The Pursuit of Lucy Banning (2 page)

Lucy would much rather have taken a leisurely carriage ride to visit Aunt Violet, who undoubtedly would know what to say to stir up Lucy’s momentum. Instead, though, she was to meet Daniel in less than half an hour, and Paddy was not available to whisk her downtown.

Her university escapades could not be a secret forever. One of these days she was going to have to tell Daniel the truth.

 2 

C
harlotte Farrow hustled to keep up with Mr. Penard, the butler and clearly the person who kept the Banning household humming. She had arrived at the massive home less than twenty minutes ago and already Penard was giving detailed descriptions of where she was and was not allowed to tread and what she was and was not allowed to touch. It seemed to Charlotte that this grand tour of the spacious home was meant to put her in her place. So far, since leaving the kitchen, Penard had not indicated she was permitted to enter a single one of the rooms she viewed without specific approval from him and only for a particular, limited purpose.

Standing stiff-backed in the middle of the parlor, Penard paused. “Mr. and Mrs. Banning are fond of retiring to this room in the evenings after dinner. You may hear Miss Lucy playing the Steinway. Mr. Daniel is especially fond of listening to her play.” Frowning, he pointed at the intricately woven rug beneath his shiny shoes. “Be particularly mindful of the carpets. They are irreplaceable. Mrs. Banning commissioned them from William Morris, and should you cause a stain, you would of course lose your position.”

Who is William Morris?
Charlotte wondered. She had never been in a room filled with items whose value was their beauty, not their usefulness—carved trays, porcelain miniatures, glass vases, and dozens of other objects that existed to dazzle the eye.

“Of course, sir. I’ll be careful,” Charlotte said.

Stepping into the parlor was like stepping into one of the paintings on the wall. The room was large and meticulously appointed. Miniature statues adorned intricately carved dark wood end tables. Every small item on each side table seemed angled for particular effect. Charlotte knew without being told that the paintings were masterpieces. If Mr. Penard were to say the wallpaper was hand painted, she would not doubt it. The carefully selected green and gold settee and chairs, in coordinated but not identical patterns, were surely made specifically for the room with restrained extravagance.

Penard continued his lecture. Charlotte wondered how much he expected her to remember because she was sure she wouldn’t recall much.

“The Bannings have been on Prairie Avenue longer than many of their neighbors,” he explained. “They came a few years after the Great Fire. Things were never the same on Washington Street after that disaster.”

Charlotte nodded as if of course she knew all about the demise of the old neighborhood. At least she had heard of the Chicago Fire of 1871.

“As you become familiar with the neighborhood,” Mr. Penard said, “you’ll find that the Banning home is actually modest. Many homes have far more than the 17,000 square feet we serve here.”

Penard led the way out of the parlor and into the hall, continuing with a roving lecture. Charlotte would not risk asking questions, but she did try to store some basic facts about the family, which seemed more relevant to her than the neighborhood architecture.

Charlotte had only seen part of the first floor, and already she estimated the mansion could hold two dozen farm cabins like the one she grew up in. She had lived most of her twenty years in perpetual overcrowding, with her grandmother in the kitchen and younger brothers underfoot. Where she had been in the last year, she wanted to forget.

Six weeks ago she would not have imagined she might be walking the floors of a home like the Bannings’. Charlotte resolved Penard would never learn the truth about the more than questionable references she had provided three days ago—or anything else. She was here now, and the vise in her stomach would not keep her from doing her best to please Mr. Penard. He would have no cause to reconsider the decision to employ her. Charlotte knew her way around a kitchen, even if the Banning kitchen alone was larger than her family’s home. Her mother, as poor as she was, had a copy of
Mrs. Beeton’s Book of Household Management
, and Charlotte had read it more than once for lack of anything else to peruse.

“You’ll find that the Bannings have admirable neighbors.” Penard ran a white glove along the bottom edge of a painting in the hall and inspected for dust. “Many of the homes are in the Italianate or Second Empire style, like this one, though the Glessners were more daring when they built their home. Its Romanesque flair does not sit well with all the neighbors, but you will discover that Mrs. Glessner’s interest in Arts and Crafts is having some effect on Mrs. Banning.”

Italianate? Second Empire? Romanesque flair? Arts and Crafts?
Charlotte didn’t know what to call the architecture or decorating. She only knew she had stepped over the threshold into another universe.

Penard continued his quick steps, Charlotte keeping a respectful distance behind him. “Take care not to gawk at the neighbors, since many of them are well known. Marshall Field has forged new standards for retail stores. Philip Armour could feed the nation with his slaughterhouses and meatpacking plants. And as you know, George Pullman’s sleeping car revolutionized train travel.”

Charlotte had never been in a store other than the local mercantile at home. Until the day she stole away to Chicago, she only imagined what it might be like to travel by any method other than a horse and carriage. She was too terrified, sitting bolt upright on the hurtling journey, to wonder whether the train she rode had sleeping cars.

Penard gestured that they would continue down the hall. “The Glessners are perhaps the most amiable neighbors, despite the dubious architecture of their home. Their son George is the same age as Miss Lucy and they’ve known each other socially for years. John Glessner understood that the future lay in improved farm equipment. His tools and machines are all over the country now.”

If that was true, Charlotte’s own father probably owned something designed by John Glessner, she realized.

“Mr. Banning represents the legal interests of a wide spectrum of businessmen,” Penard said. “Occasionally he will bring clients to dinner, and I will expect you to show the greatest respect.”

“Of course, Mr. Penard.”

