Through the Deep Waters (13 page)

Ruthie tipped her head, listening in.

“Are you sure you don’t want to take a short break, Di—” Pink stole across his cheeks. He looked at Ruthie.

She read the silent question. “Hubley. Her name is Miss Hubley.”

He nodded a thank-you and turned back to Dinah. “Are you sure you don’t want to rest a bit, Miss Hubley? Your arms must be aching.”

Dinah skittered away from him to the next rug waiting on the line and raised the beater. “I’m fine.” She whacked the rug.

He frowned.

Ruthie fidgeted impatiently. As much as she admired Mr. Ackerman’s consideration, it was ill placed. Dinah held everyone at arm’s length. Why would she treat him any differently? He’d only feel snubbed if he continued trying to persuade her. Ruthie couldn’t have that. He was far too kind a person to suffer being rebuffed by a rich girl from Chicago.

“Mr. Ackerman, I’ll bring Dinah a cup of water when I return from the
kitchen. It’s just this way.” Ruthie inched toward the building, hoping he would follow.

After another moment of hesitation, he turned and scuffed after her. Relieved, she sent a smile over her shoulder. Even though he marched along in resignation rather than eagerness, victory straightened her spine. She’d saved him from certain humiliation and hurt feelings. She hoped he’d be grateful.

To Ruthie’s frustration, the moment she took Mr. Ackerman to Mr. Phillips, she ceased to exist. Or at least it felt that way. The two men began a lightning-fast conversation—Mr. Phillips did everything quickly, and Mr. Ackerman responded in kind, although it seemed out of character for him to rattle off his words—over
eggs
, of all things! Ruthie nearly rolled her eyes.
Eggs
were so important? But apparently they were, because Mr. Phillips turned an egg this way and that with one eye squinted shut. He acted as though he were a jeweler and the egg were a diamond. Even though she’d intended to walk Mr. Ackerman back to his wagon, she realized very quickly the two of them might talk for quite a while.

So she said, “Good-bye, then, Mr. Ackerman.”

He didn’t even look at her.

Now she felt rebuffed. She took two tin cups from the hooks on the sideboard, filled them with water from the drinking bucket, and carried them out to the yard. Dinah turned as Ruthie approached and reached eagerly for the cup. Ruthie sipped, but Dinah guzzled her water, then wiped her moist lips with the back of her hand—an undignified gesture that took Ruthie by surprise. But if someone from Dinah’s background could slurp water without reserve, so could she. Ruthie finished her cup in one long draw.

Dinah twiddled the cup in her hand, her gaze fluttering toward the kitchen doorway. “Was … was Mr. Phillips available to talk with Mr. Ackerman?”

“Yes.”

Dinah nibbled her lower lip. Worry creased her brow. “They’re talking a long time.”

Ruthie stifled a disgruntled huff. Papa didn’t approve of snide expulsions of breath. “They are. About
eggs
.”

Dinah turned so sharply she nearly dropped the cup. “Did you say
eggs
?”

Ruthie nodded. She held her hands outward, her frustration getting the better of her. “Can you imagine? Mr. Phillips was so intent on examining the eggs Mr. Ackerman had brought, neither of them even noticed when I left the room.” She folded her arms across her chest and tapped the tin cup against her shoulder. “I found it rather insulting, to be honest.”

A smile grew on Dinah’s face. The biggest smile Ruthie had seen since the girl arrived. “Good. That’s good.”

Ruthie gave a jolt. It was
good
that she’d been insulted?

Dinah thrust the cup at Ruthie and then reached for the beater, which she’d discarded in the grass. Without another word, she set back to work and hummed as she swung the beater.

Ruthie stood staring at Dinah for several seconds. What had made her so happy? Clearly she would never understand Dinah Hubley. She shook her head and started to return the cups to the kitchen. Then she remembered the way the two men had ignored her, and she turned around. After dropping the cups near the clothesline, she yanked up her beater and aimed a mighty blow on the closest rug.

