An Uncertain Dream (11 page)

Mrs. DeVault patted the chef ’s arm. ‘‘I’m going to go downstairs and begin my work. There’s much to do before the noon meal.’’

He smiled and covered her hand with his own. ‘‘Oui. I will come downstairs once breakfast is completed.’’

From Olivia’s vantage point, it appeared the chef had gently squeezed Mrs. DeVault’s hand before releasing his hold. Olivia remained transfixed. Fred had revealed nothing about a relationship between his mother and Chef René . Yet, with the excitement of the convention about to begin, she doubted Fred would take notice of anything other than union activities. With the exception of discussing several new desserts she wanted to serve at the hotel, Mrs. DeVault hadn’t broached the topic of work or Chef René with her. If time permitted, Olivia would pay the older woman a visit this evening.

‘‘Something is wrong with my menu?’’ Chef René pushed away from the table.

‘‘No, not at all. Why do you ask?’’ When Olivia turned, she noted the roses had disappeared. Mrs. DeVault had obviously carried them downstairs with her.

‘‘You have studied the entrées for nearly ten minutes.’’

Olivia dropped the menu card onto the worktable and removed several bowls from the shelf. ‘‘I wanted to make certain there were no unfamiliar dishes being offered.’’ She began to crack eggs into the pale gray crock.

The chef rounded the counter and rested his forearms on the worktable beside her. He looked up at her with a glint in his coffee-colored eyes. ‘‘And you wanted to hear what we were saying.’’ She squared her shoulders and met his unwavering stare. ‘‘Yes, I did. Suffice it to say that I was surprised to see that you and Mrs. DeVault have formed a . . . well, such a . . .’’

‘‘Warm friendship?’’ His eyes sparkled with amusement.

She whisked the eggs with a vengeance. ‘‘Well, yes. It’s none of my business, of course, but—’’

‘‘You are correct. It isn’t any of your business.’’ He laughed. ‘‘But I do understand your curiosity. After all, she is the mother of your Fred, and you have concern for her welfare. Oui?’’

‘‘Yes, of course.’’ She had agreed too hastily. It seemed the chef was enjoying their game of cat and mouse far too much.

‘‘Then I must set your mind at ease. I enjoy Hazel’s company. She is a fine lady, and we have much in common.’’

‘‘Hazel?’’ The name croaked from deep in her throat.

‘‘Mrs. DeVault,’’ he replied. ‘‘Since we have become friends, we agreed to address each other by our given names.’’

‘‘During working hours?’’

He shrugged. ‘‘You concern yourself over unimportant details. Other than the kitchen help, who hears our conversations? The maids and kitchen boys are addressed by their first names. Why not the baker?’’

‘‘You address me as Miss Mott.’’

The chef laughed. ‘‘Because you English worry over insignificant issues such as using the proper name.’’ He pointed to the bowl. ‘‘You should do something with those eggs.’’

Olivia whisked the eggs one final time and then poured them into a skillet smeared with melted butter. While she continued the breakfast preparations, Chef René disappeared downstairs. Had she missed all of these signs previously? This relationship couldn’t have blossomed overnight, but none of the other staff appeared to be taking note of the chef ’s behavior. Perhaps she should more closely regard those who surrounded her each day.

She didn’t have time to ponder the idea. Mr. Howard entered the kitchen with a determined look that closely resembled a scowl. ‘‘Where is Chef René ?’’

‘‘Good morning, Mr. Howard.’’ The company agent’s failure to offer a morning greeting meant he was preoccupied, worried, or angry. Olivia was uncertain which it might be. ‘‘He has gone downstairs to the bake kitchen. I expect him to return any moment. May I be of assistance?’’

‘‘Tell Chef René there are to be no mushrooms in any of the foods that will be served to the board members. Can you remember that?’’

She didn’t know whether to laugh or feel insulted, but given Mr. Howard’s dour look, she said, ‘‘I believe I’m up to the task.’’

If he thought her remark curt, he made no indication. ‘‘We will want our meal served at one o’clock rather than noon. Dinner should be served at six thirty.’’ That said, he turned on his heel and left.

Olivia’s shoulders sagged. Since the evening meal would be served later than usual, she’d be expected to work a few extra hours. She silently chided herself. Instead of giving thanks for her employment, she was feeling sorry for herself. She closed her eyes.
Forgive me, Lord,
she silently prayed.

‘‘You now cook with your eyes closed, Miss Mott?’’

