Charlotte left the rundown house on the outskirts of Greenville—a full thirty minutes before the girl would arrive and discover her missing—and headed for an abandoned hunter’s cabin. As far as Charlotte could determine, she was the only one who had been in the cabin for years. After resting a few days and getting used to the baby, she was on a train to Chicago. Never for an instant had she considered returning to Greenville or anywhere near it.
For now, the baby was safe. She would have perhaps two more days before Mr. Penard handed her son over to the family—two days before she would have to make an impossible decision.
By daylight, Charlotte was in the kitchen whisking a bowl of eggs into froth and buttering thick slices of bread to fry along with generous servings of bacon. Mr. Penard had specifically requested a hearty breakfast because the day would be demanding, especially now that it was uncertain Sarah would be available to help with the housework. Charlotte also squeezed several oranges and arranged sprigs of red and green grapes on three plates. For the baby, she took top milk from the jar the milkman had left the day before, warmed it on the stove, and stirred in some oatmeal to cook.
Wiping her hands on a dish towel, Charlotte stepped over to the open stairway and cocked her head. She was certain she had heard movement echoing down the shaft a few minutes earlier. Listening a moment longer, she was satisfied Sarah had wakened and would be down to breakfast on time—hopefully with the baby. By the time the griddle was hot enough for the eggs, bread, and bacon, Mr. Penard had descended the stairs in his dark navy morning coat, ready for an official day. Sarah appeared as Charlotte set the platter of scrambled eggs and toast on the table.
This time Sarah sat stiffly for the prayer. Charlotte wondered if the ache in her own heart counted as prayer.
“How did the child sleep?” Penard transferred eggs onto his plate.
“I didn’t hear a peep out of him all night.” Sarah bit ravenously into a piece of fried bread, the baby on her lap.
“I made him some oatmeal.” Charlotte slid the small bowl and a spoon toward Sarah.
“I’ll feed him as soon as I’m finished.” Sarah swatted away the little hand reaching for her toast.
Charlotte swallowed her objections to Sarah’s priorities, but the baby was not easily deterred. He squalled and spread his arms for Charlotte across the table.
“Sarah, why don’t you attend to the child first?” Mr. Penard nodded toward the boy. “We have a great deal to discuss, and I don’t intend to be talking over his cries.”
Sarah dropped her toast and picked up the spoon. “Can’t it just feed itself? At the orphanage we didn’t coddle the little ones.”
“It’s oatmeal. Just think of the mess he’ll make that you’ll have to clean up. For now it’s easier if you feed him.”
At least Sarah had the sense to be gentle as she aimed a spoonful of oatmeal at the baby’s mouth. He eagerly parted his lips to receive the nourishment, even as his face cracked with a grin for Charlotte.
“You must have a way with children, Charlotte.” Mr. Penard waved a fork between his fingers toward the child. “This one seems particularly smitten with you.”
Charlotte answered quickly. “He’s a sweet child.”
Sarah frowned across the table as she offered the baby another bite.
“Let’s get down to business,” Mr. Penard said. “I assume the bedding is all in order.”
“Yes, sir.” Charlotte nibbled a grape, which was about all she could manage this morning.
“Sarah, do you anticipate the child will require a nap later this morning?”
The girl shrugged. “How should I know what a strange baby does?”
“Most children this age nap twice a day,” Charlotte supplied.
Mr. Penard nodded. “Then while he sleeps, Sarah, you may dust the parlor and polish the dining room table. Charlotte can show you where everything is. I’ll polish the silver myself.”
Sarah chomped on her bread again.
“Sarah, it is appropriate for you to acknowledge that I’ve spoken to you.” Mr. Penard’s tone was flat but his meaning clear.
Sarah eyes flickered. “Yes, sir.”
“Just be sure to check on him frequently,” Charlotte said. “He might wake up frightened in a strange place. It will be difficult to hear him if he cries.”
The butler turned his attention to Charlotte. “Mrs. Fletcher has provided a list of the meat cuts she would like to have available in the kitchen upon her arrival tomorrow. You will visit the butcher’s shop and make the arrangements for delivery in the morning.”
