Coachman or not, Archie served the soup in the Banning dining room as he had for three years. Charlotte never lifted her eyes to check for his gaze, but if she had, she was sure she would have found his eyes lowered in the demeanor Mr. Penard insisted on and which was required in every house along Prairie Avenue. Nevertheless, he followed her every move, and Charlotte knew it. She suspected that being near her was the only reason he still served at meals. Gripping dishes with more intention than usual, she resisted the sensation his gaze caused in her. After she cleared the meat plates, Charlotte stacked them carefully in the sink in the butler’s pantry. By the time she returned to the dining room, the family’s conversation had drifted away from the weather and the world’s fair and Samuel’s latest legal challenge.
“I thought perhaps Mr. Emmett would have something helpful,” Leo was saying. “I know Lucy has his ear on a number of matters around the orphanage. If this child were somehow connected to St. Andrew’s, he would know.”
Violet toyed with her sweet potatoes à l’allemande. “Was Mr. Emmett helpful?”
Leo shook his head. “Apparently he is on leave, and his assistant did not seem overly familiar with the filing system. Archie and I had a look for ourselves.”
Charlotte’s stomach pinched. She hated to think what they might have found. Immediately she reminded herself that more than a week had passed since the day Leo whisked Archie out on errands. Archie had not said a suspicious word the whole week. Surely they found nothing worth mentioning.
“And what did you discover?” Violet asked.
Leo shrugged. “As it turns out, not much of anything. Obviously if an infant had gone missing from the orphanage, Mr. Tewell would have informed me when he heard the nature of my inquiry. He said nothing, and I found no record of a child matching the description of the one who turned up here. The child doesn’t seem to have any connection with the orphanage at all.”
“Well, of course not,” Flora Banning said. “That’s why he’s here. Honestly, Leo, I’m not sure why you felt it was necessary to trouble yourself. The entire situation is under control. The child is being well cared for.”
“Yes, clearly he is.” Leo spread his hands in front of him. “However, I thought we might find his mother. She may be suffering regrets. I’ve only glimpsed the boy a time or two, but I left the best description I could with Mr. Tewell. If the mother should turn up looking for him, he will contact us.”
“Why have you waited an entire week to say anything?” Flora pressed.
Leo hesitated. “I’ve sent a telegram to Lucy. I thought it might catch up with her in Paris and she could send a reply if she has some insight into the matter. I had hoped to have some word from her before speaking to you on the matter.”
Flora dropped her fork. “But I’ve already written to Cousin Louisa! I’ve told her all about the child’s charms, and she has sent word that she is most eager to meet the boy. I am only awaiting the details of when her husband can manage to be away from his pressing business matters. In any event, they hope to come to Chicago to visit the fair, so it would be simple enough to spend some time with the child as well.”
Charlotte noticed that Emmaline Brewster had stopped eating altogether, having not even touched her sweet potato. She looked pale. Her hands were in her lap, so if Charlotte did not soon step forward and remove Miss Brewster’s plate, Mr. Penard would chastise her with his eyes—and his words later. Charlotte herself was barely breathing and feared her knees would buckle if she had to hear one more word about her son’s future with strangers.
“Journeying from St. Louis will take some time,” Samuel observed.
“The train is efficient,” Leo said.
“I only just learned that they bought a new home in a country setting,” Flora said. “They hope to move in within six weeks. Greenville, I think.”
Greenville!
Charlotte removed Miss Brewster’s plate swiftly and took it immediately to the butler’s pantry.
Archie eyed the table, flashed a glance at Mr. Penard, then somberly and quietly stepped into the butler’s pantry.
“Charlotte, are you unwell?” he whispered. Bent over the sink, she looked as if her own evening meal might find its way up.
She did not speak, but Archie saw the tremor in her hands.
“Charlotte?” Archie said more urgently. He moved toward her, taking her chin in his hand and inspecting her face. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
She would not meet his eyes.
“I’m going to tell Mr. Penard you’ve taken ill.” He turned her around at the shoulders. “I want you to go up to bed immediately.”
“But—”
“Go, Charlotte.”
On Sunday morning after breakfast, Charlotte carried dishes from the dining room. Archie was finishing a cup of coffee at the kitchen table.
“Shouldn’t you be pulling the carriage around for the family to go to church?” Charlotte asked. He was watching her too closely since finding her ill in the butler’s pantry. She moved briskly as if to prove she was untroubled.
“Come with me.” Archie locked his eyes onto hers.
“Don’t be silly, Archie.” Charlotte tossed a dish towel at him.
“You’ve only been to church one time since you got here,” he said, “and that was Christmas Eve.”
“I have work to do on Sunday mornings.” Charlotte swished a hand in the dishwater, fishing for a rag. “The family will be expecting luncheon when they get home from church.”
“What if I talk to Mrs. Fletcher?” Archie asked. “What if she says you can go?”
“She won’t.”
“What if she does?”
Charlotte shrugged. “Okay. I would go. But she won’t.”
Archie blew out of the room to find Mrs. Fletcher, and a few minutes later triumphantly announced that Charlotte should go upstairs and change her dress. She was going to church. Charlotte could not help wondering what Archie had to promise Mrs. Fletcher to get her consent, but she could not back out of her own agreement.
