Dilemma of Charlotte Farrow, The Page 7

  “Nothing during the night?” Mrs. Banning asked.

  “No, ma’am. Feeding a child during the night is not advised.”

  “I’m sure you saw a lot of babies at St. Andrew’s. Is there anything about the disposition of this baby that concerns you in comparison?”

  “No, ma’am. Children who are well managed will be little disturbance.” Sarah had no doubt she was managing this child just fine.

  Mrs. Banning looked at her sister. “Then perhaps it is time to write to Cousin Louisa and invite her to visit Chicago and meet this child. I’m sure Lucy would be pleased if we found an agreeable solution before she returns from Europe.”

  Sarah’s thoughts leapt out of the room. If Mrs. Banning’s Cousin Louisa adopted this brat, she would need a nanny. If she managed things properly the next few weeks, she might never scrub a vegetable again.

  Emmaline Brewster’s blue eyes glowed. The child was enchanting! Cousin Louisa was young and married. She had plenty of time to find happiness with a family. At age thirty-three, Emmaline’s options had narrowed considerably. She was here. Louisa was not. She might never know the love of a man, but this child could make her long wait for happiness worthwhile. This was meant to be.

  She watched as the girl picked him up and carried him from the room, followed by the butler’s soft footsteps. The baby was truly captivating. His eyes and complexion even favored hers. Already she wanted to see him again.

  9

  W hat’s for supper?”

  When Charlotte turned and grimaced, Archie answered with a grin. He would look at that face every chance he got, grimace or not.

  “My sister and I used to nag my ma on a daily basis about what was for supper,” Archie said. “The answer was always the same: ‘food—and you’ll eat it and be grateful.’”

  “Food—and you’ll eat it and be grateful,” Charlotte echoed lightly. She stood at a butcher block heaped with chopped onion, turnips, and beets and dropped a knife through the end of a thick bundle of celery. On the stove were two large pots of water on the brink of boiling.

  Archie shuffled toward the stove, brushing Charlotte’s shoulder in the process. “Perhaps I’ll have to decipher for myself.”

  Charlotte blew out her breath and gestured to the preparations spread around the kitchen. “Turnip soup with soda muffins, baked halibut, broiled lamb kidneys, onion custard, baked beets, tropical Waldorf salad, and apple snowballs.”

  Archie chuckled. “I know how much you like making apple snowballs.”

  “They do seem rather a lot of work, if you ask me,” Charlotte said. “Coring them, stuffing the centers, rolling them in rice, wrapping in cloths, boiling, the extra butter and sugar—all so it will look like a snowball in summer. Why not just eat a fresh apple and appreciate it for what it is?”

  “My ma would have liked you.” Archie saw her face soften as she glanced at him out of the side of her eye. “Will the staff enjoy the same menu?”

  “Pot roast instead of kidneys, no onion custard, plain old baked apples.”

  “Good. I like pot roast and plain old baked apples.” Archie interrupted her chopping motion to snatch a walnut meant for the salad. Charlotte slapped his hand, which was what he hoped for. He caught her fingers and squeezed quickly. Charlotte did not lift her eyes, but he was close enough to hear her breathe, and he was sure the rhythm had changed. In just a few seconds Charlotte did what he expected and pulled her hand away. She dragged the back of her knife across the butcher block to corral the chopped celery.

  “Is Miss Brewster making special menu requests?” Archie moved away from Charlotte.

  “Not so far, but Mrs. Banning does seem determined to impress her. Mrs. Fletcher is out right now putting in orders all over town for next week’s deliveries as if every day were Christmas dinner. Every night has a different list of guests.”

  “Which leaves you with all the work for Saturday dinner.”

  Charlotte glanced at the clock. “And any moment now Miss Emmaline is going to call me to help her get out of the gown she wore this afternoon. Heaven forbid she come down to dinner in the same dress. We could really use another pair of hands in the kitchen.”

  “That was supposed to be Sarah,” Archie said. “I know someone has to take care of the baby, but I’m sorry you have to bear the brunt of the work because she’s not down here.”

  “There’s nothing to be done about it.”