Dinah

After two hours of swatting at the rugs, Dinah’s arms and back ached so badly she wanted to crawl in a hole and wail. She gazed down the line of rugs and gently rotated her neck, willing the stiff muscles to relax. She hadn’t been so sore since—

She slammed the door on the thought and turned her attention elsewhere. Despite her physical discomfort, she couldn’t deny a great feeling of relief. The chef from Chicago and the egg man—Mr. Ackerman, Ruthie had called him—had talked about eggs. Not about Dinah.

For one brief second, disappointment smote her. He’d been so considerate, asking if she needed a break from the hard labor. Even though his attention made her jittery, it also pleased her. And she’d found herself wanting to hold on to it just a little longer. The feeling surprised her. She’d never wanted a man’s gaze to linger on her or to be drawn into conversation, but Mr. Ackerman was different. Maybe she felt safer because she could outrun him, given his limp. But she sensed there was something more. She only wished she knew what it was.

Ruthie walked over, her steps slow and labored, and took Dinah’s rug beater from her hand. She heaved a deep sigh. “I’ll go tell Mr. Irwin the rugs are ready to go back on the floor. I’m glad the busboys will carry them inside. I can barely lift these things.” She swung the pair of beaters and grimaced. “I wish we could take a nap before we start cleaning rooms, but there isn’t time. We’ll probably both sleep like logs tonight.”

Dinah hoped her tiredness would result in deep sleep. Terrifying dreams about the gentleman in Chicago had kept her from fully resting for weeks. At least she’d been able to set aside her concern about being with child. She’d
never been so happy to welcome her monthly time. Even so, she needed an uninterrupted night of sleep.

Ruthie started toward the hotel, then paused and turned back. “Oh, Dinah, I almost forgot. Would you take the cups we used to the kitchen? Just put them in the tub for the dishwasher. They’re on the ground right over there.” She waved one of the beaters in the direction of the clothesline and then headed off across the grass.

Dinah opened her mouth to ask Ruthie to take the cups instead, but she held the request inside. Ruthie would ask why, and Dinah couldn’t explain. So she walked stiffly to the discarded pair of tin cups, picked them up, and trudged toward the kitchen. As she crossed the sunny yard, she consoled herself. The washtub would probably be near the back door. At the Yellow Parrot the slop bucket was by the door, and Rueben always said it made sense to have the washtub near the slop bucket. She could probably drop the cups in the tub and slip away without anyone even seeing her.

As she neared the door, which was held open by a brick, the wonderful aromas of fresh bread and roasted meat wafted out to greet her. The smells grew more pungent as she closed the distance, and busy noises—scurrying feet, pans clanking, low-voiced commands to fill the serving bowls and be careful with the gravy—warned her she shouldn’t tarry in the kitchen. She’d be in the way.

She peeked inside, cups extended to drop into a tub. But no tub waited near the door. In fact, she couldn’t see a washtub at all from this position. She scanned the room, taking note of the workers scurrying around, as industrious as a nest of ants. She’d thought the dining room servers were the only ones who raced to complete their tasks. Serving drinks and a three-course meal to as many as sixty guests during a twenty-minute watering stop left no time to pause between duties. But apparently the kitchen workers were just as taxed. And no one had time to stop and direct her to the washtub.

She considered leaving the cups on the floor inside the door. Someone would come upon them. But how many times had she found items out of place at the Yellow Parrot, which she then had to return to their rightful locations?
She didn’t want to create extra work for anyone. With a sigh, she stepped into the kitchen and inched her way along the outer edge, keeping well out of the way of those rushing around to fill plates and slide them through the serving window.

When she’d gone halfway across the room, she spotted a counter with a pump handle sticking up. A wooden tub rested on the floor in front of the counter. The washtub, surely. She hurried in that direction and ran smack into a little girl who was crouched on the floor against the wall. The tin cups went flying as Dinah reached out to catch herself from falling on the child.

The girl began to wail, and a woman carrying a stack of white plates with Mr. Harvey’s specially chosen blue swirl design painted on the rims careened from a little room behind the counter. “What’s wrong, Laura?” The woman plopped the plates into Dinah’s hands. “Take these to the serving window so I can see to my daughter.”