“Certainly.” Henry was reaching for food again. Sarah seemed in no hurry to satisfy him. When she finally moved the spoon toward the child’s mouth again, Charlotte permitted herself another grape.
“And then there is the green grocer’s,” Penard continued. “Mrs. Fletcher asks that you use your best judgment and select a colorful variety. Three bushels should be sufficient to begin with. Since all the coachmen are still in Lake Forest, I have arranged a day driver to be at your disposal for the morning. You may use the service carriage.”
“Thank you, sir.” Charlotte’s heart quickened. Using a carriage would allow her to complete the errands more quickly and come home to her son—or at least come home to the house where someone else was caring for her son.
Sarah sniffed its diaper and decided the mess was not urgent enough to attend to. It was acting tired finally, none too soon to suit her. She had been with it for four hours already. Why old Penard did not just give the stupid brat to the stupid kitchen maid, she could not fathom. Charlotte actually seemed to want to take care of the baby, after all.
As Sarah laid it on the pallet in her room, blue eyes stared at her and she looked at them for the first time. It wasn’t such a bad face when she thought about it. Not thin and sallow like so many of the babies who turned up at the orphanage. Sometimes it took weeks of tedious feeding to make them look human. The baby did not seem to miss wherever it had come from. Sarah would have thought it would be squalling for the mother who had abandoned it. As its blue eyes fluttered and closed in slumber, Sarah considered whether it would be so awful to look after it for a few days. She would be Nanny Sarah, and that was a far cry from the scullery maid she was hired to be, or whatever sort of maid Charlotte Farrow fancied herself to be.
Nanny Sarah. That might not be terrible—at least until she could figure out another release from this unbearable captivity.
It was soundly sleeping now, breathing deep and regular, thumb in mouth. Sarah made sure not to leave any personal items on the floor. She had no idea how long it would sleep, and she did not like Charlotte telling her what to do, but inevitably she would have to run up and down the stairs to check on it. She had not yet seen it crawl, but Charlotte seemed to think it would. Certainly she was not going to sit there and stare at it during what might be a long nap. She backed out of the room and closed the door quietly behind her.
Sarah had hoped to simply sneak out to the courtyard and let old Penard think she was upstairs with the creature, but he was there at the bottom of the stairs waiting for her with a cotton rag in one hand and a tin of vegetable oil soap in the other. Sarah recognized it as a basic tool for cleaning tables. Occasionally some church ladies would decide to serve the poor by polishing the tables at St. Andrew’s, and the older girls would end up doing the work while the ladies drank tea the cook brewed for them. Sarah did not like the way the soap smelled, nor the memories it evoked.
Keeping conversation to a minimum, Sarah took the supplies and moved through the butler’s pantry that separated the kitchen from the dining room. She slowed her steps enough to take in the floor-to-ceiling cabinetry, framed in wood with glass doors, and the deep sink with its own faucet and running water. The black and white floor tiles were a smaller size of the same pattern the kitchen featured.
Sarah had seen little of the house so far, other than the cursory tour Mr. Penard had given on the afternoon she arrived.
In addition to the kitchen and workrooms, the downstairs held a spacious dining room, a broad foyer, the parlor, the master bedroom, and Mr. Banning’s private study. If the baby had not yet awakened when she finished polishing table, chairs, and sideboard, she was supposed to also do the round mahogany table in the foyer and the side tables in the parlor. The marble staircase off the foyer led to the remainder of the family and guest bedrooms, but Sarah was not to use those stairs.
Sarah pried open the tin, dipped the rag in, and began rubbing haphazardly at the long oak dining room table. Her eyes lifted to the parted drapes adorning the windows looking out on Prairie Avenue. Broad bands of buff-colored taffeta trimmed in gold beads swept back claret-toned velvet from the centers of the wide windows. Mirror image pale blue swags topped the oak-framed windows. Sarah, however, was not looking at the draperies. The rubbing motion slowed as her gaze followed the movements of the strangers outside.
