The Dilemma of Charlotte Farrow (21 page)

“I don't understand where Emmaline is,” Flora Banning mused as Archie ladled creamy mushroom soup into the gold-rimmed china bowl in front of her. “I was not aware of any
obligations she had this evening. Charlotte, are you sure she is not dawdling in the nursery?”

“No, Mrs. Banning. She's not in the nursery.” Charlotte had not thought her heart could pound any faster, but it did.

“When is the last time any of the staff saw her?”

“We took the baby for his airing this afternoon as usual, ma'am.”

“And she hasn't called for you since then?”

“No, ma'am. I have not heard from her.” Every word Charlotte spoke was truth.

“What if she has become ill?” Flora asked. “Someone should check on her. I'll do it myself.” She pushed her own chair back from the table.

“Eat your dinner, Flora,” Samuel urged. “Emmaline is a grown woman, not a child for you to look after.”

“But this is most unlike her. I won't be satisfied unless I check on her.”

Archie finished serving the soup to Samuel, Leo, and Richard and now stood stiffly in his white formal wear beside Charlotte at the sideboard. Penard stood at the butler's pantry door as Flora swept out of the dining room, into the foyer, and up the marble stairs. The rest of the family spooned their soup and had little to say. Charlotte's knees quaked under her black dress and starched white apron. She had hoped for more time. Samuel signaled he was finished with his soup, and his sons soon followed. Charlotte stepped forward to remove the dishes as Mr. Penard carried in the trout. He set it on the sideboard to wait for the mistress of the house.

Flora Banning's skirt swished in warning of her rapid step. She paused between the pocket doors that separated the foyer
from the dining room. With the flip of a switch, the electric lights overwhelmed the candles on the table.

“She gone,” Flora announced.

“What do you mean, gone?” Samuel blinked mildly in the sudden brightness. “Perhaps she had a dinner invitation?”

“When I did not find her in Lucy's suite, I decided to check the nursery.”

“You went to the nursery?” Leo asked. “You haven't been in the nursery since Richard outgrew it.”

“It's still my nursery,” Flora said adamantly, “and I see no reason not to inspect it if I choose to.”

“Penard,” Samuel said, “serve the fish, please.”

“How can you eat at a moment like this?” Flora's face flushed in a mix of confusion and impatience. “Sarah was sitting in the day nursery. She told me the child was already asleep for the night, but I asked to see him.”

The vise tightened on Charlotte's stomach.

“Why would you wake a sleeping baby just to look at him?” Samuel asked, signaling Penard once again.

“Samuel, for a lawyer who has argued before the Supreme Court of the State of Illinois, you're not following very well.”

“Then perhaps you'd better just state your point plainly, Flora.”

“Sarah went to get the child, and he was not there.”

Samuel looked up at last. “Not there?”

“It's clear as day, Samuel. Emmaline has taken the child.”

Penard's eyes flashed at Charlotte.

“What about the quilt?” Leo asked. “The baby had a quilt when he arrived.”

“Sarah said it was gone,” Flora answered.

Leo's shoulders sagged. “Then I have to agree with you, Mother. The child is gone.”

Samuel cleared his throat. “Charlotte, you indicated you had aired the baby with Emmaline as usual this afternoon.”

“Yes, sir,” she whispered.

“Did she indicate to you her intentions in any way?”

“No, sir.” Charlotte was the one full of intentions, and she was aware of each one.

“It was my understanding that you were caring for the child now.”

“Yes, sir.” Charlotte heard the quiver in her own voice.

“Then how is it that he seems to have disappeared?”

“Samuel!” Flora said. “For goodness sake, stop interrogating the poor girl. And don't blame Sarah either. They are not responsible. Everyone thought the baby was asleep in his crib, but Emmaline has taken him. Most of her things are untouched, but her handbag and cape are missing.”

“Father has a point,” Leo said. “Could Emmaline really have done this without help?”

“You underestimate her determination,” Flora said. “Emmaline has been freely coming and going from the nursery. She would only have to walk out the front door with a sleeping baby and find a cab. She could be on a train to Boston within minutes of leaving Prairie Avenue.”

Charlotte hoped that was exactly what had happened.

Samuel stiffly straightened his lapels but said nothing.

“Louisa is due to arrive on Tuesday,” Flora said. “What am I supposed to tell her?”

