In the Company of Secrets

by Judith Miller

  Though Charlotte had immediately objected, she conceded defeat when Olivia mentioned several errors made during the evening. Had it not been for Olivia’s quick recoveries, they would have been subjected to a genuine interrogation. Now she could only hope Charlotte would heed her advice.

  Attempting to assure herself all would go well on her first day in the hotel kitchen, Olivia squared her shoulders as she entered the room.

  Chef René was on duty, his gaze darting about the kitchen until it finally came to rest upon her. ‘‘So you have arrived.’’ He grinned. ‘‘I wondered if you might flee during the night.’’

  With a flourish, he pointed to her flower-adorned hat and sensible broadcloth cape. ‘‘Place your personal items in the outer hallway. Never bring them into the kitchen.’’ Upon her return, the chef greeted her with a double-breasted white cotton jacket. He extended it toward her. ‘‘It will be too large, but it is all that is available at the moment. We can have one tailored for you.’’ The words rolled off his tongue in his lilting French accent.

  She shrugged into the oversized jacket and gingerly rolled up the sleeves that extended well beyond her fingertips. The two rows of buttons were at her sides rather than running down the front of the jacket, but she didn’t complain. However, she took a backward step when the chef pointed to a tall white toque that resembled his own chef ’s hat.

  ‘‘Put it on. All chefs in my kitchen must wear a jacket and hat—it sets them apart.’’

  Olivia wasn’t certain she wanted to be set apart, especially by the oversized jacket and huge white hat. Even with her hair pulled into a knot at the back of her head, the hat slipped down and balanced precariously over one eye.

  When the remainder of the kitchen staff arrived, they surveyed her with what she could only guess was a mixture of curiosity and amusement. Perhaps she could borrow a needle and thread from Martha or one of the other women and tighten the band of her hat.

  She was still engrossed in dealing with the problem toque when Chef René stepped to her side. ‘‘Would you like to prepare a cheese soufflé , or do you have a breakfast specialty with which you’d prefer to surprise me?’’

  Her stomach catapulted into a frenzy of unwelcome activity. She hadn’t eaten before leaving home, yet she was forced to swallow down the lump in her throat. ‘‘I thought for my first day it would be helpful if I could watch and learn where you keep your utensils and what methods you prefer to use in your kitchen.’’ Would he see through her reply?

  A slow smile curved his lips. ‘‘You have a valid point, Miss Mott. For today, you may observe. Tomorrow you will cook.’’

  She didn’t fail to notice the frowns she received from the kitchen staff. While they scurried about in a frenzy of activity, she sat on a stool and watched, her hands primly folded in her lap. With each course, she studied the chef ’s movements, as though merely watching this man would cause her to immediately evolve into a chef. She’d been observing Chef Mallard for over a year and hadn’t mastered his techniques. However, she used the time to advantage today.

  There were, she discovered, differences in this kitchen. Each person knew exactly what was expected, and the staff moved to and fro like a well-oiled machine. The plates were removed from the warming oven at the precise moment the eggs Benedict were coddled to perfection. The hollandaise sauce peaked to a rich, creamy texture at the exact moment it was to be ladled over the eggs. The tall Negro servers appeared at the door of the carving room, where they retrieved the silverdomed plates from the hot closets and silently carried them to the awaiting hotel guests. Unlike the harried frenzy and crashing pots and pans in Chef Mallard’s kitchen, a quiet accord of movement surrounded Chef René ’s staff as they accomplished their purposes.

  Breakfast was served until nine o’clock each morning, at which time the doors to the dining rooms were closed, and the entire staff ceased their work promptly at ten o’clock. Some departed out the side door and gathered under one of the large maple trees that flanked one side of a budding flower garden; others hurried off in diverse directions. Chef René departed toward his office, and Olivia remained perched atop her stool.

  ‘‘Olivia!’’ Martha Mosher stood outside the kitchen door and crooked her finger. She grinned as Olivia jumped down and the toque bobbed forward and once again sagged across her right eye. ‘‘Is all going well?’’