The men in their gray suits and striped vests lacked the bearing of the men Sarah had seen coming and going from Prairie Avenue homes in the last two days, and the women’s dresses were closer to her own garb than the latest 1893 fashions the women of Prairie Avenue boasted. Unabashed children stared and pointed—all of them fairgoers lured into creating a spectacle of themselves as they absorbed the spectacle that was Prairie Avenue.
Across the street, a neighbor glided along the short walkway to her waiting carriage, never once turning her head to acknowledge the presence of spectators. Sarah’s lips turned up at one end. The woman showed her class with every step. Someday, Sarah thought, she would be the one to show her class. She was not going to spend her life in service.
The Pullman carriage rolled by just then. Mr. Penard had pointed it out to her two days earlier with a caution not to gawk. As if she would ever gawk, as if she would ever accept that she did not deserve to travel in such a carriage herself.
“Sarah, I suspect you may be daydreaming.”
Mr. Penard’s voice from his pantry fractured her reverie. Sarah dipped the rag in the tin once again and rubbed the tabletop more convincingly. Someday she would prove that she was better than this.
“Good morning, Mr. Mason.” Charlotte spoke brightly to the butcher, who was more likely to produce choice cuts if she indulged in conversation.
“Good morning, Miss Farrow. Am I to understand by your presence that the family returns soon?”
Charlotte nodded. “Tomorrow, midday. I have a list of the meats Mrs. Fletcher wants delivered.”
Mr. Mason smiled, set his hands on his hips, and looked at the ceiling. “Let’s see. If I know your Mrs. Fletcher, the list asks for two racks of lamb, eight lamb kidneys, three beef roasts with no more than half an inch of fat, calves livers, four chickens, a large goose, and a Virginia ham.”
Charlotte laughed. “She also wonders if you have a wild turkey.”
“She knows it takes an extra day to get one of those, but I’ll try to work my magic.”
“So we can expect your delivery by ten in the morning?”
“Nine-thirty.”
“Thank you, Mr. Mason.”
Charlotte returned to the Banning service carriage with the hired driver. It was far from the family’s best—hardly more than an enamel-coated work cart complete with scratches—but she was grateful for its efficiencies, and in the summer she appreciated the open top. She shared the space with three empty bushel baskets, which would be filled within minutes at the shop of the only green grocer Mrs. Fletcher would tolerate. Then she could go home again to make the beds. At least there she might have some notion of whether her son was being properly looked after. She did not care if she did not leave the house again as long as he was there.
Charlotte did not trust Sarah Cummings with a child—anyone’s child, but particularly not hers. The fact that the girl could freely take Henry out of her sight and Charlotte could not protest nearly provoked her to sobs. Yet she refused to cry. No one could know Henry was hers. If anyone suspected the truth, she and Henry would be put out on the street summarily. Mr. Penard would no longer feel obliged to discover the will of the Bannings regarding the baby. The household staff was his to deal with as he saw fit, and Charlotte knew perfectly well he would not tolerate a maid with a child. Even after nearly a year of faithful service in the Banning household, Charlotte did not take her position for granted.
As the laden cart rumbled back toward Prairie Avenue, Charlotte sat upright in her seat, determined not to give in to the looming despair that crushed her chest.
4
L ogically Charlotte could tell herself it did not matter how often she checked the time. The hands of the clock did not move any faster. Still, she glanced at the timepiece on the kitchen mantel over and over. The family was due back any minute now, and the house was as ready as it could be. Charlotte and Sarah sat in the spotless kitchen, hesitant to move lest their shifting cause disorder they would not have time to remedy. The baby amused himself on a blanket on the kitchen floor. Charlotte watched him in her peripheral vision, not permitting herself a full-face gaze.
One more night had passed with her son slumbering across the hall, but still Charlotte had no plan for how to withstand the blustering storm when the truth leaped from her heart to the Bannings’ faces. And surely a storm was coming if she did not simply take her son and leave. She missed Lucy Banning Edwards keenly. Lucy would have known what to do.
“What was that?” Sarah jumped up from the table and lurched toward the door leading from the kitchen into the servants’ hallway.