  “I saw her out with the baby buggy not long ago, walking up and down the avenue. The fresh air seems good for the baby. He looked happy.”

  “I doubt that’s what Sarah has on her mind,” Charlotte murmured.

  “One of the Pullmans’ under-coachmen seemed to be paying quite a bit of attention to her.”

  “That would be Kenny. Their maids say she doesn’t want anything to do with him.”

  “That much was clear.” Archie chuckled. “But he was making a noble effort.” He paused to pull a chair away from the table. “You look exhausted. Are you sure you can’t take ten minutes to sit down?”

  Charlotte glanced at the chair, then looked at Archie. “My feet are awfully achy. Maybe five.”

  Archie held the chair for her until she was seated. She said five minutes, but he knew it would be more like three. He sat next to her, removing his blue and yellow jacket with the brass buttons and tossing a pamphlet on the table in one smooth motion. “The beginning of September is too warm for these woolen uniforms.”

  Charlotte reached for the pamphlet. “What are you doing with this?”

  He shrugged. “It’s just a pamphlet. People are handing them out all around town.”

  “I know what it is, and I know who is handing them out. If Mr. Penard finds this, he’ll be fit to be tied.” Charlotte folded the pamphlet and pressed a crease across it. “Anarchist propaganda.”

  Archie was surprised to hear such a phrase out of Charlotte’s gentle mouth. “That’s a rather extreme position.”

  “That’s what Mr. Penard calls it.” Charlotte laid the pamphlet on her lap, half out of sight. “And ever since June when the governor pardoned the men convicted of the Haymarket riot, he has nothing kind to say about the people who stir up the workers.”

  “Those men were railroaded into prison. No one ever had any proof they threw that bomb into the crowd or intended to hurt anyone.”

  “I don’t think that matters,” Charlotte said. “The point is, Mr. Penard thinks of them as rabble-rousers and malcontents, and the people who hand out these pamphlets are the same lot.”

  “These people have a point, Charlotte. We work very long days for a pitiful wage. All they’re suggesting is a measure of justice.”

  “But an eight-hour workday? That would be like having a half day off every day. Is that realistic?”

  “It’s certainly humane,” Archie said. “The families of Prairie Avenue might have to hire more people and not run them half as ragged.”

  Charlotte turned to face him square on. “Are you unhappy being in service?”

  Archie soaked up her eyes. For once she was really looking at him, her blue-gray eyes shrouded in secrets as they always were. “Unhappy? Not exactly. The Bannings are probably more reasonable than many households. But that doesn’t mean I expect to be a footman or a coachman my entire life.”

  “A butler, then? You can work your way up, I’m sure.”

  “There must be something else.” He shook his head. “Look at you, for instance. Up before dawn to work on meals, up and down stairs all day to the nursery, and now every evening you’re waiting up half the night for a woman who needs help unbuttoning her dress. In the middle of all that, you’re afraid to take ten minutes off your feet.”

  Charlotte sighed heavily as Archie continued.

  “All this for a few hours off on Thursday and every other Sunday afternoon—if the family doesn’t plan something that requires your presence, which they do without giving it a second thought. We’re supposed to be grateful for the pittance they pay us.�
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  “But we have a secure place to live and enough to eat—at a time when jobs are hard to find. Mr. Banning says we’re in an economic depression.”

  “A place to live is not a life,” Archie countered. “The butler is the only one of us who is even allowed to be married.”

  “But Mr. Penard’s not married, and he works as hard as we do.”

  “He could be, though. And his rooms are a far cry more comfortable than mine or yours—enough for a family. If we were to marry . . . I mean . . . one of us . . . well, we’d have to leave our positions. We’re held hostage.”

  Charlotte fingered the pamphlet. “Still, it’s dangerous to have this literature in the house. Mr. Penard will have your head.” She stood up, smoothed her work apron, and pressed the pamphlet against Archie’s chest with her flat palm. “I would hate to see that happen.”

  Archie covered her hand with his against his beating heart. “Charlotte, if I were to leave service, I would want to take you with me.”

  Her eyes held a story. If only he could sort out what it was.