Now she stood beside Archie in one of the side balconies looking down on the main floor. The Bannings were sitting just where they’d sat on Christmas Eve, toward the front on the right side, in the pew for which Samuel made a generous annual contribution to the expenses of Second Presbyterian Church. Emmaline Brewster sat between Richard and Leo, and Samuel and Flora sat like bookends at opposite ends of their row. Around them were other Prairie Avenue families Charlotte recognized.
As he had on Christmas Eve, in the balcony Archie covered her hand with his and shared his hymnal with her. And now, as then, Charlotte had no voice for the hymns. The tunes might have been familiar from her childhood, but her heart could not sing.
As the speaker began his sermon on the sovereignty and providence of God, Charlotte pulled her hand out of Archie’s. What was she doing letting him touch her? It would come to no good, and she would only hurt him.
The speaker intoned from Matthew’s Gospel: “Therefore I say unto you, Take no thought for your life, what ye shall eat, or what ye shall drink; nor yet for your body, what ye shall put on. Is not the life more than meat, and the body than raiment? Behold the fowls of the air: for they sow not, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feedeth them. Are ye not much better than they?”
Charlotte had a fleeting speculation that Jesus might have had a different perspective if he’d had a child to take care of. He made it sound so simple.
“God provides,” the speaker said. “Do you trust him?”
Charlotte shook her head almost imperceptibly. Looking over the balcony banister, she noticed Emmaline Brewster leaning forward in the Banning pew, eyes wide open.
On Sunday afternoon, Emmaline entered the parlor, expecting to find Samuel and Flora, and perhaps even Violet, enjoying a leisurely afternoon and awaiting their tea. She had just returned from airing the baby, certain that he recognized her now and that the smiles aimed in h
er direction were intentional. It was all she could do to merely push his buggy and gaze down at him, when she wanted to scoop him up and carry him in her arms every step of the way. The small park had become a regular excuse to pause, seek respite on a bench, and pluck the child out of the pram. He toddled around, examining the bounty of nature on the ground, and brought her gifts at frequent intervals. Emmaline kept every rock and twig in a box under her bed.
After dispatching Sarah with the child and longingly watching the girl take him through to the kitchen, Emmaline looked around for any sign of the family in the dining room, foyer, and parlor. Silence greeted her. But it was nearly four. Surely they would appear for tea momentarily. Still basking in the pleasure of the outing with the baby, Emmaline seated herself in the parlor and picked up the latest copy of The Ladies’ Home Journal.
When the telephone in the foyer rang, Emmaline merely turned another magazine page. Observation had proven that if Penard were in the house, he would answer the phone himself. Only if he were unavailable would one of the other servants pass through the family’s rooms for the task. Rarely was a family member moved to action by a jangling phone. Even in her own home, Emmaline seldom answered the telephone herself.
The telephone continued to ring. Emmaline flipped another unread page. Involuntarily she glanced through the arched parlor door and across the foyer, expecting to see the form of one of the staff momentarily. No one came, and the phone continued its insistent clatter. Finally, Emmaline tossed the magazine aside and stepped into the foyer. Still she saw no one. Still the phone jangled.
Tentatively, she picked up the pewter base, raised it to her face, and removed the earpiece.
“Banning residence. Miss Emmaline Brewster speaking.”
She listened carefully, her shoulders trembling.
A young female voice asked for Flora.
“No, I’m sorry, Mrs. Banning is not available to speak on the telephone. I would be happy to give her a message.”
“Yes, if you would be so kind,” the voice said. “This is her Cousin Louisa. I would very much like to speak to her about the baby she’s keeping.”
Emmaline forced even breaths.
“I’m sorry you’ve been troubled unnecessarily,” Emmaline said at last. “I’m afraid it’s all been an unfortunate misunderstanding, and the situation has been resolved.”
“I don’t understand,” Louisa said. “Do you mean the child is not available?”
“I believe that to be the case,” Emmaline said.
“Flora said nothing about this in her note. Are you sure?”
“I’m quite certain. Someone with an attachment to the child has come forward. It was entirely unforeseen, or I’m sure Flora would not have raised your hopes.”
“I see.”
Emmaline heard the catch in Louisa’s voice at the stunning announcement. She was stunned herself at the words she had spoken.
“Good-bye then,” Louisa said quietly.
“Good-bye, Louisa.”
Emmaline nearly dropped the telephone as she aimed the earpiece for its hook and set the apparatus down. She inhaled deeply and let her breath out in a long controlled silent wind.
Charlotte had been up to her elbows, scrubbing pots, when she realized no one was going to answer the telephone. The family had accepted a last-minute invitation to a private recital at the home of Marshall Field and his wife. Mr. Penard had gone out on a rare personal errand while the house was empty, and several of the staff were enjoying a half day off on Sunday afternoon. Charlotte had even managed to shoo off Archie and his persistent brown eyes excavating her soul. By the time Charlotte got her hands dried off and moved through the dining room to cautiously determine that she should in fact respond to the ringing, the jarring noise stopped.