Chef René was staring at her when Olivia popped her eyes open. She shook her head. ‘‘No. I was simply giving thanks that I have gainful work.’’ She wiped her hands on a towel while relaying Mr. Howard’s instructions.

‘‘There are no mushrooms in any of my dishes. He tells me this every time the board members come here for their meetings. I know Mr. Arnold has an allergy to mushrooms. It is imbedded in my brain after all these years.’’

Olivia didn’t respond. The less she said, the more quickly the chef would calm himself. Each time he became distressed, she remembered the doctor’s warning that anxiety and turmoil were bad for his heart condition. Unfortunately, Chef René paid little heed to the doctor’s advice.

He eventually grew quiet and the two of them worked in silence for the remainder of the morning—except for those times when Chef René disappeared downstairs or when he stood outdoors beside Mrs. DeVault during the morning break from their duties.

Shortly after noon, Chef René sent her to check the dining room. ‘‘We are short of help, and I don’t trust these new people. Make certain everything is exactly as it should be.’’

The wait staff was busy in the main dining room when Olivia made her way to the room where the board members would eat. She entered and surveyed each place setting for any missing silverware or dinnerware. The low murmur of men’s voices could be heard through a door that stood ajar to help cool the room.

‘‘With the railway convention due to convene, I’d think George would return to town. There are rumors circulating that others may join in the strike.’’

‘‘Rest assured, Mr. Pullman will return when he’s needed.’’

‘‘He’s needed right now. There’s enough going on in this town and in Chicago that warrants his attention. Every time there’s a walkout, he hurries out of town with his family in tow and leaves the rest of us to suffer the wrath of the newspapers and answer the difficult questions.’’

‘‘I don’t think that’s true, John. Mr. Pullman has his finger on the pulse of this town and his company. He stands to lose more than the rest of us. I don’t think he’s going to jeopardize this company.’’

The sounds of scraping chair legs and murmured assents drifted into the room.

Olivia hadn’t recognized the voice of the man who’d been upset with Mr. Pullman’s absence, but it was Mr. Howard who had offered reassurance regarding the company’s owner.

She strained to listen to the ongoing conversation while she circled the table and checked the places. By the time she finished, she’d gained a good deal of insight regarding the directors and managers of the Pullman Car Works. The union’s assessment was correct: the primary concern of the stockholders and board members was their dividends. From what Olivia had heard just now, the one thing the men agreed upon was that they wanted to make sure they would receive a substantial dividend. There was no sympathy for the worker, whose rent continued to accumulate at the same high assessment, no mention that the inhabitants of Pullman were paying higher rates for water than residents of Chicago or the surrounding area, and no mention that all credit at the Market had been terminated.

She wondered if Mr. Howard would send word to Mr. Pullman that he should consider a speedy return. Perhaps the convention would accomplish more if the owner of the car works remained at his summer retreat in the Thousand Islands.

Chicago, Illinois
Friday, June 15, 1894

Charlotte lifted Morgan into her arms and stepped off the train in Chicago’s bustling Van Buren Street Station. Their journey had been exhausting, though she couldn’t complain about her son’s behavior. Morgan had performed valiantly—even when he’d become seasick when they’d been barraged by a storm two days out to sea.

A fellow traveler, Mrs. Bancroft, had offered both Charlotte and Morgan assistance. The two women soon developed a friendship. They’d whiled away the hours chatting on the deck while Morgan played nearby. The woman had confided that she hailed from New York and her husband, a banker, had dealings in several large cities, including Chicago.

The news that Charlotte planned to live in Chicago had brought a plethora of negative responses from the New York resident. ‘‘Conditions are difficult everywhere, but Chicago isn’t the place you want to make your home. What with the Pullman strike, my husband says Chicago is going to face greater difficulties than most cities.’’ She had leaned across her deck chair and quietly confided that the residents of New York were far more sophisticated than those of Chicago. ‘‘You’d be much more comfortable mingling with members of the New York Social Register,’’ she had sternly advised.

Although Mrs. Bancroft had been loath to learn Charlotte didn’t plan to heed her advice, the older woman did offer to present Charlotte to all the right people should she decide to make New York her home at some future date. The two women had parted on good terms, but Mrs. Bancroft appeared to believe she had somehow failed the social ranks of New York City when Charlotte and Morgan departed for the train station and their subsequent journey to Chicago.