  “It sounds to me as if you and Sarah are the ones who want out of service,” she finally said.

  “I don’t want Sarah,” he said sharply. “I want you.”

  She met his eyes for the longest she ever had. Why did she have such a wall around herself?

  The back door opened, and Sarah bustled through with the baby.

  Charlotte’s abrupt movement away from Archie was not unnoticed by Sarah, who entered the kitchen with a drowsy baby in her arms. The coachman stuffed something in his pocket as he reached for his uniform jacket.

  “I’ve left the buggy outside,” she said. “You may tell Karl to put it away.”

  “Karl knows what to do when you come back from airing the baby.” Archie buttoned his jacket. “I’m sure he’ll be along without a reminder.”

  “The baby looks sleepy.” Charlotte resumed her chopping at the butcher block but glanced at the child.

  “The sun was bright, and he didn’t have his hat,” Sarah said. That maid had better not blame her for the warm sun.

  “Is he hungry?”

  Sarah sighed. “I don’t know. But I’d like tea.”

  Archie stepped over to Sarah and took the baby from her. “So make yourself some tea.”

  “But Charlotte is right here.”

  “Charlotte is already filling in for Mrs. Fletcher, keeping up with her own work, and listening for Miss Brewster’s call. Make your own tea.”

  Sarah stomped across the kitchen and snatched the kettle off the stove.

  “He’s perspiring.” Archie gently wiped the baby’s face with his hand.

  “I told you, the sun was overly bright.” Sarah took a cup down from a shelf and set it on a saucer.

  “Did you at least put up the hood of the buggy?” Archie asked. “His skin is quite fair, you know.”

  “I didn’t want to cut off the air. What’s the point of airing a baby if you do that?”

  She turned her head to meet his eye, but he was looking at Charlotte. What he saw in the maid, Sarah couldn’t fathom.

  “He needs something to drink,” Archie said. “Charlotte, some milk!”

  Charlotte panicked. Was Henry not simply sun-drenched and ready for his nap? Dropping her knife, she snatched a bottle from the counter and filled it with a few ounces of the milk she had mixed and sweetened for the baby’s daily use. Screwing on a nipple, she moved toward Archie.

  “He doesn’t take his milk cold.” Sarah moved to the sink to fill the kettle.

  Charlotte ignored her and offered the bottle. The baby reached with a hand to help guide it to his mouth and sucked eagerly. Sarah rolled her eyes.

  “You let him get too hot and thirsty,” Archie said to Sarah. “Next time, use the buggy hood.”

  “I’ll thank you not to pretend to know anything about children!” Sarah posed with her arms crossed and her weight on one foot. “Coddling them teaches poor habits.”

  “And neglecting them? What does that teach them?”

  Charlotte could hardly believe what she was seeing—Archie standing up for her son. Except he did not even know he held her son in his arms. He simply did it because it was the right thing to do. She couldn’t imagine Henry’s own father ever holding him this way. Charlotte hardly knew how to respond to Archie’s gentleness toward a stranger’s nameless child.

  “Perhaps we should sponge him off,” Archie suggested.

  Sarah yanked the child out of Archie’s arms. “I’m quite capable of doing that.”

  Charlotte barely caught the bottle headed for a collision with the floor. Calmly, she handed it to Sarah. “When I get a chance, I’ll bring you some tea and biscuits.”

  Sarah spun and left the room.

  “Charlotte,” Archie said, “why did you offer to bring her tea? She’s—”

  Charlotte cut him off. “She’s taking care of a baby. I’m concerned for the child.”

  Archie put a hand on her shoulder. “I know I suggested a couple of days ago that perhaps you were getting too close to things. But I can see now how hard it is to watch her neglect an innocent child for her own convenience.”

  “She can’t seem to control her tongue, but she is keeping a strict routine. That’s good for the baby.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Besides, Mrs. Edwards wants Sarah to stay on until she returns in January.”

  “You don’t think Mrs. Edwards wants to take Sarah on at her home, do you?”

  “She hasn’t mentioned it.” The kettle Sarah had put on the stove whistled, and Charlotte moved it off the heat.