  Pushing the hat from her eyes, Olivia shrugged. ‘‘I’m merely observing today.’’ She glanced toward the side door. ‘‘Some of the others have been casting angry looks in my direction.’’

  ‘‘I don’t doubt it. They’re hard at work while you relax. Is there any reason why you couldn’t assist them washing the dishes once the meal has been served?’’

  Martha was correct, and Olivia decided she’d do just that after the noonday meal. When Chef René returned, she carefully watched his food preparations. Later, when the dishes began to accumulate, she slid from the stool and made her way to the sink.

  However, Chef René called an abrupt halt to her activity. ‘‘Chefs cook. Dishwashers wash dishes. Waiters serve. Sit down and observe! I am going to prepare a dish that is enjoyed by our hotel guests: Aubergines Bohémienne. You will be expected to prepare this dish from time to time.’’

  She didn’t understand what the chef would be cooking, but Olivia compliantly returned to her stool and watched as he began to dice a large eggplant.

  When the workday finally ended, Martha met her in the park across from the hotel and explained there were likely hard feelings because the chef was showing her preferential treatment. ‘‘It makes the others feel less important.’’ Martha attempted to reassure Olivia before she headed off toward home. ‘‘Things will be better tomorrow. Once you actually begin working, their resentment will disappear.’’ She pointed at Olivia’s toque. ‘‘I hope you plan to put a tuck in that this evening.’’

  Olivia laughed. ‘‘I think that will be my first order of business tonight.’’ Although she could easily stitch the hat so that it would fit snugly, she knew her lack of culinary abilities could not be so easily remedied.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Olivia bent forward and rested her head atop her folded arms. How had she survived the past five days? Chef René had looked at her with disdain when she’d attempted to carve the mutton with an unsharpened knife; he’d scowled when she’d not whisked the eggs to perfection; he’d slapped his forehead in disgust when she’d ordered the potatoes cubed instead of sliced; and he’d abruptly exited the kitchen when she had prepared a lumpy lemon sauce. Through it all, the staff continued to hold her at bay with their frowns and silence. Instead of offering sympathetic words, they ignored her. She wanted to ask what she had done to cause their dislike but feared what they might say.

  When she asked Martha that very question after work, her new friend gave her a sidelong glance. ‘‘Have you not noticed Chef René is forgiving when you make a mistake, yet with the other staff he is relentless?’’

  ‘‘He scowls or hurries from the room when I fail,’’ Olivia defended.

  ‘‘Perhaps, but he is much harsher with the others.’’

  Olivia had been too concerned over her own failures to notice the chef ’s reaction to anyone else. In fact, she couldn’t say with authority that she’d had time to observe anyone else make a mistake. She’d been too busy attempting to resolve her own messes. ‘‘I can’t say that I’ve noticed.’’

  Martha nodded. ‘‘He treats you differently, Olivia. They don’t know why, nor do I. It makes them jealous, and you’ve become the object of their anger rather than Chef René .’’

  Now what? She could hardly march into Chef René ’s office and ask him to yell at her. On top of thinking her an inept cook, he’d think her a blathering idiot. ‘‘What can I do?’’

  ‘‘I truly don’t know. But for tonight, let’s not worry over work. Mrs. DeVault invited us to supper. Fred and Albert are going to practice with the baseball team and want us to come and watch.
We can cheer them on.’’

  Martha’s words had a rallying effect upon Charlotte, who had been lying on the divan ignoring them since they’d entered the house. ‘‘How can you even think of such a thing? I’m alone all day long, and now you’re going to go off and enjoy yourself for the entire evening?’’ She formed a pout and folded her arms across her chest.

  Waving a hand, Martha shook her head. ‘‘You can join us for supper, too. Mrs. DeVault said she’d walk you home afterward.’’

  But Charlotte’s displeasure didn’t completely dissipate.

  ‘‘Seven o’clock. Don’t be late,’’ Martha said on departing.