Charlotte followed. “The servants’ carriage must be here. That means the family will be right behind.” Looking past Sarah through the window, she saw the carriage pull up alongside the servants’ entrance. Sarah flounced into the hall without looking back at the baby playing happily on the blanket. Relishing the private moment, Charlotte smiled broadly at her son, who responded by leaning to one side to get to his knees and beginning to crawl toward her. In an expert movement and with a giggle of delight, he left the confines of the blanket.
“Oh no, you don’t!” Charlotte swooped in to pick him up. She snuck in a kiss and settled him on her hip just as she heard the voices in the servants’ hall. From the sounds, she concluded that Karl, an under-coachman, had driven one of the smaller carriages and brought home the cook, the parlor maid, the ladies’ maid, and a groom. Footsteps and chatter filled the hall.
Mrs. Fletcher appeared in the kitchen and stopped in her tracks. “That’s a baby!”
“Yes, it is.” Charlotte forced herself not to smile with pride and said the words—technically true—she had carefully rehearsed. “He turned up in the yard on Tuesday.”
“What do you mean, ‘turned up’?”
Sarah pushed her way past the glut of staff still shedding belongings in the hall and burst into the kitchen. “We found him in the laundry basket in the courtyard. I’ve been put in charge of him.” She reached possessively for the baby and transferred him to her own hip.
Mrs. Fletcher raised an eyebrow at the slender stranger in her kitchen. “I assume you are Sarah Cummings.”
“Yes, and I’m to be the nanny.”
“My understanding is you were to begin as a scullery maid and be of some help with the never-ending work in the kitchen.”
“That was before this situation arose.”
Mrs. Fletcher’s gaze sputtered toward Charlotte. “Where is Mr. Penard? I can’t have this child underfoot in my kitchen.”
“I’m right here.” Mr. Penard pushed open the door from his butler’s pantry. “I’m afraid we have no alternative for the moment. I will of course speak to Mr. and Mrs. Banning as soon as they are settled.”
“Why should they concern themselves with an abandoned child?” Mrs. Fletcher’s face bore only confusion at the notion.
Charlotte glanced up and flickered a smile at the familiar faces she had not seen in a month. By now Elsie, the ladies’ maid, and Lina, the new parlor maid, had removed their hats. They stood
wordlessly with Karl, the under-coachman.
“My suspicion is that the child was left for Mrs. Edwards,” Mr. Penard explained to the onlookers. “It is not our place to decide his disposition. I will speak to the Bannings tomorrow morning after breakfast. In the meantime, none of you will make any reference to his presence within earshot of the family. Is that clear?”
Charlotte scanned the group, seeing nods all around. This was not an edict any of them would want to violate. A few more hours. One more night at best.
“Your arrival can only mean we are to expect the family within the hour,” Mr. Penard said. “I have never known Mr. Banning to be imprecise in his travel arrangements. Please sort yourselves out immediately and take up your posts. This is not a half day off for any of you.”
Mrs. Fletcher sighed, looked back at Sarah, and said flatly, “I’m sure he’s a charming child, but the kitchen is a dangerous place for a baby. If you fancy yourself a nanny, then I expect you will keep him out of my way.”
Sarah’s eyes flashed. “I grew up at St. Andrew’s. I know a thing or two about babies!”
“Then do a thing or two about this one.”
Archie Shepard pulled on the reins to slow the duo of Belgian draft horses as he turned onto Prairie Avenue. The entourage had made good time traveling down from Lake Forest, arriving within a few minutes of the time Mr. Penard expected them. Archie drove the largest Quinby carriage, carrying Samuel and Flora Banning and Mrs. Banning’s sister, Violet Newcomb. Behind him was a carriage with the top down, allowing the three Banning brothers—Oliver, Leo, and Richard—to enjoy the open air. Only Richard had spent the entire month in Lake Forest. Though Oliver and Leo had careers and social lives to attend to, all three had spent the final week with their parents and returned together. A third coach carried luggage and household supplies not needed in Lake Forest during the winter. The family might return to the lake for the odd weekend before the weather turned completely, but the summer holiday was ended.
Dilemma of Charlotte Farrow, The Page 3