Too stunned to argue, Dinah balanced the plates against her ribs and waddled to the counter. Next to Mr. Gindough stood Mr. Phillips, who bobbed his head toward an empty space on the counter. “Put them there and then stand back. We’ve got to get these filled.”

Dinah lowered the plates to the surface, holding her breath. She didn’t dare look into his face, fearful he’d recognize her from the Yellow Parrot. The plates clunked together as they met the wooden counter. “Careful,” he said, then turned away.

Her head low, Dinah scurried off. She flicked a glance over her shoulder. The man was too busy dishing up food to take notice of her. Relieved, she turned toward the door. But the woman who’d handed her the plates waved her hand and called, “Wait!”

Dinah hesitated. She needed to get to work. She and Ruthie had spent so much time beating the rugs, she was behind on cleaning rooms. She might even need to skip lunch. The woman added, “Please come here,” and Dinah couldn’t ignore the pleading in her voice. She hurried to the woman’s side.

The little girl clung to her mother, hiding her face in the folds of the woman’s grimy skirt. The woman offered a quick, apologetic smile. “I’m sorry to
trouble you—I know you aren’t one of the kitchen workers—but my little girl here needs the outhouse and she’s afraid to walk all the way out there alone. I need to bring out more clean plates. Would you take the plates for me? They’re in the butler’s pantry.”

Dinah’s stomach churned. The longer she stayed in the kitchen, the more likely it became Mr. Phillips would take a good look at her. She needed to leave. She made a snap decision. “I’ll take your little girl to the outhouse.” She released a nervous laugh. “I almost dropped those plates, and the cook wasn’t too happy with me.”

The woman tugged the child loose. “Laura, you go with this nice lady. She’ll help you and bring you right back.” She pressed the little girl toward Dinah, then disappeared into the pantry.

Dinah looked down at the child. Laura looked back with round, desperate eyes. Dinah said, “Let’s hurry.”

They took off at a trot. Dinah started to step inside with Laura, but the little girl shook her head, making her silky yellow curls bounce. “I can go by myself.”

Arguing would only prolong things. “Go ahead, then.”

Dinah waited outside the outhouse while Laura went in and saw to her needs. The child was in there several minutes, and twice Dinah started to go in and check on her, but she could hear her singing, which told her she wasn’t distressed, so she paced outside the closed door and waited. Finally Laura emerged. Her skinny little chest rose and fell in a sigh. “All done.” The hem of her pink checked skirt was caught in the back of her cotton drawers, and she allowed Dinah to straighten things out. Then she stuck out her hand.

Unexpectedly, tears welled in Dinah’s eyes. She was a stranger to the child, yet Laura offered her hand in complete trust. It seemed her entire life she’d ducked away from extended hands, worried about being slapped or pushed aside or pawed in ways that made her shudder. Gratefulness that Laura could offer her hand to a stranger washed Dinah with as much pleasure as a fresh fall of rain, and she found herself hoping nothing would ever steal the child’s innocence and trust.

She curled her fingers around Laura’s small hand and walked with her back to the kitchen. Her mother was kneeling beside the washtub with her arms submerged in the sudsy water. The rims of various pots and pans created gray circles in the suds. She continued scrubbing a large soup pot as Dinah and Laura approached, but her face pursed into a worried grimace. “Did you make it in time?”

Dinah nodded. Laura still hadn’t released her hand. She needed to change her uniform—her apron was gray from dust—and start cleaning rooms, but she didn’t want to let go until Laura was ready. So she stood beside the washtub and held the little girl’s hand while everyone around her worked.

The woman transferred the clean, sudsy pot to a second tub of clear water. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Alice Deaton.”

“I’m Dinah Hubley.” She held her voice low. With all the noise in the kitchen, she didn’t think Mr. Phillips would overhear, but she wouldn’t take the chance. Half of the men in Chicago knew of Untamable Tori Hubley. “I’m new here.”