After making arrangements for the delivery of her trunks, Charlotte balanced her son on one hip and carefully wended her way through the crowded train station. By the time she arrived at the front doors, her face was dotted with perspiration. She hadn’t recalled June in Chicago being quite so hot. She reminded herself she’d been traveling for twelve days. No doubt she should have donned a lightweight gown of faille rather than cashmere.

As she hailed a carriage, Charlotte recalled the first time she’d come to Chicago. Instead of Morgan at her side, Olivia had accompanied her. They’d spent their first night in the luxurious Grand Pacific Hotel on LaSalle Street. Tonight would be quite different. Provided there was enough room to accommodate them, Charlotte and Morgan would spend their first night at Priddle House.

Morgan twisted to and fro, his blue eyes taking in the excitement of the city. ‘‘We’ll soon arrive at our new home,’’ she said. The boy would find it quite different from Lanshire Hall, but he was young and would soon forget the luxuries of nobility. At Priddle House he would learn about Jesus and how to become an independent young man who would help others. That was her hope.

A driver brought his team to a halt in front of her. ‘‘Where to, lady?’’

Charlotte gave him the address on Ashland Street and settled into the carriage. Morgan squirmed from her arms, eager to look out the window. ‘‘Careful,’’ she warned. ‘‘If the carriage hits a hole, you’ll hit your head.’’

He turned and grinned, undaunted by the warning. She wrapped him in a protective hold that still permitted a view out the window. ‘‘There! Now we’ll both be happy.’’

Charlotte peered over Morgan’s shoulders, pointing out familiar stores as they passed by. When they turned on Ashland Street, her heart fluttered. What if something had happened to Mrs. Priddle and Priddle House no longer existed? She should have written a letter before departing England, but she had wanted to surprise the older woman. Now she realized her decision could prove foolish.

She tapped on the carriage window with her parasol to alert the driver. ‘‘On the right.’’

The driver gave her an annoyed look when he helped her out of the carriage. ‘‘I know my way about the city, ma’am. I don’t need anyone tapping on the window or shouting orders to me.’’

Charlotte wanted to tell him she hadn’t shouted, but she’d already irritated the man enough for one day. She slipped two coins into his hand. He grunted a thank-you and hoisted himself up to the carriage seat. After a slight tip of his hat and a nod, he slapped the reins and was off.

When Charlotte spied the familiar sign over the entrance, she whispered a quick prayer of thanks and made her way to the door. After giving a sharp rap on the front door, she heard the clatter of approaching footsteps and then saw the familiar oval face with hazel eyes staring through the screen door.

‘‘Charlotte! Is it really you?’’ Fiona pushed open the door and then squealed in delight. ‘‘Mrs. Priddle, come quick and see who’s here.’’

‘‘Land alive, child! How many times must I tell you—’’ Mrs. Priddle squinted her eyes and hurried forward. ‘‘Are my eyes deceiving me?’’

Charlotte beamed. ‘‘No, they’re not. It’s me, Mrs. Priddle— and my son.’’

‘‘Well, don’t stand out there on the porch like you’re company. Come on in and sit down.’’ After a warm hug, Mrs. Priddle led the way into the parlor, and Fiona held out her arms to Morgan. He lunged toward the eleven-year-old, who immediately carried him into the room and sat down on the floor with him. While Fiona entertained Morgan, Mrs. Priddle settled beside Charlotte on the divan.

‘‘So you’ve come back to Chicago for a visit. I must say I’m surprised. Though I hoped you would return to see us, I doubted we’d ever lay eyes on you again. It appears young Morgan has accepted you as his mother.’’

Charlotte nodded. The clopping of horses’ hooves on the brick street temporarily captured her attention. ‘‘There’s something I must ask you, but first, I hope you won’t be angry that I didn’t write and gain your permission before I arrived on your doorstep.’’

The older woman’s brow furrowed. ‘‘What is it, child?’’

‘‘Morgan and I need a place to live. We’re not here for a visit. I plan to make Chicago my home.’’

Fiona jumped up from the floor and clapped her hands. ‘‘You’re truly going to live here? You must mark the page in your Bible, Mrs. Priddle. Jesus answered another prayer.’’

Charlotte closely watched the older woman’s face for any sign of displeasure; however, she saw nothing but kindness in Mrs. Priddle’s clear blue eyes. ‘‘You are welcome to share what we have, though I fear you’ll find it somewhat meager. I don’t suppose that should come as any surprise. I’m certain you realize the economic condition of the country is not at its best.’’