiches himself, taking the opportunity to clap Archie on the back and wish Charlotte a hearty happy birthday.

  “Have you been up on Mr. Ferris’s wheel yet?” Mickey braced his hands on two empty chairs and leaned in jovially. “What a view!”

  “I’ve been up,” Archie said, “but I don’t believe Miss Farrow has.”

  “Then she has quite a treat ahead of her.”

  Charlotte shook her head. “No, I don’t. I do not intend to go up in that contraption.”

  “It’s not a contraption,” Archie protested. “It’s as safe as a carriage on the streets of Chicago, and you do that.”

  Charlotte shook her head again. “It’s not the same.”

  “It’s much more exciting!” Mickey slapped the back of his hand against Archie’s shoulder. “Keep after ’er. Take ’er up yourself!”

  “She went to the fair with the family, but she was on duty.” Archie’s eyes sparkled. “I’ll take her just for fun and she’ll go up with me.”

  “No, I will not!” Resisting his sparkling brown eyes was getting more difficult by the moment. It was one thing to turn away to chop a potato or polish a fork, but here, away from Prairie Avenue, it was not as easy to find a distraction. With both hands she lifted the hefty sandwich toward her mouth and pondered how to bite into it without making a mess.

  She would remember this moment forever.

  A year ago on her birthday, she had been heavily pregnant and desperately fearful. The next day she gave birth weeks early, and trepidation propelled her rapid choices.

  Suddenly she wanted Henry in her arms.

  “Archie, I think we should go.” She put
her sandwich down unbitten.

  “But we haven’t been here ten minutes.” Archie spoke with his mouth full of corned beef. “The tea hasn’t even had a chance to get cold.”

  “Please, Archie. It’s a lovely gesture, but it doesn’t feel right.”

  “Charlotte, it’s all right to think of yourself for a few minutes.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’d just like to go to the grocer’s and get back to the house. I’ll enjoy the sandwich later, I promise. I’ll take it with me.” She would not look at Archie, sure that in that moment his eyes would melt her resolve and bring her to the brink of truth. And after a year, she could not risk the truth.

  At the grocer’s, Charlotte quickly filled three bushels with fruit and vegetables, and at the dry goods store, Archie hefted bags of staples into the carriage. Charlotte sat in the back among the groceries before Archie could suggest otherwise. As they turned from State Street onto Eighteenth Street and trotted east toward Lake Michigan, Charlotte welcomed the familiar sight of the spires of the Kimball mansion on Prairie Avenue, marking the prestigious neighborhood from several blocks away. She felt an odd comfort as they approached the house that had sheltered her secret all this time.

  When they turned onto Prairie Avenue, Archie had to go around a carriage disgorging tourists for their self-guided exploration of the neighborhood.

  “And now, ladies and gentlemen,” Archie pronounced dramatically, “I give you the richest of the rich, the lifestyles of the famous and elite. Don’t dare to close your eyes for even a second. You won’t want to miss the exquisite glamour of Prairie Avenue, which far outweighs the lavish beauty of the Alabaster City known as the world’s fair.”

  “Oh, hush,” Charlotte said, but she couldn’t help but laugh.

  And it felt good to laugh.

  But she still wanted Henry in her arms.

  15

  O ut in the courtyard the next morning, well away from the back doors, Charlotte snapped the rug from the servants’ hall and released the accumulated dirt of dozens of boots over the last several days. Dust whirled in freedom before landing on the fall breeze and blowing to far-flung settlements. Charlotte then hung the rug over a clothesline and whacked it with a rug beater.

  Across the courtyard, the baby played in the grass, rolling and giggling and squealing until even Sarah relented and turned up one side of her mouth in amusement. Charlotte knew her son should have been in the nursery getting ready for his morning nap, but she was glad for a few minutes to witness his delight at the touch of grass on his skin.

  “It was a good idea to bring him outside,” Charlotte called to Sarah as she folded the rug twice and slung it over an arm.

  “I couldn’t stand being cooped up in that nursery another minute!” Sarah stood with her arms crossed. “This courtyard could use a bench, though.”

  “Sit in the grass with the baby.”

  Sarah scowled. “Hardly.”

  Suit yourself. “Maybe he’d like to have his bottle out here this morning before he goes down for his nap.”

  “I suppose that would be all right. Bring it out.”

  Charlotte set her jaw against the urge to answer Sarah’s tone. Instead, she took the rug into the hallway and restored it to its usual place. Then she went into the kitchen to warm the baby’s milk, having already decided to add a couple of extra ounces to this feeding. He seemed to gobble down everything in sight these days to fuel the active curiosity that had him toddling around the nursery during all his waking moments.

  When Charlotte returned to the courtyard with the bottle, Sarah was sitting on a stone ledge about three feet off the ground, and the baby was next to her, tapping his heels against the brick.

  “I don’t think that’s safe for him, Sarah.” Charlotte handed the girl the bottle. What was she thinking, putting the baby up there? “Hold on to him.”

  “I’m right here. What could happen?”

  “Babies move quickly.” Surely Sarah had never cared for a toddler before. Charlotte reached for Henry.

  Sarah slapped Charlotte’s hands away. “He’s not your business.”

  “If he gets hurt, he won’t be your business either.” Charlotte stepped back. “Just hang on to him.”