 22 

T
he sharp rap on her bedroom door woke Charlotte, but she did not move. She could not.

“Charlotte!” Mrs. Fletcher called from the hallway.

Charlotte intended to respond, but her lungs would not draw sufficient breath.

The rap became urgent. “Charlotte, answer me!”

Charlotte managed to turn her head toward the door, her eyes mere slits.

“I'm coming in,” Mrs. Fletcher announced. As the door opened, she continued, “Do you have any idea what time it is? You should have heated the griddle thirty minutes ago.”

Can't you see my heart is broken?
The words clanged in Charlotte's head mercilessly, ricocheting from one side of her skull to the other.

“I'm sorry.”

“Are you ill?” Mrs. Fletcher pressed.

Charlotte thought perhaps she had moved her head a quarter of an inch. She hoped it looked like a nod.

The steps required to cross the room were few. Mrs. Fletcher laid her hand on Charlotte's forehead. “No fever. But I grant that you look ghostly.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Charlotte's whisper was nearly mute.

“It's to your credit that you have only missed breakfast once before, but even Penard seems to have forgotten about that.”

I never gave away my son before.

“I suppose I'll have to do without you in the kitchen today,” Mrs. Fletcher said in resignation. “Mr. Penard will have to ask Lina to help serve. You may have the day in bed, but if I discover you are lollygagging, you will regret it.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Do you require a doctor?”

Charlotte closed her eyes and shook her head slightly.

“I'll send the girl up to check on you later and see if you need anything.”

“Thank you.”

At last the cook left.

Charlotte had sobbed half the night, her fist stuffed in her mouth to stifle her lament. That she had done what she believed best for Henry did not mitigate the wrench of every conscious thought, the ripping that left her lying on her narrow bed unable to speak, much less stumble down to the kitchen to flip griddle cakes. She had nothing left of him. She had never even written his name in the family tree in the front of her grandmother's Bible for fear it would prove his existence to the wrong person.

She turned and gazed at the Bible sitting on the table next to the bed, where she had placed it months ago in a moment of belief that it was possible to find solace in its words once again.

Charlotte had once loved that Bible. As soon as she could hold it and walk at the same time, she had carried it on Sunday mornings into the white clapboard church her grandparents
had helped to build. “Remember, Charlotte, God is always with us,” her grandmother used to say.

Where is he now?
Charlotte wanted to know.

Her own parents rarely went to church, but Charlotte had loved the singing and the reading and the shared meals of the church that brought together farm families from miles around. As she grew, however, she heard a tone in the preacher's words that made her feel as if she had been a bad girl even though she knew she hadn't and her grandmother knew she hadn't. Charlotte tried to keep going after her grandmother died, because not going would surely make her more naughty. But by then the scolding became shouting condemnation in every sermon. Soon Charlotte no longer resisted her parents' expectations that she perform her morning chores on Sunday just like any other day.

What was the point?

Charlotte closed her eyes again, seeking the oblivion of sleep.

In the tack room of the coach house, Archie Shepard wiped dry the bits and reins he had used that day, then hung them on the wall. He was fairly certain the Bannings were in for the evening now. Their usual Sunday morning outing to Second Presbyterian Church had been followed by dinner at the home of the Meekers on Calumet Avenue, an outing that relieved the kitchen staff of preparing luncheon and gave most of the household staff several hours of welcome respite. Because it was only five blocks away, Archie had dropped the family at the Meekers' and returned to the coach house to await word from Penard that Samuel Banning had telephoned and was ready to be picked up. The family was home now. All that
remained of his workday was to serve the soup at the evening meal, which he only continued to do so he could see Charlotte.

He wondered now if it would be better not to see Charlotte in the dining room anymore. He didn't know what to say. Perhaps it was time to give up the pretense of being footman as well as coachman.

Karl came through the door that separated the carriages from the stables.

“Have the horses got enough hay?” Archie asked.

Karl nodded. “I threw it down myself not an hour ago.”

“Good. The carriage is polished. We should be able to put our feet up for a few minutes.”

“You missed the servants' lunch,” Karl observed.

“I was busy transporting the family to theirs.”

“Mrs. Fletcher kept a plate for you.”

Archie sat in a wicker chair and pulled a stool over for his feet. “I'll wait for supper.”

“If I didn't know better,” Karl said, “I'd say you're avoiding the kitchen.”

“Why would I do that?”

