7 

Both sleeves rolled up, Charlotte plunged an arm into the bucket of soapy water, pulled out the rag, and slapped it against the oak slats of the floor once again. Controlled circular movements while on her knees had begun to reveal the sheen hidden beneath years of disuse. Already she had swept the rooms twice to excavate the true wood surface that could be swabbed to a shine, rather than merely creating mud by adding water to dust. Her knees bore witness that she had scrubbed nearly half the floor.

Charlotte had only seen behind the door to these rooms one other time in her months in the Banning house. During Miss Lucy’s engagement to Will Edwards, a few gifts of small furniture had been stored temporarily in this room, which was situated on an oddly placed half level with access to both the family bedrooms and the servants’ staircase. Charlotte had heard the story then of the room’s history. Richard, the youngest of the four Banning children, had left the nursery years ago, and the longtime nanny who had served the family since Oliver’s birth had retired. In the intervening time, many of the items that had furnished the rooms had been stored in the attic, but a few of the larger pieces were still in the room.

Leaning back on her heels, Charlotte took stock. The wallpaper featured twisted vines of roses and had responded well to a damp rag. She had not yet removed the cloths draping the heavy shelves or dresser and mirror—pieces that undoubtedly had been too cumbersome to move to the attic—but she had peeked beneath them to admire the luster and craftsmanship of the furnishings. A quick polish was all they would need. The large room was the day nursery—or so Charlotte had been told—where the children spent their waking hours. She had deduced from the stacks of crates and trunks in the attic that the wide mahogany shelves behind brass-trimmed doors once had been stocked to overflowing with books, toys, and dolls. Lucy had preserved a few of her favorite dolls, with china heads and stuffed calico bodies, in her adult bedroom, along with the taffeta and silk dresses that fit them perfectly. Charlotte could easily imagine a broad shelf laden with whatever had made Lucy happy as a child, along with the carved train cars and tin soldiers her brothers must have played with.

Charlotte thought of the simple wooden spoon she had handed her little boy on the afternoon he arrived at the Banning house, probably the best plaything he had ever had. At Mrs. Given’s house, he used to like a ball made out of strip rags wound tightly together, and pounding a tin cup against the floor was a favorite pastime. Even as she imagined him lying on the pallet in Sarah’s room with his quilt—her quilt—Charlotte resisted the urge to dash to the servants’ quarters and look in on her sleeping son, who was down for a late morning nap. Sarah had made quite the production out of saying how closely she was going to watch him, though Charlotte was sure Sarah was merely using the time for a nap herself.

At least Sarah had stopped calling Henry an “it.” Most of the time.

No one called Henry anything but “the baby” or “the child” or “him.” Charlotte did not dare speak his name aloud. She knew he would turn toward the familiar sound if she did and meet her eyes in recognition. Even if they were alone, she tried not to call him anything in particular. She could not risk that anyone might hear.

Charlotte sloshed more water on the floor. Sarah was smug about Charlotte’s having been given the task to scour the nursery rooms, but the truth was Charlotte was grateful to be doing something for her son.

Behind the large dayroom were two small bedrooms. One, hardly more than an alcove, would be Henry’s, and Sarah would occupy the other, which was not much larger than the servant rooms on the third floor. For the moment, Henry was safe and was likely to be with the Bannings for a few weeks. But then what?

It was the best thing for Henry, she was sure of it. Look where he was. Soon he would sleep peacefully in the Banning nursery, of all places, while people were trying to sort out what was best for him. And Charlotte could be nearby and see him every day, not just Thursdays and every other Sunday afternoon. She felt like Moses’s mother, hired to take care of her own child. Her grandmother had loved that Bible story and frequently offered it as evidence that God always had a plan.

Clattering steps in the hall pulled Charlotte’s gaze toward the sound. Archie and Karl carried two trunks between them, one stacked on top of the other.

“Both of these trunks are linens,” Archie said. “Where do you want them?”

“Out of the way over there until I finish the floor.” Charlotte pointed to a corner she had already scrubbed. “Did you see the high chair and the crib?”

“Both seem to be in working order. We’ll bring them down next.”

Karl brushed dust off his hands. “There’s a fine-looking rocking horse up there—one of the big ones with a red mane and a leather saddle.”

“Oh!” Charlotte said. “Don’t you think he’s small for a rocking horse?”

“He looks like a strapping boy to me,” Karl responded, “and he’s only going to get bigger. There’s no harm in bringing it down, is there?”

“No, I suppose not.” Charlotte was nervous at the thought of Sarah Cummings in charge of her baby on a rocking horse. “Thank you for the help. I don’t expect either of you planned to spend your day crawling around an attic. You’re to have the afternoon off, aren’t you, Karl?”

The under-coachman nodded. “The Midway Plaisance is wooing me. I’m going up on the wheel today.”

“Go on upstairs and sort out what to bring down next.” Archie nudged Karl back toward the door. “I’ll be there in a moment.”

Karl left, and Archie squatted on the floor beside Charlotte. His closeness unnerved her.

“You don’t have to bring everything.” Charlotte swirled water in a direction that would demand she move away from Archie. “It’s just one child, and he may not be here long.” She could barely stand to say that aloud.

“Still,” Archie said, “Sarah will be staying in these rooms, and she’ll need a bed as well, and a table for her own meals.”

“You’re right, of course.” Charlotte leaned into the rag again. “If you see a carpet, bring that as well.”

“Charlotte,” Archie said, “I was hoping you would agree to come out with me on your next Sunday half day. I can trade the afternoon with Karl and get a few hours myself.”

Archie was nothing if not persistent. Charlotte scrubbed even harder. “I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t explain it.” She knew if she looked at him, even for a second, his shining eyes would grip her. Charlotte could not risk glimpsing Archie’s eyes, much less spending her time off with him.

“I wish you’d try.”

She merely shook her head and sloshed more water. Finally he stood up and left the room.

Charlotte paused, staring into the hallway and listening to his steps on the stairs. Archie Shepard was a good man. He did not deserve to get entangled with this. And she could not take that risk.

Charlotte scrubbed faster and harder. With the two bedrooms to do and furniture to consider, she could not spend all day on this floor. If these rooms were going to be her son’s world, they would be the best she could make them.

Henry’s world.

As Charlotte moved her bucket to the final quadrant of the room, she allowed herself to picture Henry here, in a high chair or in the crib or playing on a carpet.

His bright smile on the rocking horse—when he was bigger.

The certain meals.

The toys that would amuse him.

A safe bed.

A good school in a few years.

Security.

Choices he could make for himself.

Her throat locked with the uncertainty that she could ever give her son that kind of a childhood.

But Mrs. Banning’s cousin could. She might not be as wealthy as the Bannings, but Charlotte had no doubt she was well positioned. And she wanted a child.

Maybe Charlotte’s child.

Charlotte scrubbed furiously.