  “Perhaps it really would be the best thing for him if Mrs. Banning’s cousin adopts the baby,” Archie said.

  Charlotte drew a jagged breath and turned away abruptly. “I have to finish chopping everything. Mrs. Fletcher will be back any moment.”

  The annunciator button rang. Charlotte felt Archie’s gaze follow her movements even as he answered it and had a brief conversation.

  He replaced the earpiece and said, “Miss Emmaline requires your assistance.”

  Charlotte wiped her hands on her work apron. “I’ll have to go up to change my apron first.”

  “I don’t for a minute believe that the men Leo is bringing home for dinner are really his friends.” Emmaline Brewster looked in the mirror at her young ladies’ maid as she prepared for bed hours later. “Have you ever seen Mr. Talon here for dinner before?”

  “No, miss.” Charlotte pulled the brush through Miss Emmaline’s hair, knowing she would run into knots. She always did. The coppery mane was predictably stubborn. Charlotte had learned that she could tug fairly hard before Miss Emmaline would protest.

  “He’s some associate of Leo’s from the university, but if you ask me, they did not seem to know each other very well. And he’s so much older than Leo. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn he was at least forty.”

  Charlotte merely shrugged and smiled briefly into the mirror, not knowing what to say.

  “When I was your age,” Emmaline said, “I suppose I didn’t mind so much being paraded around before the eligible bachelors. Everyone expected I would meet someone and marry.” She paused to sigh heavily. “But at my age, it seems a pitiful endeavor. What do I need a husband for, anyway? My father left me a generous trust.”

  “I’m sure I couldn’t say, miss.”

  Emmaline interrupted the brushing to turn around and look Charlotte in the face. “Have you ever thought about what it would be like to have a child?”

  “Yes, miss.” Charlotte set the brush down, sensing Miss Emmaline would not sit still much longer. If Miss Emmaline insisted on talking about children, Charlotte would feel like squirming herself.

  “I suppose that’s something all women wonder about,” Emmaline murmured. “But I’m starting to think it’s only a dream. With no husband at my age . . .”

  “I thought perhaps the green dress for tomorrow.” Charlotte steered the conversation
toward something she could manage without emotion. “If I may say so, miss, it flatters your complexion when you go out calling.”

  “Flora makes sure I reciprocate promptly whenever I have a visitor.” Emmaline sighed. “But I’m losing interest. Yes, I suppose the green will do for the morning at least.” Emmaline stood up and moved to the chaise lounge. “You’re very pretty, you know. I’m sure you could have a husband if you wanted one, and a baby soon enough.”

  Charlotte blanched. “I’m only a maid, miss.”

  “A maid is still a woman.”

  10

  T he parlor was pleasant enough, in Emmaline Brewster’s opinion. Charming small art pieces and illustrated books created interest around the room, and a perfectly pitched grand piano beckoned anyone who would like to play. However, Emmaline thought Flora might think about adding more tolerable wing chairs. She was getting a little weary of always sitting on the slightly overstuffed settee because the other chairs looked less appealing.

  After more than a week under the Banning roof, Emmaline was settling in well. Lucy’s suite had every amenity she could imagine needing for the next few weeks, and the ladies’ maid seemed to be competent and efficient with laying out gowns and suggesting accessories. Emmaline had first arrived in Chicago just days before Lucy’s wedding in mid-June, and at the time she had stayed with Violet. The Banning house had seemed in uproar with the hastily planned wedding. After a scant two months of engagement, Lucy had married Will Edwards on a Friday morning in the presence of barely fifty witnesses at Second Presbyterian Church. The affair was hardly the society wedding her parents must have envisaged for their only daughter.

  Still, Lucy had a wedding and she was only twenty-two. Emmaline was thirty-three years old—actually closer to thirty-four—and well aware that her prospects for marriage had diminished rapidly long ago. The truth was, she hardly thought of a husband anymore, but every glimpse of a friend’s child opened up the gaping hole in her own life. She had never expected true love, but she had hoped that a dutiful marriage would lead to motherhood.