  The baby reached for the bottle, and Sarah surrendered it to him. Tilting his head back, he drank eagerly. A fraction of a second too late, and from a step too far away, Charlotte saw his torso wobble.

  “Watch out!” she shouted.

  Sarah startled and reached out one arm, but the baby slid through her grip and down along the bricks to the stone path below.

  Charlotte was there in an instant. “Look what you’ve done now!”

  Archie let the old mare take her sweet time sauntering past the overhang that shaded the passage along the side of the house. For the most part, the household staff came and went by the servants’ entrances on the other side of the house, where the servants’ hall opened into a flow of several interconnected workrooms. However, the narrow courtyard access on this side allowed deliveries to a back door directly off the kitchen. Archie intended to maneuver as close to the door as possible and unload the meat cuts for which Mrs. Fletcher had been too impatient to wait for the butcher’s delivery. When he saw Charlotte crouched on the ground, however, he yanked the horse to a halt, jumped out of the cart, and ran toward her.

  He grabbed Sarah’s elbow and shoved her out of the way. “What happened?”

  “He wouldn’t sit still,” Sarah said.

  “You should never have had him up on the ledge with you!” Charlotte screamed. “I told you to hang on to him!”

  Archie’s eyes widened. He had never heard Charlotte’s voice at such volume or so full of passion.

  Charlotte’s left hand cupped the baby’s head against her apron. Her hand reddened steadily. The milky remains of a shattered bottle were splayed around the walkway.

  “What have you done, Sarah?” Archie made sure his voice sounded more controlled than Charlotte’s, but still insistent. “You’d better go get Mr. Penard.”

  Sarah quivered, but she finally turned and went in the house. Archie squatted next to Charlotte.

  “He’s not breathing!” she screamed.

  The child’s blue eyes were wide open, though, and to Archie’s relief, at that moment, he inhaled and let loose with a shriek.

  “That’s a good sign,” Archie said over the baby’s screams. “Where is the blood coming from?”

  Slowly, Charlotte turned the baby in her arms so they could inspect the wound on the back of his head. “I will never forgive her,” she uttered through gritted teeth. “If Mr. Penard had just given me charge of the baby, none of this would have happened.”

  “It’s not your fault,” Archie said. “He wasn’t your responsibility.” He put an arm around her trembling shoulders, feeling the thinness of her form under his hand.

  Blood continued to seep onto Charlotte’s apron.

  “I should not have stepped away. I knew it was unsafe.”

  “Charlotte, he wasn’t your responsibility,” Archie repeated. “Don’t chastise yourself over a mistake Sarah made.”

  “The result is the same. He’s bleeding in my hand.”

  “He needs a doctor,” Archie said. “Even Mr. Penard will be able to see that.” He pulled a handkerchief from a pocket and slipped it between the boy’s skull and Charlotte’s hand. Then he moved his hand to cradle hers, stilling the shiver he felt there.

  The baby wailed and thrashed against Charlotte’s grip, but she held him still.

  Mr. Penard stormed out the kitchen door, a pale Sarah behind him. “How badly is the child hurt?”

  “He needs a doctor,” Archie said. “The gash may need to be stitched closed.”

  “Archie, you will go for the doctor,” Mr. Penard said. “Charlotte, you will take the child to the nursery to await the doctor. Sarah, you will sit in the kitchen and not move until I am finished with you. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, sir.
” Sarah wrapped her arms around herself and looked away.

  “If the child is seriously harmed in any way, you will face Mrs. Banning yourself.” Mr. Penard’s face flashed red. “You will take full responsibility for this.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Charlotte, take the child upstairs. I will bring hot water momentarily.”

  Archie jumped back in the cart and, mindless of the meat cuts, prodded the mare to move much faster than she was inclined to do.

  The baby was breathing normally again at last. Every few minutes, though, he howled with fresh vigor. Charlotte laid him on the table in the nursery and peeled off the blood-soaked shirt. One side of his body, from cheek to heel, bore the scrapes of ragged brick against his tender skin, but the back of his head was the only place actively bleeding, and the flow had slowed.

  Mr. Penard entered with a pot of hot water and a stack of fresh rags. Charlotte went right to work, wincing as she got enough of the dirt and blood cleared away to see the trueness of the wound. Mr. Penard looked over her shoulder and sighed heavily.

  “Clean it up the best you can,” the butler said quietly. “The doctor will decide what is necessary.” He closed the nursery door behind him.

  Every time Charlotte touched the cut even lightly, the baby wailed. Finally, though, satisfied that the worst of the bleeding was past, she laid him with his head on a clean rag to absorb the seepage while she sponged off the scrapes along the side of his little body. There would be no hiding the marks, she knew. In a few hours, Emmaline Brewster would no doubt call for Henry as usual and be horrified by what she discovered.

  Charlotte picked up her son and moved to the rocking chair. Instinct told her not to let him sleep, however, so she refrained from rocking. Instead, she positioned him on her lap in a way that she could see his face and coax him to stay awake and look at her. She kept one hand on the cloth behind his head at all times.

  “Oh, Henry,” she said softly, “I had my birthday yesterday, and today is yours. This is not fair. This is not what I wanted for your first birthday. I was going to bring you a bakery cake to share with Mrs. Given. Now no one can even know.”