She stood with her hands on the pocket doors between the dining room and the foyer, gazing at the back of Miss Emmaline Brewster.
And she heard what she said. Someone with an attachment to the child has come forward.
12
H e’s crying!
In the hall outside the nursery the next morning, Charlotte reminded herself that small children routinely cried, and while Henry was mild-mannered, he was still a baby not yet a year old. What perturbed her was that she heard no movement from within the room to tend to the cries. She had his midmorning warmed bottle on a small tray, which she balanced in one hand as she turned the knob and opened the nursery door.
“Sarah?” she called out.
The only response was increased wailing. Charlotte set the tray down on the nearest side table and moved into the small alcove where the crib was tucked. One of her baby’s legs protruded between the rails of the crib, wedging him in. The mottled red of his face made it clear he had been shrieking for some time.
“Sarah!” Charlotte called out, exasperated. She gently eased Henry’s leg between the rails, then picked him up and clutched him against her. Livid, she marched into the small room next door where Sarah slept, but it was empty. Henry had been left alone in the nursery suite, and there was no telling how long he had been screaming. Pounding blood echoed through Charlotte’s ears. Her instinct was to pull the baby’s quilt from the crib and swaddle him in it, but she did not see the quilt. What had Sarah done with her grandmother’s quilt?
Infuriated, Charlotte sat in an oak rocking chair and forced herself to calm down while she soothed her baby. Tucking his head under her chin as he always had, he seemed to settle. She stroked his reddened leg, assuring herself that no serious damage had been done. The gliding motion mollified them both.
Almost a year.
Almost a year since she had passed her twentieth birthday and a day later held her son in her arms for the first time.
Almost a year since she fled.
Almost a year since she arrived at the Banning house with her secret.
Almost a year since Lucy Banning secured a safe place for Charlotte to leave her son.
Almost a year, and what was going to happen now?
If she confessed that Henry was hers, even Lucy would not be able to manage events from an unknown location in France.
Maybe Archie was right about the long hours and low wages. Charlotte had little to show for almost a year of hard work in the Banning house—certainly not enough to look after Henry, and no place to take him where he would be safe. She had spent the year breathing her way through one day at a time, unable to think any further into the future. All that mattered was that Henry was safe for another day. And now her prospects were every bit as precarious as they had been a year ago. If she ended up in a workhouse as a consequence of neglecting to mention certain facts, she might never see Henry again.
But if she did not tell them Henry was hers, they would send him away.
Greenville. That was simply too close for comfort—she could not allow him to go to Greenville. Her own family was on a farm outside of town.
And him. He was there. No, Henry could not go to Greenville.
She had to find some way to keep him in Chicago.
And guard her secret.
She kissed his head. And then there was Miss Emmaline. She wanted him.
Emmaline laid the book down in her lap and leaned back in the chaise lounge in the anteroom to Lucy’s suite. She had been at the Bannings’ for two weeks, and so far she had been to two balls, five dinner parties, high tea at three different downtown restaurants, a symphony concert, an opera, and a private recital in the home of friends of Flora and Samuel.
She was weary. And she had yet to visit the world’s fair, ostensibly the reason for an extended stay in Chicago. Next week a widower acquainted with Violet was expecting to escort Miss Emmaline Brewster of New Hampshire to the World’s Columbian Exposition. She supposed there was no way to avoid going—it was the world’s fair, after all, and Violet would attend as well. The truth was, Emmaline did not want to go. Her yearnings had returned to the undulating landscape of her New Hampshire estate, and the vision of a giddy little b
oy tumbling in the grass and squealing at the sight of the new puppy. A little boy needed a puppy. Emmaline had decided that much already.
Emmaline knew just the room she would put him in. It faced the front of the house. Morning sun shimmered through the bank of windows and danced off the walls from spring to fall. She would have the walls covered in mint green wallpaper, and she would paint seascapes with her own brushes and hang them on the walls. Her father had left her plenty of money, removing the need to marry if she did not genuinely wish to. Now it would not matter if she ever married, because she would have him.
He would need a name.
She swung her feet to the floor, stood, and moved to the vanity table, where she tucked in stray hair and pinched some color into her cheeks. Nothing was stopping her from seeing him right now if she wanted to.
Charlotte looked up sharply when the nursery door creaked open.
“Sarah?”
“No, it’s me,” Lina the parlor maid answered. “Mr. Penard is looking for Sarah.”
Charlotte shrugged and gestured around the room with one arm. “As you can see, she’s not here. I came up with the baby’s bottle, and she was nowhere in sight.”
“Where is she?”
“I don’t know. The baby was screaming. Someone had to look after him, so I stayed.”
“Mr. Penard is going to be most displeased.”
“He should be.” Charlotte gently adjusted Henry in her arms. He was far from settled. “What can Sarah have been thinking?”
“That’s not the problem at the moment,” Lina said. “Miss Brewster is in the parlor, and she has asked to see the baby.”
Charlotte’s heart lurched to her throat. “But he’s upset and hungry . . . and Sarah is missing.”
Lina raised her eyebrows. “Someone will have to make him presentable. We can’t keep Miss Brewster waiting, can we?”
Dilemma of Charlotte Farrow, The Page 9