  Although Mrs. Hornsby had made every attempt to force a change of plans, the men remained steadfast. They wanted Oli- via and Martha to accompany them to their baseball practice. Though Fred sensed Olivia’s hesitation, he hoped she wouldn’t succumb to Mrs. Hornsby’s wishes. The woman appeared to have a certain power over Olivia that he couldn’t quite figure out. Then again, perhaps Olivia merely gave in due to her friend’s recent loss. Still, he didn’t think Mrs. Hornsby acted like a woman in mourning. She behaved more like a petulant child set upon having her way.

  Fred found her conduct most annoying and wondered if his mother would tire of the woman’s immature antics before the evening drew to an end. He felt a brief tinge of guilt as they departed and left his mother alone to entertain the sullen woman.

  They automatically formed into couples, with Albert and Martha walking a few steps ahead of Fred and Olivia. Once they settled into a comfortable pace, Fred broke the silence. ‘‘How are you enjoying your work?’’

  ‘‘I can’t say it’s going very well,’’ she said and told him of the myriad mistakes she’d made throughout the week.

  Fred found her admissions puzzling. He couldn’t imagine how she’d been hired for her position if she didn’t possess the proper training and abilities. ‘‘When I secured my job,’’ he told her, ‘‘I was required to sign a contract as well as submit recommendations. The Pullman representative who hired me even talked with my previous supervisor. Were you not required to do the same?’’

  She looked like a frightened animal hoping to find an escape, yet there was no reason his questions should make her fearful. He waited, anxious to hear her response. She stammered a reply that made little sense, but before he had time to ask for an interpretation, she changed the subject.

  ‘‘I understand Mr. Pullman has a library located on the second floor of the Arcade for the town’s residents.’’ She chattered on for several minutes about the good-hearted gesture and Mr. Pullman’s thoughtfulness in making such a fine donation to the city. ‘‘Do you frequent it often?’’

  ‘‘The library? No, and it’s not free, you know. Residents must pay twenty-five cents a month in order to use Mr. Pullman’s gift.’’ He looked toward the second floor of the Arcade building. ‘‘I don’t consider something a donation to the town if I must pay to use it.’’

  ‘‘But still, I’ve been told there are thousands of books to choose from.’’

  Obviously Mr. Howard had already indoctrinated her with the wonders of Mr. Pullman and all his good deeds. From all appearances, Miss Mott had taken his propaganda to heart. ‘‘As I told you on the day of your arrival, profit is crucial to Mr. Pullman and his shareholders. Whether machinery or people, Mr. Pullman believes control will increase profit. Consequently, he controls everything that happens in the town and factory.’’

  She was silent for a moment, seeming to ponder his words. ‘‘But what of this athletic field we’re going to? How does it bring profit to Mr. Pullman?’’

  ‘‘The athletic fields and playgrounds don’t bring a direct profit, but they do result in public accolades for Mr. Pullman. And they indirectly produce revenue when the games are held. People throng to Pullman to participate in or watch the events.’’ Fred grinned. ‘‘On the other hand, I’m certain the cost of the facilities far outweigh any plaudits Mr. Pullman receives. I do praise him for providing fine recreational opportunities for the town’s residents.’’

  ‘‘And there’s the beautiful Greenstone Church. I made a special point to go and see it. You must admit a church isn’t profitable for Mr. Pullman.’’

  Fred laughed and pronounced her gullible. ‘‘That beautiful church remained unused for several years. The company required more rent than any small congregation could afford. Of course, Mr. Pullman thought one church was sufficient and everyone should worship together. That way, the excessive rate would appear tolerable. Unfortunately for him, folks didn’t agree; they built churches outside of the city limits. And that, Miss Mott, is why Mr. Pullman finally gave in and lowered the rent.’’

  ‘‘The church issue aside, don’t you think it was wise to have the town well planned? It is a beautiful place, with all these redbrick buildings and wide streets.’’

  There was little doubt Olivia was bedazzled. He wished Albert or Martha would join in and tell her a bit more, for they, too, knew the way of things in Pullman. But they were engaged in their own private conversation and had moved several paces ahead. Fred knew that he should refrain from further disparaging remarks and forced a smile in an attempt to lighten his mood.

  Olivia took his cue and smiled. ‘‘I saw many buildings as we arrived on the train, though I’ve not had a closer view. It appears there are train tracks running in and out of some of them, as well as around the perimeter. I was surprised to see the tracks.’’

