3 

Charlotte could not resist a moment longer. She threw off the sheet, clammy with humidity, and swung her feet over the side of the bed. Moonlight was sufficient to guide her across the narrow room and into the hall, bringing Sarah’s closed door into view. Charlotte put her hands on either side of the door frame and pressed her ear against Sarah’s door.

She heard nothing. With a sigh, she considered her options. She had not allowed herself to fall asleep for a single moment, lest her baby cry out in the night and be ignored. Not since he was five weeks old had Charlotte been part of her son’s nocturnal habits. She could only comfort herself with Mrs. Given’s repeated reports that he had begun sleeping through the night at five months and now almost never woke before daylight broke. But would that hold true in a strange setting—on a pallet on the floor when he was used to a proper crib?

Charlotte moved one hand to the doorknob and twisted it slowly, knowing the wood swollen with summer heat and dampness would likely stick. A glance confirmed Sarah had not reacted to the slight pop. Charlotte gazed at her son sleeping on his back, sucking his left thumb and clenching the corner of his quilt with his right fist. She knew the corner. Her grandmother had claimed the blue calico of the corner was her favorite in the mosaic of color. Henry liked to grasp the thickness of the seam in that spot.

He was fine. Lest Sarah waken and stir up a ruckus, Charlotte withdrew, closing the door behind her.

In her own room, Charlotte opened the top drawer of her narrow dresser and removed the velvet bag Lucy had given her months ago. When Charlotte acquired the bag, she had a single Christmas coin to put in it. Now it held assorted coins, but not of much value. She dumped them into her hand, knowing as she did so that they were far from sufficient. Time was of the essence. She needed to collect her August wages before anyone found out the truth about the baby. If she did not have to hold back anything for Mrs. Given, she could add more to the pile than usual.

The entire farmhouse Charlotte had grown up in, cobbled together over several generations, was not much bigger than a few third floor servants’ rooms, and it was a lifetime away from Prairie Avenue.

Henry’s lifetime.

Charlotte’s parents and three younger brothers lived in a farmhouse outside Greenville that had been in the family since before the Civil War. Despite the town’s proximity to St. Louis, Charlotte had never actually visited the city, arriving instead in Chicago, three hundred miles away, with a newborn in her arms.

Her own parents had never seen Henry. His birth had been quick and much easier than she had been given to believe a first birth would be. Born several weeks early, he was on the small side. Mercifully, his father was away from home on a run to check his stills and to deliver bootleg to waiting customers. Feeling magnanimous, he had arranged for a girl even younger than Charlotte’s twenty years to come in for a few hours each day and do the heavy work around the house for the cumbersome weeks of late pregnancy. Charlotte had known from her first look at the girl that she would be useless in a crisis, and the girl had lived up to the assessment. When Charlotte’s water broke and labor began in earnest, she had to explain every little thing to be done.

Henry was suckling at Charlotte’s breast when the girl said good night. Charlotte was not sorry to see her go. She had a limited number of hours before the girl would be back at noon the next day. As soon as she had gone, Charlotte got out of the bed where she had given birth, cleaned up what the girl had been too horrified to deal with, and packed a few tattered personal items, her grandmother’s Bible and some food in one carpetbag and the baby quilt in another. All Charlotte’s preparations had to be moved up a few weeks, but she had managed it. By then, though, the urge to rest overwhelmed her. She only woke again when the baby cried. Feeding him for the first time was a struggle, but she finally got him settled in the second carpetbag.

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.