“You tell me. I suspect it has something to do with that maid you never take your eyes off of.”

“Mind your own business, Karl.”

“If you paid any attention, you would know she hasn't been out of bed for almost two days.”

“I pay enough attention to know that,” Archie snapped. Charlotte had missed every meal since Friday's supper. While he hated the thought that she might be ill, he had been relieved not to have to face her. She had not even given him a chance to help, to see if there might be a solution to keep both Charlotte and Henry safe.

“Mrs. Fletcher is losing patience,” Karl said. “Mr. Penard too. They can't trust the new girl the way they trust Charlotte.”

If only Charlotte could trust someone. Anyone.

“I suppose whatever's ailing her will pass soon enough,” Karl said. “For her own good, she'd better make it to breakfast tomorrow.”

Sarah sat next to the kitchen window, where the best light was. The needle between her slender fingers was one of the smallest she had ever seen, but its slight touch was required for the satin fabric she was mending. Mrs. Banning had asked for someone to repair the fraying seam behind the fringe on the gold pillow that adorned the settee in the parlor. Sarah smiled as she remembered the shocked look on Mrs. Fletcher's face when she volunteered to do the stitching. Sarah was skilled with a needle, and even Mrs. Fletcher would have to admit it.

Sarah bent over the fabric, making tiny stitches along the seam and pulling them snug but not tight to the point of stress. The thread was a good color match. The miniscule stitches were visible only on close inspection. She glanced at the clock, aware that soon Mrs. Fletcher would appear to put the roast in the oven and dinner preparations would be underway. What Sarah wanted to know was whether Charlotte was going to get out of bed and come down to help cook and serve.

Sarah was increasingly convinced of a link between Charlotte's supposed illness and Emmaline Brewster's departure with the child. She just was not sure what the connection was. The letter had something to do with it. That was the only thing that made sense. Five days had passed since Sarah had
torn open the envelope and read the letter for herself. In fact, she had read it so many times she had it memorized—and she still did not understand it.

Dear Charlotte,

It seems my family is mired in a mystery. Leo's telegram gave only the sketchiest details, but I found myself wondering what your impression is of the situation. I genuinely hope you are not caught in the middle somehow, but if you are, do send me a note at the hotel in Paris.

When I get home, I'll have so much to tell you. I hope to find you well in every way. Don't lose your joy.

Lucy

So far, however, no matter how many times Sarah repeated the words of the letter in her head, she did not understand them. The mystery had to be the baby who showed up. Everyone under the Banning roof knew that Leo had written to his sister about it. But why would Miss Lucy care what Charlotte thought about the situation? Why would she think Charlotte might be caught in the middle? In the middle of what? What did she mean by “Don't lose your joy”?

And why was Lucy Banning Edwards writing to a kitchen maid in the first place?

Just as Sarah expected, Mrs. Fletcher clomped down the back stairs.

“I'm glad you're here, Sarah,” the cook said. “I was going over the dinner menu in my head and realized I don't have enough barley. I'm sure the cook at the Glessners' would spare us some. I want you to go over and ask.”

“Two more stitches,” Sarah murmured.

Mrs. Fletcher approached and peered over Sarah's shoulder. “You're doing nice work,” she admitted. “I'm not sure I could have done better myself.”

Sarah pulled the final stitch snug. At least Mrs. Fletcher could see the plain truth under her nose.

Mrs. Fletcher took the pillow from Sarah's lap. “I'll give it to Mr. Penard to return to the parlor. You go fetch the barley. Four cups should be sufficient.”

Wrapped in a light cloak, Sarah sauntered up the street to Eighteenth, then crossed and followed the side of the house to the female servants' entrance. A few minutes later, she had more than enough barley in the ceramic bowl she carried from the Glessners'.

Was that Archie she saw at the corner? He had not been there a few minutes earlier. And who was the man he was talking to? Sarah had never seen him before, and he was not dressed as if he were in service in the neighborhood. Even in the dimness of late afternoon light, Sarah could see the man's black suit was ill-fitting and overly worn in the back, but it was definitely not the garb of a servant. He gestured broadly as he spoke, a bundle of papers in one hand.

Sarah made her way back to the Banning kitchen and delivered the barley. Mrs. Fletcher was at work at the stove, and Mr. Penard sat at the table with paper and pen. Sarah supposed he was making one of his infernal lists.