  Apparently Mr. Howard hadn’t yet versed her in the operations of the Pullman Car Works. ‘‘There are tracks so that the railcars being worked on can be moved from building to building and tracks to deliver lumber or supplies needed in the various shops.’’ Although she appeared interested in hearing more, Fred decided he’d already said more than was needed for one evening. ‘‘That’s enough talk of the town and the railcar works. I’m going to bore you to death.’’

  Olivia shook her head. ‘‘Oh no, I’m truly interested. What’s it like to work in the shops? Do you enjoy your work?’’

  He was surprised she wanted to hear about his dreary job. None of the other young ladies he’d courted had ever expressed an interest in his work. Her eyes sparkled with obvious interest. He longed to tell her he found fulfillment and challenge in his work, but such a declaration would be a falsehood.

  ‘‘I’m afraid I can’t say that I enjoy my work. You see, I thought I had been hired to design and etch the mirrors and decorative glass inside the cars. Instead, I was assigned to a position where I spend my days electroplating everything from screws and bolts to cuspidors to be used in the older cars as they are refurbished. The same is true with Albert. Pullman doesn’t make use of your cousin’s etching talents, either.’’

  She removed her gloves and tucked them into her reticule. ‘‘Perhaps after you’ve proven yourself a while longer, you’ll be moved into the department that interests you.’’

  ‘‘Perhaps,’’ he said, unconvinced.

  The sparkle vanished from her eyes.

  He bowed his head and picked at an imaginary speck on his shirtsleeve. ‘‘I’m sorry for my boorish behavior. If you truly want to hear about electroplating, I’ll be happy to explain the process.’’

  Olivia bobbed her head. She truly appeared interested as he explained how the articles to be refurbished were cleansed, suspended by copper hooks, and then plunged into a wooden tank lined with gutta-percha, and filled with a solution that included nitrate of silver and cyanide. Olivia appeared to remain interested, especially when he mentioned that the silver used in each of the bathing solutions was valued at nearly four thousand dollars.

  She clutched her reticule to her chest. ‘‘Did you say four thousand dollars?’’

  ‘‘I did. No expense is too great for the railroad cars produced at the Pullman Car Works. It’s with his employees that Mr. Pullman cuts his overhead.’’ They continued on toward the athletic field.

  ‘‘What happens after you dip the items i
nto the silver?’’

  He gave her a sideways glance. She was obviously attempting to deflect him away from any further negative comments. ‘‘No more talk of my work or Pullman politics. If you want to know more about electroplating, I’ll explain at another time.’’

  Though she mildly protested, Fred insisted. He wanted to learn more about Olivia. She was a vivacious and engaging young woman, and he enjoyed her company. ‘‘Albert mentioned the girls in the kitchen have been giving you a time of it. Are things getting any better?’’

  Color heightened in her cheeks. Too late he realized he had embarrassed her. He wished he could withdraw his question.

  She bowed her head. ‘‘I suppose Martha told him about my difficulties.’’

  ‘‘I believe so, but we need not discuss them if it makes you uncomfortable. I had hoped for a good report.’’

  ‘‘I suppose matters are somewhat better.’’ They walked across a small bridge that led to an island. She studied the expansive area that stretched before them. ‘‘So this is the athletic island.’’

  Fred nodded, pleased they’d arrived. He hoped that by the time their baseball practice ended, Olivia would forget her embarrassment. After escorting the two young women to the grandstands, he and Albert loped across the grass to join their teammates.

  Olivia’s responses to Fred had constituted additional falsehoods in the mounting inventory. Soon her notes would reach book-length proportions. Her stomach roiled. How much had Martha revealed to Albert and Fred? There was no way of knowing, but Olivia suspected Martha had heard plenty from the kitchen staff.

  She attempted to concentrate on the baseball game. Martha claimed that both Fred and Albert were showing excellent progress with the game. Though Olivia knew nothing of baseball or its rules, she asked questions and cheered along with Martha. Anything to avoid talk of her past or her work in Chef René ’s kitchen.