“This is the master suite.” Penard opened the door only briefly. “Although it’s unusual, they prefer the ground floor because Mrs. Banning has a weak knee.”

“Yes, Mr. Penard.” Charlotte nodded, confident this was the only response the butler expected.

He led her farther down the hall. “This is Mr. Banning’s study. He does not like anyone touching his things. You will not enter either of these rooms without explicit permission.”

“Yes, Mr. Penard.” The study was filled with knickknacks and memorabilia, some of value and some that looked to be junk even to Charlotte. She had a fleeting doubt whether even Mr. Banning himself would notice something out of place amid the cluttered arrangement.

They retraced their steps down the hall to the foyer, then Penard led her up an expansive marble staircase, barely slowing his steps enough for her to lift her skirts. “I want you to know your way around the house, but you will of course not use this front staircase when the Bannings are home.”

“I wouldn’t think of it.”

Penard’s expression left no doubt in Charlotte’s mind what the consequences might be if she infringed.

“The children’s rooms are up here, though only Mr. Richard can still be called a child, and only just barely. Richard is fourteen. Miss Lucy, Mr. Leo, and Mr. Oliver are grown and engaged in various pursuits.” He gestured vaguely down the hall to the left. “The boys have their rooms here. They will not call for you, but Miss Lucy may have need of your attentions from time to time.” He gestured in the other direction. “Miss Lucy has recently chosen a larger suite of rooms at the far end of the hall across from the old nursery.”

“Yes, Mr. Penard.”

“The other rooms are guest rooms. Miss Lucy’s fiance prefers the corner room with windows opening on the front of the house. He frequently stays a night or two during the week. The Bannings consider Mr. Daniel a fourth son.”

“Yes, sir.”

As they walked the hall toward Lucy’s suite, Charlotte wondered if Lucy ever regretted being in such an isolated part of the house. Perhaps she was a quiet sort or needed a place to withdraw. Charlotte knew that feeling, though she’d had to go outside to the creek that flowed through their land to be alone.

They descended a narrow rear stairway just past Lucy’s rooms. “If you have cause to come upstairs, you will use this stairwell,” Penard instructed. “These stairs also lead up to the third floor servant quarters. Have you seen your room?”

“Yes, Mr. Penard. Mrs. Fletcher showed me as soon as I arrived.” She had left her few possessions there, along with the only thing that really mattered.

The stairs going down led directly into the kitchen. “I will leave you with Mrs. Fletcher now,” Penard said. “You will have little need to be in the rest of the house, but I thought it useful for you to have some general bearings.”

“Thank you, Mr. Penard. You’ve been a great help.”

Charlotte had been forewarned she would encounter the family at dinner that evening. There would be no formal introduction, of course. She would merely be there to serve and clear dishes and to remain as unseen as possible. That’s exactly what Charlotte craved—to remain unseen. If no one noticed her, no one would ask questions, and she would not be forced to deceive anyone—at least not any further.

Penard pushed through the door leading from the kitchen to the butler’s pantry, leaving Charlotte behind exhaling air she had not realized she was collecting in her lungs. Involuntarily her shoulders drooped. She attempted a smile for Mrs. Fletcher, the cook, searching the unfamiliar wrinkled face for some sign of temperament. If the wrinkles around her gray eyes were any indication, Mrs. Fletcher was a good ten years older than Charlotte’s own mother. A tight bun kept her gray hair out of her face, and the stoop of her shoulders told Charlotte that during her younger years, she had stood an inch or two taller. Mrs. Fletcher wore a dark dress under a white apron. She absently wiped her hands on a towel, then tossed it over her shoulder as she inspected her new maid. The image struck Charlotte as severe, and she hoped for warmth beneath the uniform. As they stared at each other, Charlotte was relieved to see the older woman’s eyes soften.

“Did Mr. Penard discuss uniforms with you?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Do you have a uniform?”

“Not precisely. I do have dark dresses.”

The cook sighed. “I have told that uppity fool time and again that the girls he sends me need to have proper uniforms with a crisp white apron for evening service.”

“I’m sorry . . .” If Penard had known she didn’t have uniforms and refused to hire her, where would she be now?

“With your references, he probably assumed you were bringing uniforms. That’s often done, you know.”

“Yes, ma’am. At my former place of employment—”

“Never mind.” Mrs. Fletcher waved one hand. “There’s no time for your story now.”

Charlotte was grateful to be interrupted, because she had no idea what would have come out of her mouth next.

“You look about the size of the last girl we had,” Mrs. Fletcher observed. “She left in a mysterious hurry and didn’t come back for her things—at least not yet. I’ll find her uniform and put it in your room while you get started peeling potatoes.” She pointed to a mound of spuds on the worktable and turned toward the stairs.

“I don’t want to trouble you.” Charlotte quickly stepped in the cook’s path. “I’m the one who arrived unprepared. Perhaps you can just tell me where the apron is and I’ll fetch it.”

“You don’t know your way around up there yet,” Mrs. Fletcher countered. “It’ll be easier just to find it myself and put it on your bed. I’ll show you where things are after dinner.”

“Please, I have to learn my way around,” Charlotte persisted. “Just point me in the right direction and I’m sure I’ll find it. I’m quite resourceful, I assure you.” Charlotte held her breath, waiting for some sign of relenting.

Mrs. Fletcher sighed. “Well, all right. But don’t dillydally. I’m expecting you to peel those potatoes soon.”

“And I will, I promise, as soon as I find the uniform.”